#and there's nothing poetic about this

[abitofouterspace]

.

[soaked-doors]

nothing happened

…nothing at all

[jazforthesoul]

every time someone reduces CAPTAIN !!! elizabeth "lizzie" lafayette down to "a sad lesbian" a fairy dies bc i shoot it with my gun. like you're telling me you were spoon-fed a character that has one of the most realistic and RAW representations of grief and perseverance in the series and all you got from that was "she's sad" ????

is she a constantly happy character? Fuck no! that's acknowledged!! but to take EVERYTHING that she is, which has positive and negative aspects THAT ARE BOTH SHOWN, to take the fact that she is THE DRIVING FORCE OF THE MAIN BACKGROUND PLOT, and reduce her down to NOTHING but her relationships?? ?what the hell!!!

[horsefigureoftheday]

I miss you so much babe, you have no idea what I would do to get you back</3

[vanyafresita]

after seeing this post by the artist afkeii on instagram, i got inspired to write a poem... and then i drew something to make it into a zine...

the way i feel about romantic love is... complicated... but i've known i'm on the aromantic spectrum for over a year now ! yippiee !

if you'd like to have a physical copy, feel free to [download the print version here] , and check [how to put it together / make a 8-page zine here]

[sweepingboy]

ZHANMADAO IS THE ONLY SPIRITUAL WEAPON WITHOUT A NAME IN TGCF AND I ALWAYS WONDERED WHY MU QING DECIDED TO KEEP IT LIKE THAT.

Like, the cultivation and training meant a lot to him, he always tried to act properly regardless of his status AND YET HE DIDN'T GIVE HIS SABER A NAME??? naming a weapon is a big thing for a cultivator, the sword have spirits, yet he keeps calling it by its type???

NEED YOUR THOUGHT ON THAT

[microclown]

I've been stuck on viewing Maggie as Crowley's mirror, and for most of the show I like that interpretation. But once I started thinking of Nina as Crowley's Mirror in the ball scene specifically, I made a connection....

Aziraphale is playing God here. He has a vision- a happy romantic evening where people speak Victorian English, dress nicely, dance, and fall in love -and he wills everyone present to conform to his plan. But Nina doesn't conform. Nina feels like something isn't right. She asks questions.

She asks Aziraphale what's going on, why she doesn't feel sad when she knows she's sad, and Aziraphale doesn't give her a satisfactory answer. He tells her that the important thing is that she's here. She's here to play a role in his great plan. To dance in his ball.

So she expresses her concerns to Maggie. Maggie hadn't seen the issues at first, but she listens to Nina, and Nina gets her to acknowledge the absurdity of the situation just a little bit. Listen to their conversation at the dance again. It sounds SO MUCH like the conversations we've heard Crowley and Aziraphale have a thousand times during their 6000 year dance. Crowley calling out heaven, asking questions, trying to get Aziraphale to consider the absurdity of it all. Aziraphale mostly defending heaven, but listening, and sometimes acquiescing.

And this all falls in line with a point I've made before - In season 2, Crowley's relationship with Aziraphale begins to mirror his relationship with heaven. Aziraphale shows a pattern of not listening to Crowley the whole season, but especially in this scene. Crowley tries to ask him what is going on, and alert him to very real danger, but Aziraphale is dismissive. He is blinded by his desire to see his plan to fruition.

And just so we're clear, this is not an Aziraphale hate post. Rather, I think it might give us some insight into where God is coming from. Because Aziraphale's actions may be dismissive and controlling, but they are motivated by love. Misguided, certainly, but with all the best intentions. I have a feeling, when we finally meet God, it will be a similar story. And maybe both She and Aziraphale will learn that sometimes to love means to let go.

[wordsinhaled]

Edwin holding both of Charles' hands in his and telling him, "You cannot hurt me in any way that matters."

"I have been hurt beyond imagining and you have witnessed it firsthand, Charles. Do you remember it, as I remember it—clear as day? That was the worst agony imaginable. Unspeakable. Insurmountable. And you were wounded tenfold at the sight of it. You cannot hurt me in a way I will ever hold against you. And moreover you will not. No—don't look at me like that—I know you will not. Because you would sooner destroy yourself than cause me an iota of intentional pain. Your soul revolts against the thought of hurting me, does it not? Just as mine riots against the thought of you in pain. You saved me from hell—and Charles, you must not consign yourself to one of your own for fear of hurting me. Not when I am here to love you. Our love is not without risk, Charles, but it is a risk that is worth the reward."

[kidokear]

I just thought about how Gabriel's victories have been tied- and even attributed- to God and his faith of the said God. Do you know how many things can be done with this??

Right now I'm thinking about his first win (against anyone) after realizing that God is gone or dead. How would that hit him? God is not there so he can't say he won a battle due to- or for- him. It would be Gabriel's victory, fully and completely Gabriel's. Were any of his previous battles won with God to begin with? Was it always him? Would that give him a crisis or would it make him happy? maybe a mixture of both?

One thing for sure. It would reassure him that he will be fine.

[manderleyfire]

– What's keeping us apart ain't even real, your daddy, his religion, it's got nothing to do with us. – It's not just his, it's mine too. I've got the same spirit in me, why don't you see that?

Alice Englert and Walton Goggins in Them That Follow (2019), dir. Dan Madison Savage & Brittany Poulton

[forestgreenlesbian]

keeping a spray bottle by the bed to spray myself in the face when i start thinking about love after 9pm again

[flowercrowngods]

The Last Day.

Steve doesn’t remember what drove him here — he doesn’t remember a lot of things lately, not that he’s mentioned that to anyone. They don’t really question these things anymore. Fucky vision, nightmares without sleeping, or things that just get lost in the everyday grind of remembering to do normal things like eat or drink or where the fuck he put his glasses.

So, he doesn’t remember what drove him here, if he was supposed to get something or if he just needed to get out of the gym, needed to breathe some air that’s not filled with anxiety and grief and the pressure of survivor’s guilt and why and how and when around every corner, behind every door, underneath every donated item and in every bite of stale peanut butter sandwiches.

The library was never a place of comfort for him, and he honestly never really cared about it one war or another. If pressed for it, he couldn’t name five books in all of these shelves. He never really looked.

But now, in the semi-darkness, the empty shelves are somehow daunting. All useful books were taken, children’s books donated to all the families that stayed, all science books stolen by people who were sure they could fix this, could get behind this, could build generators and water refineries and all that shit.

Somehow, the negative space in these shelves draws him in, and he takes a deep breath. A breath that Dustin would like, probably. It smells like books. It smells old. It smells like, somehow, somewhere, there might still be a constant in this world. Something that will remain. Like maybe there will always be a library that smells of old books. No matter how often the world will end.

It’s a strange thought. But comforting. He trails the shelves, not really looking at the books, walking too fast still to make out the titles in the dim light, but he refuses to stop. He refuses to stand. To linger.

The next two rows are completely empty, and it makes him shiver. Robin probably has a name for the feeling. Maybe melancholy. Or maybe he’s just haunted. Susceptible to absence.

Or maybe they’re the same feeling.

Blindly, he reaches for a book, because his hands begin to tingle and he really needs something to do before his lungs catch up and his brain finds out that he’s somehow almost about to panic, or to relapse, or to drop to the floor if his legs don’t regain feeling soon.

He keeps walking, the book in hand. It’s a slim edition, bound in leather, and it feels really old. Looks like it, too.

Michael Bruce

He carefully flips it open, the old paper crackling with the movement, and he wonders briefly if this is the part of the library that’s usually watched like a hawk, the part where you’re not allowed to touch the books without supervision and certainly not without reason. Maybe. Maybe this Michael Bruce hasn’t seen a real face in a long time.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to find out that they’re mostly poems—and of course they are, old books are almost always filled with poems.

He opens the book at a random page, still needing to settle his hands, his heart, his mind. The title makes his heart drop. “The Last Day.”, it’s called; still his eyes glide over the lines, intrigued.

Twas on an autumn's eve, serene and calm. I walked, attendant on the funeral Of an old swain : around, the village crowd Loquacious chatted, till we reach'd the place Where, shrouded up, the sons of other years Lie silent in the grave. The sexton there Had digg'd the bed of death, the narrow house, For all that live, appointed. To the dust We gave the dead. Then moralizing, home The swains return'd, to drown in copious bowls The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Okay. Sure. So, maybe this Michael Bruce dude is not the best company when the world is sort of ending. But somehow Steve can’t stop reading, and for the first time he kind of doesn’t want to stop reading a poem. This one’s different anyway. This one just… it gets him.

Images of Barb flood his mind. Eddie. Chrissy. Max. Everyone who was lost, everyone who has an empty coffin in their grave and an NDA penned to their name.

To the dust We gave the dead.

The labours of the day, and thoughts of death.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to go back out there. Head to the gym and fold clothes and check the missing posters and make phone calls to find out, to make sure, to keep in touch. The labours of the day. The thoughts of death.

Shaking hands flip the pages, two at once, because he doesn’t want to live the last day; doesn’t want to hear about it. He needs to know how it ends, needs to make sure, needs to find out, just—

A pause ensued. The fainting sun grew pale, And seem'd to struggle through a sky of blood : While dim eclipse impaird his beam : the earth Shook to her deepest centre : Ocean rag'd, And dash'd his billows on the frighted shore. All was confusion. Heartless, helpless, wild.

Suddenly, what little light was left to stream through the windows disappears, stealing the words from beneath his eyes, and before he can look up and breathe, the door to the library bursts open, revealing a panicked Robin.

“Steve?”

“Robbie?”

“You… You better come see this.”

He hears it in her voice. The resignation. Oceans raging as the fainting sun grows pale. Confusion. Helpless, heartless, wild.

He closes Michael Bruce and runs toward her on numb legs, not ready to find out about the new apocalypse he’s gonna find outside the library. And seeing black skies through the windows and pale faces behind them, reflecting against the growing darkness, he wonders if he shouldn’t have skipped through the last day. The Last Day.

Terror in every look, and pale affright Sat in each eye ; amazed at the past, And for the future trembling.

Steve, too, is trembling. And Robin’s hand in his is shaking just as much.

Poetical works of Michael Bruce : with life and writings. William Stephen ed. 1895.

[batbabydamian]

Robin: Son of Batman (2015) by Patrick Gleason is THE peak Damian story arc and pure fun and emotion!!

[gingermintpepper]

hi, i haven't read the iliad and the odyssey but want to - do u have a specific translation you recommend? the emily wilson one has been going around bc, y'know, first female translator of the iliad and odyssey into english, but i was wondering on if you had Thoughts

Hi anon! Sorry for the somewhat late response and I'm glad you trust me with recommendations! Full, disclosure, I am somewhat of a traditionalist when it comes to translations of the source text of the Iliad + Odyssey combo wombo, which means I tend to prefer closeness in literal verbiage over interpretation of the poetic form of these epics - for that reason, my personal preferred versions of the Odyssey and Iliad both are Robert Fitzgerald's. Because both of these translations (and his Aeneid!) were done some 50+ years ago (63 for his original Odyssey tl, 50 flat for his Iliad and 40 for his Aeneid) the English itself can be a bit difficult to read and the syntax can get confusing in a lot of places, so despite my personal preferences, I wouldn't recommend it for someone who is looking to experience the Iliad + Odyssey for the very first time.

For an absolute beginner, someone who has tried to read one or both of these epics but couldn't get into it or someone who has a lot of difficulty with concentrating on poetry or long, winding bits of prose, I fully and wholeheartedly recommend Wilson's translation! See, the genius of Emily Wilson's Iliad + Odyssey isn't that she's a woman who's translated these classics, it's that she's a poet who's adapted the greek traditional poetic form of dactylic hexameter into the english traditional poetic form of iambic pentameter. That alone goes a very very long way to making these poems feel more digestible and approachable - iambic pentameter is simply extremely comfortable and natural for native english speakers' brains and the general briskness of her verbiage helps a lot in getting through a lot of the problem books that people usually drop the Iliad or Odyssey in like Book 2 of the Iliad or Book 4 of the Odyssey. I think it's a wonderful starting point that allows people to familiarise themselves with the source text before deciding if they want to dig deeper - personally, researching Wilson's translation choices alone is a massive rabbit hole that is worth getting into LOL.

The happy medium between Fitzgerald's somewhat archaic but precise syntax and Wilson's comfortable meter but occasionally less detailled account is Robert Fagles' Iliad + Odyssey. Now, full disclosure, I detest how Fagles handles epithets in both of his versions, I think they're far too subtle which is something he himself has talked at length about in his translation notes, but for everything else - I'd consider his translations the most well rounded of english adaptations of this text in recent memory. They're accurate but written in plain English, they're descriptive and detailled without sacrificing a comfortable meter and, perhaps most importantly, they're very accessible for native english speaking audiences to approach and interact with. I've annotated my Fagles' volumes of these books to heaven and back because I'm deeply interested in a lot of the translation decisions made, but I also have to specifically compliment his ability to capture nuance in the characters' of these poems in a way I don't often see. He managed to adapt the ambivalence of ancient greek morality in a way I scarcely see and that probably has a hand in why I keep coming back to his translations.

Now, I know this wasn't much of a direct recommendation but as I do not know you personally, dear anon, I can't much make a direct recommendation to a version that would best appeal to your style of reading. Ideally, I'd recommend that you read and enjoy all three! But, presuming that you are a normal person, I suggest picking which one is most applicable for you. I hope this helps! 🥰

[whatwouldmickeydo]

Mickey leaving prison in S10: "All right, here are your belongings: your clothes, your wallet, and your folded-up photograph of a teenager giving the middle finger to the camera."

He hadn’t meant to hang on to it for so long, never intended for that picture to become a staple in his wallet, tucked away behind his license, the edges frayed and faded.

It had haunted him at times, like a green eyed specter keeping watch whenever he’d open his wallet to grab something, that smirk of his staring back as if to remind him of all the ways he’d failed.

Then there was prison, where he thought it was gone forever, relegated to wherever they put prisoner’s belongings while they rot away behind bars. Until he managed to bribe a guard into bringing him his shit, crinkled picture peaking out of a messy bundle of other crap that suddenly didn’t seem so important.

He’d stared at it for so long that night, before tucking it away with a heavy sigh and heading out to the car where Damon stood smoking a cigarette, the moon the only light to see by.

He’d carried it all the way to Mexico, hesitating for a moment before stuffing it inside his backpack at the last minute, refusing to unpack all the loaded feelings that went along with it.

It’s been folded and unfolded so many times, there’s now a layer of tape keeping the top and the bottom half together, thrown in the trash at some point, then fished out five minutes later, smoothing it back over and over to remove the wrinkles. Rinse and repeat.

And then he doesn’t need to look at it because the real thing is finally there again, beautiful and vibrant and fucking alive. Coming together like no time has passed at all, lips and tongues and hands burning the same familiar paths down each other’s bodies on a shitty prison mattress.

He’s got newer pictures now. Better ones, ones with just him and ones with the two of them together, happy and healthy and fucking loved.

And yet.

And yet somehow this picture stays, transferred from his old, ratty, falling apart at the seams, one good rip will tear the whole thing apart wallet to an actual nice leather one that Ian buys him for a birthday one year.

He’s not even sure why he still keeps it there, doesn’t really take it out much but it’s somehow a comfort to know it’s still there, a reminder of all the heavy shit they’ve gone through over the years, both good and heartbreakingly bad. But maybe that’s all the more reason to keep it, something to balance out all that they have in their lives now. Sickness and health, all that shit. Maybe it’s a symbol of hope, that things weren’t as lost as they once were, that it was all worth it after all. That they found their way back to each other in spite of all the cards stacked against them. Then again, maybe it’s just a picture.

[beepborpdoodledorp]

I’d make fun of half of the quiz game questions at most requiring the cognitive ability of a toddler but I’m also the one who answered Custard III instead of Light Cream for ‘Which Cookie does not belong to House Custard’ so I really can’t