Fly, Fly Away

A most peculiar mademoiselle, as I'd introduce myself everywhere. She mostly rants in Indonesian.

[lemonysnicketblog]

The Full "I Will Love You." Letter. The Beatrice Letters, Lemony Snicket

Always. Continuously. With increasing apprehension, and decreasing hope.

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fetuccini and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey. I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock. I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it. I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear daggerproof tunics, and as a daggerproof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled. I will love you until every fire is extinguished and until every home is rebuilt form the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love you until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V. I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from skim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me happens to me as I am discovering this. I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else – your co-star, perhaps, or Y., or even O., or anyone Z. through A., even R. although sadly I believe it will be quite some time before two women can be allowed to marry – and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more, although I personally think three is plenty, and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I must say that on late, cold nights I prefer this scenario out of all the scenarios I have mentioned. That, Beatrice, is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.

[neonwarchild]

“He is taking a course on Marxist ideology. He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.” His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen, He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents, Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background. The matte finish is fucking gorgeous. He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars To teach him that the system is unfair. He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves. What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch. Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest. What you can’t tell from Harvard square, Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once, It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs. Tear gas is such a benign term for it, If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience. What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble, Is that when they rush you, survival is to run, I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me. I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet… We still do it. I inherited my communist manifesto, It has no cover— Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote” The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment, Looking for subversive propaganda. She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages, Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read, They never found it. So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber, For wanting her children to have a better life than she did, Don’t talk to me about revolution. I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that. The price of uprise is paid in blood, And not Harvard blood. The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago, The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic. It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library. It is easy to offer flesh to the cause, When it is not yours to give.”

—

Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)

I feel like people do need to remember that there is a very real, very painful, very human element to the word “revolution”.

(via nuanced-subversion)

[prokopetz]

I know I’m being an insufferable worldbuilding nerd here, but my basic metric for evaluating media with very inhuman protagonists is “how easily can one offer a complete and coherent account of this media’s plot without ever mentioning the fact that the protagonist is, for example, a talking car?”. The harder it is, the higher it scores.

[bizarreshark]

@hewwbwazew I would LOVE to read this holy shit

[raddudelaserpunch]

Source @sparrowlucero

[just-shower-thoughts]

Leonardo DiCaprio is wealthier than the man he played in Wolf of Wall Street.

[asbutterflies]

ya ngga kan inflasi.............................................. kalo disesuain sama rate inflasi jordan belfort dua kali lebih tajir daripada leo.....................................

[glowdetails]

elie saab, haute couture spring 2020

[just-shower-thoughts]

Since your mouth leads all the way to your asshole, your body is anatomically the shape of a donut.

[asbutterflies]

no......... like..... an eclair........................

[moreincorrectx1-andfriends]

Don’t fuck with me, I have the power of god and anime on my side!

Jinhyuk, probably (via moreincorrectx1)

[teaboot]

Too bad the prophet Cassandra never met Odysseus

[teaboot]

They say if she made a prophecy Nobody would believe her

[edgar-allan-possum]

I’ve gotta say, that is exactly the kind of stupid thing that probably would circumvent a curse.

[elidyce]

Cassandra: YOU ARE ALL GOING TO REGRET THIS SO MUCH YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW. 

Odysseus: Regret it why?

Cassandra: You won’t believe me if I tell you. If I prophecy, nobody believes me. That is my curse.

Odysseus: … I’m Nobody. Fill me in. 

*A couple of months later* 

Odysseus: HELLO PENELOPE, I AM HERE PRECISELY ON TIME AND NOT YEARS LATE incidentally I rescued and adopted a Trojan seer while I was away, she’s great, got me home really fast, Cassandra this is your new mother who’s not going to treat you like shit. 

Penelope: … I’m going to need more details, but okay, sure. 

Cassandra: *in tears* I love you, new family. 

[nanobomb-enjoyer]

Say what you want about Hamilton but there are some RAW lines in it. The entirety of Wait For It is just!!!! Like, “Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes, but we keep living anyway.” makes me FEEL things. Or, “If there’s a reason I’m still alive, when everyone who loves me has died, then I’m willing to wait for it.” And that one line, “I imagine death so much, it feels more like a memory.” Just ,,,, stirs my feelings you know???

[son-of-saturn]

Don’t forget “When my prayers to God was met with indifference, I picked up a pen, I wrote my own deliverance” like… damn

[themothersthefuckersandme]

honestly, i still think SO MUCH about Your Obedient Servant. Like, the polite classical chords as a thin veneer of civility over the unfiltered rage. “I am slow to anger, but I… toe the line, when I reckon with the effects of your life on mine” “even if i said what you think i said, you would have to cite a more specific grievance, here’s an itemized list of 30 years of disagreements.” like, the SALT! the verbal gymnastics! the smokescreen of politeness they both insist on having! it’s iconic, and salty as hell and i am living for it

[datfearlessfangirl]

*softly* Immigrants, we get the job done

[andrew-rannells-mustache]

YES and also from We Know there’s like a set of lines like “I kept a record of every check in my checkered history check it again against your list and see consistency/I never spent a cent that wasn’t mine, you sent the dogs after my scent that’s fine” which is so incredibly creative of Lin-Manuel Miranda to come up with!!! There’s like three separate rhyme scemes going on at once, five different ‘eck’ sound uses, and cent/sent/scent are all used in the same sentence. All while still keeping up with the plot and making sense!!!

[thelittleblackfox]

When you knock me down i get the fuck back up

[squided]

It’s almost fall you know that means we will all be needing some

[sanriopropaganda]

dont bring this back

[squided]

I waited an entire year to make this post.  It’s coming back.

[squided]

It’s that time of year again!

[squided]

it’s that time of year again!!!

[fripperiesandfobs]

Evening dress, early 1920′s

From Kerry Taylor Auctions

[fripperiesandfobs]

Boué Soeurs evening dress, late 1930′s

From Kerry Taylor Auctions

[avantegarda]

I may be an absolute disaster of an adult but when someone younger than me asks for advice I turn into a Wise Professor

[avantegarda]

Youngster: how do you cope with exams/anxiety/time management

Me, who just had a panic attack while eating a bagel at 2 pm:

[championsaremade]

This hit me too hard

[athoughtfox]

A SAVAGE PLACE

because I just re-read Prince Caspian and remembered how completely different it is to the movie, and because it says Aslan is good but not safe and I think so is Narnia and, as they become part of the fabric of it, so are the Pevensies

“You may find Narnia a more savage place than you remember.”

Trumpkin has never heard a silence so loud as this that follows his warning. The children glance at each other, crowding the air with a language he isn’t hearing. His skin prickles with it. He turns away from them, drawing his knife to begin skinning the wild bear.

Only a moment later, the smaller, darker boy is drawing his own knife and dropping to his knees. Trumpkin looks at him sidelong, uncertain.

“I’m a fair butcher,” King Edmund tells him mildly, and he plunges his arms in up to the elbows.

~

This is the story Trumpkin knows.

That once, Narnia was held in the grip of a terrible Winter brought upon it by a tyrant Witch, that four children were called by Aslan the Great Lion out of their own land to cast her down, and when they had done so the Lion crowned them himself at the shining castle of Cair Paravel, where the ruins now lie on the sea. That they governed so wisely and well that the folk of Narnia knew nothing of evil or hardship. That all was joy, when the trees danced and the animals spoke.

That the first of them held with equal steadiness the sceptre and the sword, that to him was given the crown above crowns, that every sovereign before or since stood but palely in the shadow of his glory. That the second of them surpassed all other beauties, that she was soft of hand and soft of heart. That the third of them had learned such wisdom on the path of darkness that his counsel was worth more than rubies, and the tongue in his mouth was as silver as his crown. That the fourth of them was the darling of the land, that laughter and lightness were her constant companions, that to see her smile was to be blessed.

In front of him now, the fourth is drying her eyes with dirty sleeves, and the third curses as he picks blood from under his fingernails, and the second scowls, tugging at her long hair, all straggly with salty air and sweat, and the first of them is building a thin fire with trembling hands, silent.

~

“Don’t say much, eh, that brother of yours?”

He is walking alongside Queen Lucy the Valiant, who is all of nine years old, wearing a grin and a dagger. They are following the tall one, whose steps are sure and make no sound.

“Well, of course not. He has to be careful what he says.”

“Don’t we all?”

He is chuckling, but she isn’t. Her face is young and pale and flecked with sunlight that shifts like a glamour.  There are moments when her teeth look too big for her mouth, when her eyes sit strangely, as though she has stolen them from another. Sometimes she is difficult to look at.

“Not like Peter does. When he speaks…”

Smiling, she spreads her arms wide, embracing the still trees and sleeping waters, the sky above them and the earth below.

“Narnia listens.”

They trudge on, and Trumpkin watches King Peter watching the clouds. He has never been so far as Narnia’s northern border, where the sky lies heavy and indomitable on the bleak, open land. He does not know what it would mean to be crowned for the blue mountains and distant thunder of the cold, still North; the terrible immensity of it. The carvings on the walls of Aslan’s How are flat and dead, fading under the dust of uncountable years. They do not show these things, and they do not show the High King’s lion-gold hair or his clear, calm predator’s eyes, or how at dusk in enemy lands it was once whispered that behind closed lips, his teeth were fangs and his breath smelled of iron.

The little girl skips ahead to catch her brother’s hand. The trees shiver around them, remembering the rhythm of her steps on the earth, the way she’d danced, mad and barefoot, her shrieking laughter in the night. The echo of it has hung in their leaves for a thousand years. Trumpkin sees them stirring, shakes his head, cannot help wondering if her voice, too, is threaded with this deep magic. It’s here in the very presence of these four living ghosts, in their fingertips and their footprints and the corners of their eyes. And though Trumpkin has never been a believer until now, he has heard enough to know that magic is not always sweet.

Behind him, the older girl is humming a tune that Trumpkin doesn’t quite recognise, though it catches in his ears like something familiar. There are no histories written of Queen Susan and the sly sirens, of how she would step from the sea like a drowned woman with her clinging hair, her deep-hued lips, to sing the music she had learned. The histories that remain crown her to the rich south, where the crops grow and the flowers open their delicate hearts for the indifferent eyes of the sun. As Trumpkin turns to look, pulled by that hypnotic song, she snaps a bloom from a bush of wild roses to slide into her hair.

She has not seen him glancing back, but the other one, the younger boy, has. Under his dark eyes, Trumpkin feels as pinned as if he were at the point of a dagger. Though they are far from the wild woods of the west, this is still King Edmund’s realm: the forest with all its shadows and its green secrets, laid bare when winter’s frozen hands come to strip them away. But now it is high summer and the leaves are thick, cloaking the woods in their mystery, and Trumpkin cannot see what is behind the boy-king’s sharp smile.

~

Time is long and wearing, and this is the story the Old Narnians have forgotten.

That Susan’s soft fingers had stung under the tautness of her bowstring, the first time she’d pulled it back to kill. That Peter had wept beside the corpse of the wolf. That Aslan’s maw had been red and sticky, dripping thick ropes of blood, and that the Witch had been beautiful, in her cold way.

~

“I have been told – I have learned about the Golden Age,” Caspian tells them later, shaky and fervent. “The legend. Of what Narnia was when you ruled it. It must seem like a sparse, savage place, compared with the one you knew.”

They watch him silently. Peter, whose eyes are bright and blank as a clear sky, and Susan with her full, unsmiling lips are already their own statues. After a moment, Edmund’s harsh laughter fills the darkness, and Lucy pinches him with fingers as sharp as any faery’s.

That night, Caspian puts the Horn where he cannot see it before he tries to sleep.  

[fuckyeahviralpics]

[mathsturbation]

while my prof was setting up for his lecture… 

gold

[the-illuminated-showgirl]

excuse me while I reblog this for the 36th time

[juststrokemyglabella]

he didnt manage the world domination thing and that makes me sad

[ryeonseung]

Lee Jinhyuk, you deserve all the love, support and happiness in the world ❤️

[animatedtext]

requested by askundercontrol