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alicemitch09writes · 3 years ago

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JJK ASK | what are your thoughts on the jjk girlies maki, mai, nobara, miwa hehe

my girls!!!!!!!

a’ight *cracks knuckles* here we go:

let’s start with sweet Kasumi Miwa

She’s such a sweet girl, honestly. I like the fact that though she does her duties, she still has her morals and gets conflicted when tasked to kill my bby son, Itadori Yuuji.

I also respect the fact that she’s off as a jujutsu sorcerer to help her family - that’s something really admirable, for me at least. She’s not doing it for herself, she’s doing it for the people she loves.

Her skill as a sorcerer is quite impressive, enough to hold off against my wife, Maki. She was also trained by a First-Grade sorcerer. I really can’t wait to see more of her. *glares at Akutami Gege*

And just like me, we’re both Gojo fans (ꈍ ᴗ ꈍ✿)

next up, Zenin Mai

First of all, I think she’s really pretty and refined and thought she was up there in the Zenin. LOL boy was I wrong because the Zenin clan (save for her and Maki, which I’ll talk more later) are, in Nanami’s words and tone, “FULL OF SHIT” Honestly, good for Toji for leaving. But anyway, back to Mai, she can come off as a bitch, but with good reason: she was forced into something she never wanted.

She just wants to live a normal life, free from the dangers and horrors brought by being a sorcerer and born as a fcking Zenin. I understand that she really hated Maki for leaving, but I think she was also hating herself because she got the better half of the stick rather unwillingly, wanting only to be with her sister.

Also, I found a really interesting twitter thread that discusses on the Zenin twins’ relationship. Do give it a read! It really changes your perspective on not only Maki and Mai, but on their bond as a whole.

I’ll talk more about her when I get to my wife, please hold.

Next up, Kugisaki Nobara!

I’ll be honest with you all, I thought her design was average. Then again, that was the point of it. Akutami Gege is said to be a woman, some say they’re a man, but point is: they don’t want to oversexualize their characters. It’s because their mom reads their works (how supportive! huhu) but maybe also because they’ve had enough of women being sexualized. In Japan, they have this disgusting sense of humor, especially with sexualization tropes (big boobs, nosebleeds, etc). Nobara’s design feels like a breath of fresh air because she looks like a typical Japanese teen - dyed hair, make-up, and all.

One of my favorite reactors also adores her character, supporting her in the episode she fought against Nishimiya, dismantling the idea of how men and women should be in the jujutsu society. It doesn’t matter who you are and where you stand, if you love yourself - flaws and all, then you’re enough. Nobara’s a prime example of that. He said: “Look cute, be strong, go crazy, Nobara!” And I support that. Time and time again, she continues to dismantle that very idea, sanity slipping off to unsettle her foes, getting her hands dirty, yet staying true to herself in the end.

In a way, she reminds me of Haruno Sakura. Then again, maybe she’s this generation’s Haruno Sakura, and I hate to make comparisons, but there needs to be more strong female protagonists like her to stand alongside the male protagonists.

Saving the best for last is my *wipes a tear* MY WIFE, Zenin Maki!!!!!!!!!!

Let’s just take a moment to appreciate this woman.

This wonderful, amazing, strong-willed, and mesmerizing woman. I could go on.

I love a strong female character, Maki’s just that. Unlike her sister though, she wasn’t born with amazing jujutsu techniques or inherited their signature, powerful technique, blessing her with inhuman strength like her cousin, Toji. This would make her seem like a second-rate or sad excuse of a human, at least in the eyes of her shitty family. Yet, Maki rose to the occasion and decided to prove everyone wrong. Even at a young age, she fully understood that because of that absence of power, they would never see her, so she had to make them see and recognize her in another way.

I’ve always had a weakness for people who are weapon masters (bc i grew up watching far too many martial art films), add that with Maki’s unshakable determination and strong will.

Plus, she’s a bit of a tsundere (ᅌᴗᅌ✿) Like not wanting to lose face to Yuta, when they first met. Super sensitive to people’s feelings, unaware that the freshmen were still mourning. And wise for her age, encouraging her juniors time to time. Loving, too, incredibly loving, because her goal to be the next Zenin leader was not only to pay respect to those who weren’t able to achieve power like that of her sister and Megumi, but to also build a better place for Mai. Everything she does is for Mai. I’m soft. Maki, I love you so much.

With the recent chapters, I’m scared-nervous for my wife, especially because she has to deal with the shittiness of her family, the misogyny of it all, and their disgusting obsession with perfection, tradition, and power that’ll corrupt and hopefully destroy them. Mwahahaha I SAID WHAT I SAID

Again, props to Akutami Gege for not oversexualizing their female characters. It’s really a fresh of breath air to have these amazing woman who are fleshed out so well, recognized for their grit and not because of their physique fuck you Naoya Zenin.

#alicemitch09 answers #alicemitch09 talks #jjk #jjk girls #girls of jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #kasumi miwa #zenin mai #kugisaki nobara #zenin maki

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castlehead · 7 years ago

Text

a squint through the unsettled dusts of understanding,

This universe, which is uncomfortable with beings, sees us as,

even if through the most sentimental lens, still makes us all out to be these dumbhead people going still further down to these dramatic, mostly futile, depths: a job, a family, happiness: and say if

that perception the universe has of us is -portent- enough to tell us we are doomed to sink to the bottom, past the final reason to live,

especially if without a solacing god; or, we are doomed to assimilate into the rest of nonbeing: say if that: well, with us recently so combative towards our original weakness, what’s more doom? I speak of course of the tree of knowledge: see,

people thinking -the news- and, really, all info, as some sinful lie, and meant as a disorientation, created by those whose job, to them, is the abandonment of faith, really only means we are us by us abandoned, and you and I abandoning

the cold abstract otherness of truth for the warmth of certainty in suspicion.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Suspicion of some important thing we had ignored, had not noticed, all this time. Like the world being flat or something. We are born

from parents already invested in their prior unease, obsessed with only facts as support their politics, then, one or another new friction

follows, to outlast that. Causing seeds of new, perhaps, more fashionable angers to saw and grumble as they are sown, in generations, for generations, all of it

running its crude wire through all generations: people wrack their brains, or don’t: but all of them still out to do this useless thing: to figure out, once

and for all, what’s in the atom of a thing nobody noticed, eventually just giving up with that wild

goose and confessing belief in conspiracy theories and stuff to prove a similarly-nuanced and similarly-subtle cosmic power be the one of their particular rationale, though it be not cosmic,

just the trappings of an open mind that conceal a closed mind.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Financial losses almost had you out the window this year, and almost falling with you, who were one of the good ones, the

contemporary whispering, as you understood it, of some dissociatingly mortal irony we harbor, as humans. Well, your chance to verbalize it is this.

An irate voice, your solving-sense rings in there, in your head, makes you think that we search and

search, eventually we even picking through the false parts of who we are for some clarity, like, through truth’s desiderata, for something

lying in the lie that is flesh and symbol of the flesh at once, yet to be found not in any place in the bible, no, and not until way beyond the final stage

of a massive airborne ignorance-virus that will sweep the nation faster than a fad, disappear

like a poetic gnosis in the face of an immovable atom; not until the proverbial Ides of March for our ignorance passes will your god be discovered, by you, then hailed

by everybody just then as as true a symbol as the bible: made in America, yet for who

we are, the world is, as much as any sacred text; more so than the obsession with politics and beefs

with inherited social strife. For the Self, which helms so much of social justice, is a fiction, which is why it is so often dissected by those humans of such a philosophical leaning as exalts the reductio

ad absurdum: watch: culture assumes the guise of a brain, critical thinking skills, etc.,

and yet only relents to checking those shy, small, brainless corner-parts of cosmos one

never thinks of to check for the unbelievable shit later, having thought that in time these will betray their spot and fuck it, be, without regard to them, culture, finding.

. . . . . . . . . . .

will see; equivalently now as a hundred years before or after, though, just with more facts that bring us there: to the same place, identifying

a meaning for existence matured finally beyond glorifying and degrading this or that for being then or now, when it’s all the passing of sepulchres and rotting of giants. It is not ugly but leaves an ugly wound. One thinks of gripping fingernails into flesh, and helpless you and

I are to mending the perfectly good name we give to what is before our eyes, calling it Reality according to a reflex, thinking each time an iconoclast calls it not

that they really can’t do that, or else must be suffering unreality around the clock, which would be truly maddening! The iconoclast says they will be

the final commentary, like, will sum up the problem at least, will address this silly matter of the heavens, leave the rest of everybody for the eons after to just twiddle their thumbs

waiting for a proven afterlife: or proven none at all: all the while, these iconoclasts are choked by the same politics that choked their devout parents: we are all contrarian offal actually and pinpoint

where we are least like those we love, as if this signaled intelligence, as if this anxiety

to disobey did not have one listening if, if done, it must forsake reasonableness and clear

intention, when we all know, we all listen, we’re out to self-cut that natal cord. We as youngsters imagine -individuality- some magic in the chest, to be much desired by the lungs if one should breathe properly, in this day and age,

. . . . . . . . . . .

and see it an eternal in miniature: we are most for the individual none of us are because we think it

the most special; are beings, and thus not the god, yet not all not god, for a god if to be at all is in the width

and volume of itself, and people are a sliver of that if not the whole cake without being

able to realize we are! We, we scoff at our mutant bones of chalk, scold our humanity

for not detailing so assiduous a record of lightning as the lightning itself; of each peal of a sort of

this aural flash of light as seen scoped one night, or spied, us in the bushes maybe,

wanting there be more to it than that when our own embarrassed words end

up describing nature’s exact equation!, and we, concocting storms of logic of a beyond:

accurate descriptions of places we could not see without never having existed, and then we are the

valleys lit up a moment, by storm, a stark fork of lightning, a brief light thrown upon trees so that they appear to be

tall skeletons chattering a meaning nature cannot get, but demonstrates to us: we may

see it right and then think our records of it wrong when poring over them later. Nature

is our only source-text for such meaning in spectacle. Or it is by us perceived a magnificent blur, this aggravated universe aggravated at our ignoring its gift of otherness it gave to us: but god takes all the credit for

that one. I have a feeling the universe is out there, there, upon the rainy, forgotten fields, telling us that we are wasted in pursuing thoughts about god, who is its

friend; hell, the vastness of the universe alone hints at a creator that doesn’t really

care about us, without the universe itself needing to say anything. We are, in fact, but a surfeit of their needless recollections, god’s, and left to disperse to oblivion,

governed by some trickling entropy, like the way miscellaneous disgusting juice condensing all

at the bottom of a trash bag trickles into a pool on the floor. God sure is something

people follow, but is no shepherd, rather an equanimity, a sane fairness but at a level none of us can fathom, and of a sanity as would call each person’s human sanity into question, even the most level or most drab

of us. This makes sense, as we all like to take part in what is fair, besides assholes and the selfish. The image of dawn gets added like a spackle over the storm that is over this everlovingly fake

field I have made for you: what is surely early-onset senility, to double

in later years, has me losing focus, and all of sudden, new music thunders its own persuasion, different from the lightning and the rain, that

I do not realize is the very dawn I witness, and I end up relating the music to something more obscure than what is before my eyes. Yet still I try to

find some link in this to my humanity, even a broad one, and daftly draft charming lines for charm’s sake: about how god might weather a meeting

with me, or perhaps you is the better for that -I am he who is unobservant, yet makes himself no servant to anything

he cannot rightly see, thinking what he rightly sees the thing observed, like dawning day, by other people. This is his individuality.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Yet as if that could be, only, all that mattered, or what polished a vision of brass fully back to clarity! A vision, poetic, about all the fidelities a soul has!

But I just guessed and guessed, wracked my brains to find concretions, to find facts in spite

of politics, the bread, and smeared with butter of a both: of an answer or idiom satisfied

at last. Iconoclast- what, tell me, practical scientist of levels, polishes the brass

and with luck, gets it back brand-spanking-fucking new all the time, or rather, why do you do it, when perfection itself

grows unfashionable by the day; by our youthful ironies, is seen the withered novelty, sitting alone, sterilized by an aesthetic of interior design that favors

embellishment, or in other words, making up for something, with its purplish fading facades and wainscot.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The old house of a wealthy dead man approaching foreclosure. An end to human history in its demolishing, or rather the history of a human, depending on what you want to symbolize. Regrets

and more antique regrets get erased: flattened beneath bestial pave of a parking lot: that patch of real estate where this some old house was, and was more than just a man, because at one time Nature.

It was a man-entire, that house, even just one, and, to be a man-entire in another thing, remaining a thing not the man, is to make better her crux,

is to portray her, portray man, that is, as an idiom, a summing-up of into a whole of grandest-grey synecdoche, grey as Whitman’s shining beard; portray her as god.

. . . . . . . . . . .

And: the combining of that, with a human effort for life so powerful it knows its way forsworn untouched by anyone not so effortful, this mixture to be true as anything

that can be so forsworn by lesser after-gods the rest are, in simply being people,

true people. God colludes in secret with the political sway of the day, researches selling-points on how to install the perfect epiphany in people, all to get in our favor, all so as to shift a little

the idiom of the man-entire over somewhere closer within a more mortal niche, this time: god is just like us, but just

confusing enough for me to confuse -them- with cosmic niches, for example, the universe: and then, the greatness

cannot be assumed, because not able to be verified, nor god get caught and debased if actually playing a part in this, caught in the contorted

echo-chambers where only ourselves, as mortal people, can be our limited selves, can be no one else and at no other

time can be. Life, its succession of images of storm, is like a distinguishing harp played for not all of the moments,

. . . . . . . . . . .

but for blessings we do not recognize but that take us from one moment to the next one, that take us to the funny res

we like to be, because we only can sometimes, and which we equivocally call god when we think we can, yet call god in a music that we, scoffing and humble, say is only blindly

combing its way through broad discontented marshes. Struggling to be free of hairy discontent. Let me deny

not dignity to the wafting music here that my overcoming a bloody falling led me to write, overcoming gravity,

though, and this not entirely a glad trade, losing some coverter self I had valued before: but it was too specified to live in anything but words of confusion, even to me:

. . . . . . . . . . .

like something as had snipped away at humanity like a head of hair, like the way thinning rain upon my nice shed’s rough roof, atom

by atom, eases off on its needing me search for some more proof of that distinctive residence I feel in my head, always, wherever it be, and replaces that with its own more believable,

therapeutic reality: a residence, a shed, I feel it someplace in reality’s between, it becomes

an ontology of overtures, either for the entertainment of god or for us, a brief pause in rational thought with fugue and stutter, before a symphony commences

of a between that is even more between, and our concocted gods concocted from wherever it goes from thence, the symphony; and us, to feed on the glaucous-sheened distraction

in the meanwhile, whether it be finance or faux pas or friendliness towards the bagel guy at the corner of your street: they are all forgeries of self that we forget

are forgeries, that is, until there is nothing left of self but its essentials to doubt and which nobody can doubt, without losing themselves in a kind of death of pneuma.

The rest is for woad to overgrow upon, thriving on that stale need for identity, for politicking the self; at least I know for certain I am a space like that. A space

for old tractors to spill into disrepair. A field of thunder forgetting itself, a maul in a stump.

Concretions from an older reality: a radio marked with green rust, not to be saved. Our savior was never: but that’s a good thing.

#poetry #poem #powtry #pome #literature #culture #revision #edits

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