#Blip bloop

[duckgremlin]

One or two doodles :)) with a very convenient giant squid book that may cover the worst one ;)

anyways some pen doodles of my children my little guys my goobers

[burned0utstar]

My mind is running, I wanna do everything all at once now please!

Give me somethinggg to doooo.

Pleaseee??

[ubejamjar]

wondrous tails // twelve kisses

"Has anyone seen the Warrior of Light? Actually, now that I think about it, has anyone seen Lord Haurchefant?" ~ Alphinaud, probably

[My Other Wondrous Tails]

[al-n-cartoons]

More of Ben's personalized Loboan form:

Sometimes going by “Tenja Hemming”, this is the non-human form Benj uses the most for casual affairs. Namely, around the house. It is far smaller than the absolute Loboan form, Blitzwolfer, which makes it ideal for minor, domestic functions. As for how that name came to be made, it is the result of smashing together “Benjamin” and “Ten”, followed by googling wolf-esq surnames.

The face of Tenja has successfully been kept from cameras and, as of yet, is not widely known. As far as most others are concerned, Tenja is simply a Loboan living somewhere in downtown Bellwood. Benj uses this face when his own is less practical, though those matters are best kept under the table.

While this form doesn’t inherently effect Benj's personality, he has used it to be a ‘different person’ with it such that the way he filters himself reflexively differs from his human firm to this one. More specifically, he is more honest and less passive; more of the self he's learned to suppress upon becoming a terminally stalked public figure.

[tethered-heartstrings]

okay but what if I wrote short little ficlets based on all the scenarios in my smoking post what then

[lastwave]

you're very cool!! blip bloops of joy encountering you on dash

o7

[anxietyishere]

I just came up with either the best, or worst idea ever.

If your interested in participating in this dumb little idea I've come up with, then listen here;

My idea is, use a drawing(that you created) to create a new aesthetic, this can be one you think fits you, or something completely random, I hope this will be fun, and if you feel like participating in this you can reblog this with the aesthetic you created, or make a post with the aesthetic you created and tag me, I don't expect this to go far since I don't have that many followers, but I hope the people who come across this who want to participate in it have fun :]

(I'll make a separate post later with my aesthetic)

[unhingedmediasharing]

This one on loop

[finchwicks]

testing

testing... testing... testing

[sepublic]

There are a lot of things that make this moment wonderful, but what I want to talk about is how Luz goes blip and bloop, like she does whenever she flips her eyelids inside out. Or playfully squishes her girlfriend’s face, like she did Willow’s in The First Day.

After months of depression, guilt, and self-loathing... It truly does feel like the return of the whimsical Luz we started off and fell in love with. She didn’t have to lose this joyous part of her to trauma, or abandon it for the sake of ‘maturity’; It’s a silly yet earnest side to Luz that she’s finally allowed to get back as a result of her recovery, as a result of her realizing she truly is accepted by her mother. And following just after the climax of the previous episode, it feels like Camila truly did get through to Luz, and got her daughter to rediscover the part she lost, as if Luz is herself again and her light has been relit.

It’s such a small detail and yet as someone who mourned the disillusionment Luz built up throughout Season 2, culminating in Season 3’s depression, it feels so relieving to actually see Luz display the hopeful, unapologetic tone that the world ridiculed and nearly took away, that she ultimately saved intact.

It’s heartwarmingly familiar; Luz truly is back after her lowest point, not just back home but back as who she is, and now she can return to the compassion she does so well at, to help a kid just like her. Luz feels naturally comfortable in her own skin again as the default, she’s survived, she’s healed. As someone who’s struggled with this sort of trauma in the past, it means so much to witness someone I see myself in actually succeed.

And this moment comes with realizing her friends don’t hate her, an insecurity that drove so much of Luz’s efforts to stifle herself! They love her for who she is, and Luz can be grateful for who she is, to offer the same love towards herself. Amity fell in love with Luz because of her weirdness, not despite it, and it’s how Luz approaches and reaches out to the real Amity.

[cool-retro-term-official]

PROGRAMMERS OF ALL KINDS AND SHAPES, PLEASE UNDERSTAND THIS

A code that doesn't have comments, even if it's well written, is not always very good code. When you want to optimize your code, you're might have to write ugly stuff sometimes ! Look at what data oriented design can produce for example. When optimization introduces unreadability, even if everything else is amazingly written, you need to add comments.

Anyway, use your cli tools on me plz, im cool, im pretty, look at me, blip bloop, blip bloop ❤️💾

[green-and-grey]

the little blips and bloops and existential terrors between songs on iDKHOW physical media

reblog if u agree

[aaknopf]

Martyr!, the poet Kaveh Akbar’s propulsive debut novel, tells the tale of Cyrus Shams, the son of a lost mother (victim of a 1988 U. S. Naval snafu in the Persian Gulf that killed 290 people on a commercial airliner) and the long-suffering father who emigrated to Fort Wayne, IN with his baby boy. We meet Cyrus as a student of poetry at Keady University and a reformed addict. In this excerpt, he’s at the local open mic with his friends; we also share one of the poems from Cyrus’s bookofmartyrs.docx, helpfully supplied by Akbar, the poet behind the fictional poet.

. .

The Naples Tuesday night open mic had become a mainstay of Cyrus and Zee’s friendship. It was a small affair, not much to distinguish it from the myriad other open mics happening elsewhere in the country—except this was their open mic, their organic community of beautiful weirdos—old hippies singing Pete Seeger, trans kids rapping about liberation, passionate spoken-word performances by nurses and teenagers and teachers and cooks. As with any campus open mic, there was the occasional frat dude coming to play sets of smirky acoustic rap covers and overearnest breakup narratives. But even they were welcome, and mostly it felt like a safe little oasis of amongness in the relative desert of their Indiana college town, a healthy way to spend the time they were no longer using to get drunk or high.   Naturally, Naples didn’t have its own sound equipment, so Zee would usually show up fifteen minutes early with his beat-up Yamaha PA to set up for Sad James, who hosted every week. Sad James was called this to distinguish him from DJ James, a guy who cycled nightly through the campus bars. DJ James was not a particularly interesting artist, but he was well-known enough in the campus community to warrant Sad James’s nominative prefix, which began as a joke but somehow stuck, and to which Sad James had grown accustomed with good humor, even occasionally doing small shows under the name. Sad James was a quiet white guy, long blond hair framing his lightly stubbled face, who played intensely solemn electronic songs, punctuated by sparse circuit-bent blips and bloops, and over time at Keady, he had become one of Zee and Cyrus’s most resilient and trusted friends.   On this night, Cyrus had read a poem early, an older experimental piece from a series where he’d been assigning words to each digit 0–9, then using an Excel document to generate a lyric out of those words as the digits appeared in the Fibonacci sequence: “lips sweat teeth lips spread teeth lips drip deep deep sweat skin,” etc. It was bad, but he loved reading them out loud, the rhythms and repeti­tions and weird little riffs that emerged. Sad James did an older piece where the lyrics “burning with the human stain / she dries up, dust in the rain” were repeated and modulated over molten beeps from an old circuit-bent Game Boy. Zee—a drummer in his free time who idolized J Dilla and John Bonham and Max Roach and Zach Hill in equal measure—hadn’t brought anything of his own to perform that evening, but did have a little bongo to help accompany any acoustic acts who wanted it.   On the patio listening to Cyrus talk about his new project, Zee said, “I could see it being a bunch of different poems in the voices of all your different historical martyr obsessions?” Then to Sad James, Zee added, “Cyrus has been plastering our apartment with these big black-and-white printouts of all their terrifying faces. Bobby Sands in our kitchen, Joan of Arc in our hallway.”   Sad James made his eyes get big.   “I just like having them present,” Cyrus said, slumping into his chair. He didn’t add that he’d been reading about them in the library, his mystic martyrs, that he’d taped a great grid of their grayscale printed faces above his bed, half believing it would work like those tapes that promised to teach you Spanish while you slept, that some­how their lived wisdoms would pass into him as he dreamt. Among the Tank Man, Bobby Sands, Falconetti as Joan of Arc, Cyrus had a picture of his parents’ wedding day. His mother, seated in a sleeved white dress, smiling tightly at the camera while his father, in a tacky gray tux, sat grinning next to her holding her hand. Above their heads, a group of attendees held an ornate white sheet. It was the only picture of his mother he had. Next to his mother, his father beamed, bright in a way that made it seem he was radiating the light himself.   Zee went on: “So you could write a poem where Joan of Arc is like, ‘Wow, this fire is so hot’ or whatever. And then a poem where Hussain is like, ‘Wow, sucks that I wouldn’t kneel.’ You know what I mean?”   Cyrus laughed.   “I tried some of that! But see, that’s where it gets corny. What could I possibly say about the martyrdom of Hussain or Joan of Arc or whoever that hasn’t already been said? Or that’s worth saying?”   Sad James asked who Hussain was and Zee quickly explained the trial in the desert, Hussain’s refusing to kneel and being killed for it.   “You know, Hussain’s head is supposedly still buried in Cairo?” Zee said, smiling. “Cairo, which is in which country again?”   Cyrus rolled his eyes at his friend, who was, as Cyrus liked to remind him when he got too greatest-ancient-civilization-on-earth about things, only half Egyptian.   “Damn,” Sad James said. “I would’ve just kneeled and crossed my fingers behind my back. Who am I trying to impress? Later I could call take-backsies. I’d just say I tripped and landed on my knees or something.”   The three friends laughed. Justine, an open mic regular whose Blonde on Blonde–era pea-coat-and-harmonica-rack Bob Dylan act was a mainstay of the open mic, came outside to ask Zee for a cigarette. He obliged her with an American Spirit Yellow, which she lit around the corner as she began speaking into her cell phone.   In moments like these Cyrus still sometimes felt like asking to bum one too—he’d been a pack-and-a-half-a-day smoker before he got sober, and continued his habit even after he’d kicked everything else. “Quit things in the order they’re killing you,” his sponsor, Gabe, told him once. After a year clean he turned his attention to cigarettes, which he finally managed to kick completely by tapering: from one and a half packs a day to a pack to half a pack to five cigarettes and so on until he was just smoking a single cigarette every few days and then, none at all. He could probably get away with bumming the occasional cigarette now and again, but in his mind he was saving that for something momentous: his final moments lying in the grass dying from a gunshot wound, or walking in slow motion away from a burning building.   “So what are you thinking then? A novel? Or like . . . a poetic mar­tyr field guide?” asked Zee.   “I’m really not sure yet. But my whole life I’ve thought about my mom on that flight, how meaningless her death was. Truly literally like, meaningless. Without meaning. The difference between 290 dead and 289. It’s actuarial. Not even tragic, you know? So was she a martyr? There has to be a definition of the word that can accom­modate her. That’s what I’m after.”

More on this book and author:

Learn more about Martyr! by Kaveh Akbar.

Browse Kaveh Akbar's poetry collections and follow Kaveh on Instagram @kavehakbar.kavehakbar.

Visit our Tumblr to peruse poems, audio recordings, and broadsides in the Knopf poem-a-day series.

To share the poem-a-day experience with friends, pass along this link.

[vehementnerdboy04]

blip

bloop

[bruitmoderniste]

pre-roll and blip bloop rainy sunday

[demitheshine]

✨Also please reblog for reach hfhfgfds/nf + silly