How do people get weird anons and can u guys get weirder in my askbox. Like just as a horrible request. I gotta spice up my summer somehow
$LAYYYTER
Noah Kahan
Jules of Nature
art blog(derogatory)
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH

Discoholic 🪩
we're not kids anymore.

bliss lane
🩵 avery cochrane 🩵
taylor price
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her

if i look back, i am lost
Misplaced Lens Cap
Sade Olutola
Cosmic Funnies
d e v o n
ojovivo
Xuebing Du

blake kathryn

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@fibre-foxx
How do people get weird anons and can u guys get weirder in my askbox. Like just as a horrible request. I gotta spice up my summer somehow

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repeating this to myself as a list of daily affirmations
You actually cannot skip to being good at a creative endeavour that you haven't put much practice into. You cannot trick your way out of the 'knows that your work is not what you want it to be but don't know how to improve it' stage by planning or reading or talking about it really really hard. At some point you just have to craft through it until your brain finds it's own unique way back to the 'everything I make slaps' stage and be prepared to start the cycle all over again. You just have to make that project you're excited about slightly less good than you want it to be. (Says this standing in a pool of blood and covered in blood and also coughing up a little blood)
everyone stop reblogging this I hate to be reminded of my own good advice
WHY BOWEN AND EINON MAKE ME WANT TO THROW UP WITH GRIEF [SPOILERS!!] (a character/relationship analysis of a 90s adventure fantasy kids(?) movie)
be warned there's probably typos and missed words, if something doesn't make sense then thats why and i apologize, please lmk so i can fix it yaaay
i may be looking too much into this, i probably am, but that's what happens when i get a hyperfixation on something that has little to no fan content/nothing that quite suits my fancy and i just start gnawing at myself as a result.
Bowen loved Einon, he might have even seen Einon as a son-figure and himself a parental figure; he'd probably acted more like a father than Feryne ever was. But Einon may have only seen him as a means to an end, that much is stated in the film ("I took what I needed frm you" "you taught me to fight, that's all. you taught me to fight.")
BUT THAT'S WHAT THEY'D HAVE YOU THINK! but you see, in the start of the film when Einon is a teenager, it seems like he's genuinely having fun with Bowen during their lessons. I don't think a prince would allow just anyone to push him face first into dirt and then tease him about it. or grab a fistful of his shirt and then playfully smack him/lovetap him (bowen does this while saying "fight with your head, not your heart" or something like that)
He doesn't seem actually upset with this, he just smiles and tries to get back at Bowen. They're play fighting. He must've at least had some fondness for Bowen outside of what the man could do for him, because you COULD argue that Einon only put up with it and led Bowen to believe they were friendly to get Bowen's lessons.
Faith
A fire priestess - heavily inspired by the Scythian costume.
One of the chief gods of the Scythians was Tapiti, compared to Hestia. Today her name still lives in the words like teplyi (warm) and topyty (to melt/drown).

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“The pleasure of being naked. Feeling yourself recovering your animal poise, to feel it concretely and bodily, hearing the sure surge of your blood, knowing the voluptuousness of lifting an arm and letting it fall, having a sure sense of your solitary physical life. This should be inscribed in the eulogy of love.”
— Mihail Sebastian, For Two Thousand Years (trans. Philip Ó Ceallaigh)
Vulva Pilgrim Badge (14th c.) â—† The Netherlands ~ A vulva on legs, staff in hand, off to find salvation
Can we tho?!
My last post made me wonder how the Latin verse "Animula, vagula, blandula" by Emperor Hadrian was translated in English (in French the Yourcenar translation phrases it as "little roaming, welcoming soul"), and I found this page with 43 versions and regardless of which one is more faithful I just love how translation makes 43 new poems out of 1 poem
“To the Christians, Dionysus was the Devil. The ancients were terrified of Dionysus, because he was a god that just showed up. Entered out of nowhere. He didn’t have a temple on the mountain. He would just show up; and the women, the maenads, would go mad with Dionysian energy. They would run from their well-respected positions as wives, mothers, courtesans, and follow him. And there was this mad ripping-apart; an overwhelming ecstasy and terror. They would go wild; utterly transfigured.”
– Llorraine NeithardtÂ

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I came to thrill you, Thebes.
Don’t doubt I will.
Here’s what you’ll need:
fawnskin,
thyrsos,
absolute submission.
Euripides, “Bakkhai” (tr. Anne Carson)
the secret history - donna tartt
“You can be merry with [him], you can share a joke with him. But as Thomas More used to say, it’s like sporting with a tamed lion. You tousle its mane and pull its ears, but all the time you’re thinking, those claws, those claws, those claws.”
— Hilary Mantel, Bring Up The Bodies (via antigonick)
Martha Nussbaum, introduction to C. K. William’s The Bacchae of Euripides
Postulate
Imagine with me, if you will.
Imagine with that deep faculty that built worlds for you as a child.
That, if you try, even now, can make trees speak and rivers laugh.
Back and back. Beyond the ages of Iron and Bronze and Stone.
Into the Golden Age, and this is not the age of metal-glint.
Oh, no.
This is the age of honeycomb and honeydew, of mead-blood and winedark sea. Of nectar and ambrosia and the golden apples of Idunn and the Hesperides.
Drink with me, all flushed and rolling, all whispering, all gorged on godflesh and wreathed in smoke. Swallow it down as it boils and bubbles in the belly and bowels.Â
Falling back and back, dizzy and something lifting in your chest, something peeling back, the muscles of your face shifting, baring your teeth in a smile so very eagerly shared by all the others in the room.
Perhaps they have hair like snakes, faces all ash-white and blood-daubed; ochre-bodied, painting fingers that writhe and twist in strange and potent shapes that leave electric blue-traces across your vision.
Did you think you were the only one? The only child of this ancient knotted line; your breath like all the winds flasked in skin, all tied together with thread?Â
And now you are undone, the storm unleashed:
And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. Â - Â Kubla Khan, Coleridge
Imagine then. Imagine, yes.
Imagine the salt on the wind, the iron in the blood. The crackle of flame.
He waits beside the fire, there in the bloodlight of womb, there in the centre of the very heart of big bellied verdant Mother.
Heavy is the head that wears the crown.
The antlered shadow there, scalp festooned with the roots of the bone-tree, stretching up and down into darkness, wreathed in laurel and vines. There, all enmeshed, lie serpents and eagles, black-eyed and unblinking in their wisdom.
He throws the bones, carves the lots; weaves a cat’s-cradle out of his own viscera. She nourishes him there. in the darkness. Enfolds him as he tends the flame that he brought from the stars with a word that is not a word..
Such a handsome beast is he. Such a monstrous uncreated coming-together and breaking apart of vision and form. Did you think yourself the only one, when he still remains buried here in dark earth?
Well, did you?
The shining colours of his guts; with one deft pull he snares you; ten thousand masks cast out by his shadow; plays you like a lute, like a liar strumming a lyre.
Down and down. There lies his spear, his club, his bow, his skull-breaker, his arrow of gold.
Down and down, in fire and flux, in ice and pestilence. There he sits, in the age of honey and amber. Even the rocks groan and bleed at the pulsing of his drum, as he bores his way down through the top of your head, as he kisses, wakens the snake and she rises to meet him
The secret centre. He drinks from the freezing fount and transmutes it to intoxicating gold.Â
Poisoner and poisoned.
Pharmakon. Body and blood. He gives himself to us, so to be devoured, to ignite the fire in our breast and bellies.
A mocking smile, echoed from the other end of time:
“Do this, in remembrance of  me.”
We, the hunted, lay ourselves prostrate, as his curved bone knife cuts us free, hands roughly kindling organs, filling them with light and darkness. With solemn mockery, he cleaves the stone of our heart in two; we are to bleed forever, to stream back across the tracks, to this, the place beyond beginning and end. Â
Bones disarticulated and dismembered, we are naught but hide and flesh to be stitched together with thorn, scratched and cut down to the bones, our marrows stuffed with secrets.
Burns us black, so he does, until we all go up in smoke; draws us in, holds us there, and then expels us as changed breath and a gesture, so we rise and stream forth from that place; almost to see her emerge from the darkness, this lady of feline grace and hawkish beauty, this leader through the labyrinth.
We do not imagine her, flanked by kings of beasts, heavy pawed and golden. Do not see her in feathered cloak and covered in gleaming jewels. Do not see her place her hand upon his shoulder, and watch him strengthen, watch the weariness we never saw was there, the loss of what he gave for us, be banished once more. We do not see her give him the cup, the mark of her eternal favour.
For this is just postulate. Just a might be.Â
Isn’t it?

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The foraging season here in the yukon has kicked up in earnest đź’š
I grow increasingly suspicious that this several day headache is from a wisdom tooth, which is unfortunate because that means it isn't going to stop until I get it out, which is also unfortunate because I cannot fucking afford it, as always