blackboard and chalk

I made a great crafty discovery and I want to share

Sister (and Brother) Witches!

Did you know that you can buy adhesive paper that has the qualities of a chalk blackboard?

I think it’s meant for kids - you stick it onto any flat surface like the wardrobe door or whatever, and the kid draws on it until it reaches the age where it doesn’t like messing about with chalk drawings anymore, and then you take it off.

However, this is a really great tool for anyone doing witchcraft or any kind of ceremonial magic or rituals! You can stick it onto the surface you do rituals on, and draw anything you like - your sigils, whatever-grams, symbols of your deity, your intention, anything - on it, in chalk, and afterwards you can wipe it clean off. Better yet, don’t even stick it, just unroll when you want to and roll up again when you don’t!

And for closeted witches, you can put it on a table that normally has a tablecloth on, or - like I did - stick it onto the back of a cutting board that normally stays mundane side up. Then just flip it for rituals and bam, instant altar. Just add chalk.

The one I found comes in black and green, too, so basically perfection.

an analytic approach to proving the nikiforov theorem

so a little while back i was briefly contemplating the mathematicians au of yuri on ice (why), and today it came back with a vengeance and hit me in the face. believe me, i deeply regret all the life choices that have led me to this place.

  • victor nikiforov is a rising star in russian mathematics, particularly known for his off-beat approach to familiar problems and a certain elegance that’s unmistakable. at sixteen he gets invited to a young mathematicians conference in sofia, where he gives a talk about certain properties of the elliptic curve.
  • some weeks later, yuuko, who’s been sharing little puzzles and problems with yuuri for as long as he can remember, finds him with a handful of papers printed from arxiv and says, “look.”
  • it’s the first time yuuri looks at a chain of logic, ruthlessly solid from beginning to end, and feels that certainty all the way through.
  • yuuri presses his fingers to the “victor nikiforov” printed primly under the title and thinks, i want to solve a problem with him. one day.

Keep reading

Consider an IshiHime au set in victorian England, where Grumpy Professor Ishida Uryuu is the estranged prodigal son who returns to his father’s country estate after his passing except he just locks himself in the study and reads all day so his only friends, Ichigo and Rukia, stage an urgent intervention because oh my god, Ishida, you look like a goddamn corpse. Why does everything smell like dissatisfaction? What are you even eating? Are you even eating? Why do all the children in the village think this place is haunted??? Their idea of a solution is basically to get him a housekeeper.

And so, Enter Miss Orihime Inoue.

Enthusiastic, bright and eccentric in all the ways the professor isn’t, she’s every sort of outrageous he can think of; slides down staircases and puts goddamn daisies in every vase and brings in stray cats from the road to feed and climbs trees and good god, Miss Inoue, why on earth would you try to ride a cow– No, no, I don’t want to try it out  for myself, you nutter –Miss Inoue!! 

(Even then, it doesn’t take him too long to grow fond of her.)

She’s sort of useless at housework and her cooking’s a whole different conversation on itss own, but what he realises soon–after she points out something obscure in his own work– is that Miss Inoue is goddamn brilliant; orphaned at a young age when her brother died, then passed around from household to household as a governess when she came of age while she studied on her own– Orihime Inoue knows her way around the equations he pores over better than half his contemporaries, has the sharpest sense of patterns and recurrences, looks far more at home in front of the blackboard, with chalk in her hair and a textbook in her hand, then she does in some stuffy kitchen. 

So housekeeper Miss Inoue becomes partner-in-research Miss Inoue; on one condition.

Orihime refuses hand-outs of any sort; turns down his offer to pay for her tuition because she’s so sick of being indebted to people–to her parents, to her relatives, to the mistresses that employed her despite being so “airheaded”.

(Ishida Understands the sentiment)

 So they decide to treat it like a loan instead; the housework is divided up between them, as is the research. People probably start thinking she’s the lady of the house because who is that Inoue girl, always with the young Professor? The consensus is split between *Victorian Gasp* and *Victorian Gasp*. The professor either got married without telling high society or–

(We’ll leave them to their assumptions.)

Because this is a victorian England Au, lots of things happen. Things like one of them falling sick from going out in the rain, and scaring the other out of their wits, because medicare doesn’t exist yet.

(But that’s okay because that just means we get to have bedside ust.) 

There’s probably a picnic too, and a dance, and lots of witty banter in good clothes, and someone saying “I love you, most ardently”, in the rain.

Consider Victorian Ishihime :’)

Looking over a freshly cut lawn is very satisfying. It seems quieter than ever when the sound of the lawnmower ceases. The smell of grass fills the air. Ella, who has been following me the whole time and dropping toys in my path, now has cute green Grinch paws.

A similar feeling happens at work around lunch time or near quitting time. On a busy day my Windows task bar has five or six open applications. A dozen or more items are displayed within those applications. Who doesn’t love six open Excel worksheets?

Closing all but Outlook and one mainframe emulator soothes me. It’s like erasing a blackboard but without all the chalk dust on the floor. Nice and clean and ready for something new.

bad dreams pt i

there is a reason they don’t tear the old houses down. there’s a reason they don’t fix them up, don’t try to keep living in them anymore either. i’m talking about the peeling houses you pass on the highway, in between long stretches of corn and wheat. there’s a doublewide trailer glowing television blue, and there’s the rotting corpse of a home resting not far behind. the first set is enough to make you wonder. the third and fourth make you worry, especially while driving through nameless land on a moonless night. 

what’s keeping them there? the houses and the people. how long have the same families lived here, slept here on frozen fields untouched by suburban sprawl? did they come here from somewhere else? have they always been here? bound by the earth, fated to protect their dirt and all that lives beneath it. 

try to keep your eyes on the road, but the ghost homes beckon you. caving porches, broken windows. a gaping roof reveals a white brick chimney. columns crumbling like blackboard chalk. come too close and the wind blowing through the moldy wood makes it look as though they’re breathing.

they say old houses sigh and creak. but not all old houses scream.

keep driving

Three busy hours later Lord Vetinari, the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, was standing in the main hall of Unseen University, and he was impressed. The wizards, once they understood the urgency of a problem, and then had lunch, and argued about the pudding, could actually work quite fast.
Their method of finding a solution, as far as the Patrician could see, was by creative hubbub. If the question was, ‘What is the best spell for turning a book of poetry into a frog?’ then the one thing they would not do was look in any book with a title like Major Amphibian Spells in a Literary Environment: A Comparison. That would, somehow, be cheating. They would argue about it instead, standing around a blackboard, seizing the chalk from one another and rubbing out bits of what the current chalk-holder was writing before he’d finished the other end of the sentence. Somehow, though, it all seemed to work.

– on wizards at work | Terry Pratchett, The Last Hero

I will love you with no regard to the actions of our enemies or the jealousies of actors. I will love you with no regard to the outrage of certain parents or the boredom of certain friends. I will love you no matter what is served in the world’s cafeterias or what game is played at each and every recess. I will love you no matter how many fire drills we are all forced to endure, and no matter what is drawn upon the blackboard in a blurring, boring chalk. I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table.

I will love you no matter what your locker combination was, or how you decided to spend your time during study hall. I will love you no matter how your soccer team performed in the tournament or how many stains I received on my cheerleading uniform. I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday. I will love you if you cut your hair and I will love you if you cut the hair of others. I will love you if you abandon your baticeering, and I will love you if you retire from the theater to take up some other, less dangerous occupation. I will love you if you drop your raincoat on the floor instead of hanging it up and I will love you if you betray your father. I will love you even if you announce that the poetry of Edgar Guest is the best in the world and even if you announce that the work of Zilpha Keatley Snyder is unbearably tedious. I will love you if you abandon the theremin and take up the harmonica and I will love you if you donate your marmosets to the zoo and your tree frogs to M. I will love you as the starfish loves a coral reef and as kudzu loves trees, even if the oceans turn to sawdust and the trees fall in the forest without anyone around to hear them. I will love you as the pesto loves the fettuccine and as the horseradish loves the miyagi, as the tempura loves the ikura and the pepperoni loves the pizza.

I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of the vulture. I will love you as the doctor loves his sickest patient and a lake loves its thirstiest swimmer. I will love you as the beard loves the chin, and the crumbs love the beard, and the damp napkin loves the crumbs, and the precious document loves the dampness in the napkin, and the squinting eye of the reader loves the smudged print of the document, and the tears of sadness love the squinting eye as it misreads what is written. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat, and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the sperm whale, and the sperm whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I will love you as a child loves to overhear the conversations of its parents, and the parents love the sound of their own arguing voices, and as the pen loves to write down the words these voices utter in a notebook for safekeeping. I will love you as a shingle loves falling off a house on a windy day and striking a grumpy person across the chin, and as an oven loves malfunctioning in the middle of roasting a turkey.

I will love you as an airplane loves to fall from a clear blue sky and as an escalator loves to entangle expensive scarves in its mechanisms. I will love you as a wet paper towel loves to be crumpled into a ball and thrown at a bathroom ceiling and an eraser loves to leave dust in the hairdos of the people who talk too much. I will love you as a cufflink loves to drop from its shirt and explore the party for itself and as a pair of white gloves loves to slip delicately into the punchbowl. I will love you as a taxi loves the muddy splash of a puddle and as a library loves the patient tick of a clock.

I will love you as a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats and as a range loves braes. I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong. I will love you as a battlefield loves young men and as peppermints love your allergies, and I will love you as the banana peel loves the shoe of a man who was just struck by a shingle falling off a house. I will love you as a volunteer fire department loves rushing into burning buildings and as burning buildings love to chase them back out, and as a parachute loves to leave a blimp and as a blimp operator loves to chase after it.

I will love you as a dagger loves a certain person’s back, and as a certain person loves to wear daggerproof tunics, and as a daggerproof tunic loves to go to a certain dry cleaning facility, and how a certain employee of a dry cleaning facility loves to stay up late with a pair of binoculars, watching a dagger factory for hours in the hopes of catching a burglar, and as a burglar loves sneaking up behind people with binoculars, suddenly realizing that she has left her dagger at home. I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world. I will love you until all the codes and hearts have been broken and until every anagram and egg has been unscrambled.

I will love you until every fire is extinguished and until every home is rebuilt form the handsomest and most susceptible of woods, and until every criminal is handcuffed by the laziest of policemen. I will love you until M. hates snakes and J. hates grammar, and I will love you until C. realizes S. is not worthy of his love and N. realizes he is not worthy of the V.

I will love you until the bird hates a nest and the worm hates an apple, and until the apple hates a tree and the tree hates a nest, and until a bird hates a tree and an apple hates a nest, although honestly I cannot imagine that last occurrence no matter how hard I try. I will love you as we grow older, which has just happened, and has happened again, and happened several days ago, continuously, and then several years before that, and will continue to happen as the spinning hands of every clock and the flipping pages of every calendar mark the passage of time, except for the clocks that people have forgotten to wind and the calendars that people have forgotten to place in a highly visible area. I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where once we were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively.

I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me happens to me as I am discovering this.

I will love you if you don’t marry me. I will love you if you marry someone else – your co-star, perhaps, or Y., or even O., or anyone Z. through A., even R. although sadly I believe it will be quite some time before two women can be allowed to marry – and I will love you if you have a child, and I will love you if you have two children, or three children, or even more, although I personally think three is plenty, and I will love you if you never marry at all, and never have children, and spend your years wishing you had married me after all, and I must say that on late, cold nights I prefer this scenario out of all the scenarios I have mentioned. That, Beatrice, is how I will love you even as the world goes on its wicked way.

—  Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters
Last Missing Piece

Picture
An aging blackboard
With chalk marks
Too light
To be seen
Like scratches
By ways
Of equations
That are faint
As the gray
Of their code

Or lines
Made from claws
In reaction
To the white
Which is nearly
Transparent
As the message
Or math
Of its meaning
That indicates
A failure
Of choice

In responsible time
Now elapsing
By the hand
That has slipped
From its trigger
When pulling
At dreams
Which are loaded
But shooting
All blanks
As its curse

By a virtue
Of risk
Gone encountered
In the depths
Of such lasting
Obsession
Which allows
For the test
Of this moral
To be proven
Right back
As it checks

Where the numbers
Are a living
Predicament
Of a person
Defined
By precision
In memories
And tales
Of enigmas
That are variables
Imbalanced
By chance

Heavy
As their sum
Which eludes them
And deceives
Without reason
Or logic
Which stands
To seek hope
Or some measure
Of the fate
That is lost
With such grief

When pursuing
True love
As an answer
Or a constant
Which bears
No resemblance
To contentment
As weak
When accepted
Or settling
For the last
Missing piece.

- J. Pigno

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Doodle video edit at Volkshotel.

Soundtrack by: https://soundcloud.com/yussiebeats