love signal !!

One says "Students! Looking for a great part-time job that works around your school hours? Apply inside!"

The other one says "No under 18s allowed after 5:00pm without an adult."

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

Write it badly or it'll never be written

I added a file to my GitHub where I compiled various code snippets for hiding, replacing, repositioning, or modifying specific elements on AO3.

It currently contains the following:

Hide Specific Buttons

Hide/Replace AO3 Header Elements

Hide Statistics

Hide Miscellaneous Elements (muted users notice, kudos list, etc.)

Display Download Button for Only One Format

Position Blurb Icons in a Row Under the Fandom Tags

Miscellaneous (add a heart to romantic/sexual relationship tags, black out images in works or gif icons, etc.)

You can add the snippets to your site skins by copying and pasting the parts you want to use.

Here is the file:

Chuffed link

@raneen21 and @aooh3 are my friends. They are in Gaza, Palestine, with their family. The bombings left them homeless and poor. Their 1-year-old baby is in a respirator; he has very dangerous lung cancer and they need to pay $800 before the 31st of March to get his life-saving treatment. I beg you, donate, whatever you can. $40, $20, $10, $5, whatever you can, it will all help. Please. Thank you so much.

Their account is vetted by @90-ghost here, by @gazavetters (#576) , and by @bilal-salah0. This Chuffed fundraiser goes directly to them; for transparency, you can dm @raneen21 or @a00h3 if you want to confirm it.

PLEASE, HELP MY FRIENDS' BABY LIVE!!

$2,800/$3,600

Important image for all your wizard memeing needs

What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.

What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.

What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.

The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.

And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.

But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.