#they write music about REAL things

[catblimp]

Going on Pinterest and finding Rush memes obviously made by men in their 50s is so great bc they’ll be like

“This is REAL MUSIC made by REAL MEN in the time when MEN were MEN” over an image like this

[front-facing-pokemon]

[icewindandboringhorror]

I know this is just a silly bad quality random screencap of a screencap that I found on facebook lol, BUT it's a succinct enough image to easily describe the concept in a quick/accessible way hopefully :

-

(and of course, feel free to elaborate in tags, etc.! (especially elaborating about other senses as well.. can you "hear" in your mind just as well as you can "see"? taste? etc.) It's an interesting topic to me, as someone who's like a 4.5 at MOST lol. I'm curious what option will be the most common :0c )

[luck-of-the-drawings]

my TWO FAVORITE THINGS IN THE WORLD, VAMPIRES N COWBOYS... deacon keller is SUCH a fun character, hes charming and funny but ALSO formidable and STRONG when he feels he needsta be. i hope him and arthur can get a chance to talk more and be better friends. l ike really good friend s. . like. like really good f. hangon i gotta go i think i hauve rabies.

[aroaceleovaldez]

non-exhaustive list of canon powers Nico di Angelo either has shown or is heavily implied to have:

Shadow-travel

Manipulation of shadows/darkness (also possibly use of shadows as a pocket-dimension a la Magicians using the Duat in The Kane Chronicles)

Becoming intangible/shadows

Complete control over skeletons/bones (dead or alive, including summoning, reanimation, and/or changing shape of them) and being able to sense their presence

Summoning, reanimating, commanding, and dispelling the dead/undead (Skeletons, zombies, ghosts, etc & varieties) and being able to sense their presence

Ability to understand/communicate with the dead/undead and potentially other beings of the Underworld

Inherent complete comprehension of Latin

Ability to perceive the usually unperceivable/possibly look upon a deity’s true form without repercussion (at least moreso than the average demigod, though possibly is restricted to chthonic beings) (ex: Tartarus, potentially also interacting with his parents, etc)

Interacting tangibly with ghosts (implied to be a Ghost King thing rather than a Hades/Pluto thing)

Partial or complete immunity to different effects of the Underworld/things within (can consume food/drink of or in the Underworld without repercussions, effects from the Lethe wear off over time instead of being permanent like usual for mortals, etc)

Astral projection/”Walking in dreams”

Dream manipulation and projection (Sending dreams to others, etc.) (presumably includes sharing/projecting dreams with others) alongside inflicting sleep upon others even from a distance.

Illusions

Manipulation of emotions/aura that inflicts specific emotions on others (ex.: radiating fear/death onto enemies)

Projection of emotions and memories onto others (can be so forceful it causes physical damage like a shockwave)

Geokinesis (all forms but also specifically generating black marble) (presumably also specialized control over precious gemstones & non-paper currency)

Temperature manipulation (seemingly only lowering temperature)/creating frost)

Control/manipulation of souls, including living beings (ex: ripping out Bryce Lawrence’s soul)

Perceiving/reading/judging of souls (most likely also a Ghost King thing over Hades/Pluto thing, but possibly both)

Converting living into dead/undead, aka instakill (ex: disintegrating monsters to bone with one touch)

Lowering or manipulation of own vitals (breathing, heart rate, etc)

Death Trance/pseudo-hibernation (possibly also general control over states of consciousness at least for self, in combo with control over vitals & dreams)

Sensing death (impending or when it occurs, sometimes receiving dreams/visions of it occurring)

Able to sense other children of Hades/Pluto (potentially also other chthonic beings in general/able to identify based on sense alone) and also just living beings in general, such as mortals (possibly via souls).

Improved navigation underground/in the Underworld and ability to traverse restricted or normally unnavigable parts of the Underworld

Enhanced strength/abilities when in the Underworld

Inherently unnaturally quiet (possibly able to silence sound on a designated target)

Hiding/shielding self from being perceived (seemingly related to shadows/silence)

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

I absolutely adore the (thinly-veiled) story in "Fortnight" because as I said on album release day, it's like "ivy" but in the suburbs.

I love the conceit of some sort of sanitized, suburban wasteland being a veneer for the seedy underbelly of these unhappy couples, acting out their secret fantasies as a cover for how unsatisfying their pristine lives are. It feels so "Desperate Housewives" turned on its head.

The narrator is drinking away her troubles, but nobody notices because everyone else is just as miserable and doing the same thing. (Or don't care.) The love interest moves in to the house behind hers, captivating her across the fence line. His wife upkeeps the perfect suburban duties, tending to her garden, and it drives the narrator crazy because her own home is in shambles on the inside. How dare she make something so beautiful that hides something so ugly? How dare she be happy when she has the one thing the narrator thinks she wants?

The would-be lovers circle each other, make pleasantries like good neighbours always do, sublimating their desires for each other over idle chit chat, which only highlights how that spark has gone out with her husband. And the image of their presumed perfect marriage to their neighbours is also a lie, because while she's feeding these fantasies about the other man in her mind, her husband is openly unfaithful. And the fuck of it all is that she knows and she isn't doing anything about it. The implied reading of "my husband is cheating, I want to kill him," to me is that this is an ongoing affair, but she's just put up with it, letting the resentment build but continuing to play the role of dutiful wife. (After all, good wives always know.)

The story is suburban gothic. The pressures of up keeping the day to day of the British? American dream do nothing but kill the spirit of the people inside them when they can't admit that it's wrong. The call is coming from inside the house: the danger isn't from some monster lurking in the shadows invading their neighbourhood, but quite literally in their own backyards. The only options are to stay stuck in the mundane reality of day to day in this sterile cage, or to break free and escape to Florida, the bastion of evading the law and lovers and time. You can buy the car (or the house or the boat or whatever), but it won't fill the hole inside you if you can't admit what's wrong and follow through.

I could soooooo see this playing out as a movie or TV show and I freaking love it. (I mean, it already has, it's a whole genre lol.) There's the whole ~real life~ situation filtering through these characters, being used as a cautionary tale that would probably veer a shade too far into speculation for another post. But I do love me some storytelling about the dark side of suburbia as a foil to people's darker impulses and psychological breakdowns.

[cozy-the-overlord]

Seeing people complain about the Speak Now vault tracks being too teenagery …. gee, you’d almost think a teenager wrote them /s

[lyculuscaelus]

Our Story (Fanfic)

Chapter 1 Promises

“Now, sing O Muses, of that brave boy Odysseïdes, Sparta has he visit'd, Pylos twice, with Athena the wise queen…”

“Stop it,” Telemachus giggled. “You’re acting like your father.”

“No, I’m not,” said Peisistratus. “You’re acting like your father.”

“No, I’m not,” said Telemachus. “Unlike him, I don’t have many deeds to brag about.”

“Doesn’t sailing for the first time count?” Peisistratus insisted. “And if you don’t like this song I can always make a new one for you.”

“No thanks, Peisis,” Telemachus said. “At least, leave it till my birthday.”

“That I can arrange,” Peisistratus replied, seriously.

And they locked their gazes for a long time, until Telemachus finally burst out laughing. Soon Peisistratus joined him, and their laughter quickly flooded the entire palace. It died down eventually, as the two young men slowly calmed down. Then Peisistratus started:

“I’m so glad you’re here, Tele. Had it been another usual day, I’d be hunting with my brothers in the fields. Not that I don’t like hunting, it’s just that I’ve so many things to talk about and my brothers always find them either boring or childish. You might be the only one I could chat with. Ah, I wish you could visit Pylos more often.”

“Yeah,” Telemachus nodded. “It feels like such a long time since we last met…has it been two years already?”

“One whole year plus nine months, to be exact.”

“Right, I’m not gonna doubt you. After all, you’re better with this than I am.”

“That’s about the time since your father returned home, yep.”

“Before he set out again, you mean.”

“He set out again? About when?”

Telemachus sighed. “About one year and eight months ago. Said it was something concerning a prophecy someone named Teiresias told him—”

“Teiresias? The Teiresias? But isn’t he already dead?”

“Yep. My father had visited the Underworld, literally.”

Peisistratus gasped. “What—Oh my, that was some nostos your father had. Anyway has he met any great hero there? Like Theseus? Or Heracles? Or even my brother Antilochus?”

“He saw your brother there alright,” said Telemachus. “And Heracles, who even talked to him…”

“That’s so sick!” Peisistratus exclaimed. “I wonder if we’ll be having an adventure like this in the future, say, just you and me, maybe plus someone else, I don’t know.”

“You know what? It would be great!” Telemachus blinked his eyes excitedly. Why have I never thought about it before? Hanging out with my friends? It’s such a great idea! And father is going to be proud of us…

proud…

He’s going to be proud, isn’t he?

Telemachus wasn’t so sure. He remembered basically everything in that day, when his father again departed from Ithaca, this time to somewhere unknown even to himself. He remembered that it was a sunny day, that the chanting of birds was glorious, that the sweet scent of olives was mesmerizing, that the airy dance of cloud was elegant. These he remembered well, but most vividly he could recall that very scene, that very conversation—

“Father, I want to come along,” he had said. “I want to be with you wherever you go, so we can at least share some thrills and fun together.”

“No, Tele,” his father had answered, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t bring you on board, not this time.”

“Why?” He had been so confused. “But I’ve always wanted to explore the worlds outside Ithaca, to see the giant oak in Dodona, the reputable land of Calydon, the seven gates of the famous Cadmea…I want to have an adventure, father. Just like you did.”

He remembered that look well. That look his father had gave him, those eyes with such agony, such sadness. Is it panic, panicking at the thought of his son following him down the miserable path that was meant for his own to take? Is it fear, fearing for the life and sanity of his son? Or is it sorrow, sorrowful over the naïve and innocent spirit of his 20-year-old son? Or is it pain, painful about the fact that he doesn’t even qualify as being a father, who never had the chance to see his son through the childhood, and hadn’t gotten to know this brave young man his son has become, before his fate was calling him to sail out again?

For a long time both of them didn’t speak, and the look was growing wearier and wearier and…it seemed as if another decade had passed inside his father’s mind, another decade filled with tribulations and torments. Telemachus couldn’t help but feel his regret. Regret that he ever said those words, regret that he wasn’t with his father when he needed him. The hands. He could feel his father’s hands gripping his shoulders tightly. But finally his father had lower the head, and sighed heavily. In a low voice, Odysseus had begun. “Tele, you have to understand. This cruel world is not as entertaining as it may seem, or sound in those tales. It’s dangerous out there, filled with monsters, storms, ruthless gods, and…and things that can go beyond your very imagination. Things that are so terrible, so overwhelming…”

He hadn’t finished the sentence, instead he was choked with sobs, and Telemachus had felt so guilty, and so helpless. But he had tried his best to withhold his tears, and had started to comfort his father. “Then I’ll face them bravely, father, like you would do. Like a true son of Odysseus would do.” Telemachus had put up with a smile. “As a true Odysseïdes.”

“Oh Tele…” Odysseus had moaned with tears. “Oh…for ten years I haven’t seen your face, in one month I haven’t gotten to know you better, but look, what an undaunted man you have become, when I’m away!” Finally, he had cracked into a smile. “Yes, that’s my boy!” He had said with sincere happiness, though the pain was still present in his voice. But at least, Odysseus had smiled.

And Telemachus had exhaled with relief.

“Father,” he had continued. “I wouldn’t insist if you really don’t want me along, but I need to know where you’re going, what you’re going to do, and how long I should wait for your return. Could you please tell me, just for mom’s sake and mine?”

And Odysseus had nodded. “Don’t worry about your mother, Telemachus. Penelope knows about this, and you have every right to know it as well.” He had stopped, and looked towards the western sky. As Telemachus followed his gaze, Odysseus continued. “Do you remember the story I’ve told you, about that prophet Teiresias in the Underworld? I had asked him about my fate, and he had answered:

‘…When someone else runs into you and says you've got a shovel used for winnowing on your broad shoulders, then fix that fine oar in the ground there, and make rich sacrifice to lord Poseidon with a ram, a bull, and a boar that breeds with sows. Then leave. Go home, and there make sacred offerings to the immortal gods…’

“So you see, Telemachus, I don’t know where I’ll go to, but I know what I’ll find. It may be a long voyage, or it may be short. Who knows? But I’m going anyway, because I am Laërtiades, son of the honorable Laërtes—one of the legendary Argonauts.”

“I see,” Telemachus had said. “The blood of dauntlessness runs deep in our family.”

“Precisely.” Odysseus had laughed proudly. “You, my son, will also share this honor, in the future perhaps, when you take on a journey of your own, and build your fame with your own feats. But today, the journey is mine to undertake, and with the blessing of the prophet, I’m very certain that I will make it home again.”

“Okay.” With a serious face, Telemachus had nodded. “Then I’ll try not to surpass you.”

They were both grinning when an owl started to whoop from the forest.

“Wait, dad,” Telemachus had suddenly called. “If not this time, then when?”

Odysseus had given him a slight smile. “When I return, son, I shall take you to Dodona, where the oaks are august; then we’ll visit Calydon, where twenty two heroes had once gathered to slay that giant boar; then we shall go to Thebes, where twice had the Argives waged war against, one of them being the father of a king whom I have befriended; and then,” Odysseus had patted Telemachus’s right shoulder. “Then I will bring you to Pylos again. And know that I won’t be gone for long. This is a promise.”

“Swear it on the river of Styx?”

“I swear it, on the river of Styx.”

Gradually, Telemachus had returned the smile. “Thank you, dad.” He had said, voice cracked with the bittersweet taste in his throat. “Thank you so much.”

He remembered the hug, the kiss, and the departure of his father clearly. He remembered how often he had doubted that whether his father would ever make it back again. He remembered that worried look of his mother, who had often stood by the shores of Ithaca, waiting, waiting. But he also remembered, that Odysseus had made a promise.

And here they were, in Pylos again, weren’t they?

And it only took him eight months, didn’t it?

So, there’s nothing to worry about. After all, there’s nothing that can waver the resolve of Odysseus’s homecoming. And thus he shall always return. Always.

All because of his love, and his promise.

Telemachus nodded to this fact. Love, and promise. That’s what my father was proud of. And if I have found the courage to love, to make a promise, then will Odysseus be proud of me, even with the knowledge that I may travel afar, likely into an ocean of danger, and a sea of trouble?

Then will we get to have our adventure, and get back safely? Will we get to tell our tales, and make our own story?

So to Peisistratus he said these words, with all his heart:

“And I’m sure we will. Of this I give you my promise.”

[fatehbaz]

.

[resssistance]

Happy 25th birthday to Shoma Uno! To all your smiles, and many more that are yet to shine. Thank you 💙

[simon-like-the-chipmunk]

RIP Victor Hugo, you would've loved my brain 😔

[cliveguy]

rewatching barbie with family and after all the hype and discussion when it came out the script really is very meh

[prodigal-upsiders]

having so many thoughts about music evolving from a hobby to a survival tool to a love language with the fruity four and i just 

after ‘86 they all have songs they can’t listen to anymore, all carry updated mixtapes like talismans in case, just in case, comfort and paranoia and protection all tapped out in the frequent little sounds of someone tapping their fingers against a plastic case. there’s a lot of time spent sitting together, back-to-back or curled around each other, hands clenching tight together while their safety songs play. 

as it sinks in that they’re safe, as they move away from hawkins and stubbornly build their own life, the weird co-dependent four of them, music comes with them. steve lowkey steals all of the best vinyl from his parents’ house, not that anyone but him was enjoying it there, so he hauls his whole collection to boston; eddie is constantly coming home from work with new tapes in his pockets because he thinks one of them would like this or just plain needs to listen to it for their own good; nancy starts keeping a little journal of lyrics that resonate with her, and one day she jots one down on a sticky note instead and by the end of the year one of their living room walls is covered in lyrics they love; robin learns new things like a sponge and instruments scratch that itch just as well as language does, constantly barging in to the music shop where eddie works to get her hands on something new and interesting until she can play steve’s song on so many different things (eddie and robin’s favorite, which steve and nancy hate them for, is the kazoo.)

it’s small things, too, ways each of them say i love you. nancy’s voice, still crackly and quiet from just waking up, crooning out a french love song as robin’s arms come around her waist while they both wait for the coffee to brew. steve taking the eyeliner from eddie’s hand as he gets ready for a show, just a snippet of put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty, and meet me tonight in atlantic city sung soft and low between them, eddie smiling as he closes his eyes and hums the harmonica parts back. somehow steve and robin always end up with the same song stuck in their heads--sometimes they’ll be out all day and not see each other until dinner, when one of them is still humming it and the other can go “oh so it’s YOUR fault” and they’ll both launch into the bit they’re stuck on, full muppet voice at full volume. 1997 rolls around and “Bitch” comes out and ruins eddie and nancy forever, they’re thirty years old and so annoying about duetting that song in the kitchen with spatulas for microphones.

their home is loud and quiet and soft and wild and everything they need it to be, and it’s never silent. they love music and they love each other and none of them are lonely again.

[musical-chick-13]

"This show is SO good, you should watch it!!"

I gotta be honest. If I look at a character list on Wikipedia and get five characters down without seeing a single woman, it's probably not for me.

[unopenablebox]

i always feel like i need to explain that my reading habits are not a deliberately cultivated virtue, i'm just mentally constructed in such a way that reading certain kinds of texts is very literally a more basal function than eating or walking, & also hate the sensation of playing video games and watching tv even if i think the game or show itself is thrilling and great. plus my only other hobby is knitting which i can do while i read. this isn't some kind of moral position

[caffeinatedopossum]

I honestly don't know what people mean when they talk about "having dreams" in the sense of like aspirations and ambitions. People talk about it like EVERYONE obviously has one. And I don't. I just kind of hang out and try not to die.