unlearn shame. then with all the new space in your brain you can learn something cool. like you can learn how to read braille. or you can learn how to make chocolate mousse. you can do anything really
No title available

Love Begins
Misplaced Lens Cap

JBB: An Artblog!
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
d e v o n

tannertan36
Cosimo Galluzzi

titsay

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Monterey Bay Aquarium

ellievsbear

roma★
occasionally subtle
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
🪼
tumblr dot com
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
ojovivo
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@ekelarsons
unlearn shame. then with all the new space in your brain you can learn something cool. like you can learn how to read braille. or you can learn how to make chocolate mousse. you can do anything really
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!
A mark on your forehead identifies the god you must worship to stay alive, usually by joining its local church or temple. Your mark is unknown, meaning an old, forgotten god sponsored you. To survive, you must either find an old temple to worship at, or do the arduous task of building a new one
Nobody in your small coastal village has ever seen the Godmark that you were born with. It’s a dark russet sequence of criss-crossing lines, with a vertical arrowhead on the left and a circle on the right, just over where your brow meets your temple. Some of the traders who come down from the mountain say it looks like one of the scripts used in the hinterlands, but not a language that any of them recognize.
“If she’s got the temperament for it, she should try her luck inland,” they advise. “No point her starting a temple here if she’d find her people elsewhere, with a little searching.”
At first, your parents are reluctant to send you away. Though you’re well-behaved and diligent in your chores, you’re a sickly child with no God to worship. And besides, you’ve always been the dreamy type–inclined to lose track of time watching the path of rain droplets chasing down the window, or the fronds of an anemone as it sways in a rock pool.
Instead, they send you to the temple of the Storm to learn all you’ll need for your own God. You are happy there, for a time: making up beds and serving food to the castaways who pass through, keeping vigil at the lighthouse, burning incense and praying with the loyal widows and orphans of the drowned.
One such widow, an old, old lady, touches the mark on your forehead. “I recognise those letters. We wrote this way in the town where I grew up, way off past the mountains.”
Your heartbeat quickens. “What does it say!?”
She squints, eyes engulfed by wrinkles and hidden behind smudged glass. “A… Ar… Oh, I can’t remember how to speak it. I left before I learnt my letters properly. There was a war, you know. But I remember,” she says, mistily, “the most beautiful pink and white flowers used to grow, on the borders of the wheat fields…”
You try to ask more questions, but remembering the war distresses her, and so you speak of other things. When she’s drifted off to sleep, you get to your feet, go home and tell your parents: you are leaving in search of your God.
I know it’s not hard to point out reactionaries hypocrisy when it comes to like safe spaces or hug boxes or whatever but genuinely how much of an echo chamber do you have to exist in for you to think this is a reasonable thing to say
reblog if attacking fascism is really the hill you want to die on
this is literally like one of the most justified and honorable hills you could die on??? lol??
Quick someone reply with the gif™️
Always reblog this if you are cool
I regret to inform you that Discord's new Terms of Service includes an arbitration clause. You can find it here https://discord.com/terms/#16. This clause includes an opt-out, which I have transcribed here:
Read about Discord's Terms of Service
You can decline this agreement to arbitrate by emailing an opt-out notice to [email protected] within 30 days of April 15, 2024 or when you first register your Discord account, whichever is later; otherwise, you shall be bound to arbitrate disputes in accordance with the terms of these paragraphs. If you opt out of these arbitration provisions, Discord also will not be bound by them.
These clauses are underhanded ways that corporations seek to deprive you of your right to participate in class-action lawsuits and your right to a jury trial. (This does only apply to us users ,other people still spread the word though )
#whats arbitration someone help me
Bad news, @noodelzmop. Arbitration basically means that if you want to sue Discord for whatever reason, the dispute needs to be handled in house. Specifically, in their house. If you don't get this email out, you're basically signing away your right to legal recourse if they do criminally shitty stuff to you, like with the McDonalds app.
I have been told that emailing "I am confirming that as of the date of this email, I am choosing to opt out of binding arbitration to settle disputes with Discord." With the Email you used for your discord account is enough for the notice but take this with a grain of salt as this was not said by a lawyer
reiterating that this only applies to US users
THIRTY DAY LIMIT BTW. I suggest taking sixty seconds to fire off a quick email with op’s recommended text. I have no plans to sue discord but better safe than sorry
If you use discord, do it now. Arbitration clauses are not in your favor and shouldn't be legal.
kinda adorable how it takes the moon almost exactly a month to blink
she has spent the last 4-and-a-half billion years winking flirtatiously at her Wife the Earth
Shepard gets to know Tali a little better before instantly getting distracted.
I love Tali'Zorah so fucking much...
edit: just realised I forgot the camo print on Shepard but I think it's ok. I'll remember next time.
Oh and her hair shine. jfc I am REALLY out of it today
Help Silvaire, City of Discovery complete her journey to the Convocation of Hermits and unlock new content for Cerebos: The Crystal City – check out the following link for details:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/penguinking/cerebos-the-crystal-city/posts/3132705
A little social media stretch goal for the tabletop RPG I’m editing. This one’s set up so that you don’t need to be a backer in order to participate – the details are in the link.
We have officially reached 50% crab.
Parts Unknown: Newfoundland
I am apparently working on becoming a local cryptid at the store. Talents include:
Monitoring the changing of the seasons via mozzarella
Predicting the weather by picking up a piece of cheese and mysteriously saying “oh, the storm is gonna be bigger than we thought...” just before thunder
Mind reading, e.g. “Can you help me find a cheese? It’s called, uh... [starts fishing out shopping list]” “Gruyere?” “...yes O_o”
Mozzarella doubles in sales in the span of a week, right about when the first tomatoes show up
Cheese that I’ve wrapped in plastic will acquire condensation in a few seconds when it’s about to rain big time
“Gruyere” is always the cheese people want to show me on their list rather than try to pronounce it.
That is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me
Cheesewitching. I respect it.
I know we all know that toph loves to cuss, but I just realized
She had an extremely sheltered upbringing, then when she snuck out to fight, she went to the Earth Kingdom version of WWE, which, if it’s like real world WWE, is family entertainment, and she never spent time backstage, she came she fought she left
I don’t think Toph knows any swear words
She learns to swear from team avatar and becomes all powerful.
I don’t think Sokka or Katara would know swears either; they grew up in a village consisting of them, Gram Gram, and a bunch of little kids and their moms
I don’t know if the airbenders taught aang swears or not but I know he’s not really the type to swear anyway
Zuko, on the other hand, spent about 3 years of his life as a young angry teenager surrounded by sailors
Zuko and Suki teach the Gaang to cuss— the Avatar spinoff.
HOW TO DONATE TO BLM WHEN YOU HAVE NO MONEY
a black woman named zoe amira posted a video on youtube. this video is an hour long and filled with art and music from black creators. it has a ton of ads, and in result will rack up a ton of revenue. 100% of the ad revenue from the video will be dispersed between various blm organizations, including bail-out funds for protesters. it will be split between the following, dependent on necessity
brooklyn bail fund
minnesota freedom fund
atlanta action network
columbus freedom fund
louisville community bail fund
chicago bond
black visions collective
richmond community bail fund
the bail project inc
nw com bail fund
philadelphia bail fund
the korchhinski-parquet family gofundme
george floyd’s family gofundme
blacklivesmatter.com
reclaim the block
aclu
turn off your adblocker and put the video on repeat. do not skip ads. let it play on loop whether you’re listening or not. mute the tab if you need to focus elsewhere. but let. it. play.
youtube will donate to blm for you.
please, please reblog. for people who don’t have money to spare, this is incredibly important information to have.
julius caesar as just Some Dude is tripping me out
Cleopatra:
Louis XV:
julius caesar yells at the einstein bros. manager daily
cleopatra is writing her PhD thesis and is sick of people undermining her intelligence
louis XV is a business professional currently being investigated by HR
more takes from yours truly
nefertiti is a child star who fell from grace but rose again like a pheonix
alexander the great is ***NOT GAY*** and on academic probation
caligula is under investigation by the FBI
I wonder if multilingual dnd characters work like multilingual people irl
Character 1: hey can you pass me the (demonic screeching)
Character 2: (visibly disturbed)
Character 1: (takes mundane object out of character 2s hands) sorry I forgot the word for it in common...
This made me laugh really hard. It deserved a comic. 😆
This was already funny without the translation, but now that I understand it’s even funnier
“Hello, good day”
“… TESTICLES”
Everyone: TERFs should shut up.
Galaxy-brained terf: Hmm, how curious, OP…all TERFs are women…and you want TERFs to shut up…so you despise and want to silence all women huh, you fascist pig. I am very intelligent.
Every terf in the notes:
OOGA BOOGA, MIGHTY VULVA!
I’ve seen the notes on this post and just want to reassure every TERF that so far I’ve read literally none of your essays.