#article spin tool

[artifacts-and-arthropods]

Child's Sock from Egypt, c.250-350 CE: this colorful sock is nearly 1,700 years old

This sock was discovered during excavations in the ancient city of Oxyrhynchus. It was likely created for a child during the late Roman period, c.250-350 CE.

Similar-looking socks from late antiquity and the early Byzantine period have also been found at several other sites throughout Egypt; these socks often have colorful, striped patterns with divided toes, and they were crafted out of wool using a technique known as nålbinding.

Above: a similar child's sock from Antinoöpolis, in Egypt, c.250-350 CE

The sock depicted above was created during the same period, and it was found in a midden heap (an ancient rubbish pit) in the city of Antinoöpolis. A multispectral imaging analysis of this sock yielded some interesting results back in 2018, as this article explains:

... analysis revealed that the sock contained seven hues of wool yarn woven together in a meticulous, stripy pattern. Just three natural, plant-based dyes—madder roots for red, woad leaves for blue and weld flowers for yellow—were used to create the different color combinations featured on the sock, according to Joanne Dyer, lead author of the study.

In the paper, she and her co-authors explain that the imaging technique also revealed how the colors were mixed to create hues of green, purple and orange: In some cases, fibers of different colors were spun together; in others, individual yarns went through multiple dye baths.

Such intricacy is pretty impressive, considering that the ancient sock is both “tiny” and “fragile."

Given its size and orientation, the researchers believe it may have been worn on a child’s left foot.

Above: child's sock from Al Fayyum, Egypt, c.300-500 CE

The ancient Egyptians employed a single-needle looping technique, often referred to as nålbindning, to create their socks. Notably, the approach could be used to separate the big toe and four other toes in the sock—which just may have given life to the ever-controversial socks-and-sandals trend.

Sources & More Info:

Manchester Museum: Child's Sock from Oxyrhynchus

British Museum: Sock from Antinoupolis

Royal Ontario Museum: Sock from Al Fayyum

Smithsonian Magazine: 1,700-Year-Old Sock Spins Yarn About Ancient Egyptian Fashion

The Guardian: Imaging Tool Unravels Secrets of Child's Sock from Ancient Egypt

PLOS ONE Journal: A Multispectral Imaging Approach Integrated into the Study of Late Antique Textiles from Egypt

National Museums Scotland: The Lost Sock

[123whistler-blog]

Spin Rewriter AI – Article Spinning Tool

Spin Rewriter AI – Article Spinning Tool

Posted on November 1, 2023 by Andrew Larder

Spin Rewriter AI

Article Spinning Tool

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[freemicrotools]

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[too-much-tma-stuff]

Finally Getting Help (pt 3)

first | last | Masterpost | Next

What Tim and Bruce found was completely ridiculous. It really wasn’t hard to find the Doctors Fenton’s website but it was ridiculous! It was outdated and gaudy with animations of cartoony ghosts everywhere. If it hadn’t been for how clear Danny was about his parents' names Tim would have skipped right over it. But when he got past the terrible website design and started reading it his stomach just dropped lower and lower.

The writing was clean and scientific though it couldn’t disguise the malicious delight they took in tearing the creatures they called ‘ghosts’ apart. Whatever these ghosts really were Danny had been internalizing this attitude about Himself for years! They also bragged about their weapons and their government contract. So whether that was true or not Danny hadn’t been lying or delusional, it was his parents. And regardless of what these ghosts actually were it was obvious they were supernatural so RR sent a link to the website to Zatana.

(link)

RR: What do you think?

Tana: Lol is this a joke?

RR: I wish, I know it looks like one but no, this is deadly serious.

Tana: Hang on

Red Robin put down his phone to give Zatana the time to read over the site and looked more into Maddy and Jack Fenton while she did. He found their graduation certificates, and pictures of them in college with what must have been a much younger Vlad. So they were actually doctors of some sort, they had their doctorate, though that didn’t exactly make it any less likely they had gone fully off the rails now.

His phone dinged and he picked it up to see one short message from Zatana.

Tana: I’m coming to the cave.

Tim sighed and put his phone back down, spinning his chair to face B who was hunched over the computer typing furiously. “Zatana is on her way, I asked for her opinion of the Fenton’s research and she must think it’s big.” He said as he dug out a domino mask.

“Hm,” B sounded and went to get his cowl. “Report?”

“The Doctors Fenton are doctors, they got their doctorates though I don’t know in what yet. They’ve been friends with Vlad since university and they certainly at least think they’re studying ghosts. Their website has articles on behaviours and biology, and how to hunt and hurt ghosts. They brag about a government contract.” Tim summarized. “You?”

“The Ghost Investigation Ward does exist and they are a government agency but they only seem to be active in the town of Amity Park and they’re so inept! It wasn’t hard to hack them, they’re trying to sound mysterious and a little dangerous talking about protecting humanity from invasions from other worlds but I don’t think they’re actually that competent,” Batman said with a scowl.

“The only reason we didn’t know about this was because we weren’t looking! And it’s possible Danny is right and they were jamming calls from Amity to the JL, but I have a terrible feeling what actually happened if that the call came through and someone heard them talking about ghosts and rogue government agencies, assumed it was a prank and blocked them,” Bruce said massaging his temples.

“Ah,” Tim said, his heart dropping at how plausible that sounded. Could they have saved Danny before, if they had taken that call seriously.

“And Vlad is the mayor of his town, there are articles about Danny fighting him in public. It seems like everyone knew their relationship was antagonistic at best and No One defended him. The GIW also listed him in their special thanks for helping fund them. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been using them as a tool to threaten and control Danny.” Batman said with cold fury. Tim took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

“We weren’t able to protect him, but we will avenge him. And we’ll keep him safe Now,” Tim reminded his father. Privately thinking that as soon as he could he was going to tell Jason about this so they could Really make sure Vlad never came near Danny again. An arrest just wasn’t strong enough for a man like that. He wasn’t going to tell Bruce that though, obviously.

The sound of the Zeta tube interrupted their moment as Zatana arrived, looking slightly more ruffled then she usually did. She must have really rushed here, which was a bit worrying.

“Zatana,” Batman greeted.

“Hello Batman, before we talk I need to check your wards.” She said already walking past them.

“Hm,” Batman sounded, making RR smile a little, how Batman made that sound mean so many different things always sort of amazed him.

“I need to check the ones on your home too. And I’d like to meet the boy you have under your care,” She said briskly.

“How did you know about the boy?” Batman asked gruffly.

“Lucky guess,” she said briskly, her hands glowed as she walked around the cave, making seemingly random gestures as if touching or pulling on invisible threads. None of the bats really understood magic so they left her to it. When she was done they let her up into the manner, she knew their identities already after all and she checked all the wards on the home very thoroughly, occasionally casting spells to reinforce them. They collected Dick and Damian trailing after them curiously as they went as well.

“Alright, can I meet the boy now?” She asked, turning towards Bruce who crossed his arms and puffed out his chest a bit.

“Not till you explain to us what’s going on,” He growled and Zatana looked over the curious stubborn faces surrounding her and sighed.

“Fine,” she allowed, resigned. She rubbed her temples as she looked around for a chair and sunk down into it. “So what the Fentons seem to be referring to as Ghosts are actually denizens of the Infinite Realms, the space in between every world and afterlife. Some of the beings there were once people who died but many aren’t. They’re also known to be very powerful and quite violent though thankfully not particularly interested in the living. The fact that the Government is apparently messing with something like this is very bad news.

“Constantine and I have been keeping half an eye on the situation in Amity Park but they had their own pair of Heroes, Phantom and Red Huntress, who seemed to have the situation well under control so we weren’t all that worried about it. We weren’t tracking the more human elements of the GIW and the Fentons,” She bit her lip and thought for a moment.

“When Tim sent me that website and I was made aware of those, that changed things. What’s worse is the photo the Fentons’ have of their family. Their son… we knew Phantom looked young but ghosts often stay at a younger age than they really are, with how powerful he was we assumed he was Old. But he looks exactly like the Fenton’s son. Did they not notice he was dead or…” She looked around at their faces, apparently getting her answer from their expressions.

“There have been rumours for a long time about a very rare and powerful sort of living dead, humans soaked in the pure energy of the infinite realms resulting in a still living ancient. It’s so rare that people usually think it’s a fairy tale but with the work Phantom’s parents do it makes a sick sort of sense. And what it means is that that boy you have stashed away is basically a baby God and we all have to be very careful.”

There was a heavy silence as they all processed what she was saying. “Are you… sure?” Tim asked, uncertainly.

“I won’t be till I meet him, but I’m as sure as I can be without that at the moment,” she said firmly.

Tim sighed and pulled out his phone. “Cas is with him, I’ll text her to see if she’s up to meeting you. If he’s that powerful we don’t want to push him right?” He asked as he typed out a text to Cas.

“Yes. Like I said he’s been acting as a hero in Amity, he seems like a good kid but I have no doubt in my mind if he’s pushed too far we could have a truly apocalyptic situation on our hands,” She said which made Tim swallow thickly.

His phone dinged and he checked it. “Danny is willing to meet you but he’s really tired so go easy on him and don’t stay long,” Tim relayed her message.

“Alright that’s fine, thank you. Show me the way please,” She requested.

Bruce took over, leaving the way. “We don’t want to overwhelm him, I think only I and Zatana should go in, with Cas still there since he seems to feel safe with her,” Bruce informed his children.

“Alright, just tell us everything soon!” Dick demanded and Bruce’s lips twitched up in just the suggestion of a smile as he nodded to them.

He took off his cowl, he wasn’t in his full uniform anyway and he didn’t want to scare Danny. Besides if he had been a hero even if he clocked Bruce he would understand.

“Hello Danny, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Zatana,” She introduced herself s she followed Bruce in. She would have offered her hand to shake but Danny was half hiding behind Cas sitting on the bed.

“It’s nice to meet you too. What’s with the outfit?” He asked curiously which made her laugh.

“I’m a hero, one of the less known ones. I’m part of Justice League Dark which is their supernatural division along with Constantine and Deadman and a few others. He’s a ghost, but I assure you the government hasn’t been giving him any trouble, probably because they knew they wouldn’t get away with it.”

“So I’m just lucky then,” Danny said with a bitter curl to his lips.

“As a hero, I want to ask, are you Phantom?” She asked rather bluntly.

Bruce shivered as the temperature in the room suddenly dropped a few degrees and Danny’s eyes started to swirl with green as he glared at Zatana who managed to barely react. Batman noticed how her back tensed a bit but it was barely there. “You know?” Danny demanded. “You knew about what was going on in Amity and you didn’t help?!”

“I’m very sorry Danny,” She said genuinely. “We knew something was going on, but we didn’t look closely enough. We thought that you were an older ghost just of someone who died young because of your strength, and it looked like things were under control. Normally our involvement wouldn’t have been appreciated, intruding on someone’s haunt, so we didn’t look any closer. I am so sorry we overlooked you but we’re going to make up for it now I promise.

“I’ve checked and reinforced the wards on the house so nothing should be able to come in uninvited, and I’m going to contact the rest of the JLD. We’re going to go to Amity, we’ll figure this out and deal with it I promise.”

The temperature in the room slowly went back up, Danny was still upset, but he didn’t seem like he was about to snap anymore. While Zatana had been talking Cas had started gently rubbing Danny’s back and that seemed to be helping too. After a moment Danny looked up again and nodded, accepting the help.

“The veil must be very thin there, to let so many ghosts through?” Zatana probed gently.

“It is, but more than that two years ago my parents succeeded in building a portal to what they call the Ghost Zone. This kinda green world of floating islands.

“A portal,” Zatana said flatly, blinking rapidly. “To the Infinite Realms?”

“Ah is that what it’s really called? Ya probably? That’s how everyone’s been getting through. How I got my powers too, the ghosts call me a halfa, but I’m not the only one. Vlad’s one too.”

Batman heard Zatana mutter “Two?” softly, baffled and alarmed but she nodded. Bruce filed that information away too, it seemed Vlad was even more of a threat then he’d first appeared to be.

“Alright, I’ll get as many of the JLD together as I can and we’ll head to Amity. We’ll shut down the portal and deal with this.” She said determinedly.

From the look on Danny’s face he didn’t really believe her, but he nodded again and leaned against Cas. “Good luck I suppose,” he muttered and sighed, rubbing his face.

“Just… tell me if you get in over your heads okay, I’m used to dealing with all this stuff.” God he sounded so tired, the poor kid.

“I will, but don’t worry about us, just take care of yourself okay? This is a good place to be, I promise you won’t have to be alone anymore.” Zatana assured him. She probably had more questions, but it was very obvious that Danny was getting tired.

“Bruce is good dad,” Cas chimed in, speaking up for the first time. It embarrassed Bruce a little but he smiled at them and nodded a little.

“Thank you,” Danny said, his shoulder slumped and his back curled. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Of course Chum,” Bruce agreed, starting to shoo Zatana out of the bedroom with Cas on their heels. When they closed the door behind them Bruce heard the lock click quietly closed behind them. He really hoped that Danny would feel safe enough to sleep well.

@zlinen  @sebas-nights   @littlefeather345  @isnt-that-grape     @idontgetpaidenoughforthisshit  @shadowkatt99  @fantasticstoryteller @blackshuckatdusk @blacksea21090  @sithlordchimchnga @fanfictionforme2 @imalittlefangirl25 @bushbees @yotsubaayase @thomasdimensor @ultimatebluff

[apas-95]

I think the 'problematic media' issue is composed of two principle parts, one superceding the other.

Firstly, and the most important to address to cut the discourse off at the head; yes, media is a vector by which social systems reinforce themselves. This is the purpose of propaganda, and this dynamic is completely intelligible to us if we consider the cases of 'person whose sole source of online interaction was 4chan, and who exclusively watched History Channel hagiography about fascist war machines', or 'person who developed inappropriate ideas about sex through watching misogynistic media'. It is plainly clear that it is both possible and common for media to influence people ideologically, as an apparatus of a given social system. Material reality dictates which social systems are given ideological hegemony in media, but media is in fact an effective tool of those systems.

Secondly, while acknowledging the first point, it is not the dominating factor, here. While media can and does influence people ideologically, often commandingly so, it is not some sort of cognitohazard. It is plainly possible to watch, even repeatedly over an extended timetrame, some given piece of fascist propaganda, or abuse apologia, or what have you, without becoming any more beholden to its ideas - if anything, becoming more opposed. The crucial thing, here, is that doing so requires some level of understanding and defence against the ideas presented. Someone with no rebuttal to fascist positions, with no even kneejerk dismissal that what they're taking in is fascist, is unlikely not to internalise something if they're surrounded by fascist media. On the other hand, someone who has been innoculated with opposing political theory, who is capable of recognising the social systems being reinforced by a given communicative work and reasonably countermand them, can watch a thousand misogynist movies, read a thousand racist books, peruse a thousand transphobic news articles, and leave with only stronger convictions to oppose these systems. Clearly, the dominating factor here is not the content of the media itself, but the content of the audience - whether the audience is able to sufficiently recognise, interrogate, and oppose the messaging in a given work.

All this is to say - yes, media can and does influence beliefs, but that that influence is completely subordinate to the question of whether the audience has any level of political theory or critical analysis. A liberal reading fascist literature, not holding any real theoretical opposition to the content of fascism, is safe so long as they can recognise and reject basic fascist signifiers. A feminist is able to recognise misogynistic logic in a given work. A communist can recognise and countermand reactionary spin in a news article or wikipedia page. While the politically-unconscious man will not recognise that his favourite sitcom is instilling him with absurdly sexist views on marriage, the issue here is not the media itself. Fundamentally - the issue of 'problematic media' is one best and principally solved by the development of political theory and political education, not by any suppression of the media itself, which is cumbersome.

[solargeist]

"What are you even doing here?" Grian grabbed Martyn's shoulder and dragged him to the side into an alley way.

"Don't worry. It's a rescue mission. We're here to rescue you!" Martyn let himself get yanked off the main square full of other Watchers. Grian was fully aware that there was no way the Watchers didn't already know that there was a Listener out and about in their streets.

"Rescue mission? We?"

"Yeah? Me and Jimmy mostly, but Pearl managed to get her hands on the uniform." Martyn says with pride, giving the outfit a little spin for a very stunned and disbelieving Grian. "Not sure about the holes in the back though. Seems like an odd design choice from such a conservative group."

"It's for your- our wings-" Pearl knew about Grian going to this Warcher conference. He had been formally invited to attend and even speak on some topics that he and the Watchers still agreed on. He was almost sure that this was Ather's idea. An olive branch of sorts.

Of course, Pearl would cause trouble about this.

Grian took a deep breath and raked his hands over his face as the Listener thought about his words. "Oh. Oh! That's what these are for then?"

To both his horror and amazement, Martyn leaned own and hiked up the skirt of his stolen uniform. There was a bag that was hidden by the long fabric. He undid the zipper and pulled out the cheapest wings Grian had ever seen. The elastic tool was caked in more glitter than there really had any deserving right to be on an article of clothing. Grian genuinely thought the rubber bands used to hold that thing to anyone's back would cause them to snap.

"Who gave that to you?" Grian really couldn't hide the almost horror from his voice.

"Jimmy said he had Heard Warchers have wings, right? I geuss he picked these ones out."

Grian wanted to rip his scalp off his head. "Of course."

"Don't worry." Martyn said again, trying to sooth as he put his bag away and attempted to put the wings on. "Like I said, I'm here to rescue you. We'll get you out of here in no time!"

"I am here of my own volition." Grian felt himself say distantly as he watched Martyn struggle to get the bottom of the shawl unbuttoned without taking the whole thing off. "I- Martyn that isn't going to work."

"Course it will!" He said cheekily. "Besides, I'm sure they won't even notice you gone. You don't have to pretend to want to be here."

Grian took a deep breath before stepping forward, undoing the back button that kept the shawl flat agaisnt a Watcher's back over their wings. He helped Martyn slip the restrictive cords over his arms before getting them situated back into the long sleeves.

"Okay, Look, I mean, look, Martyn. I can't leave just yet. I actually got somethings to do before we go."

"Do you have to?"

"Martyn, I was Invited here."

He pauses. "You were?"

Grian rolled his eyes. "For a Listener, you are very bad at paying attention."

"What do you expect me to do right now then?"

Grian stepped back and tried not to look at the glitter on the wings. "I geuss you walk beside me and we pretend I don't know you while I do all of the talking until we can both go home."

"Why are you here willingly on a Saturday?" Martyn asked, baffled.

Grian suppressed another eye roll. "I'll explain later, as of now... well, lunch starts in half an hour. I hope you can actually can pretend to be mute and only listen, er, Listen for now. Because if you cause any problems, I'm not gonna come back for you."

This was a lie and theh both knew it, but Martyn folded his arms and looked down at Grian. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."

"Good. Let's to. Keep your mouth shut, Martyn." The two stepped out of the alley, the taller 'Watcher' following behind the shorter.

-Lunar, who is typing this out on a new phone and is having a fucking nightmare of a time doing it

they are so ridiculouS

[torque-witch]

A little doodling today about how the US seems to be paralleling aspects of the 40k universe…but did you know that the “sin of empathy” is not even a new phrase in Xtian-adjacent ideology? Literally was googling who said that and saw a religious article from 2019 😟 And so I’ll leave you with this Adeptus Mechanicus quote: “Fragile indeed are the tools of the righteous.” These ghouls will keep on spinning religious texts for their own means (propaganda, wealth, power) but don’t forget. Empathy is more powerful and meaningful than any executive order or imperial decree. If it’s a sin, send me to hell.

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[communist-manifesto-daily]

Socialism: Utopian and Scientific - Part 29

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

Now, in what does this conflict consist?

Before capitalist production — i.e., in the Middle Ages — the system of petty industry obtained generally, based upon the private property of the laborers in their means of production; in the country, the agriculture of the small peasant, freeman, or serf; in the towns, the handicrafts organized in guilds. The instruments of labor — land, agricultural implements, the workshop, the tool — were the instruments of labor of single individuals, adapted for the use of one worker, and, therefore, of necessity, small, dwarfish, circumscribed. But, for this very reason, they belonged as a rule to the producer himself. To concentrate these scattered, limited means of production, to enlarge them, to turn them into the powerful levers of production of the present day — this was precisely the historic role of capitalist production and of its upholder, the bourgeoisie. In the fourth section of Capital, Marx has explained in detail how since the 15th century this has been historically worked out through the three phases of simple co-operation, manufacture, and modern industry. But the bourgeoisie, as is shown there, could not transform these puny means of production into mighty productive forces without transforming them, at the same time, from means of production of the individual into social means of production only workable by a collectivity of men. The spinning wheel, the handloom, the blacksmith's hammer, were replaced by the spinning-machine, the power-loom, the steam-hammer; the individual workshop, by the factory implying the co-operation of hundreds and thousands of workmen. In like manner, production itself changed from a series of individual into a series of social acts, and the production from individual to social products. The yarn, the cloth, the metal articles that now come out of the factory were the joint product of many workers, through whose hands they had successively to pass before they were ready. No one person could say of them: "I made that; this is my product."

But where, in a given society, the fundamental form of production is that spontaneous division of labor which creeps in gradually and not upon any preconceived plan, there the products take on the form of commodities, whose mutual exchange, buying and selling, enable the individual producers to satisfy their manifold wants. And this was the case in the Middle Ages. The peasant, e.g., sold to the artisan agricultural products and bought from him the products of handicraft. Into this society of individual producers, of commodity producers, the new mode of production thrust itself. In the midst of the old division of labor, grown up spontaneously and upon no definite plan, which had governed the whole of society, now arose division of labor upon a definite plan, as organized in the factory; side by side with individual production appeared social production. The products of both were sold in the same market, and, therefore, at prices at least approximately equal. But organization upon a definite plan was stronger than spontaneous division of labor. The factories working with the combined social forces of a collectivity of individuals produced their commodities far more cheaply than the individual small producers. Individual producers succumbed in one department after another. Socialized production revolutionized all the old methods of production. But its revolutionary character was, at the same time, so little recognized that it was, on the contrary, introduced as a means of increasing and developing the production of commodities. When it arose, it found ready-made, and made liberal use of, certain machinery for the production and exchange of commodities: merchants' capital, handicraft, wage-labor. Socialized production thus introducing itself as a new form of the production of commodities, it was a matter of course that under it the old forms of appropriation remained in full swing, and were applied to its products as well.

[ First | Prev | Table of Contents | Next ]

[whencyclopedia]

Wihio Tales

Wihio tales are the Cheyenne legends featuring the trickster figure Wihio, who appears, variously, as a wise man, fool, villain, or hero and is associated with the spider. Wihio Tales continue to be as popular with the Cheyenne today as they were in the past as they entertain while also teaching valuable cultural lessons.

The Wihio Tales of the Cheyenne are similar to the Iktomi tales of the Lakota Sioux nation, and both Wihio and Iktomi (also known as Unktomi) share similarities with trickster figures of other Native peoples of North America, including Coyote of the Navajo and Glooscap of the Algonquin. Like these others, Wihio may often be depicted as a fool who cannot understand the simplest instructions or as a clever clown or sage, but, in every case, his stories involve some form of transformation while also serving as teaching tools.

This transformation can be as simple as learning not to trust in the goodness of strangers or not counting on outcomes one is not certain of or the suggested change, while seeming simple enough, might suggest deeper themes of a higher nature.

Wihio the Spider

Wihio's name is related to the Cheyenne word for chief and is also part of the name of the Creator – Heammawihio (also known as Maheo/Ma'heo'o) – the Wise One Above. Anthropologist and historian George Bird Grinnell (l. 1849-1938), who wrote extensively on the Cheyenne, notes:

The dwelling place of Heammawihio is denoted by his name, which is composed of the adverb he'amma, above, and wihio, a word closely related to wi'hiu, chief. Wihio also means spider…and appears to embody the idea of mental ability of an order higher than common – superior intelligence. All its uses seem to refer to this mental power…The spider spins a web, and goes up and down, seemingly walking on nothing. It is more able than other insects, hence its name. (Cheyenne Indians, Vol. II, 88-89)

This being so, it may be surprising to read the Wihio tales in which the central character is so often depicted as a buffoon. In Wihio and Coyote, he victimizes the dogs and ducks and is then victimized himself by the coyote, and in The Wonderful Sack, he is both villain and fool as he steals the sack from the Man-of-Plenty but then cannot manage its use. In the Wihio tales presented here, he appears, more or less, this same way.

In Wihio Loses His Hair, he is fooled by two young girls and must think quickly to save face before his family. The Turning Stones and The Back Scraper both depict Wihio as too foolish to remember how to follow instructions. In other tales, however, he might appear wise or exceptionally clever, weaving his various webs of plans, which may – or may not – turn out as he hopes. Whether he wins or loses, though, he still imparts an important message; what that message is, is up to the individual to interpret.

The importance of the number four in the latter two stories here is also seen in other Wihio tales and in many of the stories of the Plains Indians as the number is associated with the four cardinal points of the compass, which were considered sacred. Wihio, in forgetting how many times he has performed the magic – whether in these stories or others such as The Wonderful Sack – suggests he has forgotten the sacred nature of the four directions and so, by extension, his Creator Heammawihio. According to the Cheyenne belief, in forgetting one's Creator, one forgets oneself and suffers the consequences.

Those consequences may be both temporal and eternal, according to the Cheyenne belief, in that those spirits of the departed who had forgotten their Creator – and what was due to others and the created world – could not find their way home to Heammawihio in the afterlife. There is no judgment in the Cheyenne afterlife; those souls who are not welcomed to eternity by the Creator could be said to be those who, in life, failed to remember and follow simple instructions.

In another Cheyenne tale, Enough is Enough, not included here, the character of the Cheyenne Man is associated with Wihio who teaches White Man how to jump into trees on hot days to rest in the shade. In this story, Cheyenne Man remembers the sacred number four, and it is White Man who forgets, becomes stuck in the tree, and eventually starves to death. Whether he is the teacher or the one being taught, the Wihio character reminds the Cheyenne of the importance of observing tradition, of the Creator who established those traditions, and, ultimately, of what is most important in life.

Continue reading...

[my-autism-adhd-blog]

Autism & Stimming

Hi everyone,

I found this helpful article from Very Well Health that talks about stimming and why individuals stim. According to this article:

Examples of Stimming

If you're wondering if your loved one or child is stimming, pay attention to their behavior. Stimming suggests repetitive behavior that goes beyond what is considered culturally or socially acceptable.

For example, nail-biting and hair-twirling can be distracting but are usually acceptable in most social situations, like at work or school. Hand-flapping or spinning in circles—stimming examples that are common in autistic people—are less socially accepted.

Other examples of autistic stimming include:

Finger-flicking

Rocking back and forth

Pacing back and forth

Repeating words or phrases (echolalia)

Humming

Hard blinking

Opening and closing doors

Flicking switches

Finger-snapping

Spinning or tapping objects

Covering and uncovering the ears1

Why Is Neurodivergent Stimming Different?

People who are not autistic (neurotypical) usually stop stimming when they get a strange look from someone or otherwise recognize that their behavior is drawing attention. Autistic people perceive social cues and body language of people around them differently. Since they may not "pick up on" others' reactions to what they are doing, they may stim in situations where it's considered socially inappropriate.

Reasons for Stimming:

Although there is some debate about the actual cause of stimming, most experts consider it a tool for emotional self-regulation.

Autistic people often have sensory processing challenges. Depending on the type of response to stimuli this causes, they may over-respond or under-respond to things like sounds, light, textures, and smells.

For example, with a hypersensitive reaction, they might be overcome by a strong odor and experience sensory overload. With a hyposensitive reaction, someone might not react to or even notice a loud noise.

In these sensory situations, stimming can:

Block out excessive sensory input when someone is hypersensitive.

Provide necessary stimulation to someone who is hyposensitive.

Help manage emotions (positive and negative) that may feel too "big" for an autistic person to handle.

Help distract from physical discomfort and pain.

I hope many of you found this helpful and informative. ♥️

[thesaart]

The concept of a Fool

(this is basically a fanfiction, so I have fun with writing it. I didn't really have a full plan when I started to write this but it's about Sampo so I wrote a lot anyways)

Going through this world I realized one thing and that is, that no matter what, who I am is of no importance to the story. What is important is to know what you want, regardless if you know the ending of the story or not. If you know what you want you can steer the story into that direction. You don't need to be the protagonist, if anything it's better if you're not. You can ask yourself questions of my origin and please tell me those questions. I will answer them. Because everyone knows, someone who says they are a bad liar can spin the most magnificent of tales. What planet did you come from? Do you have a family? Any siblings? Did they die? Did you kill them? Are you human or a worm? A corpse or a puppet? I came from a pebble. My father was a needle, my mother was a leaf and my sister was a tax machine. The leaf was crushed by the tax machine and the needle broke after avenging the leaf and I was the one who smashed the tax machine. I neither leave footprints nor grooves in mud. I can take your money and I can dig a hole. So if someone gave me a mouth and taught me how to speak, tell me what would be the difference? I can walk, I can dance, I breathe and blink but if you take my hand you yourself would freeze.

When I was younger I listened to storytellers, well that wasn't their job but regardless they were good at telling them. Wonderful little tales based on what those people themself went through. To be honest whenever I listened to them I never believed a word they said. However then I realized it was never about if they happened like this or not. Because truly who cares? What does it change if the people lied or not, if those stories truly happened the way they described? I knew that with all those workers, I would take their name, listen to their tales and then they would leave and I would never see them again. So after that realization, I remembered their tales and I started to build myself with these stories as a starting point. 

I made the clothes I'm wearing. Build tools based on blueprints I drew myself. I created weapons and gave them to the people that needed them. I made them specifically based on the people I would give them to. All who used my creations praised my talent as a craftsman.

There were articles written by me. They always told the truth, exposed the evil and praised the good. My word was law and could shift opinions as quickly as new trends could be created. Politicians paid me millions to praise them in my articles. And all believed my words. For I was known as the people's most trusted journalist. A new theater play started just a few weeks ago and have you heard, I'm the main attraction. The stage lights follow every step I take, the music dancing to my whims. 

The audience, so focused on my every word. Applauding every note I sing. Maybe you're lucky and you can catch one of my performances.

One day I found a letter and a package in front of my door. The package had only one thing inside of it, a uniform. The letter spoke of a war and that I don't have a choice but to join it. I walked into the camp, scared but determined to defend my home land. I was handed a weapon, a gun, that was clearly used. Who knows who had used it before. I entered the battlefield, screams were the first thing I heard. 

I fought and killed, defended myself from the enemies. I saw comrades die. I held them, hugging them till I could not feel the beating of their hearts anymore. I sat behind the walls of broken buildings hoping that I would come out alive.  

In all my time I had seen so much. I saw how people were exploited and their worries and needs stayed forever ignored. The governments whose only purpose it was to stand with its people, spitting on the ones who they were supposed to protect and aid. I hated them so much, I hated the hypocrisy behind their actions. I joint group after group to tear it all to the ground. I helped liberate nations and become an enemy of the ones who tried to stop me. I fought for freedom.   

I grew up as an orphan with no coin to my name, no one ever gave me aid. They saw a sad little boy destined to starve on the streets. The only thing that was thrown my way were looks of pity. so I hid and observed. I saw what the ones around me were doing to earn money. The shop owners lied to every customer, inflating the prices of their goods. Street performers would make the audience gamble away all they had. Other children would beg and use the looks of pity to their advantage. I observed and learnt. I took from people what was precious to them and changed the appearance of what I stole. Then I went to the ones it once belonged to and sold it back to them. I build a name of a salesman who knew exactly what others wanted. A trusted man with quality goods and the price, always fair. It wasn't my fault if the goods quickly broke or if the material never fully matched all the way through.    

Once I organized a heist, determined to clean out every last bit of valuables that place had. First it was an attempt to right the wrongs of others. I stole, yes, but only so I could share it with the ones that actually needed the money. I told myself that for a few times but after the fifth heist I struggled to continue to tell myself that. The hostages in front of me, cowering, fear radiating in their eyes, knowing as well as I did, that all that was a lie. I didn't care about the civilians or the ones who were forgotten by society. I just liked the thrill. I never wanted the laws to change. If anything, I wanted more of them so I could break them over and over again.  Then one day I realized, I was older now. Those stories, entering to tell others and myself. Now both, wrong, just tales, stories of workers I listened to as a child and also true, having earned experiences, I found myself in all those roles. I fought in wars, killed others, and experienced starvation. I built the shell of bombs and brewed poisons to fill them. I forged the blades I use to hunt and defend myself with. I wrote articles to influence the public. Played with how easy it was to point fingers and declare something to be good or bad. I infiltrated organizations and lied to friends and the ones who trusted me. Selling the good will of others and betraying them without looking back. And between all of this I was invited to perform, to be an actor. However the stage I was destined for had no adoring audience, just a crowd that knew, as well as I did, that we were laughing into the abyss. We knew how futile all this was but we still laughed because it just was so funny. I never thought about a clear line that I wouldn't cross. Stealing was fine, ruining people's lives was alright, destroying and tearing apart order and seeing places burn, was just part of who I was. But then I found that line and stopped for just a moment. It didn't change my world view, didn't make me a better person, just gave me a new perspective. So I gave my mask to a person I knew would never give it back to me for free. Only if I would do something for her, if I would dance to her whims. So if I ever decided to go back I could be sure that it was no quick decision based on longing or boredom. After I was free of the mask, of the tavern and the laughter, I traveled. It was the same as with the fools. Truly it felt like nothing had changed. I made friends that I quickly betrayed and I joined different factions just to see how those behaved. I found myself in different taverns. The only change was just the color of the curtains.

This next bit is hazy even for me. I went to a planet I shouldn't even have known of. But I went anyway, typing in unknown and forgotten coordinates. Maybe one of the workers told me a tale about that planet or maybe someone told it to another, while a little orphan boy was listening. Regardless, when I left my ship and was greeted with the cold winds of a frozen planet, it felt like I was entering an ancient theater.

Those winds let me deeper into those ancient halls. No walls, just ice and snow. Mountains covered in a thick layer of snow, reflecting the few rays of sunshine that were able to escape the heavy blanket of clouds. Like the spotlights above a stage.  After walking in the freezing cold for what felt like an eternity, with the noises of my heavy breathing as my only companion, I found myself on a cliff looking down towards a city. 

Sneaking into the city was a lot easier than I thought. It felt like I was walking next to invisible footsteps, leading or suggesting a way. I observed the townspeople and listened to them. Finding out about the name of the little city and its history. Well as much history as I could glean from peoples discussions and daily gossip. One thing that was clear to me was that those people were dying. They knew their time was running out but they just went on with their lives because there was nothing else they could do. 

From my perspective, I�� just, I don't know exactly how I felt. If anything, I think I felt disappointed. When I entered this theater's halls I thought it was a story about a place of tragedy but determination. Believing that they will come out alive that everything will be fine. All the factions I went to had at least a version of that determination but especially Qliphoths people tended to have that blind faith. 

I'm not sure why, I could have left, but I didn't. This time I stayed and I stayed for a lot longer than I thought. I got to know the people of the overworld and played with their perception of me. They thought I came from the Underworld, an intriguing sounding place I was sure to visit as well. I quickly became a merchant and for some more direct and may I say ruder citizens, a scammer. Finding out what those people needed or craved was exhilarating. I played with what they wanted and seeing what they would do for just a simple distraction was fascinating. Being chased by the silver main guards was also just fun. I found myself excited by just the anticipation of what will come next? What do those people want? Where will I run and hide to today? But even though the Overworld was fun, the Underworld gave me a feeling I struggled to describe to myself for many years. The Underworld was a warm place, its people so busy running around, no time to lose. Working, providing both places with energy, mining all day. Kids running around playing, yelling at each other and laughing. The sounds of their voices and the noises of picks hitting rock and mining cards grinding on iron tracks, created a melody that was so vivid and clear to my ears, that I could almost dance to it. I let myself be carried by this atmosphere, following in the footsteps of the busy workers, offering my help and just being. I never had this much fun. 

Then one day the atmosphere shifted. The gates and entry between the two places were cut off, the Silvermane Guards stationed in the Underworld were ordered to get back above ground, leaving the people alone. Priority will change opinions and perspectives but still for me and a lot of other Underworlders it felt like the Overworld decided we weren't worth their protection. With no explanation given they left them all to rot. Hoverwever surviving was a thing I was always good at and like me the Underwolders were similarly gifted in that regard. So they went back to work, now they needed to provide energy only for themselves so there was at least that. Still the places exchanged more than just energy. The underworld powered machines, providing energy for cars, for heaters, for gears to keep both cities turning. However the Overworld aided the people with food and medicine. So like at the beginning, I knew the people of the city were going to die but the way how, was now a lot clearer, a lot more vivid and I was lost. I didn't know what to do. Like everyone else in the Underworld I was stuck. I searched for ways to reach the Overworld to do something. But every time I thought I found a path, Svarog, an ancient robot that, at least judging with how stubborn the tin box was felt more human to me than robot, would find those paths as quickly as I did and destroy them. I was at my wits end, I didn't know what to do. I never was at my wits end, I always had a plan or a concept or just a spark of inspiration but at that moment my head was empty. Now, what to do when you don't know what the next step should be? I did the only thing I could think of. 

I took a walk. 

I kept walking blindly into any direction. The warmth around me was still there. The people were still so busy but now that warmth was fueled with something else, an undertone to that captivating melody. If it was frustration or anger or hurt I could never figure out but now the atmosphere felt like a steam engine with broken glass and dented metal.

Cracked but still moving.  

Regardless of what will happen next, they will keep moving and so I will keep walking, for now, following in their steps, moving to their rhythm. I vouched that I would help them. This planet's tragedy and its people's situation and the underworld's whole existence sang to me in a way I both loved and hated. How dare they, how dare those people resonate with him? What does he have to do with they're shitty situation? Why should he even care and why doesn't he care at all about those questions right now? Does this really matter? The why or questions of how a planet, a city, people can be this unlucky. Finding a reason won't fix their situation and I don't know if answers to those questions would explain why I cared so much about those people. Especially for the people of the Underworld.    

While my thoughts were powering my steps I found the ground underneath my feet change. The rock and gravel dirtying my shoes changed slowly to a soft but still slightly dirtied white. The noise of my feet sinking into the thick layer of snow and the cold winds whipping around me was the next thing that greeted me.  

I smiled and spoke out loud, 

“Found it.”

The moment I found this little path I made sure no one else knew of it and somehow they didn't, not even Svarog knew of its existence. The path wasn't a simple straight line either. That would have been too easy. It was more like a winding array of lines all interlinking, melting together. Traversing through it felt like I was a wild gust of wind ripping through the delegate little lines, dancing through its halls with steps somehow only I knew. 

This path was all I needed because now I could be a link between the two cities. 

The Overworld needed heaters? Or oh no, their fuel source is running out. Who could help them? I made my money, built my reputation and made the Silvermane Guards fairly angry at me. 

A scammer who somehow seems like he can teleport, so fast and undetectable, footprints lost in snow. Come on run and try to catch me. This will keep you warm, the unpredictability and distraction of a little chaos, who could deny its effectiveness?

The things I stole? the materials I traded for? The food I could buy? Why, all of it was too much for me alone. So I gave it to the Underworld but not through my hands. My face would not greet those hungry and determined eyes. They wouldn't take it from me. They would never take it from someone who can't be trusted.

I understood the concept of trust better than most others I met, so I knew how both, fragile and also how utterly useless it was to me in this situation. The people didn't need to trust me. They needed to know me. I needed to play with their expectations so I needed to create a character that could act in ways so predictable that I could steer people into situations and places that would help me. To be able to ensure their survival for just another day. Wildfire was perfect for what I wanted to do. Like with the Silvermane Guards above ground, Wildfire was all about justice and helping the people however they could and similar to the Silvermanes, Wildfire also had a leader. However their leader was a lot easier to talk to and far less complicated in her ways of thinking as the leader of the Silvermanes. 

Natasha was a truly kind person and to my annoyance a pretty smart and observant person too.  One of the first times I met her I just happened to have some rations with me so when I gave them to her. Simply because a doctor would know far better how to handle those things then me and that I could give her more for a bit of info on wildfire and its members. She smiled at me, looked me in the eyes and took the supplies with her, with only a “See you later” as her answer. 

I knew from her look, those eyes that read you like a book, that I need to be careful around her. I don't think she ever fully figured me out, however, she, from all the people I interacted with on that planet, came the closest to seeing through me and I would lie if I would say that that thought didn't worry me. I met other members of Wildfire and most of them reminded me of people I’ve met on my travels. A strong and straightforward but oh so rude and brash warrior, a shining light of hope and protection keeping the will and spirits of all that are around him up and running. An old general molded by fights and bureaucracy and a child so full of fire and life, making her run in chaotic and huge lines, brightening the streets wherever she goes. I aided them and the rest of Wildfire with what they needed, to help the Underworld to survive as long as they could.   

The longer I stayed the more I didn't want to leave. I knew I couldn't leave at that time anyway but I knew that there would come a point where I couldn't deny that my time here would run out. So I just kept up with what I was doing anyway. The merchant and scammer become more well known. The helping hand of Wildfire was both an annoyance to the group but also, you could sometimes hear a sigh of relief coming from its members when they saw little old me.

Then one day I heard the metallic sound of an ancient and imaginary whistle ringing through the cold winds of the snow plains. Whispers of old tales hit me once again and I felt my excitement grow. Oh what a wonder, the train stops here too. 

As I said before, you don't need to know how the story will end, you just need to know what you want. Because the moment you know what you want, you have the power to push the story into that direction. When I got here I didn't know why, didn't care for why. 

Now I know a part of me wanted to be here to feel this type of connection once again. 

Stepping out of the dirty and cracked halls of the ancient theater, being greeted by the few rays of sunlight that could escape the heavy clouds. I felt again like an actor but this time taking on the same role that I also played for the townspeople. My part isn't over yet so  gather around members of this ancient train and let me, your friendly merchant, Sampo Koski, tell you a tale of a doomed city and please, 

help us all.    

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy

[mythicalcowboyatheart]

Another idea for meat and greet? Yn wakes up to spencer surprising her with her greatest enemy tied up in a chair for her to k!ll, almost as like a really fucked up apology 😭 but it ends w smut cs im filthy 😛

Js a thought!!

Meat and greet 7: Your sweet on me honey forever

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Warnings: murder and smut

An: this is fabulous in the fucked up way of this series love it! Also title comes from farewell ii flesh by ink!

»»———-►»»———-►»»———-►»»———-►

I wake up to your name being said softly. Wait wtf I locked the door! I shoot up straight in bed and am meet with the smiling face of Spencer.

"How the fuck did you get in here?" I yell "Doesn't matter I have something for you" he still smiles "what is it?" "I'll show you come with me!" He grabs my hand and I am practically dragged out of bed, down the stairs and to the basement. WTF does he have planned?

We get to the bottom of the basement stairs and tied to a chair I see a person sitting with a bag over their face. "Spencer what is this?" I ask confused and slightly annoyed. He grins "take the bag off and find out love"

I pull the bag off to reveal a reporter form a rival news outlet. "Spencer what the actual fuck?!"

"What don't you like your gift?" He asks. "Why the fuck is he here and what am I supposed to do with him how is this a present?" Spencer rolls his eyes and pulls a gun from the waist band of his jeans.

"Well my love this asshole has been stealing your articles and saying there his own, so I figured id bring you him as an apology for last night"

I look at Spencer with a angry and bewildered expression. "Murder can't fix all of the worlds problem Spencer" "well it can sure as hell help with some of your problems" he said matter of factly handing me the gun.

I think for a few moments, this fucker is a asshole and he's been stealing my articles who knows how many other people he's done this to? Spencer snakes his hands around my waist and with encouraging whispers in my ear I cock the gun and fire three shots that all hit him in the head.

Blood splatter hits my face and my breathing gets a bit heavy. "Good girl" Spencer smiles as he kisses the side of my head. He then grabs the gun putting it on the murder tool table on the other side of the room. He returns back to my side and spins me so I'm facing him.

We lock eyes and he stares at me lovingly, "let's get you clean darling" he says gripping my hand and leading me back up the steps.

He leads me to the downstairs bathroom he has me sit on the edge of the tub while he gets a wash cloth form the towel rack.

He gets one end wet with warm water and neals in front of me and begins to gently wipe away the blood on my face as he cleans my face I stare into his eyes getting lost in them.

I didn't realize Spencer was done cleaning my face until he grabbed my hand a squeezed lightly. "I'm sorry love about the other night, I don't know what I was thinking but all I know is I didn't like her at all. But I know I love you, I love you with all my heart I will never do that again." Spencer looked in my eyes it felt like he could see into my soul, his eyes were watery. "I didn't want you to go ever, I don't ever want you to be mad at me. Please never leave me." Tears finally spill from Spencers eyes. I was at a loss for words, I finally lean in and kiss him passionately.

I only want to be with Spencer and no one else.

"Spencer," I said looking into his eyes. "I never want to be apart from you too, my love. I will always love you, and I'll never leave you." His face lightened up, it made me so happy that Spencer was no longer sad.

Spencer leans in and kisses me passionately. I never felt so much love from a person ever before. He finally lets go of my lips, and he wraps his arms around me and pulls me to his chest.

"I love you so much," Spencer says. I just smile and kiss his cheek.

"Let's go to the bedroom " I whisper in his ear,He kisses my forehead and takes my hand to the bedroom.

We get to the bed and he gently pushes me down on the bed. He then proceeds to take his shirt off, his muscles show through as he does so. Then he kisses me gently, he then proceeds to take my shirt off. My breath catches in my throat as he kisses my neck, goosebumps are everywhere on my skin.

He looks up at me and smiles then proceeds to kiss my lips, my cheeks, my forehead.

"Make love to me," I whisper, he proceeds to take off my jeans. He looks up at me with so much desire in his eyes, I could feel the fire from my heart to my soul. "Of course darling" He proceeds to take of my bra, and kisses my breast. Then he proceeds to take of his and my jeans.

Spencer gets on top of me, I wrap my legs around his waist. He enters me slowly, I moan in pleasure. "Your so tight baby," He whispers as he thrusts in and out of me. I moan again and bite on his neck, it felt amazing.

Spencer speeds up the thrusting, he's so deep inside me. I cry out in pleasure, and my toes curl I moan out again and dig my nails into his back. "Harder baby," I whisper back to him. He proceeds to go harder and deeper, his hands are on my hips.

My eyes close as I feel myself going over the edge, I moan out and dig my nails deeper into his back. I feel him going harder and faster, until he goes over the edge with me. "Ahhh," He moans out in pleasure. We both lay there panting and looking at each other. I lean up and kiss Spencer. "Your amazing," I say with a smile. He leans down and kisses me again, "I love you," He says.

"I love you too," I say back to him, then he falls asleep on my chest. I run my hand through his hair, I feel like the luckiest woman in the world. I fall asleep in Spencers arms.

[landofanimes]

CLAMP Exhibition (2024)

July 3 - September 23, 2024 in Tokyo

The biggest CLAMP exhibition to date, the event showcases the original artwork from 23 works made by the group of four women, from RG Veda to Card Captor Sakura: Clear Card (technically 22 but they're counting Legal Drug and Drug and Drop separetely).

Over the years CLAMP has published a variety of manga, including those for boys (shounen), girls (shoujo) and young men (seinen), depending on the magazine they were published. Appealing to readers of all ages, genders and countries, their work continues to captivate.

The exhibition will feature a total of 800 original manuscripts (200 in color, 600 black and white), divided in 7 areas: Color, Love, Adventure, Magic, Phrase, plus Imagination and Dream.

C for COLOR. CLAMP colors the world.

Displaying a total of 200 original colored pieces from all 23 works (100 for each half of the exhibition).

This area showcases the variety of artstyles, techniques and tools CLAMP used over the years on their different manga. Includes pieces with colored ink, Copic markers, acrylic gouache, pastels, and digital art.

Even when publishing 2 different works at the same time the group likes to vary their tools: RG Veda (1989-96) was colored with ink and airbrushes, while Tokyo Babylon (1990-93) was colored with screen tones. The artstyle also changed depending on the publisher.

2. L for LOVE. CLAMP draws the forms of love.

The artwork in this area are divided in 8 types of love seen throught CLAMP's manga.

"The love depicted by Clamp is not singular—there is a straightforward love towards a significant other, but it can also be a determination to protect loved ones, a thought character keeps in their hearts, or even the conflict itself." (from tokyoartbeat article)

3. A for ADVENTURE. CLAMP weaves the stories of adventure.

350 manuscripts from 6 action-packed manga series: RG Veda, Tokyo Babylon, X/1999, Magic Knight Rayearth, Cardcaptor Sakura, and Tsubasa: RESERVoir CHRoNiCLE.

Includes a synopsis of each work and selected scenes to follow along parts of the story.

4. M for MAGIC. CLAMP casts its magic.

The fantasy, magic, and mysterious powers seen in CLAMP works are seen in the moving manga pannels projected in 3 large screens in this area.

5. P for Phrase. CLAMP spins the phrases.

The first room showcases 40 manuscripts from xxxHolic.

The second room focuses on the power of words spun by CLAMP, exhibiting quotes form their works on the walls. Visitors can also pull one phrase sticker from the Phrase Box from CLAMP and take it home, or stick it to a wall in the room. There are 120 different phrases to pull.

6. IMAGINATION

Timeline of 35 years of creative work, from 1989 to 2024, featuring manga volumes, magazine issues, and more.

An installation in the center of the room also features quotes from a new interview with the four women specially for this event.

This is also the only area which features CLAMP's work in other media, including various collaborations. There is a selection of color illustrations, rough design drafts, and other artworks from Soryuden: Super Dragon Brothers, CODE GEASS, BLOOD-C, HiGH＆LOW g-sword, Cardfight!! Vanguard, GIFT (picture book by Ice skater Yuzuru Hanyu), The Grimm Variations, and HELLO KITTY.

7. DREAM

The last area is solely to exhibit a new illustration featuring Ashura (RG Veda) and Sakura Kinomoto (Card Captor Sakura: Clear Card), representing CLAMP's beginnings and future through their first and latest work.

"Kuro" (Black) and "Shiro" (White) are also the names of the new artbooks titled COLOR, which compile the artworks seen in the exhibition. A deluxe edition will be released at a later date compiling both volumes in one.

............................................

The audio guide during the exhibition is provided by Jun Fukuyama, who has played Kimihiro Watanuki in the anime series xxxHOLiC, Kobayashi Kotaro in ANGELIC LAYER, and Lelouch Lamperouge in Code Geass: Lelouch of the Rebellion (CLAMP is responsible for character design in Code Geass) .

The place also features a store with a long list of products.

They also have the first volume of their various manga available to read, and a TV showcases the recently shared announcement video of the new anime project of Magic Knight Rayearth.

CLAMP Exhibition National Art Center in Roppongi, Tokyo First Half: Wednesday, July 3 - Monday, August 12 Second Half: Wednesday, August 14 - Monday, September 23

Sources:

Tokyo Art Beat

Fashion Press

Bijutsutecho (+)

Natalie Mu

Internet Museum

Official Clamp_ex Twitter

[tiredfoxtf]

Why would you call pro-censorship people fascists? /genq I mean, fuck censorship and fuck puritanism, but there are many other ideologies and movements that may include those things that may not be fascist, like religious cults and authoritarianism. Just to be clear, I don't have any problem with you or that post, I just needed to ask somebody who reblogged that post about art. Because I don't think that a queer 16 yo left-leaning tumblr user who just happened to support antis because of lack of education, experience and proper academic sources can be considered a fascist.

Never called anyone fascist. The censorship is always has a fascist ideological undertone, because that's the direct Tool of any fascist. I am going to talk probably too primitive to explain this, because I am not a historical or social studies expert. Fascism puts forward something that they see as "right", whatever it is, it fits a certain righteous image of a "perfect x", "perfect religion", "perfect race", "perfect nation", "perfect human", however they would like to spin it. From there they operate like this "if something doesn't belong it should be either destroyed or controlled to keep the ideal world in order under control of superior x". So, censorship. The thing is, fascism never starts with "lets eliminate entire population of people we don't like". It's starts with "these people are immoral and should not have a voice because they translate the immoral ideas into masses", so their works are destroyed. And it's fine, because "what if our kids see it and become immoral?" or something like this. It's starts with something that can seem reasonable to people in a promise of a false protection of their ideals. "Let's ban pornography from social media", "let's bully this person of the platform", "let's forbid drag around kids". And then it slowly evolves into more radical changes, but the people who supported first ones already will probably support the latter. "We forbid the use of "inappropriate" language", "we are going to make your private information public and stalk you", "we will forbid queer books for kids". This way people get eased into fascist ideology.

However, I never called anyone fascist. Maybe I formulated it too vague, but I made a call to people to analyse the way they think, to take their radical opinions on why something "shouldn't exist" critically. Because young people can be very easily manipulated and dragged into some insane fascistic groups and belief systems if they aren't careful.

Also art in general is like the first thing that is always attacked by fascists that are trying to establish the influence. Especially visual art, because it's the easiest one to understand. Again, look at the wiki article about "degenerative art" and I do VERY recommend to watch the video by Jacob Geller titled Who Is Afraid of Modern Art: Vandalism, Video Games and Fascism. It's very informative. Especially the whole segment about painting Who's Afraid of Red, Yellow and Blue.

[eugenedebs1920]

Lol! I wrote a whole post about this article but the link didn’t seem to work 😅 Adhere to some brevity here. 6 out of 9 planetary thresholds has been breached, the oceans in particular are on a knife’s edge. This election is not whether you like the candidates or who will be better for your wallet. It’s about the Supreme Court and their continuous assault against our planet, and also our democracy. They’ve sided with polluters time and time again and seem hell bent on deregulating all the safeguards meant to protect us, and the planet. There’s candidates on one side like, Kamala Harris &Tim Waltz who believe this is a problem that needs addressed, then there’s Vance and Trump on the other who think it’s fake and temperatures just rise ten plus degrees in a century normally. If you weren’t planning on voting & this is a concern of yours, please get out there and take action for it. This is the tool we have right now to fix this. It’s not a total fix but Biden made good headway & we know Kamala will continue this . For our future, for our future children’s future, for all the beauty that is this planet. Get out and vote and vote blue for our little bright blue ball just spinning spinning free, dizzy with eternity 😁

Wasn’t quite as short as I intended 😝

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

June of Doom day 27

“I’m so sorry” (sacrifice/obsession/display)

Caretaker had told them to stay out of the basement.

It was a silly rule, but obeying it seemed like the least Whumpee could do. After all, it was Caretaker who’d found them stumbling down a dirt road, fresh from captivity and terrified of recapture. They’d been willing to not only take a stranger in, but to listen to their insane story and give them a place to stay without threatening to call the police. If the only thing Caretaker asked for in exchange was a bit of privacy, then Whumpee wouldn’t fault them for it.

Or, that’s what they’d thought. But after nearly a month of slow recovery, a month of watching Caretaker slip into their basement and hearing them work quietly down there throughout the night, Whumpee had become curious. It was paranoia, they knew. Lingering fear from what Whumper had done to them. Nothing worth acknowledging, and yet they still ached to know. 

They’d assumed it’d be harmless to sneak it. Not to be nosey, but just long enough to sate their curiosity. It would only take a moment to dull the anxiety that’d been building in their stomanch. 

Whumpee had been wrong.

The basement was almost empty, barren of any of the boxes or clutter one would expect. But what was there, Whumpee recognized. They recognized the metal shelf, currently empty when it usually held a plethora of tools and weapons. They recognized the drain in the center of the floor and the hose purpuding from the wall, both ready to make clean-up a simple task. And they certainly remembered the chains on the far wall, all different lengths, but none long enough to ever allow Whumpee to escape. 

It was Whumper’s basement, almost exactly. The only difference was that it didn’t smell used. There was no lingering stench of blood, no smell of unwashed bodies and filth. It smelled new, like wet cement and blench. Like it was in the process of being renovated. 

Whumpee felt frozen, the contrast of the warm halls of Caretaker’s home and  this place leaving them spinning. They didn’t know how this had gotten here,  why it was here. They didn’t even know if it was ‘here’ at all, the image was so bizarre that Whumpee couldn’t even trust it to be reality. Had Caretaker–

“Whumpee?”

Whumpee screamed at the sound, whirling around to find Caretaker standing before them, frowning. They didn’t look angry or shocked, just disappointed. Like this was totally normal, like Whumpee was just a somewhat rude guest. 

Whumpee’s throat went dry.

“I told you not to come in here. It’s not ready yet.” Caretaker said, closing the door behind them. “I wanted to bring you down with a bit more fanfare, but I suppose this’ll have to do. I’ll forgive you, this time.”

Whumpee was suddenly keenly aware that Caretaker was blocking the only exit.  “I…What?”

A smile, wide and gleeful, split across Caretaker’s face. “You’re the genuine article. You’ve met Whumper. I know it’s true, I know when I see their work,” As Caretaker spoke, they steadily made their way down the stairs, forcing Whumpee to backpedal, descending deeper into the basement.

“I’ve been waiting for someone like you. Stalking that old road for months, digging through Whumper’s trash until I found one that was still worthwhile, and hiding the bodies of the ones that weren't,” They giggled. “And finally you arrived, bleeding and desperate for care. I just had to take you,”

“N-no! I don’t–what do you want?!” Panic was stealing Whumpee’s words from them, smothering their ability to comprehend what was happening. They were being cornered, moved further and further back with no way to get back Caretaker's looming form. They nearly screamed when their back hit the far wall, memories of Whumper flashing before their eyes.

Caretaker placed a hand on their shoulder, squeezing at a slowly healing wound. Whumpee groaned in pain. “I want this room to be perfect, and it won’t be without you. Without you, it’s just a cheap recreation of greatness. I need you, to make this a genuine article, to even compare to what Whumper does.”

Somehow, it was only then that Whumpee was able to compel themselves to struggle. But Caretaker’s grip was unyielding.

“We’re going to work together, and Whumper will be so impressed when they see what we’ve done.”