hc that there's tookas all over the Temple and sometimes younglings get adopted by them and then the Guards have to collect them
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doing my part for the furthering of Feemor content, even tho you can't really see his face ig. But in my heart he is a Guard so mask it is. this was fun @thebrainofoctavian ^^
within five years of Order 66, enough clones have fought through their inhibitor chips that they are able to successfully overthrow the Empire and start the work of establishing their own regime
thinking that they killed All The Jedi, they also proscribe a new state religion dedicated to the Force, with the Jedi as their martyred saints
this leads to Obi-Wan, who snuck onto Coruscant to figure out what has changed in the galaxy that has started to dispel the Sith's Darkness, immediately stumbling upon a giant statue of himself sprawled on a throne in true characteristic Kenobi style
I am cackling. Obi doing a sexy version of the reclining buddha pose is so good, though I guess there are other ways interpreting being sprawled on a throne, it was the first image that popped into my mind.
Still trying to write things for the actual story but in the meanwhile here's a Bakugou x Yui oneshot š
He creeps into the hallway in the dead of night, bewildered to find the light is on in the music room, just the tiniest bit of it seeping through the cracks of the doorway. Over the hum of the air conditioner and the emergency lights, he can make out the steady beat of a bass, muffled by the many soundproofed layers in the walls of this particular room.
Heās usually the only one who haunts these halls this late at night, but he supposes he really shouldnāt be surprised to see thatās changed now that thereās more classmates rooming on campus.Ā
And one classmate in particular.
He should just turn around, chalk the whole thing up to a wash and go back to tossing and turning in his bed. Or maybe head to the gym for a midnight run to burn off all this pent up energy.
He should leave her alone. She obviously wants the solitude, if sheās out here at this hour.Ā
It must be hard, dealing with all their nosey classmates and the domineering pressure of her bandās fame. Kodai has never been the type to enjoy the spotlight, always keeping quiet on stage as her bandmates heckle each other, and dodging questions in interviews. She avoids any and all marketing.Ā
She must hate it. All the attention the other kids give her, now that her identity (and Satoruās) has become common knowledge.Ā
And the last thing Katsuki wants to do is add to that burden.Ā
Yet he canāt bring himself to just turn around and leave.
Actually, heās crept closer, until his ear is pressed gently against the door.Ā
The soundproofing is impressive. He can barely make out the throughline over the bass. Itās a good sound, though, a very strong and heavy rhythm that seamless transitions into what must be the chorus, crash cymbals adding into the mix. He canāt identify the song though from just that alone.Ā
At this point, he canāt help but nudge the door open a little bit further, breaking the soundproof seal.
He sucks in a breath.Ā
Yeah, heās certain of it now. Itās not a song heās ever heard. Not even on that unreleased album Ru-kun himself had given him.
Andā holy shitā not only is she playing it on the drums, sheās singing it too.Ā
Heās never managed that. Not very well, anyway. Sue him, itās really fucking hard, okay? And to keep the melody so well while still maintaining the backbone of the rhythm section? He canāt fathom it.
And she makes it look so damn easy, too.
Her voice takes his breath away.
āAināt it fun? Living in the real worldāā
He doesnāt think heās ever really heard her singā not like this, with her head thrown back, belting out the words. Sheāll harmonize with Jirou sometimes, but for the most part, leaves the vocals to long ears. Jirou swears up and down sheās just as good, if not better of a singer than Jirou herself. Katsuki privately thinks she has the right of itā Kodai is amazing. No wonder Ru-kun put a song for a female vocalist on one of their few publicized albums. He must have really wanted her to sing it.
Katsuki can see why.
He thinks he could watch her just like this, forever. Something about her presence is magnetic, quieter and steadier than Ru-kunās effusive persona, but no less charismatic. He wonders if heās ever really seen her at peace like this, the way she is when itās just her and her music, no one else to see it or get in the way.
Sheās not just an artistā sheās art.Ā
He shouldnāt linger here.
Heās intruding where he shouldnāt be. This is her private space, the solitude she craves after hours of dealing with other people, just a kid and the simple joy of a drum set. He knows that feeling better than most. So he knows damn well he should get the fuck out of here and leave her alone.
So why wonāt his feet cooperate?Ā
Sheās reached what must be the breakdown of the song, a fun chant that has him automatically tipping his head to the beat. Then thereās the magnificent drumroll as she barrels into what must be the final chorus of the song. He needs to get out of here before she finishes, before thereās no rumbling bass to hide the click of the door shutting behind him. Before she sees him, and this bewitching tableau is utterly ruined. Before he ruins it.Ā
āAināt it goodā being all alone?ā
Maybe one day heāll have the courage to open the door and talk to her properly. Tell her all the things he wishes he know how to sayā
How much he admires her, not just as a fellow musician, or even as a fellow hero in trainingā just her, as a person. Although yeah, heās got a hell of a lot to say about her music.Ā
How much he wants to play this fucking song with her one day, maybe with all their friends or just the two of them. Maybe theyāll make it into a dueling drum duet, or maybe sheāll teach him the drum part and sing it with him.Ā
How much he wants to play all her songs with her. And maybe make a few new ones together someday. He doubts heāll ever come close to Ru-kunās musical genius, but he thinks itāll be worth a shot, if only because itās something theyāll make together.Ā
He slides out of the room just before she gets to the final fill, slumping against the wall just outside it as he buries a hand into his hair.
He lets out a long breath.
Great. Just great. Heād come out here in the middle of the night to clear out his headā and now itās even more muddled than ever.
//
Yui was originally going to be playing Creep by Radiohead because I was really into that song when I wrote this, but decided Paramore was more her vibe haha. Meanwhile, Katsuki is definitely going to be playing Creep for the foreseeable future and Satoru and All Might are going to be like 'yeah great song and all but why???'
I think it might be useful if we viewed representation as an imperfect community effort rather than a big, heavy weight that every writer, artist, animator, etc needs to bear by themselves.
Also I've always viewed it as a "Yes, and" endeavor. For example I don't mind queer villains in fiction but I do have a problem when that is the only queer representation in a certain context.
This post is not about making iron-clad Rules for Good Rep.
This post is about actually paying attention to your community, and the communities of the people you are portraying in your writing, and putting a little thought into finding the underrepresented and portraying it. Itās also about taking a breath and absolving yourself of the need to do it perfectly as a marginalized person. There is no perfect way to do it, because no group is a monolith.
Iām just a little weary of having to manage moral scrupulosity in myself and my community.
If I followed this rule to the letter, as a queer author who loves tragedy, I would not be allowed to write a single-character work of tragedy and make it queer. You know? Can we be messy? Can we let each other be messy?
And the post is also not limited to queerness.
If one does not like how the usual stories go ā if one feels unseen ā then the solution is more stories, rather than clamouring to take away other peopleās pens.
Itās kinda funny seeing people talking about things āancient jews didā when like,,,Orthodox Jews still do that, weāve been doing that, thatās kinda our whole thing
If it does not require the Temple and is not about stoning or exiling people, there is almost certainly a Jewish community somewhere that still does it.
Not the Mezuzah and Tefillin.....you know ....the thing found in every Jewish household on the doorpost and the thing a lot of Jews wear daily .....the things we mention in the Shema.......they don't even look that old either, no way they're ancient. I know what ancient Tefillin looked like and they most certainly aren't that big and they certainly wouldn't be in that condition. Same with that Mezuzah. No way that Mezuzah is older than maybe a couple hundred years. "Ancient Near East Amulets and Divination Charms" my ass.
Being Native American though not blessed to be Jewish I nevertheless find myself CONSTANTLY in kinship with yall. Especially in "WASP Majority Talks About Us Like We're "extinct". And yes they use that word among others.
WHAT IS UP WITH THE PAST TENSE THEY- LIVE JEWISH PEOPLE- ARE RIGHT THERE!! The 1950s is not "Ancient", and what do you mean WAS??
The most sinister thing about it is that they don't just talk like we're "extinct"; you can sort of tell that they wish we really were gone. There's a detached way one can talk about vanished civilizations -- Ancient Egypt, Sumeria, the Babylonian Empire -- that you can't talk about a battered, decimated, but still living minority population in whose bereavement and dispossession they and their ancestors are complicit, to whom they still bear a debt of responsibility (even if I don't believe in inherited guilt; the only guilt that descendants incur on their own account is in failing to honor the debt). And the way people talk about Israel these days, they're even coming out and saying that they wish they had finished the job.
@Naila_Ayad tweets, with a photograph of Jerusalem, that "the olive trees still speak Arabic" in her claim that Jews are thieving invaders:
They steal the land, rewrite the maps, and rename the cities, but the olive trees still speak Arabic.
Haviv Rettig Gur replies:
This is incorrect. Olive trees pretty clearly don't speak Arabic. Some of the oldest ones, such as those in the Garden of Gethsemane, are believed by scientists to have already been centuries old when Arabic arrived here. They may have met Jesus. Literally.
So obviously the olive trees speak Aramaic, though the oldest of the old may yet remember a Hebrew they learned from their parents.
But you can have my favorite tree, dear Palestinian nationalists, the terebinths, elah in Hebrew. They have shorter memories, as trees go. They surely speak Arabic.
The Judas trees, of course, speak Byzantine Greek, like the church that loves them; the Aleppo pines speak Assyrian; the acacias of the south surely remember old Coptic. And the Judean date palms? Unquestionably modern Hebrew, like their Israeli parents who brought them back from extinction using 2,000-year-old seeds.
I know what you're thinking, dear reader: What about the sycamore figs? Tell us about the sycamore figs, Haviv!
No. We don't talk about the sycamore figs. Not since they decided to go off and learn English so they could chat up those sexy young American calimyrnas. Figs got no respect for tradition.
Or in other words, grow up, dear Palestinian nationalists. Stop futzing around with two-bit poetry. This veneer of cheap romance doesn't make your dream of erasing my people less evil. My kids know every stone and every valley in their country. They've run barefoot through its riverbeds and climbed its mountains. We have no other land, which is the main reason your aspiration to forcibly remove, through expulsion or death, all the millions of us hasn't worked yet.
And "renamed the cities?" Come on. You know the Arabs renamed the cities, right? You are aware that Lod was Lod before it was Lydda, no? Look it up. And Bet Shean was Bet Shean before it was Beisan. Tzfat before it was Safad. Nablus, taken from the Roman-renamed Neapolis, was Shchem first. And Al-Khalil, "the companion," a Muslim honorific for Abraham, was called Hevron by Abraham himself. Yaffa was Yafo first and Akka was originally Akko. You get the idea.
That doesn't prove we're right and you're wrong. I have no proof or argument or desire to claim that you shouldn't exist. I wish that was true in reverse.
Arab culture prides itself on its poetic tradition. When Arab ideologues want to claim greater authenticity or morality than their enemies, they often turn to this tradition to do so. So when the supporters of Palestinians reach out to the world and ask the world to erase the Jewish polity, they do it through this kind of poetry. "The olive trees still speak Arabic," and such.
But beautiful words do not make ugly things prettier. No lipstick ever put on any pig has been more "lipstick on a pig" than this Arab discourse.
It's not that complicated. The Palestinians aren't leaving, but neither are the Jews. And the Jews have a story as poetic as any other, and as old as Western civilization itself.
The Jews even have a few assholes who try to cover for their bad desires by spreading thick layers of old poetry on top of them, just like you guys! If that's not a mark of authenticity, I don't know what is.
Grow up. Trees don't talk, not even metaphorically. And if they did, it wouldn't be in the service of your hateful fantasies.
Bless you, Haviv - and thank you. You're funny, you're honest, you're supported by facts, and you're delightful.
This is the energy we should all be sharing.
Their attempts to dishonestly reverse the colonized and the colonizer should be not just opposed and disputed, but mocked with facts, truth, and humor.
I donāt think Iāve ever written this down before. This is the story of the first time I played a shofar (as I remember it, not as it happened).
So itās the mid 90s and Iām in primary school (āelementaryā, my dear yanks). We were doing Religious Education and learning about Judaism, I think for the first time. The teacher didnāt really know anything about Judaism that wasnāt written in the book, so he kept asking me, since I was the Only Jewish Kid In The Class (only jewish kid in the school in fact, except my sister). I wasnāt very religious, but I was doing my best to make up reasonable sounding answers. Anyway, the school had somehow got hold of a shofar. (If anyoneās religious education wasnāt up to the stellar standards of mine, the shofar is the ramās horn thatās blown like a trumpet as part of the ceremony of certain jewish holy days). The shofar was passed around the class, and of course, hygene be damned, everyone tried to play it. But itās not an easy instrument to play, thereās more to it than just blowing. So everyone is puffing and wheezing and red in the face, and the best anyone can get out of this thing is a pitiful squeak. But weāve all just seen the guy on the VHS tape with the hat and odd hairstyle blowing it, and we heard the tooting noise come out of the tinny little speakers of the TV on the wheely cart, so we know this isnāt right. Is our shofar broken or something? Is it blocked up?
Finally the shofar gets around to me, and I am psyched all the way up. I havenāt played a shofar before, but Iām determined to get some kind of noise out of this damn thing, because my heritage is looking silly right now. The burden of upholding the dignity of Judaism itself falls upon my narrow shoulders. So, I take the biggest breath I possibly can, and put the shofar to my lips. Everyoneās looking at me, because Iām The Only Jewish Kid In The Class. And the thing that nobody in the room (including me) is thinking about, is the fact that Iām also The Only Trumpet-Player Kid In The Class. I only know one way to blow into an instrument. It happens to be the right way. And I do it, just as hard as I possibly can.
If you havenāt heard a shofar played properly in person, itās not easy to describe. Recordings donāt capture it at all. Maybe itās just because you usually hear it in a context of fasting and extreme reverence, but nonetheless a shofar blast (and thatās what they call it, a āblastā) is an amazing sound. The shofar sounds like raw naked power, it sounds like righteous fury. It sounds like more noise than a single human could ever make, yet it has a property like a human voice, like a bellow, a howl, like a newly bereaved mother splitting her lungs with blood and thunder. Itās a BIG sound, in the sense that itās very loud, but also in the sense that it seems to fill whatever space itās in, to come from all directions at once. It makes sense that the ancients gave it religious significance. When you hear the shofarās call, the story of the Walls of Jerico tumbling down doesnāt seem that crazy.
So, itās not possible to play a shofar quietly, and Iām giving the thing everything Iāve got in a little red brick classroom in southeast london. I can feel the room resonate and shake, hear the single-glazed windows rattle in their frames. Iām having a great time - this is the loudest noise Iāve ever made in my short life! And itās in school! And Iām allowed to do it! So I keep going as hard as I can until my little lungs give out. I remember surfacing, out of breath and grinning, and listening as the antique cast-iron pipes throughout the building slowly stopped reverberating over the slack-jawed silence of the room.
The kids of course have seen enough TV to know exactly what happened. The Shofar knew I was Jewish. Obviously itās not going to unleash that kind of unearthly sonic firepower for just anyone. Shofars only work for Jews. And the teacher is like āā¦That doesnāt sound rightā¦ but I donāt know enough about Judaism to dispute it?ā. I didnāt offer any other explanations, because why would you demystify your Mystic Jew Powers?
And Iām writing this because I just realised that there were perhaps 30 kids in that class, and there just arenāt very many jews in southeast london to set them right, so itās quite possible that thereās at least one 25 year old adult out there who still believes that the Shofar is a Holy Sacred Artefact which will Sound its Mighty Voice for none other than Godās Own Chosen People. And that cracks me up.
disco elysium does a good job of filtering out the 'alpine witch' cozy crowd by showing us, before anything else, a mostly nude bloated alcoholic man groaning to himself on the floor. and also you have to be him, and also if you do a bad job of grabbing your necktie off the ceiling fan then your heart gives out and you get a game over. like it's such a beautiful and intelligent game, but I wonder if part of the universal praise it gets is from that highly vocal section of the populace getting yucked out at the start. or maybe I'm just stupid and overthinking things
this is why Dream Daddy got cancelled for having a canned halloween plotline, while in Disco Elysium you get to walk around in a jacket with piss f*ggot sprayed on the back and everyone loves it (rightfully, it's a really good jacket)
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