To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
wallacepolsom

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Monterey Bay Aquarium
cherry valley forever
Not today Justin
Sweet Seals For You, Always

#extradirty

roma★
One Nice Bug Per Day
Claire Keane
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if i look back, i am lost
Today's Document
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
sheepfilms
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@fuhrmana
To The Substitute Art Teacher - Jordan Bolton
Oops, I never uploaded this one to Tumblr (which I only realized when someone else did, but then was kind enough to tag me, thank you)!
This is the comic that kickstarted my obsession with telling stories with as few panels as I could (usually 10-11 haha), so it’s got a soft spot in my heart.
national poetry month, day 10
My Dead Friends I have begun, when I’m weary and can’t decide an answer to a bewildering question to ask my dead friends for their opinion and the answer is often immediate and clear. Should I take the job? Move to the city? Should I try to conceive a child in my middle age? They stand in unison shaking their heads and smiling—whatever leads to joy, they always answer, to more life and less worry. I look into the vase where Billy’s ashes were— it’s green in there, a green vase, and I ask Billy if I should return the difficult phone call, and he says, yes. Billy’s already gone through the frightening door, whatever he says I’ll do. —Marie Howe
(Bruce Wayne voice) I’m Bruce Wayne, from Gotham City, I’m participating in Nailed It! because for years I’ve tried to learn how to bake to impress my father [cuts to old pic of baby Bruce trying to whisk in a bowl, wearing a crooked chef hat, Alfred trying to help him with a really loving look on his face], and- (someone in the background yells LIAR!!) (Bruce covers his face, the background music stops) fine I lost a bet to one of my kids and they thought it would be hilarious for me to participate because I’m terrible in the kitchen [cuts to picture of grown Bruce with a pan on fire, looking absolutely frantic, sad trombone sound] [the people behind the camera laugh]
First challenge is recreating justice league cake pops, the camera zooms into Bruce who has the biggest forced smile ever on his face as he holds a cute green lantern pop.
Bruce: nailed it!
Nicole: (cackling as the camera zooms into the ugliest cake pop her eyes have ever laid on) WHAT IS THAT!
Bruce, as the camera pans into the details of the mess of a pop: personally I think it’s an accurate depiction of green lantern
The cake challenge is making a giant cake with ALL the known batvigilantes in Gotham.
As bruce whisks in a bowl midway the process, if you edit the clip to make it loud enough you could hear him muttering under his breath why the fuck did I adopt so many kids
Nicole: and I genuinely don’t know what mr wayne is doing over there (cackle) (camera cuts to Bruce frantically counting the figures before adding them to the final cake as he knows if he forgets any of them they would never let him live it down)
Nicole: oh I love the purple you chose for spoiler’s Cape! / Bruce: it’s actually eggplant but thank you nic!
Jacques: as….. lo…vely as this cake looks.. I can’t help but notice.. you forgot to add batman to it
Bruce: (huge bleep)
Bruce: [makes a paper towel cowl and puts it over his face] Bruce: [stands behind his cake and sort of looms there] Bruce, as foppishly as possible: I’ll be being Batman. [doing the growly voice really badly] I’m Batman. Voices behind the camera: [all laugh]
Paper Towel Batman goes viral in gif form.
(Also Bruce, cutting out Nightwing’s emblem in fondant: I want the vigilantes of Gotham to know that I am making these in a manner designed to be efficient, and not in order of how much I love them. Host: That’s…nice?)
#DCU#camera guy 1: how does he know what every suit design looks like? i haven’t seen him pull one reference. camera guy 2: [shrugs]
@thebibliosphere
nah they ate this up-
Humanity has finally reached the stars and found out why no one had contacted us. The universe is in a sad state. As such, Doctors without Borders, Red Cross, and many othe charities go intergalactic.
The thing the recruiters don’t tell you about space battles is that you die slowly.
Ships don’t blow up cleanly in flashes and sparks. Oh, if you’re in the engine room, you’ll probably die instantly, but away from that? In the computer core, or the communications hub? You just lose power. And have to sit, air going stale and room slowly cooling, while you wait to find out if the battle is won or lost.
If it’s lost, nobody comes for you.
It had been about half a day (that’s a Raithar day, probably a bit shorter than yours) and Kvala and I were pretty sure we had lost. Kvala was injured, Traav and I were dehydrated and exhausted, and Louv was dead, hit by shrapnel when the conduits blew.
Most fleets give you something, of course. For Raithari, it’s essence of windgrass. I looked at the vial.
“It’s too soon,” Traav said.
Kvala gestured negation, shakily. She had been burned when conduits blew, and her feathers were charred, and her leftmost eye was bubbly and blind now. Even if we were rescued, she probably wouldn’t survive. “You know we’re losing the war.”
They couldn’t deny that. “It doesn’t mean we lost the battle.”
“Doesn’t it? The Chreee have better technology. Better resources. And they have their warrior code. They don’t care if they die.”
“We can’t give up!” Traav protested. They were young, a young and reckless thar who had listened to a recruiting officer and still believed scraps of what they had been told. “Any heartbeat now—”
There was a clunk. Something had docked with our fragment of the ship.
“You see?!” Traav crowed triumphantly.
Kvala exchanged glances with me. The Chreee never bothered to hunt down survivors. What was the point, after all?
The Aushkune did.
There weren’t supposed to be Aushkune here. They were supposed to hide in nebulas.
But if there were—
If there were, we were too late. The windgrass couldn’t possibly destroy our nervous systems in time to stop the corpse-reviving implants, and once you were implanted, it was over—or it would never be over, depending on how you looked at it and whether Aushkune drones were aware of anything—
Footsteps.
Bipedal. The Aushkune were supposed to be bipedal.
And then the blast door opened, and a figure stood in it. My first thought was, robot? That’s almost worse than Aushkune . . . But no, it was a being in some sort of suit.
Who wore suits?
“Friendly contact,” the suit’s sound system blared, as the being moved over to Kvala. “Urgent treatment. Evacuation.”
“Who are you?” Kvala struggled upright.
Despite the primitive suit, the blocky being was using up-to-date medical scanners. “Low frequency right angle shape,” it explained—or maybe didn’t explain. Two more figures came into the room and put Kvala firmly onto a stretcher.
“You’re with the Chreee, aren’t you?” Kvala was not at all happy to be on a stretcher.
“Not Chreee,” the sound system said. “You Man. Soil Starship Nichols.” The being hesitated. “Rescue Chreee as well. On ship. Will separate.”
“You what?” I said faintly. Who would do that?
“Oath,” the being explained.
“What kind of oath? To what deity?”
The shoulders of the being moved up and down. “Several different. Also none. For me, none. Just—oath.”
I exchanged glances with Traav, who looked as unsettled as I was. I had never, ever heard of groups cooperating when they couldn’t even swear to or by the same power.
The being scanned me. “Have water,” it said. “Recommend.”
Raithari have fast metabolisms. I could—would—die of thirst quickly, and painfully.
“Where will you take us,” Traav asked, “after you give us water?”
“Raithari to Raithar. Chreee to Chreeeholm.”
“Chreeeholm would kill them for failing,” Traav remarked.
The being hesitated, and then said, “War news sometimes bad. Sometimes lie.”
We had learned long ago not to believe the recruiting officers, but what did that have to do with anything?
“And you—what?” I asked. “Just fly around looking for battles and rescuing victims?”
The being seemed to consider this. “Best invention of soil,” it said finally.
Most of what it was saying didn’t make any sense. Did it worship soil? But it had said that it had sworn to no deity . . .
Madness.
On the other hand—war was a deliberate, rational act by deliberate, rational people, and I wanted no more of it. So why not embrace madness and see what happened?
“Soil Starship—Rrikkol?” I asked, stumbling over the word.
“Yes. Soil Starship Nichols.”
I followed the being in the suit.
Took me well over a minute to realize "low frequency right angle shape" was Red Cross.
This whole thing is brilliant with translation stuff.
I love him
you know what really gets my goat?
el chupacabra
I’m sorry!? What?!
Whoa, chupacabra’s a millennial?
Pierre Fouché. 1994.77 or Lebenslänglichen Explosionsglück, 2020.
Rayon chords from a World War II parachute.
when you miss the intricate rituals
decided to finally compress it so the Cody Girlfriend video could live on tumblr!
(bangs fist on table) i want him sweaty, whimpering, overstimulated, moaning, sniffling, twitching, squirming, whining, gasping, bucking his hips, drooling, begging (swipes papers onto the floor)
NOW
Imagine if you had a neighbour who keeps performing songs from Phantom of the Opera in his apartment every night, by himself but accompanied by a parrot, which he has taught to sing Christine's part. Admittedly it's kind of obnoxious but you are far too baffled to even be properly annoyed. And also you don't want to confront someone with that kind of power and determination. So every once in a while you just hear this guy dramatically bellow
"SING FOR ME!"
[ASTONISHINGLY HIGH-PITCHED PARROT SHRIEK]
I'm so sorry I had to it was haunting me
Musings from Anna Fusco
gazing in wonder at the wikipedia page for meander
Out of all the terminological categories in the English language, geological terminology is the most intensely poetic; who could fail to be moved by metamorphism and orogenesis? There is something awesome and mythic about it.
Anyway as I was reading this article I recalled a dim, possibly inaccurate memory of Chinese mythology where four dragons transformed themselves into the four rivers that flow through China.
I've been taking walks beside the creek. The creek has "an erosion problem" as it was once described to me. I notice on one bank the creek cuts underneath the roots of the trees and threatens to collapse the bank, and on another it deposits a low, broad beach of broken stones and mud.
The recent history of humankind would mislead us to think that erosion is a linear process of degradation, but the article for meander tells me that rivers move, the loops in their channels steadily rolling along the river's length, like the slithering of a snake over a time scale of thousands of years...
A river is a kind of dragon.
— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017.