i can't repeat that

slavic languages gothic

You see a sentence written in cyrillic. Some of the letters are familiar. You see the meaning shimmering underneath the surface. You almost grasp it, but it slips away. The letters on the page mock you silently.

You know this Czech word. You’ve already learnt it in Polish. It is not the same word. It is a grave insult. Your slavic friends are shocked and embarassed for you when they hear you speak it.

There is a sentence in Croatian. There is a sentence in Serbian. There is a sentence in Bosnian. They are all the same sentence.

You have to write about your day in Slovak. You spend the night polishing the draft. You fail your assigment. It’s written in Czech. You don’t know Czech.

P is not what it seems. You have to remember that.

The Croatian sentence does not mean what the Bosnian sentence means. They both mean the same in Serbian.

That word has a diminutive. The diminutive has its own diminutive. The diminutive of the diminutive also has a diminutive. Nobody knows what the final diminutive of a word is. Some say the knowledge had been lost in centuries past and matrioshkas are the echo, the tangible warning left for us to remember. No living creature should hold the means of diminishing something into nonexistence.
Others say you may still find some of them in old soviet textbooks, if you dare to look in abandoned schools of Chernobyl.

Someone is speaking to you. Is that a he or a she? You aren’t sure. It’s an abstract concept. Why does it have gender.

You see a word in a dictionary. It has seventeen letters and only one vowel. You close the dictionary very carefully not looking at the phonetic transcription. The shape of it haunts you in your sleep. You wake up face damp with tears, a bitter taste on your tongue. The clock blinks 3:03AM. You do not dare look up that word again.

This word means the same thing in the five slavic languages you’re familiar with. You use it in the sixth one. That word does not exist in this language. It never did. There is now a word-shaped void in the fabric of this language. The natives look at you uneasily. There is a new quality to the silence and your palms start to sweat.

H is not H. H is not H. H is not H. H is not H.

One day you flip through your dictionary. A page is missing. What was the word? You can’t remember. There is pressure building at the back of your head. The clock blinks 3:03AM.

You write my name is in cyrillic. There are shadows dancing on the walls. They grow longer with each letter you write down. It is not cyrillic you’re using. You keep writing my name is. The shadows now bleed from the tip of your pen. It’s irrelevant. You need to remember the right letters.

N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not N is not… If only you could remember the letters. The letters are important. What was it, that wasn’t N?

There are nine different prefixes you can add to a verb to change its meaning. There are fifty three different suffixes you have to add to a verb to make it work. In the end the only thing left of the original is a vague shape of one of its middle consonants. You can feel the anguish radiating from the verb’s mutialted form. A desperate sob escapes through your clenched teeth. You’re so, so sorry, you didn’t meant to. You didn’t. It doesn’t matter.

You now read a text in Russian. You’ve never learnt Russian. Why are you reading that text? The words burn your eyes, the meaning searing your mind.

There’s a shot of vodka in front of you. You don’t drink alcohol. You don’t care. All existence is meaningless, your soul’s in eternal pain. A broken matrioshka lays at your feet. There is no salvation, she says boring into your eyes. You open your mouth to answer, but there is only a burst of harsh rustle. It dies in whispering echoes a moment later. Your glass is empty again.

Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band is the eighth studio album by English rock band the Beatles. Released on 1 June 1967, it was an immediate commercial and critical success, spending 27 weeks at the top of the albums chart in the United Kingdom and 15 weeks at number one in the United States. Time magazine declared it “a historic departure in the progress of music” and the New Statesman praised its elevation of pop to the level of fine art. It won four Grammy Awards in 1968, including Album of the Year, the first rock LP to receive this honour.

Frankly, if ‘Slow Hands’ had been the initial single, he may have freaked some fans out because of how much it doesn’t sound like him. That’s what makes the second go so intriguing, though, proving that Horan has some unexpected tricks up his sleeve… But ‘Slow Hands’ doesn’t just put his voice in a bit of a new light, the grittier, funkier tune also presents Horan’s versatility as a solo artist.
—  Billboard
Fuzzy Wuzzy

One of the most powerful lessons I learned from my time as a Certified Nursing Assistant was from an elderly woman who called me Fuzzy Wuzzy.

For the purposes of this story, we’ll call this woman “Edna.”

Edna called me Fuzzy Wuzzy because I had recently started shaving my head, and the first time I came to work without hair she put a hand on my head and said I reminded her of the poem, “Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear. Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair. Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn’t really fuzzy, was he?”

Edna was an easygoing and good natured person who had very poor vision and almost no mobility, but was very pleasant to care for most times of the day.

Except things were very difficult for about an hour every night, because that’s when Edna saw spiders.

The spiders that she saw every night covered her ceiling in a great black moving mass. This was caused partly by the confusion she experienced, and partly because her poor eyesight caused false shapes to appear and move in very dark lighting. It was terrifying for her.

She would scream and holler for someone to get rid of the spiders until one of the CNAs would go into her room and try to loudly convince her there were no spiders. Sometimes she would get so worked up that they would have to turn on the light in her room, which greatly bothered her roommate.

One night, I was working down a different hall in the health center, but I could hear Edna’s shouting from the other side of the facility. The CNA working her hall was occupied with helping another resident use the bathroom, so I went in to Edna’s room and claimed the call.

I knew there was no way I could talk loudly enough for Edna to hear me without waking up half the hall. Plus I didn’t like shouting at residents.

So instead, I took her hand, leaned in very close to her ear, and in the deepest, most reassuring voice I had I said, “Edna, do you know who this is?”

She recognized my voice and immediately stopped shouting. Then she brought a shaking hand down on my head and gave it a little rub.

I’ll never forget the sound of relief in her sigh as she took a deep breath and said, “Oh. Fuzzy Wuzzy.”

I told her she was safe and that things would be alright, and she believed me. I asked her if I could sit with her for a bit and she said yes. She closed here eyes and I held her hand until she fell asleep a few minutes later.

After that, we made a habit of me visiting her room each night I was on shift. I didn’t wait for the screaming to start because I got to know when it normally would. After a couple weeks, Edna no longer saw spiders at night. She never stopped calling me Fuzzy Wuzzy.

And more than a decade later, I’m still blown away by that experience. What an immensely powerful thing it is to be someone’s Fuzzy Wuzzy!

What a difference it makes to listen to someone, get to know them, joke with them, love them, show them respect and learn to laugh with them. And then, when they are going through a crisis, to be there. To say their name and let them hear your voice, to hold their hand, to let them feel your presence.

Even without the power to solve their problem, just to BE THERE. To remind them of brighter times and sunshine and jokes and promises of good days that can return again. To just assure them they’re not alone.

It doesn’t take a lot to be a Fuzzy Wuzzy, but OH, WHAT A DIFFERENCE IT CAN MAKE.

And I will always be grateful for the opportunity I had to learn that lesson from that special and sacred experience.

anonymous asked:

You're still posting his disgusting artist? His mysoginostic characters have NO place on tumblr, nor do you if you think ANY of this is ok or redeemable. In 2017 we're supposed to be a BETTER world, a SAFER world, a LESS WOMAN-HATING world, yet here you are posting "hurr look at da titties boy women sure are sexy but also worthless!" in artist format. Fuck off and die, I bet you jack off to anime because no woman would actually get within 100 feet of a greasy manchild like you.

I normally choose to post Mashima’s artwork here, and nothing more. This blog was not made for any purpose but to share Mashima-senshi’s art, I have had no intentions of speaking out, or spreading any word. However, I was greeted with this in the mailbox and this is not okay.

I’m reusing a lot of old points from the previous post I’ve answered because I’m too tired and the points are generally the same.

1. Anon hate is never okay. It shows that you are a coward who do not have the guts to speak out with your identity attached, likely because you’re afraid of the repercussions. If you do not have the guts to speak out openly about your apparent disgust, you do not have the right to speak out at all, especially not a blog where his work is being shared and loved. That being said, hate in general is not okay.

2. *this, *misogynistic : Disgusting is subjective. What you find disgusting, other people may not. What we find disgusting, you may not. For example, I find this random anonymous ask attacking an artist disgusting, but you most certainly do not seem to deem it so. On the other hand, I’m sure many others following this blog for his artwork would agree that his artwork is rather great in their opinion. As this is a subjective determination, I will leave this as such. 

3. What are you doing on a blog that does nothing but post Hiro Mashima’s artwork if you find it disgusting? It seems you may have a problem. If you find something disgusting, I suggest that you stay away from it. Perhaps you can try a blacklist function, it is easily found with a quick google search. Going to a blog that posts nothing but something you find disgusting may mean that you have an issue, please see a doctor if it persists, it is not healthy for you to continually visit something that contains things you find disgusting.

4. There are a lot of things that have NO place on tumblr,; such as abuse and attack ( of which you are doing so ), cowardice ( in failing to show yourself while attacking others ). This? This is just art work of virtual characters that do not actually exist. If you are so wondrous, kindly focus your attempts of righteousness in a direction such as domestic abuse, rape and the likes. Please do in fact. The world could do with far lesser rapists. None at all would be just marvelous.

4. Who’s hating on women? You have deemed the women in Fairy Tail as sexy but also worthless, but not me. Not us. Maybe I speak for myself but I see the women of Fairy Tail as strong individuals who may have their moments to shine taken often ( unfortunately ), but such does not mean that they are any less worthy of compliments. Each of them has fought through their own troubles, traumas and sculpted a life for themselves. I don’t know what you are reading if you don’t see that. Perhaps you should be correcting yourself and your misogynistic views if you are the one seeing that the women are “sexy but also worthless”. Cause I’m pretty sure any of the women in Fairy Tail can take your ass anytime if they were in fact real.

5. Telling someone to fuck of and die is generally considered as abuse or harassment. Hey, that’s rude. That makes you a coward who attacks people, telling them to die. What makes you any better than the supposedly ‘misogynistic’ people you call us? We are just people who enjoy pretty art. You are someone who attacks people. How are you any better?

6. If you find that his work is horrible, you may choose to drop Fairy Tail like I know many have done. What is the issue here? I find it hard to understand why you continue to apparently torment yourself with art and story that you do not like and find disgusting. If you dislike it so much, please leave the fandom. No one is stopping you.

6. You’re talking about something personal, but unfortunately for you, I do not jack off. And there are many women who I hang out with frequently, definitely within 100 feet, sometimes even less than one feet. Also I’m not a manchild. I’m actually a woman who is definitely not greasy. LOL. Personal attacks don’t really work.

I do not advocate hate in any forms. If you dislike something, the smart move is to unfollow, blacklist, and avoid. Going forward to send messages like such to a blog that enjoys what you do not is honestly not the action you should be taking. You take the fun and happiness out of others because you dislike something. One can not expect everyone to like the same thing, and on the same note, one cannot expect everyone to dislike the same thing. You would not like it if I came up to you and said horrible things about the things you like, you would not like it if I came up to you and said, and I quote “ Fuck off and die”.  Even if you can not enjoy something, you should not take that enjoyment away from others. 

People who come to this blog came here for Hiro Mashima’s artwork. If you do not have that intention, or like them, please just leave. There is no place for your hate here. This is a place for people who enjoy Hiro Mashima’s artwork to unite and connect.

If any word is spread in this post, let it be this.
HATE IS NOT OKAY.

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