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truly disappointing that one of the greatest works of modern literature is a dream smp chatfic

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new eevee evolution called ibuprofeon

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Little begging dogfish!

Took some inspiration from spotted seabass for this one. sold! 🐟💙

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WIZARD WRAPPED

You casted 1,039,627 spells this year

You pondered your orb for 985 hours

You targeted 109 spells at someone other than yourself - that’s in the top 6% of wizards!

You gained 5 familiars

Your favorite focus for spellcasting this year was a staff

Your cup size is H

Your most cast spell was Spontaneous Snack Generation and you used it 576 times this year.

Your most summoned object was Ketamine Ape at 69 summons

You trapped someone within an amulet for 10,000 years

You were unwittingly haunted by the evil skull twice

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thinking about creatures.

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Wildly Constant

by Anne Carson

Sky before dawn is blackish green. Perhaps a sign. I should learn more about signs.

Turning a corner to the harbour the wind hits me a punch in the face.

I always walk in the morning, I don’t know why anymore. Life is short.

My shadow goes before me. With its hood up it looks like a foghorn.

Ice on the road. Ice on the sidewalk. Nowhere to step.

It’s better to step where the little black stones are. Not so slippery.

I guess the little black stones could be lava. Or do I exoticise.

A man hurries past with a small dog. No one says Hello.

A pink schoolgirl passes. Looks in my face. No one says Hello.

Who would expect to see a walking foghorn out so early.

Wind pushes more. I push back. Almost home.

Why did I come here. New wind every day. Life is for pushing back.

Now it is dawn. A gold eyelid opens over the harbour.

People who live here learn not to complain about the wind.

I go inside and make tea. Eat bran flakes. Read three pages of Proust.

Proust is complaining (it is 1914) about the verb savoir as used by journalists.

He says they use it not as a sign of the future but as a sign of their desires –

sign of what they want the future to be. What’s wrong with that? I think. I should learn more about signs.

The first thing I saw the first morning I went out for a walk in Stykkishólmur was a crow

as big as a chair. What’s that chair doing on top of that house? I thought then it flapped away.

A crow that big is called a raven. Corvus corax in Linnaeus’s binomial system. Each one makes a sound

like a whole townful of ravens in the country I come from. Three adjectives that recur

in the literature on ravens are omnivorous. Pernicious.

Monogamous. I’m interested in monogamous. I got married last May

and had my honeymoon in Stykkishólmur. This year I returned to Stykkishólmur to live with my husband

for three months in one small room. This extreme monogamy proved almost too much for us.

Rather than murder each other we rented a second place (Greta’s house)

near the pool. Now we are happily duogamous.

There are ravens on the roof of both places. Perhaps they are the same ravens.

I can’t tell. If Roni Horn were here she’d say ravens

are like water, they are wildly constant. They are a sign of Iceland.

I should learn more about signs. I came to Stykkishólmur to live in a library.

The library contains not books but glaciers. The glaciers are upright.

Silent. As perfectly ordered as books would be. But they are melted.

What would it be like to live in a library of melted books.

With sentences streaming over the floor and all the punctuation settled to the bottom as a residue.

It would be confusing. Unforgivable. A great adventure.

Roni Horn once told me that one of the Antarctic explorers said To be having an adventure

is a sign of incompetence. When I am feeling at my most incompetent

as I do in Stykkishólmur many a dark morning walking into the wind,

I try to conjure in mind something that is the opposite of incompetence. For example the egg.

This perfect form. Perfect content. Perfect food.

In your dreams said a more recent explorer (Anna Freud) you can have your eggs cooked as perfectly as you want

but you cannot eat them. Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep

because of the wind I go and stand in the library of glaciers.

I stand in another world. Not the past not the future. Not paradise not reality not

a dream. An other competence, Wild and constant.

Who knows why it exists. I stand amid glaciers. Listen to the wind outside

falling towards me from the outer edges of night and space. I have no theory of why we are here

or what any of us is a sign of. But a room of melted glaciers rocking in the nightwind of Stykkishólmur

is a good place to ponder it. Each glacier is lit from underneath as memory is.

Proust says memory is of two kinds. There is the daily struggle to recall where we put our reading glasses

and there is a deeper gust of longing that comes up from the bottom of the heart

involuntarily. At sudden times. For surprise reasons.

Here is an excerpt from a letter Proust wrote in 1913: We think we no longer love our dead

but that is because we do not remember them: suddenly we catch sight of an old glove

and burst into tears. Before leaving the library I turn off the lights.

The glaciers go dark. Then I return to Greta’s house. Wake up my husband.

Ask him to make us some eggs.

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disco elysium is so freaking awesome because it’s like yeah this is the end of the world and the only two things that can heal your soul are love and always remembering that communism really was possible

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reblog to stir prev occasionally

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If i was a sickly little peasant boy designated by the aristocracy to carry messages back and forth for pennies and you found me against our citys outer wall with a deep wound in my chest from a musket ball and a letter cluthed in my hand and i told you that my dying wish was to have someone read that letter to me so i would know i died for something important and you open it up and you find a single large illustrated diagram of an onion would you tell me what it was? What would you say?

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Museum of witchcraft 74

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i LOVE images like this truly i love the vagueness of "i heart music" No need to specify What music or under what conditions Music is simply enough .......... &i understand. i have the musiclistener's spirit

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Santiago Caruso (Argentine, b. 1982, Quilmes, Buenos Aires, Argentina) - Alta Cocina (Haute Cuisine) from El Huésped Y Otros Relatos Siniestros (The Guest and Other Sinister Tales) by Mexican author Amparo Dávila (Mexican, 1928-2020, b. Pinos, Zacatecas, Mexico, d. Zacatecas, Mexico), Paintings: Watercolor

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"I was someone else then -- filled to the brim with love for you. Hanging on your every word. Oh Harry, you were the *coolest*... But I am no longer that person. This..." -- She points to herself. "... has taken her place. It will devour you. Harry -- I will eat your mind."

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My liege, how do you remain positive in a world so cruel?

There is a lot of despair right now. I do not wish to add for it. A lot of things can be taken from me, but I will remain hopeful and silly and filled with love for the people I care about. They will not take away my joy

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2006