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Order your tests when you can.

Wear a respirator, support your community, contact your government officials. Spread the word not the disease.

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the desire to pronounce words as they are said in their source language for the sake of accuracy vs the desire to not sound like a complete tool

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ASL Translation for Season 2 of The Dragon Prince

[I am Deaf and a fluent ASL signer.]

My ASL translation for Season One is here.

My ASL translation for Season Three is here.

S2: EP 4

SCENE AT THE BREACH

[General Amaya is standing atop the wall, watching the border through a monocular. She narrows her eyes, and turns to the solider standing behind her.]

“I see elves at the border.” [points in the direction of the border]

Soldier: “General Amaya, we’ve searched everywhere and there’s been no sign of the elves. I think it’s safe to conclude that the outpost on the Xadian side remains secret.” [Points] There, look! The signal! The outpost is secure.”

[Amaya turns & looks again through the monocular. She narrows her eyes, and turns back to the soldier.]

“No, something’s wrong. Set up a search party.”

AMBUSH SCENE AT THE OUTPOST

[The outpost soldier subtly signs “danger” to warn Amaya.]

S2: EP 5

THE PREPARATION SCENE BEFORE GOING TO KILL THE MAGMA TITAN

[Amaya nudges Sarai] “Haha that’s signing, get it?” [Sarai laughs in response]

This is in reference to Harrow’s hand gestures. Harrow is not using sign language, but Amaya was making the joke to Sarai that Harrow was “signing” because he was gesturing a lot, & perhaps also bc sometimes hand gestures can be mistaken for sign language.

(Tbh this brought to mind multiple instances where I thought I saw someone signing at a glance, but it turned out that they were just using hand gestures while talking.)

EDIT: It’s been brought to my attention that there are some people who think that this joke was in fact a dirty one such as the “that’s what she said” type. I would like to clarify.

Honestly, if you do not know ASL then I would ask for you to please refrain from making assumptions. What she signed in that particular scene is a bit difficult to translate to English. It’s important to remember that ASL is a separate language with its own linguistic rules. ASL can’t really be translated to English perfectly– it’s meant to be a visual language, not written/spoken. Amaya’s exact signing was this: [nudges Sarai] “ha ha, that[’s] sign[ing]” Then here she uses a hand sign that means “oh I see” (typically used to show that you’re paying attention/listening), but could also convey “ah! oh i see” (picture a light bulb turning on, like you’ve understood something), etc. The emotion that is conveyed via that hand sign depends on the facial expressions used.

So: “ha ha, that[’s] sign[ing] oh-i-see”.

For it to make sense in English, I put down “get it?”.

In other words, it’s like she jokingly said “Haha, I see he’s signing!”.

It’s clear that she was making a joke about Harrow gesticulating. Amaya, as a Deaf person, is very visual. She relies on her eyes (and her hands) all the time. So naturally, Harrow using large hand gestures would stand out to her.

S2: EP 6

SCENE AFTER THE MAGMA TITAN‘S DEFEAT

[Sarai rushes to Amaya & catches her before she falls to the ground.]

A: “How do I look?”  [points at the new scar on her face]  {alternatively: “How does my face look?”}

S: “Not great, but you should see the other guy.”

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my arch nemesis cynthia is, of course, at the bank, because we both were sent like clockwork to pick up the checks of our husbands. she is wearing a lovely long green gown, which i know was on behalf of me, because, as my husband will tell you, our house abhors green and glamour. already the tellers look at each other under their little hats, for they love our tirades, i’m sure, although not more than i hate them. 

“oh, is that your knitting?” my arch nemesis cynthia peers her eyes at my hands. “is it some kind of… sock?” everyone knows she and i used to be close before we were married and our husbands, smartly so, have introduced us to the idea of true vengeance.

“it is a scarf,” i say. i want to tell her that when the time comes and the world gets cold it will go over my mouth and i will breathe warm air and it will fill my lungs and i will be able to run around with my love even in the dark night. “it is not,” i say, “over surprising that you should be caught unawares of a scarf,” i say, “as i’m sure enjoying winter festivities are too beneath the handsome qualities your husband prefers.” pompous ass.

the tellers pass each other eyes for now it has started and they are delighted.

my arch nemesis cynthia thrusts out her hand. a white bottle. “rat poison,” she says. “i would expect the whole town knows about your little problem.” stage whisper. “such a shame, my dear.” then she rustles her long green skirts - which i know she wore on behalf of me - and she shimmies herself out of the room like royalty. oh, she floats everywhere she goes, beautiful black hair behind her. the bottle in my palm is cold. i will devise how to get her back starting first thing tomorrow.

the week, as always, is a long week, for there is much to make and do and knit and be. my husband comes home and i love him for who he is; for he never comes home without checking the state of the house up and down. he is the kind who loves his home so completely and sets each room like a stage for a great band to come playing. i am too ashamed to tell him why so many of the rats go missing, only make him a stew the next morning to celebrate. his favorite, although not mine, i’m afraid. plenty left over.

my arch nemesis today - of course - in a green the color of rotting. a bruise is uncarefully covered on her cheekbone, so striking against all of her dainty. her husband would say it was for her ungraceful nature, and i know mine would agree. i strike first, already delighted by my master plan, shoving over our best picnic basket tied with a bow. “i made you and yours a stew,” i say, “for beneath all that you carry” all that horrible wealth of your husband  “it seems you’re getting rather skinny.” i can’t resist one last comment. “i am worried you’re about to waste to nothing.”

She plucks it out of my hand. “yes, if it weren’t for you and your husband’s dwindling wealth,” her sarcasm is biting, “i’m sure i will be nothing in, oh, 5 weeks time.” she arches a brow. “so long from now.”

“i am counting the days,” i tell her. her lips purse. the tellers behind me make a choked titter. perhaps, by their estimation, i have won this round quite completely. i go home to my husband smiling. he asks where i have been and i tell him i’ve been at the bank, but he checks anyway because i like to get up to tricks and he doesn’t like to fall for it. it is a good game we play. at night, when he is asleep, i am so in love that i must convince myself to pull the covers over my nose and practice breathing. how silly to wake him up for a young girl’s feelings. 

the first week of five: she gives me a solid, ugly ring that requires three knuckles to hold. “i feel so badly for your status, and i must remember to practice charity,” she says. “it such a small thing, but do be careful amongst all that thin pine furnishing of your house, which dents so easily.” my husband appears at the bank’s front door. just checking. so lovely to be picked up by him. at night, in a rage, i try it - beneath the table bends easily. i scuff out the scratch with walnut before my husband can see. i pull the covers over my face in bed and breathe.

the second week: i wear her ugly ring and give her more stew, this time hearty with meat. her dress is a meadow. my heart each time it sees her collapses on itself. she hands me clothes for my husband, since his wealth continues to go missing, and the charity of her heart is so loving. i am so ashamed i bury them far by the old tree, where all my shames go hiding. again, the covers. it, by now, helps me sleep. i have gotten so good at it that i can simply shimmy my shoulders to be perfectly toasty and buried.

the third week: she asks how comes my knitting. i tell her it’s nearly complete. she asks how comes my husband, whom she must know has been ill recently, and who is doing quite badly. i go home to him, shaking. even sick he is a good housekeeper, who comes home examining for dust and dinge so i do not fall behind on my chores. who checks to be sure i spoke to only him and no one more, for fear a man might snatch me. tell me, who else has a man so involved, in this day and age?

the fourth week she is envy green. i shove a whole heaping of stew at her, for now her husband has gotten it. i say it will return him to spirits, she laughs, a sudden, beautiful sound, even in the quiet of a bank. everyone stares. maybe it is the stress that is making her quite improper. i feel the same way. so much is happening and it always seems she knows. she says she heard he has left me nothing in the will, which everyone already knows. she says she doubts either of us can dig upwards from the hole we’re both in. i look at the bruise on her nose. i tell her to mind her own husband, and be careful where she goes.

the fifth week: so final. her, garishly lime green. and i in black, to pick up a check that hardly seems the effort. it will be enough to cover my husband’s funeral. she smiles at me and hands me a silver bottle. she says quietly: now that i am destitute, there is one thing for it all, and everyone would understand quite completely. it would be quiet, and quick, and complete.

it is the night of the new moon, so dark no man can see in it. i receive notice her husband has died, and i am sorry to say i find a terrible joy in it. the air has changed cold. i have left a note asking to be buried in my scarf, the last thing i have made on this earth. i go through each perfect room, but there is nothing else to take with me, for the house has always been his and his alone, and now aches to be gone of him. i would not serve as a good tender for it. having spent so many nights watched carefully, the silly girlish freedom i’d gain would surely set the house ablaze.

i follow her instructions. quick, quiet, complete.

the horrible rustling is what does it. like a million green skirts. and then it is dark, and i am in my own coffin, eerie with pine. my head hurts but i must be quick and quiet. they have listened and buried me with my scarf. i shimmy my shoulders just-so and get it over my face. bring my arms up, ugly ring heavy, and begin to hit as hard as i can, over and over, the thin wood of my husband’s favorite furniture, the cretin. it would be pine, of course - he left me no money to be buried in any nicer recourse.

the wood splits so horribly, and then it is very hard to breathe, harder than under the covers, and i have to remind myself to be patient and continue to dig upwards, while my throat closes and my heart beats so loudly and the whole thing is so heavy it is a universe. the shifting of gravedirt is loud, and loud, and i feel i will be turned into a worm, and i fear everyone has forgotten about me, or i have gotten the timing wrong, or i will really die down here in the dirt and the cold

but then her hand, and my hand, and we are both digging towards each other, and she lifts me so easily from the ground like a plucked turnip and holds me against her, us both panting and muddied. we can only stay like this for so long, here in my pauper grave, and then we are both running to the old tree where we met, and unburying a second thing; my lovely box of shame, and men’s clothes, and all of my husband’s dwindling fortune i have slowly been squirrelling away.

my love and angel cynthia, who has black hair like a curtain and a mind so fast i sometimes am in frank awe at it, who is, even now and dirty and raw: even now the only sun in my life.

like this, i a man in an almost-dawn, and us cleaned by the river, and her smiling so widely, and only a faint bruise on her, and our pasts behind us in ugly garish colors. and her delicate hand and beautiful nose and when i finally get to kiss her it feels like green feels; my favorite color, all warm and nature and sunny grace and grass and lying awake so filled with love it makes you shake.

i hold her, and she holds me, and our future is a love like a dream unburied.

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two guys having a conversation about their friend who uses any pronouns but they're very clearly trying to outdo each other in obscurity with each pronoun used

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Spain by Vicente Fraga

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Love is in the Air by Hugo von Schreck

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This year, on the 31 March, we lost Gilbert Baker, gay artist and creator of the gay pride flag. Today we would celebrate his 66th birthday. Let’s remember him as the wonderful person he was.

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having a shower stool is the best because not only can i sit and stare at the wall for an hour in my towel after my shower, but i can sit and stare at the wall in the shower too

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in my sophomore year of college this guy made these items which quickly became a craze across campus. i myself bought one of his sweaters, which says “GOOD AND DEAD” across the chest and “ARM PAIN” along the sleeves. he showed up at 11 pm on a bicycle to deliver the goods in the dead of winter, wearing a metal t-shirt tucked into khakis. his facebook screen name is an indecipherable series of symbols. i have no authentic way to credit him but i want to share his art with you.

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this is kind of old but i have so many drawings of this fucking Guy.

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“I never understood the phrase; ‘Like a deer in the headlights’, until she looked me in the eyes for the first time.”

Agnes Montague.

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first day as a second century warlord i have my men tie branches to their horses’ tails to stir up dust and make it look like there’s a lot of us but i forget it just rained so there isn’t any dust and the enemy can clearly see there’s like twenty of us all spread out in a line

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MAG 4: Page Turner

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shoutout to the hotties with chronic pain and fatigue 💖💞💝💘💕💗

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I've really grown to dislike how most of the people approach s5 Jon (and Martin) time travels back to season one AUs. Because it can be sum up as "no one likes season one Jon, he's so stuck up and grumpy and repressed opposed to future Jon who is much more chill and more fun".

Because I don't think Sasha or Tim disliked s1 Jon? All their conversations seemed always quite friendly and relaxed? They throw him a birthday party. And Jon liked them and thought highly of them as well he asked for them to be transfered to Archives. He understandably disliked only Martin for lack of skills he should have had but did not.

All the negative feeling Sasha and Tim had against him came literally from them thinking Sasha should have been given the position of Head Archivist but that's it. They were even not so much annoyed with Jon but with Elias here honestly.

I would like to see some take when they are all weirded out by s5 Jon. I want season one archival crew bond over how they think s5 Jon is secretive and says ominous stuff all the time (And if s5 Martin is present as well I want them to be annoyed with his bitchy attitude.) Because s5 Jon and Martin could not anymore see the world through lenses on normal human and they would be all "We know what is best for you" while s1 crew would be more "No you don't. Not if you refuse to give us proper explanation. Stop acting like you know better, stop acting as we cannot take care of ourselves."

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this podcast has had me in a chokehold since the end of october and i could not be happier about it