#deliri cantone

[i-am-very-heck]

so hey! heres some of that loathing/problem sleuth crossover stuff ft. my loathing ocs :]

more interactions and such under the cut

[samthecookielord]

Loathing ocs: Joe Mama (@a-queer-kitkat ), Deliri, V, and Jerry (@i-am-very-heck ), Nora (@snekatiemainy ), Hacker (@cyikess ), Dion (@diorysuss ), Valentine (@themiserymarquis ), Shadow (@thefelinefox ), and Wesley (@lazah-bang )

[i-am-very-heck]

okay well, immediately my brain shot to ibis being like. chief milkman or something. which like. he still would probably be, but. thinking about it, he'd probably be like the evil fda or something. making sure food is just tolerable enough for human consumption, yknow? the food is just shit enough for most people to dislike it, but not revolting enough for people to cause an uproar about it. government cheese hoarder. he would likely be in charge of things like cigarette production too. i would compare it to the food that people are given in the book 1984, but technically that didn't come out until 1949. ibis would hate the food too, but hey, it's part of the job.

if jerry was part of the shadow gov't i feel like it would be like. much more of a creature than anything. like, yknow like the myth about gremlins who got into your airplanes and messed up the machinery to sabotage you? that but like, she does good for the government's machinery and messes up anything that doesn't belong to the government. she would probably be considered a cryptid to anyone who isn't high up in the chain of command and is in the know about it. it's a literal cryptid to the gov't valley working class. jerry would also be queen of contraband. revoking anything she finds that breaks a rule or is off limits and just throwing it in the collection.

deliri... i feel like he would work with designing things for the shadow government, specifically the uniforms for various areas. as i've stated previously, he has experience with designing clothes since he made his usual outfit by hand, so designing government mandated clothing doesn't feel off the mark. he would be focused on making designs that are cheap and quick to produce, but still practical in a sense. wouldn't want your ballet outfit to tear on you in the middle of a performance, right? or for your army uniform to be easily slashed through by a knife. and of course, starched and stiff suits for the office workers are a must.

v is the only one i don't have a good idea for though sljdfssl.. like, sure they could be the person in charge of the fine arts enrichment areas (the amphitheater and ballet stage), but where's the evil in that? my other thought was like. they're the one they send traitors to in order to get secrets out of them. the interrogator, if you will. using various cruel and unusual punishments to get people to confess. a bit of mind fuckery too perhaps. or maybe, they could just. possess the person they're interrogating, since ghost, force them to admit it outright. or maybe, to reference 1984 again, they would be considered the room 101. (aka, the room where your fears are used against you in order to gain information.) v would be very sadistic with this tbh.

Weekly question(s) time again!

Given that this would be an alternate timeline or universe, what kind of position would your OC hold in the Shadow Government? [Ex. Valentine being a (Well, Bruise assigned it so it IS technically military... Guh.) Military postal officer; Jimmy the janitor a la @ samthecookielord ]

As a follow-up, if your OC would replace one of the main four completely, what would they do differently than the rivals in base-game? How about their motivations? How would they feel about their coworkers?

EDIT:

YOU DONT HAVE TO BE LIMITED TO GOVERNMENT POSITIONS IRL NOËL IS LITERALLY THE OFFICIAL WIZARD. Make up new positions or whatever but you can base them off irl since. Well, something has to work around here.

These maybe-swaps are not meant to be 1:1 replacements either! And heck, maybe your character can multiclass stats too lol. Valentine is Mysticality and Moxie. The possibilities are endless and you can make a fresh timeline where everything since the beginning of the game has changed bc of your characters' interference.

The world is your oyster. Get cracking!

Be sure to reblog and/or reply to this post! Maybe even comment on some other people's interpretations? I'll be doing the same here all week as long as there's new responses!

[diversosdispersos]

- - Derek Walcott.

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

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O AMOR DEPOIS DO AMOR

Virá o tempo quando, com euforia, você vai saudar a si mesmo chegando à sua porta, diante do seu espelho, e sorrindo um dará ao outro as boas-vindas, e dirá: sente-se aqui. Coma. Você amará novamente o estranho que era você. Ofereça vinho. E pão. Devolva o seu coração para si mesmo, para o estranho que te amou por toda a sua vida, a quem você ignorou mas que te conhece de cor. Recolha as cartas de amor na estante, as fotografias, as anotações de angústia, descole sua imagem do espelho. Sente-se. Celebre sua vida.

[Trad.: Vanderley Mendonça]

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WINDING UP

I live on the water, alone. Without wife and children, I have circled every possibility to come to this:

a low house by grey water, with windows always open to the stale sea. We do not choose such things,

but we are what we have made. We suffer, the years pass, we shed freight but not our need

for encumbrances. Love is a stone that settled on the sea-bed under grey water.  Now, I require nothing

from poetry but true feeling, no pity, no fame, no healing. Silent wife, we can sit watching grey water,

and in a life awash with mediocrity and trash live rock-like.

I shall unlearn feeling, unlearn my gift.  That is greater and harder than what passes there for life.

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MAP OF THE NEW WORLD

I Archipelagos

At the end of this sentence, rain will begin. At the rain’s edge, a sail.

Slowly the sail will lose sight of islands; into a mist will go the belief in harbours of an entire race.

The ten-years war is finished. Helen’s hair, a grey cloud. Troy, a white ashpit by the drizzling sea.

The drizzle tightens like the strings of a harp. A man with clouded eyes picks up the rain and plucks the first line of the Odyssey.

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MIDSUMMER, TOBAGO

Broad sun-stoned beaches.

White heat. A green river.

A bridge, scorched yellow palms

from the summer-sleeping house drowsing through August.

Days I have held, days I have lost,

days that outgrow, like daughters, my harbouring arms.

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NAMES

(for Edward Brathwait)

             I

My race began as the sea began, with no nouns, and with no horizon, with pebbles under my tongue, with a different fix on the stars.

But now my race is here, in the sad oil of Levantine eyes, in the flags of the Indian fields.

I began with no memory, I began with no future, but I looked for that moment when the mind was halved by a horizon.

I have never found that moment when the mind was halved by a horizon – for the goldsmith from Benares, the stonecutter from Canton, as a fishline sinks, the horizon sinks in the memory.

Have we melted into a mirror, leaving our souls behind? The goldsmith from Benares, the stonecutter from Canton, the bronzesmith from Benin.

A sea-eagle screams from the rock, and my race began like the osprey with that cry, that terrible vowel, that I!

Behind us all the sky folded, as history folds over a fishline, and the foam foreclosed with nothing in our hands

but this stick to trace our names on the sand which the sea erased again, to our indifference.

             II

And when they named these bays bays, was it nostalgia or irony?

In the uncombed forest, in uncultivated grass where was there elegance except in their mockery?

Where were the courts of Castille? Versailles’ colonnades supplanted by cabbage palms with Corinthian crests, belittling diminutives, then, little Versailles meant plans for a pigstry, names for the sour apples and green grapes of their exile.

Their memory turned acid but the names held; Valencia glows with the lanterns of oranges, Mayaro’s charred candelabra of cocoa. Being men, they could not live except they first presumed the right of every thing to be a noun. The African acquiesced, repeated, and changed them.

Listen, my children, say: moubain: the hogplum, cerise: the wild cherry, baie-la: the bay, with the fresh green voices they were once themselves in the way the wind bends our natural inflections.

These palms are greater than Versailles, for no man made them, their fallen columns greater than Castille, no man unmade them except the worm, who has no helmet, but was always the emperor,

and children, look at these stars over Valencia’s forest!

Not Orion, not Betelgeuse, tell me, what do they look like? Answer, you damned little Arabs! Sir, fireflies caught in molasses.

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ENDINGS

Things do not explode, they fail, they fade,

as sunlight fades from the flesh, as the foam drains quick in the sand,

even love’s lightning flash has no thunderous end,

it dies with the sound of flowers fading like the flesh

from sweating pumice stone, everything shapes this

till we are left with the silence that surrounds Beethoven’s head.

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PREPARING FOR EXILE

Why do I imagine the death of Mandelstam among the yellowing coconuts, why does my gift already look over its shoulder for a shadow to fill the door and pass this very page into eclipse? Why does the moon increase into an arc-lamp and the inkstain on my hand prepare to press thumb-downward before a shrugging sergeant? What is this new odour in the air that was once salt, that smelt like lime at daybreak, and my cat, I know I imagine it, leap from my path, and my children’s eyes already seem like horizons, and all my poems, even this one, wish to hide?

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IONA: VALLE MABOUYA

IV

[for Eric Brandford]

Ma Kilman, God will punish you, for the reason that you’ve got too much religion. On the other hand, God will bless you, God will bless you because of your charity.

Corbeau went to Curaçao, he sent you money back, you took the same money and put it in a rumshop. You can’t read, you can’t write, you can’t speak English, you should know that rumshops make no profit. When Corbeau came back, he had, yes he had money, when he arrived back here. Yes, Mama, Corbeau’ll go crazy!

Iona told Corbeau, while you were in Curaçao, I made two little children, come and see if they’re yours. Corbeau cried out, “Mama! Good night, ladies and gentlemen, light the lamp there for me, for me to look at these kids!” Corbeau came back and said, “I know niggers resemble, they may or may not be mine, I’ll mind them all the same!”

Ah yes, Corbeau then left, he went down to Roseau, he went to look fo work, to mind the two litte ones. Iona told Corbeau, don’t go down to roseau.

But he went to Roseau, and Roseau’s whores fell on him. Philippe Mago brought Corbeau a saxophone, he had no time to play the sax, a saxman just like him took away his living.

Saturday morning early, Corbeau goes into town. Saturday afternoon we hear Corbeau is dead. That really made me sad, that really burnt my heart; that really went through me when I heard Corbeau was dead.

Iona said like this: it made her sorry too, it really burnt her heart, that the saxophone will never play.

I heard a horn blowing by the river reeds down there. “Sweetheart”, I said, “I’ll go looking for flying fish for you.” When I got there, I came across Corbeau. He said: “That horn you heard was Iona horning me.”

The guitar man’s saying: “We both are guitar men, don’t take it for anything, we both holding the same beat.”

Iona got married, Sunday at four o’clock. Tuesday, by eight o’clock, she’s in the hospital. She made a fare, her husband broke her arm. When I meet your mother, I’ll tell what you did me. Iona! (I’ll tell your mama!) Iona! (You don’t listen to me!)

Thre days and three nights Iona boiled, she’s still not cooked. (I’ll tell her mother that). They say Iona’s changed, it isn’t changed Iona’s changed, she’s wicked, wicked, that’s all, Iona!

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A FAR CRY FROM AFRICA

A wind is ruffling the tawny pelt Of Africa. Kikuyu, quick as flies, Batten upon the bloodstreams of the veldt. Corpses are scattered through a paradise. Only the worm, colonel of carrion, cries: “Waste no compassion on these separate dead!” Statistics justify and scholars seize The salients of colonial policy. What is that to the white child hacked in bed? To savages, expendable as Jews?

Threshed out by beaters, the long rushes break In a white dust of ibises whose cries Have wheeled since civilization’s dawn From the parched river or beast-teeming plain. The violence of beast on beast is read As natural law, but upright man Seeks his divinity by inflicting pain. Delirious as these worried beasts, his wars Dance to the tightened carcass of a drum, While he calls courage still that native dread Of the white peace contracted by the dead.

Again brutish necessity wipes its hands Upon the napkin of a dirty cause, again A waste of our compassion, as with Spain, The gorilla wrestles with the superman. I who am poisoned with the blood of both, Where shal I turn, divided to the vein? I who have cursed The drunken officer of British rule, how choose Beteween this Africa and the English tongue I love? Betray them both, or give back what thy give? How can I face such slaughter and be cool? How can I turn from Africa and live?

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https://escamandro.wordpress.com/2016/09/14/derek-walcott-por-alberto-pucheu/

[dawnajaynes32]

When Clay Speaks

When Clay Speaks

By Tom Wachunas

    “…You finally reach a point where you’re no longer concerned with keeping this blob of clay centered on the wheel and up in the air. Your emotions take over and what happens just happens. Usually you don’t know it’s happened until after it’s done.”  - Peter Voulkos

   “You are not an artist simply because you paint or sculpt or make pots that cannot be used. An artist is a poet in his or her own medium. And when an artist produces a good piece, that work has mystery, an unsaid quality; it is alive.”  - Toshiko Takaezu

      EXHIBIT: Frozen in Fire – Ceramic works from the Canton Museum of Art Permanent Collection / THROUGH MARCH 12, 2017, at the Canton Museum of Art, 1001 Market Ave. N., Canton, Ohio  / 330-453-7666   www.cantonart.org

    For this exhibit, here’s how Lynnda Arrasmith, Chief Curator at the Canton Museum of Art (CMA), addresses her exquisite selection of ceramic works from the CMA permanent collection: “The flames are released. The heat rises and settles over the pieces in the kiln, freezing them in their current forms. For better or worse, they are now frozen in fire. Not all pieces will survive this process and the artist must choose the piece which, in their eyes, has met perfection. The Frozen in Fire exhibition explores the insight of artists being satisfied with their work. Is the pot just a container to hold things or does it hold ideas?  Each vessel is meant to be looked at, appreciated and contemplated.”

   Somewhat resonant in those words (as well as in the words by the late clay artist, Toshiko Takaezo, quoted at the top of this post, referencing “…pots that cannot be used” and the mystery of their “unsaid quality”) is that pesky old question which  some – perhaps still many -  might consider about the ceramics medium. Is working in clay a craft, or a fine art? Of course history shows that the two aren’t mutually exclusive at all. So while clay is certainly a medium long-associated with traditional ideas about utilitarian forms, this breathtaking exhibit presents a lavish array of objects that transcend the notion of clay vessels as banal containers. It’s the difference between the innocuous and the inspiring. 

   This is a remarkably eclectic collection of objects that spans the full gamut of ceramic methodologies and iconography. Call it a sumptuous mélange of tasty baked goods. Some are stuffed with vivid imagination and whimsy, like Jack Earl’s Cloud Man, Dan Lovelace’s teapot tank called 1st Battalion, Juliellen Byrne’s delirious Rat Jacket, or Janice Mars Wunderlich’s comical Puppy Queen. Others are absolutely startling transformations of clay into hyper-realistic facsimiles of other materials, such as Richard Newman’s Baseball Glove, Marilyn Levine’s Black Shoe Bag, and Victor Spinski’s Tool Box I.  

   Included among the more intriguing abstract configurations are Tom Radca’s Stoneware Wall Tile, suggestingan aerial topography of geological terrains, or fossilized expanses of soil; Paul Soldner’s Wall Piece with Two Figures, with its unfurled layers of stamped and carved surfaces; and Betty Woodman’s wall installation, Egyptian Papyrus, a multi-part deconstruction of ancient urn forms.

   Considering the disarming simplicity and earthy charm of Toshiko Takaezu’s three vessels here brings me back to her words, “An artist is a poet in his or her own medium,” as well as the curator’s question, “Is the pot just a container to hold things or does it hold ideas?”  Containers, or containment? 

    The image evoked of completed ceramic objects being “frozen in fire” is a particularly fascinating and dichotomous one. Yes, baked clay can be said to be frozen, as in still, or physically static. But certainly neither mute nor dead. Is it any wonder that a passionate ceramist should find something poetic waiting to be drawn out from something as common as clay, that gritty, viscous stuff of natural forces and processes that have been at work for millennia? When a potter or sculptor surrenders to such an alluring substance, he or she is communing with something primal if not intrinsically mysterious in order to utter something about being alive.

   And in the end, isn’t the essential function of all our finest artistic pursuits to speak the un-sayable?

   PHOTOS, from top: Egyptian Papyrus, by Betty Woodman / Stoneware Wall Tile, by Tom Radca / Cloud Man, by Jack Earl / vessels by Toshiko Takaezu / Vessel I by Anna Silver / Basket Form II, by Dick Schneider         

When Clay Speaks syndicated post

[i-am-very-heck]

woe, sol oc refs be upon ye

my artfight

[i-am-very-heck]

once again putting wayy too much effort into a shitpost (/j this was fun to draw + it wouldn't leave my head until i did)

the post i based this on thrown under the cut

[i-am-very-heck]

uh oh looks like my dudes got employed by the shadow gov't, sorry yall

[i-am-very-heck]

decided to have some fun and give my dudes a smidge bit more stylization as a treat

[i-am-very-heck]

wake up new stick figure dropped

hes a pig skinner and enjoys flowy clothes :)

[i-am-very-heck]

i had the urge to draw these lil guys as Creatures so here

also guess the flavor of furry i am by how i draw certain animals lmao

close ups under the cut

[i-am-very-heck]

look at these goobers just hanging out !!!

[i-am-very-heck]

incorrect quotes my beloved <3

+ some ones that were funny but i didnt want to draw under the cut

[i-am-very-heck]

if they actually just fought instead of arm wrestling

[i-am-very-heck]

thinking abt these two (+ extra dialogue under the pic bc i couldn't fit it all on the paper w my handwriting lmao)

"You're pathetic."

"Hmm... Maybe. You're no better, though."

"And what does that mean?"

"Your cheeks are flushed and you haven't socked me yet. I may just say you're goofy~"

"Hmph. So what? You're the roach with the crush. I'm honestly surprised you haven't given in and asked to neck already-"

"... Well then. If you wanna, I'll gladly oblige~"

[i-am-very-heck]

compilations of the beasts <3