wanna know something fun? if you take the first letters of each name of Lotor’s squad plus the first letter of his own name you get a german word. so we have Lotor, Acxa, Narti, Zethrid and Ezor which results in Lanze. And what’s even funnier: if you translate this to English it’s Lance. You know, like our favourite Blue Paladin? Lance? Right leg of Voltron? Currently the right arm? yeah, what a truly remarkable coincidence indeed
Ruth Ellis, the LGBT rights activist and oldest known lesbian to
ever live, was born on this day in 1899 and would have turned 118-years-old
Ruth Ellis poses for the camera as she leans against a car in 1951 (x).
Ruth was born on July 23, 1899 in Springfield, Illinois as her
parents fourth child and first daughter. Her mother and father, Charles and
Carrie Ellis, were former slaves from Tennessee but the abolition of slavery
allowed them to move north and build a prosperous life for themselves and their
family. Ruth’s mother died when she was young, but her father became the first
black mail carrier in the state of Illinois and managed to put three of his
children, Ruth included, through high school. Ruth would graduate from
Springfield High School in 1919.
Ruth came out to her family as a lesbian when she was just
16-years-old, which was an unheard-of admittance in 1915! She would also recall
meeting her partner, Babe, just five years later in 1920. For the next 30 years, Ruth and
Babe would live together in Detroit, Michigan, where their home eventually
became a major hub for the city’s black gay and lesbian community. Ruth also
became the first black woman to ever operate her own printing company in the
whole city of Detroit; the business specialized in printing stationary, fliers,
and posters, and was operated out of her and Babe’s home.
Ruth is photographed hard at work operating the printing press that fueled her successful small business (x).
Ruth and Babe eventually separated because, as Ruth said, “We
were just two opposite people.” Although the refuge of Ruth and Babe’s home
ceased to exist, Ruth remained incredibly involved in the LGBT community and reached somewhat of a celebrity status in the 1970s. She became noticed as a frequent
attendee of the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival and eventually began being
asked to speak at different universities around the country about her
experience as an out lesbian in the pre-Stonewall days. Her 100th
birthday was celebrated with the release of the documentary Living with Pride: Ruth C. Ellis @ 100
and that same year Ruth was the honorary leader of the San Francisco Dyke March.
A special photo shoot to celebrate Ruth’s 100th birthday shows her smiling sweetly and holding a bouquet of flowers (x).
Ruth passed away peacefully in her sleep on October 6, 2000
when she was 101-years-old. The Ruth Ellis Center in Detroit continues to be
operated in her memory and is one of only four American organizations specifically
dedicated to housing LGBT youth.
The pitter patter of rain hitting roads and colliding with your windows, invisible in the blackness of night but soothing to the sleepy soul whose head rests on a pillow that has been fluffed one too many times.
Smiling at the vast expanse of an ocean of constellations spattered on a charcoal sky. Pondering the frighteningly infinite size of the universe but thanking your lucky stars that you're able to witness and contemplate such a feat.
The constant thrumming of something in the distance, perhaps its a siren wailing or cars passing or the wind howling. The perpetuity of this is familiar and endearing.
Streetlights illuminating faces, transforming smiles into diamonds but forming and lengthening shadows. Snowflakes or motes of dust in the evening sky seem to stop to bask in the dim flickers of lamp posts, floating for eons. You crave that pause in time, not just to smell the roses, but to be in awe at life.
A candle's wavering flame casting warm rays into an otherwise dark room. A tired soul easing oneself onto a bed, feeling their spines meld to the mattress, staring at the blank ceiling above; wishing it were spattered with stars.
Windows standing in the way of you and the sky. You trace the glass, pretending you're really tracing the craters of the moon. Swirling galaxies swim in your eyes as you enter a haze, your finger still and your mouth parted. You think of THEM. They and the moon are the last thing you think of before falling asleep.
A child's vision blurring in the back seat of a car and watching as all the harsh tail lights, traffic lights, obnoxious neon signs and headlights all turn into harmless spheres of wonder that linger when they blink.
The feeling before a firework goes off, the liminality of the wait for the thundering presence of the sparks. As fireworks colour the sky, you marvel at the vibrations that your heart hurdles through.
A fire crackles, sputtering out cinders and pushing the aroma of smoke into flared nostrils. Glowing embers pulsating beneath stacked logs are hidden gems. A watchful eye regards the dancing flames with admiration and wonder.
Weak hands tug at a blanket and pull it just above their ears, a cocoon of cloth is formed as feet fumble for something cold to touch in contrast to the warmth the blanket provides.
Being woken in the dead of night, your heart pounds away in your throat and a hand settles on the chest as if to sooth it. The remnants of a dream are quickly fading and make your heart race faster. You try to latch to the slivers of fantasy, but your caught in a landslide that's headed straight for reality. So instead, you just go back to sleep.
Words mean more at night. You notice this as a song plays, lyrics and verses imbedded with the fractals of a broken heart. The shards have seeped into the melody and rhythm, into the floor and up your legs, and it stays in the left side of your chest. The song is your secret, and you keep it in your heart.
Alexandra Savior - Belladonna of Sadness,
Allen Kingdom - Lines, Althea - Cold Thoughts EP, Amp Live - Atmosphere EP, Amir Obé - None of the Clocks Work EP,
ANE - Bitan EP, Anik Khan - Kites EP,
Aye Nako - Silver Haze, The Chainsomkers - Memories…Do Not Open,
ELHAE - AURA II, Eric Bellinger - Cannabliss EP, Father John Misty - Pure Comedy,
Feist - Pleasure, Flume - Skin: The Remixes, Future Islands - The Far Field, The Gold Setting - Volume and Tone EP, IAMSU! - Boss Up 2 [Mixtape],
Incubus - 8,
Jessie Reyez - Kiddo EP, John Mayer - The Search For Everything,
K.Flay - Everywhere Is Somewhere,
Kweku Collins - grey EP, Little Dragon - Season High,
Mary J. Blige - Strength of a Woman, Mila J - Dopamine,
Nappy Roots - Another 40 Akerz,
Nef The Pharaoh - The Chang Project, The New Pornographers - Whiteout Conditions, NJOMZA - sad for you,
Saudin - Before I Met You EP,
Shamir - Hope, Talib Kweli & Styles P - The Seven,
Trombone Shorty - Parking Lot Symphony,
Wale - SHINE
COIN - How Will You Know If You Never Try,
Young M.A. - Herstory EP
cornfield gothic aesthetic, because i fucking hate cornfields and i can’t escape, there is no escape, the corn, it grows;
dusty barns with half-rotted roofs and vines creeping up the side, JESUS SAVES and WILLSHIRE DIARY, JOHNSON & SON PRODUCE, EVERETT FARMS in peeling paint. flowers grow through the foundations and over rusted tools.
the corn rising over your head and waving in unison, the shhss of stalks, the sound of things growing. the cornfields ripple like water, and you don’t notice any wind.
the feeling of relief when it’s the off season and you’ve planted soy instead. soy only grows up to your shins; for once, you can see what’s out there.
clumps of forest in the middle of seas of corn. the woods are dark. you never go anywhere without a flashlight.
six ‘grandpa’s cheese barns’ between waterville and dayton; all six are run by the same old man who has too many teeth when he smiles. he is not your grandfather, and his cheeses taste like wine and hot metal.
ponds and streams and lakes filled up with thick green mats of algae, dotted with shining horseflies, dragonflies, tadpoles the size of your thumbnail. algae clings to the birds and to your ankles. you pretend not to notice the smell.
crosses made out of toothpicks and matches. your great aunt leaves them under your pillow, and you keep finding them in the fields.
that back half of trail you can’t convince your horse to go down. the last time you tried she threw you, and when you woke up on the ground, arranged neatly on the very edge of the corn, you could swear that something was holding your hand.
lights in the fields at three in the morning. ancient songs. strange patterns. “just old man peterson gettin’ an early start on the harvest,” you tell yourself, and go back to sleep.
corn mazes every october, colored flags, clues, your flashlight held tight in your fist. during the day you run through the maze with all your friends, trying to memorize the best way in and out. at night you fill your pockets with salt and walk through the maze slowly, eyes on the ground, careful not to piss anything off.
HELL IS REAL signs every hundred miles going down i-75. hell is real; mrs. bennett brews it in the still behind her shed and trades it for apples the size and color of fresh hearts.
the emptiness after the harvest, when the corn is gone and you’ve burned everything and the earth is black and clean underneath your feet. safe, you tell yourself, i am safe.
there is something that walks behind the cornrows. you give him your blood and your sweat and your reverence, and you do not look him in the eye.