jixiani
recorded ignorance
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christranfiveoh
Chris "CT50" Tran
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“Use your gifts and your talents to greatest possible effect while you can. Spread joy wherever possible. Laugh at jokes. Tell jokes. Make puns and bugger the embuggerances. Read books. Read my books. You might like them. You might find something else you like even more than them. Look for these things in life.
Question authority. Champion good causes. Speak out against injustice. Do not tolerate bullies or bigots or racists or anti-intellectuals or the narrow-minded. Use your education to challenge them. Broaden their perspectives. Make the world you interface with a happier place.
These are your choices. Choices you have been fortunate to have been given, so don’t waste them while you have them. Don’t look back in years to come and wish you had grasped a fleeting opportunity. Grasp it now with both hands, Live. Strive. Love.”
from A Little Advice for Life taken from ‘Terry Pratchett: from birth to death, a writer.’
—Sir Terry Pratchett; April 28, 1948 – March 12, 2015
One of the greatest compliments I've ever received is that I resemble Sam Vimes.
Mind how you go.
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Oh, I feel this in my bones.
because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.
you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.
you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.
don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.
if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.
you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:
how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!
aren't you happy yet?
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Oof, yeah, that.
the 'having a fun little daydream world as a child' to "i rely so much upon escapism to escape from the monotony of life that days seem to pass too quickly and sometimes i don't feel real" pipeline
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Let me preface this with: I've never really done sequential work. I am not up to date on Dragon Ball and there are probably a lot of mistakes. The story was a cute idea I had at work and I don't know that I really conveyed it in a way that is coherent to others, and after staring at it every spare moment for nearly a week, I don't know that I actually like it anymore. But I wanted to do something. Dragon Ball was not my first anime, but it was the first that taught me how to draw anime. I still use the techniques I learned from copying Toriyama’s art. Dragon Ball Z was a favorite during my teenage years and my brother and I still bond over DBZ Abridged episodes. So it's a little late and it's not great, but thank you Toriyama.
(Description of each page because I am unconvinced that anyone who didn’t have direct access to my brain would understand what was happening.) It reads like manga: right to left. And maybe I’ll eventually add color or at least shading so it’s easier to see what’s going on…
Page 1, Trunks and baby Bra, who is chewing on a Toribot doll, are watching tv as the news anchor reads a (terribly familiar to most of us) death announcement. “...Has died at the age of 68. It’s our deep regret that…” Vegeta stares off contemplatively as the announcement continues in the background “He still had several works in the middle of creation…” until the tv is switched off. Bulma now holding baby asks “Vegeta are you ready to go?” Vegeta tells her “You three go on ahead, there’s something I need to do before the ceremony.” as he ties his tie. Bulma and the kids exit, as Bulma says “Alright, if you’re sure…Just don’t be late”. Off-screen Vegeta says “I’ll be there, I just need to pick up a few things first” while reaching for the dragon radar.
Page 2, wide shot of Goku's house with the main cast speaking in groups. Android 17 is chased by Goten and Trunks, Android 18 holding Mirin talks to Bulma holding Bra, Oolong talks with seated Master Roshi, Chiatsu and Tien talk with Yamcha, Krillin, Gohan, Videl and Piccolo are gathered together talking while Chi chi comforts Goku sitting in front of a grave marker. Details of groups surround an image of a tearful Goku, Chi chi’s hand on his shoulder. An image of Someone's feet as they land, having flown to the meeting place. They have collected all seven dragon balls. It is revealed that this person is Vegeta, and implied that these were what he had to pick up.
Page 3, Krilin says “Vegeta, that’s not going to work”, Piccolo explains that “He died of natural causes, a wish won’t bring him back”. Vegeta off-screen says “I know that” and Goku asks him “The why?”, why has he gathered the dragon balls then? Vegeta, against the background of his family, his most powerful forms, and the dragon balls explains his reasoning. “Because everything we are, everything we’ve become, the things we’ve done, and the battles we’ve fought, we owe it all to this man.” The dragon is summoned and Vegeta continues, “There is not a life he didn’t touch in some way not only in our universe, but in all the others as well. It’s my wish that everyone has the chance to say…”
Page 4, The last line of Vegeta's wish and the core idea behind the story is highlighted “Thank you Toriyama” as memorable characters from Dragon Ball, DBZ, and Super are all brought together to thank their creator. Clockwise from top: Cell, Kale and Caulifla, Launch, Hit, Dende and Mr. Popo, King Kai, Hercule and Buu, Beerus and Whis, fortune teller Baba, Yajirobe and Korin, Brolly and Cheelai, and Frieza.
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Silly little doodle, but tell me these two wouldn't be best friends.
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saving this to try later
kill the shift manager in your brain
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I had done a series of Dr Who paintings in my smaller sketchbook, one page a picture of the doctor and the other a bunch of my favorite quotes from that incarnation. This was my favorite. It probably helps that Peter Capaldi is my favorite of the doctors. David Tennant is a close second, but maybe it's because I'm getting older, but something about Capaldi's doctor just spoke to me.
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I realized that I've never actually shared any of my art on here. (Or much of anything if we're being honest.) So, here's a flashy start, my current obsession: Buggy the clown from One Piece.
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I have recipes from my grandmothers and my great aunt all of whom are passed on. But I have the recipes they made, written in their handwriting, the way they would make them.
Me: "I don't often cook but I'm going to quick look through my mom's recipe cards and see if I can find that specific recipe"
Me, 15 minutes later, sobbing: "Love is stored in handwritten recipe cards"
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Ok, good point about the trauma, but also that's not even a lot of hand washing? It may sound like a lot, but think about how many times a day you (hopefully) wash your hands. Before you make food/eat, (during cooking if you're handling raw meat and don't want to cross contaminate half your kitchen), after using the bathroom, if you do any sort of activity that gets them dirty like gardening, painting, or taking out the trash. And that's not including if you're taking care of a kid or someone or if you have a job that requires frequent hand washing. I work in a shop full of metal dust and dangerous chemicals, I wash my hands at least every half hour at work. Germs have nothing to do with it, I just don't want to accidentally ingest cyanide. (A very real possibility at work, even with ppe)
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Video
It is a fantastic movie on so many levels, and this fight is just perfection. Also I didn't know where that quote was from.
The funniest sword fight scene in the history of cinema.
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Ouch, my feelings. But seriously, this scene perfectly fits that, I was a Buffy fan, I watched this in real time, I cried, I had to take a walk after and sit with those feelings for a bit. This episode was heartbreaking. The fact that in a show filled with monsters, something so simple and human and out of our control could be the thing to kill Joyce, was brilliantly horrible.
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I got to hold a 500,000 year old hand axe at the museum today.
It's right-handed
I am right-handed
There are grooves for the thumb and knuckle to grip that fit my hand perfectly
I have calluses there from holding my stylus and pencils and the gardening tools.
There are sharper and blunter parts of the edge, for different types of cutting, as well as a point for piercing.
I know exactly how to use this to butcher a carcass.
A homo erectus made it
Some ancestor of mine, three species ago, made a tool that fits my hand perfectly, and that I still know how to use.
Who were you
A man? A woman? Did you even use those words?
Did you craft alone or were you with friends? Did you sing while you worked?
Did you find this stone yourself, or did you trade for it? Was it a gift?
Did you make it for yourself, or someone else, or does the distinction of personal property not really apply here?
Who were you?
What would you think today, seeing your descendant hold your tool and sob because it fits her hands as well?
What about your other descendant, the docent and caretaker of your tool, holding her hands under it the way you hold your hands under your baby's head when a stranger holds them.
Is it bizarre to you, that your most utilitarian object is now revered as holy?
Or has it always been divine?
Or is the divine in how I am watching videos on how to knap stone made by your other descendants, learning by example the way you did?
Tomorrow morning I am going to the local riverbed in search of the appropriate stones, and I will follow your example.
The first blood spilled on it will almost certainly be my own, as I learn the textures and rhythm of how it's done.
Did you have cuss words back then? Gods to blaspheme when the rock slips and you almost take your thumbnail off instead? Or did you just scream?
I'm not religious.
But if spilling my own blood to connect with a stranger who shared it isn't partaking in the divine
I don't know what is.
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