This Is Not Justice. Please Do Not Ruin This Boys Life.

And now I understand what George Rodrigue was on about with all the blue dogs.

living in a village of farmers is the fucking best i just left a party and the butcher was like hey i got some bones for your dog. your dog specifically because i like the cut of his jib. hell yeah

do you know how fucking great it is to get home tipsy as hell wake up your dog he is already exited to see you and you are like here you go a big bone for your majesty...my man thought he was damn heaven!! so good

I love them

book accurate Dany with Viserion 💜

At this point where her dragons are that big her hair should be longer but I was brainless it was 4 am when I drew this

Yes, this is a weird layout! I wish I could see more of this house to give the basement staircase more context. It’s similar to the basement entrance in my (formerly) grandmother’s gorgeous house. For reference her house was in Taylorsville, Utah. I would guess it was built in the mid 1960’s. Very open plan concept. Home entrance at street level. Walk up 4 stone stairs to the main house. To the right is the sunken main living room if you walk down 2 steps. Enjoy the windows or the stone fireplace, and there is a half-wall behind the sofa, gorgeous, very open. At the home entrance to your left is the dining room. Big sliding glass door at the back leads to the fully landscaped backyard. Incorporated seamlessly as a divider between the living and dining rooms is the basement staircase (basically straight across from the house entrance).

Very demure.

This one makes me wonder if this originally had a sunken living room and the “sunken” was remodeled away. The result would be a very out of place staircase.

Fuckyeah Terry Pratchett!

Terry Pratchett about fantasy ❤

Terry Pratchett interview in The Onion, 1995 (x)

O: You’re quite a writer. You’ve a gift for language, you’re a deft hand at plotting, and your books seem to have an enormous amount of attention to detail put into them. You’re so good you could write anything. Why write fantasy?

Terry: I had a decent lunch, and I’m feeling quite amiable. That’s why you’re still alive. I think you’d have to explain to me why you’ve asked that question.

O: It’s a rather ghettoized genre.

Terry: This is true. I cannot speak for the US, where I merely sort of sell okay. But in the UK I think every book— I think I’ve done twenty in the series— since the fourth book, every one has been one the top ten national bestsellers, either as hardcover or paperback, and quite often as both. Twelve or thirteen have been number one. I’ve done six juveniles, all of those have nevertheless crossed over to the adult bestseller list. On one occasion I had the adult best seller, the paperback best-seller in a different title, and a third book on the juvenile bestseller list. Now tell me again that this is a ghettoized genre.

O: It’s certainly regarded as less than serious fiction.

Terry: (Sighs) Without a shadow of a doubt, the first fiction ever recounted was fantasy. Guys sitting around the campfire— Was it you who wrote the review? I thought I recognized it— Guys sitting around the campfire telling each other stories about the gods who made lightning, and stuff like that. They did not tell one another literary stories. They did not complain about difficulties of male menopause while being a junior lecturer on some midwestern college campus.

Fantasy is without a shadow of a doubt the ur-literature, the spring from which all other literature has flown. Up to a few hundred years ago no one would have disagreed with this, because most stories were, in some sense, fantasy. Back in the middle ages, people wouldn’t have thought twice about bringing in Death as a character who would have a role to play in the story. Echoes of this can be seen in Pilgrim’s Progress, for example, which hark back to a much earlier type of storytelling. The epic of Gilgamesh is one of the earliest works of literature, and by the standard we would apply now— a big muscular guys with swords and certain godlike connections— That’s fantasy. The national literature of Finland, the Kalevala. Beowulf in England. I cannot pronounce Bahaghvad-Gita but the Indian one, you know what I mean. The national literature, the one that underpins everything else, is by the standards that we apply now, a work of fantasy.

Now I don’t know what you’d consider the national literature of America, but if the words Moby Dick are inching their way towards this conversation, whatever else it was, it was also a work of fantasy. Fantasy is kind of a plasma in which other things can be carried. I don’t think this is a ghetto. This is, fantasy is, almost a sea in which other genres swim. Now it may be that there has developed in the last couple of hundred years a subset of fantasy which merely uses a different icongraphy, and that is, if you like, the serious literature, the Booker Prize contender. Fantasy can be serious literature. Fantasy has often been serious literature. You have to fairly dense to think that Gulliver’s Travels is only a story about a guy having a real fun time among big people and little people and horses and stuff like that. What the book was about was something else. Fantasy can carry quite a serious burden, and so can humor. So what you’re saying is, strip away the trolls and the dwarves and things and put everyone into modern dress, get them to agonize a bit, mention Virginia Woolf a few times, and there! Hey! I’ve got a serious novel. But you don’t actually have to do that.

(Pauses) That was a bloody good answer, though I say it myself.

He is a god of frontiers.

He is born again in every child who turns their eyes toward the stars, toward the sea, toward the horizon, and he grows with them.  He is young and old at the same time, all ages and all things, and always looking outward.

Windows are his.  Portholes.  External cameras.  He is not a god of surveillance, but he is a god of seeing, of the endless need to behold the wonders of the cosmos, of the world around us.  He only wants to look.  He has no desire to settle, or to damage, or to claim.

When first a maritime explorer donned a diving helmet, Yuri was there to egg them on, cajoling and encouraging, begging them to let him loose on new sights and new experience.  And when humanity set their skills toward space, Yuri was on the first satellite out, waiting for the moment when his faithful would join him, when they would see.

He was there with Laika when the heat grew too great, when her breathing grew too labored, and he did what good gods have always done, and held her close for so long as he was needed.  He looks now in her honor, as he looks in the honor of all those who have reached, whether of their own volition or at another’s.  She was not his by choice, but she was his at the end, and he is a god of his word.

He only hopes that you can have the chance to see.

He hopes you will keep your eyes open, and take him with you when you go.

Happy Thanksgiving

praise the rain by Joy Harjo

So uh….some dude apparently recreated Adobe Photoshop feature-for-feature, for FREE, and it runs in your browser.

Anyway, fuck Adobe, and enjoy!

The last time I got a visit from a couple of JW young ladies I did this kindness thing. I tried my best to answer their (leading) question “what is your definition of’God’?” I explained that I am an atheist and I am happy. I reiterated that now they personally know at least one happy-atheist-mom. I wished them well thanked them for the chat, and politely asked them to remove me from their list.

This was my best religious person interaction. Never had a JW visit since then.

My least favorite things about anti- UBI discourse is always the techbros whining that "nobody is going to work anymore! People will just watch Netflix all day!" and I have 2 responses:

1) Who the fuck cares. Who the fuck cares what people do with their time! That's kind of the fucking point!

2) People aren't going to stop laboring. Housework (look, it's right there in the word!) will still need to be done. So will maintenance on our homes and personal spaces. Children will still need carers, as will the elderly and disabled. There are millions of examples of ~work~ that we do all the time, uncompensated, that won't suddenly stop because we aren't forced to sell our labor to provide corporation's profits.

I'm not surprised that what is traditionally women's work is invisible to these dipshits, but it never fails to anger me.

Anyway. Join the IWW.