#its like a self portrait. if abstract

[gorgynei]

about inner identity

[mychapel-004]

a note on "fordtramine"

just a thought while im working on a comprehensive history of bill.

by now i'm sure it's common knowledge that stanford's favourite colour is "fordtramarine", a colour only him and bill are able to see due to bill rewiring his optic nerve as a gift, but something i find very interesting is this page from thisisnotawebsitedotcom.com

specifically, that note at the bottom on the "beautiful" paintings ford submitted to (unsuccessfully) demonstrate the colour. most of them are normal, including a self portrait in gouache until you get to "(E) A muse, oil on canvas".

not only that, but in the abstract ford writes that "specific two dimensional entities may act in the same way as a prism, refracting light.... new perceptions"

something something devoting a painting to your muse in the colour that they let you name, that they gifted you with the ability to see. something something bill acting as a prism, like the crystals ford keeps all over his house, that ford can look through, like a doorway into a world entirely made of the weird and wonderful that you connect so deeply with. a world that you can never show anyone else, your canvases are always blank and no-one else has the eyes that you do, your study is rejected and no-one will hear you out.

do you think bill felt that way? growing up, able to see what others couldn't, "its not your fault you have that strange eye", "the doctor says three sips a day will make the visions go away", able to see an entirely different dimension to his own parents, always too different and too strange and too weird.

CODES: "THEY'LL SEE" "THEY'LL ALL SEE" "THE EUCLYDIAN DEPT OF VISION SUPERVISION"

growing up in a world where it seems that seeing beyond the norm is heavily punished, it's kind of telling that bill's gifts to ford are often relating to seeing or knowing things that ford would never experience without bill (new colours, new directions for his research, his mindscape, the portal). the gift of vision from a god who grew up being blinded. bill really is his all-seeing eye, in a lot of ways.

in the same way, fiddleford's gifts to ford almost always revolve around very human comfort (gloves to fit his hands specifically, a pet to keep him company, a snowglobe reminder of the time they spent together) comfort that he was too distracted to devote to his wife and child, only ever to ford who broke or threw them away.

fiddleford accepted ford for who he was, and he showed that through his gifts. all of ford's strangeness and brilliance, gloves made specifically to protect and warm six fingers, a pet that looked like him for him to ramble to when fidd is gone. bill's gifts were brilliant and tailored just for ford, but they were isolating. experiences he could only have with bill, things that made him stranger, more alone, pulled him further into the weirdness, the grey area. all in preparation for the day bill would take things too far, and pray ford, so alike to him, would join him.

[pluralsiffrin]

I Don’t Believe People Ever Change, But I’ve Changed [ISAT SifLoop fanfic]

[Begin fic summary.] Loop’s love for Siffrin is different each time they meet, yet it is, they tell themself, always a type of love. Not like they can remember ever having a model for how to love someone properly. Plural system Siffrin/Loop. Word count: 8555. [End fic summary.]

[Begin authors’ note.] Siffrin is a plural system. “You” refers to Loop and “he/they” to Siffrin. Scene titles are Loop's names for the different alters. Content warning for implied self-harm and suicidal ideation. Spoilers for the entire game. [End authors’ note.]

✦ ✦ ✦

Act 1: The Beginning After The End

“I don’t suppose you remember me. I was the one who set you free. You lived a lie until I was gone, pretending I was the only one. Keep checking up on the things I say, it never worked but we lived it anyway. Put down that blade there and look at me: I see my reflection, what do you see? You made it to the end, I was there with you. I don’t believe people ever change, but I’ve changed.” (Quoted from “We Called It Love” by Stars.)

Scene 1: Scary Face

You shut your eyes for a moment to clear your head and already they’ve desecrated the tree, dragging the curved hook of the blade through the bark with the casual precision of a fisherman whose spent their entire life gutting carcasses in the dim, suffocating bowels of a ship rocked by tempestuous waves.The cut elicits a sharp, unnatural crackling, the young dermis of the tree exclaiming in bewildered agony at how easily its first line of defense is being breached, shucked apart like the shells of an oyster.

You’re always conjuring marine metaphors around them - something about the brine on their tongue, the seafoam curls of their hair, the way their every movement buffets you as a freezing gale would, harbinger of storms that they are; their deceitful shark scale armor, nicking your palms regardless of in which direction you touch; the Hadal Zone of their eye, daring you to dive for the impossible chance of glimpsing a creature no land-dweller ever has; the silhouettes of island cliffs in their laughter lines, as if they are perpetually joking at the site of their own execution, mutiny followed by a brisk walk into the ocean’s guillotine; the gnarled seaweed forest of their words, beautiful from a distance yet swift to hold you hostage if you wander within reach; the unpredictable ebb and flow of their emotional tidepools, leaving you floundering to break surface tension at times and, just a moment later, lodged amidst the rocks in a tiny facsimile of the real world, your own personal aquarium with its translucent walls and endlessly looping scenery -

You’re doing it again. You need to stop. You need to focus. You always need to focus around them. What are they doing now? Are they still tearing up the tree? You already closed your eyes for a moment. You can’t afford to lose track of them again.

They are still tearing up the tree. It’s some kind of symbol they’re tracing - you don’t recognize it, but whether that’s because you’ve never seen it before or simply can not remember seeing it before is impossible to ascertain; it might even be one of their own inventions. You’ve always known them to be an artist, disciplined and committed to the craft of searing abstract self-portraits, like fault lines, across the landscapes they stalk. A sort of “I was here,” you imagine, to make up for how they are otherwise nonexistent to this world.

This, at least, the two of you have in common: you exist only in each other’s minds; to everyone else, you are invisible and unaccounted for, an eidolon of someone else - but having things in common has never facilitated your interactions; instead, it’s only made you more at odds with each other, the perpetual disgust of spotting your own dirt on someone else’s hands. You wonder, fleetingly, what’s worse: being understood only by yourself, or being understood by everyone except yourself? In more ways than you dare contemplate, the pair of you have an even worse situation: the worst of both worlds, understanding yourself only through another version of yourself, because just managing that alone was too damn impossible for you.

They’re an artist, yes, and a skilled one no doubt - but you have no taste for their aesthetic, much less their medium, and it’s over this, really, that the pair of you clash most cataclysmically.

A distant scene flashes like the beacon of a lighthouse through the fogged ocean of your memory, a warning to alter your trajectory: the first time you pierced your face; a needle suspended between your index and thumb like the fine brush of a painter about to deliver the finishing stroke on their masterpiece; your grimace reflected in the mirror when the needle lanced through your septum; the hot pain, like a sudden fever, radiating from the center of your face to signal to every nearby cell to prepare for further damage; your strange, dreamlike sense that you had done something utterly incomprehensible to your body, a self-inflicted wound of the most bizarre type, which would forever divide your body from your mind like a dog that has discovered the hand that feeds can also hit. Since then, you’ve become well acquainted with far less sophisticated forms of self-mutilation, and it has never made your body more comfortable with having to rely on such an alien mind for its survival.

“He asked me if I practiced in front of a mirror!” They caw like the albatross circling around your neck, crushing their calloused fist against the tree before effortlessly catching the apple that falls midair with the tip of their dagger. It’s always so easy for them to get the apples - they don’t have to bother to climb, don’t even need to reach out their hand, because they just shake the tree and one always falls, as if it wants to be eaten; as if it wants them to eat it.You envy and fear this power in equal measures, but envying people makes you afraid of how they might use that against you, so it all boils down to the same in the end.

“Can you believe it, Loop? My face! In front of a mirror! Hah!” They exclaim, all crabapple sourness and thistle thorns. It irks you how they don’t bother to at least glance at you when they invoke your name, taking for granted your attention, pretending to have a conversation with another person when really they are monologuing to props upon a stage.

The only protest you can muster is to deny them a reaction, so you harden your features and blur your vision until they are an abstract melange of shades, indistinct from the rest of this dreary, monochrome world.

They pull a second tool out of their pocket - some kind of gardening shears that you pretend to not recognize - and cleave the fruit in two, then kick the half that plops onto the grass aside like it’s the entrails of a fish, a part they don’t deem good enough to eat - always so wasteful, even in the presence of people who are starving.

Fortunately, you are above trying to gather up their scraps.

“Does he need to practice his face in front of a mirror just to remember how to look? Stupid. Doesn’t get this is my face,” They grumble under their breath as they peel the remaining fruit. They examine the single coiled strip on the edge of their blade for a second, then chuck it aside as more garbage.

The soft, juicy flesh is now exposed. You try not to look hungry - you try not to look in its direction at all. Best to not alert them to any more advantages they hold over you.

“You know, Loop, I don’t think you give that fighter enough credit,” they say, nestling the naked apple into their palm like a hook through bait, then maneuvering their dagger across its domed side to etch the same symbol from the tree. You know they will keep scarring and splitting that fruit into smaller and smaller pieces, each successful operation leading them to instantly lose interest in what was previously the complete focus of their attention; and they’ll discard those along with the rest, until, eventually, all that is left is the hard and bitter core - and then, only then, will they open their mouth, and bite down.

You feel sick to your stomach - what kind of weirdo only wants to eat the core of an apple?

“He’s not as oblivious as he acts. After all…”

They pause to consider their handiwork, then scrunch up their face in disgust - at Isabeau for refusing to perceive them? At themself for their sloppy signature?At the fruit for its thick saccharine scent? At you for denying them recreational entertainment by refusing to lash out? With them, you never know exactly why they are upset, only that they are upset.

There’s a swift, deft slice, imperceptible in your eyes except for its outcome - and, just like that, without giving it a single thought, the apple half becomes fourths. One becomes two, becomes four, becomes... How many? Into how many pieces can this apple be bisected until there’s not enough left for more?

How much of you is still waiting to be chopped up like this? Will there ever just not be enough left for more?

You aren’t sure what you fear more: finding out, or never at all.

They stare straight at you as they deliver the punchline. “I did practice in front of a mirror - the ugliest, most cracked funhouse mirror I’ve ever had the misfortune of seeing myself in!”

They laugh, a hoarse and razor-sharp noise that rattles in their throat like the echoing of waves in an underground cavern, and you - well, if you had a nose, you'd wrinkle it with distaste; if you had teeth, you’d bare them in warning; but you have given up both of these to become what you are now - a faint gray dot in the vast black sky, indistinguishable from the myriad of others - and the only tool you have left to wield is your light - so you turn away from them, denying them your gaze.

You can’t bear to look at them right now, not with how they’re looking at you: the icebreaker hull of a ship, thrilling in slicing your fragile frigidity apart.

You aren’t certain what you look like, much less certain that you look the same to all of them, and it makes you wonder, however briefly and however woefully, how you look to this one right now: are you a parody of a parody, an elevator comprised only of mirrors, where all you can see is yourself reflected into infinity - and you can not not see it, not rest your gaze somewhere unhaunted by it? Is this a creative way of insulting you, or merely describing reality as they perceive it?

They stab into the apple again, swinging their dagger like an improvised fork, and you realize it’s pointing directly at you. Their stare slid off of you as quickly as it arrived - oil forced by circumstance to mingle with water but chemically incapable of intermixing - but now they are offering you the apple, and you - you -

Your hand extends traitorously in its direction - as disorientated and ashamed as a puppet waiting for the next tug of its strings to permit it to move again - and only a glimpse of your reflection on the the polished surface of the blade, with your body decapitated by the chunk of apple, frightens you enough to save you from climbing right into their trap like an octopus unable to resist the challenge of squeezing into a tiny jar.

Is this what you wish you could be, an apple large and nutritious enough to satisfy your collective hunger? To fill all of your stomachs, so you’ll never want of more, want of anyone else? Or is this an omen of your delusion, this fantasy of yours that you are that apple - already everything every version of you could ever need, singlehandedly capable of unraveling the knot all these loose ends have congealed into?

The dagger swings again - as all boomerangs do - and the fruit is back in the crater of their palm, the gift withdrawn before you ever had a chance to claim it. You feel cheated, though you realize with a fresh flush of shame that you are the one playing with your own feelings: they never intended to offer you anything; you misconstrued their gesture - on purpose, because you want to believe they care enough about your feelings to go this far. But you know you have only ever been a temporary diversion to them, killing time while both of you wait for the intermission to be over and their character to be called back for the next act. You’re less than stage props to this one; you don’t even register as part of the play.

Or maybe that is just more wishful thinking on your part, another of your strange, convoluted attempts at justifying your self-disdain by projecting it onto someone else - you hate being hated, but being nothing at all to them is so much worse.

“Maybe that’s why he still doesn’t recognize me,” they muse, back to lacerating the apple, venting their frustration on it. “I’ve only ever seen my reflection in a broken mirror, so now I just walk around with my features all mixed up.”

You understand what they mean - against your better judgment, you allow yourself to understand how they feel, capture it like a cinder and guard it in the hollow chamber of your heart from being blown out by the wind whipping all around you. Someone born into a realm of dreams must always seem weird to those residents of the waking world, more so when you emphasize what to you is normalcy.

“Smile now. Laugh now. Run now. Stab now. Be silent now. Sleep now. Roll over now. Get up now. Speak now. Apologize now. Walk away now,” they spit mockingly, parroting a voice you know so well you can hear it in your own mind, except the directions it is giving you are different.

Don’t say anything. Stay silent. Don’t let yourself be provoked. Don’t fall for the ruse. Stay silent. Listen. Don’t react. Just listen. Listen to them. Your role is to listen right now.

You hate that voice, too. You hate it because, if you’re not careful, you’ll forget it’s not your own, and start doing exactly as it instructs.

You might have no choice about being a puppet to the Universe, but you refuse to follow the orders of Something that just thinks it’s the Universe.

“I’m tired of all these damn instructions! I’m an artist! I have to improvise my lines sometimes!” They yell, gripping the hilt of their dagger like an egg they are trying to crush and stabbing the apple repeatedly, relentlessly, each gouge another bit of fruit that will never be reunited with the rest of it.

“Besides,” they add with a huff. “If we never practice other lines, we’ll get rusty, and then what’ll we do when we need one of them, when just smiling or laughing doesn’t cut it and what we need - what we need to survive - is to look convincingly scary?”

You risk a glance back at them, disappointed by how their continued disinterest in you threatens to drown you in relief. They’ve succeeded in sloughing off most of the flesh and have moved onto jabbing their fingers into the core to pick out the seeds, each regarded like a parasitic worm that is attempting to stowaway in their core and eat their food.

Your gaze lingers longer on the discarded seeds than the previous parts as you try to convince yourself that these, at least, are worth salvaging, just as soon as the weirdo with the dagger and a fondness for lacerations finally tires of monologuing and leaves.

“I’m looking out for us, making sure we’re ready for when we need to flex those muscles,” they conclude with a gloating smirk, as if they are the strongest link, upon which the entire chain depends to not break under the strain it puts on itself.

This, you realize, is how your interactions normally go: they complain about something one of their party members did; they try to provoke you with an insult, or recruit you as an accomplice in their distaste for other people, or just vent their anger in whatever way they want because they know they can around you (your role is to listen right now); at the end, there’s some kind of resolution for them, a couple of words that make them feel better - but there is nothing for you besides the further dimming of any hope of cooperation.

“Don’t you agree, Loop-The-Loo?” They ask, and this time you are certain they intend to goad you, so you angle your glare to parry theirs, disdainful and defiant like an orca that, though captured and wounded, with no chance of escape, still chooses to take a bite out of its poacher rather than passively accept a future performing in captivity.

“Don’t conscript me in whatever you’re insinuating,” you scoff. “I’m not like you.”

You aren’t sure for whose benefit you add that last part, but it feels indispensable for you to hear yourself state it aloud.

“And you don’t get to call me Loop-The-Loo. So don’t.”

A reminder for yourself that there is someone who can - someone you have allowed to call you that - though it has been a terribly long time since you last heard him say it.

But this means nothing to them - they care not for how you feel about the other ones; they care not for the other ones in general.

They shrug their shoulders, exhibiting neither disappointment nor disagreement, then finally bring the isolated apple core to their mouth and bite down like a baby shark eating its way out of its egg - birth through destruction, sustenance through cannibalism.

“Suit yourself, Siffr -”

You feel the tensing of your muscles as your right arm prepares to swing. You hear the swish of their blade as it cuts through the howling wind.

The rest is gone before it even reaches you.

You never remember how your interactions with this one end.

✦ ✦ ✦

Scene 2: Your Eyes Were Bigger Than Your Stomach

This apple tastes sweet as sugar, or at least the way you imagine sugar must taste to people who experience it as sweet, and not as an acrimonious burn at the back of your throat, like needles that have been boiled in water. It’s a honeysuckle type of sweet, dripping with nectar and fit to lick your fingers over, and then the ground beneath you if you’re clumsy enough to let a single drop slip (and you are clumsy enough, unsuited as your palms are to cupping this much liquid, to receiving the warm shock of its viscous consistency without reflexively recoiling); the type of sweet you imagine only people willing to risk breaking their back and worse by climbing to the very highest branches of an old and bitterly gnarled tree (you’d be bitter, too, if people kept stealing the best parts of you just for a snack) will try reaching for, those privileged and cursed enough to have earned one lick of its sucrose and forever compare all other sweetness to its perfection - a high they can only chase by literally scaling higher and higher; if they’re fortunate, the day they reunite with the ground there’ll be sweetness still simmering on their tongue; if they’re not, there’ll still be a grave waiting for them in the same spot from which they first began to believe they could fly, but a sky as bloated with gray as their stomach will be their only consolation prize.

You are, for better or for worse, one of those people, and if you can not resist staking your life on filling your belly just a little, you have no chance of refusing when such an apple is offered to you free of charge, without you needing to endure any of the agony of authentically reoccuring it. Sure, it feels like cheating, but when have you known yourself to be above cheating your way out of a tough ordeal?

You aren’t hungry for a literal apple, so the apple in question is a metaphorical apple.

Nonetheless, this apple’s flesh is real - and moist on top of it, dappled with sweat like morning dew preserved precariously between the petals of a half-opened bloom, proof of the speed with which his enthusiasm has brought him to your doorstep. This apple’s fumes are real, too, a labyrinth of melodic words, tangible as leaves - and, like the leaves the wind twirls playfully past your body without ever as little as brushing you - impossible for you to catch, even if you did reach out to try to stop one in its path. You feel that flesh and scent, along with the gently peeling skin (he’s taking off his hat; now his cape; now his gloves) and the curved dome of the core (his lips quirk into a shy smile, then his tongue sticks out like a child trying to hide his embarrassment behind a silly face), washes over you like the sticky blood of a tree, and you feel your guilty desire crystalize into an amber pearl, something you won’t be able to forget regardless of how deep you bury it in the mulch that is your memory.

Shoot an arrow and hope it hits the apple on my head, not my heart, you think, marveling at how he bounces up and down excitedly, cradling an actual, and not metaphorical, apple to his chest, like it’s some prized family heirloom he’s come to share.

Apple of my eye, you think, gazing into his.

He is here to see you. He wants to see you. And he would come even closer, if only you would offer him any signal that you would welcome it. Why can’t you just let him in? Why can’t you just forget about yourself for long enough to do this one thing you know would make him happy? Why do you always have to put your own feelings first, as if any of it would matter at all in the eclipse of his gratitude?

You could lose yourself here, in the sweetness of his company, and not care about the not so distant future when the branch you reach for proves too hollow and you plummet from the canopy at the speed of a dying star, each bone in your body rendered shrapnel to adorn the site of your hubris - but then, the problem is, it isn’t inevitable: you can’t be certain the tree that produced this apple will let you fall.

He is the least bitter tree you’ve ever touched, and all it took was that single instant of pyroclastic flow for you to swear off all further contact: you refuse to become an unbearable weight to branches that nobly refuse to release you. You’d be a parasite to him: you’d take and take, and just keep on taking - because you’re always hungry, and, after the sweetness of his apples, all other food would repulse you; and he’d know this, and so he’d give and give, and just continue to give; and you’d both be locked in this arrangement, you unwilling to starve and him unwilling to let you starve, and both of you aware (though you more than him) that you take faster than he can give, and, eventually, you will be the death of him. You know he’d rather sink to the bottom of the ocean with you than kick you overboard so the raft will at least keep him afloat - and so you know you can never put him in a position where he has that option.

You slice through this ridiculous facsimile of an allegory that your self-absorption has scripted. It’s distracting you from interacting with him, which is something you are at least still capable of - just enough to send him off feeling like you were as purely and uncomplicatedly pleased to see him as he is to see you. Too much time alone in your own head has done this to you: you monologue about yourself even when you have the opportunity to have a real conversation, to focus on someone else for a change.

“You should eat as much as you want, stardust,” You say, your eyes narrowing - at the glare of the sun, envoy extraordinary to the Universe, who can’t let you forget whose directions you follow; at the dust that blows into your face, as gray as the rest of this botanical graveyard; at the jealous ache in your chest over his shameless enjoyment of something you balk at the mere thought of. “It’s not good to go hungry for so long.”

His lips have barely parted when his eye widens - a star, in the midst of its death throes, swelling to the size that will force it to collapse under the unsustainability of its own weight; a sharpened pin piercing through your abdomen, affixing you to the trunk of the tree like a dissected specimen to a museum of ancient history.

You fail to curb a flinch, but then force yourself to not look like you know you’ve just made a mistake. You blunder like this every time you meet him, saying words like hunger and eating and does it hurt, having such an empty stomach all of the time? because you are fated, as if by some self-destructive compulsion, to remind him you know what his problem is - and therefore could, hypothetically, name it for him; name that strange, discomfiting ache in his abdomen, that restless need to always be in motion, always be doing, always be helping others, always be seeking, but without ever attaining satisfaction. You know he knows there is something off about him, but lacks the language to discern it, to explain him to himself - and you could change all of that. But you won’t, because you believe he is better this way: living with a disembodied unease, rather than an accurate map of the emptiness inside of him.

And you, selfish that you always will be, don’t want him to know you are withholding anything from him, because then he might be upset with you, then he might accuse you of lying to him, or - worse - controlling him. You aren’t controlling anyone here - you’re following the script like everybody else, as powerless as everybody else to diverge from it. And your script says - your scrip says -

Remain calm. Remain happy. Listen to him. Tell him what he wants to hear. Make him happy. Your role is to -

Stop. Stop thinking like that - like that - thing - that Something that murmurs in your head as if it belongs there, as if it knows anything about you and what you want. It doesn’t. It’s a parasite, trying to feed you its own wants so you’ll lead it straight to them, all while thinking you’re doing yourself a favor. You may have lost your original sense of self a long time ago, but you still know yourself and what you want better than some parasitoid wasp.

You dare to peer deeper into his eye, past the rift of cosmic dust that obfuscates the surface, and feel that familiar glare studying you from the other side of the telescope lens. It’s only for an instant, but it’s enough for you to be certain - a thing, Something, is there, inside of him. Of course it’s inside of him. It was inside you long before the looping began, and, if you ever escape this (you won’t), you won’t have escaped it. Something carved its hive in your head before you had the strength to craft a mind of your own, so Something will always be in here, murmuring its directions to actors that never learned to perform without it.

You wish you could have saved him from it - saved all of them from it, and from themselves. You’re always finding new ways in which you were careless with how you made your Wish, and here’s one of the most damaging: you thought it was fine to let another you run around trying to clean up the mess you made, but it isn’t just you that’s been duplicated. And while you know how to deal with some things, you’re losing your grip with all of these other ones. 

Even you can’t say what doors these keys have shaped themselves into to keep locked shut. Your own shape is too bent to be of any use to them anymore, so you can only try to point them in novel directions, hoping they’ll discover new uses for themselves. And maybe - just maybe - each new key will prove fine enough to cut the ever shrinking apple pieces, again and again, into infinity.

After all (and you have been through it all already), eternity can only be withstood if you’re aware for bite-sized slices, with plenty of sleeping in between.

Back to your real script. You need to focus here, and you will. You’re consulting your script, and it says here you can’t let him know you are hiding something from him. It says here he must trust you completely, and the only way anyone can ever trust you completely is if they never have any reason to suspect you are keeping something from them. You have to keep secrets - that’s in your script, too - but you can’t ever be found out by the people you are keeping them from.

It sounds hard, but it’s easy as long as you follow your script: it’s all been laid out for you, just like everything else about you. You’ve only ever failed when you’ve been too yourself.

The script says to give him the next best thing from the truth he seeks, and so you reach for him - not in the way he wants, not in the way he needs, but in the only way you have ever known to give: by providing a distraction; by changing the topic. You’re only made of smoke and mirrors, but, to this one at least, not knowing the trick has kept the show from spoiling.

Your role is to be a distraction.

“Is it good?” You ask, ruffling his cloudy wisps of hair with the cautious desire of a bear dismantling a beehive and pointing at the apple still balanced precariously across the tightrope of his hands.

He’s a grazing animal, too attuned to every change around him to not be startled into sprinting away if he registers a sudden movement or loud noise, but you’ve learned to mirror his body language, emanating calm so he’ll continue to think this is a safe place for him; continue to think you’re a safe person for him.

Your role is to be the idea of a safe person.

As his eye relaxes to its previous size, you register - in rapid succession - recognition, resignation, and, finally, relief. And you know - you know he knows you are hiding something from him, you are keeping a secret from him, possibly many secrets. This is a choice you are making, and he is aware of it - has, perhaps, always been aware of it, aware of how you keep having a chance to make a different choice, but never do. And, even if he does not know what it is or why you are keeping it from him, he accepts your judgment, and forgives you for hurting him.

And this, you think, is so much worse than anger and resentment - he’s letting you get away with lying, and you’re letting him get away with letting you. No one is holding anyone accountable.

But you’d lose your mind if you started accounting for things so late in the play, so you better stick to digging the grave you’ve already made all this progress on, not start a new one.

Your role is to be a convenient excuse.

Your role is to be a convenient excuse. You take responsibility for choosing to withhold the truth from him, so he only has to claim responsibility for not confronting you about it. You’re both to blame, in your own ways, but you’re obviously the more culpable party.

And that’s fine with you, as long as it means he can keep visiting - keeps wanting to visit. As long as you can keep seeing him, keep hearing him, keep confirming he is no worse off than you, no worse than you. You need someone - anyone - to be better than you. You need someone - anyone - to still be worth believing in.

A memory surfaces, glittering a dull ash like the sun from behind a transient cloud, and you think of him - not the one standing in front of you right now, but the one that also comes eagerly to visit you, and always stays, for hours at a time, to - to -

Your role is not to be Loop-The-Loop right now.

You know that. You don’t need anyone - or any thing - to remind you. You are not “Loop-The-Loop” ever, really, but you can pretend, you can tweak your crooked key of a self - perform any sleight of hand that’s required - for just long enough to be the person he likes. For him to like you - for him to want you - you would -

A twinkle in the periphery of your vision draws it away from the one standing with you under the tree, and onto the silver circle nestled in the palm of your hand. You don’t remember picking it up, but then you never do when you find it in your possession.

It’s just a coin, indistinguishable from every other coin in the world.

But it’s your coins, and, therefore, unique in all of the world to you. You are certain there is no other like it.

Don’t think about Your Coin right now.

You immediately stop thinking about him, telling yourself it doesn’t count as doing what a parasite wants if it just happens to also be what you want to do. Correlation does not signal causation; wanting one thing in common does not mean the two of you are the same.

You believe this.

You believe this.

“Here, why don’t you try some of it, too?” He says - the one here with you now, the one you so cruelly keep neglecting - taking a big, unselfconscious bite out of the apple before extending his arm towards you.

He’s smiling encouragingly at you, yet you feel like a lion that’s being asked by a gazelle to eat a mouthful of grass - either you refuse and reveal you are a dangerous carnivore, or you agree and choke on your own inability to digest it.

You know you should be encouraging him to eat as much as possible while he’s willing, not stealing his rations like some kind of rat in a grain silo, but you remain - for better and for worse - one of those people who can’t resist an apple this sweet.

As your hand swoops down towards the fruit - the wings of a raptor descending on a rabbit that can’t scurry underground fast enough - you wonder what drives you most: empathy, pity, or just plain greed?

If you could be certain he would not let you drag him down, if you could be sure he would cut you loose to save himself from you - would you, then, let him come closer, allow him to place his hand (which he so deliberately removes his gloves from when he visits you) on yours, and finally - finally - taste his sweet apple flesh with your own mouth?

But he’s too good for you, and, next to him, you’d be too bad for him - so your verdict remains: you can not permit him hope of anything more than what you’ve shown him so far.

This apple isn’t for the likes of you to enjoy.

“Okay,” you say, your eyes squinting to radiate pure and uncomplicated gratitude, and none of the shame you feel over his sacrifice. You know it will allow both of you to fill your stomachs a little, but at the price of neither of you eating enough to survive the rest of this barren autumn.

Kindness can be a cruelty, both when you let yourself give it and when you allow yourself to receive it.

But he’s beaming at you with such a sweet and savory delight, so, for just this moment, you grant yourself the privilege of brushing his naked hand as you grab the apple, then you recite the magic spell to make his wish come true: “We can share this one.”

You never have the heart to tell him you gave up a mouth to eat with when you made sure to condemn him to this misery.

✦ ✦ ✦

Scene 3: Mal Du Pays

They talk and talk but you can not understand a word they say, not today and not yesterday and probably not tomorrow, either - you have never understood anything they have said, so your only working hypothesis is that you never will. This should make it possible to simply zone out during their impromptu visits, but somehow it’s easier for you to ignore someone when you have the choice than when you don’t (it’s, you know, something to do with your entitlement, with how you take for granted the tool of speech, with how reckless you are with your words and how unaccountable you hold yourself for the effects of them on others). You like having the option to ignore others - to ignore yourself - but you hate having that privilege revoked from you - it feels like being cut off from a world, like waking up inside a featureless white room where every move you make doesn’t alter your position in any direction, like running your fingers across your palm and no longer recognizing your life lines.

You know there’s a radio in your head with a transformer that was designed to pick up the signals they are broadcasting, but it’s rusted from water damage (too much time at the bottom of the sea; too much salt lacquered to its wires; to many waves buffeting its finely fashioned circuits) and shocked you the one time you tried to touch it, so you consider it a lost cause, just another piece of useless flotsam you’re forced to lug around like a beachcomber that can’t throw anything away. Occasionally, the oscillator will twitch and ferry a weak electrical current through the smattering of transistors that aren’t entirely fried, but this only leads to a sequence of misfirings and crossed wires, the properly operational parts of your mind momentarily discombobulated by the influx of incomprehensible information and false positives.

You perceive strange and impossible things during these events, which layer over reality like a colored filter or an image cut out of a magazine and pasted onto a collage: a white bird of impossibly wide wingspans eclipsing the morning sun; coal-black sand falling from your lap when you stand, as if you’d buried yourself in it; a bracelet of seashells with a shark’s tooth pendant hugging your wrist, dinging gently with each step you take; a crown of peach coral growing like a fungus from a branch; an intricately patterned fish darting in the stream; the scent of burnt pineapple in the middle of a landlocked boulangerie; a strange, visceral shade splattered across your chest; white hair tickling your shoulders like it’s yours.

You’ve learned to identify and ignore these hallucinations, and you’ve always chalked them up to your brain trying to make sense of sensations without sources, the way dreams are stories you tell yourself to explain the random firing of neurons. When you are sailing, lost between your departure and your destination, you can’t let every storm that nature conjures out of your control to catch you off guard and distract you from your course - you can’t let any storm distract you, in fact: you have to keep to the only path you know, because the alternative at that stage of the game is to never reach shore again.

You theorize that if only you could decipher what they are saying to you, you’d discover it’s something best ignored, something that remains at its safest while peripherally but not centered in your awareness; but because you can not understand any of it, you are caught in the tweezers of uncertainty, panicked like a child that doesn’t trust they’ll feel solid sand beneath their feet if they stop flailing against the ocean tide. It’s precisely the breed of anxiety that kept you going for the long and draining bulk of your looping days, the tantalizing hope that if only you paid enough attention you’d discover something new that changed everything for you, that finally let you understand how to escape your bizarre and inscrutable labyrinth - but you are, for obvious reasons, no longer that type of person, so all this anxiety does for you now is make you want to bash your head against the wall until you lose consciousness.

You don’t ever bash your head against a wall until you lose consciousness when they are around, though. Part of you wants to, but part of you is still a textbook Pavlovian dog, salivating at the sound of a bell that signals a new clue on the quest you’ve labored so strenuously to extricate yourself from, to hand that baton to someone else so you don’t have to be the one running and fighting and hoping and then crushed by disappointment every single time it seems there might actually be a way out of this - if this story ever had a hero (and you doubt this more with every passing loop), you are no longer them, so why do you still dismiss everything you know about its futility and scramble back into the costume of a fool that just can’t let it go?

It’s frustrating. It’s infuriating. It’s disappointing - in yourself.

Another reason to hate yourself added to your list.

When they talk - which is the entire time they’re around - the broken radio in your head hums to life with bursts of static, like a cicada nymph crawling out of its shell, blissfully unaware that, for all its exuberant cries, it is still destined to a swift and meaningless demise.

Against your better judgment (which, despite its usual formidability, has gradually been grated down to a flimsy sandcastle of a will, poised to be crushed and dragged away by the next wave to crash through it), you lift your eyes from the rain-splattered ground and look at them, where a different type of storm has been steadily shaking your world.

They’re crying - fat, glistening tears like the pearls oysters build to quarantine toxins they can not remove from their shells - and their hands haphazardly cup their face, their fingers like bars partitioning it into a triptych: their eyes, vanitas of grief; their mouth, a surrealist splash of innocence; their nose, still life with homesickness.

Next to them, you must look like a sleep paralysis demon: terrifying to behold and impossible to make any sense of; impossible to move away from.

You have tried talking to them, in the past, but that has only ever upset them further, your words being as nonsensical to them as theirs are to you. Like you, they want to communicate, but the reminder that the pair of you can not - that neither of you can understand the other - proves more devastating than even your silence.

So, even if leaving their pleas unanswered makes you cruel in their eyes, you make sure to sew your nonexistent mouth shut and just listen. This may not feel like a mercy to them, either, but it is, from your own warped perspective, the only kindness you can offer them: to witness their pain, to not block out their existence, even if you are incapable of comprehending any of it.

But comprehension is all they want - all they need - so you are, ultimately, no comfort to them; and they are no comfort to you, either, so your time together remains, like an anchor that’s grown too heavy under the pressure of the ocean above it to be freed from it, a miserable affair.

You wonder, on evenings like this, with this immense tree shielding the two of you from the downpour, if you have ever succeeded in shielding yourself from anything. The apples rotting on their branches because no one will eat them; the seeds desiccated amidst the blades of grass because no one will plant them; the leaves like a burial mound because no one will sweep them away - their problem is the same as the person sitting next to you: they’re right there, yet you can not reach them.

You once heard someone describe this phenomenon as “forgetting your mother’s tongue,” but this isn’t your mother tongue - it’s just your tongue. Your mother (you assume) must have taught it to you at some point, but the person whose tongue learned it was yours. Is yours. You have to remind yourself that, even if you no longer can, you are still the same person that once could.

But maybe that’s also a case of miscommunication; perhaps you have misunderstood what constitutes you. If every cell that comprised your tongue and throat and lips and brain when you learned to speak this language is already dead and replaced by cells that have never understood anything about this language, then can you still claim it’s in any way yours? Beyond your fleeting, flayed memories of something you can no longer do, is this language part of you at all?

Apparently, it is - and you’re staring at the proof of it.

Such a cruel and sick irony, to be the only one who can understand your language - and nothing else; to only be able to speak in your language - with no one else to make sense of a single word of it, and no chance of ever learning the languages others speak in.

It’s enough to make you want to end it all, if only you had just figured out how to, instead of making it all worse by selfishly conscripting other versions of yourself to suffer alongside you.

There are never any winners in the plays the Universe stages, but you certainly added to the losers count by about a dozen (you don’t want to think about how large that count might actually be).

Perhaps this, too, is your fault: you wished so fervently for someone, anyone, to remember your language, and wished so across so many loops, that your collective desire reached whatever inscrutable force is responsible for granting Wishes, and you were given the means to make that wish real as well - except, like with the other wish, the means you were dealt proved impossible to utilize: you got something wrong, or you’re still missing something crucial, or you’re just doomed from start to end because it’s you that lacks something, and while the Universe can give you the power to rewind time, it can not rewind your personal flaws.

You wished for someone, anyone, to remember your language - and someone did; someone does. But it is someone who will never, ever be able to communicate using it; and, because of this, they are more isolated and wretched than even those of you crushed by the loss of it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, failing yet again at damage control. They look at you, as if for the first time - your presence once more registering in their lonely, wandering realm - and the grip of your hands around your lower face tightens; you’ve been mirroring their body language this entire time, without even realizing it.

But they seem to realize, because, while your words are clearly meaningless to them, a semblance of recognition ripples across their complexion, like those amorphous blurs in the night sky that were once constellations to you.

They say something to you, but of course you can not understand it - you can���t even hear it, outside of the howl of static that your mind orchestrates to fill the void of its absence.

Right on cue, they know you have not understood them - and their expression, like a fresh bruise, unravels into agony.

You ask yourself, yet again, why you can’t just stop causing them more pain?

Surrendering all semblance of composure, tears like daggers slash free of your eyes and scrape down your cheeks, tracing intersecting trails like smoke signals through the canopies of trees. They watch you in silence for a smattering of heartbeats (which you experience as violent bangs propagating through your whole nervous system), then oddly, inexplicably, reach for your face - and touch you.

It makes sense: words may only thicken the barriers between you, but tears, alone and unfiltered, are a universal language, a building block of human expression that even babies deploy and recognize in others.

They’re crying, so you cry in response - does this count as communication?

Maybe it does, or maybe it could, but you’re so shocked and distraught by their touch that you instantly scramble to get away from it, backing away from them with such speed and ferocity of intent that leaves no doubt about your answer to their gesture.

You know you’ve made it worse (so much worse) and only keep making it worse (so unforgivingly worse), and you should just make yourself disappear already, so this other version of you can just be wracked by grief in peace, without you adding to it - but your eyes detects a glint of fool’s gold as you glance around in a panic. Before you can think this through, you reach for one of the seeds on the ground that someone else discarded like trash only hours ago.

The apple seed has turned pitch black in the time it’s been exposed to the elements, and you realize it’s probably started to rot from the inside out, but perhaps it can still serve your purpose - perhaps its darkened shade can even be the key.

They are watching you with confusion, but also interest, and you move fast before it has a chance to dissipate, miming the movement of ocean waves with your hands, then the opening and closing of two shells; finally, you trace the collar of your neck with a finger, as if you can still feel the necklace you just hallucinated - pictographs from a forgotten familytale, but could they still somehow understand?

They stare at the tiny black seed, fat and glistening as it catches a wisp of your starlight, then slowly - miraculously - spread open their palm to accept it.

You nestle it right in the center, miming - to yourself this time - the act of burying a seed in the soil with hope for its growth; with faith in its growth.

A smile graces their face, pleased and perhaps even grateful, and you - you feel, for the first time, the radio in your head, that has hopelessly produced static, transition from nonsensical to harmonious, as if the disjointed noise has suddenly woven into music.

And music has meaning, even if it is different to each person who hears it.

You watch them watch the seed in their hand, and you wonder what they wonder about - something has definitely transpired between you, something has been understood, but did you share a single, identical understanding, or is this merely the illusion of understanding, two misunderstandings cancelling each other out because neither of you can compare them?

That’s probably all this is - all there’ll ever be between the pair of you - but you remain, through it all, a fool masquerading as a hero, and so you permit yourself to hope.

To hope that somehow, in some way, when they look down at that apple seed in their hand, they are reminded, like you, of a pearl on the ocean floor; a pearl that once washed in with the new moon tide, onto the shore of an island that no longer exists.

✦ ✦ ✦

[Begin authors’ note.] We don’t know if there are any plural Siffrin fans on this site, but, having experienced the entirety of ISAT as being about Siffrin's plurality, we feel an Autistic Plural need to find out. We're only posting the first act for now, but we have seven acts planned for the whole fanfic, including an epilogue of sorts set after the events of the game. We've never posted on this website, but we’re happy to share with other plural Siffrin fans if they're out there. Shout out to our pal Jonah “read Paranatural NOW” jonahmagnus.tumblr.com for enjoying and encouraging our entire live reading of ISAT as Siffrin’s plural adventure. [End authors’ note.]

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

ok here's my half-hearted attempt to figure out the tripolar singularity

[ID: First image is a screencap of Fukuchi holding the space-time sword at his side; the blade glows bluish purple. The second is a colour portrait of Fukuchi from the manga. The last is a screencap of the Holy Sword from the anime, wreathed in blue light against a dark backdrop. End ID.]

The singularity is comprised of three components:

Shintō Amenogozen - The space-time sword, which allows the wielder to cut through time and space in a limited capacity. Created by an ability user to be used in shinto rituals 1500 years ago, Fukuchi used it for combat which made him nigh-unbeatable due to his ability amplifying the sword's range - from around 12 centimeters to a hundred-fold more: 1200 centimeters, or 1.2 meters. Interestingly, the original time limit seems to be the same - a limit of 12 seconds - so Fukuchi does not seem to have enhanced it temporally. An interesting line about it from chapter 86: "A katana infused with both the ill-omened and divine... At that time and place, what was unexpectedly materialized resembled the very law of the universe." Another from 114.5: "The space-time sword, said to have God himself dwelling within it."

Mirror Lion - Fukuchi's ability, which allows him to enhance any weapon he gets his hands on by a hundred fold. From his use of Shintō Amenogozen though, it seems as though he can amplify speed, strength and range but in only spatial dimensions, not temporally.

The Holy Sword Soluz Levni - The sword used to seal Bram, forged from an ability user who died and had their body turned to metal. It both attached to the brain of its victim and placed a Holy Seal on the hand of the one who wielded it, which is what allowed Fukuchi to use Bram's ability. It does this by consolidating "body" and "ability" into one, thereby merging the physical with the abstract. Bram has been stabbed with it twice.

As with any singularity, the key is to find the paradox or contradiction - as the space-time sword was the last component that set off the actual singularity, that's what we need to be looking at most closely. A singularity also takes one of two forms that we've seen so far - one, the clash of two or more similar abilities with no clear victor creates an unforeseen third effect (Odasaku vs Gide), and two, an interaction of ability on the self or with another ability creates a feedback loop that amplifies indefinitely and becomes much more powerful than its host (Rimbaud, Chuuya, Verlaine).

In order, Fyodor stabs Fukuchi with the Holy Sword, fusing body and ability. This may already cause a singularity - the physical and the abstract has been merged. We still don't really know what this means, but if you recall from Dead Apple, abilities can be temporarily separated from their "hosts", and from Stormbringer, abilities require a human or human-like soul/will to exist (with the exception of singularities), so while we don't know the true ramifications of this merge, we do know it's... significant, in some way. This part here is the big question mark to me.

But in this case, the result should be inert. This shouldn't cause anything in particular to happen - but it does, we assume, allow Fyodor to wield Mirror Lion through wielding the blade.

So when he stabs Fukuchi with the space-time sword, this is where, presumably, the feedback loop is created.

Mirror Lion is bound to Fukuchi's physical form and able to be controlled by Fyodor -> Shintō Amenogozen is stabbed into Fukuchi -> Fyodor holds the hilts of both swords, allowing him to amplify both simultaneously with Mirror Lion as the conduit -> ??? evil profit???

My current thought (really more of a shot in the dark than anything) is that Fyodor amplifying the Holy Sword also binds Shintō Amenogozen's ability to Fukuchi's body (so there are two abilities bound to one body now - one space-time cutting and the other constant amplification). This amplification is likely the source of that feedback loop that would amplify the ability into a singularity (so presumably, bye Fukuchi, for good now - he's ceased to be human, most likely), and now that both abilities are bound to Fukuchi on a physical plane... I suspect the time range can now be extended. It allows Fyodor to increase the range of time the sword can jump through far past its limits, and if Fyodor is now in control of how this time-cutting ability is directed, then theoretically, Fyodor may now be able to jump through time and space and alter the outcomes of various points in history. If he wants to rid the world of ability users, this would be a control freak's best means of doing so, I assume.

"Two heavenly blades bring forth unto this land, a miracle."

Essentially Fyodor may want to rewrite ability users out of the narrative, and so in order to use the Book (potentially) to do so, he needs to "prepare" the timeline so that removing abilities makes logical narrative sense (in keeping with the rules of the Book). Alternatively, he cannot use the Book because it may have been created by an ability user, so this would be an unalterable contradiction - he is forced to remove ability users by going back to do things manually, perhaps even by killing the original creator of the Book.

I am definitely going to turn out to be completely wrong on this, but I hope it was fun to read, nonetheless!

[aerscribbles]

(Homestuck AU... Heavenstuck?)

Xie Lian as a punky fish alien/narrative embodiment.

-ramblenotes and text transcripts under the cut-

for the non-homestucks among us, this version of Xie Lian is a troll, a species from the universe preceding the human one, they have a blood-color based caste system with fuchsia at the top and rust at the bottom- it sucks. they are raised by creatures called lusus (plural is lusii) instead of parents, because parents are a human concept and trolls are different in terms of biology anyway.

with that (probably insufficient) explanation out of the way:

Xie Lian as a hemoanonymous fuchsia - kinda obvious? royalty in hiding.

Uses Callie's silvery color :)

the Signless follower/fan thing - He Would. (really it's less a 'follower' thing and more of a kind of philosophy thing? but also not really? ...its complicated.)

Xie Lian definitely has some version of 'can't keep down the clown' immortality. but like, jester style.

Fangxin is a stupidly overpowered demon sword that can cause an apocalypse. what else is new.

continuing from that last point, it was specifically made from the White King Scepter and the Black Queen Ring, in the 'Beforus' session. BWX got it as an 'inheritance' from his prescratch self, then 'passed it on' to XL during this AU's equivalent of book 4.

In this AU I think that the 'surface levels' of Alternia and Beforus are switched, with A!Trollworld being more glorified and appearing as a 'good' society, and B!Trollworld being more blatant about its shittiness.

The symbol is a heavily abstracted representation of the celestial alignment called the Ominous Star.

This AU's reason for the neck bandages is that his gills are permanently damaged (until godtier). Kinda equivalent to the cursed shackle, taking away his status as a seadweller?

Ruoye was unintentionally majyyked into existence sorta like in canon (100 swords, dragonmom's death, hanging), 'xept I havent figured out the exact logistics of that yet.

The Sprite^2 Ring Situation is complicated and involves some ill-advised prototyping from the human (ghost) session Jade-style and the cross-session transportayeeting of HC's dreamself's corpse. I'll get into that when I do his side of things.

I have Muse of Space as XL's classpect because my personal interpretation of the Muse class is 'one who enables/embodies/reveals/inspires and/or is enabled/embodied/revealed/inspired by their aspect' as the variation on 'command' - with the narrative side of Space being stage/setting/creation, as well as the whole isolation and sacrifice thing.

( note: I had a whole rant here about how, in contrast, the Lord class is 'one who forces/drives/declares/instructs and/or is forced/driven/declared/instructed by their aspect' as counterpart forms of the 'command' verb but that got eaten by the drafts T-T )

Xie Lian IS the narrative of TGCF. It wouldn't happen without him - his presence was necessary/implied before his character was even conceptualized - he is what enables, what //allows// the story to occur - his movement through the world is what reveals all of the things lurking beneath the surface - he inspires a significant portion of the stories events, as well as inspiring change within many of the characters -

More than any of that, Xie Lian embodies TGCF- in the same way that Callie represents fandom within the text of Homestuck, which is at its core a story about stories, Xie Lian represents the philosophical and mythological core of TGCF.

All this started because I noticed that Hua Cheng is basically an even gayer, paletteswapped version of Vriska.

TEXT TRANSCRIPTS:

top, to the left of landscape/dragon skeleton, gray: Lusus Dragonmom (He lives in her skeleton)

top left, red/green/teal 3D effect: SWEET CATCH!

middle-ish, to the upper right of talksprite-style portrait, gray: Veiled hat usually hides earfins

middle right, between god-tier and sword, gray: Muse of Space

lower middle, above symbol and ring, gray: Ominous Star (fire star + heart)

lower middle right, to the right of ring, gray: Ashes Ring = Sprite^2 Pendant

bottom left, to the right of talksprite-style portrait, fuchsia: Abdicated Heir

bottom left, to the right of talksprite-style portrait, layered gray over red: Signless follower/fan

bottom right, below sword, gray & underlined: Fangxin

under the last line, gray: Regisword && King Scepter && Queen Ring Via Denizen

[rinayeas]

puking out some mercs drawing hcs bc i have nowhere to put them mwak

Best artist to worst real quick: scout, medic, demo, spy, engie, sniper, pyro, heavy, and solly

Scout is self explanatory, he's loved drawing since he was very young and his love for comic books only served as fuel. Is the only one with a well developed, intentional style. That style obviously being 2004 cartoon network, sans the fact they live in the 70s

medic had to learn lots about drawing anatomy to make diagrams while he was in med school so he has an uncannily realistic style and is very good at portaits (skeleton portraits are also a specialty of his). He hasn't bothered to experiment with this skill surprisingly, he likes drawing things as he sees them

Demo and engie make their own schematics for their work so they got that down but engie doesn't have an artistic bone in his body sans playing guitar, he can draw a sentry and all its parts perfectly but still draws stick figures. Demo has dabbled in drawing and doodling on the corner of his schematics so he has a bit more range (more than he gives himself credit for)

Spy is crazy good at painting, his use of color is incredible and can capture light and moods perfectly. But he is absolutely fucking terrible at actually drawing things. His anatomy is all fucked up and he is REALLY bad at perspective. Insists that it's his artistic vision but on the inside he is fuming.

One time Scout gave him the idea to 'collab' and he begrudgingly accepted. But the end result of one of Scout's cartoons combined with his coloring made him a bit more emotional than he wanted to admit.

Sniper can only draw animals. He doesn't see the point in drawing but one time on a trip he saw a really cute dog and he hadn't bought a camera yet nor could he take it back home so he just drew it and showed it to his mom as soon as he got back. He got better over the years but doesn't know how to draw anything else

Pyro draws like a kid but they put the most passion and love to her drawings so they look particularly cute and colorful. He and scout have drawing sessions in the mess hall where whoever is in there w them chooses the theme and each of them draws their version, they surprisingly learn a lot from eachother.

Heavy is a man of words. Mostly because he loves them but also bc he finds drawing absurdly hard. Resorts to drawing stick figures all the time but he's very competent at making his point while using the bare minimum

Solly's drawing are just a mess of scribbles with the ocassional color, nobody knows if he's an abstract genius or just a terrible artist. Exclusively uses the american flag colors. One time Spy jokingly asked him why was he using the french flag colors and after choking the shit out of him Soldier stared at the wall for a good two hours in contemplation.

[void-ink-studios]

The Existential Horror of Prismo the Wishmaster.

This has been buzzing in my brain for a week now, and after a discussion with a friend egged it on, I need to inflict in on the rest of you.

Also, this thought is at the very least cannon to Wrath of the Wishmaster.

I have so many Thoughts about Prismo, and his relationship with Old Man Prismo. How it seems that Prismo the Wishmaster and Prismo the Old Man are completely disconnected, but threaded together in a weave that simply can't be unraveled. The two don't seem to share memories, but Prismo clearly recognizes the sleeping old man as his mortal body. He knows he's staring at himself, and he seems pretty uncomfortable to acknowledge it.

So, the discussion expanded on it.

Because something I noticed is that Scarab as a projection was pretty much just one to one with his real personality. It was just Scarab in a different form, down to realistic proportions, anatomy, and physics.

So, I propose a thought: What if, once upon a time, Prismo was like that too?

What if, when first put to sleep, Prismo the Wishmaster and "Young Man" Prismo were pretty much identical? That Prismo was pretty much just an extension of his sleeping body.

But, while Scarab has only just been put to sleep, Prismo has been asleep longer. Much, much longer. Hundreds of thousands of years longer. Potentially millions of years longer.

Prismo is ultimately the dream of (presumably) a human. While it's clear Old Man Prismo can't seem to die of old age, he is noticeably aging (look at Prismo pointing out he's hairier and balder than last he checked).

Not to mention, in the brief moments we see Old Man Prismo awake, he's very clearly confused. He mistakes the Lich to be his son, asks where his wife is, and immediately wants to go back to sleep. While this could be due to the fact he just woke up after lord knows how long, I assert it might've been deeper than that.

And it was that rewatch that I had a thought. What happens to a dream that goes on far longer than it's ever meant to?

I think the Prismo we see, in the modern age, is not just a dream. He's a dream of essentially an Alzheimer's patient. He's abstract and gigantic and wraps around in impossible ways because his host's sense of reality and self-image has pretty much been turning to mush in his deep sleep. He's not just a dream, he's the half remembered abstracted idea of what Old Man Prismo might've been like in his much younger years. Prismo the Wishmaster is a memory locked in time, but one that's been put through Google translate several times and told back to the viewer by someone who just woke up and barely speaks English.

It struck me what Prismo reminded me of.

This series of paintings:

A series of self-portraits done by a man (William Utermohlen, btw) with progressing Alzheimer's, based on what he remembers himself to look like.

So, my friend and I are left to ponder the horror of Prismo's situation. He's a mortal brain, that has been faced with an eternity that mortal brains aren't meant to begin to comprehend, much less live through. He's put under sleep young, probably with the understanding that it'd be forever (And the fact OMP references a wife and son leaves him agreeing to that with upsetting implications), and his dream is of himself, as he was when he was put under.

But then the years and decades and centuries and millennia go bye. The human mind begins to atrophy, but the dream still persists. The dream experiences life on its own, and his mind of origin begins to fail and rot.

Thus, we get Prismo the Wishmaster. Prismo who can no longer access any of his old memories, just left with the vague impression of something lingering in the dark corners every once in a while. Vague ideas that something's familiar, but he can't explain why.

It's no wonder he seems uncomfortable at the look of his own body. That man is practically a stranger to him. And yet, achingly familiar. Like looking in a fun house mirror. You recognize the reflection as you. But it isn't you. Not anymore, at least.

Would he recognize himself, if he saw the version of him he was when he was first put to the task of Wishmaster? Maybe, maybe not.

And then, the Lich kills Old Man Prismo.

And all that's left is a dog's memory of the current version of Prismo.

Which means that the original man Prismo once was is gone. Forever. Irreparably. If our current Prismo is a story, this is a story who's original copy was burned, and has been passed down to us thousands of years later, with all the translation errors, additions, subtractions, revisions, censorship, restorations, retellings, and reinterpretations that entails.

What does that do to a mind, to know you're a copy of someone you used to be, but never can be anymore? To know you're not your own person, but the person you're an extension of simply does not exist anymore?

Reminds me a bit of the clones from "The World of Tomorrow" by Don Hertzfeldt.

It's probably for the best if Prismo doesn't think about it too much.

[scumgristle]

album of 2025

‘The Texas Chain Saw Massacre’ Score, a Noisy Gem, Will Arrive at Last

Fifty-one years after the smash horror movie, its groundbreaking and unconventional music — long a “holy grail” — will arrive on vinyl.

In 1996, years before helping to found the experimental rock institution Animal Collective, David Portner and Brian Weitz were Baltimore high school pals who diligently hunted for the soundtrack album that perfectly meshed their love of the unorthodox sound worlds of musique concrète and the thrills of horror movies: “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.” “It wasn’t really till years later that I found out that it had never been released,” Portner said.

“The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” changed the horror business when it splattered out in 1974, turning a spartan budget into a $30 million juggernaut and laying groundwork for the blood-soaked slasher genre that dominated the 1980s. Among its many innovations was its unconventional score, an abstract suite of bone-chilling scrapes, metallic clanks, ominous drones and mysterious stingers.

This symphony of discordance, recorded by the film’s director Tobe Hooper and the sound man Wayne Bell, emerged three full years before the first commercially available industrial music from Throbbing Gristle. It anticipated the tape-traded noise music underground that flourished in places like Japan in the 1990s and the American Midwest in the ’00s. But with the master tapes ostensibly lost and Hooper seemingly uninterested in an official release, the “Chain Saw” score survived mostly as a bootleg, often just the entire 83-minute film dubbed to audio cassette from a VHS or Laserdisc.

That half-century of tape hiss and YouTube rips will end in March with a vinyl release on the boutique soundtrack label Waxwork Records. (Pre-orders start this week.)

“It was kind of like a holy grail. Was it even possible to do it?” said the Waxwork co-founder Kevin Bergeron, who had been doggedly pursuing the release for more than a decade. “Everyone has asked. Literally every label from Sony to Waxwork. Major labels to independents to randos living with their parents. Everyone wanted to release it. What would it take to make it happen? No one had any sort of intel, like what would it cost or what would it take.”

Bell had held on to a few of the original tapes, but a majority were assumed lost. After the success of “Chain Saw,” Hooper left Austin for Hollywood, leaving behind a storage shed full of personal effects. But the “Chain Saw” tapes were not absorbing water damage or rotting away in some hot Texas garage: They would be quietly donated to the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas at Austin, lovingly archived alongside Albert Einstein’s notes, a Frida Kahlo self-portrait and a Gutenberg Bible.

“Suddenly they’re artifacts,” Bell said in a recent video interview. “Sometimes you need to wear gloves to handle this stuff. So the idea of threading it up on a machine and listening to exactly know what you’ve got? I just had to go by what little notes I had in 1974 and, by eye, just recognizing my handwriting and remembering what tapes we had.” He finally got to hear the digitized version of their audio this year.

With $16 in his bank account, Bergeron first reached out to Bell in 2013, before Waxwork even stamped its first LP. After years playing guitar in horror-centric punk and thrash bands, Bergeron started Waxwork with his girlfriend, Sue Ellen Soto, with the idea of becoming the “Criterion Collection of soundtracks” by releasing albums with newly commissioned artwork, liner notes from the filmmakers and whimsically colored vinyl. Bergeron sent almost-monthly correspondence to Bell for a decade. All emails to Hooper, up to his death in 2017, went unanswered.

“A big pitch of mine was, ‘Look, there’s a lot of parallels between how we conduct business and how you guys conduct business,’” said Bergeron, who sees a corollary between Waxwork’s D.I.Y. ethic and the spirit of idealistic hippies in the desert cobbling together a horror movie. “I would hate to see this precious thing that they’ve guarded for 50 years get in the hands of a major or someone that’s going to do some Hollywood accounting and rip people off.”

Getting the requisite tapes and permissions was an odyssey, but making a coherent album from them would prove a different challenge entirely. As an editor, Bell, 73, is now a seasoned veteran with credits on more than a dozen Richard Linklater movies. He said the estimated 10 to 12 hours of sound on the “Chain Saw” tapes was of good fidelity and would allow the listener to “really hear into this music.” However, nothing was mixed down. This meant a three-month process of reconstructing the familiar cacophony from the original raw materials, hand-scrawled notes and 50-year-old memories.

“It’s putting together a thousand-piece puzzle of very similar-shaped and similar-looking pieces,” he explained.

The tapes contained the sounds as they were originally recorded in the 1970s: Bell and Hooper experimenting and laughing on the carpeted floor of a spare bedroom belonging to the director’s then-girlfriend, Paulette Gochnour. The body of an upright bass was used as a reverb chamber and its metal bridge served as a mount for a mobile made of can lids. Cymbals were scraped against the strings of a lap steel guitar. Lithography plates were flapped around like dish towels. Children’s percussion instruments were chimed and rattled. When Bell heard Gochnour cooking with an 11-inch sauce pan, its bell-like tone inspired him to fill it halfway with water and strike it with a timpani mallet.

“Just because the sound comes from a stringed instrument, you could torture it such that you don’t know that that’s a string instrument or it doesn’t necessarily sound musical,” said Bell, who had already honed these techniques in playful jam sessions with Hooper. “Clearly these sounds had emotional properties, they made you think this or that, would trigger the mind. So it was a fertility that was right there already for us.”

After these sounds were pieced together and matched with the grainy footage of Leatherface’s murder spree, they took on a life that extended far beyond the borders of Texas. In ’80s London, where “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre” was banned outright, the Iphar label sold cassette bootlegs of the score alongside first-generation extreme noise artists like Ramleh, S.P.K. and Consumer Electronics. Alternative metal bands in the ’90s including Nine Inch Nails, White Zombie and Marilyn Manson peppered their albums with “Chain Saw” dialogue and sounds. The fleet-fingered oddball guitarist Buckethead professed that he would solo over the drone feast that follows the actor William Vail getting bludgeoned to death with a hammer. The director Nicolas Winding Refn pushed the composer Cliff Martinez to put more “Chain Saw” influence in the game-changing synth soundtrack to “Drive” from 2011.

Aaron Dilloway, a solo artist and onetime member of the noise band Wolf Eyes, called the “Chain Saw” score “ground zero for noise music.” He recorded the entire film to audio cassette and would play it in the van on Wolf Eyes tours, and once accompanied the rest of the band using “Chain Saw” audio played on a variable speed cassette player. (He accidentally concluded the set with an incredibly spooky recording of the actor Paul A. Partain’s disembodied voice calling out for Jerry the van driver.)

“Nothing sounds like that. Nothing,” Dilloway said of Hooper and Bell’s score. “I mean, there’s little bits and stuff here and there, but nothing’s been able to get that screech like that — eeeeeerrrgh. There’s nothing else like it. And it’s always just been stuck in my head. You want to strive for that. Make something as scary and as unique as that sound.”

Portner, who records as Avey Tare, spent Animal Collective’s earliest days in New York without a practice space or much room to hold instruments. “It was a way of seeing that you could make music with anything,” he said of the score. “You could have as much of a dramatic effect or emotional effect just banging on pots and pans if that’s all that was around.”

With the official Waxwork release — complete with two never-heard-before cues — the “Chain Saw” score’s legacy is secure, though its story may not be finished. Bell estimated that he had 95 percent of the material, but said there was still a single missing tape he would like to incorporate to complete the picture.

“There’s a cue that I knew I didn’t have,” he explained, “and I didn’t want to do an ersatz version of that. ’Cause it’s very important that it be what ‘Chain Saw’ fans expect. I’ve felt a big responsibility to deliver this. A responsibility to myself and to Tobe and to the film, but also to the fans.”

Starting in 2022, he even started appearing at horror conventions. He found the gaggle of cosplaying “Chain Saw” fans to be interesting and likable.

Said Bell with a laugh, “I’ve never been around so many Leatherfaces in my life.”

[the-s1lly-corner]

may we please request gn porcelain doll!reader whos on the verge of abstraction (but has zero idea how to stop it and is afraid to admit it) x jax and maybe pomni (separate) ? ot I love how canon your writing is !! have an amazing day/night :3

Jax and Pomni x porcelain doll!reader whos abstracting !

cracks my knuckles. a TADC angst request? dont mind if i do eheheheh! and ueueueueu thank you anon! i gotta admit im really self conscious about writing characters, doesnt matter how long ive been writing them i always feel that i could do better with their characterization... but im so so happy to know that theyre not too OOC!! that means a lot!! got a little too silly on jaxs part so its longer than pomnis i hope thats okay!!

POMNI:

gosh imagine this is the first time shes seen someone actively abstract... like yeah sure shes seen kaufmo in his abstracted form, but seeing the aftermath/complete transformation is totally different than being there in the moment. i think she would.. be all over the place. i mean youre at your worst and you dont even understand whats going on... and pomni doesnt know what to do or what she can do to ground you. can you even be grounded back to the present moment? can you even back up and regain yourself? is that something someone can do? i think her panic makes you panic, which ends up making your.. situation worse.. i think pomni would try to keep you together as best as she can; physically and mentally. i got the image of the readers face cracking open and the abstraction stuff peeking out and pomni just... trying to push the pieces back together... its a horrible situation, and before long you're fully abstracted and pomni just stands there. im not even sure if she would have the mind to run away, probably too caught up in trying to bring you back to her.. i think sometimes she would stop in front of your old bedroom door and just. stare at the brand new red X over your portrait

JAX:

unlike pomni, i think he can more easily catch the signs of someone abstracting, though i dont think hes seen someone actually lose themselves right in front of him and transform right there... hmm... but unless you and him are very close i dont think he would bother trying to check in on you. i mean, if youre not, why would he? but... lets say youre both friends, or even partners, and he notices that youve been acting off.. i think it would still take him a little longer than id like to admit for him to actually come to your room to check in on you. perhaps he wants to give you space, or feels youre just going through something and thats your business, or maybe he didnt feel obligated to ask how youre doing as horrible as it sounds (i feel this is more likely if you guys are just friends, though, perhaps not close but still friendly with one another).. gets tipped off that something is wrong when he sees a stray (and glitching) piece of porcelain on the ground... which turns into two pieces, then three. a trail, leading right to your breaking form. i think at first he would think its some joke, before realizing that this is actually happening. unfortunately, i dont think jax is the best comforter so even in your last moments of being conscious and aware would still be spent in fear and confusion.. but at least theres an attempt to try to help you, right? i think jax would actually try to call for help, at least he might be able to admit hes unqualified to help you.. but regardless of if anyone hears him its too late for you.. i like to think he keeps some of your porcelain shards, on the off chance theyre still hanging around even after youre sent to the cellar

[ani-antiquities]

The Melancholic Woman: Eva Hesse, Ennead (1965), and Trauma, De-strung

(source: ICA Boston)

I will open this essay with a line from art historian, Anne M. Wagner’s essay, Another Hesse, on her journal October, vol. 69 – wherein she writes of our subject, American sculptor Eva Hesse:

Hesse’s self-scrutiny, we learn once again, is a means of coping with “environment” – with the inheritance of the past. But it is also the measure – even the proud badge – of her “difference”, the difference, we remember, of being an artist. (p. 131)

Anne M. Wagner’s essay on Eva Hesse will be one of the main sources of this paper.

Here, we will be able to trace Eva Hesse’s art and its asymbolia to the artist’s melancholia and her journey of sublimation and working through. We will also thereby arrive at more questions to ponder Hesse’s life, and inquire about the connections among art, melancholia, and the semiotic – and possibly ponder a perspective that ties the end-goal of these Kristevan concepts together.

(Before I go on, I just wanna say that this essay may draw on similarities EVA HESSE: POST-MINIMALISM INTO SUBLIME, by Robert Pincus-Witten. I wrote this specific essay more than a year ago for my Cultural, Literary, and Critical Theory class, and I only found this essay just today, as I am writing and doing more research for this piece. LOL. However, I would like to justify that the content of my essay is to draw connections between Hesse’s art and Kristeva’s psychoanalytic theory. I did enjoy Witten’s essay, though!)

(Source: pbs.org)

Eva Hesse

At the height of Nazi Germany, Hesse’s family fled to America for protection from religious persecution, but it was not long until sanctuary proved to be fickle as well, in the land of the free. Due to trauma implicated by the Second World War that vehemently caused the deaths of Hesse’s extended family, the serious circumstances of (Eva Hesse’s mother) Ruth Marcus House’s bipolar disorder worsened. These events dominoed to Wilhelm Hesse’s divorce from Ruth Marcus, and Ruth’s suicide. Adding salt to the wound, Wilhelm would marry a woman named Eva. Upon the new marriage, the young girl and her step-mother would share the same name.

Identity crisis aggravated young Eva’s trauma – from the persecution of family whose faces she had never known, to losing her to suicidal mother at ten. It seemed like grief was her very being.

Graduating from Yale, she exhibited works whose style displayed that of Abstract Expressionism and paved the way for Minimalism.

Art historians speculate how these traumas were sublimated into her art. Her self-portraits showcase distorted images of faces and figures. They are almost like a child’s attempt at creating a figure painting, except that their tone is so somber that only an adult can express such a feeling.

(Untitled, 1965, oil on canvas: From: mutualart.com)

However, the most intriguing work of Hesse does not come from two-dimensions – but three. This includes Hesse’s sculpture, Ennead (1965).

(Ennead, 1965, oil on canvas. From: icaboston.org)

Eva Hesse’s Ennead (1965)

All that there is to the piece: acrylic, paper mache, some resin-coated strings, plywood, some plastic, and a title possibly referencing the Egyptian pantheon.

The Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston, describes the artwork as such:

The orderly, formulaic application of the threads devolves into an increasingly chaotic composition as they accumulate and tangle toward the floor. A few strands are affixed to the adjacent wall, cordoning off a wedge of space that becomes part of the sculpture itself. This gesture also draws the viewer’s attention to the corner of the gallery, activating this normally overlooked area. Additional material hangs to touch the floor, thus uniting three planes. “Ennead” means a group of nine, in this case referring to the nine points from which the strings extend.

How can we interpret art whose surface presence is devoid of any points from its meaning? Baroque art can be so interpreted by its gargantuan number of details that fit on a four-cornered canvas. Poetry can be dissected among its metaphors, language, and enjambments. How can we possibly describe a sculpture so bare of material and overly abstract in its form? Was it meant to be this way – stripped down and bare?

Asymbolia and Melancholia

Many of Hesse’s works portray a distinct use of asymbolia, and the stimulation of asymbolia to its audience.

It is impossible to speak of Ennead without speaking about Hesse – primarily because Hesse and her art are one. Hesse even says: “My life and art have not been separated. They have been together.”

Ennead is no exception – however, with absolutely little to no “initial and final'' interpretation of meaning when you see the sculpture. What can we then say about Eva Hesse through the piece? Even art historians themselves, up to this day, consider Ennead to be an enigma on its own – its minimalism minimizes itself, to the point of devoiding any meaning, making us doubt if there is any at all.

First, we must discuss the asymbolia in Ennead – the art itself. Though by instinct and intuition, the substance of Ennead is uninhabited on its own, I would like to shed a few pointers on the piece and its asymbolia through its deliberate absurdity.

The strings were meant to be orderly at first, until its tail-end, wherein Hesse describes them as a jungle. Hesse even took in the effort to dye the strings to possibly add more aesthetic depth to them. Hesse describes the process of this piece in one of her journals.

The further it went toward the ground, the more chaotic it got; the further you got from the structure, the more it varied. I've always opposed content to form or just form to form. (Quoted in L. R. Lippard, op. cit., p. 62)

However, even when Hesse describes her decision to irrationalize the hinds of the strings, the art still talks gravel to the path towards the most inane question: What does it mean?

So, we shall secondly address the audience’s confusion, that stems from the asymbolia of the audience themselves – the very inability to attach any familiarity or meaning to the symbols the art presents, because of the very fact that it lacks anything.

The only thing that makes sense of Hesse’s art is nonsense – the asymbolia found in Hesse’s art, that stems from dissecting, stripping down, and representing her trauma. Hesse states in one of her interviews: “There is no abstract art. You must always start with something… A painter paints to unload himself of feelings and vision.”

Must her own “something” be from her depression – from the trauma of losing her mother, identity, and other factors throughout?

We take the theory behind this inquiry from Julia Kristeva’s illustration of asymbolia and melancholia in her book, Black Sun – “The negation of that fundamental loss opens up the realm of signs for us, but the mourning is often incomplete. Melancholia then ends up in asymbolia, in loss of meaning…” (p.42).

Hence, to study the bare Ennead is to study Hesse’s bare melancholia.

We may never have the opportunity to bear witness to Hesse’s trauma, as only she and herself can live it, so we turn to her journals,

Throughout her life, Hesse seems to be on good terms with working through with her depression, as she sublimates it with her art – if it means going against the conventions imposed on her by four-cornered dimensions of papers and canvases, and the one-platform norm of past sculptures (Ennead takes up two adjacent walls, and thereby two dimensions).

Asymbolia and the neglect of the pre-conceived semiotic can be seen in her journals – which instead of letters and intelligible words, consist of drawings that penetrate any dividers and lines.

Kristeva furthermore explains this psychoanalytic mechanism as she illustrates the control of the preverbal in aesthetic creation: “When the struggle between imaginary creation (art, literature) and depression is carried out precisely on that frontier of the symbolic and the biological we see indeed that the narrative or the argument is ruled by primary processes” (p.65) – explaining the subnormality of Hesse’s art and entries, and how the manifestations of obscurity stem from the mere struggle of Hesse’s melancholia.

(Figure 3: Hesse’s journal. From: sugarcandymtn.com)

Other than these, her excerpts write of her own feelings of depression and anxiety: “I must write, my sanity is involved. I cry and cry, the pages are wet. I have no one, to go to and the edge of hysteria and insanity is not far apart” (October 19, 1964).

Anne M. Wagner writes: “Anyone who wants to make a serious contribution to remembering Hesse will likewise have to speak about a wound. For what is striking about Hesse’s art is its utter inwardness, with artistic languages of the day: her imagery and effects are not learned by rote, only to be parroted back more or less unchanged” (p. 159)

With this: Must her melancholia still be the root of her asymbolic art? Or was this art a testament to her ability to self-scrutinize all along? Furthermore, will there be anything to self-scrutinize when there is no trauma?

Conclusion: The Futile Point of Interpretation

Hesse intended her work to be autobiographical, but never understood – and thus reflecting the paradox of identity: to know, but never understand. Even her journals were not meant for the purpose of understanding: “Hesse’s journals and their users have meant that it is no longer possible for viewers “not to know the artist” – or at least, not to feel they know her, and to prepare themselves accordingly when looking at her art.”

Yet, even when we have read Hesse’s journals, watched documentaries, and studied countless journals from art historians – the impossibility to fully understand still looms over her audience. So then we ask the question: What should we feel to know of Hesse? The illness caused by both personal and socio-economic circumstances of her time? Must her works be cursed with the fallacy of perpetually being tied to her trauma.

On Dostoevsky, Kristeva writes: “Works of art thus lead us to establish relations with ourselves and others that are less destructive, more soothing.” Hesse’s artifacts are therefore not records of her mania, but documentations of her survival from it. Her illness, therefore, is not what should be reflected of her life – but her sisyphean triumph over it.

Maybe it is for the better – as the point of art itself is to sublimate the traumatic aggression of the artist, and (like a monster) to never let it out of the cage of the canvas. Kristeva can even attest to this, saying: “Art seems to point to a few devices that bypass complacency and, without simply turning mourning into mania, secure for the artist the connoisseur a sublimatory hold over the lost Thing” (p. 97)

Hesse did this concealment well, so much so that it is said the artist herself might not have realized this. As Wagner would write: “If Hesse’s life did enter her art, it did so by a process that Hesse herself was in a position to describe. We would be looking for ways (Hesse’s unconscious) repeatedly configured. I think such imagery exists in Hesse’s art, and I take it to concern the artist’s feelings toward her mother above all” (p. 165) So much so, that even daring to question the trauma behind Hesse’s art, we do not only turn a blind eye to the artist herself, but arrive at a futile destination when we do: “Yet, in asking them [questions on Hesse’s art] we risk losing sight of the workings of Hesse’s unconscious – a notion that, after all, was the motivating impulse of this discussion. But the artist and her unconscious are not far away.” (p. 173)

Conclusion

I will close with another one of Wagner’s concluding lines:

“To claim that Hesse’s art aims to remember and express a common human quality or experience is not the same as attributing to it some universal force or purpose. It gives its own account of that experience.” (p. 186)

This aim of art is reminiscent to how beauty sublimates melancholia in the form of art, much like giving its own account of an experience. Kristeva writes:

“Beauty emerges as the admirable face of loss, transforming it in order to make it live. Melancholia to the point of becoming interested in the life of signs, beauty may also grab hold of us to bear witness for someone who grandly discovered the royal way through which humanity transcends the grief of being apart.”

(p. 100)

Hesse’s journey as an artist is proof that asymbolia – another result of melancholia – paves the way into sublimation. Art is therefore not rooted in the melancholic, its her way of forging a path deeper underneath it. Art is agency from the trial of inner-disagency. Art is therefore the artist’s most individual and subjective struggle, not of her depression, but one of working through. Precisely through this art, we unlock the beauty sculpted from the marble of melancholia. Hesse and Ennead are just among the myriad of melancholic beauty in the realm of art.

SOURCES

Kristeva Julia. Black Sun : Depression and Melancholia. Columbia University Press 1989. https://archive.org/details/blacksun00juli. Accessed 27 Feb. 2023.

Artincontext. “Eva Hesse - The Brief Life and Incredible Works of Eva Hesse the Artist.” Artincontext.org, 4 Apr. 2022, https://artincontext.org/eva-hesse/.

Branaman, Bianca. “Love - Eva Hesse.” Sugar Candy Mountain, Sugar Candy Mountain, 4 Sept. 2018, https://sugarcandymtn.com/blogs/the-brand/love-eva-hesse.

“Ennead.” EVA HESSE, https://www.christies.com/en/lot/lot-315751.

“Ennead.” Institute of Contemporary Art, Boston, https://www.icaboston.org/art/eva-hesse/ennead.

Evemy, Benjamin Blake, et al. “Auctions, Exhibitions & Analysis for +500K Artists.” MutualArt, MutualArt, 17 Feb. 2023, https://www.mutualart.com/.

“The Sickness of Being Disallowed: Premonition and Insight in the 'Artist's Sketchbook'.” O A R, https://www.oarplatform.com/sickness-disallowed-premonition-insight-artists-sketchbook/.

[unexpectedbrickattack]

bro your pepperman and peppino comic hasn’t left my brain since i saw it. i just love the dynamic of a ginormous freak and peppino being both intimidated and flustered.. bro i wish there was more of those two

I should draw them some more bc i really like the dynamic ive written for them 😊 For u anon, i will share some minor (silly) thoughts ive had about them

-Pepperman absolutely has a little baby crush on this man. TEENY TINY. The kind of crush that means nothing- hes a little 💅🏾 and hes an artist like ur gonna be a little gay w all of the friends you make; thats just the way it goes 😭 Like Peppino is sooooo handsome and soooo strong and he can cook and hes smart and he doesnt stand down when confronted (he LOVES this the most). So people in Peppermans Rich Friend circle notice the complete 180 his personality does when Peppino is invited to outings. Its not that Pepperman is being weird and shallow or fake, its that Peppino is probably his First Friend that wasnt rich and snobbish in anyway. Some part of him really REALLY wants to impress Peppino and it makes him act a little ‘foolish’ heehee 😊

-Following up on this, Pepperman visits the pizzeria out of the blue like MONTHS after he first invites Peppino out for the art sessions and like okay maybe they are friends MAYBE…but like he is still kind of anxious bc the last time he came here he almost got his skinned so part of him is like ‘maybe hes only amicable bc feels obligated to cooperate within the walls of my studio…’ BUT he shuffles awkwardly into the shop and Peppino not only waves but SMILES at him while hes attending to a customer and Pepperman is like ‘HEEEHEEUHEEHOOO………….’

-Peppermans art is worth a fortune; he is very well respected in the art world and any pieces hes made (including self portraits) are absolutely stunning. His abstract art is as beautiful as his realism; auctioning them off and doing occasional commission work is how hes acquired most of his wealth. Because of this, it is a MASSIVE show of good faith and comradery that Pepperman will often gift art to Peppino. Unfortunately, Peppino will not accept statues or huge marble sculptures BUT Pepperman is delighted to see Peppino accept paintings and mini sculptures, even if he LOOKS a bit confused about it 😭

-SO… when Pepperman comes by the shop some weeks later, he is overwhelmingly excited to see one of his pieces hung up on the walls. The feeling of having his art fawned over in an art exhibit does not even BEGIN to compare to the excitement of seeing his art being displayed in this common mans shop. Its a portrait of Peppino, stylized, w some funky lookin colors. Nothing fancy or particularly evocative. Just. Peppino! Looking a bit wistful with colors winding around him.

Even Peppino is like (snrk) “Dont you have your fancy arts in a museum or something? Dont see the big deal ‘bout ‘a this.” But its HUGE its like…suddenly it is not just his muse entertaining his artistic vision…his muse VALUES his artistic vision………..it makes him SO happy. He thinks about it for days. Its like; he had no idea that this is what it felt like to have…inspiration and motivation from an Outside source. His art, while breathtaking, felt like it lacked something…Rich. Years and years of self reflection and introspection and Never expanding his horizons, never realizing he was Capable of expanding his horizons until now…he is just a lucky little pepper 🫑🌶✨

[jaylienpotter]

October 5th @prongsfoot-microfic prompt "chain"

Instagram post

Potter scrolled through Instagram, liking all of Starsirius_art's posts. Black really had it in him. He used coal, watercolors, digital drawing using different styles and techniques (realism, cartoon, semirealistic...), even did some abstract paintings sometimes, although not as frequently.

The viewer took in one of the posts. It was a digital drawing of a pale boy with light blue eyes and short black hair (he assumed it was a self-portrait of his younger self), underwater and tangled with chains, a hand reaching up.

«I love this one. It's very powerful. Does it have any meaning?» He decided to shoot him a DM. Maybe it would be a good way to approach the gorgeous man in a low-key way.

«yeah» Good, he only took 16 minutes to reply- Not that James was counting.

«my little brother committed suicide when he was 18» Shit.

«its him in the drawing. he drowned himself, the chains are a symbol of how he felt trapped in his body and in our household. also like a weight pulling him down»

«Oh my god... I'm so sorry, that's terrible...»

«How long has it been, if you don't mind me asking?»

Typing. Seen. Typing again.

«2 years ago»

«Fuck... My condolences mate...» He probably doesn't want to talk much about it...

«thx»

«how's padfoot?»

«He's good! He liked you.»

«You're doing commissions, right? Could you draw him? You capture emotion so well, and he has a tough background. I found him young next to a road, abandoned. He was too thin, limped really badly and was afraid of everyone. I took him home, fed and bathed him and went to the vet. He had no chip and so I kept him. Slowly he started trusting me and now he's my best friend.»

«awww! yeah ofc! i'd love to! what style??»

«Up to you! I trust your work.»

«thx James x»

James.

It was his name, nothing special about that word. But it seemed intimate from Sirius. It felt like the two had grown close in those few exchange of texts. Potter hoped to get closer. He just had to find a way to talk to him without coming off odd.

[contemporaryabstract]

The Evolution and Impact of Contemporary Art

Contemporary art, a vibrant and dynamic field, transcends traditional boundaries to explore new mediums, themes, and techniques. It encompasses artworks created from the mid-20th century to the present day, reflecting diverse cultural, social, and political landscapes. This article delves into the multifaceted nature of contemporary art, its evolution, and its impact on society.

The Evolution of Contemporary Art

Contemporary art emerged in the post-World War II era, a time marked by rapid technological advancements and significant socio-political changes. This period saw a departure from the conventions of modern art, embracing a more experimental and inclusive approach. Key movements that paved the way for contemporary art include Abstract Expressionism, Pop Art, Minimalism, and Conceptual Art.

Abstract Expressionism

Abstract Expressionism, primarily an American movement of the 1940s and 1950s, emphasized spontaneous, automatic, or subconscious creation. Artists like Jackson Pollock and Mark Rothko focused on expressing emotions and ideas through abstract forms and bold colors. This movement laid the groundwork for future artists to explore new ways of conveying meaning beyond traditional representation.

Pop Art

In the 1960s, Pop Art emerged as a reaction to the elitism of Abstract Expressionism. Artists like Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein drew inspiration from popular culture, mass media, and consumerism. Their works often featured everyday objects, celebrities, and advertisements, challenging the distinction between "high" and "low" art.

Minimalism and Conceptual Art

Minimalism and Conceptual Art, emerging in the late 1960s and 1970s, further expanded the boundaries of contemporary art. Minimalist artists like Donald Judd and Agnes Martin focused on simplicity, using geometric forms and industrial materials. Conceptual artists like Sol LeWitt and Joseph Kosuth emphasized ideas over aesthetic value, often creating works that required audience interaction or interpretation.

Themes and Techniques in Contemporary Art

Contemporary artists continue to explore a wide range of themes and techniques, often addressing critical issues such as identity, globalization, technology, and the environment. Their works challenge viewers to rethink their perceptions and engage with complex social and political narratives.

Identity and Representation

Identity is a recurring theme in contemporary art, with artists exploring race, gender, sexuality, and cultural heritage. For instance, Kehinde Wiley's vibrant portraits celebrate Black identity, while Cindy Sherman's self-portraits challenge traditional notions of femininity and self-representation.

Globalization and Technology

The impact of globalization and technology on society is another significant theme. Artists like Ai Weiwei and Hito Steyerl examine the implications of digital culture, surveillance, and the global flow of information. Their works often incorporate digital media, video, and interactive installations, reflecting the increasingly interconnected world.

Environmental Concerns

Environmental issues are also prominent in contemporary art. Artists like Olafur Eliasson and Agnes Denes create works that highlight the urgency of climate change and the human relationship with nature. These pieces often use natural materials and immersive installations to foster a deeper connection with the environment.

The Impact of Contemporary Art on Society

Contemporary art plays a crucial role in shaping cultural discourse and fostering social change. By addressing pressing issues and challenging societal norms, contemporary artists encourage critical thinking and inspire action.

Cultural Dialogue

Contemporary art facilitates cross-cultural dialogue, promoting understanding and empathy among diverse communities. Exhibitions and biennials, such as the Venice Biennale and Documenta, bring together artists from around the world, creating platforms for cultural exchange and collaboration.

Social Activism

Many contemporary artists use their work as a form of social activism, raising awareness about human rights, social justice, and political oppression. For example, Banksy's provocative street art and JR's large-scale photographic installations draw attention to marginalized communities and global inequalities.

Public Engagement

Contemporary art often extends beyond traditional gallery spaces, engaging with the public in innovative ways. Public art installations, participatory projects, and community-based initiatives create opportunities for people to interact with art in their everyday lives, fostering a sense of collective ownership and participation.

Conclusion

Contemporary art, with its diverse range of themes, techniques, and perspectives, reflects the complexity of the modern world. It challenges conventional boundaries, fosters cultural dialogue, and encourages social change. As we continue to navigate an ever-evolving landscape, contemporary art remains a powerful tool for understanding and engaging with the world around us.

[kavehnanginto]

pot, meet kettle

pairings: kaveh, itto x reader

synopsis: whiny and hot men smartly decide to date the only one who can match and even beat his charisma and annoying remarks, and everyone is stuck dealing with both of your dramatic characters

tags: you are very much annoying, sweet names except for babe or baby because i hate it, fluff and cuddles, they are very sweet, fun fact the creation of this fic was made because a little birdie told me to do this i just added itto because he is my man,

Kaveh swears he is a logical man, a rational man who desires nothing more than peace and tranquility. no one really agrees with him, with all the bickering with alhaitham and squabbles with dori his reputation of being sensitive is set in stone.

But with you around it truly feels that what he said was right. Compared to Kaveh and you, Alhaitham would rather spend time in hell and dead in a casket. So whenever you were around and in his house, the scribe just seemed to disappear out of nowhere. And you were now always alone with your man.

"Why would you use that as a painting, its too abstract?" you comfortably conquered the couch while watching Kaveh hang the ugliest portrait you have ever seen since the last time he hung one. "I literally went on this five minute walk to Alhaitham's house just to see you hanging this ugly portrait rather than spending time with ME."

He gasped at such comment, he can't believe he heard such nonsense from someone as attractive and ethereal as you.

"Darling, this isn't just some painting, this cost me--"

"So? Is my worth also measured in material value? Hang that painting in the wall or you'll continue to be my lover." With the painting out of the way, you were soon delivered with happy cuddles from a beautiful portrait such as he.

"Now will I continue to be your one and only?" you pat his head, thinking about it.

"Do you really think such measly act is worth my time," he shook his head. "Now let's sleep."

He obeyed and went to sleep smoothly and always remembered to bring you to every art auction after.

Everyone had their own opinion about Itto. He was loud, obnoxious, and the reoccurring theme about his public display of affection. It was getting out of hand, even to some member of his gang (Shinobu). But to you, it was simply not enough, the mediocre singing, the wilted flowers and most recently, your very own cow.

You keep on telling him that this is not what you want and say that you will eventually return feelings once he had given you the right thing. The fact of the matter is you already fell, but he really thought a cow will make you happy. I mean it did, but let your pride take you away.

Also a goat will be nice next time, and then you saw him once more, no longer with his trusted companions, but just him.

"So pumpkin, how is your amazing self today?"

"And that is the first thing you say to me? I am here offering my time and company for you!" you huffed and he immediately apologized. "Also I'm doing great! Want to commit some crimes today?"

And just like that both of you went on a spree, you insisted he holds your hand or he never will hold your hand ever again, and also that he will bring the cow with you. It seemed that Shinobu has a lot of explaining to do, but it seems you are not in trouble.

As the day came into a close, Itto realized that commiting war crimes are even better if the person he likes is around him. But as the day comes to close, and this day of temporary joy has reached its end. The lovebirds said goodbye.

"Until we meet again, my dove." you walked away slowly, the sunset brightening you eyes.

"Farewell, my fair master." he bowed and...

You saw each other again after 45 minutes.

[ayushi018]

"Brushstrokes of Emotion: Exploring the Power of Art"

Art has always been a powerful medium of expression, transcending language, culture, and time. Whether it’s a vibrant abstract painting or a somber portrait, art captures the emotions of the artist and the viewer in ways that words cannot. The brushstrokes on a canvas become more than just marks of paint; they become windows into the soul, revealing not only the artist’s inner world but also igniting emotions in those who encounter the work. Through colors, textures, and composition, artists convey their deepest feelings, beliefs, and experiences, creating an intimate dialogue between the artwork and the observer.

The Emotional Language of Art

At its core, art is a language. It's a way for artists to communicate complex emotions and stories without uttering a single word. One of the most profound ways this occurs is through the brushstrokes themselves. Each stroke can evoke a particular mood or feeling. A quick, bold stroke might communicate urgency or chaos, while a delicate, flowing one could express serenity or tenderness. The texture of the paint, whether thick and textured or smooth and blended, also adds to the emotional depth of the piece.

Colors, too, are central to the emotional impact of a painting. Warm tones like reds, oranges, and yellows often convey passion, energy, and warmth, while cool hues like blues and greens can evoke calmness, sadness, or introspection. The combination of colors and the way they interact can create a dynamic emotional response, drawing the viewer into the painting’s world.

The Artist's Emotional Connection

For the artist, creating a painting is often a deeply personal and emotional experience. The act of painting can be cathartic, allowing the artist to process emotions, whether they’re dealing with joy, grief, anger, or love. Many artists, both historical and contemporary, have used their works as a form of therapy or self-expression. For instance, Vincent van Gogh’s turbulent emotional life is reflected in his thick, swirling brushstrokes and the bold colors of works like Starry Night, which express a mixture of beauty, loneliness, and inner turmoil. Similarly, Edvard Munch’s The Scream captures the anguish and existential dread he felt during a personal crisis, with its distorted figures and vibrant, almost violent use of color.

The emotional power of art is also influenced by the artist’s unique perspective and experiences. For example, Frida Kahlo’s paintings often depicted her physical and emotional pain, and her works resonate with viewers on a deeply personal level because of her vulnerability. The brushstrokes in her paintings tell a story of resilience and suffering, and the emotion she poured into them continues to inspire those who view her work.

The Viewer’s Emotional Response

While the artist’s emotions are at the heart of the painting, the viewer’s response is equally important. One of the most fascinating aspects of art is its ability to elicit an emotional reaction in the viewer, whether it’s joy, sadness, anger, or nostalgia. This connection between the artwork and the viewer can be immediate or develop over time, with each person bringing their own life experiences, memories, and emotions to the piece.

Some paintings, like The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci or Guernica by Pablo Picasso, create powerful emotional responses due to their historical and cultural significance. Others may resonate with more personal memories and associations, making the emotional experience unique to each viewer. This interaction between the painting and the observer is what gives art its universal yet deeply personal power.

Art as a Catalyst for Change

Beyond individual emotions, art also has the power to stir collective consciousness and inspire change. Political and social movements have often been fueled by art, with artists using their brushstrokes to challenge the status quo, express dissent, or offer a vision of hope. Picasso’s Guernica, for instance, powerfully condemns the horrors of war, while the works of African American artists during the Harlem Renaissance conveyed the emotional complexity of Black identity in America.

Art has the capacity to bring attention to important social issues, evoke empathy, and ignite action. It can serve as a mirror to society, reflecting its values, struggles, and triumphs. In this way, art becomes not only a personal expression of emotion but a catalyst for collective change.

Conclusion

Art, in all its forms, is a powerful and timeless form of emotional expression. Through brushstrokes, colors, and textures, artists communicate complex feelings and experiences that transcend language and connect with the viewer on a deeply emotional level. Whether it’s the artist’s personal emotional journey or the viewer’s response, the relationship between art and emotion is profound. In a world that often feels disconnected and chaotic, art offers a space for reflection, understanding, and connection, reminding us of the shared humanity that binds us all.

[shmowder]

Hii I’m cringe free so here is my self-insert as I don’t have any other pathologic ocs :(

Name: Katerina Katina

Age: 27 years old

Job/Credentials: painter! I imagined she would do portraits for the Kains and the other leading families but can also do paintings for anyone in town

And she would just be an NPC

Katerina was born in the town and has lived her whole life there, though she did want to go to the capital to study in art but unfortunately for her she took too long to decide and ended up married to a guy who wants her to stay so she does

She does like the town and since she feels it’s too late to study art anyways she doesn’t want to leave anymore, maybe she’ll just visit the capital one day

She doesn’t have much friends she just talks to the Stamatins often, she WAS once friends with Vlad Jr. but not anymore (I thought he was just a pathetic kinda guy but nope I do not fuck with racists)

Also friends with Verdell Popov another oc which I hope my partner submits here!

She believes in the Mistresses at least Nina and Victoria still not really sure about Katerina Saburov or both of them for the matter

She does believe the steppe legends as she is friends with Verdell who is from the kin and even enjoys hearing about them

Not sure about authority she tries not to get in trouble and doesn’t really like any of the families especially after doing portraits for many of them

Definitely tries to help the Haruspex the most even if she was scared of The Ripper at first, later she’ll offer him to sleep at her house if he needs and if her district is plagued would give him quests and when he’s done she’ll give him food in exchange

Sorry if the writing is wonky somewhere I’m not good at telling info in English shshdh also I’m including a drawing I made of her in Pathologic 2 dialogue

Yes, a painter! I always wondered where all the ruling families got their portraits from? Especially since the paintings shared a similar style, one which clearly contrasted with Peter's more abstract and fluid works.

She is woven into the story seamlessly, I really like the fact that she has an already repeated name. It makes it just more realistic, yk? It makes sense for the most popular names of the time period to get repeated a bunch in a town this big.

Saburov and Block, Victor and Victoria, it's a small detial but provides a touch of realism. We've all known multiple people who shared the same name throughout our lives.

Her connection to Andrey and Peter does make sense. They're both interested in steppe legends and art. Maybe she did the paintings in the brokenheart pub, too?

I love her blue scarf. I know it's not intentional, but it matches Artemy's blue sweater. Poetic how he's the one she'll willing to help the most, does she believe in his cause and the Termite ending? In destroying the Polyhedron, despite the agony, it will put her two friends–the Stamatins–through?

Including the wedding ring in the art is such a good detail too, her curly/wavy hair is very lovely. God, I wish we could've seen more diverse hairtypes in pathologic.

It is lowkey ironic that she doesn't like to get into trouble yet befriended The Stamatin and used to be friends with Vlad Jr. Honestly, even if she does, she is a little too useful to the ruling families for them not to let her go with a slap on the wrist.

Keeping such a talented painter under their thumb and inside the town? Especially an artist who never went to art school, so she doesn't realise her actual worth or talent. Her only other point of reference is Peter, a literal genius in his field whose talent is beyond comprehension. So much so, Nina had to drag the twins to town no matter the cost.

It's also sad in a way, like a beautiful buttefly who may never see its own colourful wings. Who's trapped inside an artificial greenhouse, never wandering to the lush garden outside, and for love to be the one thing chaining her too? That's just amazing.

Your art is amazing! I can tell a lot about Katerina from the body language alone, the nervous side glance, the tendency to touch her fingers.

The wedding ring being silver rather than gold. Ouch.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him" Is she referring to her husband? Do they fight often? Or someone else entirely.

What a lovely and flushed out OC you have! <33 I'm so happy you told me about her, I can't wait to see your partner's OC as well. It's a unique thing for two OCs to have a slightly intertwined story, to be friends in every universe.

-

unrelated, but I wanted to thank you for the lovely ask you sent before. Encouraging me after the person pretending to be a different anons thing. I never got the chance to reply because the matter was resolved. Still, thank you greatly for your sweet words.