#class i took

[website-com]

for our final assignment for indigenous lifeworld we were asked to write a reflective essay on how the course has reframed our thinking, as while we learnt history it was more about understanding better the context in which palawa life continues and context of the land in a way that a welcome to country pays lip service to doing. 

i started mine about my neighbour, a known palawa scholar and lecturer in the uni, and how he collects old, silly ‘aboriginal themed’ souvenirs. i thought that was so fun of him, especially since his main area of focus is in art and exhibition, having worked closely with the museum that used to display the dead bodies of palawa people to create their indigenous section, by far their best static exhibition. my mum thought it was fun as well, and bough him a boomerang plate that she found in an op shop because she thought it was quite cute. being my mum she immediately began thinking about it, while we were neighbours we weren’t that close, if anything we had a poorer relationship because of the chickens we can’t keep under control to save our life. 

She didn’t give him the plate. It’s downstairs, where he and his wife used to store things when this was their house. 

I actually wrote my essay about re-using the plate for something new. I was inspired by an early unit about the re-framing of Wybalenna. Wybalenna was on a small island off of the main and the place that was promised to the groups still fighting a vicious war with the english settlers if they made peace. They were promised flour and tea and ‘a nice white fella to keep you safe’ and to someday return to their land. Land that they died facing. 

I wanted to see if i could make something that better reflected the history of this place. it was boomerang shaped, a tool that was never used down here, and I wrote about how i could use its shape to paint the stars that walked down from the milky way to carve out the land during creation. How i could turn it into a mutton bird, break it up into tools. I ended every other section talking myself out of it, explaining how ive broken that sort of pottery before and it does not make a sharp stone knife.

I ended the essay by concluding that I didnt have the right to change it. Or rather it shouldnt be changed. I dont know who made it, it might not be in an artstyle used down here but thats not to say it was made by a white person. It wasn’t the plates fault it was sold somewhere that never saw a boomerang in use until kfc sold them with meals. From the start of the essay I was unsure if I should even be someone creating art that reflected a culture my ancestors were far more likely to have aided in wiping out. I talked myself out of it and said it was better left a contextual reminder. this sort of thing was made, it holds a history of the time. 

I think about that a lot. theres often a call for destruction of monuments to a history no one should be proud of. people often call for ones that reflect indigenous history to be erected in their stead and to forget about the colonisers. which is honestly quite a colonial way to remember something. when i heard the story of coming into being, not dreaming, as its called on the mainland, when pumpermehowlle and pineterrinner, the two stars, walked down and carved out the land. the woman recounting the story said that it was told by her great great (etc) grandfather, Mannalargenna, a revered leader born around 1775 and died on Wybalenna after cutting off his hair (which was typically worn caked in ochure) a few months after landing, wanting nothing other than to return. when Mannalargenna was asked how he knew it was true he said that his father had told him, and his fathers father had done so before then, potentially thousands of generations had told this story, keeping it alive in minds and mouths, never once writing it down. 

people never used to be immortalised in metal, its a mainland tradition but when someone dies all photos of them are put away or destroyed, their name is not spoken and if someone shares a name or a similar one with them they change it for a year or so after the death to let people go. theres often a warning on television programs featuring aboriginal people that it may contain images or voices of people who have passed. I met a man in the national portrait gallery in canberra who was deeply upset that the gallery contained no visible warnings and he saw someone who he knew he shouldn't have. while its not ridiculous to ask the gallery to remove any portraits of aboriginal people it will be a while before the wishes of people are valued above the ambiguous good of art, but if you go to the galleries website today i left a little mark on his behalf in the form of the dropdown message (prior to there was a little paragraph at the bottom, but you had to go out of your way to find it). if anyone lives near canberra i’d love to know if they implemented warnings in the physical location as that was the primary reason for my email, and i wish i could tell that man that he had an impact on the world no matter how small.

all of that to say that i dont think giving people the excuse to forget history is the right thing to do. the australian government doesnt need any more excuses. truganini, a woman asked to help round up her people to place them on wybalenna as maybe the last hope of survival, who died old and far away from her home, and was incorrectly called the last tasmanian aboriginal person (my neighbour is not only a scholar of research, but a palawa man himself) asked to have her body buried in the deepest part of the river so that no one could dig her up and put her on display, which people were very known to do. her skeleton remained in the tasmanian museum from the year of her death, 1876 until 1947. finally returned to the community for cremation in 1976. the last known piece of her was returned in 2002, a piece of her skin, left forgotten in a museums archive. 

(a part of an exhibition my neighbour put together)

I am not the person to start or mediate the conversations, but i think the ones that have been happening amongst my fellow non-aboriginal people about destruction of monuments and creation of new ones are not the sort of conversations we should be having. I still wonder how Mannalargenna and his father, and his father before that would feel about the stories they kept alive through mouth and mind would feel about my writing them on a page. left dead until i read them again.

(my professor told me to print out the essay i wrote and give it to my neighbour, but knowing me, it’ll end up in the bottom of the house right next to the plate. im my mothers kid after all)

[great-and-small]

Turdus aficionados of Costa Rica please know I love your national bird but this is objectively hilarious

[shimmershy]

Happy 9th anniversary, Undertale.

You will be important forever and ever and ever.

[vraska-theunseen]

DID YOU ALL KNOW THAT YOU CAN DO WHATEVER UOU WANT WHEN YOURW MAKING ART ISNT THAT WILD

[inkskinned]

having good & true friends will literally save and protect you in a million unfathomable ways. like okay we have written so many times about lovers. but the way a platonic friend laughs and cries with you. the way they hold your hand at 14 years old and at 34. the way they keep a little silver tie to you, touching base over and over and over. how you can go years without talking, only to re-meet and discover: oh shit! you're still cool!

there are people who have been in my life for more than half of it, and i have loved every version of them. do you know how fucking beautiful that is. yeah love will save the world. but the way friends love you is gonna save the you.

[harbek]

Get ready for a Game Changer!

I̴̫͈͖͠'̸̘̺͛ͅv̸̲̰̦͛e̵̬̪͊ ̸̧̬̤͂b̸̼̰͊͒͜e̵͇͎͐ẽ̶̟ṉ̷̯̪͗͂͒ ̵̭̑̓h̸̬̾̄ḛ̴̛̹̪̿r̸̮̊e̴̖͆̒ ̵̣̬̲̽͝t̴̳̫̔̇ḣ̴͓e̸̥͕̎ ̴̡̧͉̔̒̏w̶̲͑̀͐ĥ̶̖o̴̙̻͂ļ̷̍e̵̫͇̅ ̸͍̓͂̕t̷̗̗̼̂̅i̴̟̞̍̒̈́m̵̲̠̃ͅë̶̡̳͇́͒͐!̵̹̦͌͠

Drawn in Photoshop, animated in Spine Pro. The final art piece I made for my bachelor thesis on GIF as a medium for art.

I've been researching digital art in the context of modern folk art, outside institutional or commercial art. I analysed almost 500 art GIFs across Tumblr, Artstation and GIPHY.

There's almost no academic research on art GIFs, so it was important to me to examine and document it. I also examined the optimisation of GIFs and how it relates to web sustainability.

And because the bachelor program was focused on art practice, I then created my own art GIFs, and it seemed only right that I should do it through fanart of something I've been really into lately. Thanks @samreich and the rest of Dropout for giving me some unhinged content as inspiration. Watch 'Game Changer' everyone, it's great.

[percydoodless]

punch your lights out, hit the pavement

[rubbish78]

Hugh Jackman as Wolverine/Logan Howlett shirtless moments

[goblingirlmode]

Least transgender dorohedoro character

[uncanny-tranny]

Diversity win! All the male mannequins in the nursing class I was in had vaginas (literally all)!

Diversity loss! Everyone was Weird about it

[isatohlee]

Solace

Song: Hijo Del Corazón

@c-lunette

[shroomerr]

portrait study but its kenny

[valentimmy]

I added color to it look at them

[confessedlyfannish]

Writing Prompt #14

"You foolish, stupid child," Vlad hisses, pinning Danny to the wall. Danny's eyes turn green as he wraps both his fists around the one Vlad has clenched in his collar, his feet dangling in the air. Vlad leans in, his own eyes burning red.

"When, exactly, did you plan on telling me your biological father was Bruce Wayne?" he says furiously.

Danny's hands drop in surprise. "W-What?" he gasps.

Vlad drops him unceremoniously and he lands on the floor in a heap. Vlad claws at the air in frustration.

"Don't lie to me, boy." Vlad says, omitting his often used possessive "my" in front of "boy".

"How do you know that?" Danny asks warily, propping himself up. He watches Vlad push a shaking hand through his hair. The man looks down at him before dropping in an ungainly squat beside him.

"Of all the sperm donors, Bruce Wayne, Daniel? Really?" The man asks, despairingly.

"I didn't exactly choose him, Vlad."

"No, I suppose you didn't."

"Seriously," Danny says, watching the man rock back on his heels as a growing pit forms in his stomach. "How did you know about him?"

Vlad's mouth twists bitterly. "Because he now knows about you."

"What do you—"

"Vladdy! Danno! What are the two of you doing on the floor?" Jack flops down beside them, a tray of freshly prepared fudge in his hands. "We having a heart-to-heart boys? Let me in on this!"

"Jack," Vlad says. "If you truly want to have a heart-to-heart with your son, I suggest you tell him the real reason I've come over today."

Jack's face falls.

"Vlad," Maddie says from behind him. "Thank you for coming. We're grateful for all you've done, but I think we can handle it from here."

"Madeline," Vlad says, rushing to his feet. "I must insist—"

"And I must insist you see yourself out," Maddie smiles tightly. "You know where the door is, don't you?"

"Mads," Jack says gently, looking between the two.

"I can show him out," Danny says, getting up as well.

"That's alright, Danny," Maddie says. "Why don't you go get your sister? We need to have a talk...as a family."

Danny glances at Vlad.

"Now, Danny," Maddie says. Danny heads for the stairs, pit growing ever larger.

--

The next time they meet it is Danny who has Vlad pinned, the gaudy chandelier above him shaking with the force of his rage.

"You should've told me," Danny growls.

"I thought your parents had you informed," Vlad says, utterly unbothered by the teen cracking what is thankfully not a load-bearing wall of his mansion. "Honestly Daniel, we could throw around allegations of deception on both sides, particularly mine as I assume you've known for quite some time now, if not the entire time, about your father hmm?"

Danny's eyes flick away in an obvious tell.

"Yes, I thought as much. But rather than whinging about being blindsided, I suggest we focus our energy on the solution."

Danny drops Vlad, barely biting back a snarl when the man lands gracefully on both feet.

"Which is?" Danny asks.

"First of all, your well-meaning but frankly moronic parents seem to believe that they can make a case for your custody without the assistance of my legal team. It is in both of our best interests to dissuade them of this."

"They don't like feeling indebted, Mom in particular."

"Well, to be crude for a moment Daniel, tough shit. Yes," Vlad says in response to Danny's widening eyes, "I said it. Bruce Wayne has the best of the best on his payroll and your parent's rinky-dink attorney from the local practice won't stand a chance against Friedman & Sons. Especially once he establishes paternity."

"He can do that?" Danny asks. "I mean I'm almost eighteen, can't I just refuse?"

"The keyword here, Daniel, is almost. As in, you are not. The judge can take your wishes into consideration, but I suspect Wayne will make a case for an unsafe living environment alongside his paternity to win his petition for full custody."

"Un-unsafe living environment?" Danny sputters. Vlad eyes the boy dryly before gesturing to all of him, currently clad in silver and black hazmat. Danny drops the transformation with a wince.

"In fact, I suspect that's the main reason the man filed in the first place," Vlad continues. "Lord knows he doesn't need anymore heirs to fight over his fortune once he passes—"

"Jesus, Vlad,"

"—so I believe he did some digging and found your home to be, well, wanting. On paper, Daniel, your parents sound eccentric at best, dangerous at worst. Pull the right strings, and hospital records just fall into laps. He probably thinks he's rescuing you." Vlad sneers. "If only he knew how quick you are to spit in the face of one offering you a comfortable and wealthy home."

"Fuck off," Danny says. "Is that what this is about? If you can't have me, no one can?"

Vlad rolls his eyes. "Come now, Daniel. Are you really intending to keep up this pretense?"

"What are you talking about?"

"We agreed a long time ago that no matter the nature of our quarrel, we would leave the Justice League out of it," Vlad says, taking a menacing step forward. "You think I, running in the circles I do, would have no knowledge of Bruce Wayne's alter-ego?" He takes another step, voice rising. "I have avoided drawing The Batman's attention for years, no matter how often our paths crossed. I stayed under his radar for decades, and now, BECAUSE OF YOU, I AM ABOUT TO BE RUINED."

With a creak and a groan, the chandelier drops, landing between them with a crash. Danny coughs from the dust as Vlad takes a heaving, calming breath.

"Then why get involved at all?" Danny asks, staring at the ground.

Vlad sighs, clapping his hands twice. Several ghosts dressed in service uniforms fly out the woodwork, gathering up bits of chandelier as others begin to mop.

"Because, little badger," Vlad says, walking away from the mess. "If we lose this, he'll have you in the palm of his hands. Which is infinitely worse."

Entering the kitchen, he pulls an open bottle of white out of the kitchen fridge and pours himself a glass, throwing a Fiji water to Danny who takes it for the peace offering it is.

"He won't."

"Won't what, Daniel? Please speak in full sentences."

"Won't have me," Danny says, letting a thin coat of frost spread over the bottle. He tips the freezing cold water into his mouth and wipes his face with his sleeve, mostly to see Vlad grimace.

"Why, because you'll run away if he wins? Until you turn eighteen? I won't have you fail to complete your education because of a cockamamie scheme, Daniel—"

"Because I have a solution, Vlad, one that doesn't involve the courts or running away."

"And what is that, exactly, Daniel?"

--

"You're going to leave my family alone."

"Danny," Mr. Wayne says, blinking in surprise at the boy on his doorstep and miles away from Illinois.

"I mean it," Danny says firmly. "You're going to drop your petition and whatever smear campaign you were planning on and leave the Fentons alone."

"Danny...why don't you come inside?"

Danny takes a step back from the manor's large doors. "You want a relationship with me? Brute force isn't the answer."

Bruce takes in the teenager, lanky but almost to his eye level. His eyes are clear and sharp, his demeanor forcibly calm.

"I debated whether going through the court was the right thing to do," Bruce says slowly, matching calm with calm. "But I wanted to be above board."

"Because my adoption wasn't?" Danny says, arms crossed. "Yeah, I'm aware. Kinda hard to adopt a kid that doesn't legally exist. And I know what you're going to say, the Fentons should've reported me to the system, but they didn't do it because I begged them not to. Because I didn't want my biological parents to find me."

"Danny..."

"You can swing your dick around and get your way, exactly the way I thought you would do things," Danny says, "Or you can have a relationship with me on my terms. A relationship where I don't despise you because you took me away from the people who've loved me no matter their faults."

"You're asking me to choose your happiness over your safety." Bruce says carefully.

"That's bullshit," Danny says. "I had a lab accident when I was fourteen and went directly against my parents' instructions. They trusted me, and I made a mistake."

"It's not a matter of trust. You were a child, Danny, and you almost died." Bruce says, not bothering to feign ignorance. Footsteps echo behind him.

"Bruce?" A voice calls. "Is that..?"

"Your son did die," Danny says. "He took a flight with your credit card to Ethiopia and got blown up. I bet you trusted him too."

Bruce reels back as a hand lands on his shoulder, the other on the door.

"Whoa, whoa, uh, Danny, right? I'm Tim, I'm—"

"I know who you are," Danny says, clenching his fists. Powering through the hurt he is causing. "I didn't come here to point out what a total hypocrite you are. I just want you to back off. And if you give me your number, we can text and I'll come to Gotham for Thanksgiving or the ski chalet in Vermont or your villa in where-the-fuck-ever and you can be Uncle Bruce that I maybe even tolerate being around once in a while. Just leave my family alone."

"Bruce, what is he talking about?" Tim asks. "Back off of what?"

"Your Dad is suing my parents for full custody," Danny says when it becomes clear Bruce isn't answering.

"What?" Tim hisses, turning to Bruce. "That isn't what we talked about!"

"Danny. I..."

"Here," Danny says, thrusting an index card forward that he's scrawled his phone number and email onto. On the other side is the past participle conjugation for 'venir'. "I won't answer until you drop the custody petition. Which I expect you to do by tomorrow morning."

"Done," Tim says, stepping past Bruce and taking the card. "Give me about noon to get it all squared away with the lawyers. Do you have a hotel? A way home? I'd be happy to reimburse your flight and accommodation."

"Overstepping already."

"Fair enough," Tim says coolly, raising his hands. "Our lawyers will reach out when it's settled."

"Great. Bye." Danny says, turning to leave. He waits until he hears the manor door close behind him before pulling out his cell phone.

Ring!

Ring!

"Hello?"

"It's done."

"What's done? Again, little badger, full sentences, I beg of you."

[inumakkin]

Yay Malewife shj

[starry-bi-sky]

No.

No, no, no, no, NO!

He's shaking. His heart is burning in his chest, pounding like a jackhammer against his ribs, and there's a trembling, aching rage building beneath his tongue and pressing against his teeth.

In his hands, his fingers tense and wrists locked, the article reads in big, black font: JOKER LOCKED IN ARKHAM ASYLUM AGAIN!

Danny shouldn't feel so angry about this, this is a good thing. Gotham doesn't have to deal with him for another few months at the least. He should feel relieved, a little more at peace.

He is not.

He cannot swallow the fury thudding behind his eyes, the burning white heat searing a deeper hole in his chest. A searing green filling static in his ears in the way only the rage of the restless dead can have.

How is he going to kill him now?

Arkham may be the only asylum in America made entirely of tissue paper, but it's still an asylum. There are cameras, guards, other patients resting inside. Danny can think of a million different ways to sneak in and kill Joker, but someone will hear his screaming.

It'd have to be rushed.

He doesn't want it to be rushed.

It's a cruel thought. Cruel and cold and merciless, but Danny doesn't feel an ounce of shame, not an ounce of guilt, for it. He wants to be alone with the Joker when he kills him, that's all he wants. In Arkham, you are never alone.

He forces his anger to bubble back down into his chest, stuffing it between his heartstrings and his ribs like a blanket you're trying to bunch up into a corner. It sizzles and burbles. The static begins to fade out into a high-pitched ringing; it sounds like distant screaming.

Danny is still trembling, but he can think a little clearer now.

He can wait.

He can wait. He can wait. He can wait. He canwait. Hecanwait. Hecanwait.

He can wait.

He's waited five years for this. He can wait one more week. One more month. One more year. However long it takes for the Joker to break back out, Danny can wait.

And when the Joker does, inevitably, break out.

Danny uncrinkles his fingers around the edges of the newspaper, loosens his limbs just enough so he can pay for it.

He'll be waiting.

The dead, after all, have all the time in the world.