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1993. Chilean. Spanish/English. I am here to get inspired and admire the work of others. I love drawing. I'm back because I want to share the experience of watching series. I'll probably upload some doodles here, but nothing finished.

[topoconsombrero]

I forgot I made these when I was finishing HBO's The Penguin.

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I finished reading Dorohedoro some weeks ago.

It was great.

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Fun times at Waystar Royco

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Gregs and Tom

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It's the kids

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Me remembering Scavengers Reign (I watched it last week).

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I love these kids and cool auntie.

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It’s them, right?

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Whatever happened to @onewoydrawaday!? I absolutely loved all your Chibis! And you never even finished the Harvax and Stok one!?!? ;_;

Oh, thanks for liking them! Honestly, life happened. I guess my interests have just naturally changed (although I will always wait for a WOY 3rd season) and, most importantly, I don't draw as much as I'd like these days.

I can't promise I will be returning to draw the WOY gang as I did, but if I ever draw them again rest assured I will post them there.

Finally, I know it sucks when you follow somebody and they disappear or stop posting the content you were following for, but that's how it is. I guess it's ok to be disapointed about it, it's just natural.

[writing-prompt-s]

Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.

[sadoeuphemist]

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.

[sameenbyhat]

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.”

[stu-pot]

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 be 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.”

[vmohlere]

Always reblog Arepo and his god

[constant-instigator]

Just cryin on Tumblr on a Monday afternoon. What a beautiful piece of shared art. 

[the-elf-draws]

Asking for directions

[topoconsombrero]

Random thought:

I like that Yor seems to be a reference to Sleeping Beauty (Briar Rose is another name for that tale) and also Red Rose; and Fiona to Snow White.

It’d be great if the author played more with those Grimm brother’s references.

[crucipuzzled]

About Psychiatry stuff in SPYxFAMILY. Part 1

I'm a dumb and I just realized that ch. 29 of the manga will be animated, since Fiona appears for the 1st time in that chapter and she's in the key visual for the 2nd cour.

I'm aware this isn't the first analysis made on this chapter but so far I haven't seen anyone from the Psy world speaking about this. I'm a Clinical Psychologist grounded on Freudian-Lacanian Psychoanalitic theory and I think I can share some knowledge over several aspects of Psychiatry that are depicted in the manga. I've worked with Psychiatrists in the past, albeit for a short amount of time, in a public healthcare institution, so I have a notion of what Psychiatrists do in a public setting like a Hospital.

If there's a Psychiatrist out there who wants to refute this analysis, PLEASE DO SO. I'm more than pleased to learn and have a nice debate.

This is one of the most hilarious chapters in the whole SxF series, so if you don't want the fun to be spoiled, please skip this post!

Let's begin. 1. Working in a Hospital

I'm not sure if this is universal, as healthcare systems around the world differ in several aspects, but the consensus is that a Hospital, which is a public healthcare institution, is specialized in the treatment of the most complex diseases.

In Psychiatry, this usually means dealing with psychosis, drug intoxication, major depressive episodes with suicide attempts and serious personality disorders. Most of these conditions require hospitalization, as the risk of giving just ambulatory care is not enough to guarantee the patient's safety or that of the others's.

There are Hospitals that provide ambulatory care though. Again, it varies from where in the world you are. In my country (Chile) you usually go to the Hospital when your life is at risk, but if you are suffering from a less serious condition (for example, dealing with panic attacks), you'll be transferred to a primary healthcare institution. Unless you live in a rural area.

Indeed, working in a healthcare institution means gaining access to any patient's clinical record. But for the objective of Operation Strix, and Loid being a Psychiatrist, I don't think that's of much use, for reasons that I'll cover in Point 3.

2. Specialty in Psychiatry

Psychiatry has several subspecialties, like any other healthcare career. You have Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, Adult Psychiatry (I believe these two are mandatory to become a Psychiatrist but I can't say it for sure), Addictions, Forensics, Emergencies... Loid said that he wants to help people affected by the war, veterans specially, so it's a polite guess to say that he's an Adult Psychiatrist. Then again, we have this panel:

The sand box is a diagnostic tool used for children. It's mostly used by Psychologists, as they have more time per session to analyze it. I'll cover the sand box in more detail in Part 4 of this series of analysis, but for now let's say that analyzing it consumes a lot of time that Psychiatrists, in a Hospital, usually don't have.

This panel suggests that Loid has worked with children before as a Psychiatrist, and we see him later in chapter 67 with a child (although it's not clear if the child is his patient), so here are another 2 polite guesses:

-Loid's a General Psychiatrist -Berlint General Hospital's Psychiatric Ward is understaffed and they put their Psychiatrists to do whatever is needed at the moment, regardless of their specialties. It sure doesn't look that poor of a Hospital to me, but who knows... My bet is option 1. Poor guy.

3. Donovan Desmond as a potential psychiatric patient

In the first chapter of the manga, Donovan is described as a hikikomori, meaning someone who withdraws from social interaction. This word also describes a psychopathological condition of japanese young lads that spend months, even years, holled up in their homes without interacting with anybody aside from their families (if they have). The word itself doesn't have a pathological connotation tough. In English, the closest concept to "hikikomori" as a psychpathological meaning would be Autism, which isn't equivalent at all. And, when a person is so reclused, we tend to pair it with paranoia, as it often leads to social withdrawal as well. The important thing here is, as you probably are thinking right now, the reason fo such decision. And this reason is always given by the symptoms. Paranoia is a type of psychosis in which a person suffers from delirium and hallucinations related to being endangered or threatened by something. Of course, a proof of reality is useless for these patients, as their perception of reality itself is disturbed. An UFO is watching over you at all times? I can't precisely prove that it's false, as I lack proof of the very existence of UFO, and even if I have it, the delirium would probably shift to attack me as I turn into a conspirator against the patient's truth.

Not that we clinicians waste time trying to do so, though. In these cases, the Psychiatrist kicks in and administers a dose of antipsychotic drugs. Psychotic paranoia often needs hospitalization and a strong compromise from the patient's family to constantly supervise him/her. After that, comes a long process of social rehab. A very characteristic feat of paranoid people is that THEY NEVER SEEK FOR PROFESSIONAL MENTAL HEALTH CARE HELP BY THEMSELVES. Paranoids often arrive to a Psychiatric Emergency Room dragged by a third party due to bizarre behaviour, self-aggression and/or attempts to hurt others.

There are people that is not psychotic and suffer from this kind of fear of pretty much everything as well, but it's hard to determine if they really aren't psychotics, as their reasons to recluse themselves strongly resemble a delirium. The key that helps to discern if it's a psychotic paranoia or not is finding the hole in which a patient allows himself to doubt. In paranoid psychosis there's absolute certainty, while in neurosis there is room for doubt.

These "neurotic paranoids", as we'll call them for now (it doesn't exist as a nosograhical entity anywhere; please don't waste your time looking it up in the DSM xD), tend to abandon therapy pretty soon, as they fight for sticking with their motives to recluse themselves. They don't want to realize what drive them to behave like that. Patients suffering from obsessions will probably act this way, as well as some hypochondriac and anorexic patients. Bear in mind that this is not a norm; everything depends on the symptoms.

All of this begs the question: Would Donovan Desmond ever need Psychiatric help from Dr. Loid Forger?

His interaction with Loid in chapter 38 suggests that he's not reclusive for a mental condition, but he does have a certain level of "neurotic paranoia", as he can't bring himself to really trust any other person much. If nobody is truly sympathetic to each other, they could pose a threat at any moment, right? Since he's clearly not psychotic, because he can hold an interaction with Loid in the same shared reality (not a dellirium, I mean), one can safely assume that he does trust someone, at least one single person. When a psychotic person suffers from paranoia, there's not a single hole in their life that is not filled with suspicions of others being dangerous. This isn't the case for Donovan.

We see him walking with a lot of guards, so he must trusts them. And he seems to be closer to Demetrius as he goes with him to the Imperial Scholar get-togethers, so that also counts. He even takes a detour to meet Damian. Seems like he can trust his family members, and that alone could be a measure of love, albeit in a really weird scale.

Tsundere? That aside, given the social status of the Desmonds, if they ever need psychiatric help, they probably would consult a private clinic instead of going to a public hospital. Unless they find themselves in a reeeeaaaally desperate situation. So, the answer is no... for the most part. Good try, though, Twilight.

I'll cover more stuff in the next part. This one turned out unexpectedly long. It's been fun ruining the fun for those who don't know about mental health though.

[topoconsombrero]

I want Yuri and Franky to meet and hate each other. Since Yuri is handsome and works for the government (two things Franky dislikes) and Franky is Loid's friend (instant reason for Yuri to dislike him) and, although nobody but Loid knows, a traitor to the country (because of his desertor past and working with people from Westalis).

I don't know, I want to see the two uncles interact and create lots of comedy.

[nikaidou-stan]

"but it's been four y-" *gunshot noises*

[zip-zoom]

thinking about them makes me want to run around on a hamster wheel .....AAGGHH!!!! BEST FRIENDS!!!!!!!!!!

[itscolossal]

Turtles, Ducklings, and Pheasants Comprise an Adorable Menagerie of Miniatures by Fanni Sandor