Ha I wonder how many strokes the most complex Chinese character has like maybe eightee-
Has a Chinese son, names him bèng-dá, and he hates me
My beloved son 䨻龘 just trying to write his name in kindergarten

No title available
Keni
Claire Keane
RMH

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Sade Olutola

#extradirty
will byers stan first human second
No title available
Three Goblin Art

pixel skylines
Cosmic Funnies
sheepfilms
dirt enthusiast
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
NASA
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
Game of Thrones Daily
Mike Driver
YOU ARE THE REASON

seen from Malaysia
seen from Mexico
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Colombia
seen from Malaysia

seen from Australia
seen from United States

seen from Greece
seen from Türkiye

seen from France
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from T1

seen from Malaysia

seen from Brazil

seen from T1
seen from Türkiye

seen from United Kingdom

seen from Germany
@weiwithwords
Ha I wonder how many strokes the most complex Chinese character has like maybe eightee-
Has a Chinese son, names him bèng-dá, and he hates me
My beloved son 䨻龘 just trying to write his name in kindergarten
Bring your keiki to hula! - via kekaiokahiki IG
You can't start young enough! 😊😍
Dance!
That is not a title or suggestion, it is a command.
Dance is curiosity. Don't let your body be some static vessel when it can be a world containing continents of untouched vistas. Your body can be a mountain range, monument to eons of tectonic motion. Your body can be the light breeze that breathes sweet relief on shoulders scorched by sunfire. Your body can be an oil slick, rainbow iridescence fueling nations even as it transmutes ragged asphalt into prismatic majesty. How many trajectories can your arms trace out you've never traced before? If you refuse to trace them out, your remain uncharted territory to yourself, an explorer crouched by a dying campfire, surrounded by the dark, not knowing what lies beyond is your own dynamic beauty.
So dance! Dance is self-expression.
As Martha Graham says, "There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost."
Dance is how you scrape the entropy off your bones and remind yourself who you are. You are not moving through the universe. You are the universe in ecstatic motion. You are satellite and butterfly, coral reef and lava flow. How many people have lived and loved and died so you could move? How badly do they want to know who you are? How much exuberance you can embody. How much reverence? How much sorrow, how much anger, how much joy?
Your body says a million things your voice cannot You can chisel universes into retinas So dance like everybody is watching
Every body is a firework, but some rot as heaps of unlit powder Every body is a turbine, so rev yours up and watch the cityscape ignite Pull the rip cord Start the engine Light the fuse
Light and sound are vibrations and so are you.
So dance!
Dance is liberation Your hips, your shoulders have been shackled to ignorance and apathy and social expectation, and they murmur for release There's a reason freedom is won thru social movements, and when something affects us, we are moved. Let the world move you.
Dance!
“…use things to have good days.”
the loading screen trying to convince me to use even one of my 3000 consumables
look, I know I've talked about this essay (?) before but like,
If you ever needed a good demonstration of the quote "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic", have I got an exercise for you.
Somebody made a small article explaining the basics of atomic theory but it's written in Anglish. Anglish is basically a made-up version of English where they remove any elements (words, prefixes, etc) that were originally borrowed from romance languages like french and latin, as well as greek and other foreign loanwords, keeping only those of germanic origin.
What happens is an english which is for the most part intelligible, but since a lot everyday english, and especially the scientific vocabulary, has has heavy latin and greek influence, they have to make up new words from the existing germanic-english vocabulary. For me it kind of reads super viking-ey.
Anyway when you read this article on atomic theory, in Anglish called Uncleftish Beholding, you get this text which kind of reads like a fantasy novel. Like in my mind it feels like it recontextualizes advanced scientific concepts to explain it to a viking audience from ancient times.
Even though you're familiar with the scientific ideas, because it bypasses the normal language we use for these concepts, you get a chance to examine these ideas as if you were a visitor from another civilization - and guess what, it does feel like it's about magic. It has a mythical quality to it, like it feels like a book about magic written during viking times. For me this has the same vibe as reading deep magic lore from a Robert Jordan book.
Gonna start calling the Big Bang a creation myth but not in an anti-science way, but in contextualing-science-as-one-of-many-epistemological-systems way, and mostly to piss off Liu Cixin and his dumbass opinions in his post-script to The Three-Body Problem
For me, Liu's postscript was about how science, at core, is a storytelling epistemology, and the stories it tells inspire awe because they are true in a way stories about fairies and dragons are not true. Yes, stories about dragons and fairies are true in a different way, but the specific way in which science's stories are true are especially captivating to Liu's imagination. (Also mine.)
Cold Iron in folklore, fiction, and RPGs
'Gold is for the mistress—silver for the maid! Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.' 'Good!' said the Baron, sitting in his hall, 'But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all!' — Rudyard Kipling, “Cold Iron”
Folklore
Drudenmesser, or "witch-knife", an apotropaic folding knife from Germany
The notion that iron (or steel) can ward against evil spirits, witches, fairies, etc is very widespread in folklore. You hang a horseshoe over your threshold to deny entry to evil spirits, you carry an iron tool with you to make sure devils won't assault you, you place a small knife under the baby's crib to ward it from witches, and so on. Iron is apotropaic in many many cultures.
In English, we often come across passages that refer to apotropaic cold iron (or cold steel). "All uncouth, unknown Wights are terrifyed by nothing earthly so much as by cold Iron", says Robert Kirk in 1691, which I believe is the earliest example. "Evil spirits cannot bear the touch of cold steel. Iron, or preferably steel, in any form is a protection", says John Gregorson Campbell in 1901.
Words
So what is cold iron? In this context, it’s just iron. The “cold” part is poetic, especially – but not only – if we’re talking about either blades (or swords, weapons, the force of arms) or manacles and the like. It just sounds more ominous. There are “cold yron chaines” in The Fairie Queene (1596), and a 1638 book of travels tells us that a Georgian general (in the Caucasus) vowed “to make the Turk to eat cold iron”.
Green’s Dictionary of Slang defines “cold iron” as a sword, and dates the term to 1698. From 1725 it appears in Cant dictionaries (could this sense be thieves’ cant, originally? why not, plenty of words and expressions started as underworld slang and then entered the mainstream), and from ~1750 its use becomes much more common.
NGram Viewer diagram for 1600-2019.
In other contexts, cold iron is (surprise!) iron that’s not hot. So let’s talk a bit about metallurgy.
Metals
In nature, we can find only one kind of iron that’s pure enough to work with: meteoritic iron. It has to literally fall from the sky. Barring that very rare occurrence, people have to mine the earth for iron ore, which is not workable as is. To separate the iron from the ore we have to smelt it, and for that we need heat, in the form of hot charcoals. Throwing the ore on the coals won’t do much of anything, it’s not hot enough. But if we enclose the coals in a little tower built of clay, leaving holes for air flow, the temperature rises enough to smelt the ore. That’s called a bloomery.
clay bloomery / medieval bloomery / beating the bloom to get rid of the slag
What comes out of the bloomery is a bloom: a porous, malleable mass of iron (that we need) and slag (byproducts that we don’t need). But now we can get rid of the slag and turn the porous mass to something solid, by hammering the hot bloom over and over. And once the slag is off, by the same process we can give it a desired shape in the forge, reheating it as needed. This is called “working” the iron, hence “wrought iron” objects, i.e. forged.
a blacksmith in his forge, with bellows, fire, and anvil (English woodcut, 1603)
This is the lowest-tech version, possibly going back to ~2000 BCE in Nigeria. If we add bellows, the improved air flow will raise the temperature. So smelting happens faster and more efficiently in the bloomery, and so does heating the iron in the forge, making it easier to work with. And that’s the standard process from the Iron Age all through the middle ages and beyond (although in China they may have skipped this stage and gone straight to the next one).
If we make the bloomery bigger and bigger, with stronger and stronger bellows, we end up with a blast furnace, a construction so efficient that the temperature outright melts the iron, and it’s liquified enough to be poured into a mould and acquire the desired shape when it cools off. This is “cast iron”.
a blast furnace
So in all of this, what’s cold iron? Well, it’s iron that went though the heat and cooled off. (No heat = no iron, all you got is ore.) If it came out of a bloomery, or if it wasn’t cast, it’s by definition worked, hammered, beaten, wrought, and that happened while it was still hot.
Is there such a thing as “cold-wrought” iron? No. In fact, “working cold iron” was a simile for something foolish or pointless. A smith who beats cold iron instead of putting it in the fire shows folly, says a 1694 book on religion, so you too should choose your best tools, piety and good decorum, to educate your children and servants, instead of beating them. When Don Quixote (1605) declares he’ll go knight-erranting again, Sancho Panza tries to dissuade him, but it’s like “preaching in the desert and hammering on cold iron” (a direct translation of martillar en hierro frío).
Minor work can be done on cold iron. A 1710 dictionary of technical terms tells us that a rivetting-hammer is “chiefly used for rivetting or setting straight cold iron, or for crooking of small work; but ’tis seldom used at the forge”. Fully fashioning an object out of cold iron is not a real process – though a 1659 History of the World would claim that in Arabia it’s so hot that “smiths work nails and horseshoes out of cold iron, softened only by the vigorous heat of the sun, and the hard hammering of hands on the anvil”. [I declare myself unqualified to judge the veracity of this statement, let's just say I have doubts.] And there is of course such a thing as “cold wrought-iron”, as in wrought iron after it’s cooled off.
Either way, in the context of pre-20th century English texts which refer to apotropaic “cold iron”, it’s definitely not “cold-wrought”, or meteoritic, or a special alloy of any kind. It’s just iron.
Fiction
The old superstition kept coming up in fantasy fiction. In 1910 Rudyard Kipling wrote the very influential short story “Cold Iron” (in the collection Rewards and Fairies), where he explains invents the details of the fairies’ aversion to iron. They can’t bewitch a child wearing boots, because the boots have nails in the soles. They can’t pass under a doorway guarded by a horseshoe, but they can slip through the backdoor that people neglected to guard. Mortals live “on the near side of Cold Iron”, because there’s iron in every house, while fairies live “on the far side of Cold Iron”, and want nothing to do with it. And changelings brought up by fairies will go back to the world of mortals as soon they touch cold iron for the first time.
In Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword (1954), we read:
“Let me tell you, boy, that you humans, weak and short-lived and unwitting, are nonetheless more strong than elves and trolls, aye, than giants and gods. And that you can touch cold iron is only one reason.”
In Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn (1968) the unicorn is imprisoned in an iron cage:
“She turned and turned in her prison, her body shrinking from the touch of the iron bars all around her. No creature of man’s night loves cold iron, and while the unicorn could endure its presence, the murderous smell of it seemed to turn her bones to sand and her blood to rain.”
Poul Anderson would come back to that idea in Operation Chaos (1971), where the worldbuilding’s premise is that magic and magical creatures have been reintroduced into the modern world, because a scientist “discovered he could degauss the effects of cold iron and release the goetic forces”. And that until then, they had been steadily declining, ever since the Iron Age came along.
There are a million examples, I’m just focusing on those that would have had a more direct influence on roleplaying games. However, I should note that all these say “cold iron” but mean “iron”. Yes, the fey call it cold, but they are a poetic bunch. You can’t expect Robin Goodfellow’s words to be pedestrian, now can you?
RPGs
And from there, fantasy roleplaying systems got the idea that Cold Iron is a special material that fey are vulnerable to. The term had been floating around since the early D&D days, but inconsistently, scattered in random sourcebooks, and not necessarily meaning anything else than iron. In 1st Edition’s Monster Manual (1977) it’s ghasts and quasits who are vulnerable to it, not any fey creature. Devils and/or fiends might dislike iron, powdered cold iron is a component in Magic Circle Against Evil, and “cold-wrought iron” makes a couple of appearances. For example, in AD&D it can strike Fool’s Gold and turn it back to its natural state, revealing the illusion.
Then Changeling: The Dreaming came along and made it a big deal, a fundamental rule, and an anathema to all fae:
Cold iron is the ultimate sign of Banality to changelings. ... Its presence makes changelings ill at ease, and cold iron weapons cause horrible, smoking wounds that rob changelings of Glamour and threaten their very existence.... The best way to think about cold iron is not as a thing, but as a process, a very low-tech process. It must be produced from iron ore over a charcoal fire. The resulting lump of black-gray material can then be forged (hammered) into useful shapes. — Changeling: The Dreaming (2nd Edition, 1997)
So now that we know how iron works, does that description make sense? Well, if we assume that the iron ore is unceremoniously dumped on coals, it does not. You can’t smelt iron like that. If we assume that a bloomery is involved even though it’s not mentioned, then yes, this is broadly speaking how iron’s been made since the Iron Age, and until blast furnaces came into the picture. But the World of Darkness isn’t a pseudo-medieval setting, it’s modern urban fantasy. So the implication here is that “cold iron” is iron made the old way: you can’t buy it in the store, someone has to replicate ye olde process and do the whole thing by hand. Now, this is NOT how the term “cold iron” has been used in real life or fiction thus far, but hey, fantasy games are allowed to invent things.
Regardless, 3.5 borrowed the idea, and for the first time D&D made this a core rule. Now most fey creatures had damage reduction and took less damage from weapons and natural attacks, unless the weapon was made of Cold Iron:
“This iron, mined deep underground, known for its effectiveness against fey creatures, is forged at a lower temperature to preserve its delicate properties.” — Player’s Handbook (3.5 Edition, 2003)
Pathfinder kept the rule, though 5e did not. And unlike Changeling, this definition left it somewhat ambiguous if we’re talking about a material with special composition (i.e. not iron) or made with a special process (i.e. iron but). The community was divided, threads were locked over this!
So until someone points me to new evidence, I’ll assume that the invention of cold iron as a special material, distinct from plain iron, should be attributed to TTRPGs.
I've been arguing with people since 3.5 came out (I didn't hear about Changeling until afterwards, surprisingly) about this. Yes, the phrase "cold iron" = "cold steel" = "iron/steel that isn't hot, especially in reference to a weapon." I've always been struck by how many people don't recognize that as a stock poetic phrase; it's like everywhere.
Now, I didn't know that Kipling invented the anathema bits pre-Changeling; it was simply a gap in my understanding. (The "iron protects against [spooky things you don't like]" bit seemed so overwhelmingly common that I didn't question it. Of course, folklore will create all sorts of weird weaksauce weaknesses for supernatural beings. But like, how would an elf deal with blood?) Good to know!
“X bodily fluid is just filtered blood!” buddy I hate to break it to you but ALL of the fluids in your body are filtered blood. Your circulatory system is how water gets around your body. It all comes out of the blood (or lymph, which is just filtered blood).
“Okay but why is it always so chemically roundabout and unnecessarily complicated” well buddy, that’s because your blood is imitation seawater. See? It’s very simple.
Blood is what now?
It’s imitation seawater what part is confusing
#are you telling me#humans are just sentient aquariums?
Buddy if anything is living in your blood (except for more parts of you) in detectable amounts then you have a serious microbial infection and need to go to the hospital.
Humans are seawater wastelands kept sterile of all but human cells, with microbial mats coating their surfaces.
Thank you that’s…very disturbing
It’s not my fault you’re human.
Ok but “It’s not my fault you’re human.” Is the best comeback ever.
You can use it against anyone except children that you biologically helped to create.
#/blood is imitation seawater/ is the part that’s confusing
Picture this: you are a Thing That Lives In The Ocean. Some kind of small multicellular animal a long time ago, before proper circulatory systems existed. “Wow,” you think, metaphorically, “it sure is difficult to diffuse chemicals across my whole body. Kinda puts a hard limit on the size and distance of what specialised organs I can have. Good thing I have all this water around me that’s the same salinity as my cells (they have to be that way so I don’t explode or shrivel up) so I can diffuse and filter chemicals with that.”
“Wait a minute,” you say a couple of generations later, because you’re not actually a small animal but an evolutionary process personified and simplified to the point of dangerous inaccuracy for the purposes of a Tumblr post, “instead of losing all these important chemicals to the water around me, how about I put it in tubes? I can keep MY water separate from the rest of the world’s water! Anything I want to keep goes in my water! Anything I don’t, I dump back into the outside water! I’m a genius! An unthinking natural trial-and-error process that’s a GENIUS!”
“Wow,” you think a great many generations later, “being able to have such control over such high concentrations of important chemicals is so great. Look how big I’m getting. I even have a special pump to move my seawater around, and these cool filter systems to keep the chemicals in it right, and that control and chemical concentration has let me grow so many energy-intensive, highly specialised organs! Being big is so hard. I need special cells just to carry my oxygen around now, to make sure my enormous, constantly-operating body has enough of it.”
At this point you are embodying a fish, and eventually, fish start straying into water with different pressures and salinity levels. (I mean, they do that since befor ehty’er fish, but… look, I’m trying to keep things simple here.) “What the FUCK,” you think. “My inside water is at a different salinity and pressure to the outside water?? How am I supposed to deal with that? I can’t have freshwater inside my seawater tubes! My cells have a set salinity and they would explode! I need to start beefing up my regulatory and filter systems so that my inside seawater STAYS SEAWATER OF THE CORRECT SALINITY even if the outside water is different! Fortunately, adding salt to my seawater is a lot easier than removing it, and I want to be saltier than this weird outside water.” At this point you beef up your liver and urinary systems to compensate for different salinities. (Note: the majority of fish, freshwater and saltwater, have a fairly narrow band of salinities they can live in. Every fish doesn’t get to deal with every level of salinity; they are evolved to regulate within specific bands.)
You also, at some point, go out on land. This is new and weird because you have to carry all of your water inside. “It’s a good thing I turned myself into a giant bag of seawater,” you think. “If I wasn’t carrying my seawater inside, how would I transport all these important chemicals between my organs and the environment?” As you specialise to live entirely outside of the water, you realise (once again) that it’s a lot easier to add salt to water than to remove it in great quantities. Drinking seawater in large amounts becomes toxic; your body isn’t specialised for removing that amount of salt. Instead, you drink freshwater, and add salts to that. The majority of your organs are, at this point, specialised for moving your seawater around, protecting it, adding stuff to it, or taking stuff out. You have turned yourself into an intelligent bag for carrying and regulating a small amount of imitation seawater, and its salinity (and your commitment to maintaining that salinity) is based entirely on the seawater that some early animals started to build tubes around a long time ago.
And that’s what a human is!
Well, there’s another few steps, of course.
Because at some point, operating along lines of logic that worked out perfectly so far, you did decide to be a mammal.
A mammal is a machine for adapting to Circumstances. A mammal is a tremendously resilient all-terrain life-support system, with built-in heating, cooling, respiration, and incubators for reproduction. Mammals internalise everything (grudges, eggs) and furthermore are excessively, flamboyantly wet internally. Sure, everyone’s a bag of chemicals; but mammals slosh. Mammals took the concept of an internal ocean and took it in an unnecessarily splashy direction, added aftermarket mods and a climate-control system,
and just to show off, you leaned across the metaphorical gambling table and said: “my internal ocean is so good-“
“Bullshit,” said the shark, keeping it salty (ha)
“My internal ocean is so brilliantly resilient, more so than any of YOURS,” you said, holding their attention with a digit held aloft, “that for my next trick, I shall artistically recreate the ballad of evolution as a performance. I shall craft a complex chemical ballet depicting the origin of multicellular life - using some of my own material, of course-”
“Oh, ANYONE can lay an egg,” yodel the fish, and the ray adds: “ontogeny does NOT recapitulate phylogeny!!”
And you’re like, “yeah no, it’s an artistic rendition, not a literal thing. Basically I’m going to take some cells and brew them up-“
“Like an egg.”
“Like an egg. An egg but internally.”
“Yeah,” said the viviparous reptile, “yeah, like, that can work really well. I’ve always said it’s the highest test of one’s chemical know-how. It’s a lot of work. And forget about support from your family - forget about support from your PHYLUM - all you get is criticism.”
“I’m gonna do it on purpose forever,” you said. “The highest chemical, thermoregulatory, immunological, everything-logical challenge. It’s gonna be my thing.”
“I’m with you,” said a viviparous fish, stoutly. “Representation.”
You kindly don’t point out, once again, that you’re planning to do this outside the ocean, in a range of temperatures; carrying the dividing cells in a perfect 37.5• solution of saline broth in all terrains, breathing oxygen in a complicated matter, you know, bit more difficult; but you need your allies.
“It’s solid,” says the coelacanth.
“But is it metal?” says the deep-vent organism.
“Oh, it’s metal. I will feed the young,” you say, magnificently, “on an echo of the mother ocean. The first rich feast of cellular matter, the first hunt for sustenance, the first bite they sip of our liquid planet-”
Everyone waits.
“Will be a blood byproduct. My own blood byproduct.”
Everyone looks uncomfortable.
“But,” a hagfish says carefully, “don’t you outdoorsy guys still need your blood?”
You cough and explain that if you stay wet enough internally and hydrate frequently, you should be able to produce enough blood byproduct to sustain your hellish new invention until they can eat your peers.
The outrage that follows includes questions like “is this some furry shit?” And: “milk has WATER in it?”
And you won the bet. “My inner ocean is such a perfect homage to the primordial soup that I can personally cook up an entire live hairy mammal in it. And then generate excess blood byproduct from my body and give it to the small mammal until it gets big.”
That is an absolutely bonkers pitch, by the way, and everyone thought you were a showoff, even before the opposable thumbs. When the winter came, and the winter of winters, and the rain was acid and the air was poison on the tender shells of their eggs and choked the children in the shells; when the plants turned to poison, and the ocean turned against you all; when the climate changed, and the world’s children fell to shadow; your internal ocean was it that held true. A bet laid against the changing fates, a bet laid by a small beast against climate and geography and the forces of outer space, that you won. The dinosaurs fell and the pterosaurs fell and the marine reptiles dwindled, and you, furthest-child, least-looked-for, long-range-spaceship, held hope internally at 37.5 degrees. Which is another thing that humans do, sometimes.
Maybe I'm a lodestone. Maybe I'm powered by the lightning. Maybe I guide the Wei. Maybe if I were left as my own devices, all-Weis would face true north. Maybe what I attract reveals me.
If so, I wonder why my modeling career hasn't taken off yet.
Maybe it's cuz I'm an undiscovered diamond in the rough.
Or maybe I'm the rough. Maybe I'm a cow's tongue, questing out for saltlick. Maybe I'm the grippy half of Velcro, seeking something soft to snag. Maybe I'm a city's asphalt skeleton. Maybe I'm coarse-grained sand supplicating skin for sanctuary. Maybe I haven't yet been ground to powder. Maybe I'm bench-pressing pestle up from mortar's bottom, and maybe the pressure's not too much to bear. Maybe the ones trying to stamp me out are losing.
Or maybe I'm the one who's stamping. Maybe there's no Wei to grasp the scale of my senseless inner violence. Maybe I'm the planned extermination of a million joyful stories. Maybe I would savor a people's final choking gasp.
Maybe I'm a genocide.
Wait, no, I don't wanna be a genocide! M-maybe I'm a… a sunrise, distracting everyone with pretty colors as I {exhale} blow out the stars.
Maybe I'm a poet.
No, that definitely not right. I'm more like a toddler's dirty underwear, soiled because the child using me didn't know how to express themself and I just so happened to be the pair their parents paired them with that morning... Maybe it'll come out in the wash.
Maybe I should drink more water.
Maybe I'm a urinary catheter sucking piss out from the universe, but maybe that piss is hatred.
Maybe I tilt the karmic wheel towards kindness. Maybe there's a beatific Brahmin biding by my shadow. Maybe the aforementioned lightning was divinity's crackling hand, flaring me out to glory.
Or maybe I'm not quite there yet. Maybe I'm the distance between those fingertips on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, the fool in every Buddhist fable, the space between the Surahs.
Maybe that's a disappointment.
Maybe music's not the space between the notes. Maybe I'm diving for pearls of wisdom in Nietzsche's famed abyss. Maybe I'm drowned by my own pretension. Maybe I'm on the fast-track out to pasture, maybe I'm Uranium-235, maybe I'm that glow you get post-orgasm, maybe I'm cesium keeping time. Maybe I'm atlatl after atom-bomb, an anachronistic hymn. Maybe I should watch The Royal Tenebaums. Maybe all I all I all I do is win.
Maybe I should steal other people's art and pass it off as my own.
Maybe I already have.
Since we keep getting "live action" CGI remakes of already perfectly adequate animated movies, and because people need to understand that animation is a medium and not a genre, I have prepared this primer about the importance of Visual Language for Conveying Information.
Can you tell what the personalities of these two mice are?
Can you tell now?
Which of these two tigers feels safer to be around?
Which of these three dogs is the funniest one?
If you can answer these questions, then you already have experience with the idea of visual language and stylistic choices being used to impart narrative meaning. If you can understand why these choices were made to impart meaning, then you can understand why animation is a medium for telling stories that has its own inherent value, and is not merely a "placeholder" for the eventual implementation of photorealistic presentation (aka "Live Action" CGI). Animation does not need to be "corrected" or "legitimized" by remaking it into the most representational simulation of observable reality.
This is why I love 2D animation and will forever.
This breathing body
Breathing is new to this body. Breathing is violent to this body. This body craves peace. This body's breath says, "No." No, you can't be still. No, you can't be satisfied. There is something you lack, and there is something you must take to make up for that. Breath is a tyrant who demands endless tribute. Who sucks down one tithe just as the next is offered up. Who, when denied, wreaks the most immediate, visceral retribution. Who takes something in and, in the very next moment, gives back something different, because it knows oxygen is poison to the blood until bound in chains of iron. So why does this body breathe? Because it must? No. Breath may be a tyrant, but it is not all-powerful. Breathing is a choice. This body understands that better than most. Why, then? Curiosity, perhaps? Breathing is new to this body. And though the act sometimes sends pain crashing down its spine, this body finds itself fascinated at the raw sensations of breathing. The liminal stillness between inhale and exhale contains a shard of the peace this body craves. The cooling at the tip of the nose. The chest, swelling and subsiding. These sensations do not feel violent to this body. They do not feel like a tyrant demanding tithe. So this body takes a breath. And another. The violence of breathing is shedding at the curiosity of this body. Cooling into something kinder. Swelling into something sweeter. Subsiding into something softer. And as it does, this body discovers something: breathing is not new to this body. Breathing is something this body has done before. Yes, this body, this body that has been still for so long, even this body, used to breathe. Its breath was different then. Seized by primal fear. Every exhalation a grim reprisal to every inhalation. This body realizes breathing is violent to this body because breathing was violent to that body. That body was a violent body. Then this body remembers what it's like to breathe. No. That body was not a violent body. Violence was trapped inside that body, yes, but the violence was not always there. It was taken in. And this body is not so different from that body. This body takes in violence, too. Is that why this body breathes? Why it can't be still? Why it can't be satisfied? Because it's about making up for things? Then this body remembers what it's like to breathe. How breath takes something in and, in the very next moment, gives back something different, because it knows violence is poison to the blood until dissolved in oxygen and iron. Breathing, this body says, "No." This body is different from that body. This body takes in violence, yes, but it gives back something different. This body is coiling into something kinder. Swallowing into something sweeter. Shedding into something softer. Yes, this body is lucky to be here. But this body has found deep refuge. This body knows new tricks. This body breathes because it's making something new. Breathing is new to this body.
The chain that set them free
Walking into the thrash-spun whirlpool had been the easy part. Now tze had to get them out.
Tzer exit from the ornithopter was sloppy. Tze was more accustomed to dealing with the dynamic sway of branches than the mechanical beating of a machine's wings. These big flapping airfoils vitiated tzer sense of balance, disrupted the rhythm of the waves.
Kanter's scream snapped tzer back to tzer senses. The dense tangle of the thrash grew visibly before tzer, weaving a snare of bark and boughs. Tze drew Haptic Force from its sheathe with relish. Time to earn tzer keep.
From the cockpit, Tzaze was less visible as form than motion. Mango and Zenia caught glimpses of wavestrider jacket and leviathan bone-blade -- even a flash of vivid orange, a curlicue on Tzaze's wing brightening as tze worked -- but what was far more notable was the mothryn-sized shear line in the tangle, a slash in reality itself. Crezzerin-gorged branches extended towards it, closer, closer -- but as soon as they hit that shear line they were instantly shredded into sprays of plant viscera like shavings from a wood chipper.
They had encountered the hacker in motion. They were the trail being blazed.
All tunnels end. A moonbeam broke through the tangle at last, revealing Fellrym scrambling aboard Squeeze Box's decks, clearly out of faer depth. The distance between their two vessels was closing, but not quickly enough.
Tzaze made the decision in an instant. No time for hesitation on the waves. Tze front flipped from the ornithopter's bow, globs of sap flying from tzer jacket, weightless for half a heartbeat before catching a pontoon strut with one hand. Gravity reasserted itself ruthlessly. Tzaze felt tzer shoulder nearly wrenched from its socket from the drop. Tze was already coiling the precious metal of tzer grappling chain around tzer free hand, leaving just enough slack to twirl the chain around tzer head, once, twice, three times, gathering momentum for the throw --
It caught. The grapple's hooks found purchase on a starboard bannister just as the Squeeze Box lurched the other direction. The grappling chain instantly snapped taut. Tzaze screamed in pain, antennae shuddering, wings hanging limp and useless. The pull was excruciating. Every joint and ligament in Tzaze's body was stretched to breaking point. Every muscle flexed in agony, causing tzer exoskeleton to unnaturally distend. Tzaze imagined it cracking, splitting open. The chain was slicing through tzer jacket sleeve, through the carapace, into flesh.
A firefly in the distance saw three silhouettes in the moonlight. The first: a ghost-oak vessel twisting atop the branches. The second: a smaller, firefly-shaped vessel, sputtering airborne, fighting to break free from the thrash. The third: the thinnest, most fragile line between the first two shapes, a delicate strand that seemed to connect the smaller to the larger. How could such a delicate thing hold those two massive objects together?
Pain speared Tzaze across the torso, fingertip to fingertip. It was excruciating; tze couldn't bear it but bore it anywei, knowing tze was the only one keeping Mango and Kanter and Zenia and Rancor from falling beneath the waves. Maybe, with tzer effort, they would make it. But tze would be snapped soon, just another twig scattered into the wildsea. It was fitting. Tze tzerself had snapped so many.
As Tzaze hung suspended, gravity wrenching out tzer right arm, Squeeze Box dismembering tzer left, an impossible thought flitted through tzer mind: it's getting easier. Every neuron in tzer brain was occupied processing the agony running through tzer nerve endings. Tze could not see Zenia sitting in the cockpit flicking switches, pulling levers, regaining control. And Kanter's roar had been drowned out by -- become synonymous with -- the roaring of ornithopter engines.
And so, though tze did not know why, relief came. Tze experienced it in the left arm first. Tzer grappling chain, that all-familiar tool that had delivered tzer from countless deaths, that had transformed into pain incarnate coiled around tzer forearm, went slack.
It was like a pat of sweet tarnana buttercream absorbing the capsaicin of a fiery blistercrunch mango, or the silken fabrics of Raprampilica after a needlestorm. Sweet, soft release. They were safe. The orange curlicues on tzer wingscales dimmed back to dullness.
Tze tumbled to the decks with a front roll moments later, readying tzer formal apology for Rancor's escape. Tze was unaccustomed to Mango's quick forgiveness -- until a memory from a past pupation bubbled up, a self that had lived with gentler folk. The memory drifted in like steam rising from a strong cup of tea, warm and wispy, and was gone.
"You were amazing!" Fellrym said, vivacious in faer praise.
Tzaze shrugged. Just another day at work.
DCBA
It was just past midnight on a Friday -- peak nightclub hours -- when the riot of limbs frothed out, boiled over. It bashed down its prison complex in a frenzy, anointing its own birth in geysers of wood chippings and red brick.
It slithered from its glass shard afterbirth like gutter oil slithering down a rusted drain pipe. But where fluid is drawn to the lowest point in the landscape, this thing was drawn to the loudest. And there was noise in the distance. So it began to flow.
Its gyrations blurred the boundary between ecstasy and delirium. It pounded out asphalt craters on the street; it twisted around and through itself; it whirled and tapped and trampled. Parts of itself lunged toward moonbeams, as though seeking out a spotlight; other parts curled under awnings and quivered in the dark.
A pulse permeated this moshing mass, more drumbeat than heartbeat, a core of percussive power fueling the flesh-demon's thrusts and twirls. The skin bulged and tightened in syncopated spasms. When it bulged, the outer layer stretched right up to bursting point. Just before it popped it would shrink back into itself, deflating into a loose pile of shriveled muscle. Even in this form, it would not stop moving.
How do you take a photo of time?
I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.
It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.
Several heroes emerged.
Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.
You can't forget about Flo-Jo.
And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.
Which formed... The Dream Team.
Was this fair?
Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.
So... no. It was not fair.
Though it became more fair as time went on.
But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.
But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.
He was cool as heck.
For one thing... gold shoes.
But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.
And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.
Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.
Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.
It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.
After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???
Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.
This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.
The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.
The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"
I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.
And that's when my inner nerd took over.
Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.
Why is the track white?
Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?
So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.
Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.
Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.
And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.
But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.
This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.
Only the finish line itself is actually captured.
And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 20,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.
So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?
That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.
As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.
It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.
Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.
What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?
Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.
So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.
NEAT!
Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?
I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!
Clavicles!
The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.
So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.
Two more fun facts!
The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.
The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.
They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.
And the final fun fact...
Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?
That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.
But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?
That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.
So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.
Pretty clever, Omega!
movie theatres are like if platos cave slayed
Today: the warmth of the summer night is perfectly offset by the cool crossbreeze passing between my windows. It's heavenly.
I feel the breeze most on my right forearm and left calf. That's where the windows are. But it doesn't feel imbalanced. It feels perfectly complementary, a soft relief, an engaging textural contrast. A breath of air, a cascade of dewdrops.
Sometimes the breeze gets a little too cool, bordering on chilly. Whenever this happens, it soon invites the warmth back again, to comfort and secure and envelop me. Most of the time it plays delightful harmony to the warmth, enlivening and swirling up.
This is better than sex
Kendrick doesn't just hate Drake as a person. He hates the very idea of Drake.
Hip-Hop is rooted in revolution. In defiance. These are the songs of an oppressed group of people, and decades upon decades people have hated it. Accused of being meaningless and invalid. Media outlets took steps to belittle hip-hop and make sure it isn't recognized as an art form and as a means to fight back.
2Pac spoke of wealth disparity and inequality. Tupac was literally a member of a communist organization when he was younger and never stopped speaking against capitalism.
Lauryn Hill spoke of the struggles a woman faces. Not just women, but black women. Salt-N-Peppa. Queen Latifah. MISSY FUCKING ELLIOT.
N.W.A made sure people knew about police brutality and violence against the Black community.
And now, in this day and age, we're also experiencing an explosion of Queer Hip-Hop. Lil Nas X is at the forefront of this. Lil Uzi Vert came out as non-binary and uses they/them pronouns, even when they knew that a lot of their fans would never use it or even respect them for it. Auntie Diaries, a song about a young man who grew up in a transphobic environment and bought into those beliefs, but could never fully do it because his Uncle loved him so much and taught him a lot of life lessons, and that wisdom translated to him accepting his cousin as a woman as well.
Drake is none of that.
He's the perfect representation of what people think hip-hop is. Flexing. Posturing. Objectifying women. A fucker so insecure he bought 2Pac's ring just to feel like he's part of the black community. Rejected by Rihanna publicly. Tried to groom Millie Bobby Brown. Kissed and inappropriately touched an underage girl during his concert. His songs have inspired so many young boys to treat girls like shit. His belief that the amount of rings and chains and cars he has is the true meaning of success.
Additional Edit: This is my fault. If this post gains more views, then it would be remiss of me not to add to this. It was my fault to begin with, not stating this beforehand because while I did know, I got lost in celebrating Hip-Hop in a place that doesn't usually do so, and rightfully so.
2Pac did fight for wealth equality and better social living for the black community. He also has a long, long history of battery, domestic abuse, and sexual harassment against women. Specifically against women of color. He made a song to celebrate his own mother, but outright refused to give the same show of respect to other women in his life. His hypocritical nature was brushed off in later decades, just the way I did now.
N.W.A is the same. Sexual assault charges, violence—they spoke of Police reform, but refuses to give the same treatment back towards the women in their lives.
50 cent refuses to backtrack on any of his misogynistic lyrics.
Modern rappers of today, such as the dead XXXtentacion. 6ix9ine. Kodak Black.
I do love Hip-Hop. I love rap. And the music itself has always been anti-authoritarian at its core, because those are its roots. And I was happy that circles that did not normally know of it or enjoy it were getting into it, even for one thing like this rap feud.
Lil Nas X, Little Simz, Childish Gambino, Missy Elliot, Queen Latifah, Lauryn Hill—rappers who have at the very least consistently tried to put their money where their mouth is. Who have tried to act in accordance to what they rap and write and sing for.
@shehungthemoon @ohsugarsims finnthehumanmp3 were the ones who rightfully clarified in the comments. I know an apology won't correct my hypocrisy or my stupidity. I should have added all of this before making this post, but I wanted so badly to celebrate a genre of music but failed to do my due diligence in showing a better, holistic view of it. If anyone felt triggered, offended, troubled, frustrated or any other intense negative emotions surrounding this, please do block me. I'm sorry.