back again tomorrow!


I have been away from tumblr since March, and I firmly believe that this has contributed significantly to my increased mental health. It’s likely that I’ll leave again when classwork starts up and I need to focus on things other than tumblr.

But at last, that inevitable thing has happened where I need to enthuse about something and there are few people to whom I can do so. I don’t particularly care about getting involved with the fandom (for all that there is one? I assume one exists, though it may be both very small and not very present on tumblr), but I’m already two thirds of the way through a fanvid for the damn thing and my moirail (to whom I normally enthuse) isn’t caught up. Meaning I cannot spoil things for her. Aside from vague suggestions that she pay attention to spelling lest she become confused in s3e11, that there’s a dude who dresses like an owl-themed bedsheet ghost, and that Elely is wonderful and deserves all good things in life. I’ve told her that much.

Let me tell you about Wakfu.

This show has captured my heart and soul, and season three continued to do so while also tearing the former into tiny little shreds, devouring them, spitting them out again, and shoving them in my face. Yes, it had its problems, particularly in the plot department, but I thoroughly enjoyed it nonetheless. I haven’t cried over a television show in a good long time. I haven’t felt legitimately worried for the well-being of characters in a television show in even longer. But then, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been as fond of any characters as I’ve become for those of Wakfu.

I mean, look at these sweethearts:

I love them all.

I apologize without apologizing to all those who still follow me despite my having disappeared for half a year, and who are about to be flooded with nothing but a venting of enthusiasm about this dang show. I promise it’ll eventually wane.


one of my favourite lines from the script!! i’m proud of him :’)

theres a reason sonny makes vanessa’s coffee

(this is right before usnavi definetly calls nina for help with complex cinnamon mathematics, to which shes like “…you know i study english right? but its like a sprinkle?”)

Open your eyes,
Look past the light and see,
I’m just a poor boy, I get no sympathy,
Because I’m easy come, easy go,
Little high, little low,
Any way the force leads doesn’t really matter to me, to me.

Mama, I just killed my dad,
Put my saber to his chest,
Lit it up, and now he’s dead.
Mama, my new life’s begun,
But for you I’ll go and throw it all away.

Mama, ooh,
Didn’t mean to make you cry,
If I’m not back again this time tomorrow,
Carry on, carry on as if nothing really matters.

Too late, my time has come,
Sends shivers down my spine,
Body’s aching all the time.
Goodbye, everybody, I’ve got to go,
And make my grandpa proud of me.

Mama, ooh (any way the force leads),
I don’t wanna die,
I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.

I see a little silhouetto of a man,
Is it Luke, Is it Luke, where the hell did Hux go?
Thunderbolt and lightning,
Very, very frightening me.
(Emperor) Palpatine.
(Emperor) Palpatine,
Darth Vader!
Darth Maauuul.
The Ballad of Geeshie and Elvie
On the trail of the phantom women who changed American music and then vanished without a trace.
By John Jeremiah Sullivan

IN THE WORLD of early-20th-century African-American music and people obsessed by it, who can appear from one angle like a clique of pale and misanthropic scholar-gatherers and from another like a sizable chunk of the human population, there exist no ghosts more vexing than a couple of women identified on three ultrarare records made in 1930 and ’31 as Elvie Thomas and Geeshie Wiley. There are musicians as obscure as Wiley and Thomas, and musicians as great, but in none does the Venn diagram of greatness and lostness reveal such vast and bewildering co-extent. In the spring of 1930, in a damp and dimly lit studio, in a small Wisconsin village on the western shore of Lake Michigan, the duo recorded a batch of songs that for more than half a century have been numbered among the masterpieces of prewar American music, in particular two, Elvie’s “Motherless Child Blues” and Geeshie’s “Last Kind Words Blues,” twin Alps of their tiny oeuvre, inspiring essays and novels and films and cover versions, a classical arrangement.

This is one of of my all-time favourite articles. I read it for the first time a few years ago and I’ve carried it with me ever since, so consider it a rec that encompasses Black History month, queer history, music history, the appeal of an old mystery, and the opportunity to be caught up in a story, that when it’s finished with you, will put you back down in a place that’s different from where you began. 


Some rough ghost concepts from my perpetually pending personal project.

My phone is damaged so it’s hard to take good pictures so bare with me. Some algorithm notes I made a couple of days back. I drew a lot today which was good as i needed a break from school related things. However, I’ll jump right back into work again from tomorrow and get into the study mood once more.