#a drop a week

[chloesimaginationthings]

Do you guys fuck with the FNAF books?…

[christadeguchi]

quick question: when will she ravish me.

also... the music. the little wet noises... so good...

[fallen-jpg]

why did no one tell me that today is batman day

[daeyumi]

made a fake boxart for my zelda au 🌟💫

[anoant-haikyuu-dump]

I'm all for people hitting yams with the "long hair and a cool fashion sense" beam but my favorite timeskip flavor is lame office worker

[hwashitape]

lungs, kidney, heart

[inkskinned]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mobius-m-mobius]

#he's actually a comedian

HUGH JACKMAN as LOGAN HOWLETT // WOLVERINE

[eldritch-ace]

The Leading Man

I love how after watching Nightmare Time, TGWDLM implies that all the powerhouses of Hatchetfield were infected before the CCRP crew (also that Pokey plays favorites)

[zillychu]

i'll keep putting him in gacha games until I'm paid for my silence. this is a threat

[triona-tribblescore]

Was doing warm-up huskerdust doodles a while ago and this pic of Cupid and Psyche (Amore e Psiche) had me in a chokehold <333

[chloesimaginationthings]

Shout out to FNAF phone guy finally getting a name!

[canisalbus]

✦ Huhhahhei ✦

[gatoburr0]

caption

[quirkle2]

a labor of love about milk. there are other things too i guess

[sunderwight]

Had a thought of the first time Shen Qingqiu does Binghe's hair, it's while Binghe is still a disciple.

It's nothing untoward! His mind hasn't even remotely touched upon that direction of intimacy yet. It's just that Binghe, though matured beyond his years by all the trauma and quite capable of handling many things, is still a teenager. When he's new to living in the bamboo house, he immediately starts taking on too much and trying too hard to do everything perfectly. Even with his protagonist cheats, he gets overwhelmed.

Shen Qingqiu knows how diligent Luo Binghe is about maintaining his appearance. Even when he was being cruelly neglected and sleeping in the wood shed, he did his best to look as presentable as he could manage. So when, one morning, Luo Binghe almost rushes out the door with his hair still in disarray, having gotten distracted by one set of tasks to the point of neglecting another, Shen Qingqiu stops him before he can leave.

With the habit of an older brother, Shen Qingqiu deftly catches up Luo Binghe's long hair and ties it into a ponytail for him, before shooing him back to his business. It's only afterwards that it hits him that doing Luo Binghe's hair for him might have crossed one of those carefully maintained boundaries between master and disciple, but after a minute, he shrugs it off. Old habits die hard, and if Binghe takes any offense, at least it will be mitigated by not having Ming Fan or any of the other disciples scold him for an unkempt appearance (which they definitely would have done, had they caught him).

Meanwhile Luo Binghe is standing frozen outside of the house, having stopped exactly where his legs failed him after Shen Qingqiu's shooing. He no longer remembers what he was hurrying to go do. Or why. His face feels like it's on fire. He's pretty sure that Shen Qingqiu just used one of his own personal hair ties to do up Luo Binghe's hair. His scalp is still tingling. Help him.