The Art of Spirited Away (2001 art book)
Represent! #4 - “Believe You” (2021)
written by Nadira Jamerson
art by Brittney Williams & Andrew Dalhouse
This is so important. There are literal studies proving white doctors don’t think black patients (especially black woman) feel pain the same way white people do. Please advocate for yourself and stay safe.
Always listen to your body. What you think matters. And you know your body the best.
I miss when everyone on my dash listened to Welcome to Night Vale so there’s be a good chance that on any ole day someone would reblog a quote that would grab me by the throat and forcibly ascend me to a higher plane where I understood myself and the universe better and with more kindness but also a little spook
“The past is gone, and cannot harm you anymore. And while the future is fast coming for you, it always flinches first and settles in as the gentle present” are you kidding me this quote has propelled me through at least three emotional crises
“The desert seems vast, even endless. And yet scientists tell us that somewhere, even now, there is snow.”
That quote literally got me through grieving my brother like WTNV goes HARD
A List of Some of My Favorite Quotes From This Insane Podcast:
- “You are beautiful when you do beautiful things.”
- “The present tense of regret is indecision.”
- “We understand so much, but the sky behind those lights– mostly void, partially stars– that sky reminds us we don’t understand even more.”
- “Be proud of your place in the Cosmos. It is small and yet it is.”
- “Believe in yourself. You are an ancient, absent god, discussed only rarely by literary scholars. So if you don’t believe, no one will.”
- “Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you.”
- “Whisper a dangerous secret to someone you care about. Now they have the power to destroy you, but they won’t. That’s what love is.”
- “Are we living a life that is safe from harm? Of course not. We never are. But that’s not the right question. The question is are we living a life that is worth the harm?”
- “When we talk about teenagers, we adults often talk with an air of scorn, of expectation for disappointment. And this can make people who are presently teenagers feel very defensive. But what everyone should understand is that none of us are talking to the teenagers that exist now, but talking back to the teenager we ourselves once were – all stupid mistakes and lack of fear, and bodies that hadn’t yet begun to slump into a lasting nothing. Any teenager who exists now is incidental to the potent mix of nostalgia and shame with which we speak to our younger selves.”
- “We are not history yet. We are happening now. How miraculous is that?”
- “Wednesday has been cancelled due to a scheduling error.”
- “We have nothing to fear except ourselves. We are unholy, awful people.”
- “A million dollars isn’t cool. You know what’s cool? A basilisk.”
- “There’s nothing under your bed. There’s nothing in your closet. Nothing waits in every darkness. Nothing is the most terrifying thing of all.”
- “The night sky is ten miles wide, eight miles deep, and floats three miles up. Its favourite food is grape jelly. It wants to be a drummer.”
- “Look to the sky. You will not find answers there, but you will certainly see what everyone is screaming about.”
- “Ignorance might not actually be bliss, but it is certainly less work.”
- “And now, a special report. Crocodiles: Can they eat your children? *YES.*”
- “Lie down and look up at the ceiling and breathe with those curiously fragile lungs of yours and remind yourself: Don’t worry. Don’t worry. All is as it was meant to be. It was meant to be lonely and terrifying and unfair and fleeting. Don’t worry.”
- “As long as I’m reminding myself things, I’m a good person, worthy of love – both from myself and others.”
- “Guns don’t kill people! It’s impossible to be killed by a gun. We are all invincible to bullets and it’s a miracle!”
- “Everything is exciting! Particularly existence. Existence is the most thrilling fact of all.”
- “There is a monster under your bed. A monster at your window. A monster any place you imagine one. You project your monsters on the world.”
- “You miss 100% of the bank robberies you don’t commit.”
- “I like my coffee like I like my nights. Dark, endless, and impossible to sleep through. ”
- “A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.”
- “And now, the weather.”
I discovered this podcast at the beginning of high school, and let me tell you, it rewired my synapses.
Not only was it my first experience with positive LGBT representation, it was the show I clung to when everything else went to shit. Whatever was going on in my life, I knew I had this show in my corner, making me laugh, making me cry, making me feel okay about my place in the universe.
I owe the creators of this podcast more than I could express.
“the lights over the Arby’s” is such an intrinsically queer piece of writing that it hits me *hard* every time.
Hmm, nice writing.
Old Guard hc #168
Nobody trusts what Nicky says about food. This man has the world’s best poker face and he will absolutely lie straight to your face.
- He ate a ghost pepper and convinced everyone that it was sweet and that they should try it. It was not sweet. It was like eating fire.
- Green bananas. “Not that bitter,” he said, like the filthy liar he is.
- A weird citrus fruit they picked in the jungle. “It’s sweet!” Nicky takes another bite just to sell the lie. It was sourest thing they’ve ever tasted. Joe swears that fruit killed his enamel.
- Dog food. Technically, dog treats. He ate some dog treats and fooled Booker into eating some as well.
- Nicky knows that Joe hates celery. Raw, cooked, he doesn’t care, he hates it. So sometimes, just because he’s married to Joe doesn’t mean he’s off limits, he tricks Joe into eating something with celery. Puréed soups are the easiest and Joe does not consume green puréed soups anymore.
- They definitely don’t trust him at self-serving places.
- Nicky is the most polite guest though! Food could be burnt and he will lie and say it’s delicious.
NOBODY is off limits.
that one tweet where a dude wrote down all the times his wife cried + thinking about how joe and nicky were born literal centuries before modern ideas of (toxic) masculinity and showing emotions = whatever this is
This is 100% how I picture Joe.
She’s essentially a blank slate to us. We only know the bare sketch of her story, the light pencil marks of an outline for a painting that’s yet to be filled in. We don’t know what she’s like at all - is she kind? Is she fierce? Strong? Soft? What does she like to do in her spare time? What makes her happy? What makes her sad? Angry?
Something that’s struck me about the stories with Quynh in them so far - a lot of them portray her as angry and resentful (which is reasonable) and vindictive (which is…perhaps less reasonable). That’s not to say that a woman can’t be portrayed as vindictive, because women are human, and humans are infinitely fallible. It’s more that the other side of the spectrum seems to be a little lacking at the moment.
I would love to understand more about Quynh’s journey, especially after escaping the ocean, because I think to understand her struggle would be to understand ourselves better, too. How do we overcome the tragedies that befall us? How can we do so, knowing that sometimes, a lot of the time, we won’t handle it gracefully, but that we can still try to be better?
Somehow, we manage to make it to the other side. It’s painful. It’s hard. But we get through it, and so too, I reckon, would Quynh.
They hit a roadbump one day into the trip that would hopefully save Sebastien’s soul. Or at least his liver.
“No,” Sebastien said.
Quynh was unmoved. “You must.”
“Listen,” Sebastien said desperately. “I can’t pretend to be your husband.”
Quynh looked at him sceptically. “I know you’re no actor,”
she said, only the slightest bit pointed.
“But I do know you can lie.”
Sebastien winced. “Alright, let me rephrase. I won’t pretend to be your husband.”
Quynh snorted. “Am I not beautiful enough to be your beloved?”
“No, you’re Andy’s beloved, and Andy also happens to have a very sharp axe which she likes to stab people with.”
“So you’re scared,” Quynh surmised.
“Yes, I’m scared,” Sebastien said. “I like to keep my guts where they are, thank you very much.”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Siblings?” Sebastien tried. “Cousins?”
Quynh rolled her eyes. “If you say we’re related, we’ll be that ‘sweet interracial family’ that stays in people’s memories.”
“Friends on a road trip?”
“That sweet couple who claimed to be ‘just friends’.”
“Hey, a man and a woman can be friends,” Sebastien said.
Quynh sighed. “That is true, but still no. We want to be as unremarkable as possible.”
“Now hurry up, I want to sleep,” Quynh said, and promptly shoved him into the hotel foyer.
“If Andy hunts us down and kills me,” Sebastien said, when they finally got into their room, “I want you to know that it’s one hundred per cent your fault.”
“Am I meant to feel guilty?” Quynh asked, from where she was already starfished on the one bed she had already called dibs on. “You’ll just come back and continue drinking like a fish.”
“Shut up, no I won’t,” Sebastien grumbled. He fished around the linen cabinet and took out two blankets. “Also, how come you get the bed?”
“Because I’m older and wiser.”
“Does that usually work for you?” Sebastien mused. “Did Joe and Nicky always go ‘Quynh’s like a billion years old, better respect my elders’?”
“Yusuf and Nicolo have manners,” Quynh sniffed. “The same for which can’t be said for you.”
“Hey, I’m French!”
Quynh just looked at him. “Are you attempting to prove my case?”
“Forget I said anything,” Sebastien sighed. He was surrounded by a bunch of smartasses.
“I try to,” Quynh informed him smartly, turning on her side and apparently falling asleep immediately.
“‘Go on a trip’, they said, ‘It’ll be fun’. Yeah, right.” Sebastien gathered up a change of clothes, and he was self-aware enough to admit that the way he thumped down the suitcase was a touch sulky. “Sorry,” he said quietly, a little bit contritely, in Quynh’s direction; it was only half because he didn’t want another knife in his gut.
He went into the bathroom, and when he came out, the shadows had lengthened and the last vestiges of late-evening daylight had fled before the night. Quynh was a dark lump atop the bed covers. Sebastien considered waking her up for her turn in the bathroom, then dismissed it.
He wasn’t a heavy sleeper; quicker to rouse than Joe (but that wasn’t hard), but slower than Andy and Nicky, both of whom went from sleeping to fully alert in the space of a breath, maybe two at most. Even so, when he startled awake barely two hours after falling asleep, it took him a moment to register what had caused it.
“Quynh,” he whispered. The quiet, choked-off cries didn’t stop. “Quynh?”
He rolled off the couch. “Quynh,” Sebastien repeated, a little louder. Nightmares didn’t tend to afflict the others - usually, it was him who had to be roused from dreams of Quynh drowning. He gently reached out and laid a hand on her forearm. “Hey, wake up - it’s -” okay, he wanted to say, but suddenly couldn’t because of the knife in his throat.
Oh man, we’re gonna lose the deposit on this room, he thought, and then died.
When his eyes opened, the lights had been turned to full brightness. He was stretched out on the bed. Quynh, nearby, sat with her head in her hands.
“Um -” Sebastien started, then had to clear his throat because throat wounds always left him with phlegm. “Sorry - I think I startled you.”
Quynh sighed. “I - apologise as well.”
“Well, you know, it’s not like it stuck.”
“It was unnecessary.”
Sebastien reached out a hand, then dropped it. “It’s okay. I’m okay now.” He hesitated. “Did - do you know, what caused it?”
The line of Quynh’s shoulders were a bow string, drawn taught. “The room was too dark,” she said finally.
“Too -” Oh. Oh no. “I - do you - would talking about -” he swallowed, taking in the way her shoulder drew impossibly tighter. “Will it help if we keep the lights at least slightly on?” he said instead. Quynh nodded. “Okay. Then we’ll just make sure we always sleep somewhere with light.”
“And maybe a shower-” he stopped dead, suddenly impossibly frustrated with his own foolishness. “No.”
Quynh half-smiled; it was a brittle, exhausted thing. “No,” she agreed.
His eyes prickled, and he promptly felt like a heel for crying when he hadn’t even been the one to spend five hundred years at the bottom of the ocean. “I’m sorry,” he said, foolishly, helplessly; he was a coward who had never found the courage to face his own feelings, let alone others’. “I’m sorry. I don’t think there’s anything I can do to be helpful.”
Quynh’s sigh was unfathomably exhausted. She flopped backwards, onto the other pillow. “Sometimes things can’t be solved by trying hard enough. Sometimes, they just are.”
They lay there in silence, until a thought occurred to him.
“Hey,” Sebastien said. “You been to a supermarket yet?”
I saw a really lovely collection of fics on AO3 related with centenary milestones and wanted to do my own take? I know it’s pretty cheesy…but I’m highly uncreative so I apologize…. anyway please go read the fics available! They’re just really soft???!!!
All this time.
Tribute illustration to one of the most beautiful story I’ve ever read, Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe, by Benjamin Alire Saenz
high tide and low tide in great britain. photographs by michael marten
Something more from this premise, where Quynh and Booker go on a roadtrip to rediscover the world, or at least save Booker’s liver. cw: mentions of wanting to vomit.
“I want to try new food,” Quynh had declared. “There must be something in this wretched new world to redeem itself,” which was how they ended up in the deep south of the USA, silently daring each other over plates of turducken to, well, chicken out.
Sebastien gave in first, pushing his plate away. Quynh doggedly ate two more mouthfuls, before putting her own fork down. She looked a little green.
“The Zomato deemed this dish ‘wonderful’.” She frowned. “This is worse than carrion.”
Sebastien stared at her. “And you would know…how?” He backtracked quickly when he saw the gleam in her eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t want to know.”
“Well, you see,” Quynh said, because she was Joe and Nicky at their most mischievous, except ten times worse. “Once upon a time, I collapsed in a desert. Then, I died a few times, as alas, there was no food to be found. Because I was in a desert.”
“Yes, okay -”
“And then,” Quynh continued over the top of him, more animated then he had seen her yet, “one day, I had stumbled, fallen to my knees. Above, scavengers circled. And just as I had resigned myself to dying once again, I came across the carcass of an animal that had perished. It had half-rotted, half-spoiled, but the gnawing in my belly made it a gift from the heavens.”
Sebastien rested his forehead on the table, resisting the urge to cry, or perhaps puke up the three regretful mouthfuls of turducken he had choked down. “And then you ate it.”
“And then I ate it,” she agreed. He didn’t need to be looking at her to know she was smiling widely.
“I kind of hate you right now,” he said, swallowing deeply.
Quynh peered at him, cataloguing what was probably his deeply unattractive pallor. “Will you survive?”
“Yeah, I know, try to hold back your tears.”
“That will not be difficult, as there will not be any,” Quynh said, but she pushed over her barely touched glass of water, which he took gratefully and downed. Without a word, Quynh raised a hand and called a waiter with a water jug over.
“Drink more,” she said, not looking at him. “I can’t have you dying on me.”
Sebastien paused. “You don’t want some?”
“I do not require it.”
When had been the last time he had seen her drink water? With a start, he realised it had been in his kitchen, but even then it had been one sip at the most before the glass had been abandoned. “Okay,” Sebastien said. “Okay.”
I do apologise if I offended anyone who likes turducken. There’s nothing wrong with liking turducken? The concept of it just amuses me a lot (and also horrifies me a lot in equal parts), but that’s neither here nor there.
Joe had barely started to feel just this side of faint when a warm arm wound its way around his back, a hand settling home on his hip. He found himself leaning in but caught himself just in time.
“My love,” Nicolo said, looking for all the world a doting partner. “How are you enjoying the night?”
“Much better now that you’re here,” Joe said, meaning every word, even as his head throbbed unpleasantly and his eyes prickled. A polite cough to his right almost caused him to groan reflexively, but he swallowed it and instead added, “Nicolo, this is Mr Wetherington.”
“A pleasure,” Wetherington said. The smile on his face was all politeness, but the look he gave Nicolo was assessing. Nicolo smiled guilelessly back.
Harold Wetherington was the kind of old money that would’ve made Joe’s skin crawl even without knowing the kinds of pies he had fingers in, even without having helped bankrupt the cosmetics arm of Wetherington Industries by exposing the underbelly of unethical animal testing practices - and, well could treating animals as testing subjects ever be ethical?
Harold Wetherington was the kind of man who would put out a hit on Joe in a heartbeat, if he knew just who had been behind the social media campaign that shut down his labs. People like Wetherington was why Nicolo was here, ostensibly as Joe’s partner, rather than hovering behind Joe and raising the question of why a mild-mannered artist like Joe would even need a bodyguard at a charity ball.
Joe tensed as the pressure behind his eyes spiked painfully. The arm around him tightened slightly, and then, apropos of nothing, lips were pressed to Joe’s forehead. When Nicolo pulled back, he met Joe’s bemusement with a smile that looked a touch strained.
“Shall we go home?” Nicolo asked. “It’s quite late. Would that be alright, my love?”
“Um,” Joe said, articulately. His head was too sore to keep up with this dizzying turn of events. “Yes? Yes, let’s go. Harold, see you at the next one of these?” He made himself wait for a reply and the polite exchange of goodbyes before letting Nicolo gently guide him through coat-check and into their car. The arm around him only left his shoulders when he slid into the car, and he told himself that he didn’t miss it.
Nicolo pulled them into the flow of traffic. “How long have you been unwell for?” he asked.
“What?” Joe was caught off guard. “I’m not unwell?”
Without ever taking his eyes off the road, Nicolo reached over and placed the back of his hand against Joe’s forehead. “You are quite warm,” he said, almost to himself. He sounded unhappy.
“Not hot?” Joe tried for a suggestive smile, but the hand on his forehead was large and steady, and it was hard not to just sink into the soft leather seat. “I guess…my head’s been hurting a little lately.”
Nicolo took his hand away, and Joe tried and failed to not mourn its loss. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you wouldn’t have let me go to the charity ball.”
“You hate these events,” Nicolo pointed out. “And also, name one time I’ve been able to successfully stop you from doing anything.”
Joe sighed, and let his head fall backwards. “You need only ever ask, my love,” he murmured absently.
“What?” Nicolo asked, voice a little strangled.
“Hmm?” Joe said, his eyes sliding closed. The pressure in his head dulled a little, but not by much. “Oh - sorry, and I mean…I do hate these things, but it’s for charity and some money does go to people who need it…not all of it goes back into rich peoples’ pockets, and um…”
“That’s not-” Nicolo broke off, then sighed, a small, quiet thing. “You should get some sleep. I’ll call for a doctor.”
Joe wanted to ask him what was wrong, but the soft plushness beneath his head called him, and his head did hurt so very much. He could ask him about it later, Joe resolved. Later, when the throbbing at his temples and the rawness of his eyes receded. “’kay,” Joe mumbled. “Thank you, Nicky.”
It could have been seconds later, or minutes, or hours. A hand was on his arm. “Joe?”
Sleep was reluctant to let him go, and the pain in his head was blinding. “I’m here,” he whispered.
Fingers gently touched his forehead, and he turned towards them absently. “He - he’s burning!” someone gasped. It sounded like Booker. “Nicolo, can you get him up into bed? I’m going to call the doctor right now.”
Two hands gently cupped his face. “Joe, can you open your eyes for me?”
There was so much Joe would do for that voice. He opened his eyes with great effort, to see Nicolo crouched beside the open car door.
“There you are,” Nicolo said, his voice softer than Joe had ever heard it. It did funny things to his insides. “Do you think you can get to your room?”
His room was so far away. But the thought of a bed, his bed, with its warm blankets and the smell of sleep, called. “I think so,” Joe mumbled.
“Lean on me?” Nicolo said, taking his arms and helping him out of the car. “Here we go, you’re doing great. We’ll be there soon.”
There were around two hundred steps between the garage and his room, but later, all Joe would remember of them would be the smell of the shampoo Nicolo liked to use, the press of a firm, broad shoulder beneath his arm. He wouldn’t remember the way he was lowered onto the bed, gently, carefully. Nor would he remember the way he said, “Nicky - will you stay with me, please? I- if you want to,” and the way something raw had passed over Nicolo’s face. That night, amidst the murmurs of the doctor and Booker and Nicolo, he would dream of a man sitting beside his bed, of cool, soft hands smoothing hair away from his burning forehead and feeding him water.
And in the morning, when he woke up, there would be the slightest of impressions in the blankets beside him, still warm, as if someone had stayed the entire night by his side.
A continuation of this and that. Here is the original post by @veryoldmuchguard. Yes, this is 100% just softness, but sometimes it’s okay to not polish a piece up to a brilliant shine. I do have some ideas for plot, and you might be able to see some inklings beginning in this piece.
HELP ME PAY FOR SURGERY
We stopped receiving donations so I decided to make a new post which I hope will circulate more. I’ve explained this before but in summary: My grandfather was diagnosed with a chronic subdural hematoma, he needs surgery as soon as possible, I’m trying to raise $7,000 to pay for it.
I’m asking for help because he doesn’t have health insurance that can cover the costs. We are a family of 7 people (including minors) struggling to survive during quarantine, most of us have chronic illnesses so the pandemic has made it very hard for us to have an stable source of income, so you can imagine how hard it would be to pay for such surgery in a private hospital.
I understand that because of the current situation most people are short of money, so if you can’t help with a donation a reblog is also appreciated. Thank you so much for reading.
I will be reblogging with a pa/ypal/.me link
Please don’t scroll past without at least reblogging. This is urgent.
rupikaur_ ♥️🙏🏽 so many of you have asked what you can do to support the #farmersprotest : slide through for info or read below 👇🏽
1) post on social media to raise awareness. i know this seems small. but it creates a ripple effect that will save lives. i’ve been advised by many human rights organizations that raising awareness on social media is the most effective tactic when dealing with the indian government. they are highly sensitive to international attention- so let’s give it to them.
2) put pressure on your local politicians and those with influence. put pressure on the media. ask them to speak up and bring attention to india’s human rights abuses. when freedom of press is attacked- democracy dies. every statement from officials around the world puts pressure on the indian government to take accountability for their human rights abuses.
3) if you’re interested in donating- @khalsa_aid is a great international humanitarian organization who is helping providing resources to farmers on the ground.
thank you for your endless support family- i love you all ♥️ your thoughtfulness and desire to change the world is forever inspiring
our people started protesting in punjab as early as july 2020. they marched to delhi on nov 27 and have been sleeping on the streets since. punjab- haryana- up- rajasthan. and beyond. the people are united across religion and geography. singing songs of freedom. our people feeding the masses. our people dying. activists abducted. journalists kidnapped. the government is currently building walls of cement and spikes around protest sites to cage people in. they try to defame our heroes. they sexually assault women in police custody. but truth will prevail. all of you. all of us. the diaspora marched and continues to give its heart out. onward. louder. stronger my friends. it’s working ✊🏽✊🏽✊🏽#farmersprotest p.s. i can hear modi crying while throwing a temper tantrum 😆 music to my ears !!! (graphics by my sis @taranamol )
@one-time-i-dreamt I only know your blog that can share this info to the world. Hope you’ll share it. Fingers crossed🤞🏽😊
Some links with news articles:
gardens in art 💐
jardin benlliure by jose benlliure gil / mission san juan capistrano by gustave baumann / glorieta al atardecer by santiago rusiñol / jardín by eliseo meifren i roig / milton park by cressida campbell / kiki’s delivery service by studio ghibli
THE OLD GUARD + alternative movie posters