a firestorm

from whence arrive the winds of change

[pyroclasmpixie]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

For Ignoct Week Day 2 - Fantasy AU.

GUYS I’M SO NERVOUS ABOUT THIS WAH BUT I REALLY WANTED TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING. And then the plot bunny bit me and I want to continue it but that would probably mean rewriting it. Ahaha oh no.

[obstinaterixatrix]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

hey yall. this one’s pretty long. make sure to properly appreciate Yusuke’s art history knowledge. please. formatting it took so long.

[milkhoneyjoon]

[pyroclasmpixie]

progress report: BoA ch 3

Life chews away at writing time and it’s hateful. But I have been writing anyway! So here is an excerpt from ch 3′s current draft. Let me know what you think!

The rest of the world was just as disappointingly dismal—the long walk, class, homework, classmates’ chatter, the bell, the tasteless onigiri at lunch—and so it didn’t hit him until afternoon when scholarship students spent the last two periods working at their craft. He sat at his easel, palette in hand, and suddenly up and down his spine he felt the flurry of punches of raw shock.

He had actually met Joker last night.

Their initial meeting may have been an accident, but now there was a pattern, an undeniable bond of fate. Something had brought Joker to him and then brought him back. It wasn’t a chance encounter, a hazy sensory memory draped in artistic longing and slowly dissipating into questions over time—it was a truth of his existence, a pattern in time and space that he might be able to follow. There was Yusuke, and now there was also Joker. The dreaming, drifting grey landscape he had wandered through till now had exploded into a vivid portrait decorated in throbbing reds and sparkling yellows, pink and green and white. He couldn’t have names for all the colors that had suddenly, messily splattered themselves over his heart.

For the first time in a while, Yusuke found himself wishing he had someone to talk to. There was too much to consider, to question, to sort through.

They had spoken! Joker had a voice! An identity! Expressions, gestures, thoughts… he was real. Yusuke’s hands shook. He would never admit that a tiny voice in a dark, ignored corner of his mind had begun to doubt, had wondered if Yusuke had imagined the whole thing and it was just a phase as Sensei had said, something born of himself alone—but if that voice had ever spoken before it was thoroughly silenced now.

Sitting with deceptive calm before his easel in the art room and preparing his paints, Yusuke let the feelings, the nameless colors, flow through him without judgment. It was different from when he had been seized by inspiration. It felt… light. Another color without a name, but one that made him think: this is how a bird feels when it takes flight.

It took a moment for the feelings to settle, tingling in his skin, but when they did he had another thought: That was all very odd.

A mysterious, possibly non-human person calling himself Joker, a Phantom Thief who steals people’s hearts, had broken into his workshop late at night and had a surreal conversation with him about justice, followed up with a warning that he was in danger and soon the Phantom Thieves would—target him? Save him? Something? Simplifying it thus didn’t make the situation any clearer; if anything, it made it sound more ridiculous. A burglar broke into his home: he should have called the police. And he hadn’t called the police, hadn’t even really wanted to—the threat he’d made last night was as empty as the cloudy sky. Instead, he’d answered this bizarre criminal’s questions without hesitation. They had had a conversation. Joker had played with him, Yusuke realized, not in any malicious way but just—just playful. And Yusuke had been playful in return.

Was Joker even a criminal? It didn’t seem like fitting behavior for a thief to burgle someone’s home only to have a fun chat with them. Maybe a “Phantom Thief” was just a catchy title, a way to stand out from the other regular thieves. But was he really a thief? The only thing of Yusuke’s that Joker had obviously handled had been returned to him before he even knew it was taken. Nothing had actually been stolen as far as Yusuke could tell. And why would a thief want to stand out?

“What do you even want with me?”

“I have questions.”

It still wasn’t clear to him what Joker had been looking for or if he had found it. If he hadn’t found it, he might come looking for it again. Alarmingly, Yusuke found himself intrigued by the thought. If any one of his classmates had been in such a situation they would not be interested in the company of a wanted man.

But with all that talk about justice, and his obvious disinterest in obtaining the only valuable things in the house—was he a criminal, really?

Did it even matter? A muse was a muse, regardless of position or career. But perhaps part of what had struck Yusuke so powerfully was the mystery, the charm of this roguish character—and didn’t that come from his law-breaking attitude?

Yusuke groaned, hanging his head in dismay. His thoughts just kept circling like a stalling storm, like a loop of electricity.

Electricity.

Joker’s fingers at his throat, dragging over the canvas—

Yusuke stirred restlessly and looked up. The unnamed piece was there, inches from him, ready at the easel. Black clothes, golden sun, red gloves. No face. But now Yusuke was ready. He had what he needed. He could bring that face to life. He had to.

Slowly he charged the brush, fanned it gently against the side of the palette, brought his arm up to the canvas.

His lashes.

He could just hear it—the breath in Joker’s mouth as he laughed, the sliding pitch of his voice when he made that ironic humming sound, the iron ring of clarity to his voice when he spoke with such authority, announced in a sleeping world for Yusuke’s ears alone, I swear on my honor as a Phantom Thief—and he could just see it, the curve of his cheek beneath the mask, could almost, almost find the color of his eyes—

—the rumble of the truck, the wink of darkness—

Yusuke brought his arm back.

No. It wasn’t enough.

The expressionless Joker wasn’t mocking now, but the empty space where he could imagine thick lashes, a sidelong stare, a wry curl of a lip—it issued a siren call from its nonexistent mouth that made Yusuke burn with shame.

That very first meeting (concrete, breath) had been more than enough. He had been a vessel left out in the sun, long-dry and neglected, and was unprepared for the sudden deluge of inspiration with which he was flooded. It filled him up to overflowing. He had painted with contentment, exploring the fringes of his experience, pushing at the edges of his ability. He took the few scraps of the fantastic that he had been given and was satiated, replete, brimming with the ability to create and discover and reimagine. Surely now, with so much more to use for his artist’s vision, he could not complain? It was a gift, an absolute beneficence to receive more of this tantalizingly sensual inspiration. To have these new textures and colors to study, this deep, yawning well of emotion to dive into. Except—

Except it was too much, and not enough.

Now he knew the angle of Joker’s jaw from five feet away, but could not quite recall it from five inches away. He remembered the hum Joker made in place of a yes, but had he slid his foot against Yusuke’s thigh on purpose, or accidentally—or was he imagining it and that never happened at all? He could remember those beautiful eyes, yes, the dark hair—but how did it fall, how did it catch the light, what was the secret name of its hue and tone, and what was the color of those eyes, laughing at him from behind that cryptic mask? Did they curve when he smiled? Did he blink slowly, was it flicker-fast? If Yusuke tried to remember the shape of his lips he might actually combust right here in the classroom. Now there were words instead of breath, but they were weighted, they lead down winding paths that Yusuke could not follow or fathom but was distracted by nonetheless, and now there was movement to match the sound of a fluttering leather coat and brass buttons and boot heels too, but it was a flat painting—details without depth, a story without a beginning or an ending.

Too much. Not enough.

Yusuke’s breath hissed between his teeth as he put the palette aside with brittle care. He was not up to the task. It wasn’t the fault of his muse. He, as an artist, was unable to represent the magnificence he had been exposed to in worthy fashion. He had, like so many undeserving artists on their knees at the sacred altar of true art, been paralyzed by beauty.

“I like it.”

But—Joker had not found him wanting. Joker had asked him questions. Joker had—too inappropriately, too personally, too teasing and light and unexpected—wanted to know about him, his well-being. Joker had liked this painting, faceless though it was.

… He must be a spirit. Yusuke had heard spirits make your head a battlefield. That must be what was happening.

He gazed at the unfinished painting, mouth pursed in a moue of indecision. Finally Yusuke rose, leaving his supplies and work where they were.

There was only one thing he could do whenever he felt like this.

[pyroclasmpixie]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Whoops, totally forgot to cross-post here that I’d updated this. Hey guys chapter two! XD

[wendynerdwrites]

Here Are the Jewish People

Western popular concepts of Jews that people here take as the extent of our tribe:

The reality:

Boys from the Jewish population of Yemen, which has been around for 2500 hundred years but has been slowly massacred over the past few generations.

The Lemba of South Africa and Zimbabwe (Zimbabwe in particular has a large and VERY long history with their Jewish Community)

The Abayudaya of Uganda, some of the great Jewish musicians

The Beta Israeli of Ethiopia

Igbo Jews of Nigeria

Cochin Jews of India 

Baghdadi Jews

Kaifeng Jews of China, who go back to the 7th or 8th century. Unfortunately, during the 20th century much of their culture was almost wiped out and the Kaifeng are currently working to rediscover their Jewish heritage and culture.

Jewish Children in Puerto Rico (Jews have been in Puerto Rico since the 15th century, many fleeing from the Inquisition)

The Beit Shalom Choir in Japan

Kosher comes in all colors, from all over the world, and in a variety cultural groups. We’re a small portion of the human population, but we have EVERYONE. We are all members of this tribe.

Because stereotypes are bullshit.

[watchingthedetective]

Boosting because you sure as fuck won’t see this in any Western textbook. 

[particularlyparasitic]

Shoutout to the regularly erased JOC

[pyroclasmpixie]

this is so important omfgoodness gracious

[ithelpstodream]

Meet 63-year-old Lyn Slater, who has, until recently, been an ordinary professor at Fordham University. One day she went to meet a friend for lunch outside the Lincoln Center during New York Fashion Week. Foreign journalists suddenly surrounded her, mistaking her for a fashion icon and attracting spectatorsIt was a defining moment that turned Lyn into an ‘Accidental Icon’. Her blog of the same name, inspired by the experience, soon began making international waves. She is now a public voice against ageism in the fashion industry and the world.

“Fashion and my style help me struggle against that invisibility that comes with age.“

She was once asked about the old notion of ‘dressing for one’s age,’ and her response was clear:

“We use language to control people’s behavior. This phrase is a way of putting older women in their place. I’m certain that if you feel comfortable in your own clothes, it’s completely irrelevant how old you are.”

[pyroclasmpixie]

THIS LADY.

[theblackkatkollective]

I really miss those crisp fall mornings, when you wake up and look outside and the leaves are dancing in the wind. There’s something about it, knowing that its cool outside, but being overwhelmed with a sense of warmth & coziness. The way the leaves crunch under your feet as you walk home. That grey-almost gloomy, but welcoming sky, just before an autumn rain. The way every room, smells of pumpkin or baked goods. The creepy movies on tv. It’s almost as if we enter an entirely different culture, with the way things around us shift in those autumn months. Oh, how I miss you, fall.

[ivelostmyspectacles]

@midori-n mentioned the boys putting up those star stickers together and my mind went even further and this is just disgustingly fluffy oh my goodness

Yusuke is tall.

Actually, he’s not that tall. He’s only got a couple inches on Akira, but two inches goes a long way when they’re trying to reach the beams of the attic.

They had visited the planetarium today. Yusuke had presented him with stars to put in his room, a memento of their time together, and then, in typical Yusuke fashion, had developed a sudden urge for Leblanc’s coffee and accompanied him home. Now, they’re both peeling the backings off the little stars and sticking them up around his room.

Except Akira can’t reach. There’s the chair; he could end the struggle in the few short seconds it would take to carry the chair over, but it’s become a battle of wills now. It’s futile, okay, he knows, but maybe if he just… stretches… a bit… further…

“You’re never going to reach it,” Morgana comments, right as Akira loses his balance from stretching too far on his tiptoes.

Yusuke steadies him, a solid hand against his shoulder, a chuckle and a smile. “Would you like me to help?”

“Yeah.” Akira huffs, but he is smiling too as he hands the star to Yusuke. “Thanks.”

“You could have just gotten the chair,” Yusuke says, almost a tease, and effortlessly presses the star where Akira had been meaning it to go.

“Yeah, yeah. I heard Morgana the first time.”

“It’s just the truth!” Morgana fires back, and licks a paw to swipe over his ear. “You could have had this all done by now.”

“It’s fine. I have nothing else to do. Besides, I wasn’t having trouble before that one. I got the others ones where I wanted them.”

Akira is growing certain that cats possess the ability to roll their eyes.

He is peeling the back off of another star when struck with an idea; it’s stupid, ridiculous, but he’s in a good mood. “See? Yusuke.”

“Hm?”

Yusuke turns to inquire of him, and Akira leans forward, pressing one of the smaller stars against Yusuke’s cheek. “Right where I want them.”

Yusuke stops, and then goes cross-eyed, trying to see the star, and his hand comes up to press gently against it. “What…?”

“A star for a star.”

Yusuke’s eyes look a little wide, and Morgana makes a noise as though he’s been afflicted with a sudden hairball, and Akira feels defiantly stupid and ridiculous and unapologetic, because Yusuke starts to laugh, a little more defined than his usual chuckle, and he presses his hand flat against his own cheek and the star there. “Thank you.”

Akira thinks he might be beaming himself.

“I thought they were intended to go on the walls,” Yusuke said, dropping his hand, “but if you insist on special treatments…”

And then Akira is the one subject to one of the stars being stuck to his face, right in the middle of his forehead, and he laughs out loud while Yusuke looks supremely happy with himself.

“You are Alpha Ursae Minoris,” he announces. “Because you are the light that guides us. You will always take us home, Akira.”

Morgana makes a noise that speaks of unrestrained disgust, and Akira finds himself nearly helpless with laughter, leaning into Yusuke’s warmth for support.

[pyroclasmpixie]

AAAAAAAAAA THIS IS SO CUTE THIS IS SO GOOD THIS IS MY EVERYTHING

[roirence]

hi i’m akira kurusu and this is my plight to woo the love of my life, yusuke kitagawa

[pyroclasmpixie]

persona 5 fanfic: Body of Art 1/12

T rating, Yusuke Kitagawa/Akira Kurusu (p5 protag). Instead of finding an irresistible muse in Ann, Yusuke discovers a different muse in a chance encounter with some mysterious masked thieves... or phantoms... An alternate unfolding of the events leading up to Yusuke joining the team. Some spoilers through April and May.

Posting this here only roughly edited. My AO3 account is resonant_aura. If you have any comments or are interested in betaing, please message me!

Body of Art

-Minimalism-

 To be honest, landscapes had never been his forte. There was nothing… moving to be found there, nothing that would stir more than the feeblest response from the soul. One looked at a landscape and thought, oh, how pleasant. And then walked away to some other stimulus, some engaging object that would inspire true feeling, in search of real beauty.

Real beauty didn’t rest in a landscape.

But since Kitagawa Yusuke had yet to actually finish this landscape, perhaps he was being too hasty in his judgment.

In fact, he had yet to begin.

Yusuke looked out over the gently falling slope descending away from the back wall of Kosei High, the neatly kept grass dotted with rebellious wildflowers, giving way to a line of sugi trees and ruthlessly tamed bamboo. On the other side was the broad concrete walk leading around the front doors, but that didn’t necessarily have to be in the picture. There was nothing especially beautiful about concrete, not here where everything was green and breathing and open to the sky. The setting sun cast everything in gold and indigo and enriched the shadows with undiluted ink. It would be remarkable, Yusuke supposed, to someone else.

Sensei had suggested he try his hand at a traditional Zen landscape. Perhaps it would help him to achieve some balance in his mind.

Gazing out at the landscape, peaceful and still—the other students had long since gone home—Yusuke searched his thoughts, then turned his attention to the empty sketchbook resting in his hands. Hmm. Similar contents.

Idly, he picked up a stick of charcoal from his supplies and swept a broad stroke across and upwards, a bold line of chalky black to fill the white. Then, glancing at the trees, a few thinner strokes in sharp vertical lines. Another line, a soft cloud of black, rubbed out with the heel of his hand and gentled into a textureless, smooth, shapeless grey.

They were studying minimalism recently. This would do for now.

He packed up his things and began the walk home.

---

Yusuke loved the metro. He didn’t have the opportunity to take it all that often, unfortunately. He didn’t have that many places he needed to go; and where he did go was usually within a healthy walking distance from the atelier. But the metro was always a place absolutely teeming with life, with things to observe and question and absorb. Colors and lights and movements and smells and the clack on the rails, the clack of boot heels and the echoing chatter of a thousand little snippets of life wandering by like distracted moths.

“Did you see Keiko-chan I could just—”

“—supposed to be raining but—”

“—due on Saturday, but I’ve got a swim meet then and I don’t know how I’ll—”

“I know!”

“—about these Phantom Thieves—”

“Of course not!”

“Buy Aqua Vitae, and drink from the springs of life!”

“—she should accept him, at her age.”

“There’s a meeting at 7:30 so—”

All these aspects of life, nearly invisible, gone in a flicker. That was beautiful. If only he could paint it. Yusuke stood to one side of the stairwell, watching the blue-white cell phones lighting the faces from below, watching the lime green and ocean blue and electric yellow flashes of the advertising screens, and felt his hand shake just slightly. He could paint it. He could. He could sit here in this corner and watch and no one would know, no one would notice, he could just—

No. Not tonight.

He clenched his hand into a fist, and walked back up the stairs.

Time to go home.

Sensei didn’t like when he violated curfew.

---

“Hey, did you see this website?”

Yusuke looked up from his textbook, blinking in the early morning sunshine. “Hm?”

It was his classmate, Muraoka-san. The other boy was twisted around in his chair, holding out his phone for Yusuke to see. “Take a look,” said Muraoka. “Some weird stuff, huh? I don’t know about all this justice talk, but the design is pretty cool. Right?”

Yusuke glanced at the screen. It was garish—black and red splashed in angular, mismatched shapes across the screen, with a blinking white comment bar at the top and a question in dripping, jagged letters: “Do you believe in the Phantom Thieves?”

“Phantom Thieves?” he asked.

“You haven’t heard?” Muraoka grinned, eager to share his insider knowledge. “They call themselves the Phantom Thieves of Heart. They say if you’re corrupt they’ll find you and steal your heart. Like vigilantes or something. You know?”

Thieves of the heart? Well that was… intriguing. He mulled it over in an absent fashion—soft lighting, soft shadows, an expression as mysterious as it was magnanimous—then shook himself back to the present. “Well?” he asked Muraoka. “Do you believe in them?”

“Nah,” said his classmate, grimacing a little at the screen. “It’s just some PR stunt. You know like how Wackdonald’s did last year? Someone will fess up to it soon.”

He swiveled around with a shrug. Yusuke watched, turned a keen eye to the slump of the boy’s spine, the jut of his scapula. Nothing. There was no feeling other than that of enduring the mundane, like being buried under yards and yards of wet wool.

Yusuke sighed and continued to read.

---

There was a crash, a rattling thump, the yowl of an angry cat. Yusuke froze, his bag over one shoulder, suddenly balanced on the balls of his feet as his heart began a violent pounding rhythm that he could feel in his temples and fingertips and the base of his spine. His skin crawled; his eyes went wide and blank, scanning the nighttime gloom of the empty back alley. Sensei had said there had been accidents—to be careful—that was why he was so insistent about the curfew, for Yusuke’s protection, it had nothing to do with the last piece he had created—and now Sensei was gone away on another excursion to the hot springs for his back treatments and Yusuke had thought, just once, just this once, it wouldn’t hurt, and he was choking under the bite of the bridle he was forced to wear and he had thought it would be fine—

But now there were looming shadows rising on the wall opposite him, outlined in bright pink and blue from the main street. He should never have taken back roads. Was he even certain of his location? He had been thinking on the composition of a canvas, on the significance of the foreground, and how was that even important just now—

“Oh my god, you klutz!”

“Sh-shuddup, you almost fell too!”

“Yeah, but not into a trash can!”

“You’re both all right?”

“Uh, yeah, thanks…”

How bizarre. Late night carousers? No, they had the sound of youth. Errant students, then? Not that he could throw stones.

… Thugs…?

Yusuke deliberately, carefully, stepped back against the wall and eased his way along the rough, tacky cement to the corner he had just rounded. He shouldn’t look. He should just go home.

But I don’t have a—

He peered around the edge of the wall, bag gripped tightly against his flank, shoulders pressed to the cement.

Masks.

It was an evocative scene—something out of a Bosch painting, vivid and yet completely nonsensical, and right here in the bowels of Tokyo. Blue and red light flickered over the figures in the alleyway, catching the outline of an arm, flashing on the metal teeth of a zipper, highlighting the white flash of an eye in some otherworldly hue. Their faces all appeared distorted, until the image resolved itself and Yusuke could see the inhuman curves and angles of masks on their faces—pointed ears, bared teeth, hollow black eye sockets. Had he fallen into hell? Was he hallucinating? No, they were probably just—performers—clubbers—tourists—

“Meooooowwwww, mrreowwrrr mrowp!”

“Yeah, we know,” said the gruff male voice. “We’ll get ‘em next time. You good to go, Joker? Let’s split.”

Yusuke would forever be grateful he had not blinked—if he had, it would have appeared as though they vanished into thin air. Instead, his eyes went wide as he watched two figures—human, they looked human, they had to be surely—light up with blue flames and then walk out into the night, perfectly normal, easily lost in the crowds.

The last figure, nearly invisible for all the black in its costume—Yusuke had only been able to pick it out for the brilliant red of its gloves—moved to follow them, and then stopped. It turned back, back towards the corner where Yusuke was watching. It was completely backlit by the lights of reality, a stark silhouette against a backdrop of noise. It was perfectly formed—just there—and then gone.

Holding his breath, Yusuke narrowed his eyes, trying not to move as he searched for signs of an exit, an approach, a—

He nearly choked when he suddenly went blind.

“Shhh,” someone murmured in his ear, and he tried to struggle but his arms were held down in an unwanted embrace and his legs were pinned to the wall and no and this is like and I don’t want

“Careful. You’ll hurt yourself.” The voice was unidentifiable, more breath than timbre, more sound than words, but he understood. Yusuke was used to capitulation and he went still, quivering and hyper-aware of the feeling of leather against his cheeks and forehead, of heavy seams pressed into his skin through the thin material of his shirt. “Now, do me the courtesy of a proper explanation. I like my privacy, and I react poorly to violations of that privacy. What were you spying for?”

“Not spying,” Yusuke gasped. It occurred to him, distantly, that since he was able to gasp (like a panicked animal, how unappealing) that meant his captor was allowing him to breathe. It was a kindness he hadn’t expected. “I-I was—was journeying home and I heard voices. I thought it might be—a dangerous group…”

“You weren’t wrong. I am dangerous.” Yusuke felt the concrete grind and scrape against his body as his captor’s weight shifted. The breath in his ears was so close, so warm, he could almost imagine he felt the very lips against— “Try to be a little quieter the next time you eavesdrop. Only silent cats catch their mice.”

“Who are—?”

An abrupt cacophony like wings, the thick flap and flutter of panels of leather moved by a sudden gust, cut him off. Yusuke flinched as the night lights of Tokyo pierced his unprepared eyes. He spun around to look up and down the dim alley, squinting through the pain-pricked tears, but he was alone. He ducked around the corner. Only a trash can, upended with a ruptured bag spilling out of it. No one there either. He held a hand to his forehead, trying to forestall a thundersome headache.

… Was that a dream…?

Yusuke looked down at the trash can. No. He heard—he knew—

He stepped closer to the can to inspect it, and a dash of black across his vision made him stumble backwards into the wall again. “Mrow!” said the cat who startled him so, looking triumphant with its languidly waving tail. It gave him an intent stare with its wide, glowing cat eyes, then bounded away toward the traffic of the main road.

Just a cat.

Was it just a cat…?

Yusuke stared unseeing into the shuffle and press of bodies and trolleys and bicycles. He lifted a hand to his ear, fingering the shell of it in search of some lingering heat—but his hands were so cold and unsteady he couldn’t tell anything from them. He checked his bag; everything intact. There weren’t even signs of distress on his pants or his pristine white shirt.

Yusuke would have believed he had just had a particularly vivid daydream, a taste of adventure, a strange mental catharsis, except—except for the way he felt.

Though still cold from shock, his skin was tingling everywhere. He was acutely aware of the brush of woven polyester over his knees as he took a step back, the folds of his shirt unsticking from his sweat-dampened spine. He could feel how dry his mouth was, how shaky his hands were, could feel the muscles in his arms and back sliding over one another and locking up to compensate for his unstable weight, the supply bag swinging against his hip. He could feel the blood pumping in his veins, thudding behind his eyes, rushing through his ears. He could feel the breath moving in and out of his lungs. He could feel the dry stickiness of his lips as they parted, feel the air moving over his tongue, as he inhaled and then said a single word in a bemused, wondering whisper:

“Joker.”

He was, finally, awake.

Yusuke blinked once, twice, still gazing out at the glaringly bright advertisements along the shop-crowded road. Then he turned and walked quickly back the way he had come. It was a good thing Sensei was away for a while. Yusuke would not be going home to rest for some time.

There was so much he had to do.

[amaralesbian]

I don’t think ppl realize that the oldest “millenials” are like 30+ now. We know what vhs tapes and CDs are. If you mean teenagers, say teenagers.

[pyroclasmpixie]

If I had a dollar for every time some grumpy person in their 40s or higher said that kinda shit to me (I still wouldn’t be able to pay off my student loans ahahaha) I’d get a decent living wage!

[chubbycubbins]

And at last I see the light, And it’s like the fog has lifted. And at last I see the light, And it’s like the sky is new. And it’s warm and real and bright, And the world has somehow shifted. All at once everything is different, Now that I see you.

[music-of-the-era]

Visit Original Link

“Hey, you with the pretty face

Welcome to the human race”

-1977

[scrptrx]

Playlists for Writing

Listen on Spotify or Spotify Web Player

     Music to write or study to! These playlists are works in progress and are continuously growing. Titled after like-themed action movie and game music, the playlists each have their own personality, and encourage different moods or activity levels. Most music is from soundtracks. The calmest playlists, Temple Ruins and Party Camp, are useful for getting into the writing or studying mood. This music is less distracting. Once your pace is set, or if you want to get in the mood to write an action scene, Boss Fight is the playlist for you. Tavern Nights, of course, is a fun-filled playlist, but it can be more distracting, and Field Music is right in the middle.

     All playlists are available to follow on Spotify, and can also be accessed via the web player with a free Spotify account. Just click on the [listen] for the link. Please do not hesitate to suggest music/changes to me, either here or on Spotify.

Title: Temple Ruins Mood: tense, eerie, dark Volume: quiet, few musical swells Action: creeping through a dark ruin Instruments: minimal orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

Title: Party Camp Mood: calm, mysterious, romantic Volume: soft, somewhat dynamic Action: resting after a long day traveling  Instruments: minimal orchestral Lyrics: few (mostly non-English)

[listen]

Title: Field Music Mood: cheerful, adventurous Volume: low to medium, dynamic Action: traveling with your companions Instruments: orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

Title: Tavern Nights Mood: cheerful as well as sombre Volume: medium to high, dynamic Action: eating and drinking with the locals Instruments: mainly guitar and fiddle  Lyrics: yes (including English)

[listen]

Title: Boss Fight Mood: angry, dangerous, scary Volume: mainly loud, dynamic Action: slaying demons and dragons Instruments: full orchestral Lyrics: few (non-English)

[listen]

[creammcheese-deactivated2017110]

Reblog if you're in the Yusuke Kitagawa fanclub

[glumshoe]

You know you grew up on Steve Irwin when you see a photo of a crocodile and think, “Wow. Just beautiful.”

[oboet]

And you see Stingrays as the devil themselves

[glumshoe]

nah man Steve would have forgiven that stingray and absolved it of its sins

[the-hermits-guidance-blog]

He would have apologized for getting into the stingray’s space and making it afraid. 

[autobotsaboteur-archive-blog]

He actually did! Some of Steve Irwin’s last words were, “it wasn’t his fault. I startled him.”

He actually did forgive the stingray. He knew that he had scared it, and that it was only acting to protect itself.

[zooophagous]

If you put your ear up to a seashell you can hear the sound of mY HEART BREAKING INTO A THOUSAND LITTLE PIECES

[maeaneke]

This is why I get so mad whenever my folks have Animal Planet on lately and it’s all about WHAT ANIMALS ARE GOING TO MURDER YOU IN YOUR FACE? EXOTIC PETS RIP OWNER TO SHREDS! SNAKES! WILL THEY EAT YOU? (YES) Steve Irwin (and at the time at least his contemporary follow-behind Jeff Corwin) ushered in such a pure unbridled LOVE of exotic, ferocious, terrifying animals. He respected the animals so much, he loved them. Yes, crocs would charge and snakes would lunge, but he would respect when the animal deemed its boundaries well crossed and let it go back on its merry reptilian way. This was the Tone for my childhood. My education of wild animals was Steve Irwin talking about how beautiful this deadly crocodile was, how majestic and chill and peaceful coexistence could be. It was Jeff Corwin screaming and yelling at people at the discovery of a snake carcass, killed because of ignorant fear of it. It was harmless, and lost, and scared, and decapitated and he was livid. Why? Why would you do that? It was non-venomous, it didn’t want to be where it was any more than you wanted it to be where it was – why didn’t you call someone to release it? And now it’s just… “Everything is murderous and animals will eat your face and everything is Ruthless Killing Machines” and just. I feel like I’m watching my own father’s work be tainted whenever AP is on. It’s so upsetting.

[pharaoh-doll]

Because education and understanding don’t sell ad time.

Also why so much of Shark Week has become LET’S PISS THIS THING OFF TILL IT TRIES TO BITE US. “GREAT WHITES ARE MINDLESS KILLING MACHINES AND THEY WANT TO EAT YOU PERSONALLY, SUSAN.” is a lot more ‘exciting’ than “These things are gigantic and they feel with their very sharp mouths but they don’t actually mean anything by it they just don’t know what you are (also you taste nasty to them get over yourself.)”

[pyroclasmpixie]

Everything about this is so true. The other day I was watching a show on the Xploration Station of all things (and in the waiting room of my neighborhood clinic, no less) and they were airing a program about how cool and awesome and not really terrifying snakes are. This Australian snake relocator was being interviewed and all I could think was “WHY DON’T YOU HAVE YOUR OWN SHOW ON AMERICAN TV SIR WE NEED YOU.” I miss the days when television was about sharing ideas and spreading knowledge, instead of spreading judgment and endorsing big-name market products.