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Writers have two modes and they are "i haven't written in three weeks and i am rotting from the inside and everything feels wrong and i don't know who i am anymore" and "i wrote for four hours straight and forgot to eat and it's dark outside and when did that happen and i feel like a god" and there is nothing in between. no chill. no medium setting. just famine or feast and a very confused nervous system.
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.
So you think that’s there’s a possibility with (wha manga spoilers btw) Qifrey being a host for the silver wood and him likely having almost died to it multiple times (example: him thinking that he’s had his memory erased over and over with each sprouting) that white is not his original hair color? Like Coustas’s hair changed after the silver wood almost consumed him so what if white wasn’t Qifreys og hair color?
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WITCH HAT ATELIER MANGA SPOILERS (sorry this is a long analysis, you’ve been warned. It is also unfinished)
One thing I think is amazingly executed and unique to Witch Hat Atelier is how well it reflects the complications of changing a system in the real world.
Each side—the pointed caps and the brimhats—are bad. Often times in shows, when you have something written as complicated you may simply have a character that may be morally gray or may do some questionable things. But the system in place is written as bad and the process for changing it is simply detangling the system. Most times it might be because the entire show is built around ending this system and not going into/having time for the after effects.
However WHA goes into the WHY. Why is this system in place and why do people follow it? What’s the alternative to this system? Is there good and bad to that alternative? It asks these real world questions and applies them to this fantasy magic system. We are all human and thus anything can happen.
The pointed caps limit the amount of magic you can do. This was placed in after countless conflict and wars. Thus magic was limited to a specific group of people and spells that effect the body and or are too powerful were banned. However this affects those who study medicine, the disabled, and the outsiders whose lives could’ve been changed by magic. In fact Witch society becomes highly stigmatized and conservative. You saw something you weren’t supposed to? Well they have the right to take a part of you away because of a mistake or because you simply wanted to practice medicine.
The brim hats were in response to the limitization of magic. With that they could help those in poverty, help the disabled with what the pointed caps won’t. You could cure cancer, heal fatal wounds. You could teleport and travel the world. But countless power at your fingertips is dangerous for humans. With human greed, even money can become dangerous. So why wouldn’t you kidnap a child, experiment on them, and then bury them alive for it to rot? Why wouldn’t you take advantage of the disabled kid that’s in a horrible space? Why wouldn’t you place silver wood in him? Who wouldn’t give children unreasonable power in order to topple a system you think is corrupt? Oh—the child killed her own mother by accident?
It doesn’t stop at just how the world is built and the situations they’re put through. There’s dialogue and meaning to each one to explain and expand how complicated the issue is.
Tartah when trying to help Coustas learns medicine even if it’s breaking the law. In chapters 45-49 he frequently discusses with Coco on how unfair the rules are. How they can’t heal his legs, how Coustas (at the time) could never know that anyone could use magic. When Coco asks Qifrey about if people think about using forbidden magic, he says he does and probably every witch has as well. Oruggio frequently criticizes witches and what they say they stand for and what they actually do.
We can’t forget Coco herself, who is a representation of all of these themes combined (which is why she’s the main character as she’s built to be the total exploration of all of this). She is middle of all of it. She’s an outsider who understands all those perspectives.
(Note I wrote this before I finished the manga and they gave me even more points towards what I wrote here to the point that it’s obvious. But still I had fun writing this so…)
*insert flowing yoga music with the soft voice of an instructor* hmmmm take a deep breath in….hold for 5 seconds. Feel the warmth of the sun on your skin. As you exhale, with a hahhhh, ask yourself, is that gay situationship really worth it?
here’s my contribution to day 1 of pjo pride month. pls boost (rb etc) bc i might or might not have spent 12 hours on this. i started yesterday. i did not sleep. i am so sleepy rn i might knock out
anyway yay nico di angelo [boost my tiktok post here]
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How can anyone genuinely enjoy hot weather. How do you enjoy having every waking moment being horrible and awful and sticky. How do you go to bed with air so thick and humid that even laying there with bare bedsheets and splayed out in a starfish, you are still generating too much heat to be anywhere near even the concept of comfort and still smile about it. How do you have every species of flying insect invading your house through desperately opened windows and buzzing all up in your shit like the little fucking spacially unaware invertebrate asshole pricks they are and still claim summer is your favourite season. How. How do you do it. How do you find any semblance of a positive emotion when it's anything above 25⁰C at a push. I am miserable. I am planning a trip to the Arctic Circle.
Little Jason during the first few months of his stay in Wayne Manor. He finds a picture of Bruce as a kid in some obscure corner of the house (one of the few that may have slipped Alfred's notice when he was first taking down pictures of the Waynes after that murder.... so Alfred claims)
"I look like you," Jason pointed out when he showed the picture to Bruce.
Hauntingly and wonderfully, Bruce had figured he was right. Jason was thin, and Bruce was a lanky child. They had the same messy hair and uneven toothy smile. Now that he thought of it, they laughed the same way too - always with their whole chest, snorting before bursting into giggles.
"Did you know children tend to look like their moms a lot?" Jason said off-handedly when he snuggled next to Bruce, "It's how I first figured out that Catherine wasn't my biological mom, but she's my mom too."
"Are you saying I'm your mom, Jaylad?" Bruce joked, but his teasing smile disappeared when he caught the embarrassed blush on his little Jaybird's face.
"Maybe," he pouted, snuffling into Bruce's arm, impossibly close.
And oh, isn't that so precious? To be everything to someone so little and so full of potential? To mean the world to someone who has so little to give and gain?
Bruce, for the billionth time since meeting Jason Todd, felt his heart swell with unbridled pride
"Sure, I can be your mom," he said carefully, drawing the adorable, shy little boy closer.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"It sounds stupid."
"Not if it matters to you."
Jason crawled onto Bruce's lap, letting himself be cradled. All bones and sparse meat, every vein and blood. He trusted his whole humanity to Bruce - his parent, his Batman, his home.
"Moms are safe. Dads are... weird, but good. You're both," Jason explained further.
Bruce hushed him, putting down the picture of himself as a boy. He'd never felt more grown up.
"You don't have to explain anything to me, sweet boy," Bruce said, peppering kisses on his head, his cheeks, and his small hands, "I am whatever you need me to be, Jaylad."
"Okay... Mum," Jason mumbled, rubbing and curling himself impossibly closer to Bruce.
And something trembles in Bruce, something older than civilization and younger than a breath. This little boy who came into his life full of fight and feist, charging him, of all people, with the right and responsibility to take care of him, protect him, love him. Jason trusted Bruce. Jason loved Bruce.
It was as daunting as it was fulfilling, and it was final to Bruce. He was Jason's mom, his dad, his Batman, and whatever else this sweet boy needs him to be.
But irrevocably so, he was Jason's.
.
.
Then everything that happened, happened. Bruce and Jason at a standstill, asking again, asking each other, if any of that had mattered.
"You said I'd never have to explain myself to you, that you'd be anything I needed you to be!" Jason cried to Bruce - his mom, his dad, his partner and his home.
"I meant it," Bruce reasoned, "You need help-"
"I NEEDED TO BE AVENGED!" Jason snapped, "I needed to be loved! I needed someone to do something for me, for once, just for me. Not a code. Not a mission. Not a drug drop or a fix or a bundle of cash. Just me!"
And Bruce shattered all over again because not killing Joker, surviving everyday, carving the memory of Jason Todd the street rat who became the magic of Gotham — all of that had been for Jason.
But Jason is here, broken and angry and exactly as vindictive as he first met him a lifetime ago, telling him that it's not good enough.
"Jason-"
"No."
Bruce takes a step forward, and another. Like that dance they shared in that alleyway. Like every instance of disagreement from youth.
"Please, sweet boy. I-"
"I hate you. You lied to me! You betrayed me! YOU LIED TO ME!"
"I know. Oh Jaybird, I know."
Bruce came close, cupping Jason's cheek. His son, his sweet son; so tall and scarred, and yet right now, had never look smaller.
"Mum's here now," Bruce said.
His brave, tired, tall child... Jason crumpled immediately. He sobbed, pressing his palms in his eyes, hissing through gritted teeth.
Bruce enveloped him immediately in his embrace, "Mum's here. I'm here now, Jason. I'm so so sorry, sweet boy."
Jason stiffly leaned into his mom's embrace, whimpering as tears ruined his face and drenched his mom's shoulder. It haunted Bruce, somewhat, when he observed that much like how Jason smiled like him... he also cried like him too.
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