SH - The Strange Musician
… almost done!
My crackpot writing has inspired the most beautiful painting. My purpose on tumblr. It has been accomplished. *cue a chorus of angels*
You have freed me, dear artist, I can go towards the light now. XD
And it’s painted with tea. Tea. ♥ ♥ ♥
Anonymous asked: In your IOU explanation for the Sherlock series, you interpret the numbers as all representing stories, but I was wondering if you used them for any other way. For example, 53rd story, 8th page of the story and 92nd word of that page? Does that come to anything? If the story isn't long enough to have 8+ pages, maybe just 8 pages after that story? I've looked and looked for that copy, but I could not find it anywhere, so I was hoping you could clear that up for me.
I never explored other options – I liked the first one (because yay, pretty violin picture!) and ran with it – but you have great ideas, and I really love how your mind works! :D I don’t think the writers would go so far as to write a secret cipher for us fans. Unfortunately.
I would so write one if I were in their place.The amazing finalproblem has taken the time to write a brilliant explanation of why that IOU idea could never work – go check it out! :D Please don’t waste your time looking for the right edition because of some crazy thing I wrote, I feel like a complete troll, ugh, I’m so sorry!! :(
"It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it."
Look at the center of this image for 30sec, then watch Van Gogh’s *Starry Night* come to life
bless this post.
This is the best thing in the history of ever.
Hahahahaha, why why why, no, seriously, why was the crackpot theory even nominated? XD Reichencrack ist Reichenwhack.
And The Winner is…
Five evenings of typing, an unhealthy amount of coffee, and an overactive imagination.
"So many people walk around with a meaningless life. They seem half-asleep, even when they’re busy doing things they think are important. This is because they’re chasing the wrong things."
The drawings of butterflies done by Vladimir Nabokov were intended for “family use.” He made these on title pages of various editions of his works as a gift to his wife and son and sometimes to other relatives. In Brian Boyd’s words, “in these highly personal and affectionately playful drawings the scientific accuracy Nabokov needed in thousands of illustrations of the specimens he studied under the microscope was no longer relevant, and his imagination could take flight. In the butterflies Nabokov devised and labeled for Vera he mingles fact and fancy even more sportively than in his fiction.”
None of these drawings portray real butterflies, both the images and the names he assigns to them are his invention. The names often have some connection to the book that the butterflies adorn and, in most cases, play on words in English and Russian is used: “Paradisia radugaleta”, “Verinia verae”, to name just a few.
"Go and get a job. Go and find a flat. Find somebody else. Put them in the flat. Make them stay. Get a toaster. Go to work. Get on the bus. Look at your boss. Say, “fuck”. Sit down. Pick up the thing. Go blank. Scream internally. Go home. Listen to the radio. Look at the other person. Think, “WHY? Why did this happen?”. Go to bed. Lie awake! At night! Get up. Feel groggy. Put the things on - your clothes - whatever they’re called. Go out the door, into work - same thing! Same people, again, it’s real, it is happening, to you. Go home again! Sit, Radio, Dinner - mmm, GARDENING, GARDENING, GARDENING, death!"
Like most girls, I have struggled with my self-image my entire life. When I was younger I hated the way I looked because everyone else was prettier, skinnier, had nicer…everything. Sure some people told me I was pretty, but I felt like people were obliged to say that because I certainly didn’t see it. From time to time I’d think, “Today. Today I don’t look terrible.” From time to time I would genuinely feel pretty.
I had gotten better about it as I’d gotten older because I have learned to love myself a bit more. Then I got sick. Cancer took its toll in so many ways. I didn’t feel pretty anymore because it took my hair and gave me scars that drew attention to the fact I was broken. I was called “sir” because I had short hair. Then, I can’t really tell you what happened. One day I stopped caring. I started to love my short hair and I felt beautiful because I had been through something that had made me stronger and I loved that I could look in the mirror and smile again. The treatments ended and my hair did eventually grow back.
I won’t tell you that I have completely resolved my self-image issues. I’m not sure there is anybody who really has, but some days we can say, “Today. Today I look lovely.” Sure it’s shallow, but it does feel nice to feel pretty from time to time. I don’t post pictures of myself often. I think that people will be…disappointed somehow. It’s silly of me I realize, but buried within this so called grown woman remains the girl who wanted to have blue eyes and straight hair and for a boy to look at her and say, “Wow. You’re beautiful, did you know that?” I do, by the way, know I’m beautiful. It has taken me a long time and I have to remind myself from time to time. So I suppose that’s why I am making this. This is me being brave and pushing the wolves who whisper doubts at bay. These are the pictures where I felt beautiful and that when I looked at them I saw what other people seemed to. So this is me, being brave enough to show you what I’m often to scared to see for myself.
You are absolutely gorgeous. Most girls wish they were half as pretty as you! ♥