#August 13 2022

[dmwrites]

“And, last announcement.” Xisuma hit the next button on the PowerPoint and looked at his fellow hermits. “I have been made aware that there has been too much cursing on this server. As you know, we are strictly a pg Minecraft server, and I have read and heard some… interesting word choices. So, in order to combat this, I have installed a program into my suit. Whenever a swear or innuendo is uttered or written, I will be teleported to the criminal’s location and they will be killed instantly.”

The silence Xisuma’s announcement was met with had the most bizarre range of emotions he’d ever seen. Some looked confused, others mad- most seemed to be various levels of silent mirth, however, which made Xisuma nervous.

“That’s totally an invasion of privacy, but it’s kinda funny.” Grian said finally, a huge grin across his face. “Anyone wanna make bets on how long he’ll keep the code in?”

“Ooooo I love betting!” Keralis turned around to bat his eyelashes at Grian.

“Excuse me!” Xisuma said indignantly. Keralis mouthed ‘call me’ at Grian and mimed holding a phone before turning back around. “This is not a system to be abused! Hermit meeting dismissed!”

The first few days were pretty tame, surprisingly. Okay yes, the second the code was turned on, Xisuma was teleported to Tango, who apparently had been saying “fuck” over and over again for the last hour “just to see if the code was working properly”. Xisuma killed him instantly, and Tango respawned still laughing. There was also the instance of Doc, who hadn’t even attended the meeting and started swearing at a broken bit of redstone, and started swearing even more when Xisuma appeared, and punched the admin hard in the stomach out of fright.

In retrospect, it should have been suspicious that the hermits had been relatively quiet those first few days. But Xisuma was optimistic. For some reason.

“Do it!”

Grian giggled and pushed Pearl. “No, you!”

There was a gathered group of hermits in the shopping district which included Grian, Scar, Pearl, Gem, xB, Hypno, Cleo, Joe, and Etho. There was a nervous, excited energy about them, and they were all giggling.

“If you actually want to to this, stop being morons about it and do it properly.” Cleo said, sliding off the rock she was sharing with Joe. “Everyone stand in a big circle.” Everyone did as she said, giggling and whispering to each other. “Right, now, we’ll start on the count of three. One, two, three!”

And the assembled hermits all began to curse as much as possible. Xisuma appeared out of thin air, and instantly was ping ponged from one person to another, with such an intense speed he couldn’t even hit anyone. Eventually, everyone was laughing so much that they couldn’t curse, and Xisuma was left standing in the center of the circle, fuming.

“You all will regret this!” Xisuma shouted, waving his sword. The laughing faded to giggling, and Xisuma opened his mouth to lecture them.

“I don’t think we will regret this.” Came another mild voice. Xisuma turned slowly on the spot, and standing outside the circle of hermits was Etho, who stood dangerously close to a small pit of lava. Etho looked at Xisuma, and Xisuma looked at the lava.

“Etho…”

“Fuck.” Etho said, a smile in his voice.

Xisuma was teleported to Etho, which was right above the lava, and like a cartoon character, flailed in midair for a moment before falling right in.

Xisuma sighed, as the lava was only one block high with a wall around it, which meant he, with his fire proof suit, was forced to stand there while the other hermits gathered around and cried of laughter. Joe eventually took pity on him and let him out.

“Fuck all of you.” Xisuma said with a deep sigh after a moment of annoyed silence. Everyone cheered.

#August 13 2022 #fic #hc9 #xisumavoid #hermitcraft #long post

[card-of-the-day]

Today's Card Is: God's Chastisement

#card of the day #magic the gathering #edited #august 13 2022

[dogstomp]

Dogstomp #2777 - August 13th

Patreon / Twitter / Discord Server

#comic diary #daily comic #comic journal #autobio comics #august 13 2022 #comic 2777

[terrified-spider]

(: My tablet isn't dead! (:

The adaptor cord was broken, but I have a replacement now, and can keep making finished digital stuff! (:

Notes about the piece and the designs are under the cut, and the image description is in the Alt text! Critique is always welcome!

Columbia was based entirely off of Nell Campbell's performance in the original film and Eddie is a messy combination of a number of different depictions.

Eddie's skin is meant to look somewhat dead, but I'm not sure how well I did - some of it looks a bit flat.

I wish these two had just a bit more time together, they really seemed so happy to see each other. (:

#described art #rocky horror picture show #rhps #eddie rhps #columbia rhps #fan art #digital art #critique requested #one from the queue #august 13 2022

[mermaidinthecity]

lucyhale: 🦋

#lucy hale #lucy sm #august 13 2022

[1morteveryday]

225/365 👣

#daily mort #august 13 2022 #mort rides a llama uwu #mort's animal friends

[glimmerofawesome]

#somebody wasn't happy about the 90+4 draw #sunniva skoglund #stabæk #stabaek #brann v stabaek #august 13 2022 #pm gifs

[keepxsolxinxsolxinvictus]

Happy Birthday Sebastian!

Prince Jonathan "Jack" Benjamin - Kings

#august 13 2022 #sebastian stan #kings #jack benjamin

[minorhoursmagazine]

Issue 27, containing: Elements of a Still-Room, Commonplaces (Regarding Grief), Local Wanderings, Commonplaces (Regarding Love), A Dialogue, Letters, Commonplaces (Regarding Hope), &c.

------------------------------

SOME EDITORIAL NOTES

It's an odd time of year, gentle readers, and an odd mood I find myself in. While the calendar in no way suggests it, the air seems set for turning from one year to the next-- a book closing, another opening. I feel like I'm reviewing the reference list of last year, paging through the index to see what, after all, warranted a listing.

It is August, and I am approaching a door whose lintel bears the words laborem et dolorem. Or, no, that's mixing metaphors-- it's a book that I'm approaching, waiting on the shelf for me to switch it out with the one I've been diligently reading for the last year. On the cover is a door whose lintel bears the words dum vita est, spes est. The door is an open one, and on the other side: an indistinct and distant figure, holding up a lamp.

It's sad to let go of the last year. There's a kind of love that comes from surviving everything that came my way -- love of self, love for that which is lost, love for that which might never be (but was, nevertheless, envisioned). Letting go of the year -- putting down this book -- feels like losing that odd love too.

It doesn't much matter that I know I'll love again. It won't be this year's love. I can see it now, understand the feeling, but I've only really encompassed it in these moments leading to its loss. Like, I suppose, it's meant to be-- but it's still strange to have it now, in August, and it's strange to feel it so acutely, and I don't know how much of these notes I'll keep come morning, but for the moment:

Here is one foot on the side of this turning year, and here is one foot on the other, and here is me, caught centered between the two, under a lintel that bears the words aut inveniam viam aut faciam. I suppose the following articles will reflect the same.

------------------------------

ELEMENTS OF A STILL-ROOM

In the last few months I have, astonishingly, fallen to the siren call of bullet journalling.

For those unaware, a bullet journal is essentially a dot-grid journal, like so:

Fig. 1. An open, blank journal printed entirely with a grid composed of dots. It is a formless void of possibility and potential horror.

Bullet journalling, the method of personal organization intended to be developed outside the bounds of pre-printed organizers and to the benefit and use of the individual, is notably different from bullet journalling, the social media-driven artistic style and justification for stationery porn ostensibly for the use of organizing one's personal journal.

Like any stationery nerd who desperately needs to become better organized but fails when confronted with what "normal" persons seem to think is the best method to organize one's thoughts, I was very intrigued by bullet journalling when I saw it running through the socials, but attempting the artistic style was entirely too overwhelming -- my attempt at the method was stymied by the need for perfection I assumed was a necessary part of the process.

It was only this year that I returned to it again, partially because I was seeking out advice to help my oldest child incorporate doodling into their note-taking and partially because I found myself with Rather a Lot of Thoughts to Organize, and in doing research I came across a video by youtube user studyquill, called "what I learned from 5 years of bullet journaling (and why i'm quitting)". Her discussion was enormously helpful, and led me to actually start my first journal.

As it turns out, provided I don’t worry overmuch about any performative nonsense, it is intensely useful for me to be able to collect my research about various things in locations outside my own head. I have so far accumulated about five or so different journals on different topics, including home ownership, art and art projects, household recipes and methodology, financial management, and so on. My primary tools are Sharpie pens on inexpensive journals found on sale from big-box craft stores -- but I also have a small ridiculous pen case filled with highlighters and such, because there is performative for others, and then there’s performative for myself, and I am perfectly happy to indulge in one while decrying the other.

As can be expected, there’s a huge overlap in topics and interests, and sometimes the same sort of item can come up across multiple journals. At the moment, the household recipes journal (which we shall call “Queenie” for the duration) is possessed of several series’ of notes regarding Regency-era style still-rooms. Keen readers may recall my previous experiments in housewitchery -- I have only gotten more outrageous with them, and they are the sorts of things that are best suited to creating in a dedicated space that is no longer quite common but is nonetheless something I deeply wish to possess.

Then there’s my home ownership journal (which we will call “Reginald,” because I think that’s funny) -- it exists to catalogue the large amount of information and research and preferences and thoughts related to finding, buying, and making a home in our modern era. While Queenie may have the research, Reginald has the wishlist: fixtures, equipment, supplies, storage needs, glassware, safety measures, &c. It is easier, I find, to daydream if I do so with some amount of accuracy.

While Queenie and Reginald are quite tied together in this matter, the art and art projects journal is a bit more obscure in its relationship. It actually possesses a name already: "Historically Inaccurate," which is also the name of my Vast Publishing and Artistic Shenanigan Empire. Historically Inaccurate has within it any number of projects, most of which are small tangible bits and bobs for the purposes of art sales and whatnot. It is, in many ways, a useful outlet for the parts of me that aren’t easily assuaged by the pen and keyboard, not to mention the parts of me that still long to run an esoteric shop slash performance art piece. (Cf. daydreams, gentle reader.)

At any rate: Most recently, Historically Inaccurate has been delicately inundated with project ideas for, ahem, historically accurate cosmetics, floral waters, balms, salves, and other items of self-care easily achievable within a modern kitchen provided one doesn’t mind carefully researching replacements for all the poisonous ingredients.

It is, I think, the next step to my overall bogwitch evolution -- but it highlights what things I want to do, what things I could achieve, if I had not only the inclination but the real wherewithal as well.

It is a pleasant thing to dream about (and in my dreams, I plan.)

------------------------------

COMMONPLACES (REGARDING GRIEF)

From Mary Ruefle's "Twenty-Two Short Lectures" in Bat City Review:

Short Lecture on Translation I asked my friend the translator, What was the first known act of translation in the history of mankind? His answer was, Probably something into or out of Egyptian. I thought about this for a while and ventured a certainty: No, I said, it was when a mother heard her baby babble or cry, and had to decide in an instant what it meant.

******

From Sadeq Rahimi's The Hauntology of Everyday Life:

What haunts is not that which is gone, it is that which was expected to come but whose condition of arrival has been foreclosed, and the ghost is an advocate of the promised future that was unrightfully canceled when the past was destroyed.

******

From Gregory Orr's Orpheus & Eurydice: A Lyric Sequence:

To guide someone through the hall of hell is not the same as love.

------------------------------

LOCAL WANDERINGS

In the past week I took my youngest child to the White Mountain area of New Hampshire, visiting penny-candy shops, introducing her to the sacred Wolfman experience, and casually getting stranded in a receptionless area as my car's alternator decided that life was too short to remain a functioning part of my daily conveyance.

But in and around that excitement, there was certainly beauty.

Fig. 2. Through the White Mountains, where the clouds are near and waiting.

Fig. 3. A portion of the Pemigewasset, stones smooth and waiting like a child's fantasy of what playing in a river should be.

Fig. 4. Self-portrait.

------------------------------

COMMONPLACES (REGARDING LOVE)

From Louise Glück's "Sunrise":

And if you missed a day, there was always the next, and if you missed a year, it didn't matter, the hills weren't going anywhere, the thyme and rosemary kept coming back, the sun kept rising, the bushes kept bearing fruit--

******

From coffeepeople:

How wild is it that every version of you probably exists still, somewhere, in someone’s memory? The messy you, crying on the floor exists still in your mind. The happy, sun-soaked you, exists in your best friend’s memory. No part of you has died, all parts of us exist always, simultaneously and hidden.

******

From viridianmasquerade:

I make my ramen the way a friend taught me in eleventh grade. Every fall, I listen to a playlist made for me by a boy I drove across a border to hook up with. I eat sushi because a girl who won’t talk to me anymore made me try it, and Indian food because my best friend’s parents ordered for me before I knew what I liked. There are movies I love because someone I loved loved them first. I am a mosaic of everyone I’ve ever loved, even for a heartbeat.

------------------------------

A DIALOGUE

The Editors: ...Milton's description sounds just like New Hampshire: "O'er many a frozen, many a fiery alp / Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens"-- oh, and monsters, obviously.

Daughter: Fairies; moose; Mt. Washington.

------------------------------

LETTERS

From "A Correspondent," to the Magazine, "Postcards from the Edge of Beyond":

Concerning the Postcard to Mrs. Mary Belden [Issue 3, "Small Ways" - Eds.], as I'm sure you've long-since recognized, the line in the address immediately following "Sharon," is the old pre-ZIP abbreviation for Connecticut, viz. "Conn" (rendered in cursive with a rather more florid capital-C than Palmer Method usually employs).

******

From the Magazine, to the Correspondent, "A response":

The Editors had not yet, in fact, recognized the abbreviation "Conn", and were still in the throws of believing the line to be an ill-rendered number or word.

It's easy to realize, after the fact, that time has changed that which is easily recognizable to that which is not. There are always a select few who either remember things as they were, or choose to keep the information alive in hope of some distant use-- though that seems, sometimes, as if these people are depending their future fortunes on a world that will still contain enough recognizable edges that the crowbar of Knowledge might be applied until the cask opens and Comprehension is revealed.

We worry, sometimes, that this will not be the case. The golden records sent out on Voyager 1 and 2 come to mind.

Fig. 5. "The Golden Record cover shown with its extraterrestrial instructions. Credit: NASA/JPL"; or: a message, known and unknown. Waiting.

We say this, knowing fully well that it speaks poorly as to our education and general cleverness, but: For all that the record has dozens of clues and instructions intended to provide assistance to whoever might find it, whenever that might be, in whatever form they might take and whatever level of technology they might have...

It is beautiful -- but incomprehensible -- to the Editors.

With the explanation provided by NASA, the levels of information and the sheer hope and love put into the project are clear-- but in some distant place, some future time, what will survive of it? What makes this record the easiest way to communicate a people and a time, that makes it different from the Voynich manuscript or Linear A?

Maybe the makers explain their thinking somewhere; we have not checked, much the way someone cracking open one of the Voyagers and finding these rendered objects can't/couldn't/won't/willn't. We can only assume, then, that for all its cleverness, for all the information packed within it to allow some peoples the ability to open door after door into who we once were, and why we wanted so strongly to share who we were and who we might be outside the confines of our small world--

They are just postcards. Messages to someone else, with depths of meaning that may never be known (though some with specialized knowledge might, perhaps, glean glimpses here and there). But they were important enough to send out. And as with Mrs. Barnum to Mrs. Belden, for those who find these records perhaps the most important message will be: "These were people, once. And there was feeling, there."

------------------------------

COMMONPLACES (REGARDING HOPE)

From fiovske:

a ship loves an anchor the same way a hearth loves a fire with enough passion to make it a home

******

From lyricwritesprose, paraphrasing Fred Clark's post "L.B.: The Rise of the Anti-Huck":

I used to read a blogger who insisted that “All right, I’ll go to Hell,” from Huckleberry Finn is the most pure and perfect prayer in the canon of American literature. Meaning, as I understand it, that the decision to do the right thing in the face of eternal damnation is the most holy decision one can make, and if God Himself is not proud of the poor mixed-up kid, then God Himself is not worth much more than a “Get thee behind me,” and the rest of us should be lining up to go to Hell too.

******

From swampmaiden:

you see a tiny sign planted in the ground. bending down to read, you just make out, in impossibly tiny script "a mundane clump of dirt; much beloved by god, like any other"

------------------------------

ANNOUNCEMENTS

What will the new year (that is not a new year, that exists for no one but myself and the season turning) bring? I don't know. The living room is dark, and the lamplight insufficient. A character on a television show once said

"What is grief, but love persevering?"

An actor on a chat show said that

grief is unexpressed love.

One of the first pieces of poetry I ever found on my own, and loved in an instant, said

An angel with no face embraced me and whispered through my whole body: “Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud! Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly. You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

But I'm realizing: What it means to be halfway through the door to tomorrow is that I can no longer see what the lintel reads. And maybe that's for the best; Latin was never my subject anyway.

******

If you would like to write a letter to be produced/answered in the magazine, please email me at [email protected] with the subject line:

Letter to the Magazine: [subject of letter as you would like to see it printed]

If you wish the letter to be anonymous or under a nom de plume, please state so in the body of the email; similarly, if you'd rather not be printed at all, please also state so in the body of the email. It will otherwise be assumed that mail sent to that address is intended for print.

Alternately, commenting on the Patreon post will get you a similar result, with much less fuss.

******

As always, you can find me at my regular website, katherinecrighton.com, or via twitter, at @c_katherine.

To support the magazine and get it delivered directly to your inbox, join the Patreon.

-Until next week, be safe.

#the minor hours and small thoughts magazine #katherine crighton #august 13 2022

[averbaldumpingground]

The way you speak his name, a reverent whisper, is no more than the truth you never told. But there is peace in oil-stained, calloused hands. In evenings on the porch with beer between you. He'd wait, if you asked. He'd wait forever.

#August 13 2022

[dewitty1]

Saturday Six (Stuff)

The 'World Famous Omak Stampede' parade is happening outside my front door this morning.<(￣ ﹌ ￣)>

Finally finished a project that took me too long. It was really finicky, and had more to it than I anticipated. But also, I think I just might be really tired of working. Idk.(´～`)

I'm hoping I hear from the behavioral clinic about therapy soon, because I think I really need to talk to someone.(。-ω-)ﾉ

We're having to do a ton of things for the parent's this weekend, and I have to meet a customer this evening as well, which, ugh. But at least it means money.(ﾉ´ｰ`)ﾉ

Reggie (Regulus Arcturus Black Kitteh) is starting to get the other two boy kittehs to play with him and it's really adorable. (=^-ω-^=)

While I was sitting outside watching the parade there was a little hummer birb who is apparently very hongry as it's been back to visit a few times today. ˏ₍•ɞ•₎ˎ❁✲ﾟ*

#Saturday Six #August 13 2022 #Personal #Please do not rebloggle #Carey rambles about her boring life and about work which she needs to do because capitalism and there's no ubi rn on the usa #The parade this morning was short and sweet #It's been better in years past though #Anyway I'm just living the dream ha ha ha yeah right #I hope you all are well #Thank you for continuing to read this bullshite week after week #I appreciate you all so much #Hugs from mom or just a friend - whatever you need right now!٩(๑•◡-๑)۶ⒽⓤⒼ❤💜💙💚💛❤️💗💕💖 #Have a good day or night wherever you are #now back to your regularly scheduled programming #About me

[dmwrites]

TFC

——

You may think there is no life in the deepest depths of the earth, but you’d be wrong. Listen closely, and perhaps you hear whistling, or an echoing chuckle. Find a wooden shack, tucked into some corner of the world, and enter (it’s okay, he won’t mind if you visit). Find the hole in the floor that looks like it yawns down for eternity, and start descending the ladder.

The stones around you will be worn. If you put your hand against them as you go down, you’ll feel their smoothness. He traces the stones with his fingers as he descends into his mines, can’t help but to caress the earth like it’s someone he loves.

At the bottom of the ladder, because there is in fact a bottom, you’ll be faced with dizzying perfection, or at least as close as a man can get to symmetrical perfection. These are his mines, chests overflowing with minerals and rocks, and a simple bed pushed up against one corner. And an expanse of forever in front of you.

If you find him, and that’s if, because he’s quite hard to find, he’ll startle and jump, then assure you dryly that he did no such thing. And then he’ll cackle, so loud and full that the tunnel he’s made is full of his joyous voice. He’ll be the same as you remember, as you’ve been told. Long white beard and hair, pickaxe in hand. A man hard at work, doing what he loves.

Perhaps he’ll invite you up to his house on the surface after a while (“ugly thing, isn’t it? But it’s still four walls and a roof, so to me it’s the prettiest damn structure in the world!”) for some tea. He’ll complain about aches and pains, but he’ll make sure you have enough to eat and drink.

And then TFC will sit down, and smile at you.

“I’m glad you’re here. Doesn’t matter why or how or when, just that you’re here. Now we can both rest for a bit. Got time for a story?”

And maybe you’ll want to say something profound, sentimental. And you’ll get there, eventually. But TFC will begin to speak, telling stories of mining and adventure, with a cackling laugh that is just so, so infectious.

——

thanks for all the laughs tfc. you’ll be missed <3

#August 13 2022 #fic #<- for tagging purposes #tinfoilchef #tfc #gonna miss that guy #no pressure to rb ofc this for me

[druggeddraccus]

it’s done!! it looks so nice on my dark green wall

i do want to stain the wood pieces that came with the set to something darker though

and i went to micheals today to try and get another paint by number but all they had were kinda ugly ones…so i might just look online

#paint by number #august 13 2022

[behindthesefangirleyes]

Louis posing recently for a selfie (August 13, 2022)

Unseen ll Harry in Dublin, Ireland on March 14, 2013 (August 13, 2022)

#updates #btfe updates #louis tomlinson #harry styles #unseen #one direction #march 2013 #hldailyupdate #august 13 2022

[yahooanswersblog]

Spam Ask: How do you entertain yourself when you're bored?

Me: I'm not very good at it.

#askfm #August 13 2022

[5-minutes-2-midnight]

The [holds up electric iron] irony… Of my sweating through the clothes that I am wearing now to do the laundry, which means I will inevitably have more laundry to do when I am finished with this, because these clothes will be very sweaty, which means I will have to sweat through more clothes to do more laundry…

#quotes #humor #life quotes #home #laundry room #laundry #ironing #youtube #Bernadette Banner #August 13 2022 #OK but how did the Edwardians WASH these dresses? #timestamp: 29:49 #a beautiful rant