#needs like. a week of thinking.

[tautline-hitch]

trying to frame it up without writing a bad essay but pharsalia chat in the household this week has mostly been about how disorienting (& disoriented) the sea battle is

it starts out clearly enough—battle formation, sequence of events—but then something happens Wrong (Brutus offers his broadside as a trap), and abruptly everything dissolves into this directionless, disjunctive textual melee. the helmsman dies (of course). he can’t be replaced. we’re sliding around in the gore and we don’t know which ship is which or even which way is up: we move from scene to scene without an understanding of their spatial or temporal relation to one another: forward motion fails; it’s unclear where we are or are going. we tread water. corpses stack.* it’s senseless (we lose sense) and pointless (this is, after all, not the battle that matters, as we’ve just been reminded at 297). we’re swimming blind and going nowhere—  

and in the midst of this there are all these things performing the wrong function: stately ships are passive traps; ramming beaks pierce flesh instead of wood; flesh protects shield; grapples sever arteries; the sea is invisible/wood/bodies. drowning men burn to death. these ships are barely ships to begin with (510), and now they’re being stripped apart for improvised weapons: men are destroying the thing that’s keeping them alive. & there are people desperately attempting to assert their correct roles and relations (brother shielding brother; father dying before son; soldier killing enemy), but the whirlpool force of the battle is against them, and even their awful successes feel subverted. the ultimate horror of the unidentifiable corpses on the beach (which restates an image from the sullan proscriptions in book 2, 166, see also 188) muddles roman and massilian so that this too becomes overtly internecine: this is violence built on defective relationships, and though individuals attempt to assert appropriate order, they consistently fail—

and then it's over in a line and a half. a schoolboy summing-up: caesar wouldn't be so openly or grandly self-congratulatory but the echo is there in the terseness, maybe. the victor takes control of the narrative, perhaps, or we're simply invited to consider how all that gore fits into an annalistic line or two.

((*i’ve been struggling to articulate the ways in which this specific stacking-up of corpses feels different from what we get in the Aeneid (etc.); don’t know that i have a handle on it yet, but it does. these are bodies with names, not men with bodies; there’s so rarely anything of their lives in their deaths. probably there's papers on this i should read.))

postscript: jwj has a note about the names in this sequence coming from Aeneid XI, but unless i am just doing a bad job of reading, they…don’t? or at least not directly. Tyrrhenus appears, and Catus is close enough to Catillus—otherwise the sources are elsewhere. it’s still an interesting connect because of the image of the “waves” of cavalry at Aen. 11.625. also because it’s a nice example of how a battle sequence usually works, with a focus on one character or another as they move through or past their series of vignettes—a thread which the sea battle is entirely lacking. there’s a lot of back-and-forth, there, but it never feels stuck. emphasizes for me how intentionally murky and chaotic the sea battle is.

e: i should have checked my line numbers oh my god sorry. take better notes!!

[badolmen]

WARNING 18+

19

[inkoutsidethelines]

Thinking about how I would write an adult Scooby-Doo series, because I think it can be done.

The first thing I’d do is make the characters actually be adults.  Still young, but adults, in the mid to late 20s range.  Mystery Inc. is a private detective type business that they run together.  In this universe, the supernatural/ghosts/etc are real, but not necessarily common, so when they take on a case, the culprit might be a person disguised as a monster, or it might actually be a real ghost.  The stakes can be higher; sometimes a bad guy is legitimately trying to kill them.  Sometimes the mystery they’re trying to solve is a murder.  Sometimes they actually get hurt on their cases.

Fred: the core of Fred’s character should be that he’s incredibly kind.  Like, give a stranger the shirt off his back kind.  The “Fred can’t talk to potential clients because he might take a case for free and we need to eat” kind.  He’s an honest and good person and sometimes gets himself into trouble because he assumes other people are too.  While he’s not very good at reading people or noticing ulterior motives, he’s brilliant when it comes to mechanical or engineering type stuff, so he’s the one who keeps the mystery machine running, builds their gadgets, and of course, designs the traps.

Daphne: she comes from old money, and her parents absolutely despise her life choices, to the point where they haven’t officially disowned her, but they have basically cut her off, so she doesn’t actually have access to any family money.  Growing up wealthy has granted her a variety of skills, including speaking multiple languages, horseback riding, and fencing.  She’s very into fashion and jewelry (even if she can’t afford it anymore) and has extensive knowledge of both that can occasionally provide a vital clue in a case. And even though her parents have cut her off, Daphne still has a wide network of contacts she can ask for favors sometimes, because she’s personable, and people tend to like her.  Daphne is also very emotionally intelligent, and is usually the one who can spot when someone is lying to them.

Side note - I ship Fred and Daphne, so I think I would start them off as an established couple for this universe.  Dating, engaged, married, I don’t care.  They are stupidly in love, ride or die for each other.  There’s no will they, won’t they, no worries about cheating.  They are in a healthy, happy, loving relationship, and no one (not even Daphne’s disapproving parents) are going to mess that up for them.

Velma: she is the forensics nerd who sometimes gets super excited about the wrong thing at the wrong time (”He was mummified in seconds? That’s so cool!” “Velma!  His wife is standing right there!” “Oh.  Sorry.”).  She’s not purposely insensitive, she just gets laser focused on her work and forgets to filter herself sometimes.  She’s also the one who can get so fixated on solving whatever mystery they’re working on, she’s willing to bend or maybe break laws.  Is breaking and entering really so bad?  Not if it gets them answers.

Shaggy: he is still the comic relief, but he’s the comic relief by being the only person in the group that actually has common sense.  He manages the business’s finances, he’s the only one who knows how to cook, and the others tease him for being a coward sometimes, but Shaggy maintains that if a ghost with an axe is coming for you, running is the only sensible option.  He should also have a range of random knowledge that sounds useless, but sometimes saves the day (ex ventriloquism, origami, the history of spoons, etc).

Scooby: as this is a universe where supernatural creatures exist, Scooby is an ancient eldritch type being that took a shine to Shaggy when he was a kid, and took the form of a talking dog to befriend and hang out with him.  Aside from the talking dog bit and not aging, he never uses his powers in a way that anyone notices.  The audience is not told upfront that Scooby is an ancient eldritch being; it should slowly be hinted at throughout the series so the audience put it together, but the characters never realize it.  Scooby genuinely considers Shaggy to be his best friend, and cares about the rest of the gang too.

[chloesimaginationthings]

The Mikes and Vanessas celebrate 10 years of FNAF!

[forgettable-au]

PROLOGUE

FORGETTABLE-AU (Page 1-9)

AND SO IT BEGINS!

I don't think I can fit all 20 pages of the prologue in just one post, so I'm dividing it into 4 posts! This one's the longest...

[CONTINUE]

[kokoinupi]

also add in the tags if you want how your tolerance has changed over time!

[inkskinned]

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

...Turns out gay sex actually was the solution.

(This is basically a redraw, come read the real deal over at Tiger Tiger)

[siren-of-agony]

Answers to "it hurts"

I know (apologetically)

I know (condescendingly)

It's supposed to

Good

I'm sorry

It'll be over soon

Stop whining

And it'll get worse if you don't *insert threat*

Well it wouldn't have to if you didn't *insert mistake*

You're supposed to say 'thank you'

I love hearing you say that

This is nothing, I'll show you actual pain

Get used to it

You'll get used to it

Stop lying

At least you still feel it

Shut up

Why don't you beg me to stop, then?

Can't be that bad if you're still talking

I don't care

Did I ask?

It's the only way you'll learn

You can take it

Answers to "please stop"

[jalo-parker]

I had a vision

It's like he has little antenna... Thank you grian for choosing that armor trim it was a wonderful decision

[emo-batboy]

A Wild Battinson (Social Media AU)

Part 43 (Masterlist)

(Part 44)

Me, to myself: I just think the series was better when I posted several times a week because the pacing felt more natural, and it translates better when people binge it.

Also Me, holding two jobs and a bat: If you try to post once a day again, I will disconnect your head from your shoulders—

@bruciemilf guess who’s back

Anyways, folks! :D So I'm thinking of a new upload schedule where I spend a bit preparing the next ten or so parts then post it all in two weeks? I think that would be fun (and much better for my creative process.)

I’ll be posting the next part very soon :) But it's going to be drastically different from what I've done before. Let’s see if anyone can guess why.

Yada yada don’t die LOVE Y’ALL

[egophiliac]

lostinthebookwithstitch.jpg

this is all I can muster right now, too busy having my brain absolutely melted by the September schedule, what is happening

[fremulon]

proportionally, to a 6000-year-old, 4 years is about the equivalent of 12 days to a 50-year-old

they had (what felt like) 12 days of freedom

[vaguely-concerned]

the fact that irving canonically survives through the end of asunder to be at wynne's funeral is so fucking funny to me. nothing but love and respect for MY unstoppable cockroach morally grey machiavellian mage dad!!! he's survived in his position through multiple attempted rites of annulment and blood mage plots popping up left right and center around him. the chantry keeps trying to stamp him out but his dodge game is simply out of this world, divine. civil wars, political machinations and minefields, chantry atrocities, this wily old motherfucker is dodging and weaving his way through it all, not-quite-no-hits-taken-running-it-but-honestly-close-enough-under-the-circumstances style. if solas does succeed in tearing down the veil I would fully believe that one of the like three people still alive at the end of it all would be a very weary 90 year old first enchanter irving going 'oh this shit again huh'. the maker has cursed him for his hubris and his paperwork is never finished (affectionate, it's fine he canonically loves paperwork)

[chloesimaginationthings]

Jeremiah and Mike’s first conversation in FNAF 2

[kayleerowena]

new random haunted house generator just dropped!

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