Good day! I am actually curious as to what rumor was the art done by jeusus based on? It got me going :o
Hi!! Oh man well recently I’ve gotten obsessed with reading a couple of Star Wars subreddits: Star Wars Leaks and Star Wars Speculation. Neither of them are great for discussion but they are reliably hilarious, usually in an unintentional way, and there is the occasional really thoughtful post that I love. And I’m finding it fun to try to keep up with all the rumors about the new movie…. I knew absolutely nothing about TFA going in, but in this case I need to like, emotionally prepare myself for whatever will happen, so I’m actively seeking spoilers this time around.
Most of what gets posted to these comms as “secret insider info” is total bullshit, of course, which to me is entertaining – recently someone showed up with alleged plot synopsis/outline spoilers, and they posted ACT I and got quite a bit of traction and enthusiasm in one of the communities, of the “could these be real??” variety. I took a particular interest in this because they promised to post ACT II and then ACT III, and one of their teasers about spoilers to come was “Hux has a secret.” !!!! (Usually the fake spoilers don’t bother to mention Hux lol)
SO, this person came back and posted their ACT II spoilers, and a lot of people thought those sounded less plausible and more lame. I figured since they got dumped on for that post they might not come back for more abuse, but a few days ago ACT III appeared at last, and Hux’s big secret was revealed….!!
And the secret was that Hux is a Palpatine…. Snoke crafts a black lightsaber for Hux (in scene??) and hands it over.
When I got to this part of “ACT III” I busted out laughing at work. Jeusus’ beautiful artwork is more than Armitage Palpatine Hux, Wielder of the Darksaber deserves. But ngl I love this idea and want it to be a crack trope in fandom.
Thanks for asking!! Fake spoilers and wild theories are the kind of purehearted fandom nonsense I love. I was a big big fan of the RON IS DUMBLEDORE theory back in the day.
Hi I just came along to your blog. I am curious, what kind of witch are you (white, black, brown, or grey)? I considered myself a white witch and a starter kit ^_^; lol hope you'll have a blessed be day!
Okay awesome :). I don’t know what kind of witch I am (doesn’t think about it yet). >w
Match up? Loud and proud, ENFP,♋️, 157 cm, with short black hair. I am a very curious, open minded and optimistic in general. I enjoy the outdoors, sports and honest ppl. I am somewhat logical and highly run on my emotions. Supports you to the core. Love crazy ideas.Idealistic,artistic and affectionate. Low-key mom friend, low key rebel. I have short temper?But want harmony??Crybaby with much will power and love to give. I like boys lol thank you 🌻
I match you with Jean!
Oh boy, where to start! You want an honest person who will tell you like it is regardless of how much the truth hurts? Jean is your guy! Pragmatic and somewhat pessimistic, I feel like your optimism and logic would help balance him out. You would inspire him to think outside the box and try things he would never think of before, even if he he acts like it’s a big deal. The two of you might clash a few times, given your short temper, but your need for harmony and Jean’s guilt would always allow the both of you to make-up. Even if he doesn’t express it all the time, Jean adores the support you’re able to give and depends on you when he feels overwhelmed with everything going on. Jean would hate to see you cry and would do everything in his power to prevent that, but he would definitely lend an ear or a shoulder if you got worked up. He isn’t the best with comforting people, but he tries really hard!
Match up for aot! Loud girl , ENFP,♋️, 157 cm, with short black hair. I am a very curious, open minded and optimistic in general. I enjoy the outdoors, sports and passionate ppl. I am somewhat logical and highly run on my emotions. Supports you to the core. Love crazy ideas.Idealistic,artistic and affectionate. Low-key mom friend, low key rebel. I am peaceful and likes to cuddle and watch the stars✨I am feminine.Crybaby with much will power and love to give. I like boys lol thank you 🌻
youre welcome ♡ ♡
» eren jaegar «
▪ Firstly, your nature of curiosity and acceptance would be very helpful in Eren getting to know you better, especially when the people around him had no interest but destroying the enemy
▪ There would be no friction between you and the titan shifter, for his passion runs deep and your optimism is all on the surface, allowing him to know that the titans weren’t going to get the best of you
▪ You appear to have a little wild side to you, which is something Eren can be grateful for when humanity is almost certain to be doomed; he would find it inspiring at the most
▪ The calm side of you would help the boy in his moments of anger and frustration, mostly aiding him in keeping his head levelled; it would show him that there are other options than the ones he knows of
▪ Lastly, in the moments of platonic privacy, Eren would find himself admiring you for who you are, being grateful for the different roles you can take on for the good of him
A question is posed for star-beings here on earth: “What are
you and what is your chosen mission?”
One might say, “Why, I am a galaxy. By simply holding a
space I give life to the human race. The light I contain shines so bright I
need not lift a finger to see humanity through this cosmic night.”
A wanderer from many places exclaims, “I am a library of
evolution with tales of love imbued with treasures. My strides are worlds apart
and I can evoke a note that sings and rings with the songs of the universal
Another being gently leaning against a tree replies, “Well
my curious One, I am a black hole! My very nature contains all that you are and
gives rise to the planets and stars you find within your art.”
And although we are beyond thankful for all of these brave
beings who care to share their gifts with this realm… there are other
ambassadors here who have chosen to do far more than dip their little toe in
So to such an ambassador, I present the same question: “What
are you and what is your chosen mission?”
“I am One.”
“One you say? Humans are afraid to “be one” or embrace
oneness because they worship individuality. They fear the loss of themselves.”
“Odds are you’ve
grown so far apart you cannot hear the harmony that joins all hearts. If a few
of you became like the Christ-child or perhaps the guru who said ‘you are me
and I am you’ then you would be past this ordeal and every soul would be
“Okay so you are Oneness. Does that mean you are here to
hold a space? Do you watch with love and keep your distance so humanity can
find its own way?”
“No, no. You see, I came with my work boots on. Where I ‘came
from’ is important but not nearly as important as knowing why I am here now. I
didn’t come here to whine for home, escape reality, or become overwhelmed with
problems. Your planet has a few words for me: peacemaker, conciliator,
mediator… just to name a few. I create union among all races in the universe…
or better yet create opportunities for the universal family to see the oneness
that we already are. We are accepting job applications you know… we seem to be
a little short on oneironauts at the moment.”
“Tell me more.”
“I can create union and harmony among all beings. I become
the mind from which all things can arise… the universal one that is. It is
actually a dark, empty space. When I unite the minds and brainwaves of world
leaders to this place they become the masters of their own karma and I show
them how to create harmony on all planes. The ego falls away because there is
nothing to dominate. There is no separation. There is no red, blue, green, or
orange. There is no fire, water, air, or earth. There is only the source of the
rainbow and the cauldron from which all elements can emerge.”
“How does this help humanity? How is this any different from
a monk abandoning the world to meditate in his cave? If there is nothing to
fight or compare yourself with how do you bring help to a world rooted in
“In this pureness I become united with whoever appears in
front of me. I can enter the mind and soul of Van Gogh and see the stars as he
saw them (as spirals!) and view time as he did. He felt trapped by it,
“Well that is pretty cool… could you be more specific about
how this can create harmony though?”
“Certainly. As I imagine Vladmir Putin, Barrack Obama, and
Bashar Al-Assad appearing in front of me, I see they can experience each other
AS each other. Vladimir Putin can see through the eyes of Barack Obama and can
experience Obama’s sense of humor, facial expressions, and (in this space)
become a fan of the Chicago bears. Extend these examples to the merging of the
political stances of these leaders and you’ve got the idea. Basically, these
men can become the minds, souls, and bodies of each other. I give them the
opportunity to be masters of their own karma by showing them this space where
they can step out of the drama for a few moments and see how it all plays out.
Or better yet, I can experience myself as each of these beings and unite them
with the source where they share “common ground.” Can republicans really oppose
democrats here? I can find the source they both arise from. They do eventually
arise from the same place… when these leaders become aware of these
similarities in each other peace becomes a possibility in the 3d world and war
is no longer needed to resolve conflict. A common goal can unite even the most
estranged enemies. All of the opposing qualities in individuals can be united
and mixed together in this way so that there is no way to differentiate between
one or the other. This is a place of pure inspiration. What can possibly be
more inspiring than knowing that you can move forward without anything opposing
you? When beings achieve a state of oneness they are in this pure experience of
inspiration. When I come to this place with the three men I listed before, I
see a common goal. They want to survive and thrive. If they begin to understand
that war and violence on each other actually reduces resources for each and
every one of them and that all of the violence is actually keeping them from
all of the abundance they could be sharing (I mean come on, by being enemies
they are all being stingy with something) then they will begin to work together
peacefully to create new solutions for all of their countries collectively.
Eventually they will all easily be able to answer, ‘What is the right thing to
do for everyone?’ Oh, and they’ll actually want to do it.”
“Okay this doesn’t sound so bad… but there is still some
confusion on the ground here. What is a starseed then?”
“Great question. A starseed really can be someone with the
aura of a black hole, a wanderer, a quasar, or a star from a distant
constellation… they can be an incarnated sirian with the spirit of a dolphin or
a Yahyel who brings cool technology to earth. They can take on the role of
mediator, referee, healer, and maybe even guardian angel but a starseed is more
than that. It is a soul brave enough to consider the human race as their
responsibility. This does not mean that humans need a savior, no. We learned
that lesson before. A starseed is a “go-between” of sorts who is a living
example of everything humanity can become. We become the bridge for races such
as humanity to walk across as they become acquainted with evolved forms of
themselves. We can even serve as the “higher selves” of other races. A starseed
is a being who can unify anything by being a pure mirror by which all of
humanity can become synchronized with each other and the rest of the galaxy. We
view all beings as part of the cosmic family and unite them with this reality. There
is no evil plight we cannot make into light. In one moment I live many
lifetimes. In one dream, I can create peace from the most irate fight. I can
become like the stars and see the world through a million eyes. To be a
starseed here is to be born with this creed: We are all one. We are all family.
I allow peace to serve as the core of my being and I make the healing of earth
and humanity my highest dream.”
Confession: I am curious as to why it seems like the black men with money like Kanye West, Lil Wayne, A$ap Rocky. are so openly ignorant about how they are viewed in white America. I don’t see black women being this ignorant that have the same or equal amount of money. Like are they a special stupid or because we are double minority its easier to notice. or are they not asking us.
St. Paul de Vence, France–The argument concerning the use, or the status, or the reality, of black English is rooted in American history and has absolutely nothing to do with the question the argument supposes itself to be posing. The argument has nothing to do with language itself but with the role of language. Language, incontestably, reveals the speaker. Language, also, far more dubiously, is meant to define the other–and, in this case, the other is refusing to be defined by a language that has never been able to recognize him.
People evolve a language in order to describe and thus control their circumstances, or in order not to be submerged by a reality that they cannot articulate. (And, if they cannot articulate it, they are submerged.) A Frenchman living in Paris speaks a subtly and crucially different language from that of the man living in Marseilles; neither sounds very much like a man living in Quebec; and they would all have great difficulty in apprehending what the man from Guadeloupe, or Martinique, is saying, to say nothing of the man from Senegal–although the “common” language of all these areas is French. But each has paid, and is paying, a different price for this “common” language, in which, as it turns out, they are not saying, and cannot be saying, the same things: They each have very different realities to articulate, or control.
What joins all languages, and all men, is the necessity to confront life, in order, not inconceivably, to outwit death: The price for this is the acceptance, and achievement, of one’s temporal identity. So that, for example, thought it is not taught in the schools (and this has the potential of becoming a political issue) the south of France still clings to its ancient and musical ProvenÁal, which resists being described as a “dialect.” And much of the tension in the Basque countries, and in Wales, is due to the Basque and Welsh determination not to allow their languages to be destroyed. This determination also feeds the flames in Ireland for many indignities the Irish have been forced to undergo at English hands is the English contempt for their language.
It goes without saying, then, that language is also a political instrument, means, and proof of power. It is the most vivid and crucial key to identify: It reveals the private identity, and connects one with, or divorces one from, the larger, public, or communal identity. There have been, and are, times, and places, when to speak a certain language could be dangerous, even fatal. Or, one may speak the same language, but in such a way that one’s antecedents are revealed, or (one hopes) hidden. This is true in France, and is absolutely true in England: The range (and reign) of accents on that damp little island make England coherent for the English and totally incomprehensible for everyone else. To open your mouth in England is (if I may use black English) to “put your business in the street”: You have confessed your parents, your youth, your school, your salary, your self-esteem, and, alas, your future.
Now, I do not know what white Americans would sound like if there had never been any black people in the United States, but they would not sound the way they sound. Jazz, for example, is a very specific sexual term, as in jazz me, baby, but white people purified it into the Jazz Age. Sock it to me, which means, roughly, the same thing, has been adopted by Nathaniel Hawthorne’s descendants with no qualms or hesitations at all, along with let it all hang out and right on! Beat to his socks which was once the black’s most total and despairing image of poverty, was transformed into a thing called the Beat Generation, which phenomenon was, largely, composed of uptight, middle- class white people, imitating poverty, trying to get down, to get with it, doing their thing, doing their despairing best to be funky, which we, the blacks, never dreamed of doing–we were funky, baby, like funkwas going out of style.
Now, no one can eat his cake, and have it, too, and it is late in the day to attempt to penalize black people for having created a language that permits the nation its only glimpse of reality, a language without which the nation would be even more whipped than it is.
I say that the present skirmish is rooted in American history, and it is. Black English is the creation of the black diaspora. Blacks came to the United States chained to each other, but from different tribes: Neither could speak the other’s language. If two black people, at that bitter hour of the world’s history, had been able to speak to each other, the institution of chattel slavery could never have lasted as long as it did. Subsequently, the slave was given, under the eye, and the gun, of his master, Congo Square, and the Bible–or in other words, and under these conditions, the slave began the formation of the black church, and it is within this unprecedented tabernacle that black English began to be formed. This was not, merely, as in the European example, the adoption of a foreign tongue, but an alchemy that transformed ancient elements into a new language: A language comes into existence by means of brutal necessity, and the rules of the language are dictated by what the language must convey.
There was a moment, in time, and in this place, when my brother, or my mother, or my father, or my sister, had to convey to me, for example, the danger in which I was standing from the white man standing just behind me, and to convey this with a speed, and in a language, that the white man could not possibly understand, and that, indeed, he cannot understand, until today. He cannot afford to understand it. This understanding would reveal to him too much about himself, and smash that mirror before which he has been frozen for so long.
Now, if this passion, this skill, this (to quote Toni Morrison) “sheer intelligence,” this incredible music, the mighty achievement of having brought a people utterly unknown to, or despised by “history”–to have brought this people to their present, troubled, troubling, and unassailable and unanswerable place–if this absolutely unprecedented journey does not indicate that black English is a language, I am curious to know what definition of language is to be trusted.
A people at the center of the Western world, and in the midst of so hostile a population, has not endured and transcended by means of what is patronizingly called a “dialect.” We, the blacks, are in trouble, certainly, but we are not doomed, and we are not inarticulate because we are not compelled to defend a morality that we know to be a lie.
The brutal truth is that the bulk of white people in American never had any interest in educating black people, except as this could serve white purposes. It is not the black child’s language that is in question, it is not his language that is despised: It is his experience. A child cannot be taught by anyone who despises him, and a child cannot afford to be fooled. A child cannot be taught by anyone whose demand, essentially, is that the child repudiate his experience, and all that gives him sustenance, and enter a limbo in which he will no longer be black, and in which he knows that he can never become white. Black people have lost too many black children that way.
And, after all, finally, in a country with standards so untrustworthy, a country that makes heroes of so many criminal mediocrities, a country unable to face why so many of the nonwhite are in prison, or on the needle, or standing, futureless, in the streets–it may very well be that both the child, and his elder, have concluded that they have nothing whatever to learn from the people of a country that has managed to learn so little.
When I arrived in New York City in 1983, I was almost seven years old and I’d never seen a black person in real life. I’d never seen one on television either. There were no children of color in my neighborhood, school or city. In kindergarten we had to memorize a famous Polish poem about a nice little African boy called Bambo who scurried up a tree because his mother told him he needed a bath and he was afraid of turning white. “Little black boy Bambo lives in Africa; such beautiful skin our little friend has…” That was the extent of it - the extent of my knowledge of what it mean to be black.
Poland was heavily ensconced behind the Iron Curtain back then and my parents were political refugees, coming to start a new life in a new land. This new land was full of new faces - brown and black faces, so many shades of color I didn’t know where to look. It was overwhelming, incredible, and very soon, completely normal, just another thing I got used too, like seven whole channels on TV and supermarkets full of anything you could ever ask for.
Back home we feared the government and those in charge; they were the enemy, they were the ones who had the dollars to shop in Pevex stores - stores where you could buy furs and imported PespiCola and Levi jeans. If you shopped at the Pevex, you were suspicious and lucky because you could afford luxury in a place where the average person waited on three-hour long lines for toilet paper and a rationed out pound of sugar. Color didn’t scare me; Commies and rich people did.
In America, my skin was white, but my voice was tinged with a heavy accent. I was a foreigner from a Soviet Bloc nation which in 1983 meant something scary.
By second grade, I stopped going to ESL classes. I was learning. I lived in the Glenwood Housing Projects in Brooklyn. There was a boy in my class who was nicer to me than anybody else. His name was James. He had a huge smile and beautiful white teeth, American teeth. We were paired up in Social Studies. Our job was to make a papier mache Statute of Liberty, and we worked hard. He was my first black friend, and then he became just my friend. I wonder what happened to James and where he is now.
It’s hard for me to write this, because I don’t really know what to say. But I think about color every day now; I think about Ferguson and race and riots and change. And all I know is no one around me is really talking about any of it, about how our country seems to be imploding, about how it’s sitting on some ugly little secret nobody white wants to mention. No one on my Facebook is mentioning it either, save for a few “activist” friends, and a writer I look up to. Are the others afraid to speak about their concern? Or are they afraid because they have none?
I’ve been afraid too; to say the wrong thing, to hurt feelings or be told off. Afraid even that I am writing the word “black” too much; that I am writing the wrong words. I am uncomfortable and I don’t know why. Or I do know why - the events in Ferguson gnaw at me late at night, because they are making me question who I am, how I think, and what my adopted country has become. So I write this despite my fear. I write this because my gut tells me that if I felt compelled to write about Robin Williams dying, I should be compelled to write about Mike Brown. Because in a way, they are about the same thing; senseless death.
I learned about Martin Luther King, Jr in the second grade too. We read about his life and then were told to draw something inspired by his story. I drew a picture of two white kids and two black kids holding hands on a green hill. My teacher beamed. She said I got the ‘message.’
All my life, I’ve prided myself on not being “racist.” This means, among other things, that I have black friends, that I am curious about African-American culture and history, that I have devoured An Invisible Man and all of Toni Morrison’s books, that I’ve cried during movies like Twelve Years a Slave, that my roommate in college was black, that I teach my children to celebrate and respect differences like skin color and faith while reminding them we are all part of the human race. There. I am doing my job. I am a white privileged person, I am a Polish immigrant, and for whatever reason, my empathy for the mistreated runs deep. I had nothing once. I had close to nothing. I worked hard. I reached for the fucking stars, and here I am now and I still believe that this is some kind of magic formula - hard work plus faith - and in the US of A, no matter where you come from or what you look like, the formula works. Maybe this is me being naive. Maybe this is me being optimistic. I am sensitive about coming off better than simply because I am better off. My eight year old son has a best buddy in school whose father is Polish, whose mother is African-American, and whose skin is brown, and none of that matters except for the fact that his buddy also really loves The Teenage Mutant Turtles. And I feel good about that. I feel ‘proud.’
But I don’t know what the fuck that means anymore. What does that even mean?
And there’s a bigger but. The but I can’t get out of my head, and why I am finally writing this blog.
Last Saturday night my husband performed at a charity concert in St. Petersburg, Florida. There was a crowd of 800 people, all of them white. They came to hear some Van Halen covers, to help raise money for a good cause, and maybe to get a picture with Patrick Wilson, who happened to be the drummer of this little band he’d formed with his brothers. My sons and I were ushered to the ‘VIP’ section. The venue was a sweltering and smelly brewery and God knows why the hell I wore heels and ‘VIP’ just meant plastic chairs and a thin blue rope. There were three rows of VIP seats. My kids and I sat in the third row because the first two were already occupied. They were occupied by faces I couldn’t place. Were they friends of the family? Were they friends at all? Were they lost? Who the hell were they? I smiled warily as I sat down, but it bugged me. It bugged me because the reason I was so thrown off was because the people sitting in front of me were African-American. And I felt like they were in the wrong place simply because of that. I caught myself. I felt shame at the thought, and I forced it away, pretended like the thought had never happened. Halfway through the concert a young man was brought to the stage, to talk a little about where the proceeds of the concert that night would go. They would go to his school, a school that gave out merit based scholarships to students in financial need. It was a rigorous program, 11 months out of the year, ten hours a day of learning - a program that got these smart kids who needed help, ready for college and beyond. The boy speaking was charming and eloquent, nervous and humble. On the stage, my husband beamed at him. In the crowd, I beamed at him. What a great kid, I thought. And then I realized the people sitting in the first two rows of the VIP section belonged there. They were his family, and they were also beaming. And I fucking died a little bit inside. Because me, consummate lover of humanity & just causes, me the ‘non-racist,’ had just had a very racist moment. And it scared the hell out of me.
In the middle of writing this, I take a break. I walk upstairs to say goodnight to my boys. I see my dad and stop in my tracks. I call out to him.
“Dad, when we first got here in 1983, were you afraid of black people?”
I expect him to say no. He was a defender of human rights, a freedom fighter back in Poland, imprisoned for his politics and then deported. But my father turns his eyebrows downward and looks sheepish as he nods his head yes.
“You were? Why?”
"I dunno. I’d never seen so many in person. I was afraid because they looked different.” And then he quotes the Polish poem about Bambo. I am dumbfounded. My father is a radical-liberal-conservative. He is a conundrum. Someone who can spew bizarre ideology and then call my old college roommate his ‘fourth daughter’ because he loves her so much. He is not a racist but he is prone to stereotypical thinking. He tells me there were black Communist students from Cuba in Poland in the late 60s and him and his “white trash” teenage buddies would beat up on them sometimes. I widen my eyes in disbelief. I yell at him, why?
“Because we were fucking stupid.”
He tells me back then in Poland if you were gay and someone reported you, you were imprisoned for three years. He tells me people were scared all the time. He tells me things I don’t want to hear. He tells me some of his best pals when he was a NYC taxi driver were African and Jamaican cabbies, “good hard-working people.” He tells me things that don’t fit the narrative. He tells me it’s wrong to judge someone based on their skin color because that is basic ignorance and he tells me when he first got to the States he was afraid to touch black people. “But then I learn.”
After our conversation, I tell my father thanks and continue up the stairs before he stops me.”
“Why do you wanna know all of this, anyway? You writing another book?”
“No. I just wanted to talk about it.”
He nods his head.
Later, I go back to this blog and I feel like crying.
I want America to dust itself off and be better than this. I want justice for Mike Brown’s family. I want the looting to stop. I want the police officers in Missouri and beyond to remind themselves why they took an oath to protect and serve. I want us to dig deep and stop being such fucking cowards. Mostly, I want fear to give way to dialogue.
We learn to love as much as we learn to hate.
It’s time we learn to talk about the things we don’t know how to talk about. Now would be a good start.
Going through more of my comic collection for auction stuff and found this gem that I apparently paid $1 for. The infamous Superman’s Girlfriend Lois Lane #106, where she uses a machine at the Fortress of Solitude to turn black so she can get a story in the ghetto. Oh DC, you have always been full up with the crazy! This is one I don’t think I can part with, it’s too bonkers!