#this will have letters on it later

[marzeydoze]

Made a chicago/trans pride flag for my soccer supporters group (local 134/stars fc) 😃

Bonus: project managers 🐈🐈‍⬛️

[nenoname]

made a rough edit of the mystery shack family with their post series (but pre stan o war 2) looks!!!

[swantranslations]

Miyazaki's Retirement Declarations (chronologically)

Translated from last week's NHK documentary on the production of The Boy and The Heron (more under cut). I saw people posting a screencap of this and I just couldn't contain myself. THIS HAS BEEN GOING ON WAY LONGER THAN I IMAGINED LMFAO

This is from the NHK programme "Professional - Their Working Philosophy" (プロフェッショナル 仕事の流儀) a few days ago (16/12/2023). The episode investigates the production process of The Boy and the Huron, and how the late Takahata Isao influenced the movie.

(It was confirmed within the documentary that Mahito = Miyazaki, Great Uncle = Takahata Isao, The Heron = Suzuki Toshio, Kiriko = Yasuda Michiyo)

The documentary is currently available on the NHK Streaming Service (Location Limited). If you have your own ways of watching and you know Japanese, I would definitely recommend the episode as it gives a lot of much-needed context to The Boy and The Heron. Personally, I haven't found a way to watch it yet, so all I know about the documentary are hearsay I saw on Japanese twitter.

Original screencap:

Also, at the very end of the episode, Miyazaki was shown working on a Naucicaa piece without any explanation, which led to many people speculating whether he could be working on a sequel for Naucicaa of the Valley of the Wind.

What do yall think? Do you think he's going to finally retire or release yet another animated film in a few years? I would love to see Naucicaa 2 but I also feel like he really needs to... yknow, chillax a bit and stuff. He deserves a long ass vacation.

[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)

[frenchphobe]

griddlehark modern pen pal au where they don’t know each other but are assigned as pen pals for those pen pal projects you get in middle school and it just turns into them sending each other hate mail and somehow they just keep going for several years, even though they dont rly have to

[marzipanandminutiae]

Museum Exhibit I'd Like To Curate:

"Never Married; Best Friends- Erasure, Discovery, and the Work of Queer Historians"

(shocker: we're not all straight/cis and we're not all out to erase queer history at every turn. never have been. of course, that doesn't mean queer historians have never been complicit in erasure, for safety reasons or personal bias against another letter of the acronym or what have you. I'd love to explore that- and our contributions to the queer history field -in greater depth)

[astergore]

something something stress desperation and murder

[theanonymousninja247]

Fanart

Just going through my sketchbook + found my very FIRST fanart of ROTTMNT back in 2020. It's fun to see what’s stayed the same (my love for word play) and what’s changed all these years. Here’s to reminiscing the good ole days.

[k-wame]

Emerald Fennel Writer/Director of 'Saltburn' Breaks Down the Arrival Scene from 'Saltburn' for Vanity Fair Magazine via Youtube

[telugu-girl-13]

i love how the chariot race in the sea of monsters represents percy and annabeth's growing friendship through the fact that poseidon and athena worked together to build the chariot

[sadly-never-after]

One of my favourite things to think about is adult Duchess and how unbelievably bittersweet she will feel once she has to stop dancing.

The best and luckiest ballet dancers in the world retire around their early 40s (and that’s only if they are very very lucky), with most of them retiring around their late 20s-early 30s.

She would be the first descendent of the swan princess to find herself unable to dance. She would be the first to undergo the chronic pain and muscle cramps that will lead her to abandon her biggest passion. I can’t help but imagine how, even if it will be painful to abandon the art she has perfected throughout her life, it will also be a symbol of longevity, something that will be hers purely. It’s a medal that tells the world “Look at me! I got my happily ever after!”

[bitesizedpoetry]

Sylvia Plath's "Letter to a demon"

Last night I felt the sensation I have been reading about to no avail in James: the sick, soul-annihilating flux of fear in my blood switching its current to defiant fight. I could not sleep, although tired, and lay feeling my nerves shaved to pain & the groaning inner voice: oh, you can't teach, can't do anything. Can't write, can't think. And I lay under the negative icy flood of denial, thinking that voice was all my own, a part of me, and it must somehow conquer me & leave me with my worst visions: having had the chance to battle it & win day by day, and having failed.

I cannot ignore this murderous self: it is there. I smell it and feel it, but I will not give it my name. I shall shame it. When it says: you shall not sleep, you cannot teach, I shall go on anyway, knocking its nose in. It's biggest weapon is and has been the image of myself as a perfect success: in writing, teaching and living. As soon as I sniff non-success in the form of rejections, puzzled faces in class when I'm blurring a point, or a cold horror in personal relationships, I accuse myself of being a hypocrite, posing as better than I am, and being, at bottom lousy.

I am middling good. And I can live being middling good. I do not have advanced degrees, I do not have books published, I do not have teaching experience. I have a job teaching. I cannot rightly ask myself to be a better teacher than any of those teaching around me with degrees, books published and experience. I can only, from day to day, fight to be a better teacher than I was the day before. If, at the end of a year of hard work, partial failure, partial dogged communication of a poem or a story, I can say I am easier, more confident & a better teacher than I was the first day, I have done enough. I must face this image of myself as good for myself, and not freeze myself into a quivering jelly because I am not Mr. Fisher or Miss Dunn or any of the others.

I have a good self, that loves skies, hills, ideas, tasty meals, bright colors. My demon would murder this self by demanding it be a paragon, and saying it should run away if it is being anything less. I shall doggedly do my best and know it for that, no matter what other people say. I can learn to be a better teacher. But only by painful trial and error. Life is painful trial and error. I instinctively gave myself this job because I knew I needed the confidence it would give me as I needed food: it would be my first active facing of life & responsibility: something thousands of people face every day, with groans, maybe, or with dogged determination, or with joy. But they face it. I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily. If I get through this year, kicking my demon down when it comes up, realising I'll be tired after a days work, and tired after correcting papers, and it's natural tiredness, not something to be ranted about in horror, I'll be able, piece by piece, to face the field of life, instead of running from it the minute it hurts.

The demon would humiliate me: throw me on my knees before the college president, my department chairman, everyone, crying: look at me, miserable, I can't do it. Talking about my fears to others feeds it. I shall show a calm front & fight it in the precincts of my own self, but never give it the social dignity of a public appearance, me running from it, and giving in to it. I'll work in my office roughly from 9 to 5 until I find myself doing better in class. In any case, I'll do something relaxing, different reading, etc. in the evenings. I'll keep myself intact, outside this job, this work. They can't ask more of me than my best, & only I know really where the limits on my best are. I have a choice: to flee from life and ruin myself forever because I can't be perfect right away, without pain & failure, and to face life on my own terms & "make the best of the job.

each day I shall record a dogged step ahead or a marking time in place. The material of reading is something I love. I must learn, slowly, how to best present it, managing class discussion: I must reject the grovelling image of the fearful beast in myself, which is an elaborate escape image, and face, force, days into line. I have an inner fight that won't be conquered by a motto or one night's resolution. My demon of negation will tempt me day by day, and I'll fight it, as something other than my essential self, which I am fighting to save: each day will have something to recommend it: whether the honest delight at watching the quick furred body of a squirrel, or sensing, deeply, the weather and color, or reading and thinking of something in a different light: a good explanation or 5 minutes in class to redeem a bad 45. Minute by minute to fight upward. Out from under that black cloud which would annihilate my whole being with its demand for perfection and measure, not of what I am, but of what I am not. I am what I am, and have written, lived and travelled: I have been worth what I have won, but must work to be worth more. I shall not be more by wishful thinking.

So: a stoic face. A position of irony, of double-vision. My job is serious, important, but nothing is more important than my life and my life in its fullest realized potential: jealousy, envy, desperate wishes to be someone else, someone already successful at teaching, is naive: Mr. Fisher, for all his student-love, has been left by his wife & children; Miss Williams," for all her experience & knowledge, is irrevocably dull. Every one of these people, the divorced Schendler, the unmarried Johnson, has some flaw, some crack, and to be one of them would be to be flawed & cracked in another fashion. I'll shoulder my own crack, work on my James today, Hawthorne for next week & take life with gradual ease, dogged at first, but with more & more joy. My first victory was accepting this job, the second, coming up & plunging into it before my demon could say no, I wasn't good enough, the third, going to class after a night of no sleep & desperation, the fourth, facing my demon last night with Ted & spitting in its eye. I'll work hard on my planning, but work just as hard to build up a rich home life: to get writing again, to get my mind fertilized outside my job.

I shall not, carrion comfort, despair … etc.

No more knuckling under, groaning, moaning: one gets used to pain. This hurts. Not being perfect hurts. Having to bother about work in order to eat & have a house hurts. So what. It's about time. This is the month which ends a quarter of a century for me, lived under the shadow of fear: fear that I would fall short of some abstract perfection: I have often fought, fought & won, not perfection, but an acceptance of myself as having a right to live on my own human, fallible terms.

Attitude is everything. No whining or fainting will get me out of this job & I'd not like to think what would happen to my integral self if it did. I've accepted my first check: I've signed on, and no little girl tactics are going to get me off, nor should they.

To the library. Finish James book, memorize my topics, maybe the squirrel story. Have fun. If I have fun, the class will have fun.

Come home tonight: read lawrence, or write, if possible. That will come too.

Vive le roi, le roi est mort, vive le roi.

From "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath", dated October 1, 1957

[diamondsunbursts-and-marblehalls]

“welcome home”

[menlove]

I just learned about the time that George used an Ouija board to impersonate Paul's dead mother possibly because he was mad that a girl double booked them and then chose Paul and I think. I think we're just going to have to accept that they occasionally did atrocities to each other and it's basically fine because they also loved each other. Like they mostly didn't care that much and when they did their priorities did not align with mine.

YEAH that story kills me like 💀 they were all just a bunch of assholes to each other honestly. they were just occasionally evil to each other and that's okay. at the end of the day they loved each other despite being cunts to each other and that's family for you

[simcardiac-arrested]

never volunteer for anything university related man. also go listen to this

[kortac-sweetheart]

originally thought of Nikto but then thought 👁 Bell (both?? imagine them together. imagine it. oh my god)

I'm a creature of habit, I have the same breakfast almost every morning, have my peculiarities about what goes with what and what's eaten or drank first for what flavor etc etc, always have my little coffees I make at home, etc etc and I can just imagine a lot of the cod guys but especially Bell (or Nikto <3) who has had his identity stripped of him, who has been tortured into being whatever his next handler needs him to be, who has had to completely forget who he is as a person and that he's worth acknowledging as a person not just for what he does, watching, and just kind of admiring how specific things can be, how routine it is out of pure want and leisure rather than stifling sweat and stink and grit and blood

just Bell enjoying seeing how alive and intimate and personal daily life can be, and slowly figuring out what he likes too, his preferred coffee creamer, or maybe tea, or hot chocolate, or plain old milk, just something that's his because he chooses it to be, because he wants it. he's not really doing anything spectacular with it or for it, it's just a little personality for him to enjoy- Simp anon

UWAHHHHHH BEELLLLLLLLLLL

yes i’m also a man of routine too, i always take walks around the same time and i also always get the same sweet treat when i want one.

god, bell who’s almost like a curious child again, constantly asking questions about your routines, why do you like that? why do you do that? learning more and more about you and your routine and in turn learning more about himself as well.

it happens very quickly that he assimilates parts of your day and likes into his as well. he joins you for your walk no matter what, initially he wants to see what you like so much about it but he eventually grows to love it. your single pair of over ear headphones turning into sharing earbuds with him.

(why do you like that song? that band? what’s your favorite? he needs to know, it’s important to him.)

your hand always finds his way into his, swinging along carefree as you walk together. he never questions why you hold hands, or why he’s the one that walks closer to the road— it’s a natural, intrinsic feeling in his gut that he doesn’t have to question at all.

and although it’s a small break in routine, he doesn’t mind at all. learning about what you think about that shop’s pastry and what he thinks of it too. he memorizes whatever review or commentary you have, no matter how small or offhanded it was.

(he personally adores those milk chocolate dipped strawberries you like too. that cake however, a little too sweet for him. and for you too.)

i think you both learn together. he keeps a running log in his mind and you, on paper of what each other likes. it’s love and adoration clear as day, written and held in the palm of your hand. and he thinks his heart flutters.

(is it because you’re making an effort to learn and love him? or was it just due to fate? or maybe a bit of both? the more he thinks about it the warmer he feels— is that normal?)

you always encourage him to form his own opinions on things. always want to hear what he thinks and has to say, especially if it differs from yours. he thought it was odd at first. isn’t he supposed to like what you did?

but you brought it up to him.

“bell, if we liked all the same things, and were the same person—wouldn’t that get a little boring? my own lived experiences shape the person i am today, and that also applies to you too, sweetheart.”

(he likes it when you call him that.)

yeah. if you were like him, then there wouldn’t be anything to learn. and he quite likes learning all he can about you, likes, dislikes, habits, your past, and he shouldn’t deny you of the opportunity to learn about him either— lest he makes you sad.

bell is a well versed scholar in the study of you. he blends seamlessly into the fabric of your life as if he was always meant to be there, by your side.

his cup of milk tea sits besides your cup of coffee in the morning. your sweaters hung neatly besides his in your closet. your favorite flowers in the vase on the table one week, then a bouquet of his in it the next. his hand firmly in yours when you go on your afternoon walks. your favorite dinner prepared by the two of you, piping hot on the center of the table as you eat side by side. his favorite pastry in the same container as yours. and him tightly hugging you in bed at night.

the more bell learns about you, the more he learns about himself, and he never wants to stop learning—ever.