i have never changed this blog's theme since the day i made it three years ago, not once. however, when you're hit by a sentence like 'both like watching half naked men pummel each other,'
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Jason in the manor for movie night: How'd you convince B to let me in anyways? I thought I wouldn't get an invite till I dropped the real bullets.
Dick busy trying to wrangle Damian away from Tim and Titus away from the snacks: B is really bad at facing the words he throws around ya know? So I told him since it's my fault you died I should be responsible for bringing you home- Tim don't!!!
Jason: B said what!?!?
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
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A trip down memory lane! Though the tower seems to have changed…
Celestial tower! Built during the direct aftermath of the Founding Unovan Civil War, it remains a cultural landmark in memory of those lost in the fire and storm.
Time has dulled the scars left behind by the twin dragons. Today, the tower is primarily used as a mausoleum (the preferred method of burial are urns) and, well, a tourism site. Legend says if you climb to the top of the tower and ring the bell, you can lay your ghosts to rest. But mostly? You can ring a GIANT bell.
Course, you gotta GET to that bell first.
Masterpost for more pokemon shenanigans here!
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please do not fall for staff claiming trans womens faces being labeled mature is a “bug” i have had nudes and cis women in lingerie blazed to me CONSTANTLY with zero content labels or warnings, clearly any labels being added to posts are done by people. that and any text posts criticizing staffs rampant terf and nazi problem being labeled mature as well. it is very blatant obvious transmisogyny on staffs end and theyre giving up a flimsy excuse to try and avoid liability
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it’s so funny to me that people used to try to warn me “if you go on t it won’t make you androgynous it’ll just make you look like a man” because 1) i do want to look like a man, that is famously a major part of being a trans man but also 2) t literally has made me androgynous?? like they were wrong on both counts. i got most of the looking-like-a-man changes that i wanted (deep voice, broader body, hair all over my body including my face) and i also give every single cis person in a five mile radius a stroke every time they try to figure out my gender. the assumption that trans men wouldn’t actually want to look like men and the assumption that cis people are good at correctly gendering us once we’re on t are both weird as hell.
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Damian, as Robin, is about to be sacrificed to summon a Powerful Being.
Except instead of a Powerful Being, a kid his age pops into existence as though he was shoved forward.
The kid looks around, startled. He's got a black eye and he's holding a length of rope, presumably what had been restraining him.
"Uh. Is. Is this the afterlife?" The kid asks, bewildered.
"...No, this is Gotham. We were trying to summon Pariah Dark?" One of the cultists answers, also confused.
"But I was being sacrificed to summon Pariah Dark?" The kid says, brows furrowed.
The cultists pause in their attempted murder of Robin and hurriedly reconvene, taking their eyes off of the kid. They're muttering about how maybe there was another cult doing a sacrifice at the same time, and things got switched up. Should they sacrifice both of the boys?
Damian, though. Damian never takes his eyes off of the new kid.
Unlike the cultists, he's not an idiot. He knows a liar when he sees one. That boy is no sacrifice.
That boy is the being they summoned.
He waits for the being to show it's true colors. And waits. And waits.
'Hurry up!' Damian mouths to it.
'I am trying!' It mouths back, motioning at it's feet where it's been wearing away the containment sigil.
'Well try faster!'
'That's not how it works!'
'How hard is it to mess up chalk?'
'Well then you come here and you do it!'
"Maybe I will," Damian spits outloud, done with this farce.
"Uh, do you two need a moment or...?"
Damian answers the cultists question by kicking her in the face as he cuts himself loose.
He will rescue both himself and the demon they dragged into this world.
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