#nostalgia eulogy post

[the-most-humble-blog]

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You had a planner and a permission slip. They had spandex, Zords, and rage.

They didn’t ask for mental health days. They asked, “Which monster dies first?”

Reblog if you know the Rangers didn’t get credit — they got trauma in a helmet.

Scroll if you think saving the world requires a license.

📜 Read the full nostalgic funeral scrolltrap and thank the teens who did parkour on Satan’s interns before homeroom: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

🛡️ This post is 90s child soldier appreciation, cosmic martial myth, and legal satire protected by scrolltrap immunity. ⚡ It is morphed. It is armed. It is archived in your bones.

This post made Zordon nod in approval.

🛐 THEY WERE JUST TEENAGERS — AND THEY SAVED YOUR SORRY PLANET (A Blacksite Eulogy for the Original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers)

While you were crying over your overpriced Panera sandwich, while your parents were arguing about grass-fed artisanal pork, there were teenagers out there throwing hands with cosmic death witches.

Not grown men. Not Marines. Not government agents.

Teenagers. With SAT prep books in one hand and power coins in the other.

And they didn’t ask for permission. They didn’t file complaints. They didn’t demand safe spaces.

They got summoned to an interdimensional command center — and signed up for war in f*cking color-coded armor.

🛑 NO ONE GIVES THEM ENOUGH RESPECT

They weren’t trained assassins. They weren’t getting hazard pay. Half of them probably still had algebra homework they weren’t going to finish.

And yet —

While you and your emotional support latte were arguing about pronouns, they were out there spin-kicking mud zombies in the throat.

No Kevlar. No congressional backup. No antidepressants.

Just teenage testosterone, spandex, and enough inner rage to crater a moon.

💀 THE ENEMY ROSTER:

Rita Repulsa: Cosmic Witch Aunt with evil goals, a questionable skincare routine, and a vocal fry that could sterilize a goat.

Goldar: A winged ape covered in gold armor who sounded like he gargled motor oil every morning. (Respect. Goldar was a beast.)

Putties (or "Puddies" — who gives a shit): Literal clay zombies who showed up to every fight like crash test dummies with ADHD.

And how did the Rangers treat them?

Like discount punching bags.

Spin kicks. Flying knees. Dropkicks to the throat. They didn’t even need a full morph sometimes — just boots and bad attitudes.

🧠 YOU THINK YOUR FINAL EXAMS WERE HARD?

Try being 16 years old and having:

Zords to pilot

Death beams to dodge

Homework still due by Monday

And if you failed?

You didn’t just get a bad grade. You got vaporized by a space tyrant.

🛡️ NO COMMITTEE HEARINGS. NO PITY PARTIES.

They didn’t sue Rita. They didn’t file grievance reports with Zordon.

They threw hands. They flipped over concrete. They somersaulted over explosions that would liquefy most Instagram influencers.

They woke up, morphed up, and chose violence.

And they did it without adult supervision.

Because guess what? The adults weren’t going to save sh*t.

🧠 TL;DR

They didn’t have backup.

They didn’t get applause.

They didn’t have TikTok therapists dissecting their trauma.

They had helmets, flips, and fists.

You owe your 90s childhood to five high schoolers who said yes to the ugliest job offer in galactic history — and threw hands until the cosmos learned their names.

💣 CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog if you know the Rangers deserved hazard pay and a pension by 18 🦖 Save this if you ever wanted to Falcon-punch a Putty like it owed you lunch money 🛡️ Send it to the friend who still does roundhouse kicks when no one’s looking 🔥 Bookmark it if you know Zordon’s draft was the last time teenagers were built properly

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is Blacksite Literature™, mythological reconstruction, nostalgic rage therapy, and 90s child soldier appreciation protected under literary satire and cosmic battle doctrine.

If you’re offended: Go put on your training wheels and cry about it. The Rangers were out fighting moon demons while you were still asking your mom if you could watch PG-13 movies.

🛡️ BLACKSITE LOYALTY DRILL™

🛐 BLACKSITE CHALLENGE: “WOULD YOU HAVE MORPHED?”

Ask yourself:

When Zordon called, when Rita dropped monsters on your city, when your best defense was a dinosaur robot and a helmet:

Would you have fought? Or would you have begged for safe zones and vegan concessions?

🔥 Reblog if you know you would’ve thrown a backflip into the void ⚡ Save if you would’ve swung fists before filing complaints 📡 DM it to someone who forgot teenagers used to be dangerous

🛐

[3kockeleda]

America is Dead, Long live the Oligarchy!

Oh, I can already hear the chorus of outraged patriots clutching their flags and gasping for air, wondering how on earth I have the audacity to say it out loud. But let’s be honest here—America died a very public, very embarrassing death, and we all watched it happen. It was sentenced to death at 1 AM on November 5th, 2024, beheaded at noon on January 20th, 2025, and, in a spectacle fitting for the end of a grand empire, the victors danced around its lifeless corpse on January 21st, mocking it in perfect synchrony.

Now, before you start shaking your head at the “insanity” or “cynicism” of that statement, take a nice, long look around. Everything we once believed in—democracy, freedom, the pursuit of happiness—has been carted off to the highest bidder. Billionaires decided that profit was worth more than human life, and somehow, the rest of us naïve peasants stood around and let them do it. Isn’t that just adorable?

I’ll spare you the poetic eulogies and patriotic tears because, quite frankly, they’re wasted on a corpse that’s no longer even warm. The world we cared for, the world we tried to save for our children, has been neatly packaged and sold off to the oligarchs who’ve gleefully hung a “Welcome to our Empire” banner on the front door. We’re living in a reality where democracy is now a quaint idea you might reminisce about in your next social media post—assuming you haven’t already had your account banned for daring to be “disruptive.”

But don’t worry, it’s not just America that got the axe; the entire world’s on this same unsteady track. Everywhere you look, the crumbling veneer of “for the people” has chipped away, revealing the real puppet masters tugging at our strings. They exploit our hopes, our fears, our addictions—whatever it takes to keep us clicking, swiping, and spending, until we’re all too exhausted to care.

And the best part? When we finally figure out that the people no longer hold the power—that we’re essentially serfs in a digital feudal system—maybe then we’ll realize there’s no profit when there are no longer people. Imagine that: you spend all this time building an empire, only to discover your empire is worthless without the very consumers you’ve systematically drained of resources.

So here we are, rummaging through the ruins of a once-idealized nation, a once-idealized world, trying to piece together some shred of dignity. Frankly, it’s laughable—if it weren’t so tragic. Our leaders have effectively sold our future for pocket change, and we’re left with rigged systems and hollow speeches. It’s as though we’re the star attraction in an absurd play where the final act is a funeral dirge for the idea of freedom itself.

But please, don’t get sentimental. There’s no room for nostalgia when the victors are busy dancing on the corpse, flinging confetti made of shredded constitutions and worthless promises. They’re having a grand old time, and who can blame them? They got exactly what they wanted: unchecked power, obscene wealth, and a global stage to flaunt it on.

In a world that has been murdered for profit, I suppose the only solace we can take is that maybe, just maybe, when everything collapses, the oligarchs won’t have anyone left to exploit. But hey, I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for that day to come—these folks are terrifyingly resourceful when it comes to sustaining their blood-sucking empires.

So, rest in pieces, America. I’m sure the oligarchs will give you a lovely eulogy at your unceremonious funeral—if they can pause their celebratory jig long enough to deliver it. As for the rest of us? Well, we’ll be here, wondering what could have been, had we not welcomed the power-hungry elite with open arms. Maybe in the next world, we’ll do better. Or maybe we’ll just dance along, too. Who knows? After all, it’s much easier to join the mocking victors than to stand against them.

[everygame]

The Internet Is Dead. Plant Flowers In The Corpse.

The Internet is dead.

This is not a eulogy, but an acknowledgement. An acknowledgement that what I’ve come to accept the internet to be is dead. An acceptance that in the name of ease, I’ve absorbed myself into a corporatised space that is at this point not simply eating itself but eating me, us and everything that we create.

And I think: fuck it.

In 2023, when I started publishing exp. again in print, I was, I think, trying to close my eyes to it. I liked–and I still like, I love–the purity of print, the focus. I still want to make things and put them into the world. But I also just love writing, and sharing it. For a long time, I’ve relied on existing sites for my work–be that big platforms or outlets, but of course what happens is they pivot, they get sold, they get erased. And it can feel like we’re always searching for a settled high ground–Bluesky feels great now, but is it just a little rocky outcroppings in poisoned sea, bound to erode or be subsumed?

At the end of 2024 I published Every Game I’ve Finished 14>24, which I think works as a nice culmination of my last decade of writing. But as I’m not going to stop, it seems necessary in our new dead internet to do something that I’ve been meaning to do for ages, which is plant and cultivate my own space properly and invite you to visit it. Not just hope that you’ll see something I’ve posted as you scroll, but offer something that you can actually choose to engage with. Where my writing finally stays, where you can properly search and explore it, where I can expand beyond what I’ve been doing if I like.

It's here: https://www.expzine.com.

I think there’s a danger of nostalgia here, some sort of limiting call back to the idea that you’d, like, log on the internet and type “https://www.expzine.com” in every morning after you’ve read the three or four webcomics you keep up on (wow, Superosity is still going!) but I think that’s why I’ve become enamoured with the mindset of POSSE–Publish On (your) Site, Share Everywhere–and using it to its fullest. So I’m going to be posting here, then spreading this to every part of the stupid corporatised internet I can be fucking bothered with. Let decay feed growth.

To support that, I have (sorry) started a new Patreon with refreshed tiers to accompany my currently existing Ko-fi that has been supporting the continuation of my writing and publication of my zines and books. Unfortunately, Ko-fi’s tools aren’t robust enough, so this seems to be the simplest way to offer new articles to supporters on this site first, so if you aren’t already a supporter, please check it out. 

(Something worth emphasising I’ve continued to set the lowest tier at just $1 a month–so it’s as little as $12 to support the only* video game criticism website on the internet)

*as far as I'm concerned

If you are already a Ko-fi supporter: you don’t have to do anything. You can continue to support me on Ko-fi and I’ll be sharing articles–in full–over there a week early as usual. But if you’d like to move over to Patreon, I’ll be sending you a free month of the tier your current donation is equivalent to, so you don’t feel like if you want to switch over you’re being double charged or anything.

If you don’t want to support, that’s fine! You could just sign up for the newsletter, which is going to remain free and collate the posts of the week plus some extra waffle. Probably, I haven’t really planned them yet.

If you just want to continue reading on tumblr: That's also fine! I'm just going to continue posting articles here too. POSSE, baby!

And if you don’t want to do any of that, I’m not entirely sure why you’ve read this far. But the point stands: if you don’t like our dead internet, grow your own.

[ginghamrose]

hii I was trying to watch Bojack but loss interest when s2 started idk why!!! this was like. awhile ago. I saw your post- is it worth it to keep powering thru/should I give it another chance people LOVE this show

In my opinion you should power through! Bojack is my Netflix original fave so obviously I super love it ahsbdhdnd, further into the series they also experiment with the episode formatting (an eulogy for an entire episode, same story told throughout 3 different times but runs organically, a listicle,....) and it's also fun to know that s5 is a just a giant middle finger to Harvey Weinstein. And every character arc gets a nice finish.

I'm a huge fan of well written characters like this is definitely the type of story where the characters carry the story.

I watched it the first time when s5 was announced so when I was like 16-17ish so it might also be partly nostalgia. 😅 But it helped me learn to understand a lot of life, relationships, boundaries, emotions, how things don't turn out as u initially thought but that doesn't mean u can compromise/find another way,.... And also there are so many quotes that live in my mind rent-free, like "it gets easier. But you have to do it every day that's the hard part" or the one about drowning.

The complaint I hear about this show is how that it's "overwritten"/"riddled with exposition" but imo it makes sense bc it's mainly about the emotions and the actions some characters did (mainly Bojack) and how this affected them. There's one scene in particular where Bojack had to list all the bad things he done and there's this little "background gag" where 2 characters wrote in different colors how they affected them. Like actions have consequences, the past is still haunting them but they work through and I think that's admirable: to come to terms to what happened, what you done, what you get out of it and how you're gonna move forward.

Like I can just go on about this show, if u decide to power through let me know! I would love to hear ur opinion on it bc I literally can go on about this show for sooooooooooo long. Thank you for asking ♥️‼️

[ntriani]

OQM Playlist : Life during quarantine #8

Ian Curtis by Karstein Volle Nick Triani presents another quarantine playlist while looking back at his own experience with the band Joy Division and their singer Ian Curtis, who died 40 years ago this week Covid-19 has more than any recent time given a new perspective of our pasts, a new way of appreciating what has come before in freer times. 40 years is a long time in anyone’s life. For me it’s that long since I fully immersed myself into post-punk and a counter culture that remains all consuming. My professional and personal careers have entwined – I’ve been in a position where my main interest in life, music, has also been my main vocation. That sure is privileged, but counter to this I certainly don’t take being ‘in’ music for granted and never will. It’s a fickle passion for sure and my own ups and downs have taught me much.

1980 marks an extra special coming of age for me personally. The signs were there earlier of course. By the time I was 13 in 1979, I’d met a bunch of like-minded souls in the school playground. Fans of John Peel, Two Tone Records, The Jam, the music weeklies and punk culture in general. We would all go on to form bands and play music together. We had one thing in common, we were different from other kids – we were non-conformists, weird and quirky, opinions formed by the music we revelled in.

It was a time when the musical obsession got deeper and more relevant to my own teenage experience. This bout of personal nostalgia for events long gone is brought on by the almost universal media coverage of the 40th anniversary of Ian Curtis‘s death, which was everywhere this past Monday (May 18th 2020). It felt strange to witness to be honest and highlighted what a commercial endeavor Joy Divisionhave become over the years, confirmed in recent times with duvet covers and Converse trainers adorned with their Unknown Pleasures album artwork. Through all the eulogies and critical consensus the Joy Division story has accrued over time there has been an element of that storytelling normalising Joy Division and Curtis.

It’s not really how I remember it as a 14-year-old looking for answers in my bedroom all those years ago. Curtis’ lyrics certainly fuelled my teen angst with tales of the macabre or of a dystopian Thatcher-inspired British landscape. But more tellingly Curtis’ lyrics always deflected back to his own personal struggles. This personal lyrical perspective cut through the unconventional sound of the band and to some degree humanized the Joy Division experience.

Joy Division were genuinely strange sounding – like nothing that came before or since. No one had written lyrics like Curtis, so bleak and dark yet so prescient. But even more, producer Martin Hannett managed to reinvent a sound with the basic three piece ingredients of rock n roll; drums, bass and guitar. No reinvention of those basic elements has been so startling or effective since.

Joy Division’s music is cold and can be hard work in its most daring experiments. Hannett is no stranger to visiting the finite no-go areas of the effect palette. Align the unconventional production to Stephen Morris‘s original, yet unusual drum patterns, Peter Hook‘s unique bass strumming and Bernard Sumner‘s opaque guitar shapes and Joy Division sound alien at core. You only have to hear the effects Hannett would adorn Curtis’ voice with, that voice would suffer from a use of obfuscate effects, which merely made the listener dig deeper to engage and connect whilst similarly being held at arm’s length. In most cases, Joy Division’s music is considerably uncommercial and abnormal; this is music that asks a lot of the listener.

There was also the sense of mystery surrounding the band. The lack of credits, the elegiac and beautiful artwork designs of Peter Saville that perfectly complemented the music. Kevin Cummins original iconic monochrome photography, which accentuated the 1940s charity store attire the band sported.  No one else dressed like this at the time. Reading Paul Morley‘s deep analysis of the band back in the day embellished what would become the mythical, but also, thankfully, failed to reveal too much. However much the past 40 years has stripped away at the heart of Joy Division, the music has withstood scrutiny. The music remains unaffected and still frozen in some ‘all future music will sound like this one day’ bubble. You can try and convince everyone that it was four young daft lads from Salford making this strange music, but you still can’t shatter that veneer of weirdness that Joy Division’s music delivers.

Closer was the album I indulged with the most in 1980 – a record that remains strangely dignified to the events surrounding its release. Like any of the previous Joy Division releases, Closer represented another step forward and evolution in sound – but this time with an extra layer of dark, personal insight, combined with the added benefit of a heavy hindsight. I got lost in this album.

Joy Division are an antithesis of the 2020 know-all and reveal-all of popular culture. Acknowledging this merely enhances a feeling of cognitive dissonance of how the band have been embraced by a mainstream audience. This week people were personalizing their own experiences with Joy Division lyrics on social media. I’ve also seen a man wearing a Joy Division t-shirt in my local supermarket in Helsinki. Tragedy creates special intrigue and draws people in. For me Joy Division represent that point in time where we got a new dose of cultural weirdness, a cold abstract and beautiful thing representing something we’d never really considered before: dissociative popular music that goes to the dark heart of who we really are.

[carlepalumbo]

Peach Bouquet Flowers as a Sympathy Gesture: Offering Comfort and Serenity in Times of Grief

Losing a loved one leaves behind unbearable pain. While words seem inadequate to share grievances in bereaved families, floral condolences communicate silent support beautifully. This is where gorgeous peach colored flower arrangements serve as ideal sympathy bouquets that soothe the suffering, promote hope and convey heartening compassion gracefully to near ones.

Let us deeply explore how thoughtfully created peach blossom bouquets deliver comfort, hope and togetherness effectively while easing emotional wounds post life altering personal losses or bereavements.

The Soothing Strength of Peach Hues:

Just like the fruit, florals in peach tones beautifully balance delicateness with underlying resilience - reflecting the fragility of loss along courage silently. Their mild sweet scent reminiscent of blossoming orchards conveys tenderness tailormade to comfort grieving minds. Peach shades pleasing the eye without being overly bright emanates a certain warmth that feels rejuvenating.

When crafted into sprays, wreaths or heart structures using roses, carnations, Chrysanthemums etc - peach blooms emit a rare tranquilizing aura that reassures people inwardly - inspiring them to gather strength from their intrinsic love even while coming to terms with the sorrow. The positive vibrations substitute gloominess effectively.

Symbolizing Immortal Hope:

Mythology depicts the peach fruit granting immortality for souls in the afterlife based on its nourishing properties. As funeral flowers, soft layered peach blooms reinforce continuity of life philosophies that keep lost beloved ones immortal in memories if not in person for families experiencing emotional upheavals post personal loss.

The dried fruit served in ancient practices seeking longevity holds relevance even now. Peach floral hues blend beautifully into standing sprays, next to memorial images signifying the eternal spirit of dear departed ones guiding bereaved hearts perpetually.

Unspoken Words Captured Tacitly Through Shades:

For times when sentences fail conveying compassion aptly to beloved ones facing severe trials, custom peach blossom petals speak tacitly yet convincingly uplifting distressed spirits. Their warm tones effortlessly transmit silent empathy, solidarity and strength fittingly.

Peach bouquet flowers adorned tabletop condolences or pure peach-white mixed standing tributes require no additional formal notes. Their graceful sensitivity conveys heartening messages subconsciously – sometimes much more strongly than written eulogies or acknowledgements can articulate visibly.

Catering To Diverse Sentiments and Preferences:

While some prefer understated dignity as suitable condolence etiquette, certain communities celebrate departed souls through lively group memoirs or bright symbolic colors.

Custom made peach floral arrangements cater beautifully across personal sentiments through versatility in incorporations. Those seeking subtle yet meaningful signatures prefer simple peach rose posies or mini calla bouquets placed discretely. For uplifting ceremonial memorials, combine peach shades within assortments of whites, pastels or accenting carnations for diverse representations aligning to family values gracefully.

Matching Fond Memories and Nostalgia:

We often associate certain colors, textures, areas etc strongly with our fondest memories around loved ones departed. Recreating specific flower combinations reminiscing their favorite blooms, crafting photo embedded wreaths against backdrops of sorely missed healing nature spots or specialty mementos reflecting meaningful hobbies make condolence gifts incredibly special.

For instance, style pretty peach gerberas into ikebana vases matching late grandma's interests symbolic of her Japanese origins. Customize creativity blends conjuring personal aspects for immortalizing positivity and overcoming grief positively.

A Note of Grace and Growth:

To conclude, peach flower bouquets deliver comfort and resilience for tragic personal losses gently yet effectively. Their warm, subtly energizing radiance promises enclosing arms with the right degrees of sensitivity mindful of emotional fragilities in grieving situations.

As funeral sprays, memorial wreaths or condoling keepsakes, peach blossom arrangements channel silent strength when mere words appear inexpressive for devastated families. Their elegant grace lionizes life philosophies and teachings by departed role models that survivors uphold as inspirational reefs guiding them ahead transparently even in tearful moments.

[bxngthedoldrums]

a petekey reading of so much (for) stardust

aka you knew i'd do this aka i didnt take four literature classes in college for nothing aka make sure your tinfoil hat is SECURED to your noggin aka dear lord forgive me for committing sins of petekey in the year of 2023

look. i have to do this or i don't deserve this blog. amen

~ love from the other side

okay. yea, immediately the "you were the sunshine of my lifetime" thing is sort of sus, because we all know pete wentz and anytime sun or summer is involved it's Something. this is solidified in "summer falling through our fingers again" in verse 2, but it's interesting that he uses "ours" in this lyric bc i feel like recently most of pete's summer lyrics have been pretty self-inflicted. it's impossible to not note the whole "inscribed like stone and faded by the rain" in the bridge v. "the tombstones were waiting" line in bang the doldrums. i shant even elaborate u can pick up what i'm laying down!

~ heartbreak feels so good

i think this song is pretty light on petekey imagery but "light from a screen of messages unsent" kinda reminds me of "some nights it gets so bad i almost pick up the phone" in ginasfs but i could be reaching for Sure. let's be real that's all i do

~ hold me like a grudge

honestly i think this is one of the worst petekey offenders on the album. this one had me gawking at my screen as i read the lyrics. "thaw out my freezer burn feelings for twenty summers" ??? be SERIOUS pete... "part-time soulmate, full-time problem" yeah I GET IT I GET IT !!! the whole thing reeks of 2005 summertime fling

~ fake out

"do you laugh about me whenever i leave?" bonkers ass line,,this reminds me of pete's lj writing in those years after 2005,,,"my mood board is just pictures of you, but i'm not sad anymore" YEAH. this is SO pete holy fuck. that classic wentz obsession,,"we did for futures that never came and for pasts that we're never gonna change" this line's got me on the fuckin FLOOR. also classic pete!!! his perchance for nostalgia is just insane and he really feels it huh

~ heaven, iowa

i dont even know how to get into this one. "kiss my cheek, baby, please/would you read my eulogy?" SICK and TWISTED evil!!! evil!!! "i will never ask you for anything except to dream sweet of me" jesus h christ the melancholy is off the charts but holy fuck this song is so,,,tender? i dont know wht to say but i know this was written w summer of love intention. i know this in my heart. "scar-crossed lovers, forever" OKAY I KNOW !!! this song is DEVASTATING verse 2 is fucked UP and the bridge is too!!! "closed my eyes inside your darkness and found your glow"???? i cantr og on

~ so good right now

i can't really discern any particularly petekey lyrics in this one right away but the whole "i cut myself down to be whatever you need me to be" is pretty fucking wild

~ i am my own muse

there's some really sad lyrics in this one ab the whole future-not-going-as-planned thing that comes up so frequently in pete's writing but honestly the whole "let's twist the knife again, twist the knife again like we did last summer" thing made my head explode. every lover's got a lil dagger in their hands!!!

~ flu game

im not gonna sit here and type out ths whole fucking song but oh my GOD bro. this song to me is a really nice callback to pete's older style of lyricism but that comes with the self-deprecation and all the other really sad shit. it's beautiful! it's horrible! i love it!!! its about mikey i cant even pul out a few lyrics just LISTEN

~ baby annihilation

another fucked up one that literally anyone else in fob should have vetoed but OKAY?? "time is luck and i wish ours overlapped more or for longer" MAN SHUT UP. "self sabotage at best, under your spell/but you know what they say, if you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself" ..........dude. if you're like me and you've poured over pete's oooold lj posts from the mid 2000s you already get it, but if you havent,,,go do it and get back to me bc this is TOO MUHC im unwell. "what is there between us if not a little annihilation?" i think i hauve covid

~ the kintsugi kid (ten years)

this song is really fucking sad actually. there's so much fear of being forgotten on this album and it's showcased really beautifully in this song,,,mayhaps not the most obviously petekey song but god damn

~ what a time to be alive

this song's about covid and quarantine n it's pretty easy on the whole suffering from a fling in 2005 thing! good job pete and fob

~ so much (for) stardust

this song is kinda suspicious but there's very few lines that really solidify it as a petekey song,,, altho "i think i've been going through it, and ive been putting your name through it" is a really interesting lyric. and OF COURSE, "in another life, you were my babe/in another life, you were the sunshine of my lifetime" happy xmas war is over

[real-jane]

nftn (bonus): birds

(bucky barnes x female!reader, shield) (sam wilson x clint barton)

summary: sam's anxiety over accepting the shield comes to a fever pitch, and the people who love him remind him what he deserves.

warnings: none

word count: 3,168

a/n: the sixth companion piece to nftn! i love sam so much, and he deserved his own little pep talk after all the support he's given our favs thus far. enjoy! :)

series masterlist

Happiness on Bucky looked like nostalgia, especially after breaking through his fog. Outward wistfulness was just as foreign to his form as the scruff which appeared in the new year, but he spent as much time recounting to anyone who would listen how grateful he was for the beauty in his everyday life as he spent scratching his jaw in bafflement. Bucky was content to move about his business through the compound as if his work was secondary to the goodness of his personal life.

But something was going on. Try as he might, Sam couldn’t figure out what it was. Bucky took an alarming number of photos of himself, suddenly, and he had requested the password to his Instagram from Sam. He would sit down across from Sam for coffee, sweaty from his run with his wife, and open his camera… and post the first grimacing photo, with no caption.

Stranger still, was how you’d comment. Every day for three weeks, you had typed simply… “not yet.” One morning, though… beside your username (dollbarnes), beneath Bucky’s morning photo, was an emoji. 🎾. A tennis ball.

“What’s your opinion on opera—you good, Sammy?” Clint stopped mid-stride into the kitchen, where Sam Wilson was standing stock-still in front of the stove, staring at his phone. Hawkeye came around the island and peered over his shoulder in concern.

“He seems to have gotten a handle on selfies,” Clint chuckled. Sam hummed as the man squeezed his shoulder. Clint liberated the lost stirring utensil from the Falcon’s other hand, and bumped his hip. “What do you have against these poor eggs?” He tried and failed to save the pot of burnt breakfast. Sam waved distantly. He pointed at his screen.

“This man really posts an up-the-nose shot every damn morning.” Sam flicked his thumb to show Bucky’s profile–square after square of identical photos covered the feed.

“What’s your verdict?”

“He looks like a werewolf.”

“No,” Clint laughed. “On opera?”

“Indifferent. He doesn’t play tennis…”

“Do you have a suit that isn’t meant for a funeral?” Clint dumped the contents of the pot into the garbage.

Sam frowned. “What’s wrong with my suit?”

“You look like you’re about to give a eulogy in it.”

“I’ve given several–”

“Well, we’ve got tickets tomorrow for Le comte Ory.”

“Oh this is a wardrobe question, not a casual inquiry. This is like when you asked me if I have comfortable fancy shoes, and I got wrangled into a salsa class. Barton, I am starting to think that you see me as some kind of uncultured guy–”

“Maybe I like how excited you get when you enjoy something, to which you were heretofore indifferent.” Clint raised an eyebrow, daring Sam to counter with anything, but he just coughed and scratched his cheek while a faint blush rose in his cheeks. “You could wear your uniform, but I won’t claim responsibility for my actions if you do.”

“Clint–”

“No, I know that look.”

Sam looked away, but Clint stepped closer. Even as Sam folded his arms, guarding his emotions by cupping one hand over his lips, he leaned into Barton’s shoulder. Clint nudged him. “Burning eggs is a sign. What’s going on?”

“A sign?”

“You get distracted and grumpy when you’re worried.”

“I–jesus.” Sam laughed in exasperation. “I’m not grumpy.”

“No?” Clint pried Sam’s fingers from his chin and handed him a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Want to help me save breakfast?”

Clint didn’t wait for Sam to answer. In fact, he didn’t count on Sam to help at all; the blonde anchored the whole process of remaking the eggs around his brooding partner, nudging his thigh so he’d move to access the mixing bowls, tugging his elbow so he’d clear the cooking utensils, pushing him to the end of the island so he could hold open the fridge… Clint positioned Sam directly in his way for whatever his next task was about to be. Sam had called him out for it once, and all Clint had to say about it was you are my way, and then he had flushed in a way that generally unflappable Hawkeye didn’t, so Sam had left it there. Now, he did it whenever Sam needed a moment to formulate whatever he was trying to say, to get him out of his head. Sam reached for Clint’s wrist as he tried to move him along to the stove.

His gaze flicked up to those blue eyes, and he said what it was which choked him.

“Steve’s retiring.”

Clint slid his hand into Sam’s and squeezed. “It’s about time.”

“Well, he… he wants me to take the shield, and I’m…”

“Freaking out.” The corner of Clint’s mouth turned up when Sam nodded. “Yeah… it’s not really a secret, he’s been talking about wanting to get out for a while. He told me you said ‘no.’”

Sam frowned. “I don’t know how I feel about him telling you that.”

“He thought you’d want some support to process it. Considering that you are angry at Bucky’s instagram, I’m assuming you haven’t asked him his opinion, either.”

“Yeah, well. He’s busy playing tennis.”

“It’s about the beard,” Clint laughed. “It’s long enough now that it’s probably soft like the fuzz on a tennis ball.”

Sam stared at him. “My guy posts photos to his public instagram so his wife can tell him whether or not his beard is long enough?”

“You give him so much shit about not using his phone properly–”

“They are never apart–”

“And he does, and he’s still not doing it the way you want.”

“--so why does he need to post his dumb face?”

“You’re worried what he’s gonna think.”

“No,” Sam sighed. “I’m–he’ll be supportive. I think. But…” He stopped. He released Clint’s fingers and rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m not the guy, Clint. The Guy. That’s not me. I’m the… the last person who should carry that shield, I’m the one you call when you need an eye in the sky, but Cap is an institution. Nobody’s gonna believe my ass–”

“Bullshit,” Clint breathed, shaking his head slowly. “You done?”

Sam crossed his arms. “I’m trying to be realistic,” he said, but Hawkeye wasn’t having it.

“No, you’re running. Which, you’re spectacular at, and I’d like you to stop.” Clint smacked his shoulder with the spatula. “You do everything Steve does, you said so yourself. Without the advantage of super-serum, might I add, which makes it twice as impressive that you can catch that stupid shield out of mid-air. I’ve already elaborated on what that does to me,” he added lowly, causing Sam to remember the evening he had discovered that Clint loved Marvin Gaye as much as he did, after an assignment which had seen Sam and Steve tossing the shield back and forth like they were playing ultimate frisbee (and intermittently slamming into HYDRA agents while Clint picked some off from a distance). It had resulted in a very charged ride back on the quinjet, and the first taste of intimacy (which now felt instinctual between them) once they got back to the compound.

Clint pulled himself up on the counter opposite Sam, momentarily setting aside his breakfast machinations. He held out his hands until the Falcon stepped between his knees. Sam almost crumbled as Clint cupped his cheeks, but his gaze flicked back and forth between his partner’s irises.

“You would be very good for America, Sammy.”

Sam pressed his forehead to Clint’s chest and sighed. “I’m not gonna convince you.”

“...To think you’re inferior to Steve? To agree that you’re the wrong person to be Captain America? Babe… have you met me? I give Y/n a run for her money in the unyielding devotion department.”

“I’d like to see that competition, actually,” Sam chuckled. He let himself breathe as Clint drew circles over the planes of his shoulders, taking in the comforting scent of eucalyptus and cedar from his recent shower.

“I’m still gonna take you to the opera, regardless,” Clint said.

Sam shook with laughter. “Oh, see–that’s all the reassurance I needed, I’m fine now.” He patted Clint’s thigh. “Clint… just…”

“I know,” Hawkeye murmured. “You need time. Go find Barnes, and then we’ll talk. Ok?”

“‘K.”

“I’m busy making you breakfast, anyway, you’re always in the way!”

“...says the guy who puts me in the way!”

“I like the view, what can I say?”

***

From the recesses of a small garage on the outskirts of the compound, Frank Sinatra had a lot to say about having things his way, and the notes sat sour between Sam’s ears as he yanked the door open to Bucky’s little sanctuary. The man who was more like a brother to him than any person he had ever met was kneeling beside a small motorcycle, seemingly looking for his reflection in the cherry red paint. He glanced up as Sam collapsed on his sofa, and sat back on his heels.

“That’s sassy,” Sam gestured to the bike.

“Isn’t it? Y/n’s gonna be so mad at me,” Bucky chuckled. “Got it for a song, though. Barely used. Suzuki doesn’t even make this anymore. She’ll be way more relaxed than the SHIELD bikes that Y/n is used to.”

“Red’s a nice touch.”

“Right? Doreen in spec tech.”

“No shit?”

“She did our helmets, too.”

“Remind me to ask her about something for Clint’s birthday,” Sam said.

Bucky hummed in agreement and stood, draping his rag over his shoulder. He took a second and actually looked at Sam, and froze. “You good?”

Sam shook his head. “Steve’s stepping down.”

“Right.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I’m thrilled for him. He’s gonna be bored for the first time in his entire life. If he can just convince Nat to move to Brooklyn, he’ll be happy as a clam.”

“Did he tell you his plans for the shield and stuff?”

“He’s been talking to me about it for a long time. He’s only ever expressed one opinion on the matter which made any sense, and that was about wanting to see Sam Wilson take up the mantle… is that why you’re here asking me cryptic questions?” Bucky sat on the arm of the couch.

Sam sighed. “Why don’t you take the shield?”

Bucky blinked. “...What would I do with it?”

“You’ve got the serum, you’re a vet just like him, heavily awarded–”

“Other than the serum, you’re just describing yourself. And it doesn’t mean that I’m someone the country would accept in that role, Sam. I’m lucky I can walk off this compound, and that has nothing to do with me.”

“America is the land of second chances, Buck. Why not you–why not Cap?”

Bucky shook his head. “Nah. I don’t want it. The notoriety, the publicity. The pressure–”

“Jesus, now I’m not sure I want it either.” A shop rag smacked him squarely in the chest as Bucky tossed it at him.

“Sam. You are the person Steve chose for the job.”

“Could’ve chosen you.”

“He did. Just not for this.”

“Is it Y/n? Do you think she wouldn’t approve?”

Bucky scoffed. “It’s not like that. She believes so much in me that I’d probably find the will to do it on her confidence, alone. I just… you’re the only person I would support on Steve’s heels.”

“What if I don’t want it either.”

“Then don’t take it. But you can’t foist responsibility off on anyone else either. Tell Steve ‘no’ and let him decide what to do from there. “

“And if I say ‘yes’?”

“Then you’re Captain America.”

“It’s not that simple.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I know. Hey–Y/n’s about to be here for her surprise, you wanna stick around and watch her lose her mind at me? Could be fun!”

“That’s my favorite sport,” Sam chuckled. He hopped up and went for your hoodie, which hung from the hook beside the door. It sat over his built frame like a crop top, but he knew you’d laugh, and he could use someone joking with him right about then.

As the garage door rose, Sam’s anxiety fell. You stood on the other side with your hands over your eyes. Bucky bounded over and kissed your forehead.

“Hi. Okay. You ready?”

“Should I be scared?” you laughed. Bucky squeezed your shoulders and stood behind you.

“Just open your eyes.”

Sam gestured to the sassy bike with two enthusiastic jazz hands. “Ta-dah!”

“You gave me Captain America! Wow, thanks!” You exclaimed, before turning around and smacking Bucky in the chest. “Baby, you weren’t gonna do this–”

“Hey, it was cheap and it’s so cute,” Bucky said quickly. “Plus, it’s rare–Suzuki doesn’t even make this model anymore, so nobody is gonna have one like it, and Doreen used the same red that she used for your helmet detailing. So. It’s really just nothing.” He smiled innocently and you sighed.

“You are the worst, James Barnes.” But you kissed him in a lingering way. “I love the addition of the Wilson in my sweatshirt.”

“That was a bonus,” Bucky said, grinning.

You circled the motorcycle a few times, and whistled appreciatively. “What do you think, Cap?” you said, turning to Sam expectantly. He narrowed his eyes.

“I see what you’re doing, woman.”

“I’m very innocent.”

“I’m–you told her, man?”

Bucky held up his hands in defense. “How could I have told her anything in the last five minutes? My phone is across the shop on the charger right now.”

“I know y’all are telepathic,” Sam grumbled. He shook his head at you. “I’m still making up my mind on all that.”

“He’s deflecting,” Bucky said out of the corner of his mouth, patting you on the butt as he passed by. He reached into his fridge and produced a beer, which he promptly handed to Sam. You held out your hand in silent request, signaling to Sam that he was about to be met toe-to-toe on this.

“Give it to me, then,” you said, tugging him to sit beside you on the sofa. Bucky leaned against the back of the comfy thing. “What’s your issue?”

“I’m only here to watch you yell at him for the bike–”

“I’ll get to that,” you said, winking at your husband. “Come on. Lay it on me.”

“The amount of people bullying me today…” Sam sighed. “Fine. You want to hear it? Great. I’m an Avenger by virtue of chance. If I hadn’t run into Steve on my morning run, I wouldn’t be here. There are thousands of guys who did what I did in the Air Force. Plenty of them are better at what I do than me! I’m the only one of the team who doesn’t have some insane power or something. I barely qualify. Not to mention! I see my family so rarely as it is–how could I possibly have time to live my life, have a partner–I’m not even sure I know what I like doing, but when Nick Fury says jump, I jump, and… you are looking at me like I’m insane.”

Your eyes were wide, but you patted his arm. “Go on. I’m sorry about my face.”

“I’m not what America wants,” he shrugged.

“You are America, Samuel. No–” you held up your hand when he rolled his eyes. “You got here on your own merit. No super soldier conditioning, no supernatural intervention. You enlisted, put in the work, and you now have an authorship credit for a patent on wingpacks, which you insisted not be kept classified because you don’t want to gate-keep technology. You yelled at Tony Stark about it. Twice. It was awesome.” You clinked your beer against his. “Imagine for a moment that Captain America was just a kid from Louisiana. How that would’ve felt for you as a kid, knowing you could grow up to be The Sam Wilson because Sam Wilson is a normal guy from your state, made extraordinary by his own grit. You’re doing a great job at trying to convince yourself that you’re all wrong for it, but… all I see is a guy who exemplifies what that shield means. So.”

You shrugged. “As for your other grievances: you live with your partner, so that’s not gonna be an issue. And if you want, Cap, you can take some time to be with Sarah and the boys, and make up your mind. It’s not like America is gonna crumble while you’re thinking about it.”

“It might,” Sam grumbled.

“No. It won’t. Because, Samuel… America is like you.”

“Stubborn,” Bucky finished. Sam couldn’t help but smile.

“Yup.”

Sam looked between his best friend’s gently smiling faces and shook his head. “I see what you mean about her,” he said to Bucky, nudging your shoulder.

“Told you.” Bucky brushed your cheek. “She’s right, though.”

“It’s infuriating.” Sam drank his beer and couldn’t really account for the taste, but he was grateful for the distraction anyhow. “If I do this, and I do mean if… I can’t do it alone.”

“I’ll be your sidekick?” you offered, which made Sam inhale beer.

He sputtered. “Only if I can call you Bucky.”

“I already have the last name!”

“Somehow this is worse than you yelling at me,” the original sidekick sighed.

“Speaking of which–what the hell, James?? You made a massive purchase without talking to me first–”

Your voice was raised, but Sam was grateful, because he had a lot to think about. He did just that–sipping, silently, while you gave your husband what-for about the bike which you clearly loved–and came to his decision, without much more deliberation.

***

That evening, three couples gathered around the dining table on floor five, each with a shot of tequila. The room was sanguine and happy, but there was also a measured hesitancy between them all. Until the second shot, at least. And then the title which had caused Sam so much stress was passed to him without any pomp. He just said yes, shook Steve’s hand, and got pulled into a debate between Clint and Y/n about whether or not he needed a new suit.

He did. But not the kind to wear to the opera.

A suit fit for the man who was America.

Sam kissed his partner in front of other people for the first time that night, and briefly wondered how it was possible that he had wound up sitting at that table with people who loved him as fiercely as they believed in his worthiness. The same people who included him in the most important events of their lives, who teased him about ‘the bird thing’ with Clint long before he knew just how special Barton really was… who reminded him that he was already the right man to inherit the legacy of America’s ass–after the third shot, the table agreed that Sam was worthy of that title, too.

He didn’t even blush. He just owned it.

***

other drabbles in the nftn world:

the girl

if this is all we have

after prague

what happened in paris

the heir

tag list: @morticiaofthedead @peterhollandkait @hogwartsahist0ry @harrietbaudelaire @general-kenobi357 @hawsx3 @subwaysurf45 @nahthanks @sergntbarnes @agni-l @mass-percussion @ayleehweasleyobrien @saranghaey @music-give-me-life @enchantedbarnes @ellebarness @whatamievendoingtherapyperhaps @eloiseishere

message to be added to the tag list :)

*if your name has a line through it, the tag didn't work

[writtenmemxries]

Teddy bears and unspoken words

I couldn’t resist and I ended up writing this little fic inspired by @good-things-do-happen-dean‘s tags under this post. I hope you all don’t mind! As always, let me know what you think, I hope you like it. :)

[1.1k words]

Ever since Jack left to become one with nature, or whatever that kid was doing in his new role as God, Sam often found himself wandering around his room. It had been difficult at first, letting Jack go like that, let him be in the rain, the trees, the leaves, and all that New Age bullshit that neither Sam nor Dean really understood. But he was God now, capital G, and that was his will. It's not like they could exactly argue with him. And as sad as it was not to have him with them anymore, they had to keep living and accept the weight of their losses.

That night though, without even knowing why, Dean felt the need to enter that room, too. It wasn't the first night he and Sam spent alone in the bunker, and while he wasn't used to the silence and the absence of the boy's energetic blue eyes yet, he had somehow managed to find a way to distract himself. Beer, alcohol... nothing new, nothing he hadn't already dealt with.

This time it's different, said a voice in his head as he swallowed the last sip of his sixth beer.

Dean closed his eyes, letting the bitter taste of it wash away the anguish and empty feeling he knew he couldn't fill.

It wasn't just Jack, no. Of course not. It was Castiel. It was always Castiel. It was always the fallen angel's fault, with his stupid trenchcoat, his stupid big blue eyes and black hair that weren't really his, the stupid tie he hadn't yet learned to tie properly, his stupid chapped lips that somehow never bothered him.

He was the problem. And it was Dean. It was Dean, unable to react, to speak, to do anything that wasn't just staring, in front of the immensity of the words Castiel had addressed to him minutes before... leaving. Forever.

Dean was the problem, along with the loneliness he felt, despite Sam being fine and next to him everyday, with Eileen, happy together, cheerful, finally free. It was the emptiness he couldn't fill, the words he hadn't been able to utter that weighed in his stomach, preventing him from eating but not from consuming more alcohol than it was necessary, or recommended for that matter.

And it was the words he had wanted to hear for years, that he had eventually heard and would have wanted to hear again, and again, and again, until the end of time, until his death, and even after that, in Heaven, forever enveloped by the sincerity of Castiel's gaze, the depth of his eyes and the sweetness of his speech.

He got up to get another beer, the seventh of the night, and with wobbly steps he walked to his bedroom, where he knew he still had four full bottles of warm and disgusting beer, able to let the unspoken words sink even further, to drown them in alcohol, to allow them to be forgotten. But they never were, because they lived inside him, they burned on his lips, they were fire behind his sternum, from which it was impossible to break free.

And when he passed Jack's room in the corridor and saw the half-open door, mindful of Sam's last visit, Dean entered without thinking, closing the door behind him.

He was immediately seized by a wave of nostalgia. Looking around, all he saw were memories. Things Cas had bought for Jack, when he used to ask Dean to accompany him to the mall, forcing him to help him choose a gift. He felt a pang in his heart at the memory of all the times when, snorting, he had agreed, keeping a grumpy face for most of the day to hide how much those moments actually warmed his heart. He would do anything to have that again now, he thought sadly, biting his lip.

He recognised almost every item in the room, from the stuffed animals Cas got at Hot Topic, to the books Sam had given him. Finally, his gaze fell on a teddy bear lying on the pillow. He snorted a laugh when, taking it in his hands, he realised he was dressed as an angel. Two white wings protruded from his back, and he had a golden halo on his head.

He doesn't have a harp, Dean noticed with a smirk, and immediately Castiel's voice rang in his head. “I don't have a harp, Dean.”

He turned the bear over in his hands and couldn't help but note that its fur was the same colour as Castiel's trenchcoat. He stroked the soft fur and for a moment he imagined he was running his fingers through the angel's hair, ruffling it gently. Castiel would playfully snort and Dean would laugh. Or maybe he would look at him with an expression so fond it would make his heart ache.

It aches anyway, he thought as he sat on the bed.

He spotted the logo on the bear's left paw and, frowning, he wondered on what occasion Castiel had gone to a build-a-bear shop, because yeah, that was definitely a gift from Castiel.

He pressed its paw, expecting to hear one of the pre-recorded sounds one could choose at the shop. Instead, the only thing he heard was Castiel's voice.

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you.”

Dean looked dumbfounded at the bear, losing himself in its black, expressionless eyes.

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you.”

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you.”

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you.”

A sob. He bit his lip until it started bleeding, trying to cover the pain with more pain, physical, palpable. But as physical and palpable were the tears on his cheeks, which didn't seem to stop. He let out another sob.

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you,” Castiel's voice said again, as Dean frantically continued to press the bear's paw.

“I love you, too. Please Cas, I love you too. I love you. I love you so fucking much, god-”

His head throbbed painfully, but it was nothing compared to the despair that cloaked his heart. He closed his eyes and all he could see was the black goo that had enveloped Castiel. It engulfed his heart, clouded his vision, switched off his brain. He found himself fumbling, trying to breathe, but his lungs were filled with blackness, and it gushed and gushed until it swallowed him completely, carrying him away.

“What am I supposed to... oh. Hi. I love you.”

He opened his eyes, bright green in the dark. He clenched his jaw, shaking his head slightly, and the sobs soon turned into a tired, sad laugh, a desperate plea for help, perhaps to God- Jack himself.

“Dumb son of a bitch,” he finally whispered, and it sounded like a loving, heart-wrenched eulogy he had already spoken before.

· tag list under the cut, ask to be added or removed ·

@rambleoncas @chaoticdean @winchester-novak @randomblabbling @seffersonjtarship @professorerudite @queen-rowenas @sana-drinks-isklar @tasersloth @beforejuko @superduckbatrebel @llamasdumpsterfire @marichankitty

[tough-girl9]

What happened in Picard that was ragging on data fans? Idk if i want to watch lol

SPOILERS FOR PICARD SEASON 1 UNDER THE CUT

I assume you are referring to the post I made right after I watched Picard that was along the lines of "They didn't have to come after the Data fans like that." It wasn't that they were ragging on us Data fans, so much as they knew exactly how to make us cry our eyes out.

In the final episode, Picard finds himself inside a simulation where Maddox and other cyberneticists from Daystrom Institute have been able to recreate Data's consciousness. Much of Picard's emotional story arc in Season 1 revolves around his feelings of regret that Data sacrificed himself for him, and in that final scene Picard is able to talk to Data, tell him his regrets, and it's a very sweet conclusion to the father-son relationship between Picard and Data and gives some closure to the Nemesis ending.

However, the real twist of the emotional knife in the gut is that Data asks Picard to terminate his consciousness when he returns to the "real" world. There's what is basically a "funeral" scene for Data as Picard terminates his consciousness, with "Blue Skies" playing in the background as Picard gives a eulogy about Data. The producers were very blatantly and shamelessly tugging at the Data fan heartstrings and nostalgia in that scene, but what can I say, it worked on me.

Here's a YouTube clip of just that scene, if you want to watch it but don't want to watch all of Season 1.

As for the question of whether Picard is worth watching... I can say, I had very strongly mixed feelings about it. It wasn't TNG. It was a very, very different show than TNG; it was much darker, broodier, and less hopeful. There was definitely a lot of tugging at the TNG fans' heartstrings, like above, and that's mostly what I watched it for. I am glad I gave it a try, but ultimately, it feels to me much like the four TNG movies did. It might be technical canon, but it's not the canon of my heart, if that makes sense.

But yeah, that one scene made me ugly cry, and I felt very attacked in that I knew I was doing exactly what the producers intended for me to do when they made that episode.

[cassanova-zvahl]

Hey!! A little bit about me and what this blog is gonna be!

This is a side blog of @christian-sings-the-eulogy !!

This blog is dedicated almost strictly to Aphmau content! Most specifically Minecraft Diaries!

I plan on making my own MCD rewrite as well as redesigning the characters!! This rewrite will have at least 2 forms per episode, a drawing and a Written story! I plan onto adding my 3 ocs into my rewrite so if you find an issue with that, just don't read my rewrite.

Before anyone tries to tell me, I know everything Jess has done and I do not support her as a person. I simply support her content because I find it genuinely entertaining and it holds a lot of nostalgia for me over the last 6 years.

Anyways! I have 2 names you can call me! Styrmir and Vincent! If you must know my age its on my main blog but will not be posted here, just know I am a minor. I use he/him pronouns exclusively.

I've been a fan of aphmau for about 6 years! My favorite series are Minecraft Diares and Phoenix Drop High! Im not that big of a fan of the more recent seasons of mystreet but I enjoy the earlier seasons up to Emerald Secret!

My favorite characters are Zoey, Katelyn, Garroth, Laurence, and Lucinda!

I won't get into ship wars with anyone, you have your opinions, and I have mine.

I try to use tone indicators when talking to people and I ask if you remember to do the same!!

My asks are always on unless I say otherwise and id love to meet more people in the fandom!

As always please ask if you want me to TW something! I will not specifically tag for certain characters or series or just aphmau in general because that is the entirety of this blog. But I will tag for just about anything else!

For example ill tag character hate, specific tropes/topics (ex. Death), specific emoji use etc!

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION // BLACKSITE POETRY: MULTIVERSE LOVE EULOGY -->

&lt;div style="white-space:pre-wrap"&gt;

&lt;meta soulmate-thread="frayed"&gt;

&lt;script&gt;

ARCHIVE_TAG="LOVE_THROUGH_TIMELINES::SOUL_COLLISION_POETRY"

EFFECT: nostalgia recursion, emotional timeline bleed, multiverse ache

TRIGGER_WARNING="existential sadness, poetic intimacy, soulmate theory collapse"

&lt;/script&gt;

🧠 BLACKSITE SCROLLTRAP — “IN ANOTHER LIFE, YOU LOVED ME.”

In another life,

we were lovers.

Not the kind that fights over texts or dinner plans—

but the kind that *woke up grateful*

just to see each other blink.

We laughed until our ribs hurt,

cried when the world cracked,

and died—

still holding hands.

We were so in love

the stars tried to orbit *us.*

—

But not this time.

In this life,

you’re just a stranger

with ***familiar eyes.***

A voice that jolts something in me

I’m not allowed to name.

You pass me like gravity never existed.

Like our atoms don’t remember.

Like I don’t still flinch

at the sound of your laugh

from three people away.

—

What is love?

Is it this singular thread

we keep dragging through dimensions?

Or is it different every time—

rewritten

by the needs of each universe?

Maybe soulmates don’t exist.

Maybe they’re just

cosmic improvisations—

two spirits rehearsing loyalty

across timelines,

never quite landing

in sync.

—

Still…

I like to imagine:

In some variant of existence

we didn’t call each other names that cut.

Didn’t flinch when we saw each other online.

Didn’t recoil from old photos like they burned.

Maybe we built a life.

Maybe we stayed.

Maybe we ***held each other through the end.***

And maybe,

just maybe,

*that version of us*

still smiles

in a universe

that never knew heartbreak.

—

I guess I’m just

a timeline away

from you loving me.

And that hurts more

than anything

you ever said

in this one.

🧠 Read more mythic heartbreak and soulmate autopsies at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Timeline bleed. Cosmic ache. Poetry for the emotionally doomed.

🚪 Warning: This post may cause psychic déjà vu and longing that won’t go away.

📊 MULTIVERSE HEARTBREAK STATS 📊

• Lives where we made it: at least one

• Versions of me still in love: all of them

• Soulmate misfires in this timeline: confirmed

• Healing acquired from closure: 0

• Universes where you stayed: redacted

• Chance I ever stop wondering: negligible

&lt;/div&gt;

&lt;!-- END TRANSMISSION [A TIMELINE AWAY FROM FOREVER.] --&gt;

[writingsoftheunderworld]

AU - yes! Time Travel - no? -p. 2

So @barkingbullfrog requested a future bamon daughter time travelling and no one knowing who she is and I said on that post that I might write more if people like it/I feel like it. So this is that! Chapter 1 here. Enjoy part 2!

Rose was home for the holidays, Easter in just a few days and college too loud to be able to study when she found it. The spell she’d been looking for since that summer 5 years ago when her cousin dared her to find the most powerful spell in her mom’s grimoires and attempt it. She’d had her plans foiled that week, but the idea remained firmly planted in her mind since. Especially since the spell was a dimension travelling one, which sounded just way too much fun not to try at some point just for fun. So when she saw her dad lead her mom to the dance floor, both distracted with their - eww - flirting, she snuck into her mom’s witch’s den - dad’s words not hers, but if it fits ya’know? 

The room was dark, it always was unless her mom was busy training her magic, and then it was just candlelight illuminating it. Rose looked around the corridor for a second, making sure no one had noticed her and come after. When no sound save for the small party downstairs was heard, she uttered a soft incendia, lighting all the hung candles inside. For a few minutes she was stuck in the sheer nostalgia of being in the room. She remembered with sudden clarity all the summer nights, widows open, fresh air coming through mixing with the cinnamon candles her mom prefered as the two of them played around with kiddie magic. She then recalled moving onto more powerful spells, like how to take on villains stronger than her just with a thought just a year ago, to playing hide and seek with her dad and hiding underneath the tablecloth and giggling so much he definitely knew exactly where she was - even if he hadn’t had the advantage of being vampire. It was this same room she’d locked herself in when at 11 her mom and dad sat her down and told her how they were going to adopt her, she’d been living with them for only 3 months at that point. 

Her mom’s old grimoire sat on a shelf that her dad and uncle could never agree on how it had had the top half torn off. She slowly walked over, still so very careful not to let any unnecessary noise be heard. She’d been used to magic, she’d gotten thrown out of 3 foster homes by age 9 due to magic she couldn't even begin to understand before she reached the Salvatore-Bennett’s, but hanging around vampires had taken some adjusting. Luckily her dad enjoyed being chased around the house by a curious 11 year old and then later a rumbustious teen in a variety of always entertaining games to the point she got very used to both making herself as quiet as possible as well as learning what to look for when his turn would come. So she got the grimoire and laid it on the table, flipping through the pages slowly, not wanting to risk missing the one she was looking for. A few others jumped to her as she did so, but she stored the info for later. She wanted to try that dimension spell right now. She reached something about pocket dimensions first - prison worlds and … did that say Hell? - but at least that’s how she knew she was close. The song had changed in the time she’d spent reminiscing, but she could hear her dad downstairs still, aggravating her aunt as per usual so it was all good. 

Bingo!

The words flowed from her lips and for a second she thought she did something wrong since she felt none of the usual surge that came with doing magic, but then something just… pulled at her and she lost consciousness. When she came to next she was in the driveway of her childhood home - if from 11 onward one could call it a childhood home, but it was the closest she ever got - and her head was pounding. She let herself feel the pain a minute or so before she got up and looked around. The sun was up, midday at least, maybe earlier, which was very odd considering it was nearing 11 at night just a few seconds ago. But she figured the spell had worked. Here she was, outside the Boarding House - which she could never understand why it continued to be called that since in all her years there not once was it used as such. 

She almost bounced on the heels of her feet, excited to see what this world had to offer - could she meet herself? Was it weird that she found that exciting? - so she immediately headed to the front door. But as she walked past the car parked in the driveway, her eyes found the newspaper wedged between the drives’ seat and the handbrake and her eyes widened at the date. 

“No.” she whispered in disbelief. “No, no, no nononono!” her heart started beating faster when the realisation dawned on her. She had traveled to a different dimension, but she’d never thought of the very real possibility that the dimension she’d be travelling to would be in the past. “Oh no, mom’s gonna kill me and dad’s gonna let her.” 

She looked around again, making sure no one was around to see her panic nor hear her, who knows what lurked in this dimension, god knows she didn’t think this through enough. She breathed a few seconds, in and out, in and out, then closed her eyes, fully intending on going back home. Except she hadn’t paid any mind to the return spell nor did she even remember the original spell she’d used. Great. Probably better she hadn’t remembered though, who knows where she would end up. At least here it looked vaguely like home. With a little bit of luck, she might even find her parents here, or someone who she could recognize from back home. Eventually her mom would go into her room and see the grimoire and spell and come get her, but who knew how long that’d be. Was time even moving at the same pace here? Sure she’d just gone a few minutes ago, there was no reason to think it wasn’t the same pace, but what if she’s been gone for days at home and mom had tried to bring her back and couldn’t, or what if it was slower at home and she’s just been gone for milliseconds and by the time her mom would find she was gone she’d be old and gray here, would she still be old and gray when she got back? Or would she revert to this age that she left as, and would she even want to go or want to return to a college student home for spring break? Or-

Breathe with me, Rosie-Posie. Just breathe with dad.

Listening to her dad’s voice in her head she did as he bade, closing her eyes almost letting her feel his hand on hers as he’d take her and put it over his chest so they’d sync their breaths when her panic would spiral. He used to joke she’d gotten the anxiety from her mom and uncle Stefan, despite not being related by blood to any of them. It used to make her feel like an impostor the first few times he’d done it, but afterward it just made her feel like belonging. Just like her mom telling her all about grandma Sheila that for some odd twist of fate she just happened to share a name with. Mom called it funny, dad called it fate. She called it sheer dumb luck. But it did make her feel like they really had been a family from the beginning. Hell she even had blue eyes. What were the chances? If she hadn’t remembered her birth dad’s dark skin on her lighter one as he kissed her goodnight the night he left or her birth mom’s watery blue eyes as she lay in the hospital when she was four she’d have agreed with Damon’s theory. 

She sighed, heavy, and put the newspaper back from where she’d gotten it and made her way to the house. It made no sense to get lost in the worry just yet. She’d barely arrived, there was plenty of time for panic later. She was more curious what she could walk into now. She remembered her mom telling her about this time and dad turning these moments into sleeping stories when she was younger. She got only more curious about their pasts the more she grew up until they’d eventually caved and told her everything she’d wanted. Slowly, in bite sized pieces that had frustrated her to no end in the beginning, but she was glad for now since it made remembering everything so much easier.

She walked towards the door the same way she had whenever she played hide and seek with her dad since she figured it was probably a good thing not to be noticed before she could figure out what the hell was going on. She listened once she reached the door and heard what sounded like Elena Gilbert, but she couldn’t bee too sure since a. She’d only met Elena like 3 times in her life and each one for a few minutes at a time, despite her mom still talking to her every week or so and b. Katherine was supposed to be around at this point in time, right? Was Hope’s dad here too yet? Or did she mix up the dates? Only, she reminded herself, Niklaus Mikaelson wasn’t Hope’s dad here, he wasn’t even semi nice if what Alaric’s library books on the great hybrid said was true. Oh boy, she so wasn’t ready for any of this bullshit. Her mom would write the best eulogy for her when she got home, something like “I loved my daughter more than my life, but damn if she didn’t deserve a Bonnie famous lecture and punishment” just after she killed her with her bare hands in a loving manner of course.

She took out her keys and put them in the lock, turned, but the door just opened without any fight and she almost had a heart attack on the spot because what kind of morons were her parents in this time/universe to not lock their doors? She’s still thinking about this when her dad - no, not dad, Damon, and isn’t that the weirdest thing - suddenly pounces at her and tries to strangle her. She reacts immediately, just as her dad - the one back home that loves and knows her - had taught her to do and sends a wave of aneurysms across the room, making sure to hit who’s surely Katherine extra hard via a very advanced spell her mom taught her recently that renders the 500 year old vampire in a mini coma for however long the caster wants. As Damon starts interrogating her, she can’t help putting on a bit of a show. They look so odd like this, weirdly young and very much in shock at her power that isn’t even that much of a big thing. She’s average as far as power goes back home, definitely not the witch goddess her mom is. But her mom isn’t her mom yet and she certainly isn’t yet that strong here… or rather, Bonnie isn’t yet as strong as her mom here. So she enjoys the game she finds herself playing with Damon and later Bonnie when she gets there. 

But she definitely has no clue what she’s gotten herself into yet as she tried to give an abridged version of the story her parents had told her over the course of at least 3 years. She sticks to the basics for them, Klaus is an Original, they’re a whole family that Klaus has the bad habit of fucking over - at least during this time - the Sun and Moon Curse is fake. And really, who the fuck thought that was a legit thing in the first place, seriously now? Klaus sired their whole vampire blood line so they can’t kill him, killing an Original kills their whole blood line, he plans on unleashing his werewolf side to belong, but he’s going to fail because his mom is mean as hell. She honestly isn’t sure what she doesn't say afterward, but the sheer silence brought on after her little tirade has her giddy. She could never get her mom and dad speechless like this, not without serious bodily harm or property damage, usually as a result of Lizzie Saltzman’s plans. She can’t wait to see how much chaos she can cause here by the end of the talk and looking at her mom with this dude that looks to be 14 that apparently is meant to be Jeremy Gilbert - only how can that be, Jeremy is a very strong vampire hunter that looks the part, not this string bean uncooked spaghetti looking child. 

And now she got when her dad meant when he said mom had had terrible taste in men before him - though Rose would argue looking at the Damon across from her that her mom’s taste didn’t so much as get better but simply change. She also couldn’t understand how these two who looked like they both wanted to be anywhere but near each other and yet oddly in sync couldn ever become the Bonnie and Damon that adopted her some odd years in the future/past/other universe. Huh… maybe she could have fun until her mom would come to kill her for being an idiot and dad would give her that look that made her want her mom to kill her. 

[fallenpkmntrainer]

Okay! The Munday questions have been cleared off the blog and put under the cut here to keep the blog tidy! (With the exception of the long one, which will remain its own post.)

Thank you all for asking me things!!

The prompt behind this blog was just for it to take place after the events of the creepypasta, and exploring Leaf’s feelings regarding it.

Though Magic Anons like the recent one might stem a strong reaction from Leaf and give off an implication of an ongoing story, I myself have no plans.

There is no story, because her story’s already ended.

I’m doing good, thank you!

You might have been able to guess this, but it’s Gens 3 and 4. Specifically, LeafGreen and HeartGold.

Those are the ones I played growing up, and those are the ones that are still fun for me to go back to. I’ve replayed FRLG more than any other Pokémon game, mostly because Kanto is so simple and easy to go through compared to later cutscene-heavy installments.

My attachment to Leaf is directly tied to my affection and nostalgia for FRLG. You could probably guess that, too.

Though Fallen Leaf is my absolute top favorite due to what it means to me, out of the stories I’ve made, I also like HM Slave and Forever Mine.

For HM Slave, I feel like I made it up as I went along, but not in the unprofessional way. As I wrote, I really came to the same realization as the narrator about Mewl’s motives and desires. I feel like I wrote a pretty convincing narrator because I myself had to feel those feelings.

And Forever Mine is just due to the sentimentality of having this character since early 2011. Skye has come a long way, but she’s still here and she’s still a part of me.

For other peoples’ Poképastas, though! I could go on and on about the old classics, but I’d like to promote the more recent stories by all my friends!

I like Bittersweet and Bound To Cheat ! They follow the same photo-style Poképasta trope that I started, and I’m so proud that these wonderful writers worked so hard to make screenshots, too.

As for stories without pictures, the fan-made remastered version of Snow on Mt. Silver was pretty neat too! It’s a complete overhaul of the original, with loads of additional lore added onto it. I don’t wanna get too into it without spoiling it, so check it out for yourself if you have the time for it!

And I love YOU, hardy!!!!

Ahaha, no worries, you didn’t come across as accusatory to me at all...!!!

Sorry if that was made unclear! I have it listed in the about page for this blog that I am sparklingdemon, and the link to the story lists me as its author. I figured most people could put two and two together, but it’s okay if you haven’t seen it.

But yes, I am the original author of the Fallen Leaf story. I wouldn’t consider making a blog for a story that didn’t belong to me.

This blog is a means of getting further canon information about the story out, expressing my thoughts about it in and out of character.

While I will admit that Explorers of Sky is objectively a better game, story, and overall experience, I haven’t had the time to commit to it more than once.

I recently played through Red Rescue Team again, and it was so short in comparison, but so so SO charming.

I played the 3DS ones, but I did not enjoy them, unfortunately. That’s all I’ll say about it.

You are exactly right.

This blog is exactly what it looks like on the outside; it’ll go on until I exhaust every possible thing I want to say.

Its main purpose was to explore Leaf’s personal feelings and extend the message that couldn’t be contained by the original story.

I knew from the start that this was its purpose. I cannot keep writing Leaf’s eulogy forever.

As I’ve been running this blog though, I’ve become even more passionate about this message, which has inspired me to go even further with it. We’ll both see how long this lasts.

Much like Leaf herself, you can’t stop her life from ending, but you can appreciate the time she was there.

I hope this blog can be like that for you, too.

Ah, please excuse the late response! I didn’t notice I got this question until Monday was already over, hah…

But, ah… That’s a difficult question. I do believe it should be decided on a region-by-region basis. I think it would be fun to see the hero of the previous generation appear in the next to sort of “pass the torch” to the next hero, like Gen 1 did for Gen 2. If not that, then just any hero duo that would fit the environment of the region.

Though, if a region had a Battle Tower/Tree-like setting, I think it could be fun to see all the heroes appear in one spot. For example, Twitch Plays Pokemon modified the Pokemon World Tournament to include all of its previous heroes.

While Masters has given some level of this fanservice, it’s still nothing concretely canon, unlike the attention they give to Red.

But if I had to pick a set of protagonists based exclusively on preference, I think the Johto heroes would be my choice. They are the only trainers that are canonically stronger than Red, and that accomplishment feels somewhat overshadowed and neglected.

[totalvibration]

55 Albums Released in 2019 That Splash Oat Milk In My Earl Grey

This year felt like slo-mo, a holding pattern and a fast-forward button stumbling towards unknown ends. I spent the early months in paternal bliss and sleep deprivation, caring for my newborn daughter, then spent the rest of the year running to slow down… to make the most of small moments with my family, to juggle that thing every lifestyle magazine calls the work-life balance, to know when I need help and being willing to ask for it, to making priorities with loved ones. 

Also, after years of oolongs and a staunch no-milk-in-tea-except-milk-teas policy, I started putting honey and oat milk in my Earl Grey, an old tea standby that's felt warmly familiar in colder months. Similarly, I dug my heels into familiar-to-me gnarly metal, deep drone and abrasive punk this year, uninterested in poptimist takes on indie-rock. In an effort to maximize more time with new family and less with bulls***, I leaned hard into my Viking's Choice column at NPR Music (which went weekly!) to shout out underground debauchery and beauty to anyone who would listen. 

Below are 55 albums (and a few reissues and archival releases) that hit me in different ways over 2019. No ranking, just links out to Bandcamp where available. They come paired with emoji because that's a thing I do on Twitter. 

See also:

Viking's Choice: The Year In The Loud And The Weird (my annual year-end episode of All Songs Considered)

20 Punk Albums Released In 2019 That Flip Eggs, Pick Up Chains

20 Metal Albums Released In 2019 That Bluurgh Over Sick Riffs

A nine-hour playlist of 2019 jamz 

But first, some stray thoughts:

Ta-Nehisi Coates' still-ongoing Captain America run has been extremely rewarding. A beloved superhero comes to terms with the line between patriotism and nationalism as Coates underlines that American progress often comes from reluctance. 

Daniel Warren Johnson's Murder Falcon spoke to me not only as a metalhead who loves cartoonishly kick-ass violence, but also as a dude with a tender heart… that final issue still gets me in the feels. 

Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colours is secretly a trilogy of movies about the loving, painstaking process of creation, specifically music. I'd never seen any of them until paternity leave (and a sleeping baby) gave me hours to binge long-neglected to-watch lists. In 1993's Blue, in particular, a composition mirrors the grief of Juliette Binoche in an exquisite performance. 

Tiny Desk concerts I produced for NPR Music in 2019: American Football (with a children’s choir!), Thou, Erin Rae, Carly Rae Jepsen (sort of), Jimmy Eat World and Mount Eerie (videos coming in 2020). 

There’s a gallery at Glenstone, a truly stunning museum experience, that’s literally just a room full of books, a sculpted wooden bench and a large window that looks out on the rolling hills of Maryland. I could spend hours there. 

The second season of KCRW's Lost Notes, hosted by Jessica Hopper, built episodes like albums, sequenced with eureka moments throughout. See: the story of a teenage Farsi New Wave sibling duo and a difficult and necessary reassessment of John Fahey through the women in his life.  

High Spirits (May 7, Atlas Brew Works) is such a force for good. Heavy metal singalongs about love, friendship and positivity. I feel like this band needs to tour with Sheer Mag to be fully appreciated by an unknowing audience. 

Has your baseball team ever won the pennant with the sleeping baby on your chest? So many silent screams of joy in our household as the Nats not only won the National League, but the whole dang World Series. I haven't lived in a city/state with a baseball team that's gone to the World Series since 1995. 

Circuit Des Yeux's Haley Fohr (Dec. 5, Hirshhorn) tuned her voice to feedback hum and the rest that followed felt like a wordless eulogy for 2019. I felt renewed by it. 

I can't think of a prettier song released in 2019 than "This Time Around" by Jessica Pratt. It is saudade whispered into the wind.

This was my Linda Ronstadt year. Heart Like a Wheel, Canciones de mi Padre, her records with the Stone Poneys — the Queen of LA, with a voice that both bursts out of and melts into dusk, softened the edges of long days with an equally adventurous and easygoing spirit.

🚙 Petrol Girls, Cut & Stitch: In 2019, it was crucial — life-affirming and -saving, even — to make your own noise. "This is the sound / It moves in our bodies / It passes through time / Brings what came before us," Petrol Girls' Ren Aldridge screamed at the top of a turbulent punk record filled with compassion. That boundless philosophy resonated with me this year — to listen and absorb more deeply, to excavate the traces of memory in music.

👽 Blood Incantation, Hidden History of the Human Race: Simultaneously exists in the gaping maw of death-metal tradition and the galaxy brain of its future. 

💾 Kali Malone, The Sacrificial Code: Seeks the solemnity of the drone in the pipe organ, but leans into the vulnerability pushed through the air.

🕹️ billy woods & Kenny Segal, Hiding Places:  An album-length self-excavation that crawls through moldy memories in a brutal poetry that is at times darkly funny but mostly wrestles with personal and societal truths that'll leave you touched, shook. 

📟 Holly Herndon, PROTO: One of our deepest thinkers went to the past to make music from the future. 

🚨 Rakta, Falha Comum: Creepazoid emanations from a subterranean plane.

🐣 Sunwatchers, Illegal Moves: Ecstatic protest music summoning the beauty and rage of Alice Coltrane, Sonny Sharrock, Rhys Chatham and Hawkwind. 

🏞 Bill Orcutt, Odds Against Tomorrow: The most engaging, radical, but surprisingly accessible solo guitar album of the year. Bill Orcutt's ragged-yet-tender guitar skronk gives shaggy texture to rapturous melodies.

🍕 Control Top, Covert Contracts: This hits some dance-punky Erase Errata sweet spots for me, but with the technical finesse of a power trio. 

🚟 Real Life Rock & Roll Band, Hollerin' the Spirit: Applies minimalist techniques to rumbling, dueling guitar histrionics with a reckless, but locked-in energy. Never woulda thunk American Football and Henry Flynt could hoedown together. 

🐠 Caroline Shaw & Attacca Quartet, Orange: Balances austere beauty with rumbling earth. Riveting music for string quartet. 

💥 Mdou Moctor, Ilana (The Creator): Where ZZ Top bombast, Black Sabbath riffs and Tuareg trance rhythms swirl into an acid-rock stomp. 

👑 Vagabon, Vagabon: Goes so many places, yet always returns home. 

🎭 JPEGMAFIA, All My Heroes Are Cornballs: A neon-freaked feast blasted in slow mo and fast forward all at once.

🌆 Denzel Curry, ZUU: Dude's a metal rapper without a metal band, but if he ever started one, I'm down 100 percent. 

💨 Whistling Arrow, Whistling Arrow: An avant UK supergroup of prepared guitar, violin, electronics and hypnotic percussion drinks deep of dark lagers and mossy earth.

🐸 101 Notes on Jazz: Things are getting hard around the boloney hole...

🐳 M. Sage, Catch a Blessing: Warm, fuzzy world-building from blocks of sound stretched and warped into a new nostalgia.

🚇 Mizmor, Cairn: Deliberate and patient in its annihilating pace; lumbering, yet regally melodic riffs echo into a chasm of feedback.

🌅 Takafumi Matsubara, Strange, Beautiful And Fast: Next-level grind from the Gridlink mastermind and friends. While No One Knows What the Dead Think picked up where Discordance Axis left off, Takafumi Matsubara shreds into the future.

🐎 American Football, LP3: A reunion that keeps on giving and growing. Impressionistic in its quietly bursting arrangements and attuned to the individual talents of its vocal guests, especially that stunning duet with Hayley Williams. 

🔋 v/a, Seitō: In the Beginning, Woman Was the Sun: This compilation does for modern Japanese women in experimental music what P.S.F.’s Tokyo Flashback comps did for the Japanese psychedelic scenes of yore. 

👗 Carly Rae Jepsen, Dedicated: Didn't hold together as much as I wanted, or play like E•MO•TION's late-night mixtape, but every time one of its singles popped up on a friend's playlist -- "Julien," "Want You in My Room," "The Sound" and especially the slow-burn synth-pop exhaustion of "Too Much" -- I'd think, "Carly Rae Jepsen is the Queen of the Song I Needed Right Now."

🌕 Rong, wormhat: Just bonkers. Boston's Rong channels the joyous chaos of Japanese punks Melt-Banana and the aggro skronk of Brainiac with a tad of Deerhoof's weirdo-pop hooks.

✊🏿 Sounds of Liberation, Sounds of Liberation / Unreleased Columbia University 1973: Free jazz and funk band deep in spiritual grooves. Killer performances all around, but such a trip to hear more from young vibraphonist Khan Jamal during his Drum Dance to the Motherland era. 

🐬 Great Grandpa, Four of Arrows: If Sixpence None the Richer made an emo record, but only had Return of the Frog Queen on the mood board. 

📳 Sarah Louise, Nighttime Birds and Morning Stars: One of my favorite guitarists right now. Digitally processes melodies and single notes in an electronic elation landing somewhere between Robert Fripp, Alice Coltrane and Terry Riley.

📮 Sarah Hennies, Reservoir 1: An immersive sound cycle in constant motion, a quiet rumble that slowly transforms in and out of a glorious clatter. 

👣 Psychedelic Speed Freaks, Psychedelic Speed Freaks: Munehiro Narita essentially picks up where High Rise left off, still plays the guitar like it's about to blow up. 

🍩 Town Portal, Of Violence: Most instrumental post/prog-rock puts me to sleep, but this Danish trio illustrates just how dynamic and sound-rich this music can be. 

🛀 Jim O'Rourke, steamroom 45: An electronic excavation from the deep abyss. The 37-minute "Sigaretstraat" is a master class in patience, dynamics and sublime dissonance.

🎀 Cristina Quesada, I Think I Heard a Rumor: Multi-lingual, ultra-chic dance-pop with super-smart synth arrangements. Think: Tiki drinks and mod dresses. 

⏹ John Luther Adams, Become Desert: Truly time-less music; as in, music without time. 

⏏ Julia Reidy, brace, brace: Late night, longform excursions that offer an alternate Blade Runner soundtrack with frenzied 12-string, fuzzy synth glossolalia and an Auto-Tuned bummer haze.

🚞 A Million Dollars, I Love Your Voice and I Love You: Weird and warped twee-pop that woulda headlined Silent Barn. 

📠 Priests, The Seduction of Kansas: Truth-telling and truth-seeking through a mangled disco haze and bleak New Wave romanticism. 

🏭 Werner Durand with Amelia Cuni and Victor Meertens, processions: Majestic drones capture an undulating wonder with enveloping somnolence.

🎳 Sheer Mag, A Distant Call: The denim-and-leather-jacket-wearing standard bearers of truly independent rock and roll double-downed on their sound, but opened their hearts a bit more. 

📒 Susan Alcorn / Joe McPhee / Ken Vandermark, Invitation to a Dream: Illuminates the flickering motions of exploration. 

😱 Serpent Column, Mirror in Darkness: Pitch-black metal chaos with forceful melodies twisted into the tableau. Honestly? Deathspell Omega but skramz.

🏅 Pernice Brothers, Spread the Feeling: Joe Pernice digs into his '80s record collection to return with some of his most delicately written, winsome guitar-pop in years and tons of one-liners: "Love is a shoeless charlatan, a silver-tongued huckster with a sadist’s lipless grin."

🍓 Kalie Schorr, Open Book: Whip-smart, hook-twanged country-pop raised on MTV2 pop-punk and Sheryl Crow. 

📀 Angel Olsen, All Mirrors: In a year where we lost Scott Walker, this felt like a torch passed from 1969. 

😪 Mount Eerie, Lost Wisdom pt. 2: Phil Elverum draws us in evermore, revisiting a beloved album, mode and collaborator (the remarkable Julie Doiron), and molding them into his ever-changing songwriting and circumstance. Contains the most tender couplet of the year, which I'll carry with me always: "If ever the bonfire that I carry around could warm you again / I will be out here in the weather for you glowing."

🙉 75 Dollar Bill, I Was Real: Serious hypno-grooves from these drone excavators. 

👢 Karen Marks, Cold Cafe: The early '80s artist behind the Sky Girl comp's broodiest track gets a few more songs of existential synth-pop and jangly post-punk. Just wanna put them on mixtapes for friends. 

🍻 Haunt, If Icarus Could Fly: Synthesizes an earnest, studied love for '80s heavy metal with tons of guitar harmonies and can-crushing anthems, yes, but also a ton of heart.

🍖 Bob Dylan, The Rolling Thunder Revue: The strangest, most mystical and wild Dylan persona in all of its face-painted glory. 

🌹 A Pregnant Light, Broken Play: Damian Master's endless creativity and shameless bravado coalesce into a rugged beauty. As always, riffs for days. 

🦄 Fire-Toolz, Field Whispers (Into the Crystal Palace): Clashes New Age synthscapes, clubby raves, jazz fusion and metal shrieks into an idiosyncratic master's pure creation.

🌇 Maria W Horn, Epistasis: Quiet, yet forceful acoustic elements are wrapped in the sinews of technology to blur composition. A stirring mix of icy string drones and minimalist piano. 

🐲 Soul Glo, The N**** in Me Is Me: Distills the rage and terror of living in America while being black with blunt force.

🍢 Mára, Here Behold Your Own: Snapshots of a time before parenthood rendered in garbled organ, ambient guitar loops and echoing lullabies. Felt this one deeply. 

🚙 The Go-Betweens, G Stands for Go-Betweens: The Go-Betweens Anthology - Volume 2: There's a live KCRW version of "Quiet Heart" that just absolutely destroys me. Deeply thankful for the presentation and preservation that's gone into these box sets. 

😈 Bat for Lashes, Lost Girls: A coming-of-age concept album about a teenage vampire gang that was somehow severely overlooked. Some of Natasha's most tender songwriting and a rich synth-pop world that'd make M83 jealous.

[katiewattsart]

25/03/20 : A RECAP

25/03/20 : A RECAP

- Who Watches the Watchmen? - Power, Discourse, The Other

- Ever Tried. Ever Failed - Failure, Resilience, Sustainability

- Teddy Boys and Haul Girls - Subcultures, Resistance, Commodification

- Utopia and Dystopia - world-building, social justice

- Nothing is original and that’s ok - The Copy, Remix Cultures, Bricolage

- Hauntology and Nostalgia - Political Nostalgia, Subversion, 

- Telling Stories - Narrative Theory, Narratives in practice, storytelling

Who Watches the Watchmen?       

Power

Theorists Include:

Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, Laura Mulvey, 

John Berger

Moral Panic

The Panopticon

Surveillance 

Feminism

Sex/Gender 

The Gaze

The Power of Looking

“Looking involves learning to interpret and, like other practices, looking involves relationships of power....

To be made to look, to try to get someone to look at you or at something you want to be noticed, or to engage in an exchange of looks, involves a play of power.”

Sturken, M. Cartwright, L. (2004) Practices of Looking

The Panopticon

Designed by British Jurist and social reformer Jeremy Bentham in 1791, as an architectural system of control and surveillance. 

Used by Foucault to analyse systems of power, and the self-regulating society. 

Section and plan of Jeremy Bentham’s Panopticon penitentiary, drawn by Willey Reveley, 1791 

- Power is reinforced through language

- Bodies act under strict constraints of power exercised by institutions

- The Power of Subversion

- Gender is a social construct and is performative

- The structure of power is Patriarchal

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Drawing Power: How depictions of superheros have changed in the Marvel Universe from the 1960s to the present day 

A post-structural analysis of Power and Illustration in the graphic novels of Frank Miller

Power Play: A history of Alan Moore mocking authority  

Imbalance of power: Becoming Unbecoming and readdressing female histories

Chintz and power: Jim Shaw’s anti-fascist wallpapers

Political cartoons and the British Establishment, from William Hogarth to Steve Bell

Ever Tried. Ever Failed.

Trying and failing as art

Experimentation

Sustainability 

Social Justice 

Capitalism 

The Process

Resilience 

Artists Include: Beckett, Smithson, Ono, Signer, Banksy, Wei wei

failure:

1. Lack of success.

2. The neglect or omission of expected or      required action.

3. The action or state of not functioning.

Oxford living dictionaries

Guerilla Design

Chapitre Zero (2013)

Furniture designers Duccio Maria Gambi/Mattia Paco

Salvages wooden pallets, unwanted furniture, and assorted pieces of wood 

Create urban public furniture to create ‘social spaces’ in Paris.  

Sustaining Culture? 

Justin Gignac, New York City Garbage (2001)

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Tru Try and Try again: why those who keep going get the most done

From one to many: how Greta Thunberg’s perseverance made a difference in a world of indifference

Resilience and Sustainability are the tools we need for surviving the future 

We Make Our Luck: the aggregation of Marginal Gains

Say Nothing, Do Nothing, Be Nothing: the purpose of the Crit in Art and Design

Teddy Boys and Haul Girls: Subcultures

Subcultures

Subversion

Bricolage

Youth Culture

Dominant/Deviant culture

Conspicuous Consumption 

Punk

Culture Jamming

Utopia/Dystopia

Theorists/ Artists Include: Hebdige, Williams, Leckey, Banksy, Warhol, Adbusters

Dominant culture:  a dominant culture is one that is able, through economic or political power, to impose its values, language, and ways of behaving on a subordinate culture or cultures. This may be achieved through legal or political suppression of other sets of values and patterns of behaviour, or by monopolizing the media of communication. 

Dominant culture. A Dictionary of Sociology. . Encyclopedia.com.

ubculture: Subcultures are smaller groups within the larger culture that have slightly different—or additional—traditions and ideas. They tend to share much in common with the larger culture and typically interact with members of the majority on a regular basis. Most people belong to at least one group that can be classified as a subculture. 

Feminist Critique:

The role of women/girls is largely ignored.

The experience of youth is gendered.

Wider gender politics can be investigated through the study of youth subcultures. 

This is England (2007) Shane meadows:

Haul Girls

“In fact, the closest thing to the old model of a subculture I've come across is Helina and the haul girls. Their videos are about conspicuous consumption: a public display of their good taste, carefully assembled with precise attention to detail. When you put it like that – and at the risk of incurring a fatwah from middle-aged Paul Weller fans – they sound remarkably like mods.”

-Alexis Petridis

Conspicuous Consumption:

..is a term introduced by the Norwegian-American economist and sociologist Thorstein Veblen in his book "The Theory of the Leisure Class" (1899). The term refers to consumers who buy expensive items to display wealth and income rather than to cover the real needs of the consumer.

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Cosplay and the Carnival: Counter culture as the World Turned Upside Down 

Representations of Subculture in Film, Theatre and Costume/Illustration

England’s Dreaming: Punk as a critique of Thatcherism and the rise the Me Generation

Dressing/Drawing Working Class Subcultures from 1950 to 2000: An Artifact

This Is England: From Skins to The Inbetweeners, a cultural reading of England’s youth culture

Art & Artifice: a discussion of representations of young people and material culture from Annie Swynnerton to Andy Warhol

Utopia and Dystopia

World-Building

Social Justice

Critiques of culture

Art and Crisis

Transformative design

Theorists include: Thomas Moore, Philip K. Dick, Ernst Bloch..

Sir Thomas More 1477-1535

- First person to write about Utopia - a perfect imaginary world

- Greek - Ou-topos - No place, or Nowhere

- Eu-topos- A good place

Can a perfect place ever be realised? 

Utopia means nowhere or no place. It has often been taken to mean good place, through confusion of its first syllable with the Greek eu as in euphemism or eulogy. As a result of this mix up, another word, dystopia, has been invented, to mean bad place. But, strictly speaking, imaginary good places and imaginary bad places are all utopias, or nowheres. 

- John Carey

The Garden of Earthly Pleasures -Hieronymus Bosch circa 1490-1510

UTOPIAS IN FILM

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

I Am The Architect: The Role of the Designer in Dystopia 

Fashioning Utopia:  How costume design in Science Fiction helps us reimagine the world 

Interior Identities: How the inner spaces of our lives tell the narrative of our times

Digital Dystopia: How the Ghost In The Machine Became A Trope of the Internet Age

The Perfect Palette: The search for Utopia on the canvases of the Stanley Spencer

NOTHING IS ORIGINAL - and that’s ok!

The Remix

Hauntology 

Appropriation

Nostalgia

The Copy

Sampling

Theorists/Artists Include: David Lynch, Kenneth Goldsmith, Simon Reynolds, Mark Fisher.

WHAT IS ORIGINALITY?

How would you define originality?

Should we try and pursue originality?

Does originality exist?

If so, what does it look like? 

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Steal Like an Artist: How Our Influences Make Us Who We Become

Copy Paste Culture: How Rap Reflects the Wider Art World of the 1980’s and Beyond

Youtube Made Me Hardcore: How Access to Everyday Editing Software Made Everyone an Artist

Hauntology and Nostalgia

Nostalgia

Hauntology

Politicisation

Style and Aesthetic

Commodification

Reflexive/restorative

Theorists include: Svetlana Boym, Mark Fisher, Jacques Derrida

NOSTALGIA AS DOMINANT MODE

How do explain the large number of works based on pre-existing work?

Why do you think that adaptations are the dominant product in today’s media market?

Two Types of Nostalgia

estorative:

 “puts emphasis on nostos (returning home) and proposes to rebuild the lost home and patch up the memory gaps.” (Boym)

Reflective:

“Reflective nostalgia, on the other hand, “dwells in algia (aching), in longing and loss, the imperfect process of remembrance.”

“Personal nostalgia can be used therapeutically to help individuals move beyond trauma” (Batcho, 2017)

Historically being nostalgic or using nostalgia as a form of expression in art or literature has not been seen as a good thing, rather it’s been viewed as the antithesis of progression and innovation. Miuccia Prada once said ‘nostalgia is a very complicated subject for me. I'm attracted by nostalgia but I refuse it intellectually.’ 

Definition of Hauntology

Hauntology is a philosophical concept referring to the return or persistence of elements from the past, as in the manner of a ghost. The term was coined by French philosopher Jacques Derrida in his 1993 book Spectres of Marx.

Broadly speaking, the notion that the present is haunted by lost futures

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

The Machine in The Ghost: Digital and Analogue Traces in the Art and Films of David Lynch

Breaking the Future: How Nostalgia and Hauntology has Led to an Influx of Genre Movies and Remakes, and What Can be Done to Change It

The Effects of Nostalgia: Instagram and the Filter 

Telling Stories

The Mainstream

Narrative

Provocation/Disruption

Street Art

The Spectacle

Theorists/Artists include: Kruger, Banksy, Warner, Anderson, de Certeau, Georges Perec, 

Texts’ that could hold a narrative?

…novels, comics, films, tv series, plays, films, children’s books, animation, games, photographs, news stories, magazine covers, folktales and myths, book covers, paintings, editorial illustrations, window displays, packaging, logos…

The Culture Industry

How might film be seen as an ideological tool, then and now?

CRAFTING NARRATIVE

Exploring how makers and designers are using objects and making ,to tell stories.

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

Costume as Character in Game Of Thrones

Grayson Perry as Storyteller: Culture Captured in Ceramics and tapestry

Dressing the Window: Narratives on Display

Suffragette Jewellery and the Story of Adornement as Dissent in Early 20th Century Britain 

ALL UR VIRAL PHENOMENA R BELONG 2 US

Networks

Collective Understanding

Viral Phenomena

Populism

Digital Culture

User Content

Memes

Satire

Viral phenomena are objects or patterns that are able to replicate themselves or convert other objects into copies of themselves when these objects are exposed to them. They get their name from the way that viruses propagate

“Breaking the Internet”: The narratives of Viral media

Why do things go viral?

- Relatability

- Empathy

- Irony / irreverence

- Political meaning

- Humour

- ‘Smarts’

The word meme was coined by Richard Dawkins in his 1976 book The Selfish Gene as an attempt to explain the way cultural information spreads; such as beliefs, fashions, stories, and phrases

POTENTIAL RESEARCH QUESTIONS

The Viral Marketing campaigns of JJ Abrams

The Meme is Dead, Long Live the Meme! How Do We Keep up with the means of communication when the means of communication change on a Daily Basis?

HASHTAGS: Friends or Enemies?

The Rise of Cancel Culture and Implications for Critical Thinking

ESSAY PREPERATION 

What do you want to explore?

theme/idea

artist/designer

object/image

These Questions should now: 

- guide your research and keep you focused.

- What information are you lacking, and where do you need to go to get it?

- Brainstorm a list of Questions, considering whether you need to:

Analyse               

Appraise

Assess

Compare

Contrast

Criticise

Define

Discuss

Describe

Examine

Explain

Indicate

Illustrate

Interpret

Judge

Justify

Outline

Refute

State

Summarise

Trace

Title/Question

Be concise and explicit. This is a working title/question.

EG. Who Decides Who Decides? 

Critiquing power in the Marvel Cinematic Universe

Keywords

Include here any words you think will help you identify the research you want to undertake.

EG. Power, Foucault, Surveillance, war on terror, citizen activism, superheroes

introduction/Questions

Use this section to introduce the questions and any issues that are central to your research.

EG. This paper explores the ways in which power is exercised in the MCU, and compares the films to the source comics to see how the two mediums differ

Background

What are the key texts and approaches in the field? How does your proposal  extend our understanding of particular questions or topics? You need to set out your research questions as clearly as possible, explain problems that you want to explore and say why it is important to do so. In other words, think about how to situate your project in the context of your discipline.

EG. Watchmen by Alan Moore & Dave Gibbons; V for Vendatta etc, Crisis on Infinite Earths

DEVELOPING YOUR RESEARCH QUESTION

5Ws: answer the following questions:

Who does your topic impact? 

Who cares about your topic? 

What is influenced by or influences your topic?

Where is your topic relevant?

Why is your topic important?

You could try free writing!

Write continuously for a set amount of time without stopping. Ignore grammar and spelling. Write what you know and identify gaps and questions to pursue. 

Or mind mapping!

A visual form of brainstorming. Include related subtopics, concepts and words and connect to them to your topic. 

TASK

Before next session:

Brainstorm and mind map your ideas

Gather images, quotes

fill in your research proposal for GCOP200 

(as much as you can)

Bring it all with you to your seminar