To all the Tumblr users who tend to use tags very liberally:


Let’s play a game.

Type the following words into your tags box, then post the first automatic tag that comes up.

you also what when why how look because never


Not sure if I ever posted this one but I figured we could do with a #notwilderforest post. It’s from Lyrebird, my 2013 collection.


Not sure if I ever posted this one but I figured we could do with a #notwilderforest post. It’s from Lyrebird, my 2013 collection.

hi, i know you don't major in this, but i was just wondering if you knew anything about the english lit department at uchicago?

I can say definitively that it exists.

oh okay they just hired jeffrey cranor and joseph fink that makes sense

…who the fuck writes these things for you, tumblr


the devil’s got a bet running with god after all, that deep down everyone is full of shit and flies and tumor and soot. there’s no point putting it in there for them. that’s cheating.

#which is why saints matter which is why they’re so goddamn important #they’re supposed to leak pus and sickness like the rest of us when they bleed #not gold. not light. not grace.

Any tips on dealing with unrequited love?

ohhhh you don’t want my help with this, anon

my strategy is to suck up, say nothing, and act painstakingly normal around that person until the feelings pass, while privately berating myself for daring think myself worthy of their affection.



You may bury my bodydown by the highway sideSo my old evil spiritCan catch a Greyhound bus and ride- Robert Johnson, Me and the Devil Blues


You may bury my body
down by the highway side
So my old evil spirit
Can catch a Greyhound bus and ride

- Robert Johnson, Me and the Devil Blues

oh my god, I’m reading the nytimes fashion and style section (because why not) and it’s so hilarious to me like there are actual 28 year old men who worry about what they’re going to wear to coachella and 19-year-old heirs to the multibillion-dollar fortunes I feel like I’m reading dispatches from gulliver’s travels or something

if you don't mind my asking, which book/series do you think is the most important one for children to read?

All the books and series.

You think I’m joking, but the most important thing isn’t that you read a specific series over another—for me, my childhood was Harry Potter and historical fiction and every series about unicorns I could get my hands on; for others it was the paperback Star Wars series, or Animorphs, or Golden Compass, or Percy Jackson, or Babysitters, or Narnia or Artemis Fowl, or Tortall, or or or—

I think kids should read everything. Bad books, good books, trash books, every genre, of many lengths. There’s no one series that’s guaranteed to hit every child where they live—kids have reading preferences too!—so have them read what they want. Let them tear through a hundred thousand different versions of “Teen girl discovers only she can save the world (and make out with Angsty Boy)!” or “historical boy must navigate the Revolutionary War/Old West/World War II/etc.” Encourage them to go to the library and check out whole stacks and only read three. Recommend things you loved as a kid. Recommend best sellers. Let them read those—or not. The important part is the reading.

The minute we treat reading like it’s eating vegetables or brushing your teeth, like it’s something that has to be done for vaguely moralistic reasons, you have ruined reading. That’s why so many adults have a stack of “Classic Literature” that they never get to, because reading isn’t about making your way down some list of What You Ought To Put In Your Eyeballs To Be A Person Who Reads. Only reading makes you a person who reads, and only reading what you enjoy makes you someone who loves reading.

So I think it’s important for children to read all the books, and especially ones that speak to them. Reading is about tearing through paperbacks at lunch and hiding under your covers with a flashlight (though I suppose kids these days could use their smartphone) on a school night, and reading whatever tickles your fancy, no matter how inane, no matter how wish-fulfillment, no matter how seemingly banal. It’s not the book that matters, it’s the reader.

Or, you know. Something equally cliche~

using nothing more than newton’s laws of gravitation, we astronomers can confidently predict that several billion years from now our home galaxy, the milky way, will merge with our neighbouring galaxy, andromeda. because the distances between the stars are so great compared to their sizes, few if any stars in either galaxy will actually collide.
any life on the worlds of that far off future should be safe, but they will be treated to an amazing billion-year-long lightshow.
a dance of a half a trillion stars, to music first heard on one little world, by a man who had but one true friend.
Say something beautiful about Slytherin house.

~*tumblr’s boner for slytherin and the attempt to stamp every positive trait as somehow native to that house is really weird to me*~

…how was that?

can the mormonism ads get off youtube now I am very happy with my current jesus provider


Evolution of Bollywood Music

by Penn Masala.



The young man in the tomb looks the way he must have, you think—slender and olive-limbed, too old around the eyes but with a mouth shaped for smiling. Yeshua’s brother, without divinity to come and suck the marrow from his bones, to break him against humanity’s ungratefulness.

He is risen, the young man says, though you can barely hear him over Salome’s cries of astonishment, Mary mother of James’ fingers digging into your arm. But the young man’s mouth is unbroken, and his eyes linger on your face. He is not here, he is risen, his is risen.

You stumble into the morninglight trembling, To what? on your tongue like a burning coal.


In Matthew, they’ve recast the role, an angel whose countenance is lightning and says fear not as though it is enough stop other Miriam from screaming. But you are twenty—or fifteen, twenty-five, thirty, older, old enough to know what it is to keep demons in your skin, to watch your god’s wrists strung up by a windlass, and you did not come for angels. Where is he? you demand.

He goeth before you to galilee, the angel says, but you are already running, you are gone to seek the one they call God.


Luke forgets how you did the bedikah alone that night, walking through the darkened house of Andrew’s cousin with a candle and a feather. In the upper room, Miriam the Mother has finally fallen into fitful sleep, her rent grief given over to exhaustion. Many of the disciples linger In the kitchens or the yard, shame in their cowardice keeping them from meeting your gaze when you pass.

(This is your gift, to the church that will someday malign you—you know who was not there, who fled from the sight of the Master bleeding, struggling for breath, crying out in pain and despair—eloi eloi lama sabachthani, and they were not there, the devoted twelve, the blessed chosen. They had not wanted a God who could break.

You watch them turn their faces from you and you are glad of it.)

The next morning, Petros kindles the fire for you with the lulav that once lined the streets, hailing Yeshua’s coming. He stands with you as the chometz burns, says the biyur chametz because he is the closest you have to a head of the household now.

He weeps, after.

(Why do you look for the living among the dead? the men clad in lightning will ask, when you are on your knees and afraid. You do not have an answer for them, except perhaps hope.)


It takes until John for them to remember that you, too, wept.