Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

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Wave in Backlight - Peter Witt
German , b. 1966 -
Oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
Okay, I'm curious how common it is to know these things. So, do you know how to...
Sew
Knit
Crochet
Sew and Knit
Sew and Crochet
Knit and Crochet
All of the above
None of the above
Something else (explain please)
Note: You don't have to know how to make anything fancy. Just do you know the basics well enough to at least get started?
(Please reblog for a larger sample size)
finishing touches 🧶
I was hiding in my cave again and realized I haven’t updated my “meet the artist” in Two Years?? So uh that’s on the agenda.
Gonna go physical media on this one cause I realize I’ve really only ever posted digital art here? Bonkers. I love watercolors.
Still on the agenda! I’m just running around because I’m about to go on my first vacation in a literal year and I’m trying to finish the knitted gifts for the friends who are housing me for a couple days before I head to the final destination.
I don’t even care who fucking wins the presidency this year look at this
This makes an INCREDIBLE difference!!!! For fuck sake go vote!!!!
A few years back a Republican won my house district by six vote. Now she’s talking about making it illegal to protest the Gazan genocide. Pay attention to Congress
if any of your circle is telling you voting is useless and it will never get us anywhere is lying to get you not to vote. republicans will always vote. not voting is just pulling your teeth for them. go vote and dont reblog propaganda that makes you feel hopeless
I was hiding in my cave again and realized I haven’t updated my “meet the artist” in Two Years?? So uh that’s on the agenda.
Gonna go physical media on this one cause I realize I’ve really only ever posted digital art here? Bonkers. I love watercolors.
I cannot believe there's absolutely no way to watch free shows and movies anymore, there are too many paid streaming platforms and pirating websites have viruses and ads preventing you from watching it uninterrupted((.)) id rather follow the rules and purchase media moving forward because it is too inconvenient. Seriously, free and no ads or viruses with 1080p streaming is DEAD.
I miss the days where I could watch anime on illegal websites, now it's totally impossible. Does anyone remember watching Zoro in One Piece? Or xxxHOLiC? I don't think they play that on tv anymore because it's pretty old but I highly recommend purchasing it((.)) Too bad I don't watch anime anymore I bet there are some great new ones out.
#remember to never use sites like zlibrary to get books for free that is piracy which is WRONG and IMMORAL
a lot of the coverage of the Palestinian genocide is focusing on the US student protests and the narrative is constantly in danger of shifting away from what the protests are actually about and a lot of the language is now speaking in terms of police brutality, silencing of free speech, etc. It's not a radical thing to say that this isn't exactly helpful to the Palestinian cause if the actual reasons for the protests aren't constantly front and center. A lot of people have already made this point. I do not think the genie can necessarily be put back in the bottle with how the protests and the police reaction to them are entering the public consciousness of the USian people. A lot of people are or will become aware of these protests through the lense of these simply being instances of police brutality, and police brutality is a critical issue that many USamericans are very passionate about thus making it difficult to reframe the context of these images of police slamming white professors into pavement towards awareness of Israels decades long illegal occupation and systematic and indiscriminate displacement and murder of Palestinians. What I feel needs to be done is try to reframe these images flooding the internet not *away* from issues of police brutality and homesoil fascism, but in the wider context of imperialist governments taking the lessons they learn oppressing "foreign peoples" and turning them inwards. That police brutality is not disconnected from imperialist mass murder. That the one thing connecting the assaulted USian protester and the trans israeli denied gender affirming care for refusing to serve in the fascist Israeli military and the Palestinian child buried alive for the crime of being Palestinian... the one thing connecting them is that, sooner or later, they are all victims of power. Our rights are granted to us inequitably, unevenly, and are just as quickly stripped away when we do not serve the interests of fascist power. We are either a tool of the state or an enemy of the state. The Palestinian, not the innocent or the guilty but the human being Palestinian, is murdered because she can not be useful to the state while she is still breathing. She can never have the "privilege" of being a tool. I'll say it again: We outside of Palestine who can go to protests, who have families, who are able bodied, who can work, who can keep their head down or speak without immediate retaliation have the "honor" of choosing to be a tool of the state or an enemy of the state. The Palestinian has no choice.
There will always be an armed cop ready to arrest you and kill your brother as long as there is a bomb ready to drop on the heads of Palestinian children. Fascism trickles up and inward.
DO NOT DO THIS!!!
If a website has a paywall, like New York Times, DO NOT use the ctrl+A shortcut then the ctrl+c shortcut as fast as you can because then you may accidentally copy the entire article before the paywall comes up. And definitely don't do ctrl+v into the next google doc or whatever you open because then you will accidentally paste the entire article into a google doc or something!!!! I repeat DO NOT do this because it is piracy which is absolutely totally wrong!!!
Also do NOT append "12ft.io/" before a URL ! Typing an URL like this https://12ft.io/<URL> will redirect to a site that would break the display of the page by removing the paywall !
Honestly it's kind of prohibited to mash CTRL+P before some paywall windows can load in to get a PDF of the article. Really shouldn't be done tbh very dangerous🤷🏿♂️ ❌️
Banana vacuum
came home drunk last night and got way too excited to see my cat
everyone look at these namaki drawings that my friend @lakefama drew i’m crying
nothing to add - the image speaks for itself.
don’t stop talking about gaza.
@capnhanbers been thinking about Catsup lately and actually trying to figure out markings/coat type and I’m genuinely so conflicted.
NOVAAAA SFUUSFAUFS YAAAY!!!!!!!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 th baby girl.... these are so good waaaa
they're all so pretty, the just orange is CLASSIC HER but OMG......ohhhhh my freaking gosh... the golden bsh 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 hoooolllly shit I'm obsessed... the belly!!!!!!!!!!
HHSHSBSHSJ I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKE THEM!!! I had a need to figure out her markings and what’s Most Catsup. I actually saw some cats and was like "holy shit, that’s it that’s her!!" So have PART 2 CATSUP BOOGALOO
@capnhanbers been thinking about Catsup lately and actually trying to figure out markings/coat type and I’m genuinely so conflicted.