Jan. 19th, 2017

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I can’t help it, this Cassian/Bodhi thing has gotten out of hand. I did finally manage to introduce K2. And Cassian has managed to admit to Bodhi that Jeron isn’t his real name, though he hasn’t told him what his real name really is.

“What about you?” Bodhi asked. Jeron looked up, puzzled. “Don’t you deserve better?”

Jeron’s expression went crooked, and he looked down. “I– what I deserve is the kind of question I don’t know how to answer,” he said.

“I think you’re probably a good person,” Bodhi said, leaning his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand.

Jeron laughed, looking down and away sadly. “The only one who knows me and still really thinks I’m a good person is my dog,” he said.

“You have a dog,” Bodhi said, surprised. He didn’t know much about dogs.

Jeron grinned. “I do,” he said. “He’s been with me a while. Few years.”

“Big dog?” Bodhi asked. “Or small dog?” He hadn’t envisioned Jeron as a dog person at all, and this was new information he didn’t know how to assimilate. “Please tell me he’s a tiny teacup thing that you carry around in your parka.”

Jeron laughed at that, so hard he threw his head back and rocked back in his seat, sharp shoulders angling in, arms curled, a full-body laugh. “No,” he said, when he could speak. “I can’t– can you really imagine– me with a tiny– little dog in a–” He laughed so hard he sputtered. “In a purse-thing! Can you see it!”

Bodhi was laughing almost too hard to speak too, but he managed to choke out, “Little kerchief on his neck,” and after a moment of wheezing, went on, “Color-coordinated to your outfit,” and Jeron lost what composure he’d managed to recover.

They both laughed for a long time, and when they’d finally stopped to catch their breath, Bodhi squeaked, “Collar matches your manicure,” and Jeron guffawed helplessly, looking at his long-fingered hands with battered knuckles, nails cut short, bruises on the one thumb, bandage wrapped around the index finger.

“No,” he said finally, when they were both gasping and twitching in recovery, “no, he’s– he’s a hundred and ten pounds, German Shepherd.”

“Really,” Bodhi said, then made himself laugh again. “Named Fifi!”

That set Jeron off, and they both laughed again until they were helpless. “No,” Jeron said finally. “His name is a stupid pun though.” He had to stop, and breathe. “You know how dogs are canines, right?”

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, and he was watching how the exertion of laughing had pinked Jeron’s cheeks, bringing up some color under the pallor of winter. He was stunning, he really was, and what’s more, he had good teeth, well taken care of in youth, straight and white like nobody raised in poverty would have unless they were insanely fortunate.

“So– he’s a failed police dog, he did some of the courses and he was just too much of an asshole,” Jeron went on. “So instead of a K-9, like they designate the dog units, he’s a K-2. Like, he fell really short.”

“K-2,” Bodhi said.

“I just call him Kay,” Jeron said, “most of the time.”
via http://ift.tt/2iEWGg7:unicornduke replied to your post “I can’t help it, this Cassian/Bodhi thing has gotten out of hand. I…”

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I love all of the bits you’re posting about this. I love it. Also I reread the found cat au like once a week because I need fluffy stuff in my life riight now

Makes me wish this one was going to be fluffy. But I couldn’t figure out how to make it fluffy. The only way to preserve the Cassian Mystery that I found satisfactory was to make it entirely from Bodhi’s POV, and the only way to make an Earth AU of how hopeless canon!Bodhi is without going super dark was to make him sort of sad and damaged. But! I think it’s going to be overall a hopeful story, just sort of… quirky. And slow-paced, argh. Also Chirrut is in it a lot and he can’t fail to be phenomenal. 

It’s like twelve thousand words long, though. I told myself I was going to try my hand at writing in a more commercially-viable style this next project and this is anything but. :( Twelve thousand words long and nothing has happened yet. 
via http://ift.tt/2iN6i3f:aimmyarrowshigh replied to your post “anhamirak replied to your post: …”

do you ever cry that cassian has a canonical middle name just to shout out to diego’s son jeronimo, because i do

I made the connection to the name jeronimo as a plot point but I didn’t know it was because of his kid. that is GREAT. That makes it EIGHT THOUSAND TIMES BETTER.
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is this a renaissance painting?

“Interrogation of the Zodiac Killer”-The Ghost of Sandro Botticelli ca 2015

So I slapped some mathematics on this picture and…

The red lines divide the picture into thirds. They also mostly coincide with the doorway (and Cruz’s right hand), framing him nicely as the Main Character of this picture.

The green line was placed using the golden ratio (the ratio between parts of the picture above it and below it is close enough to 1:1.618). It also goes right under his chin (and through some reporters’ hands or tools).

The purple lines are diagonals that are framing the reporters really nicely.

I’m pretty sure you could also do something clever with a circle and the yellow doorway behind him, but I don’t have the patience to fiddle with that.

Basically, this picture has the same “maths are beautiful” aesthetic as (some well-known) Renaissance paintings.


Here’s the thing though, do people GENUINELY THINK this kind of shit happens by accident? Do people truly think photographs are just dispassionate captures of reality?No fucking shit this photograph is framed in accordance with a bunch of artistic principles. Photographers fucking take fucking art classes.

Nowhere in all the reblogs of this viral photo have I ever seen the photographer’s name, but somebody took this picture exactly like this for exactly that effect, and they knew what they were doing, they probably had at a bare minimum $1500 worth of equipment [it’s too lo-rez to tell what kind of rig it is, but I can guarantee you it’s expensive; look at the distortion of the people at the edges of the frame: that’s an extreme wide-angle lens, which is an expensive specialty piece of equipment), they’d probably set up that shot hours beforehand knowing where Cruz would be standing, they’d probably jostled in line to get to that spot to set up to take that shot framed like that, and they’d absolutely calibrated their light meters to make him very dark with a halo behind him.


Most of your photo editing software has rule-of-thirds grids right on it. Sometimes the viewfinder of the fucking camera has rule-of-thirds grids on it. We fucking KNOW about the rule of thirds, okay? We look at the world through viewfinders with rule-of-thirds grids on them. Sometimes we forget to look at the world in any other way.

Photographers are not machines. This shit is not accidental or coincidental. Digital does not mean automatic.

Photographs are not dispassionate automatic captures of reality. 

Someone made this picture like that, and y’all motherfuckers erased his or her name and acted like this is somehow just something that happened.
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give me stories with supportive exes. 

give me relationships that end for all kinds of reasons besides one of the people involved being secretly The Worst.

give me exes that ended things mutually and maturely. give me exes that were each other’s friends before they got together and remained friends after. give me exes that still love their ex and that means that they want them to be happy and thrive, and not that they will make them unhappy trying to get back together

give me people that still share a workplace, or a cause, or a goal. who are capable of caring for kids, pets and/or houseplants together, without turning it into a serial hostage exchange

give me exes who know each other like the back of their hand, who still share in-jokes, who tease each other about new crushes

give me exes who are each other’s perfect wingmate, who help their ex get ready for a date, who text them at three a.m. because ”OMG i just met somebody who’s such a your kind of person, you absolutely gotta meet them”

give me stories with supportive exes
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I haven’t finished yet but I did go through the entire list on Wikipedia of representatives from my home state, and found the ones who are Republicans, and looked them up. The farm’s district is repped by an R, so I’ll write to him for definitely sure; I don’t vote in that district but I live there half the year, so I’m a constituent all right. And another district is repped by a Republican woman who graduated from a rival private girls’ high school (there are only two exclusive high-end girls’ high schools in the region, and one produced Gillibrand and me, and the other produced this lukewarm sack of shit, the youngest rep in the House and a staunch Trumpist, and let me tell you, I’m gonna write her the most exquisitely-crafted nastygram I can come up with). 

Also, my rep is the ranking member on the Committee on Counterterrorism and Intelligence, so how fucking dare he give me complacent form-letters about collaboration with Putin’s fucking puppet. I’ll let him have it, for sure.

I also found a great Bible passage to calligraph exquisitely and send to basically every Republican I can think of, especially the ones who are hiding behind false Christianity, from chapter 10 of Isaiah:

Woe to those who make unjust laws,
   to those who issue oppressive decrees,2 to deprive the poor of their rights
   and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people,
making widows their prey
   and robbing the fatherless.3 What will you do on the day of reckoning,
   when disaster comes from afar?
To whom will you run for help?
   Where will you leave your riches?4 Nothing will remain but to cringe among the captives
   or fall among the slain.

It’s so goddamn on-the-nose I can’t even stand it. I’m about to take a letterpress class and I had a poem all picked out but I really want to do this one, on some gorgeous heavy-stock paper, and mail it to a bunch of hypocrites who won’t appreciate it. 

(Maybe I’ll silkscreen it; that’s less effort but is still noticeably handmade.)

I almost feel like putting in the effort is a form of magic, you know? Like, I have labored over this, and you can take it as a blessing or as a curse, but I damn well know what I meant.

(As I get older I am starting to have more and more anger over the fact that the spiritual culture of my ancestors, that I was raised in, has been denied to me by a bunch of fucking hypocrites who have warped it to their own ends. But that’s a rant for another day.)
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Beans the cat has found a bed on the table.
I posted a phone-photo version of this but in this one you can see the chickens.
Mostly I took this photo because of the frozen foam, center leftish
This gun is like... thirty percent bigger than you assume it would be.
A dried arrangement on the table, out of candle range.
Hear no evil, something something, see no evil? Christmas gifts.
Two birthday kids sharing a cake.
A hike on the timber-land section of the farm.
Photos from the visit to the farm, since I got thinking about photography this morning. Maybe I can get pissed-off enough to take more pictures, the more I think about how people seem to genuinely believe that photographs are just– found art. Like nobody makes choices about how to capture an image. No wonder people don’t know how to think critically about media if they don’t understand that people have to think critically in order to fucking capture it. 

Sorry, i’m still fired-up over that. I’d seen that entry like a hundred times and I finally just snapped. Photography is not found art. These are not my most artistic photos, they’re just documentation of what was going on, but they all took me some thought to compose, and all of these were taken on my real camera and post-processed– cropped, realigned, resized, color-corrected, exposure-tweaked– in Lightroom.
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Someone mailed us a returned item from the nation of Georgia, with no box or original packaging, just wrapped in bubble wrap and more bubble wrap and in an envelope. Unreal, you could insulate a house with all this bubble wrap. There was so much packing tape it was like it was shrinkwrapped.
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Y’all might remember that I had you guys sending postcards to Gus and Charlie, because Gus was fighting cancer, and losing kind of badly. Gus was 7 years old when he died on September 29th, just prior to what would have been his 8th birthday.

My friend Sasha held her son as he died and then carried him to a hospital, so that at some point in the future no parent will have to deal with this. In his death, Gus may have provided answers to the questions his incredibly rare and deadly form of cancer brings to the table. 

Gus was only able to make to almost-but-not-quite 8 years old because of the ACA. He was able to experience things and live as full a life as possible and learn about dinosaurs and go to school (he was diagnosed young, prior to even entering school) and make friends – because of the ACA. His mother and father were only able to afford a service and cremation because his ACA-compliant insurance paid the bulk of the bill. They were only able to continue financially caring for their youngest son Charlie (who just turned 7 years old…yesterday, I think) and keep themselves in food and housing rather than going bankrupt…because of the fucking Affordable Care Act, also known as Obamacare. 

With her permission, I have posted this here, because I want people to know exactly how badly Republicans will be screwing children, and their grieving parents, over if they repeal the ACA. 

For Gus, who never made it to 8; for Sasha and her husband, who lost their son; for Charlie, who lost his brother –

For all of the other parents and lost children who are and were in the same boat –

We can’t let Republicans do this. We need to step up to the plate. Because they – Sasha and Gus and everyone like them – can’t.

Spread this
via http://ift.tt/2jDH10c:buttons-beads-lace replied to your post “Thanks for posting a photo of the political postcard you wrote! It…”

that is so incredibly appropriate that I kind of want to do this too. (I mean, minus the silkscreening and/or letterpress. I still have some nice calligraphy markers though…)

I actually had seen it somewhere else minus that last paragraph, but I think the ending bit is the most meaningful of all of it. Holy shit. Where will you leave your riches?? 

I’m gonna post it in here again because it’s just that intense. And yeah, I don’t know if i’ll letterpress or calligraph or silkscreen it or what, but it needs to be done up too pretty to ignore, and put fucking everywhere.

I did have a bonehead on FB say “either administration would have been terrible” and it’s some wacko I’ve been tolerating for years, and I just straight-up told him he was either a troll or a moron and I was not having any of it, he could fuck right off with his false equivalencies. I have hit The End of my ability to endure mediocre dudes. 

Isaiah 10 New International Version (NIV)

10 Woe to those who make unjust laws,
   to those who issue oppressive decrees,2 to deprive the poor of their rights
   and withhold justice from the oppressed of my people,
making widows their prey
   and robbing the fatherless.3 What will you do on the day of reckoning,
   when disaster comes from afar?
To whom will you run for help?
   Where will you leave your riches?4 Nothing will remain but to cringe among the captives
   or fall among the slain.
via http://ift.tt/2iHkRui:artifactrix replied to your post “I can’t help it, this Cassian/Bodhi thing has gotten out of hand. I…”

Also I was thinking about this story on my commute the other day (as one does), and was wondering who/what Kaytoo was going to be, and it’s like you read my mind!

I really want to steal a leaf from the Matt Fraction run of Hawkeye and have a scene or two from Kaytoo’s POV, but i don’t know if i can pull it off. Still. Pizza Dog’s volume was fantastic, especially the bits where the words he knew were in the speech bubbles, and he knew all kinds of random shit. (Like when Clint was talking about collar stays, and Pizza Dog knew those words but not what they meant in that context.) 

I am super out of practice with dogs. :( I basically had one as a sibling, but she died of old age when I was a teenager, and I haven’t had one since. 



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