bravado - yoke lore // textpost - @wetdress // pride and prejudice (2005) director’s commentary - dir. joe wright // home - seventeen // untitled (ft. lyrics from lorde’s supercut) - @fridayiminlovemp3 // come home with me (reprise) - anaïs mitchell (hadestown) // shelter - miles johnston // someone asked me what home was... - e.e. cummings // 아가씨 (the handmaiden) (2016) - dir. park chanwook // tyler knott gregson
touchy feely girls have my entire heart. like yes pls reach out and touch me when you walk by, stand really close even when there’s more than enough for the both of us, slip your hands under my shirt bc they're cold, hook your fingers under the waistline of my jeans and pull me close until we’re chest to chest and im just wrapped up in you
The term Kikuyu is derived from the Swahili form of the word Gĩkũyũ. Gĩkũyũ is derived from the word mũkũyũ which means sycamore fig (mũkũyũ) tree". Hence Agĩkũyũ in the Kikuyu language translates to "Children Of The Big Sycamore"
So like, we now know that Hooty is of the bug demon variety (more specifically a worm) and bug demons communicate primarily through dancing.
I always thought Hooty waving around was just because he was so energetic but what if we’re missing so much nuance simply because we don’t understand the things he isn’t saying verbally? What if he’s so loud and blunt and in-your-face because he’s trying to make up for the fact that the people he’s housing can’t speak through dance?
I once read “home is where I feel empty on a Sunday”. God knows, I’ve had my fair share of those. I can’t remember where I saw it and a google search does me no good, but I know it is not mine (although it feels as if it were).
What’s the other saying? Home is where the heart is? This seems true as well, though I’m not sure how to place it alongside the emptiness.
Home is an odd kind of concept. Not the same as a house, space, apartment. Instead, it borders on something between an idea and a feeling— fixing itself into the cracks of people, places, moments.
A hermit crab carries its home on its back. Where do I carry mine?
Before, home was always wherever those I love were. Faculty parties my mom would take me to and rivers to drink coffee next to with my best friend. Museums you leave your heart behind in and 24-hour diners at 4am with your roommates. Wherever a hand is held, a laugh is heard, a smile is born.
It is different now. My apartment cannot ring with the shouting of those who come visit, my bed cannot be shared with friends who giggle into the early hours. There are no parties, no dinners, no hugs or high fives or cheeks pressed against another’s.
We make do as best we can, enjoying the company of those we live with to the fullest but it’s never quite the same. I try to become more familiar with my space— the spots and corners in which I am supposed to discover some grand truth. I spend 10 minutes a day looking in the mirror, hoping I will become something worth looking at. Instead, I feel as if I am wasting away, saturating the room with my aimlessness. What is the point, without other people?
Days become hours become weeks. My entire life is contained to my bed— my classes, my entertainment, the ghost of friends I used to hug— all stuck between my pillows and an old laptop. I now know every creak in the floor, can map out every spot on the ceiling. Still, this is only home when I make it to the living room, rest my head on my roommate’s shoulder and ask her about her day.
I think home is where the heart is, just as much as it is where you feel empty on a Sunday. I suppose home is where you have the comfort to feel that emptiness, the comfort to feel that love. I carry my home in my hands, placing it wherever I’d like. Today, it’ll be in the crook of my best friend’s neck and tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is Sunday.
Home - Isabel Larrea-Clark, from The Virtual Reality Storybook
But Eurydice found herself loving Orpheus with all of her being, more and more through the months. She loved how his skin, as pale as it is against the ground like unleavened barley bread, would shimmer softly under the sun; the way his hair, thick and slick like unrefined sugar, would refract the sunlight in many directions like a multilayered honey cascade; the way his eyes, as green as unripened grapes, would glitter like river pounds against daylight. She found herself loving even the way he never walked as the average person would, only danced, with the lanky and gangly grace of a newborn fawn in blissful happiness midst the dense forest.
Her skin loved the way his touch was soothing and warm – gentle, delicate like the unfolding of daisy petals, precise like the flapping of a bird’s wing. Her mouth loved his taste when his mouth meets hers – sweet like honey, inebriating like dandelion wine. And her ears… oh, her ears loved his voice – his voice, sweet and intoxicating, bright and lighter than liquid sunlight, richer and smoother than the sweetest honey, sweeter, more inebriating than dandelion wine. Eurydice could feel his voice flowing and unfolding through her – penetrating, flapping gently like a thousand butterflies, through her ear, her lungs, her heart, her bones, caressing her body and blossoming, blooming flowers and trees into her, a songbird nesting a forest into her heart.
When they both danced through song under the glittering night sky, two souls in reciprocating tune wanting to shed their meat beds away to blissfully join through the night, two hearts beating together as two songs gradually became One, Eurydice found her heart beating intensely, her stomach rumbling through Orpheus’ sweet voice, clamoring for more. Please don’t go away. Please don’t go. Please don’t go.
He’d been throughoutly enchanted by her since her first saw her against the shimmering sky. He loved the way her body under her skin, curved and copper as the stout oak tree, would dance under the sky as a river danced through the earth. He loved the way her silkly black hair reflected the light of the sun and stars, flowing water under the glittering night sky. He loved the way her dark eyes glittered in daylight, in moonlight – deep pounds brining with a thousand stars, entire universes Orpheus could have found himself in. And her voice, her voice was the most beautiful song Orpheus have ever heard – silk and smooth, brighter than liquid moonlight, clearer than the clearest crystal, glimmering like a dancing river under Aurora’s rosy fingered light. He could picture a thousand worlds, hear a thousand songs flowing through her voice, shimmering like a thousand auroras under the starry night.
When they both danced through song under the glittering night sky, two souls in reciprocating tune wanting to shed their meat beds away to blissfully join through the night, two hearts beating together as two songs gradually became One, Orpheus felt as if he was holding the whole World in the pit of his arms – a burning Earth, unveiled and unclothed against the night sky, no forests or grasslands caressing her, only the brining burning blood under her skin against his own. So stout, yet so fragile. He felt lucky to be able to feel her so vulnerable, when a lifetime long ago she would only want to expel him away. He felt undeserving of her burning touch, her starry eyes, her shimmering voice. He felt he was not good enough for her, when she deserved so much more than his unleavened barley skin, his unripened green eyes, his lanky gangly fawn dance, his faulty lyre heart beating small under his skin. She deserved so much more than the most beautiful song he could muster, because the most beautiful song would feel so outplaced, so small against her. She deserved so much more than the whole world around her.
Yet as soon as his eyes have met the starry universes in hers, as soon as her shimmering moonsong met his ears, he felt some kind of recognition – almost as if he knew her song somewhere deep within, a spark playing a plagal cadence in his heart. When her voice met his ears, it felt like a wandering bird finally returning to its homenest after so long – and this is how it should have been after all, as if a veil has been lifted from his eyes and a door opened in his ears, as soon as he heard her sing. He could not believe she was absent from his Life till then – when her burning skin touched his own and their mouths met, the whole world a background song around them, as they breathed each other as if they were breathing for the first time how long, he felt this is how Life should be.
It's actually insane to me that we were making small but genuine progress towards fat acceptance and widening beauty standards as a whole and then capitalism stepped in and created the Kafkaesque nightmare hellscape of glow up culture and cosmetic surgeons advertising directly to teenagers on TikTok that we live in now.
i don’t think i can go much longer without hands holding my face, kissing so intensely you can’t possibly get close enough but you’re grasping at every part of her to try, interlocking fingers, being held so tight you believe she will never let you go, skin against my own, teeth on my neck, soft mindless touching, the look in her eyes when you know she really sees you, the eyes that feel like home. i don’t know how much longer i can go without it. i think i might die of starvation.
Anyway! While I’m on the subject of big-budget franchises with David Harbour and extremely affected Russian accents in them (she says, several days after making the first such post), I have a number of (mostly uncomplimentary) thoughts about how the Russians in Stranger Things season 3 are constructed and written and framed, but they all pretty much boil down to “Steve knocking out the Russian guard in a fistfight is classic propaganda”.
The villains of s1 and s2 can best be described as, well, sometimes the bad guys are smart too. The Lab and the Mind Flayer are competent. They are threatening. When they work in secret, they’re very difficult to detect. Their motivations appear to be largely internally consistent, and to exist independently of Our Heroes (well, up until s3, anyway). Their actions have logic behind them and are intended to help achieve their goals. They pose a genuine challenge to and even frequently outwit or outfight Our Heroes - except when it really counts.
By comparison, the Russians in s3 are cardboard props for Our Heroes to knock down. Not a single one of them has a distinct personality beyond ‘funny accent villain’ (except maybe the Terminator expy, who is a Terminator expy). They act as plot devices, not characters; their actions don’t always seem to have a consistent internal logic behind them, and don’t always even benefit them or move them toward what poorly-defined goals they might have. Rather, they’re reduced to whatever the writers think will, in the moment, make them look Big and Bad and Scary (or Cute and Funny and Likeable, in Alexei’s case), oppose (or, again re: Alexei, assist) Our Heroes’ goals, and/or move the plot forward.
That’s plain old bad writing. By itself, it’s unremarkable. Lots of writers make these mistakes when they construct antagonists.
But also: the Russians - who, again, are not written or presented as full, individual people with goals, motivations, and coherent internal realities - are framed as simultaneously a terrifying, irresistible, insidious threat to everything the viewer is assumed to hold dear, and weak, incompetent, bumbling buffoons. And that’s where we tip over into propaganda.
I’m sure this has been talked about at length by people more knowledgeable than me. But this, to the best of my understanding, is one of the primary ways propaganda works. It presents an enemy, defines them as an other - not a person, like you and me, not really - and establishes them as a clear and present threat. It has to make them dangerous. It has to make them scary. It has to make its audience feel personally threatened and endangered by the very existence of this other, so that its audience wants to see that other defeated, subdued, gone. They could be in your unassuming Midwestern town! They could be hiding under your crowning symbol of capitalist success! And you would never know until it was too late, and they’d already unleashed unimaginable horror on the world and way of life you treasure, destroying it forever!
But also, propaganda can’t give the enemy too much credit. Too much fear plays into your enemy’s hands, leaves your own people afraid to move against them. And, if the enemy looks competent enough to pull off the kinds of atrocities pinned to them, then they might start looking smart. Like people who might have good ideas. Like people who might be able to win.
So the enemy also has to be shown to be weak. Pathetic. A laughingstock. Easily outwitted and defeated by, for example, four bored kids - because the least of us is still smarter, stronger, better than the best of them.
So you might show that enemy as cunning and devious enough to build a secret base and laboratory under a shopping mall in the heart of enemy territory without anyone noticing - but too stupid or lazy to outfit it with any kind of security system. Powerful and unstoppable enough to hunt down and murder a man with impunity in the middle of a crowd - and it’s notable that the only person the Terminator expy actually manages to kill is one of his own - but weak and useless enough to lose a fistfight to a teenager who has, every other time he’s fought another vanilla human, had has ass absolutely handed to him. Terrifying and insidious - but ultimately powerless and pathetic.
Anyway, that’s why I’m worried about s4 trying to take Our Heroes to Russia.
Qualifications for being the Norse God of Lies. Thor's "brother", fucked over in an incalculable way by Odin. Thor: "No, I can't kill him, he's still my brother" also Thor *let's punishment be much much worse than death*
you know what gets me though? in Thor: Ragnarok Thor refers to Loki as the g*d of m*schief. he might not even have the title of liar.
meanwhile Odin’s work with the mural is explicitly referred to as lies by hela, loki asks frigga why odin lies in thor 1, loki talks about the lies he was fed his entire life in reference to odin,,