#contemporary issues

[perti444]

I feel like saying "at least its not ai" is in the same category as saying "healthy body btw".

They are both.. positive..? But in a backhanded way. Saying to beginner artists that over and over again doesn't help them improve, and it definitely sounds like a "at least your happy bro" kind of thing.

Though ai does suck and like literally everything else is better then ai.

[sheltiechicago]

The Illusions of Hayden Clay Williams

Hayden Clay Williams is a visual artist based in Brooklyn, NY, who uses 3D art to bring surreal concepts to life and reflect on contemporary issues. A photographer-turned-digital artist, Hayden explores the idea of a world submerged in water, anticipating through his works a reality that could materialize as polar ice caps continue to melt and sea levels rise.

[inkedwingss]

The current tools are eating our brains, my darlings

[indizombie]

Contemporary issues don’t really intrigue me while making movies. What is a contemporary issue? In Malayalam, all filmmakers seem to be doing it; it’s like a newspaper report or endorsement. I like to make movies of lasting human emotions and experiences so that they can be fresh even tomorrow. Any good film has to survive the period of its making.

Adoor Gopalakrishnan

[thefogoflife]

Honestly Lucifer, the fuck.

You had this setup for a great subplot when Amenadiel got racially profiled and then just blew past it like it never happened.

You wouldn't even have had to get preachy about it, it could've just been a more in depth subplot about Amenadiel questioning the worth and his love of humanity, or criticizing the well documented corruption if the LAPD.

Could've been good man, not even in a social justice-y way

Shame

[goldtracing]

2010s (London)

Heavily inspired and based on this:

Guputa would never really like London. Sure, the weather was unusually sunny that fine morning and it gave him hope that he’d have a better chance today with the ex-Empire.

But there already was the infuriating bustle on the city streets, cars honking, children running and adults staring at their smartphones as they rushed off to work. No matter how many times Egypt visited the metropole, it was still alien to him with its gothic and romantic architecture, a few glass skyscrapers in the distance, and the infuriating vibe to it that screamed British.

It was the sort of foreign that crawled under his skin and made him feel tainted. No matter how much he tried, he could never fully shake of the echoes of colonialism. The undertaking he had in mind today also served to amplify the notion.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”, Sadiq inquired for the hundredth time since they had gotten on that flight from Cairo. The older nation had that infuriating air around him of resignation, like Egypt was being an idealistic brat that was going miserably fail and he was just along for the ride to be a wisecrack. “That bastard is far too prideful for his own good. He’s not going to listen to. All your preaching will go in one ear and out the other and when you remain stubborn, he’ll flip the bird and be all like…”

Turkey straightened himself up in the driver’s seat and said in a very bad imitation of the posh London accent Kirkland favoured at the moment: “’Sod off, ya little wretch! Go back to the shithole you crawled out off”’.

Even though it was amusing, Guputa didn’t so much as chuckle. For all the gentlemanly deportment Kirkland claimed to have, he was very talented in the high arts of swearing and insulting.

His companion glanced at him from the corner of his eyes to gouge his reaction as he jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left to the parking lot of the British Museum. Shaking his head, the younger of the two sighed.

“The world has changed. He’s going to have to relent someday, even just as a sign of the generosity he doesn’t possess”, he monotony replied.

Turkey raised an eyebrow at that and deftly swerved into a parking place.

“Sheesh, you’re sure hopeful. Just don’t come crying to me when he doesn’t do want you want.”

At that the personification slightly inclined his head and muttered: “That won’t be needed.”

“Wait for me in the car, I’ve got this”, Egypt said confidently. At that Turkey shock his head and then proceeded to light himself a cigarette.

Guputa quickly passed through the hassle of getting entry and begrudgingly handed over some money for a ticket – he innately hoped it was the last time he’d have to do something like this.

Thankfully, the museum was rather empty, it being early morning and a workday on top of that, just a few elderly people aimlessly wandering around the displays. How fitting that England also fell into that category.

The culprit was alone in the extensive room of Egyptology, just where the African nation wanted him to be. Arthur Kirkland was as slippery as an eel, skilfully avoiding all attempts of his former colony to pin him down. Now the latter had him finally cornered and the reckoning was neigh.

Dress shoes clicked against polished marble floors and Egypt squared his shoulders. Britain wasn’t even half as mighty as he used to be, and in his tweed jacket and old trousers didn’t look the part of a greedy conqueror one bit. Yet, he wasn’t exactly toothless.

Arthur was marvelling at one of the ornate sarcophagi of one of the numerous late queens of Ancient Egypt, an expression of sickening nostalgia on his face.

Guputa recalled a hot October’s day when the British Empire had hauled a dozen of them down to the docks of Alexandria to ship them off to the heart land.

The colonist had had a triumphant smile on his pale face that suited the power that he had radiated at the time – the 19th century – well.

“It is all your safe-keeping my young lad. You’ve proved time and time again that you’re more inclined to destroy such treasures than anything else. So, let’s leave them in my capable and trustworthy hands, shall we?”, he had smugly inquired.

Naturally, that last part had been a rhetorical question since Egypt never had had any say in that matter. He had only been allowed to enjoy the magnanimous presence of his master whenever the mood struck the latter and watch the open thievery of his heritage.

However, England wasn’t that god made flesh anymore, and divine wrath wouldn’t descend upon Guputa upon disobeying the jaded man.

“To this day it is still magnificent, isn’t it? I still remember how they gave me that letter to invite me to the excavation site when I was coming back from India in 1876. It was a very pleasant surprise”, Kirkland mused.

“Hello England”, the visitor solemnly greeted and at the mention of his true nature Kirkland didn’t flinched. Just shut his eyes and muttered profanities. It was clear why – it meant drama, wiping evidence from the surveillance cameras so that the humans couldn’t trace who they were, it meant hassle with the same government department for causing the mess, it meant a serious conversation.

Only then did Kirkland regard him, green-grey eyes keen and cutting as they always had been.

“Hello Egypt”, he courteously returned, a polite smile only just veiling impatience. He looked the Oriental up and down. “What are you doing here, dressed like the dinner of a dog.”

Subconsciously, Guputa curled his hands to fists. The English and their weird, nonsense sayings. When England had landed upon his shores after driving Napoleon about and had begun issuing his ludicrous demands, he had though about tearing him apart and feeding him to the dogs.

“We need to talk”, Egypt said plainly, foregoing any and all pleasantries.

“We are, in case you haven’t noticed”, Arthur remarked dryly, shedding the veneer of a gentleman like a snake sheds its skin.

Egypt crinkled his brow as the beginnings of frustration dawned upon him – interacting with England tended to put stain on his forbearance.

“Don’t make things difficult today, Kirkland”, Egypt chided and then made a wide sweeping gesture to the vast hall. “I’m here to take my stuff back home. It has been a long time since I gained my independence, you still have to apologize for your grievances. I’ll take you giving me my property back as reparations and a sign of good-will.”

England looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I don’t think so. I’m still looking at it”, he retorted, and Egypt barely resisted the need to bury his face in his hands. He earnestly considered fetching Turkey to knock some common sense in the former world power.

“And besides, I still want to show these glorious artifacts to a lot of other people. So not right now, you selfish rascal”, he continued.

He blinked owlishly at Kirkland and slowly pursed his lips, as if he’d bitten into a lemon.

The wretched nation had a look of mock-sympathy on his face, one that was all to familiar from his days of hegemony. And people earnestly thought that Arthur Kirkland couldn’t act to save his life. Wrong, America had to have gotten the talent as a con man from somebody.

“Do need to sulk, lad. No hard feelings, it is just for the best, after all. Why don’t you have a closer look at it”, he carried on and stepped to the side and made a welcoming gesture.

“Come on, come on, I don’t bite”, England said in answer to Guputa’s crossed arms and sceptical stare. The charming grin only widened when he complied.

Lack-lusterly he shifted to stand in front of the glass case and examined the colourful hieroglyphs that decorated the priceless pieces and the meticulously painted face on which time had left their marks.

“Seems familiar?”, Kirkland wryly asked and sniggered self-satisfied. Egypt just opened his mouth to comment on how England was being so insufferably stupid when the latter thundered: “Don’t press your greasy face against the glass! Back off!”, which caused Guputa to hastily jump back.

He gave Britain a smouldering glare to which Arthur just arrogantly lifted his chin and smirked – to him this was all to amusing.

Clenching his hands to fists, Egypt closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting to ten in his head. This was going to be far more difficult than he thought.      

__________

Of course, this is just a semi-serious take on a very serious topic. If you want to know more, check out these articles:

Egypt Wants its Treasures Back

Will the British Museum Ever Return These Stolen Artifacts?

[village-skeptic]

We can and should be skeptical of how social media distorts and monetizes human relationships. And yet, when a bestie returns from vacation and comments on/likes/reblogs/shares everything of yours that they missed - that burst of delighted affinity is real, and intense! This might not be a uniquely contemporary emotion, but this particular phenomenon feels like a uniquely contemporary ritual of digital life. 

[c-bassmeow]

I still want Piccolo to fuck my ass and marry me. Hear me out. If you go on the Dragon Ball Z wiki and read the “list of techniques by Piccolo” you’ll know why.

1. Body size manipulation: he can control ALL parts of his body at any level he desires, allowing himself to stretch, deform, or even increase his own physical size. Hmmm do the math that means he can make his dick whatever size you want. Just ate chipotle? Piccopapi reduce the size! Feeling like a pig bottom? Piccopapi 10 inches and increase girth! He could also make himself bigger if you want to be small spoon or smaller if you want to be big spoon. And if you want to top him his asshole can constrict, widen, clap, bake cookies it could do it all! 

2. Cloning: Piccolo can clone himself. That means your man can spit roast you, double mouth fuck you, or just have an orgy with you. Double penetration? That’s for amateurs. Wow! Endless cumshots for me. I’ll be his Super Saiyan Twinkie.

3. Telekinesis: he can move sex toys in and out of you with his mind. Also he can jerk off and cum and then move the cum midair into your mouth cus we don’t waste cummies in my house. Omg … I just thought of this he could douche you with his mind no need for fleet! Wow !! Fuckkkkk

4. Telepathy: idk … he’ll know all of your errogenous zones

5. Ageless: he’ll be a dom daddy that never wrinkles ugh sign me the fuck up!! PLEASE 😫😫

I want Piccolo’s pickle 😫😫😫 he’s so hot omg