#reflective material

[sorrysomethingwentwrong]

‘Walnut Street’ 2022,

Archival digital print (35.5 x 47”)

Part of ‘PENUMBRA’ Series by Ian Strange for the 2022 FotoFocus Biennial in Cincinnati, USA.

[robinsart5612]

Shiny Green Balloon Study - 09/02/2022

Another quick study cuz I love how things with reflective surfaces look in bright light especially when the object is a vivid color like this<3

[danymaterial]

The Design Process And Uses Of Reflective Material

Reflective materials are highly reflective materials that are typically designed to reflect light back to its source, and these materials play a key role in a variety of fields.

One of the characteristics of reflective materials is their reflective properties. Reflective material factories usually use advanced technologies and materials to ensure that their products have a high degree of reflectivity. This means that these materials can effectively reflect light, improving visibility and warning, especially in low-light conditions, such as at night or in bad weather.

Reflective material provides durability and stability. These materials are often carefully engineered and rigorously tested to ensure they maintain performance in a variety of environmental conditions. This includes properties such as resistance to UV radiation, corrosion and abrasion, allowing it to remain highly reflective during long-term use outdoors and in harsh conditions.

As a professional manufacturer of reflective materials, Dany also focuses on its versatility. These reflective materials are not only used to improve the visibility of traffic signs, but are also widely used in traffic markings, safety equipment, sportswear and other fields. Its design and manufacturing usually take into account the needs of different uses to ensure that reflective materials can meet the reflection requirements in various application scenarios.

[shandzii]

one of my finals lmao

[sualne]

clothes swap

[loveletterworm]

This really lumpy ralsei model i made randomly and did not spend much time on all things considered Ignore that clearly parts of the model are changing in between renders and also that i don't know how to light in 3d so it's kind of dark for no reason. Look at cute ralsie. One million notes

[pemprika]

moon dia holo CD charms!! 💗💫🤍🌙 their latest album ON THE MOON drops on September 24 😳🥺💞

[lonisaiou]

this turned out to be my last project of the semester and got me an amazing grade (thanks teacher for appreciating punk Marceline) (+hence I decided to make her human instead of vampire, which isnt a big of a difference, just the ears lol)

enjoy my most beloved Human Marceline in all her punk glory

[spyderschaos]

drawing this guy in full armor once during January and then never again throughout the rest of the year

[compacflt]

can i just say that I'm haunted by the image of Ice wearing "one of Mavericks cheapest rolexes". One because of the mental immage of Maverick being the kind of men who not only owns multiple watches but also Rolex, which is absolutely delightful, because oh the quiet vanity of that. And two because of the implied and groundbreaking (to me) domesticity (and defiance of the not talking/acknowledging the thing between the 2 of them) of wearing another person watch. I'm screaming into the void about your brilliance. So I need to ask, do they do that on purpose (before the mission) in a sort if roundabout way of acknowledging each other presence in their life? What would Mav wear that belongs to Ice (apart from that USNA ring eheh)?

pilots/sailors/doctors etc who do high-level specialized work with their hands tend to really be Watch Guys. and “cheap” rolexes (sub $7k ish) are actually pretty affordable if you’re making >$150k a year and want to treat yourself every fifth christmas or something. source: know several sailors & doctors. ALSO the watch ice is wearing in his famous gay plane photoshoot is actually a rolex. So theres some evidence ice at least is (annoying, ostentatious, bad with money, and) a Watch Guy. Maverick’s also wearing a kickass chronograph in TGM so i think he’s also probably a Watch Guy. also… you know, status symbol, honor, et cetera et cetera…

they probably wear each other’s socks because in-regs socks all look the same and they’re both men so who cares. i also hc that they’ve always worn the same size in shirts so each other’s t-shirts are also free game. and was very confusing at the start of their relationship when trying to figure out whose shirt was whose after a midnight rendezvous. lots of accidental shirt mixups. and, yeah, each other’s watches, because most people only see the status and don’t see the detail, and most people aren’t around both ice and mav enough to recognize that “omg last month adm kazansky was wearing the same omega chronometer capt mitchell is wearing today!! theyre totally together!!!” so if ice buys a new watch and maverick salivates over it, sure he can borrow it, whatever. and i think there’s a scene in wwgattai when maverick wears ice’s pj pants hold up lemme find it

“in bare feet.” now wtf does that mean. that could use a rewrite.

ice also wears mavericks leather jacket when they’re on their baseball date in debriefing. at some point when you live with someone long enough your stuff becomes their stuff which was the point of this graf

thinking about it… trying to decide if they’d wear each other’s cologne. that seems like a little much. no i don’t think so.

[trybard]

hey. if youre struggling to draw transparent/shiny things, try bringing out the shape by really focusing on the reflections, ok? things like glass and shiny metals get their shape by reflecting light/the environment around them. i love you

[uyallstars]

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[jacksprostate]

pls more fem fight club... from one of ur biggest fans

It's after fight club, when we've slunk back to our den and Tyler has stuffed me full of factory farmed chicken. I must be wearing my concussion on my face with how crinkled kind her eyes are. She takes me by the hand, we go to the garden to lie shirtless in the blood and guts and hair and shit and stare up at smog.

We lie close, like identical twins. Nursed in the same shitwater house, pummeled into superficial similarities. I know, my face is so blown out by bruising. Hers is no better; you could think we were a mirror. I could be some fucked up funhouse paper jam insomnia copy of Tyler. It would be a success.

"What do you really know of success?" Tyler scoffs, reading my mind.

Tyler says, "You don't know shit."

I don't disagree. I let my hand dig through the soil and mud until I've found a worm. Gently, I let its bristles catch on my skin. It wants to flee.

"You're told, we have it better than ever," Tyler says, and I know she's gearing up for a sermon. "You're told, we can work, and we can divorce, and have our own bank accounts. You and I both know you'll be fought every step of the way, but you can have those things now, isn't that a success?"

She takes the worm from me. Guides it into the unpleasant shape of a knot. Tyler pinches the ends of the worm lightly, pulls. These little cruelties are normally enacted on me, and I'm enraptured.

"If I stop, if I stop crushing and tearing this thing to death, is that a success?" Tyler drops it on my chest, in the valley between my tits. I see the knot is tight enough, some of the worm's organs must be crushed. Annelid internal bleeding.

"Is that good?" Tyler says.

Tyler says, "If you look to our glorious leaders, you will be told you should be overjoyed with getting a restroom into the Senate and the opportunity for the elite women who are part of our oppressive machine to wear pants. You will be told you should look at six women out of a hundred demons as a success. All of this, successes. Dripfed progress."

The common woman, she gets sexual harassment and a portion of the dollar. She gets marital rape exceptions finally struck off the books only in writing. She gets the second shift. She still gets rape and too late abortions and status barely beyond property of her husband and mother of his children.

The worm squirms.

Tyler says, "The House of Representatives still has nothing. They say, we have to be careful, we have to carefully mind the important history of the building as we act so kindly as to accomodate the silly womenfolk. Nevermind the steady light above his head and the subway he uses to get around."

Tyler reaches over, hand brushing my skin as she traces the twitching knot with a finger.

"I say, forget history. Holding onto history gets you little old cabins converted to rental cottages on a huge, private botanical garden with one large porched mansion in the middle. It gets you beloved buildings where even the most privileged women have to walk a block to take a piss, while men enjoy their modern heating and plumbing. It gets you the boot upon your neck. The knot in your spine."

She holds her hands out, spread. Occluded moonlight filters through. Her fingers are streaks of true night.

"If I were a worm," Tyler says, "I wouldn't wait until these hands die to consume them."

She takes the worm back, patiently, slowly unknots it as it writhes. I wonder if it knows those hands are the same ones that tortured it. I wonder if it cares.

"We can't wait for this. We should not expect the hands tying knots all through the world to truly ever undo them."

Forget history. Forget successes. Tyler wants to dismantle the world. Tyler wants to render things so equal that the sins of the past can be forgotten.

"Let's blow up the US Capitol," Tyler says, voice thick as syrup.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Queer-Affirming Worship Resource: Daily Ripple

"Our goal is to build a framework for discipleship for the 21st Century. With more people leaving traditional churches, we hope to fill in a gap for people who are still looking for faith formation opportunities."

If you want to incorporate queer-affirming, justice-oriented snippets of biblical reflection into your everyday life, Daily Ripple is a great option. Every weekday, subscribers receive a short reflection, ending with a question meant to guide you towards action. (It's free btw!)

If you're curious, here are a few of the recent daily posts that most resonated with me:

Lament as a skill, a gift

Considering neopronouns in light of Jesus's statement that "The Sabbath was made for people, not people for the Sabbath"

"How does your image of God reflect the image you experience in a mirror?"

I'm excited to be joining Daily Ripple's creative team, starting this week! So y'know, if you're into the stuff I write here — or are looking for ways to bring more intentionality into Lent — now's a great time to check it out :D

[autumngracy]

Not me creeping up to the wordcount of the fourth longest book ever written