always imagining dragons @sidebyside-withafriend - Tumblr Blog

eesirachs

Thoughts on Lent?

god said he was going out to the desert for a few weeks and i'd hate for him to go alone

minecraft

I'm at a :.|:; for words.

shodaisatellite

queer-as-city-folk

me when I take a fine logo and make it UGLY

dindjarism

STAR WARS: THE FORCE AWAKENS 2015 | dir. J.J. Abrams

autumngracy

fforsythiaaa

Once when I was in undergrad, someone described something as “problematic” in class and our professor was like, “That’s cool, but ‘problematic’ doesn’t really mean anything. It means that the thing you’re describing has a problem, and in and of itself that’s not bad. Art, especially, should always have problems, or else it’s not interesting and not art, either. It sounds like you’re trying to say that this is bad, but you don’t want to say ‘bad.’ Is that right?”

So from then on whenever one of us called something problematic, he would make us talk it out until we could name the “bad” thing we were hinting at. In this particular class, 7/10 it was some type of oppression, and the remainder was like, “I’m uncomfortable because this is very new/confusing/pushing boundaries that made me feel safe.”

Once we stopped calling things “problematic” and stopping at that, class got way more interesting and... we all had to say, like, “that’s racist” or “that’s misogynistic” or “ew capitalism gross” out loud, which a lot of us had never done in a classroom before. Or we had to be like, “Uhhh... I’m not sure what’s so bad?” and confront our own beliefs and that was maybe even more useful.

Anyway. Whenever I see the word problematic, I can’t help but think of this professor being like, “Good starting point, now let’s get specific.” I think when we have to commit to saying “that’s ___” it requires a lot more careful thought about the truth and impact and complexities of whatever we’re claiming. Sometimes there really is some bullshit afoot, and also sometimes it’s art, and it should be full of problems, because that’s what art is.

wickedpact

as much as i like ‘acts of service’ nicky / ‘words of affirmation’ joe, i WILL be out here for forever waving my flag abt how joe only uses explicit words of affirmation in one(1) scene (the armored van scene) AND based off of both his and nickys reactions to that speech (plus marwan talking abt it in interviews) joe doesnt give speeches like that every day

Meanstwhile nicky just casually injects three(3) little statements of verbal affection (as much as i like watching you sleep, the love of my life, its like destiny [which is literal words of affirmation] ) into conversation throughout the movie, and no one reacts oddly to it, suggesting he does that kind of thing all the time. words of affirmation nicky rights.

snipergirl21

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: To me, Joe’s declarations of love are like a fine blade wielded with skill and grace and dancing in the air, while Nicky’s declarations of love have the subtlety and power of a sledgehammer.

comicaurora

you should really hang onto one of those messenger things. it’d make everyone’s life a lot easier, except of course mine

un-splitting this party one dramatic rescue at a time

ofdirtandbones

oooooo what a cool post my mutual just reblogged ! I think I will reblog it as well !!! oooooh who did they reblog it from ? That username seems familiar,,, hohoho it's me ! from an hour ago !

interestingmistakes

Reblogging this manually. Op doesn't want credit for fear of being terminated.

boomer-mythology-destroyer

sisterdragonwithfeathers

Did I ever tell y’all the secret to life?

It’s doing stuff on purpose btw

teaboot

There is a reality not so far from our own in which Ratitouille (2007) was filmed as an avant-garde conceptual horror akin to Eraserhead (1977)

tigerator

teaboot

There is a reality not so far from our own in which that's how they spell it

teaboot

There is a reality not so far from our own in which Ratitouille (2007) was filmed as an avant-garde conceptual horror akin to Eraserhead (1977)

teaboot

There is a young American man in France. His mother has passed away. He has few friends, and works the thankless job of a bus boy in a prestigious restaurant, but dreams of becoming a chef despite having very little skill.

He returns one night to his humble apartment, which is known to have vermin, and comes across a rat, which he could easily kill or set loose on the street.

But the rat- it is special. It seems to speak to him. Promises him every little thing he desires- talent, fame, and fortune. Recognition and esteem like he has only ever seen from afar; fine company like the wealthy men and women whose scraps he picks at over the sink.

Put me on your head, the rat says. Put me on your head and think of nothing.

It is strange at first, yes. Strange to feel another take control of his life and live it better than he ever could. To see miraculous things created with his own two hands, to feel his feet move in graceful and fantastic ways with a confidence he has never had.

But the rat delivers as he had promised: he receives promotions, notoriety, admiration. He is noticed. Envied. Every day is a waking dream, rubbing elbows with beautiful women and handsome men and influential personalities who lavish him with praise. It is addictive, this lifestyle- never mind that he is only ever truly conscious of it as a passenger of in own brain.

It is when he has reached heights few can ever conceive, with all that the rat had ever promised- a beautiful wife in a beautiful house with all the world in his palm, in possession of all the wealth and success a man could ever want, that the rat says that it is leaving.

Leaving? The rat cannot leave. Everything he is, the rat has provided.

"I have delivered on our bargain", the rat says. "I have brought to you all that you have ever dreamed. What more could you desire? I must live my own life, now."

The man is furious. He is terrified. He destroys the rat, in all of the ways that a rat can be destroyed, until nothing is left of it but a fine smear of marinara sauce.

He returns to the restaurant the next day moving like the shell of something hollowed-out and brittle. He cooks well- his fingers remember the movements, his eyes recognize the patterns, his mouth knows without his asking what orders to speak and what platitudes make patrons smile pleasantly with their straight white teeth.

He retains the talents of the rat. The charm of the rat. All the worldly pleasures the rat had provided him.

Still, it seems, he is little more than a vessel for the talents of the rat.

But the rat is gone.

What remains of the man?

teaboot