Latest Posts by sublimedetectivemusic - Page 4

Who could ever leave me, darling? But who could stay?

You will persist. You will persevere. There is more to come, there is still good in the world, there is still hope. You have to stick around, open up and embrace the good things that come to you, no matter how small, they are worth living for. Embrace it even when the change is scary. Not everything that comes into your life will crash into you and hurt you. There is more than just chaos and destruction out there. In these trying times, remember that there is still good out there and focus on it. It's easy to forget when we are too anxious and overwhelmed because we are only focusing only on tragedy. Remember that where there is suffering, there is someone willing to help, there is someone fighting, and that there is still hope for the world.

Unicorns across the world

Whew, finally this is done! Different types of unicorns! I like different interpretations of mythological creatures, so I made a bunch of them at once. They're based on real animals, but I tried to design them a bit more otherworldly.

Margaret Atwood, from “Shapechangers in Winter,” in Morning in the Burned House

J. R. R. Tolkien, undisputedly a most fluent speaker of this language, was criticized in his day for indulging his juvenile whim of writing fantasy, which was then considered—as it still is in many quarters— an inferior form of literature and disdained as mere “escapism.” “Of course it is escapist,” he cried. “That is its glory! When a soldier is a prisoner of war it is his duty to escape—and take as many with him as he can.” He went on to explain, “The moneylenders, the knownothings, the authoritarians have us all in prison; if we value the freedom of the mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as possible."

Stephen R. Lawhead

“When you start to know someone, all their physical characteristics start to disappear. You begin to dwell in their energy, recognize the scent of their skin. You see only the essence of the person, not the shell. That’s why you can’t fall in love with beauty. You can lust after it, be infatuated by it, want to own it. You can love it with your eyes and your body but not your heart. And that’s why, when you really connect with a person’s inner self, any physical imperfections disappear, become irrelevant.”

— Lisa Unger (via quotemadness)

Artist Anastasia Trusova floods her canvases with vibrant colours and textures. "Textured graphic impressionism".

*upon the airing of GO Season 2*

Audience: Didn’t you have a flaming actor?

Neil Gaiman: Uh…

A: You did! He was flaming like anything. What happened to him?

NG: Erm…

A: Lost him already have you?

NG: …replaced him with foxes

A: You what?

NG: I replaced him with fennec foxes!

It won't let me post this without a comment.

October 31, 1981.

(song credit: Despair - myuu)

the bunnies did the lady and the tramp kiss. help i’m crying

sometimes i remember this post that said "there was a time you played outside as a kid and had no idea it would be the last time you ever did" and it makes me sad thinking about how many last times there were that you never knew would be the last time... the last time you went to play at a friend's house or the last time you ever spoke, the last time you played a certain game you used to love, the last time you ever played with toys, the last time you ever had a snack before it got discontinued, the last time you ever read a certain book you used to love, the last time you ever saw a certain commercial, the last time you went into the kids section at a library or anywhere else for that matter...

Jonna Hyttinen on Instagram

“Always the same words: ‘He’s at Hogwarts…he’s at Hogwarts.’”

losing a friend (for the one that got away) 1/3

part 2 , part 3

@frenchtoastlesbian //personalmessage.blogspot.com // @linguinereid // trista mateer // unknown // richard siken // ocean vuong “on earth we’re briefly gorgeous”// unknown // unknown

A very shy maned wolf stopping for a visit at a monastery in Brazil for a bite to eat provided by monks. Because of their super long legs, they walk more like giraffes than typical canines. Maned wolves pose no threat to humans. 

(Source)

you have invited strangers into your home, helen pevensie, mother of four.

without the blurred sight of joy and relief, it has become impossible to ignore. all the love inside you cannot keep you from seeing the truth. your children are strangers to you. the country has seen them grow taller, your youngest daughter’s hair much longer than you would have it all years past. their hands have more strength in them, their voices ring with an odd lilt and their eyes—it has become hard to look at them straight on, hasn’t it? your children have changed, helen, and as much as you knew they would grow a little in the time away from you, your children have become strangers.

your youngest sings songs you do not know in a language that makes your chest twist in odd ways. you watch her dance in floating steps, bare feet barely touching the dewy grass. when you try and make her wear her sister’s old shoes—growing out of her own faster than you think she ought to—, she looks at you as though you are the child instead of her. her fingers brush leaves with tenderness, and you swear your daughter’s gentle hum makes the drooping plant stand taller than before. you follow her eager leaps to her siblings, her enthusiasm the only thing you still recognise from before the country. yet, she laughs strangely, no longer the giggling girl she used to be but free in a way you have never seen. her smile can drop so fast now, her now-old eyes can turn distant and glassy, and her tears, now rarer, are always silent. it scares you to wonder what robbed her of the heaving sobs a child ought to make use of in the face of upset.

your other daughter—older than your youngest yet still at an age that she cannot be anything but a child—smiles with all the knowledge in the world sitting in the corner of her mouth. her voice is even, without all traces of the desperate importance her peers carry still, that she used to fill her siblings’ ears with at all hours of the day. she folds her hands in her lap with patience and soothes the ache of war in your mind before you even realise she has started speaking. you watch her curl her hair with careful, steady fingers and a straight back, her words a melody as she tells your eldest which move to make without so much a glance at the board off to her right. she reads still, and what a relief you find this sliver of normalcy, even if she’s started taking notes in a shorthand you couldn’t even think to decipher. even if you feel her slipping away, now more like one of the young, confident women in town than a child desperately wishing for a mother’s approval.

your younger son reads plenty as well these days, and it fills you with pride. he is quiet now, sitting still when you find him bent over a book in the armchair of his father. he looks at you with eyes too knowing for a petulant child on the cusp of puberty, and no longer beats his fists against the furniture when one of his siblings dares approach him. he has settled, you realise one evening when you walk into the living room and find him writing in a looping script you don’t recognise, so different from the scratched signature he carved into the doors of your pantry barely a year ago. he speaks sense to your youngest and eldest, respects their contributions without jest. you watch your two middle children pass a book back and forth, each a pen in hand and sheets of paper bridging the gap between them, his face opening up with a smile rather than a scowl. it freezes you mid-step to find such simple joy in him. remember when you sent them away, helen, and how long it had been since he allowed you to see a smile then?

your eldest doesn’t sleep anymore. none of your children care much for bedtimes these days, but at least sleep still finds them. it’s not restful, you know it from the startled yelps that fill the house each night, but they sleep. your eldest makes sure of it. you have not slept through a night since the war began, so it’s easy to discover the way he wanders the halls like a ghost, silent and persistent in a duty he carries with pride. each door is opened, your children soothed before you can even think to make your own way to their beds. his voice sounds deeper than it used to, deeper still than you think possible for a child his age and size. then again, you are never sure if the notches on his door frame are an accurate way to measure whatever it is that makes you feel like your eldest has grown beyond your reach. you watch him open doors, soothe your children, spend his nights in the kitchen, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea with a weariness not even the war should bring to him, not after all the effort you put into keeping him safe.

your children mostly talk to each other now, in a whispered privacy you cannot hope to be a part of. their arms no longer fit around your waist. your daughters are wilder—even your older one, as she carries herself like royalty, has grown teeth too sharp for polite society— and they no longer lean into your hands. your sons are broad-shouldered even before their shirts start being too small again, filling up space you never thought was up for taking. your eldest doesn’t sleep, your middle children take notes when politicians speak on the wireless and shake their heads as though they know better, and your youngest sings for hours in your garden.

who are your children now, helen pevensie, and who pried their childhood out of your shaking hands?

Finja Brandenburg // unknown

once upon a time

The world of Narnia has stories, of course.

There's the hour-long songs sung by the fauns, the odes of nymphs and dryads, the clumsy jokes told by birds perched on branches in bloom, there's the sulking mining tales told by dwarves who promise that they've seen rubies you can eat.

But beyond Narnia, a troop of outlaws from Archenland flee to the other side of the desert and build themselves an Empire. Some are poets, who sing their words and speak in proverbs - and then a gate opens in Telmar, a land that the outlaws were banished from by Aslan, and out step men and woman and children, dressed in strange garments that carry the fragrance of the sea. And oh, they bring with them tales and songs that meld together with the beginning of Calormen.

The strangers' tongue is foreign to them, but slowly they learn. The first thing they do when the Calormene Empire proposes an alliance is to meld their stories with their own. And the Empire grows richer in their storytelling, folding together the intrinsic yearning of humans for tales with the undoubtable magic of their world. 'Sinbad the Sailor' slowly becomes 'The Tale of Amah and the Bight of Calormen' when a sailor sails too far from home and returns with his eyes yearning for the horizon. The pirates tell them tales of a Golden Fleece, and one-eyed giants, so they spin the tale of Jason and the Argonauts into a poem called 'A Thousand Threads of Gold', and tell it to their children, who tell it to their children's children, who tell it to their children.

So Calormen begins to hone their craft - the stories that live deep within humans, the scorching desert, legends of Archenland and an ornate speech all weave themselves together, and soon, it is known that nobody tells stories quite like the Empire Calormene.

And then, long after the reign of King Frank and Queen Helen has faded into a distorted memory of the collective consciousness of Narnians, two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve step foot into Narnia. They're humans, born storytellers, and they intertwine their earthly tales with Narnian folklore.

The four siblings bring with them stories that Narnians once knew, but barely remember.

High King Peter, the Magnificent often sits down the delegates from Calormen, now a fully flegded Empire, and listens to their tales. And after they finish their poems about 'Youth without Old-Age and Life without Death' and tell him numerous proverbs that seem to him both so very foreign, but so familiar yet, he begins telling them a tale of his own - one that he feels like he's known forever, back when his only title was 'Pevensie'.

"Once upon a time" begins the king, "in a land that can be found nowhere in this world, a forest stretched out for miles and miles, lush and green and beautiful at the border of a town called Nottingham."

After Peter finishes spinning the tale of Robin Hood and his Merry Men, one of the Calormene delegates places down his goblet of Narnian red wine and says:

"If I may, your Majesty, High King Peter the Magnificent. Your reign to Narnia bears resemblance to the one of the Tisroc, may he live forever. Why would you make known to your people such stories that encourage a rebellion against their rulers? I humbly remind you what the poet says: 'He who attempts to deceive the judicious is already baring his back for the scourge.'

High King Peter smiles a genuine smile.

"Interesting input, Adil Tarkhaan." replies the king. "But does the Calormene poet not also say 'Swords can be kept off with shields, but the Eye of Wisdom pierces through every defence'?"

Queen Susan the Gentle is especially fond of the Merpeople, and serves as the designated diplomat whenever meetings between the two nations are required. They sing her their songs that resemble odes of heroes long gone, of adventures beneath the surface, where air is a mystery only few possess.

Now, the Merpeople are especially fond of her too, and the stories she can tell.

The Gentle Queen sits in a Narnian lagoon, her toes barely touching the water, and tells the Merpeople a tale she's told them many times.

"Beyond seven seas and seven countries, in an ocean that's far from this world, there lived a beautiful mermaid, the youngest of seven sisters. Her hair was flaming red and her tail was emerald green, and her eyes were young and curious."

After Susan finishes remembering the tale of The Little Mermaid, the chief of the Merpeople swims up to her and speaks:

"You grace us with your wisdom, Queen Susan of Narnia, for we may not have Witches living in the depths of our waters, but we may very well need to be careful what we wish for."

The Daughter of Eve is a striking appearance among Merpeople with skin tinted blue and white hair - Susan smiles, her hair long and dark, her eyes sparkling and full of life, her cheeks flushed with life.

"Never seek to change yourselves for the approval of others."

King Edmund the Just has such a way with words that he may as well rival the diplomats from beyond the desert. While their poems and proverbs lean towards pragmatic life lessons, Edmund knows tales overflowing with metaphors.

He visits Archenland for their Autumn Feast, and is welcomed graciously by King Lune and his sons. The Feast is grand, meant to celebrate a bountiful harvest, and there are so many types of food Edmund doesn't know where to start - but he tries them all. There's roasts garnished with condiments, roasted potatoes, pomegranate and arugula salads, sweet potatoes with cream, sauces with spicy peppers and rich tomatoes, stuffed baked peppers, dishes with lemon and butter and herbs, corn and hearty rice and beans and vegetables. The King treats the entire capital to the finest wine and grape juice he has, and so the stories begin to flow from their merry hearts.

The people of Archenland sing merry odes and tell tales of heroes and rebels, of crimes and punishments, and, just as King Edmund the Just reaches for another helping of stuffed peppers, King Lune's eyes shine with a marvellous idea.

"King Edmund," he begins, smiling "would you do us the honour of telling one of your stories?"

Edmund hesitates, but everyone's looking at him. Everything's quiet, and the pleasant ringing of cutlery has slowly stopped. The young man gently nods his head and obliges. He takes a moment to think, and he remembers a faint memory of a tale read in an old, heavy book.

"Many eons ago, before this world was even born, there lived in another land a young woman. She was gifted with beauty and intelligence, and flowers bloomed when they saw her near. While she was blessed with all this, a single trait in her soul served as both a blessing and a curse. Pandora was a very curious human."

The King of Narnia tells the story of Pandora and her infamous box, as best as he remembers it, but he tells it in a way that entrances the listeners so much that they stop eating. Compared to the words sewn together by the young man with piercing eyes and dark brown hair, the chocolate cakes topped with persimmons, the cherry puddings and apple pies, lemon pastries and baked apples with cream all look bland.

And when Edmund finishes his tale with the reassuring presence of Hope in Pandora's myth, Prince Cor thanks him with wise words:

"You have chosen the best story to tell at the Autumn Feast, your Majesty, for Hope is truly the meaning of this season. Though the leaves are falling and we are humbly harvesting our crops, we have hope that spring will come again."

Queen Lucy the Gentle tells herself stories every night to fall asleep. Though, when she turns nineteen, she begins sharing them with the fauns.

One morning, at sunrise, she trudges over to Mr Tumnus' quaint hut on castle grounds, wrapped in a thick blanket, unable to sleep, for there are memories of aeroplanes and bombs and tanks plaguing her dreams.

The faun is already awake, having his first breakfast. He serves Lucy with coffee cake and lemon tea with honey, and she graciously accepts.

"You might take your mind off it if you tell me a story." Proposes Tumnus, having another bite of his cake.

The Gentle Queen looks at the burning fire and the corners of her lips twitch up in a smile.

"My mother used to tell me this story back when I was a little girl." She begins. "It begins in the same world I came from, with a happy family going by the name of the Darlings."

Lucy hums the tale of Peter Pan through sips of lemon tea, and when she reaches the end, the sun is trickling softly through the windows of the small hut. Tumnus reaches for his flute and brings it to his lips.

He begins retelling the story in a song, and Lucy sees Neverland through the flames of the fireplace.

Hey Neil, I have this memory of hearing you reading a poem after explaining that "the poems are free... and its not as if anyone is forcing you to read them."

And I just wanted you to know that I have taken this into the rest of my life. Don't like a scene in a movie? I close my eyes. And it's been freeing. So thank you

I'm so glad!

Okay but consider this- Elizabeth Swann. She’s a pirate nerd from the beginning. She’s fascinated. And by the time the Black Pearl blasts Port Royal she knows enough to defend herself- first with the iron, then with the Code. That nerd studied pirate law enough to quote it.

And not just pirates. Presumably she’s been on a ship once- when she comes over from England. But nope no piracy wasn’t enough for this kid no she did some intense studying of sailing too because why not. So when they’re being chased down who’s coming up with all these nautical maneuvers? Elizabeth fucking Swann, sea nerd extraordinaire.

Fast forward and she’s not just a nerd anymore. And she isn’t a pirate, either. She’s the Pirate King, doing battle with Davy Jones and the entire British navy, with every Pirate Lord and their crews behind her. No more improvised weapons, no more parlay- she commands every black heart that ever set sail. And then her bae becomes ferryman for every soul lost at sea.

So then what? Everyone just goes back to what they were doing? And Elizabeth just goes home to make a quiet life for herself as a single mum? From studious sea nerd to Pirate King and now suddenly she’s happier at home, waiting for Will?

Give me an epilogue where Elizabeth has her father’s estate and enough gold to keep her comfortable for a lifetime, but instead travels the world, her son at her side. Adventuring and exploring, in and out of the law. Tell me she calls up Calypso for tea from time to time and they talk about uncharted lands and the price of sugar. Tell me in some ports she’s recognized as the daughter of Governor Swann and wined and dined. Tell me in some ports she’s recognized as the Pirate King and gets barrels rum on the house.

Tell me even honest sailors whisper stories of the mysterious and elusive Pirate King, who rarely strikes at all but then vanishes for years at a time.

Tell me Elizabeth spends time aboard the Flying Dutchman, so she can be with her husband, and her son can be with his father and grandfather. Imagine young William learns to sail on his father’s journeys to and from the land of the dead. And when he finally captains his own ship, he’s learned to be both a respectable gentleman and a good pirate.

Imagine Elizabeth spending her life on the sea, sometimes with Will and sometimes not, with a wind from Calypso always in her sails, adventuring enough for lifetimes as a part-time well bred lady, part-time Pirate King.

tbh for a long time i really resented the advice "pick a partner that you would want to raise kids with" because i don't want kids and i hated that all relationships had to come from this place of procreation-first. what about toxic friendships, after all.

it took me a really long time to realize it's a bastardization of good advice.

many of us are recovering from being raised by parents/caregivers that were in toxic relationships or were toxic themselves. we learned behaviors, thoughts, and patterns from these people, and we spend our adult lives untangling and dismantling the harm done to us.

the advice should be - is this the person you'd want a child to emulate? is this a person you'd want a child even around? is this a person you can trust alone with a kid - any kid, mind you - and know that the child is safe, looked after, loved? is the relationship you're in one you'd want children to see and repeat in their adult lives? or is the relationship one you hope they won't follow, after all?

to be honest, i knew when i was in a bad relationship. i'd tell people - i know, i know, i should break up with him. i know, i know. she's not actually a good friend. but the reality was that it's incredibly difficult to escape the-devil-you-know. it was easy enough to train myself to be okay with it; i have very little regard for the-self and the process of cutting people out was simply too threatening for my mental state.

but i wouldn't put a younger version of myself through the same thing. i'd picture her in the same situation. i would tell her, broody as she is - leave, you're happier outside of it, never let anyone talk to you like that, you're worth more than this. i'd tell her when you let him cross your boundaries, the fault is his, but you need to understand you're rewarding bad behavior if you don't do something about it. i would wish, fervently, i could restart the relationship and do it all differently, be-young-again.

and then i realized: i am the younger version of myself. a future version of myself is begging me to leave. to take my happiness seriously. i am a kid to fifty-year-old-me. and i need to take my own advice. it's okay if that sets me up to grieve.

pick a partner that you would trust a younger version of yourself with. pick friends you'd want your younger self to grow up alongside. pick love that makes you feel like you want everyone to know and feel with you, something magical and shareable and full of mist. pick a love that feels like you can grow in it. pick a love like: i will be proud of this.

"i could fix him" ok well i could be brown i could be blue i could be vi-o-let sky i could be hurtful i could be purple i could be anything you like

summer is just like i have all the time in the world i never have enough time i am so happy i am so depressed i have nothing to do i have too many things to do i want to go outside i never want to leave my room i hate people i am so lonely i slept for fifteen hours i haven't slept in three days i am so overwhelmed i am so bored life is good i am going to die

I love being an adult because you know what actually happens when you run your car into a curb and scratch up the bumper?

Nothing. You get it fixed, or you don’t. Whatevs.

You know what actually happens when you are depressed or sick or on your period and don’t cook dinner?

Nothing. You still get to eat something, nobody scolds you, it doesn’t have any real bearing on your future success, and you don’t get soft shunned for a week by your family.

You know what actually happens when you break stuff, forget stuff, get sick, fall asleep, are rude, miss a flight, don’t know how to do XYZ thing on fixing cars or canning food or whatever, lose things, get lost because you can’t read a map and forgot to charge your phone, buy the wrong groceries, plant the wrong plants, not make your bed, make your bed wrong, jump on your bed, sleep on your bed, eat crackers in your bed, have emotions literally anywhere?

Nothing.

Nothing happens.

No one is mad.

No one can hurt you, and if they do there are laws saying they can’t and that it’s an actual crime with legal consequences.

All there are are outcomes and different paths and different problems and different situations and you just bumble your way forward into dealing with those and that’s it. That’s the whole thing. It’s not the wrong choice, having problems isn’t indicative of your inherent badness or inadequacy or lack of applying yourself. It’s just life, and it’s happening to literally everyone.

I’m not even kidding.

You just do stuff and nothing bad happens. Walk around existing? Nothing bad will happen. Wild.

You can cry. In public. And the most likely outcome is not that you will get taken away to receive the beating of your lifetime, it is that people will mostly ignore you and some will be kinder to you. 🤯

slowly disintegrating friendships are like. i miss you. i love you. i wish so many good things for you. i wish for all the love u can get. i wish i was eating chaat with u rn. i hope we never meet again.

Page decorations for The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1899 edition.

John Mulaney, a true ADHD icon

SIX OF CROWS APPRECIATION WEEK day three: favorite quotes ↳ SIX OF CROWS, CHAPTER 8 + CROOKED KINGDOM, CHAPTER 11

This is so much

is this nOT WHAT HAP-