@soularch and I were talking about things
Not today Justin

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@shesabossasswitch
@soularch and I were talking about things
how to draw arms ? ?
holy fuck
holy fuck is right… but… does it work with legs???
yes !!
but how much extend
^^^^^^^^^^
I NEARLY CHOKED
ENJFDFNFATFVFDF
finally. i can be accurate
This is too fucking great to not reblog
I give it MASCLES
BIG MACHO
LMAOOOOOO
Okay but for anyone who legit wants to know how to calculate it correctly:
The elbow joint on average rests a couple inches higher than the navel, so if you measure how long the distance is from the middle of the shoulder to that point then you have the length of the upper and fore arms!
So if anyone’s wondering about legs too, the simplest rule of thumb is that the length from the top of the leg to the knee is equal to the distance between the top of the leg and the bottom of the pectorals:
And I wanna stress that when i say “top of the leg” i’m not talking about the crotch (please don’t flag me tumblr it’s an anatomical term) i’m talking about the point where the femur connects to the pelvis, which is higher up on the hips:
It’s easier to see what I’m talking about in this photo of a man squatting:
So yeah if you use that measurement when using this technique you should get fairly realistically proportioned legs:
But remember! messing with proportions is an important and fun part of character design! Know the rules first so you can then break them however you please!
HOW THE HELL DID I FIND THIS POST OMG
From “Soft Spoken Spells: Poems for Your Inner Witch” by Nichole McElhaney
the two genders, dandy and bacchante,
*points at a couple* so which of you ties a meticulous jabot knot every time and which of you runs screaming through the night drunk and covered in ivy
Princess Serenity's Dress: An Analysis and Break-Down
Hey, Sailor Moon fandom, hey…
It’s that time again where I talk too much. This time let’s discuss Princess Serenity’s famous dress which is well-known as an interpretation of the “Palladium” / “Il Palladio” dress in the Christian Dior, Haute Couture Spring/Summer 1992 collection. Here’s a very nice post by Moonie Trivia with detailed pics comparing them with the included inspiration, an Ionic column.
So what more is there to add, really?
Well, let’s take a little trip down history and fashion lane.
Keep reading
I AM SCREAMING
YOUR HONYE
me when i remember the overridden strider i left halfway across the map
Aloy is touch-starved
Rost did not show Aloy physical affection. If you look at their interactions, he only touches her when there’s a purpose. To lift her up, to clean her wound, to cover her with a blanket. He gives her a kind pat on the shoulder after she saves Teb, but this is actually the only time I saw him touch her intending to comfort. Even if it was genuine on Rost’s part, one can see how easy it would be for Aloy to read this as a reward for saving Teb’s life.
In her training when she falls, Rost extends his hand to her as an offer to help and she rejects it, because she’s learned that touch is a sign of weakness, since touch is only something that’s done when you are unable to do something yourself. She’s independent, she’s strong, she doesn’t need it.
[screenshot of Rost extending a hand to young Aloy as she dangles off a platform]
When he leaves her at Mother’s Heart, she follows after him, and you can clearly see that she wants to grab ahold of him but she doesn’t.
[screenshot of Rost turning away from Aloy as she follows after him, holding her hands clutched loosely out towards him]
Like. Look at her hands. She’s desperate in this scene, she’s saying goodbye to the only person she knows, but she still pauses and doesn’t grab ahold of him. That’s absolutely devastating to me. She does not understand that it’s normal for family/friends to hug, kiss, hold hands, etc. She deserves to touch him in this scene and she just…doesn’t.
And the one time Rost does touch her affectionately? Finally holds her in his arms? They’re both dying, and it’s the last time Aloy ever sees him. And she reaches for him as he blows up and she’s falling off a mountain.
[screenshot of Aloy falling through snowy air, hands reaching up]
No one else fills this role for her. No one physically comforts her. Teersa could have, but she didn’t. If Sylens wasn’t an asshole, he also could’ve, but of course he’s Sylens. In all honesty this is why I was so frustrated with Sylens, because Aloy desperately needed a parent and he was just so…disinterested in her.
I honestly think this is part of why she wanted to find her mother so badly (at least, subconsciously). Yes, she wanted to know why she was cast out because that fucked up her entire life, but also she desperately wanted someone to fill that role, because Rost (as wonderful as he was) just couldn’t.
But Elisabet’s just a hologram. A dead hologram. Please look at how she reaches for Elisabet because it actually causes me physical pain.
[screenshot of Aloy reaching out for Elisabet’s hologram, set towards the beginning of the game]
[screenshot of Aloy reaching out for Elisabet’s large holographic form, set at the end of the game]
I also think this is part of the reason why Aloy was so upset about the Nora treating her as their anointed and bowing to her, because that’s the opposite of what she wants/needs, even if she doesn’t know it. To her it’s the same thing as being an outcast. The label means she’s still separate from them, something not to be touched (even if it’s for better reasons this time) and she has every right to be upset.
When Aloy is touched by allies in the game, it’s very briefly, and usually for a purpose.
[screenshot of Jezza and Teersa resting their hands on Aloy as they anoint her a seeker]
[screenshot of Aloy lying on the ground, Teb kneeling beside her and gently touching her]
[screenshot of Erend resting a hand on Aloy’s shoulder]
For most of the game, however, Aloy is touched by enemies. And good lord. She’s hit, laughed at, strangled, stabbed, shot. She literally. Just. Doesn’t. Know. That touch can be a good and positive thing. All the shit with Helis? I could write an entire post just on how traumatized Aloy is. Like. My girl. My poor girl.
[screenshot of Helis clutching Aloy by the face]
So let’s talk about Gildun! Incase you don’t know, he’s an NPC you encounter on a Frozen Wilds side quest. Kinda random, right? But Aloy’s reactions to the way Gildun touches her is actually really interesting. Gildun grabs Aloy’s wrists out of excitement.
[screenshot of Gildun clutching Aloy’s wrists, caption on screen reads “Two sets of hands, girl! Two sets of hands!”]
And oh. my. god. Just look at her face. Like. She’s shocked and disgusted and surprised at the sudden physical contact because she’s not used to it!
[screenshot of Aloy looking disgusted, confused, upset]
But about two seconds later she’s smiling! Like! That’s how little time it takes her to get over this!
[screenshot of Aloy with a more relaxed expression than the last]
At the end of the quest Gildun knocks her playfully without warning. She’s surprised but she doesn’t flinch outside of recovering from the hit. She doesn’t try to fight back. She smiles. Part of this could be because he’s complimenting her, but I mean, come on. Look how happy she is.
[screenshot of Aloy and Gildun, Aloy is smiling and Gildun is yelling.]
In conclusion: we need more NPCs like Gildun who show Aloy physical affection and Aloy needs a thousand hugs. Feel free to add more examples, I know there’s things I missed.
Disclaimer: I love Rost so much this is not me dragging Rost and it’s also not his fault that he was the only person in Aloy’s life. He did his best. This is not me dragging Rost, don’t ever accuse me of not loving Rost with my whole heart.
Laura Ashley Interior Decorating (1989)
Evening Ensemble
Marc Bohan for Dior
1974
Fine Arts Museum of San Francisco
I like cat parties
tops: you sure its gonna fit?
powerbottoms: i’ll make it fit
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!
Throckmorton
Your cousin Throckmorton, the skateboarder.
“throcky” as he is sometimes known
We’ve done it. We’ve located the coolest motherfucker on the planet.
It’s him. my cousin throckmorton
I finally talk about my addiction
I cannot.
You’re so brave James for opening up this way. All your fans are here to support you during this difficult time!
Thank you so much!!! I neverrrrr I neverrrrrrrrrrrrrr could do it without you guys
This is not even a joke i relate to this on spiritual level
Mr Brightside lasts for 3 minutes and 42 seconds and James video lasted for 3 minutes and 24 seconds.