RMH
🪼
occasionally subtle

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Product Placement
Jules of Nature

blake kathryn
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
taylor price
Three Goblin Art
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Claire Keane

#extradirty

Andulka

Origami Around
Misplaced Lens Cap
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

tannertan36

Kaledo Art

PR's Tumblrdome
seen from United States

seen from Argentina
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seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from Türkiye
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@lisas-song
By Czeck writer Karel Čapek, inventor of the term ‘robot’ as well!
This is one of my husband’s favorite short stories. He quotes it from memory. I’m pretty sure he can recite the entire thing from memory.
This is a tremendously impactful short story and every time I see it, it serves as an excellent reboot button for my state of mind.
Reblog if you will never. Ever. Use AI in your writing.
Reblog if you’d be okay if your friend came out as transgender
let’s see how many transphobics we can weed out
“Cats don’t actually love you”
A cat is a small creature in the middle of the food chain that is fully aware that you are a very large thing that could stomp its head in at any moment and yet it chooses to rest its tiny little head on your leg for a nap and spreads out on the floor near you exposing its belly and its most sensitive organs. It brings dead mice and bugs to you to share food.
Don’t you get it? This tiny thing trusts you. It wants to help you too. It licks your leg thinking that it’s helping. It kneads on you to find comfort. It shares its body warmth with you in the cold and gives you your space in the heat. It hisses at other mammals it sees outside including other cats in an effort to protect its family.
Cats love you so so much. But they will keep trying to eat plastic.
I saw a sign at a nearby village advertising a "veillée", a storytelling evening, which sounded intriguing, so I went out of curiosity—it turned out to be an old lady who had arranged a circle of chairs in her garden and prepared drinks, and who wanted to tell folk tales and stories from her youth. Apparently she was telling someone at the market the other day that she missed the ritual of the "veillée" from pre-television days, when people would gather in the evening and tell stories, and the people she was talking to were like, well let's do a veillée! And then she put up the sign.
About 15 people came, and she sat down and started telling us stories—I loved the way she made everything sound like it had happened just yesterday and she was there, even tales she'd got from her grandmother, and the way she continually assumed we knew all the people she mentioned, and everyone spontaneously played along; she'd be like "And Martin, the bonesetter—you know Martin," (everyone nods—of course, Martin) "We never liked him much" and everyone nodded harder, our collective distaste for Martin now a shared cultural heritage of our tiny microcosm. She started with telling us the story of the communal bread oven in the village. The original oven was destroyed during the Revolution; people used to pay to use the local aristocrat's oven, but of course around 1789 both the aristocrat and his oven were disposed of in a glorious blaze of liberty, equality, and complete lack of foresight.
Then the villagers felt really daft for having destroyed a perfectly serviceable oven that they could have now started using for free. "But you know what things were like during the revolution." (Everyone nodded sagely—who among us hasn't demolished our one and only source of bread-baking equipment in a fit of revolutionary zeal?)
The village didn't have a bread oven for decades, people travelled to another village to make bread; and then in the 19th century the village council finally voted to build a new oven. It was a communal endeavour, everyone pitched in with some stones or tools or labour, and the oven was built—but it collapsed immediately after the construction was finished. Consternation. Not to be deterred, people re-built the oven, with even more effort and care—and the second one also collapsed.
People realised that something was amiss, and the village council convened. After a lot of serious discussion, during which no one so much as mentioned the possibility of a structural flaw, people reached the only logical conclusion: the drac had sabotaged their oven. Twice. (The drac, in these parts, is the son of the devil.) The logic here, I suppose, was that no one but the devil's own child would dare to stand between French people and their bread.
The next step was even more obvious: they passed around a hat to raise money, assuming the devil’s son was after a cash donation. But (and I'm skipping a few twists and turns of the story here) the son of the devil did not want money, he wanted half of every batch of bread, for as long as the village oven stood. Consternation.
People simply could not afford to give away half of their bread, and were about to abandon the idea of having their own oven altogether—but then Saint Peter came to the rescue. (In case you didn't know, Saint Peter happens to regularly visit this one tiny village in the French countryside to check that its inhabitants are doing okay and are not encountering oven issues.) Saint Peter reminded them of one precious piece of information they had overlooked: holy water burns the devil.
People re-built the oven, for the third time. The son of the devil returned, to destroy it and/or claim his half of the first batch—but on that day, the villagers had organised a grand communal spring cleaning, dousing every street and alley in the village with copious amounts of holy water. The poor drac simply could not access the oven; every possible path scorched his feet for reasons he couldn't quite explain. So he was standing there, smouldering gently and wondering what was going on, when some passing tramp seemed to take pity on him, pointed at his satchel and told him to turn himself into a rat and jump in there, and the tramp would carry him where he wished to go. The devil's son, probably a bit frazzled at this point, agreed without much thought, became a rat and jumped in the satchel, and of course that's the point when everyone in the village sprang from the shadows, wielding sticks, shovels, pans, and started beating the devil's son senseless. (Old lady, calmly: "You could hear his bones crack.") So the son of Satan slithered back to Hell and never returned to destroy the village oven again—and the spring cleaning tradition endured; the streets were washed with holy water once a year after that, both to commemorate this glorious day of civic resistance when the village absolutely bodied the devil's offspring and to maintain basic oven safety standards. (Old lady: "But we don't bother anymore… That's too bad.")
She told us five stories, most of them artfully blending actual local events or anecdotes from her youth with folk tale elements, it was so delightful. She thanked us for coming and said she'd love to do this again sometime. I went home reflecting that listening to an old lady happily tell stories of dubious historical veracity involving the Revolution, property damage, demonic mischief and baffling municipal decision-making is literally my ideal Saturday night activity.
This is so cool on several levels. Reblogging to revisit for personal amusement reasons!
Nothing could be dryer than a jolly caucus race.
Reblogging to enjoy as needed!
Unmute !
german shepherd falls into the Rottweiler category for sure 😂😂😂😂 (my last gsd learned to LOVE the mailman though, best friends for life)
Reblogging ‘cause this is hysterical!
Link to one of those courses here.
Want to learn more about Digital Humanities instead?
Or maybe Omens, Oracles, and Prophecies.
reblog to peruse at length later…
@squidsinashirt
Sea flap-flaps! (I think that's the right one)
Turned on the sound totally expecting to hear “The Ride of the Valkyrie,” or maybe “The William Tell Overture.” Fortunately, my brain provided the soundtrack!
black classic tabby
no thats a hovercraft
If you see this on your dashboard, reblog this, NO MATTER WHAT and all your dreams and wishes will come true.
Oh hey! Haven’t seen this in forever! Didn’t reblog it when it came across me before, not gonna skip it this time, I need some good vibes.
for @realrocketboy, happy birthday kiddo!
…. I must be dreaming…
I become increasing certain that the only reason I didn't figure out I was AroAce sooner is because I didn't know that it was an option
Anybody ever gotten one of these for a fic on FF.net? I replied and told them no, but from the way it’s worded, it sounds like they aren’t looking for permission to “improve” my fic. Is there anything else I can do (besides getting my stories over to ao3 asap)?
reblog if you are ASEXUAL, support ASEXUAL PEOPLE, or SECRETLY A DRAGON IN HUMAN FORM
It’s a three for one! Let’s GOOO!!