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Stolen Dance

@theprettyoddtheory / theprettyoddtheory.tumblr.com

we need to fetch back the dance they have stolen from us>
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inkskinned

i don't mean to sound ungrateful, but as a content creator on this site, there's a part of me that's like. they absolutely just stole my work.

i'm not, like, unaware that tumblr has been shuffling downhill for years now. sometimes i play with the idea of switching platforms, turning myself into the shark. i often get tens of thousands of notes - i could be "doing numbers" on a platform that actually pays me to do so. i could have statistics that i could use to sell myself, i could rebrand and make content pay-to-play and make brand deals. i could have the other life, i mean.

but i don't want to. i like the quiet nature of tumblr. i like that it still feels like i'm writing poetry, not like i'm fulfilling ad spots. i like the community, and that i can sometimes still take someone by surprise and write something that really speaks to them. i like the tags and reading things like oh of course it's fucking inkskinned i love you inkskinned you gay mess. my girlfriend recently told me that people tag things "inkskinned" because they assume it is similar to tagging "creative writing". that's wild. i made this word up when i was 19, and have always assumed people tag me in things so i read it (and i often do). i have nothing but love and gratitude for you all, for this tiny scoop of family.

and i haven't made any money off it. i had opportunities, and i turned them down. i could have sold this thing like a thousand times. i thought about moving my work elsewhere - over and over and over i thought about it. i weighed each option specifically. but my tumblr felt like ... it's for you guys, only. if you're still here and reading this, you deserve to do it for free.

tumblr has now, most likely, skimmed my work (and yours) in order to make money. i will never see a single cent for that violation. something about landlords, i guess - my work pays their rent.

i just lost my job on valentine's day, and am working on scrambling for solutions. i am writing this to a blog that they will probably scrape with AI. and like, what number to do you think it was? do you think it was only a couple hundred thousand? no way it was close to a million, right? my time, effort, energy - it belongs to someone else now. how many silver pieces for them to completely sell out their user base.

and it's kind of like - funny? when it isn't very-sad. because i personally don't know what to do, ya know? i might as well move to a different platform, where my efforts are ai-scraped but could eventually pay me. where i know my privacy is the cost - but it could result in actual money. anyway. i need to figure out how i'm paying for meds. i need to email like six people about COBRA benefits.

my work is powering someone else's AI. it will be a beautiful fabricated poem, made from words i've already said.

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mythosphere

Iphigenia when she can't be her father's number one boy vs. Elektra and the collusion between father and daughter that does not save the daughter from the mother's fate

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de-salva

Samuel Beckett (Le Petit Café, Paris, 1985)

© John Minihan (b. 1946, Irish photographer)

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bakwaaas

there is a deep pathological sadness and loneliness you just can’t shake off that comes from having a traumatic childhood and broken family which I still haven’t come to terms with

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it's important to nourish your ego with self-aggrandizing fantasies in which you you sit upon a throne of night-black obsidian and color-crazed agate, carved with cherubs and grotesques; in which you are robed in cloth-of-gold and nacreous adornments: in which your crown is a thing of poisoned crystal too terrible to look upon; in which you hold the power of life and death in your hands, looking down as you pass judgment on a blog about to be blocked.

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