After what feels like forever, this young female juvenile opossum crystal skeleton is finally finished! She had noticeable damage to her skull, which is why I decided to crystalize and dye her entire skeleton. I am pleased with how she came out, and she is available to be added to your collection!! Her skeleton and crystals are attached to a black case, and she has a glass case that attaches to the base.
I have decided not to attempt to ship her, as the crystals could easily be damaged in transit, so I am offering her up to be hand delivered by me! Depending on where you are located, I can deliver her straight to you, or meet you halfway. I am located in North Florida, and would prefer not to travel too far, though I am willing to work that out with whoever is interested. “Shipping” will be paid by the buyer to help me with gas costs, and she is $275 before that. Please contact me here or through any other of my social media!
In 1972, she ran away from home. She was gone for several months, and when she got home my grandmother started shaking her and screaming about how someone had told her my mother had no shoes and my grandmother was sure it meant my mom was dead.
She finally calms down, and they piece it together: my grandmother had gotten a phone call from someone who breathed two or three times, said “Cathy’s in bare feet,” and hung up. Except that’s not what they said–my grandmother had written the date in on her calendar, and on that date my mother was in Bare Feet, Arizona. She knew definitively that she was in Bare Feet because on that date she called home to talk to my grandfather, who told her Uncle Jim had died–“got himself shot”–and that she had missed the funeral. Ready for the glitch in the matrix part? Here we go:
–My grandfather had no recollection of the conversation–which would have been a strange conversation indeed, since Uncle Jim was still alive and, in fact, didn’t die until 2009, eight years after my grandfather. However, my mom did miss the funeral, thanks to a delayed flight. Cause of death? Supposedly, it was suicide, but there were enough indications for the family to believe that was a pile of horseshit, not least that shooting himself in the head with the rifle indicated would’ve been near-impossible.
–My mom was going by the name Patricia Danko when she was on the run–she had a fake ID and everything. She hadn’t called herself “Cathy” since leaving home and nobody knew she was traveling under an alias.
–According to my mom, she never gave a name for herself–either Patricia or Cathy–when she was in Bare Feet, and she would’ve had no reason to. Bare Feet had maybe a hundred people in it, and they were just stopping for food and gas.
–This isn’t just an account from my mother–my dad was with her at the time, and he remembers both the phone call and the truckstop.
But that’s not the weirdest nor the creepiest part, which is this:
–I’ve been trying for three years to find Bare Feet, Arizona–on the Internet, on old maps, by talking to old Arizona cowboys, and there was never a Bare Feet, Arizona. My mom convinced my dad to drive “through Bare Feet” on the way back from Texas in 2013 and there was no town anywhere along the highway, not even the abandoned bones of one. I’ve looked for Bare Feet, Barefeet, Bear Feet, Bare Feat, Bare Foot, Barefoot, and Bear Foot. None of these exist.
My mother stopped in a town that doesn’t exist, ate in a restaurant that never was, made a phone call that could not have happened and was apparently answered by a ghost from 40 years in the future, and later that night someone called my grandmother from a number that turned up on her phone bill only as a pay phone in Arizona to say that single sentence, “Cathy’s in Bare Feet.”
I didn’t initially want to reblog things here, but this is just too far up my alley. I think I’ll start collecting stories of incidents like this, weirdling magic at its most potent.
You come to the realization that the tall metal fences surrounding the orphanage aren’t made to keep the children safe from the public, but to keep the public safe from what’s inside.
If there is one image that comes to the mind of any art historian when the 1924 Expo is brought up, it is of that iconic photo of Duchamp and Ruiz posing side by side with their fellow artists in front of the still-closed doors, Marcos seemingly leaning over to whisper something into Duchamp’s ear.
For decades, many have speculated on what words Marcos had for his colleague during that memorable instant; a question of metaphysics? Or a challenge? An affirmation of their coming to terms? A reminder of the reason why they were there at that moment of time? Perhaps an expression of amazement at the multitudes that had come to see them?
According to one reporter who claimed he stood close enough to overhear that whisper amidst the din of the crowd, it was all five at once, expressed in four simple words.
After succumbing to a fever of some sort in 1705, Irish woman Margorie McCall was hastily buried to prevent the spread of whatever had done her in. Margorie was buried with a valuable ring, which her husband had been unable to remove due to swelling. This made her an even better target for body snatchers, who could cash in on both the corpse and the ring.
The evening after Margorie was buried, before the soil had even settled, the grave-robbers showed up and started digging. Unable to pry the ring off the finger, they decided to cut the finger off. As soon as blood was drawn, Margorie awoke from her coma, sat straight up and screamed.
The fate of the grave-robbers remains unknown. One story says the men dropped dead on the spot, while another claims they fled and never returned to their chosen profession.
Margorie climbed out of the hole and made her way back to her home.
Her husband John, a doctor, was at home with the children when he heard a knock at the door. He told the children, “If your mother were still alive, I’d swear that was her knock.”
When he opened the door to find his wife standing there, dressed in her burial clothes, blood dripping from her finger but very much alive, he dropped dead to the floor. He was buried in the plot Margorie had vacated.
Margorie went on to re-marry and have several children. When she did finally die, she was returned to Shankill Cemetery in Lurgan, Ireland, where her gravestone still stands. It bears the inscription “Lived Once, Buried Twice.”
what did i just read
Irish women are strong as fuck
I’m Irish and I can conclude that we are motherfucking metal
Her name starts with “Margo“, so of course she’s metal.
