𝑅𝑒𝒻𝓁𝑒𝒸𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝒶𝓇𝓉… (𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑜, 𝒮𝓊𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝐵𝒽𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒾!)
~ This is a bit of a personal one lol, maybe I'm getting a little too comfy on tumblr- but hey, I like it here and I'm very grateful for everyone who's taken an interest in whatever I have to say :)
~ tagging this on Nakshatra tumblr because I feel like this reflection perfectly encapsulates Venus Nakshatras and is very aligned with the Sun moving into Bharani, the birth of Venus among the Nakshatras
// warning, cringe and angsty lmao
I have such an odd relationship with my artistic process. Unconventional? Stubborn. Sometimes just straight up bad lol.
I want to create beautiful, meaningful things, yet I have this sort of extreme resistance to being perfect or professionalism (however, somehow perfectionism and such a ruthless self-antagonism for not being 'enough' at the same time..).
It's almost like I purposely sabotage my art by intentionally leaving in mistakes, or leaving it somewhat dishevelled in protest of perfection. In hopes that the beauty and artistry still manages to shine through to the right people.
I guess it's also this thing where I feel like the imperfection makes art more unique, more exclusive- more personal & dearly held to the people who do find the beauty in it that I initially wanted to communicate. But, there is a difference between artsy, grungy, rawness and... just being crap, lazy, unrefined, undisciplined. (I'd never refer to someone else's work in this way but myself... mann).
Knowing full well that my artistic creation likely 'needs work', is not a finished product and will very likely be criticised for its' imperfection, I still have the overwhelming urge to go ahead and share it with the world/post it. In all of its' messy (again, maybe just straight up bad lol) glory. Then I wonder why I'm not gaining the traction I want haha. When I inevitably receive criticism, I get so hurt by it, I beat myself up and it eats at me to the point that I can't sleep at night, I'm up reciting the criticisms in my head and weaving them into my very own nightmare!
I don't understand why I do this to myself lmao. Later on after posting & putting myself out there, I hear that imperfection in the song, I hear those vocal parts I stubbornly left in and didn't want to redo, I see the dodgy brush strokes I refused to fix up in the name of authenticity, and I cringe. In fact, I feel such a deep shame for it all that I take everything down out of embarrassment. Even though it was fully my decision to put up something amateur sounding and imperfect.
Maybe it's something like the weight of desire for perfection is too much, so I just go 'to hell with it!'.
It's like an endless cycle for me, and I realise that over the years, if I'd just left things up online and was more patient with myself, I'd probably have cultivated a following of some sort by now, or maybe used peoples' criticisms to improve the art to a greater extent. I mean, there are people who have mentioned to me when they notice the art is imperfect and needs work, but there are just as many lovely people who have gone totally out of their way to express deep appreciation for the music/art I've put out and enjoyed it.
Here's my 'theory' as to why I do this to myself: when I create art, I don't just want to make pretty things, though I want that too. I want to be loved, and FELT. I want to bring people to this raw, vulnerable place in my heart where my ideas emerge from. I want to be loved not in spite of the imperfections, but alongside them, all encompassing.
I don't want to have to be perfect, have $1000 worth of equipment, hours and hours of recording time trying to 'get it right' in order to be understood and deemed beautiful. I don't want to show off how perfect or skilled I am either, I want to make people feel something. I want it natural.
r a w.
I kinda enjoy for art to be unfinished and slightly unpalatable on purpose.
Maybe it's a bit of entitlement on my part, expecting that even if I do a mediocre job, people will still enjoy it and see my 'talents'/message.
Truth be told though, that's how I love other people, how I enjoy others' art as well, it's not just something with me.
When I listen to artists I love, I adore seeing something beautiful, yet somehow messy and jarring. A sort of underground-esque, 'wild feminine' creation. It evokes that much more feeling and passion that something designed to be perfect just lacks to me.
I can't get into a lot of bands that are considered 'objectively good' by many people because they just sound too perfect to me- There's a lot of times I come across artists that sound technically good, very clean but my heart just can't get into it. I find myself listening and thinking 'I wish this was recorded on a toaster', or 'I wish there was a more rough sound to the vocals' lol, I crave the rawness & intimacy that imperfection and roughness lends.
Ugh, it all creates such an internal conflict- like I want my art to be seen, to be loved yet I somewhat reject things it takes for the art to be considered objectively good & well rounded.
The harsh reality might just be that just because I see the beauty in imperfection, just because I know I've got this personal, very niche vision of what 'good' sounds like/looks like in my mind, that doesn't mean other people are going to find value in the same things.
Of course, maybe all of this is just pretentious excuses & my own self-hatred manifested (I don't actively hate myself, I try to be much kinder to myself these days but yknow)
Anyway, I realised that it's the start of Bharani season in galactic centre mid-mula Ayanamsa today & I think this write up really aligns with that.
Thankyou for reading lol.. again, a bit of an angsty personal thing but maybe it could be relevant to someone, if y'all wanna know what Venusian artistic angst looks like in real time lmao 🖤🥀
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Had a funny headcanon for SADGLO. In 'Bleeding Palms' when Mouse hugs Copia after he gets back the reaction from everyone around them seemed to be mixed. Though some gave knowing hums. I imagine those Siblings that knew,walk down the wrong hallway and finds Copia and Mouse in action. They turn around and decide in good choice to mind their business.
Mild smut below...
If you prefer to read on ao3
This entire abbey was a den of sin, the novice Sister mused to herself, strolling along in a quiet evening solitude. Her dark contemplation was sweet, and comforting as the Unholy Vespers, and nurtured a sort of joy she noticed blooming inside of her more and more often. She didn’t regret her decision to come here, and to stay. In fact, she felt rather proud.
Pride was encouraged here; wrath tolerated. Greed and envy understood; used to improve oneself if so wanted. Gluttony was celebrated in the form of seeking anything better; no shame in the gratification of the senses was bestowed upon siblings in these halls. Even sloth was tolerated, to a point, if one could avoid Imperator’s notice.
But the sin most freely indulged here, was perhaps lust, for those who so chose to partake. Half of the abbey was fucking each other, their lust spilling over even to the fine denizens of the village below, at times. All a part of their corrupting influence, the Sister supposed, with a sly smile. Hail Satan indeed.
In persona Satan, the Papas certainly had their hands, and their beds, full. Papa Secondo had a growing entourage of favoured sisters, and Terzo had many relationships with many siblings, both long-term and casual. Even Sister Imperator would invite a select few who’d caught her eye, into her and Nihil’s bed for some sweet use as an occasional plaything. And the Cardinal? The musing Sister supposed he fucked, he had a certain lecherous air to him in the way that he skulked about the place. He looked damnably good in those suits too, and the cassock. But his probable partner or partners remained a mystery.
Perhaps he enjoyed his carnal relations in his travels away from the abbey? Or maybe he had some naughty little secret down in the supposed laboratory below, a dark place he often holed himself up in for days; no one else was allowed down there. Porn or panty-sniffing or something detached of that nature; the Cardinal could have a way of looking at you, a corporeal body willing or at least curious to engage in something with him, like you weren’t worth his precious time. The Sister sniffed a little to herself as she stepped along.
Oh, but she was being a bit mean… The Cardinal was as fine a dark clergyman as the abbey could utilize. He was astute, thorough, and just in his work imparting the faith’s teachings to all souls present. He assisted the Papas probably more than they deserved, and apparently was instrumental in keeping other satanic dicasteries reigned in and on task, if Imperator’s quiet but firm praise was to be believed. Just because he had never been known to finger a girl while she queried him about devilish dogma in the pew (as Papa Terzo often did), didn’t mean he wasn’t fair and sometimes even austerely pleasant in his answering. He gave mass and advice, took confession with feigned concern, and even provided limited medical care around the abbey. He seemed to be highly educated; clearly occupied with himself and yet coolly interested in the further establishment of the place. A solid cog in the wheel, his polished teeth apathetic towards any sweet flesh he could find here.
It was just too bad for the few siblings who would have followed him into his darkened office, if his sharp leather gloves had but gestured.
Ah well, the Sister had a lot of time spread out before her to explore every earthly and carnal delight available to her here. Her titillating thoughts so occupied, she almost didn’t hear the curious sounds coming from around the next darkened and solitary corner, as she turned it silently…
There was the Cardinal, of all people! And he was…
Cassock undone and hatless, he was fucking, clearly fucking hard into someone he was holding down on the narrow hall table there against the shadowed stony wall. The astonished Sister stepped back immediately into the sheltered darkness of an old columned alcove, but she couldn’t look away.
He was fucking the maid that Imperator had brought on some far months back! The sweet young thing who barely talked and mostly kept out of the way; the Sister couldn’t even remember her name at the moment. But it was clearly her, panties pulled down to her knees and short skirt flipped up, bent over flush against the table with his gloved fingers tangled up in her loosened hair. The mousy strands couldn’t hide the flush on her tear-stained cheeks… she was crying! Well, for all his privileged station, he really was a bastard, wasn’t he? The Sister prepared herself to step forward.
The Cardinal bent his head down to the poor girl, and whispered something low, his thrusts into her becoming slow and deliberate. The girl gasped a little and then she smiled; she actually grinned through bitten lip, and then the Sister could see her cant her hips a little, attempting to grind back against the Cardinal’s cock. He gasped himself, clearly trying to be quiet, before he raised his hand to spank the girl sharply, forcing from her a little shriek she quickly stifled with her own hand. The Sister backed up against the wall in the darkness.
Pulling out of his conquest, the Cardinal flipped her over, and she sat up herself to fling her arms around his shoulders, kissing him breathlessly while he unbuttoned her blouse in a reckless manner. With more of her pliant body revealed to him, he pushed her down again, grasping her hips within his gloves to yank her down to the edge of the table, and wrenching her legs open.
Clearly penetrating her again, the Cardinal ran his hand up her writhing form to cover her gasping mouth, quieting her little moans with every one of his thrusts and trying desperately to keep his own noises down, his great pleasure apparent, and threatening to overwhelm him in this secretive little tryst.
The Sister didn’t dare allow herself to breathe. As the Cardinal leant over his compliant prey, erratic thrusts intensifying, and the girl began to hug his waist with her bare knees, ecstatic sounds barely escaping his glove, the Sister thought she’d better evade herself from the intimate situation before its inevitable conclusion.
Sliding back along the stone, she turned as soon as she felt able to, quickly and quietly returning in the direction she’d come from. Her serene musings had certainly been ruined, and rather uncomfortably exchanged for a bothersome stirring in her private regions. Perhaps she’d seek out a charming sibling for some specialized comfort, or maybe even bolster her confidence to approach one of the Papas tonight.
Flushing a bit underneath her veil, the Sister let out a breath and tried to process what she had just witnessed. It wasn’t exactly forbidden, it simply seemed more illicit than it was because of their furtiveness and the long-running obscurity of the Cardinal’s lusts. Lust. The Sister certainly had this most popular sin on the brain, itching to get out of her rapidly stifling habit, as she made her way back into the more amply lit parts of the antiquated abbey. A den of sin, indeed, both illuminated and not. Hail Satan and All Sinners, she thought to herself. The unholy night went on.
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Now that I'm tracing and using references, I'm loving learning to draw. I don't feel so discouraged by the fact that I can't just do everything from my head immediately.
It scratches a different itch from writing, because I take my writing suuuper seriously and I'd like to do it for a living one day. I push myself hard to improve, and it's a part of my self identity I think, for good or for bad. I care deeply how other people react to it.
The drawing is just...I want more ways to express my love for stories and fictional characters. This is just one hundred per cent indulgent, which is liberating.
I'm still me, so I want to improve all the time (it's a thing) but the end goal is seriously just to make pretty, sexy, creepy, or whatever cool shit for stuff I love. And while I loveeee compliments, ultimately I am not bothered if people like it or not, because that's beside the point.
This must be how people with healthy relationships to their writing feel. XD
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It was about time for Renee to find out
Transcript & Explanation:
[Renee walks along the beach and sees Robbie with his friends…and Keon]
Renee: I need to speak to you.
Robbie: [sighs] What do you want? Spit it out here.
Renee: Alone.
Renee: Stay away from Keon.
Robbie: Why should I do that? [under his breath] My god you're so fucking annoying.
Renee: [debating whether to tell him what happened] He's trouble.
Robbie: I don't know what history you two have or how you even know him, but at least Keon treats me like someone. Not invisible like you do to me at school.
Renee: Why can't you listen to me for once? I'm telling you the truth-
Robbie: When things go well, you come and ruin it. But do you know how humiliating it was starting high school and getting ignored by your sister? Oh you don't want to be related to the loser with no friends.
Renee: [quietly then loses it] No, it's not like that, that's not fucking important right now-
Robbie: How your reputation as top student would fall if you talked to me? How people pity you for having a brother with issues?
Renee: [Renee has never been this angry] Robbie, shut up and listen to me.
Robbie: Get lost. I don't wanna hear it.
...
I know I didn't show any of their interactions at school or focus much on Robbie having a hard time, but everything he said is true: Renee has not been the most supportive big sister. Being overshadowed by her all his life, pressure from his Dad as a kid, favouritism, low confidence, everything adds up to how he is now. And it really is a shame he doesn't believe Renee.
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