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rockpaperimpala · 1 day
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destiel or cockles? yes
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rockpaperimpala · 2 days
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'I’ve made it clear I am not to be trusted with a body' – Kaveh Akbar
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rockpaperimpala · 2 days
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rockpaperimpala · 2 days
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“there is no moral. the wolf eats you one day and until it does, the forest is beautiful.”
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rockpaperimpala · 2 days
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hipness purgatory
indie sleaze
global village coffeehouse
supergraphic ultramodern
memphis-milano
internet awesomesauce
pacific punk wave
utopian scholastic
frasurbane
curly girly
pastel southwestern
mission school
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rockpaperimpala · 2 days
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#another reason to hate Fox
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rockpaperimpala · 4 days
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Hey Neil, I was wondering if you'd seen this lovely piece of art that they have of you at the Garden District Book Shop in New Orleans? Appears to be painted on pages of the graveyard book. I'm told the artist is Jeffery Morgan.
It's marvelous.
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rockpaperimpala · 8 days
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Sabrina the Teenage Witch | 2.22 - "Quiz Show"
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rockpaperimpala · 8 days
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Good to know that scene where Dean prays to Cas in Monster at the End of This Book by the glow of a soda machine outside a cheap motel still owns my soul. The bleakness. The hope. Dean and Cas and their growing personal connection, Cas thinking Dean is showing faith in Heaven, the angels, God, by praying when all along, it's Cas, Dean prays because he wants Cas's help, Dean's faith is growing in Cas, not a deity, and Cas who's a good soldier and follows rules and has already been reprimanded and demoted for getting too close to the humans in his charge, to Dean particularly, can't help Dean, no of course he can't, he can't break the rules, and there's Dean with his raw emotions, his hurt, disappointment, his anger, his sad green eyes, and his faith in Cas, and Cas is already falling but doesn't realize how fast and how far yet. He helps. Of course he helps.
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rockpaperimpala · 8 days
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I ducked behind the drapes when I saw the moon begin to rise
gathered in my loose ends switched off the light
and down there in the dark I can see the real truth about me
as clear as day, Lord if I make it through tonight
then I will mend my ways and walk the straight path to the end of my days
.
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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just gonna slowly putting my work up here on tumblr…
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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I'm starting to think that some of you don't even like supernatural
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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Just Unfortunately saw A*I art of Dean Winchester, beloved credit card fraud pool hustling FBIs most wanted legally dead never paid taxes didn't graduate high school but got his GED actual serial killer DEAN Winchester with... like an American Bald Eagle Government Seal stamped on his t-shirt...and...just
NO He Would NOT.
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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Cas + humanity
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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goodnight everyone (:
do your daily click
spreadsheet of families in Gaza you can help today
donate to:
Buy an e-sim
Help diabetics in Gaza
The PCRF
Anera
UNRWA
Taawon
Help Gaza Children
Sudan Tarada Initiative
Help a Sudanese family escape conflict
Darfur Women Action
Ramadan for Sudan
Period products in Sudan
Sudan Emergency Appeal
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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@pscentral event 26: minimalism ↳ SILHOUETTES IN FILM (insp)
ARRIVAL (2016) NOMADLAND (2020) 1917 (2019) KONG: SKULL ISLAND (2017) HUNT FOR THE WILDERPEOPLE (2016) THE LORD OF THE RINGS: THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (2001) THE SHAPE OF WATER (2017) THE BATMAN (2022) SICARIO (2015)
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rockpaperimpala · 9 days
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I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.
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.
I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.
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