inaris-mage-of-storms - Tumblr blog

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Reblog to hug prev poster (they need a hug)

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TUMBLR IS SO BORING WITH ALL YOU NERDS AT DASHCON

♥

((you all better come back with some amazing tales))

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More people need to hear this: all asexuals are valid, no matter where you fall under the umbrella, and no matter the "reason" you're asexual. You can be naturally ace, ace because of meds, ace because of dysphoria, ace because of trauma, ace because of a disease... Any reason that has an impact on your way to live your (a)sexuality, makes you a valid asexual and you're welcome in the community. Fuck the aphobes and the radicals who say otherwise.

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So one thing I’ve noticed is that people’s DnD characters may vary but there is usually an underlying thread that they all have in common. This thread is typically related to what that person struggles with the most.

For instance, my betrotheds DnD characters: a bitchy warlock we had to bust out of two different pacts, a sassy barbarian, a reformed drow cultist, and a sunshine fighter cleric.

All these characters were wildly different but at their very core struggle was them grappling with their self worth. My betrothed struggles with their worth a great deal and even with different facets showing their characters all have that too.

Mine all tend to contend with different themes of loneliness and acceptance. Surprise, surprise, the little autistic gremlin yearns to have been met with more love and lasting friendships.

So we’re at breakfast. I am meeting a new friend of my betrotheds for the first time. It’s been twenty minutes since I’ve met this man. I say my theory. He laughs. He starts to describe a few of his characters but specifies that he often has healing aspects. He gives a very broad overview of their character arcs.

I ponder for a moment then said, “Would you like to have my assessment?”

He laughed, “Sure!”

“We’ve just met. It’s gonna get real.”

“Bring it on.”

“I think your struggle is that you feel you must offer something of value or service to people to be worthy of their love.”

His jaw dropped. His fork froze midway to his mouth. A potato fell. He stared into space as this sank in. Quietly he said, “Oh.”

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The steam library really is the gamers refrigerator. I keep checking to see if there's anything I want to play. I have games. I have plenty of games. There's nothing i want to play

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wdym an average platonic bond cant be deep and meaningful do none of you remember the power of friendship

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The cunning folk are probably the best demonstration of why “folk magic” didn’t mean “witchcraft” to Early Modern Europeans. If witchcraft was the act of practicing magic, the cunning folk wouldn’t have legally been allowed to charge for magic in almost every village. Witches were not folk magicians, they were persecuted because they didn’t follow the Catholic church and were considered diabolical or pagan. Witchcraft was necessarily about alternative, non-Catholic religion. Magic was not a crime; heresy was. These folk magicians who say cunning craft was the true historic witchcraft are simply not facing reality; and if you brought a cunning person back from the dead and called them a witch they would straight up let you know that they are not. I’m a cunning man because I offer folk-magic services inspired by the historic cunning folk; I’m a witch because my religion is witchcraft. The two are separate because they always have been.

I know I’m gonna get scorn, so before yapping at me please make sure you’ve read the works of Carlo Ginzburg and Owen Davies. And if you still disagree take it up with the historical record because I don’t have the passion to convince individuals of facts they refuse to acknowledge. 

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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.

I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.

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I just wanted to draw long haired yusuke with a ponytail but Kurama's poor heart can't handle it 💔

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OH MY GOD NEW PAINTINGS!!! BY ZETTERSTRAND!!!! WAAAAAA

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Every Friday and Sunday, Scar will pay a visit to the Cindersap Forest! He will also appear in any festivals the traveling merchant visits. Won't you buy something from him?

my mod has officially published! download The Swaggon here!

thank you to everyone to encouraged and supported me in this :D

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As a wheelchair user I'm trying to reframe my language for "being in the way."

"I'm in the way," "I can't fit," and "I can't go there," is becoming "there's not enough space," "the walkway is too narrow," and "that place isn't accessible."

It's a small change, but to me it feels as if I'm redirecting blame from myself to the people that made these places inaccessible in the first place. I don't want people to just think that they're helping me, I want them to think that they're making up for someone else's wrongdoing. I want them to remember every time I've needed help as something someone else caused.

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Note: I am by no means a professional in health or otherwise. This is personal experience. I made this as a metaphor to help my parents understand me better.

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If this pops up while you’re scrolling, I wish you unconditional love and massive success.

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you ever just sit and realise u can’t remember 80% of your childhood? like … what happened? who am i ..?