loveless much

Jojo Girls Are Amazing part 1: Shinobu Kawajiri

Well this is going to be a long journey so may as well start with one of my faves who often gets overlooked. 

So what makes Shinobu so great? Let’s start by looking at her life. She met and her husband in high school, later on dating him because her friends thought he was cool. The relationship was seemingly loveless, Shinobu didn’t care much for Kosaku, he was too boring for her, but she stuck with him because of how it made her friends view her. She became pregnant and ended up marrying him.

Both her son and her husband don’t show her much affection, so she somewhat resents them (Kosaku more than Hayato), but she still makes and effort to make things work. She tries to reach out and be a good mother to Hayato, but he doesn’t do the same for her. 

Shinobu isn’t very responsible or mature, she acts more like a younger lady would, and this is probably because her family is so cold and distant. She just wants excitement, she wants love, and when Kira takes on Kosaku’s identity he accidentally treats her with more affection than her husband ever had, which causes Shinobu to actually fall in love with her “husband”.

And on top of that, Hayato finally starts showing his mother more affection. He always loved his mom, but now that he knows his dad isn’t his dad, he’s determined to protect her, which in turn makes him more receptive to all of the love his mother had been showing him. Shinobu is extremely happy at this point, and her resent towards her family melts away because for once it really feels like all that time just trying to make things work has actually worked.

But in the end, the Kosaku she fell in love with was never the Kosaku that she had married all those years back, and he’d never be coming home. It leaves us with Shinobu and Hayato having dinner together, a scene that would eventually turn into something heartbreaking, but that also shows a mother and son have a deeper understanding of one another and will continue to repair their relationship and take care of each other.

So let’s look into this. Honestly, I think the thing I admire Shinobu the most for is how hard she tries. She tries to make things work even though she’s miserable. For all she knows, her son might hate her, but she stays with a man she doesn’t love for his sake. She might not be the classic mom overflowing with love, but she tries, and she loves in her own way. She just wants to be loved in return. I am so proud of her and she deserves so much love.

Mangaka fangirling

Look, I knew Minekura-sensei had made this ‘fanart’ of Kio and Seimei (why those two in particular I wonder???) from Loveless:

(Kio looks so much Like Sanzo, I can’t -XD)

But I really don’t know how I missed THIS gem of an extra from Kouga-sensei:

LOOK HOW EXCITED RITSUKA IS - same, kiddo, same! (though tbh it’s probably the photography more than Sanzo and Goku he’s excited aboutXD) 

6

Types of Visual Kei PVs 4 / ? - Churches

2

Constance Week Day 1- Favourite scene

“You know marrying Fleur to the highest bidder won’t make anyone happy. She doesn’t love him! I know you. You’re a good man. Give Fleur time and she’ll make you proud. Force her into this marriage and she’ll never forgive you. Is that what you want? Fleur told me what you said at the trial. That she should do the right thing. Now it’s your turn…”

This scene is the very essence of Constance. Standing up for what she believes in, fighting for a friend, seeing the best in people and being completely selfless. And while you can see Constance blossom under d'Artagnan’s influence and her time with the Musketeers, while you see her be brave and smart and strong on numerous occasions, this is Constance acting completely for her own reasons and this is why it is so important. She would have had this conversation with Robert regardless of whether she had met the d'Artagnan or not. Because this is who she is…

She does the right thing because it is the right thing to do.

Things I have discovered about myself since the EU Referendum (according to media and facebook)
  • I am a bad loser 
  • I am unpatriotic
  • I need to shut up and stop whining
  • I am a scaremongering idiot
  • I am not a decent person.

Okay, so here goes:

I am sore about the result. I didn’t want this result, so yes, I could be seen as a bad loser. But this is not a race. This is not a situation where I’ve lost out to someone better and I’m crying because they’ve won a big shiny cup. I’m sore and sad because I truly believe this damages the country I live in.
Let me confess something here. Leaving the EU will affect me economically, but not by much. I am a person who has a degree of privilege and so I can afford with some belt tightening to ride it out until the hundred or so trade agreements with the rest of the world are renegotiated. But I believe leaving the EU was a bad decision for the UK and made on lies pedalled by the right wing of this country. It is a bad decision for those who aren’t so fortunate, who are oppressed or overlooked. The trouble is successive governments have already overlooked vast swathes of the country, so banging on about how badly the economy is going to affect us all doesn’t hold any sway when you’re already in recession.

I have never been what is considered a true blue patriot. I was born here, my parents and their parents etc etc were also born here. I am English, with possibly a little bit of Welsh ancestry, but I’ve never believed in ‘my country right or wrong’.  
If being a patriot means I’m not allowed to be critical, then I’m not a patriot.
If being a patriot means I have to blindly follow every decision made on such a slim majority, then I am not a patriot.
If not being able to snap out of it, pull myself together, and go and have a laugh down the pub with people who voted the other way and have been incredibly unpleasant on facebook, then I am not a patriot. 

Do I need to shut up and stop whining? Again this isn’t a tea party where I’ve lost the chance of eating another piece of cake. This is a vitally important decision that has been made on the assumption that Boris is going to give 350m a week to the NHS, and Farage is going to stop all those ‘damn immigrants’ from ‘flooding’ our country. Never mind that they come here to work, pay taxes and contribute to our economy. Never mind that the immigrants he really hates are ones that aren’t from the EU at all. Never mind that he’s the most hypocritical of all because his wife is German, and thus from the EU. And finally, never mind that Farage declared that if the result was 52/48 in Remain’s favour, then he’d demand a second referendum. (I actually don’t think a second referendum is viable and it will lead to even more divisions, but I am pleased it’s being debated.)

Scaremongering idiot, apparently. This is based on news articles I’ve posted, and a series of tweets regarding the abuse EU immigrants and anyone with a different colour skin is currently being subjected to. Friend of mine witnessed an Asian family getting yelled at from a literal White Van Man, who swore at them. A man with his young family, driving along, get sworn and spat at. My friend tried to get proof but didn’t get to her phone in time. This happened in London - the so-called tolerant place in UK. The Brexit vote has given a mandate to the right wing. It took less than 5 hours for them to start targeting primary school children and telling them they had to go home. (Police are investigating.)  No, this isn’t scaremongering - it’s happening. 

Farage has said this ‘is a victory for decent people’.  I’m clearly indecent then. As much as I respect someone’s right to an opinion, and I know some people had their reasons for voting the way they did, I still think they were at best misguided. At worst, they were downright racist. 

I am scared for UK. I can’t see a way forward, and maybe we should be all working together so we can pull through, but I can’t stop feeling so very sad about it all. I can’t stop the voice inside me that wants to roar. I can’t stop this bitterness, and feeling of utter futility because of a vote that has utterly divided this country and will, in all probability, lead to a break up of the country.

So forgive me if I continue to cry.My heart is broken, and my spirit. It’s like two painful divorces in a bigamous marriage, where one partner has forced me to leave the one I love, and when I look at what I’m left with, they’re the skanky man on the sofa wearing a grubby vest, slurping beer and eeking out a cigarette. 

I’m trapped in a loveless marriage, for however  much I want to leave, I’m too entwined in this sordid relationship with the Not-so-United Kingdom.

This is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever read.

Wislawa Szymborska’s speech after receiving the Nobel Prize for Literature, december 1996.

The Poet and the World

They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one’s behind me, anyway. But I have a feeling that the sentences to come - the third, the sixth, the tenth, and so on, up to the final line - will be just as hard, since I’m supposed to talk about poetry. I’ve said very little on the subject, next to nothing, in fact. And whenever I have said anything, I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that I’m not very good at it. This is why my lecture will be rather short. All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Contemporary poets are skeptical and suspicious even, or perhaps especially, about themselves. They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in our clamorous times it’s much easier to acknowledge your faults, at least if they’re attractively packaged, than to recognize your own merits, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite believe in them yourself … When filling in questionnaires or chatting with strangers, that is, when they can’t avoid revealing their profession, poets prefer to use the general term “writer” or replace “poet” with the name of whatever job they do in addition to writing. Bureaucrats and bus passengers respond with a touch of incredulity and alarm when they find out that they’re dealing with a poet. I suppose philosophers may meet with a similar reaction. Still, they’re in a better position, since as often as not they can embellish their calling with some kind of scholarly title. Professor of philosophy - now that sounds much more respectable.

But there are no professors of poetry. This would mean, after all, that poetry is an occupation requiring specialized study, regular examinations, theoretical articles with bibliographies and footnotes attached, and finally, ceremoniously conferred diplomas. And this would mean, in turn, that it’s not enough to cover pages with even the most exquisite poems in order to become a poet. The crucial element is some slip of paper bearing an official stamp. Let us recall that the pride of Russian poetry, the future Nobel Laureate Joseph Brodsky was once sentenced to internal exile precisely on such grounds. They called him “a parasite,” because he lacked official certification granting him the right to be a poet …

Several years ago, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Brodsky in person. And I noticed that, of all the poets I’ve known, he was the only one who enjoyed calling himself a poet. He pronounced the word without inhibitions.

Just the opposite - he spoke it with defiant freedom. It seems to me that this must have been because he recalled the brutal humiliations he had experienced in his youth.

In more fortunate countries, where human dignity isn’t assaulted so readily, poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind. And yet it wasn’t so long ago, in this century’s first decades, that poets strove to shock us with their extravagant dress and eccentric behavior. But all this was merely for the sake of public display. The moment always came when poets had to close the doors behind them, strip off their mantles, fripperies, and other poetic paraphernalia, and confront - silently, patiently awaiting their own selves - the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what really counts.

It’s not accidental that film biographies of great scientists and artists are produced in droves. The more ambitious directors seek to reproduce convincingly the creative process that led to important scientific discoveries or the emergence of a masterpiece. And one can depict certain kinds of scientific labor with some success. Laboratories, sundry instruments, elaborate machinery brought to life: such scenes may hold the audience’s interest for a while. And those moments of uncertainty - will the experiment, conducted for the thousandth time with some tiny modification, finally yield the desired result? - can be quite dramatic. Films about painters can be spectacular, as they go about recreating every stage of a famous painting’s evolution, from the first penciled line to the final brush-stroke. Music swells in films about composers: the first bars of the melody that rings in the musician’s ears finally emerge as a mature work in symphonic form. Of course this is all quite naive and doesn’t explain the strange mental state popularly known as inspiration, but at least there’s something to look at and listen to.

But poets are the worst. Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic. Someone sits at a table or lies on a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven lines only to cross out one of them fifteen minutes later, and then another hour passes, during which nothing happens … Who could stand to watch this kind of thing?

I’ve mentioned inspiration. Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is, and if it actually exists. It’s not that they’ve never known the blessing of this inner impulse. It’s just not easy to explain something to someone else that you don’t understand yourself.

When I’m asked about this on occasion, I hedge the question too. But my answer is this: inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is, has been, and will always be a certain group of people whom inspiration visits. It’s made up of all those who’ve consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors, teachers, gardeners - and I could list a hundred more professions. Their work becomes one continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A swarm of new questions emerges from every problem they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous “I don’t know.”

There aren’t many such people. Most of the earth’s inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn’t pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven’t got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there’s no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes.

And so, though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune’s darlings.

At this point, though, certain doubts may arise in my audience. All sorts of torturers, dictators, fanatics, and demagogues struggling for power by way of a few loudly shouted slogans also enjoy their jobs, and they too perform their duties with inventive fervor. Well, yes, but they “know.” They know, and whatever they know is enough for them once and for all. They don’t want to find out about anything else, since that might diminish their arguments’ force. And any knowledge that doesn’t lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life. In the most extreme cases, cases well known from ancient and modern history, it even poses a lethal threat to society.

This is why I value that little phrase “I don’t know” so highly. It’s small, but it flies on mighty wings. It expands our lives to include the spaces within us as well as those outer expanses in which our tiny Earth hangs suspended. If Isaac Newton had never said to himself “I don’t know,” the apples in his little orchard might have dropped to the ground like hailstones and at best he would have stooped to pick them up and gobble them with gusto. Had my compatriot Marie Sklodowska-Curie never said to herself “I don’t know”, she probably would have wound up teaching chemistry at some private high school for young ladies from good families, and would have ended her days performing this otherwise perfectly respectable job. But she kept on saying “I don’t know,” and these words led her, not just once but twice, to Stockholm, where restless, questing spirits are occasionally rewarded with the Nobel Prize.

Poets, if they’re genuine, must also keep repeating “I don’t know.” Each poem marks an effort to answer this statement, but as soon as the final period hits the page, the poet begins to hesitate, starts to realize that this particular answer was pure makeshift that’s absolutely inadequate to boot. So the poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their “oeuvre” …

I sometimes dream of situations that can’t possibly come true. I audaciously imagine, for example, that I get a chance to chat with the Ecclesiastes, the author of that moving lament on the vanity of all human endeavors. I would bow very deeply before him, because he is, after all, one of the greatest poets, for me at least. That done, I would grab his hand. “‘There’s nothing new under the sun’: that’s what you wrote, Ecclesiastes. But you yourself were born new under the sun. And the poem you created is also new under the sun, since no one wrote it down before you. And all your readers are also new under the sun, since those who lived before you couldn’t read your poem. And that cypress that you’re sitting under hasn’t been growing since the dawn of time. It came into being by way of another cypress similar to yours, but not exactly the same. And Ecclesiastes, I’d also like to ask you what new thing under the sun you’re planning to work on now? A further supplement to the thoughts you’ve already expressed? Or maybe you’re tempted to contradict some of them now? In your earlier work you mentioned joy - so what if it’s fleeting? So maybe your new-under-the-sun poem will be about joy? Have you taken notes yet, do you have drafts? I doubt you’ll say, 'I’ve written everything down, I’ve got nothing left to add.’ There’s no poet in the world who can say this, least of all a great poet like yourself.”

The world - whatever we might think when terrified by its vastness and our own impotence, or embittered by its indifference to individual suffering, of people, animals, and perhaps even plants, for why are we so sure that plants feel no pain; whatever we might think of its expanses pierced by the rays of stars surrounded by planets we’ve just begun to discover, planets already dead? still dead? we just don’t know; whatever we might think of this measureless theater to which we’ve got reserved tickets, but tickets whose lifespan is laughably short, bounded as it is by two arbitrary dates; whatever else we might think of this world - it is astonishing.

But “astonishing” is an epithet concealing a logical trap. We’re astonished, after all, by things that deviate from some well-known and universally acknowledged norm, from an obviousness we’ve grown accustomed to. Now the point is, there is no such obvious world. Our astonishment exists per se and isn’t based on comparison with something else.

Granted, in daily speech, where we don’t stop to consider every word, we all use phrases like “the ordinary world,” “ordinary life,” “the ordinary course of events” … But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone’s existence in this world.

It looks like poets will always have their work cut out for them.

a-crazy-shipper  asked:

you know... i have this fetish for nekoboys/catboys so... can you do somenthing with a Nico-catboy? c: you decide the shipp, i just want Nico-catboy, because, in my mind, he's fucking fluffy <3

Catboys, huh? That wasn’t an easy one, but - like I said before - I love trying out new things! Thanks, dear! This was indeed fun to write and I hope you like it

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Since Loveless is pretty much all my experience with catboys I guess this is gonna be a little bit of an Loveless AU - so for everyone who doesn’t know Loveless: People have cat/dog-ears and tails until they are adults (aka had sex)
- other than that let’s just go with the usual highschool AU

Percy and Nico are at the mall. Shopping for clothes. Nico obviously doesn’t like it, but at least there’s dinner afterwards with Tyson and Jason.

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Nico was glad they’d come to the mall early on a weekday. Percy had been thoughtful enough to choose a day where almost no one else was shopping; most of those annoying Barbie-girls were still in school or sleeping and mothers and fathers were working or going for groceries but not clothes. Still, there was this old granny who looked at him like she wanted to pinch his cheek and give him a cookie. Nico shuddered, his ears flat against his head.

Percy had taken off a day from school for this and Nico didn’t even want to think about the implications of the older doing something so considerate for him. The store was close to Percy’s home, where his girlfriend Annabeth was waiting for them; and while Nico had pretty much accepted them being in love forever, he couldn’t stop the fact that this felt somewhat like a date…

“Here we go!”, Percy exclaimed, heaping another load of not-black, too-expensive clothing on his arms and nodding towards Nico. “Let’s try this one first,” he laughed “I’ve seen the comic-shirts over there, but Hazel said you’d need plain clothing and not – and here I quote – ‘one of those lame superhero-ones’, because you apparently have enough of those. How come I’ve never saw you wearing anything other but skulls?”

Nico felt his tail swishing against his legs and tried to consciously stop the nervous gesture. He wouldn’t tell Percy about the Batman-boxers he was wearing right now. Or the Superman-shirt he stole form Jason’s wardrobe last month, or the Spiderman-pyjamas – but those had been a present from Hazel so she had no right to complain about them.

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