Hi I'm charlie! 20 I F This blog isn't dedicated to anything in particular, like literally any fandom could turn up, though I'm going through a phase of dbh atm so enjoy! :D
I will be honest guys, the Red portrait of king Charles is gorgeous asdfghjkl
it's a bad portrait. Like. Objectively. It does the opposite of what's intended. It looks like the painter is insulting him. If it was in a contemporary gallery with no context you would see it immediately as the ambivalent criticism of Charles's reign, how he fades into the overwhelming red background as a tiny little figure, small and insignificant, insufficient for the clothes he's wearing. It reminds my of Goya's portraits, how they were so 'realistic' that they ended up making these great figures look pathetic to the viewer. So these are our rulers?
the sheer novelty. the surprise and shock, the kinda cunt it's serving for no reason. I. I love it. It's an incredible portrait by Jonathan Yeo. By the sheer fact that Charles, the man, is impossible to portray as greater than man because he's just such a nothingburger of a dude. So a portrait made to make him look huge and interesting made him be swallowed in red brushstrokes. The butterfly, that reminded me immediately of " we will all laugh at guilded butterflies", draws more attention than him. It looks like an omen. It looks like a warning in all this red. Something is not right here.
This is a painting of a monarch whose individual personality and even bodily presence are a mere footnote within the legacy of bloodshed that built the throne he occupies. This is the only way it's possible to depict him. It's a photograph of his soul
The best thing about it is that this portrait is delivered to us in a time where the King is both made aware of the devastating public perception of his portrait yet unable to execute the painter.
it drives me crazy when clothing brands use plus size models that have Little To Nothing up top so itâs 100% impossible to tell if a top or a dress will actually be accommodating to a ton of titty
This vexes and haunts me SO much that I took a minute to illustrate this phenomenon. I really wish that clothing companies would stop pranking me hjsdhgdjh
Proposition: when one person has to cover a shift that is normally done by two people, they get paid double. This is both to compensate them for working twice as hard, and to remove any temptation for management to think âhey, actually that wasnât so bad, maybe we should do this more often.â
thereâs a lot of villain archetypes that i find interesting, but truly none of them will ever be as compelling to me as the white haired cunty grandpa villain
I made an Hall of the mountain king edit in honor of this batshit insane post (for which i may or may not be partially responsible, too) by @one-time-i-dreamt, enjoy :)
can you imagine being a normal dude and youâre getting help from this jedi, and this jedi dudeâs like âheadâs up, the next five minutes have the worst vibes imaginableâ and youâre like âwhy?â and the jedi dudeâs like âinscrutable cosmic power told me so, doesnât get more specific than thatâ
like all these weird little men in weird little robes with glowy swords do is meditate because they have sorcerer-induced anxiety. yodaâs always fucking meditating on his little pillow because he has to figure out if heâs nauseous because the arcane will of all life itself is speaking through his midichlorians to warn him or if he just ate a bad burrito for lunch. the force is constantly dunking on these weird little men and telling them âsomething badâs going to happenâ and never explaining whatâs going to happen. do you sense bad vibes because your washing machine is about to break and flood your apartment, or because the government you serve is about to turn into a dictatorship and mow your ass like grass? thatâs for you to figure out
[Image ID: Tweet from pea poopingirl @/PoopingIRL on 8/14/23 - i think the idea of a shady dwarven salesman selling "cheap" stuff to humans and laughing to himself like "heh it will only last one generation, those stupid idiots, how will they even pass it down to their kids" forgetting that one dwarf generation is like 4 human ones is funny. There's a black bar at the bottom with an iFunny watermark in the corner. End ID.]
i love how only a FRACTION of these have any recognizable gendered cultural meaning and yet she has built that meaning in herself and keeps them completely separated
Mark the electrician has been here for five minutes and heâs already said âwell thatâsâŠweirdâ twice from the other room and frankly Iâm afraid to ask.
And now heâs taking apart the ceiling. Iâm not worried, are any of you worried? Iâm not, haha, itâs not like this house was previously owned by someone who would do something stupid like try to wire their house themselvesâŠor store tins of varnish under the furnace behind a secret alcoveâŠ
You are an old and merciless supernatural deity who's job is to specifically make sure that all prophecies thrown out into the world are fullfilled. Recently, a child has imagined themselves a prophet, and now most of your days is spent around a little town, helping children fulfill destinies like "finding a big tree" or "learning to ride a bike".
I am ancient, and I am known only by my actions. My temples are few, and most of my devotees hate me for what I do. I am a god of prophecy, and I cause that which is predicted to come to pass. Not as intended, perhaps, but it comes to pass.
Not for liars, of course. Those who pretend, who lie, who give false witness. And I do not prey on those who, in madness or suffering, speak of what they fear. But any prophecy made in honesty, by those who have the gift, or who think they do, or who simply see the pattern of events before others do⊠those prophecies, as often as I can, I bring about.
It has been a long time, since there was a true prophet, or even one who really believed they had the gift. I drift on the winds of other planes of reality, waitingâŠ
Then I hear the voice. âDonât worry,â it says, high and piercing, the voice of a young child. âYouâll find him.â
And this child believes, truly believes, that this prophecy will come true.
Itâs a small town, in a hot and dusty land, and I wreath around a tree and watch without eyes as he pats another child on the back. The other child is crying. âIâve looked everywhere!â
âBut you will find him, I know you will.â Heâs a small boy, dark-eyed and dark-haired, tiny and fragile and utterly confident. âI have a good feeling, and my good feelings are always right.â
Reaching into the threads of history, I find a couple of lucky guesses and a slightly precocious ability to identify patterns of behaviour. But now he believes. Itâs been a long time since anyone, even a child, truly believed.
The âhimâ is a lost puppy. I find it, injured and lost, but not yet dead. Good. It takes little manipulation to guide another dog to find it, while out walking, and encourage the owner to take it to a vet. Within a day, it is returned to the child and my new prophet proudly declares that he knew it would happen.
Two days later, he predicts that a classmate will find âa really interesting animalâ to do a project about. It takes me three attempts⊠it seems that the definitions of âreally interestingâ have changed. But the boy accidentally presses the channel-changer too many times, and happens on a documentary about the grasshopper mouse, a tiny, ferocious predator. I watch, over his shoulder. It really is an interesting animal. I admire its courage.
My prophetâs name is Noah. He is a good-hearted child, and his prophecies are small, simple things. That a friend will learn how to whistle, or ride a bicycle. That a new tooth will grow in straight. That a worried childâs mother will return safely from a routine surgery. That one did require intervention, but not very much. An infection slain while it was only a few cells, and the thing was done. Many require no intervention at all.
It never seems to occur to Noah to try to benefit from his âgood feelingsâ. He rarely spends them on himself, and never asks for so much as a cookie in return for them. Thanks to him, the town is a little happier, a little more peaceful, a little luckier than it might have been, but no one knows why, and heâs left in peace.
As he gets older, starts school, he becomes more cautious. Some dim awareness forms in him that itâs not wise to know too much, to stand out, to draw attention. But he doesnât lose faith in his own gift. When he says something will happen, it does happen. He chooses his words carefully, after one playground incident. He doesnât want to hurt anyone.
I would do harm if he wanted me to. Itâs my nature to harm, in truth, for I am the warning against careless words and curses, and many a prophecy has been turned bitter by my interpretation. But I find myself pleased that Noah chooses not to use his gift to harm, or even to gain influence among the others. He keeps his prophecies to small, simple things, that he can disguise as words of encouragement or simple optimism. A promise that a test will be passed, or a friendship restored, or a garden grow.
The gift of true prophecy is one I can bestow, though I rarely do. When Noah is eight, his father leaves. Distraught, he tries over and over to find a âgood feelingâ that will help him, his sister and his mother, but in his grief there is nothing. He almost prophesies his fatherâs death, but bites back the words while I watch him. He does not wish that, even now.
After a week of suffering, of doubt, I grant him the gift before he loses his faith. Itâs been so long since there was a real prophet. I find I want to keep this one.
That night, he dreams a dream and wakes relieved. When he tells his mother and sister that all will be well, he believes it. And he is right. I have brought down emperors and poisoned churches. It takes little effort to ensure that one woman finds a good job, that one girl qualifies for a scholarship, that a boy-child no longer has to fear losing his home.
But I canât take the gift I gave him back. He is a true prophet now, and he will not only see what is good and kind.
Heâs nine when he drags two children away from a bus, telling them theyâll get hurt if they go on it. Itâs his good fortune that one of them knows him, knows heâs never wrong when he speaks with that certainty. When the bus crashes, twenty minutes later, something changes in him. Heâs never predicted harm before. It frightens him, but he knows he saved lives. It makes him more cautious, but more certain too.
A season later, he wakes his mother in the middle of the night. âMom! Mom, you have to drive to Aunt Lisaâs house now. Thereâs a fire.â
It doesnât occur to her then to ask how he knows. She just leaps out of bed and runs to her car, breaks speed limits and runs red lights to get there, expecting fire engines and licking flames, only to find⊠nothing. A quiet house, no sign of danger.
Sheâs sitting in the car, cursing herself for not asking how he knew, for not realizing it was just a dream, when she sees the wisps of smoke issuing from the garage, silver in the moonlight.
The fire doesnât take the house, and the smoke doesnât kill, because she was there. Because she was already getting into the car when the oily rags burst into flame. She doesnât understand, but she knows heâs always had âfeelingsâ, and wants to believe that this was another one. His sister reads up on psychic gifts and suggests he go on television.
He doesnât want that. Heâs never craved notoriety, and wise instinct still tells him not to stand out too much.
But he canât refuse to help, either. Not content to predict, he tries to prevent, to ameliorate, to save. At nine years old, he has already learned what many prophets never do, that there is a place between the knowing and the telling, that what he speaks *will* happen, but he need not speak exactly what he sees. He has learned to choose his words carefully, to leave openings for escape.
Sooner or later, he was bound to warn the wrong person. I am with him when he approaches a substitute teacher, warning the man to be careful on the road on the way home.
The next day, the man approaches him in the playground, asking how he knew about the fallen tree, and we are both unsettled by the strange look in the manâs eyes. He starts asking questions - not only of Noah, but of others, children who know no better than to answer. Soon he knows that Noah has âfeelingsâ that are always right. That if Noah says something will happen, it will.
Noah is a clever child, but heâs only a child. He doesnât know how to stay out of the traps the man sets, and over the next weeks, the man gets the proof he wants. He believes, *knows*, that my prophet has the gift, and approaches the mother. He says he wants Noah to use his gift to help people, but greed stands out in spikes all over him, and I know he wants to gain from it. He would poison the gift if allowed to, until my boy was just another charlatan preying on those in pain and need.
The mother is wary, and rightfully so. She, too, has learned to believe, but it seems that she is the one who taught her son not to stand out, not to draw too much attention, not to open himself to suspicion. She denies, and refuses, and at last orders the man out of her home.
I donât know if Noah is responding to my anger, which fills the house like smoke, or to his motherâs carefully-hidden fear. All I know is that as the mother urges the man towards the door, Noah walks over to stare at him for a long time. âIf you donât leave me alone,â he says clearly, âyou are going to regret it.â
The only thing that keeps me from dropping a tree in front of the car, killing him as he should have died weeks ago, is that it would upset my prophet. Instead, I drop it just behind him, leaving him an inch from death and sweatingly aware of it. The next day, he almost chokes on his meal, and is saved only by another teacher. The day after that - I am learning modern ways - he is the victim of another greedy man, his bank accounts drained by a predator on the internet.
He never comes near the school again.
And a few days later, when heâs had time to think, Noah sits up in bed when everyone else is asleep, and stares into the darkness. âI will find out why I have this power,â he tells the darkness. âI will know.â
Oh, thatâs cheating!
Iâm indignant, but Iâm trapped by my own nature. Heâs spoken a prophecy, and I must make it come true. I almost take a fearsome form, to frighten him, but⊠heâs a good child. Heâs been kind. Iâve always returned good for good and evil for evil, even if heâs being annoying.
I have no true shape, not a physical one. My shape is the shape of words spoken, of looming fate. But there are forms which have long been associated with prophecy, and those are the easiest to assume for the god of prophecy fulfilled. So I take one of them, and a great raven, twice as large as any natural bird, forms out of the darkness of the room, perched on the end of his bed.
He looks frightened, but determined too. âI want to know why I know things before they happen,â he says, his small hands clenched tightly on his blanket. âWhy the things that I say will happen always do.â
âBecause I gave you the⊠gift⊠of true prophecy,â I tell him, in the ravenâs croaking voice.
âWhy did you give it to me?â
I could lie. But I have no mastery of the art of lying. I can warp words, and twist them, but I am a creature in the service of truth, when all is said. âBecause you have always believed you had it,â I told him. âFor half of your lifetime, I have watched you, and ensured that your prophecies came to pass.â
âWhy?â
âBecause that is my nature. It is my purpose. I am the god of prophecy, and of prophecy fulfilled.â
He frowned, then, his smooth forehead creasing. âSo why did you give me the gift, if I already thought I had it, and you were making sure what I said happened anyway?â
âWhen your father left,â I said, and he flinched, âyou were losing your faith. You were beginning to doubt. Without the gift, you would have abandoned your faith and, in time, forgotten that you once had a childish belief in foretelling the future.â
âAnd you wanted me to keep believing? Why?â
He always has been an insightful child. This is not a question I wanted to answer, but I must, having once begun with the truth. âBecause you are the only one who does.â
He frowned again. âIâve seen lots of people who believe in foretelling the future.â
âYes⊠and no.â I cock my birdâs head, considering how to explain. âThere are many who believe in their own ability, or that of others, to glimpse what is hidden or what is to come. There are those who believe in a god, or gods. But they do not believe in prophecy, not in the old way, not anymore. They do not believe in the power of words spoken, in fate and in fortune, in as it is written, so shall it come to pass. But you did. You believed that the words spoken would prove true, so they did.â
He nods very slowly. âI remember,â he says after a long momentâs silence. âI remember my Mom reading me a story, that had a prophecy, which came true a way nobody expected. I remember thinking about it a lot. About how it said exactly what it meant, but everyone misunderstood. About how the words mattered.â
I nod too, and click my beak softly. âThis form, this shape, is not real,â I tell him, remembering that for all his intelligence, he was only a child. âMy true shape is like the shape of a word, or a whisper, or a promise. As it is written, so mote it be, they used to say, and I am the formless mote that made it be, for I am the weight of the words, and I bring prophecies to pass because the words are written, or spoken, and so I make them true.â
I truly do not know how much he understands, but he nods again. âWords,â he says thoughtfully, âmatter. And itâs important to remember that they can mean more than one thing.â
âYes. It is always important to remember that.â
He crawls down to the bed, and touches my head gently. I find that I donât mind it at all.
Six years later, when he visits his father in a distant city, I travel with him. I ride on his shoulder, a small raven visible only to him, and we read together. He has long debated what career to choose, and has decided that he can do the most good by studying engineering and construction and becoming one of those who inspect buildings and other structures for flaws. Who better to judge future safety than one with the gift of foresight, after all? He knows what disasters can be caused by the collapse of a building, or a bridge, or the risks of fire or earthquake, and how many lives he could save with a timely word. And if it is his trade to predict faults, no-one will question too closely when he does so. So we are already studying, learning the patterns to look for.
We get off the bus, and walk down a crowded street. As always, I look where he looks, and when he stops suddenly in mid-step to stare, I am already staring too.
There is a girl, about his age, sitting with her back against a large stone. Coiled around the stone, and around her, its huge head resting on her lap, a serpent marked in white and yellow and crimson dozes, and her hand rests on its head while she reads.
âIt seems,â I tell him, and the ravenâs voice feels like my own after all these years, âthat you are not the only child with the gift of belief in old gods.â
âThat is an old god?â
âOh, yes. No-one else would see what we see. Just a girl, reading. But it is old, perhaps even older than I am, and she is its priestess.â I shift my phantom weight, gripping his shoulder with feet that are always careful not to hurt, even now. âWhat do you say, prophet? Will we meet this priestess, and her god?â
I feel him reach into the futures, with the ease of long practice now, and then he smiles. âYes,â he says, and his words have the weight of truth. âWe will.â
He walks over to her, and when she looks up her eyes widen just as he did when she sees me. âHi,â he says, and he smiles. âIâm Noah.â
She smiles back, at me as well as at him, and the serpent raises its head to gaze at us with interest. âIâm Allie.â
âI think we have a lot to talk about.â
She tilted her head, and dark eyes met dark eyes in perfect mutual understanding. âI think we do. All of us.â
whenever i see another tiktok girlie talking about how she wishes to have been a fangirl in 2010s i feel like a seasoned veteran overhearing a foolish youngin boasting about wanting to go to war for glory and adventure. you naive little idiot. you know nothing. you understand nothing. you weren't there in the trenches. i have seen things, terrible things. i cannot plug in my phone charger at night without being plagued by the visions of Him
