[they are meant to be completely separate actually, though perhaps complementary - academic vs human writing - both as an act of surprise and a concretion of this duality, rather than, for example, a whole scene itself in the wake of sex ruminating on how god might ecstatically resemble a pair of keys. They are two different stories that in being completely apart prove the point better than a more conventional narrative approach as that. Perhaps in my unconscious process I saw that I was looking for a memory, the high memory, the one every human has, a simple act of sex in the back of a car, the symbol there being indeed the holyfucking union of disparate parts. the title is an allusion to the first stanza of lycidas “I come to pick your berries harsh and crude / and with forced fingers rude / shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.” perhaps to have one dwell in reason in spite of all of th rage and contradiction immanent in most if not all human stuff, of that high memory, well, perhaps the problem comes that the human is lost, the leaves soured, not yet ripe, and all ruined in eagerness to make sense, denuding the man and woman and leaving reason there before them in place of orgasm, base and rotten. o, how languish all left to make sense forever of their most human, baffling moments of happiness! o how small such people seem, nearly only shreds. no; keep the moment nonsensical; prove a logical point, yes, but then no human one.]

What’s the logic behind hating Duster? 

He keeps the Hummingbird Egg safe for the most part, he abandons the three year-long life he built for himself to help Lucas and friends, he makes sense of the Mr. Saturns’ dialect for everyone and leads them to Phrygia’s needle, he plays a final concert with the DCMC in New Pork for old times’ sake, he attacks enemies before battles begin, he creates makeshift ladders to help his friends reach otherwise unreachable areas, and he does all of this with a disabled leg and an abusive father. He does as much shit as Lucas and Kumatora do.

What sort of person hates a character like that enough to send a fan — someone who identifies strongly with him — a message claiming both of them are annoying and shitty?

And Then it Gets Weird…
The Wrenchies, by Farel Dalrymple

1. Read it the first time with your mind on a fixed-gear bike. There’s a story, but it emanates from all directions and dimensions in a burst of Bruce Lee punches. Do not stop.
2. Read The Wrenchies a second time for the fantastic art.
3. Laugh (at yourself) if you have any tendencies toward anarchy, footie or welding together your own bicycle.
4. Revisit, for a third time, the parts stuck in your heart.
5. Enter the book yourself mystically as part of the story (meta).

These are the rules that introduced me to Farel Dalrymple’s “The Wrenchies”. Odd rules for your average story, but The Wrenchies is not exactly average.

The story introduces you to a post-apocalyptic realm, a world of sorcery and makeshift weapons, populated by dark creatures and roving gangs of children that have not yet been captured and tainted by the dark servants of a grown-up world. It’s a curious blend of Neverland and Logan’s Run, with a touch of the Cthullian thrown in the mix.

Keep reading

She’s freezing, curled up as she is in the corner of this dark room to try and keep herself as warm as possible despite the shivers wracking her lithe frame. Stripped of her weapons and main armour, Mihra’s memories of the Red Templar attack are fuzzy at best, but she vaguely remembers being separated from Dorian, Bull and Cole in their explorations of Emprise du Lion before everything had gone black. She’s almost certain her makeshift prison is one of the back rooms in the hidden Grey Warden base near one of the camps, but other than the sickly glow of the Anchor on her palm, she’s seen nothing of the world outside this room for what feels like days. It’s been a long time since she was quite so scared - the chill is an unwelcome reminder of Haven and the blizzard - and it’s not a feeling she enjoys. All she can do is pray desperately to the Creators, to the Maker, to any god that will listen to her prayers that her friends find her soon. She doesn’t want to think of what fate might otherwise await her.

feb mix! ft. devon on the cover

  2. Adventures - Walk Me to Bed
  3. stampeter - strong dog
  4. Sioux Falls - Stinks to Be You
  5. Makeshift Shelters - Lighter Fluid
  6. chaeli allen - learning curve
  7. Drake - Know Yourself
  8. Jeff Rosenstock - I’m Serious, I’m Sorry
  9. jordaan mason - i’ve been tasting roads my whole life

click the pic to get to it!

I went on a cute fake makeshift date with this guy who works at the mall because our lunch breaks matched up and it was a little awkward but in a cute way and he was lowkey really attractive like……….I hate having positive dating experiences that lead to full fledged feelings because feelings are so ugly and embarrassing


Jen Kirkman, former professional model, and Baratunde Thurston on a makeshift catwalk.

anonymous asked:

For the writing meme thing: Dean/Cas 2, 3, or 25 - whichever one inspires you the most!

"I can’t believe you talked me into this," says Dean, furiously willing his cheeks not to blush as he tries (and fails) to cover his ass cheeks with his hands. The chaps he’s wearing cover most of his front, but leave his ass for the world to see. He started to regret this the minute Sam pulled his attire from the makeshift closet, and he’s full-blown mortified now.

“This was your idea,” Sam reminds him. Dean can see his pleased face from all across the room, through a small mirror precariously tacked to the wall next to his little brother. The fact that Sam is enjoying this makes everything even worse. He shifts, going for an angle that won’t leave his bare ass in his brother’s line of vision.

“I didn’t—,” he splutters, “this was not what I had in mind when I said we should infiltrate this, this… establishment. And why am I the only one wearing this? You’re the one who suggested applying as a performer.”

Sam sighs, ever the patient guy. “They don’t have chaps in my size,” he answers simply, a shit-eating grin breaking into his face. The little bastard. Dean is going to put fuchsia dye on his shampoo this very night.

A small rap on the door interrupts them, and with a loud cough and little fanfare, Cas makes his way into the room.

“I think I found the burial place,” he announces, straight and no-nonsense, Cas style. He blabs about some old cemetery close to the parking lot to Sam, his chatter a steady reminder that there’s a job to do, and that they can’t afford to let another innocent person get ripped to shreds tonight, whatever their career of choice.

Dean sighs dramatically and turns to face the rest of his attire for the night, already resigned to his fate. No point in delaying the inevitable. Except the conversation dies and when Dean turns to face the other men again, Sam is close to tears and Cas’ eyes are inevitably glued to his ass.

”Cas!!” Dean yells, covering himself with his hands once again. Sam dissolves in a fit of laughter and the angel, face as red as a newborn baby, has the gall to look up, into Dean’s eyes, and say:

“You look very fine, Dean.”

Whatever happens tonight, Dean is going to murder his little brother in cold blood.

And maybe take a pair of chaps home.

#deancas #sam-winchester #fic-meme #writings


Chocolate Babka Cinnamon Rolls (this recipe used HummingBirdHighs buttermilk cinnamon roll dough recipe, but after that is all my funky invention. I used a makeshift chocolate filling and then decided to use a babka type technique to cut and roll them into a muffin tin. They seemed to work quite well, but I feel they needed something like a cream cheese frosting to give them that extra moist kick.)