boke-o-rama · a month ago
guys it’s them
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cephalopod-people · 5 months ago
Erin - thinks she's in Euphoria except she doesn't know what drugs are
Michelle - thinks she's in a raunchy sex comedy
Clare - thinks she's in a feel good movie about an inspirational young woman helping others
James - thinks he's in a fish-out-of-water coming of age story
Oral - thinks she's Bear Grilles
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popcornucopia · 4 months ago
The funniest part of derry girls is they keep saying how James being gay makes up for the fact that he’s English even tho James keeps saying he’s not gay. Literally it’s so funny bc they keep saying I’d rather him be gay then English. And then when Clare comes out it’s not a big deal bc at least she’s not English
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btrinidad01 · 5 months ago
The Claymore pin by InvokedSt on IG
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xbriizx · 3 months ago
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Go! Mamma Teresa
This manga is sooo underrated
Claymore - teresa and clare
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elainuar · 11 months ago
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My Claymore drawings series. Clare, Irene, Teresa, Isley, Galatea.
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uwmspeccoll · 6 months ago
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Staff Pick of the Week
Red-Flannel Hash and Shoo-Fly Pie
For my staff pick of the week, I have chosen a book titled Red-Flannel Hash and Shoo-Fly Pie written by Lila Perl and illustrated by the celebrated children’s-book illustrator Eric Carle. It tells the story of the varied regional foods and dishes in the United States of America. It is a cross between a history book and a cookbook, with printed linocut illustrations that bring the book to life with a couple of recipes to end each chapter. Our copy is a first edition published in 1965 by The World Publishing Company in Cleveland and New York.  
The book is split up into eight chapters by the regions: New England, The Middle Atlantic States, The South, The Midwest and The Great Plains, The Southwest, The West, Alaska, and Hawaii. The book covers roughly four hundred years of  circumstances such as architecture, jobs, different cooking methods, ingredients, ethnicity, race, class, and geography that shaped food and its culture, and importantly the impact that Native Americans had on all of these.
I chose this book as I enjoy learning about the history of how food has developed and changed, as well as trying out recipes to gain more insight. America is often categorized as a melting pot of generic food when really there are so many unique ingredients and dishes that originate in this country.  
The other draw for me was the incredible illustrations carved and printed on linoleum blocks of everything from tools, ingredients, animals, and people. An illustrated spread begins each region’s chapter, with the others embedded in the text and the margins. The illustrations use an expert combination of mark-making and flats of black to embellish and accompany the author’s writing.  
View other Staff Picks.
-- Clare, Special Collections Undergraduate Assistant
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retroillustrates · 2 months ago
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Mutant disabled albino swordspeople protagonists discussing their lives, let us not disturb them.
🗡️Clare cannot apply makeup, but isn't shy of her stigma (maybe I should have given her arm a different shade as it's after all a sort of prosthetic in their way)
🗡️Elric has several band tees (and why shouldn't he as he has over 30 tribute songs and bands). His fav is Blue oyster cult (he has curly hair, I read 3 books to make sure lol)
⚔️I'm sticking with book Geralt's design
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glyceriiin · 3 months ago
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hello clare
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sweetgazelle · 7 months ago
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Teresa’s Home for Wayward Children.
AKA Teresa adopts all the problematic kids
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erzfreu · 6 months ago
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always wanted to draw this form. felt like i could finally do it justice now, at least in a sketchy way !
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theesteemedladydebourgh · 8 months ago
foreigner’s god is magic
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so I’ve decided that reviewing fics that fucked me up is like discount therapy! I had so much peace after doing IWNMA...so now it’s time to tackle the one that literally broke my heart and made me want to slump into a puddle of tears. (edit: i wrote this intro paragraph sometime in early January and upon doing this at the end of Jan/Feb...there were tears in real time. in case anyone was wondering). Happy seven months, Foreigner’s God! 🥳❤️
first of all, if anyone hasn’t read this you are wrong and your life choices are bad. i’m sorry, just saying. your life is empty without it. 
@clare-with-no-i​ u incite violence daily and you terrify me even if I love you 😘
Oh my god. This fucking fic. It’s the kind I can only read once because it only needs to be read once to irrevocably change you. Lots to address in that sentence: a. yes. Change you. That is not an exaggeration. Clare’s jily in general will physically change you, because she writes love like some people eat potato chips—is that a shit metaphor, probably, but do not expect me to be as coherent as I was with IWNMA because I just cried for half an hour reading this. so. b. somehow I decided it was a sound mental decision at 9 o’clock at night when I have multiple life stressors going on to read this fic. Don’t know what that was about, I’m a mess. c. reading it once is totally effective because uh. there is literal magic in this because it is never going to leave my brain. it’s stuck in ther.
There’s a lot of good-natured ribbing in the jily fandom, and tbh I don’t even remember what I said seven months ago when this came out but I’m pretty sure there was screaming. And while screaming and crying adequately cover my emotions, I’m going to attempt to be coherent because this fic deserves it.
*all emotions and thoughts represented in this are real and not dramatized in any way. i am just a dramatic bitch with a lot of feelings and Clare is clearly a woodland witch who sold her soul to the fairies for stingingly beautiful wordsmithing
Lily startles awake at the sound of her seven a.m. alarm with an absolute certainty that she’s supposed to be dead.
Not that she wants to be, or that she has some sort of petulant wish to die instead of going about her business for the day, but rather a hollow ache that spreads through her ribs, something ancient and searing and corrosive. Her first waking instinct—or maybe it’s not even that, maybe it’s some vestige of her sleeping mind, murky and overcast with dwindling dreams—is to bring her hand to her chest and press it to her pounding heart.
I’m dead, she thinks, even as she feels the steady thump-thump against her ribs, I’m dead. I’m dead. He found us. We’re dead.
The first line alone makes me cry, because we already know what’s coming. It’s the agonizing pain of a life that was reached for, and didn’t last. The reason I can’t read Jily death fics is because I’m so attached to them as characters that it physically pains me, but it’s almost worse to consider how they felt after. When they know they’re missing their son’s life, when the world goes on without them.
idk man I’m not okay.
It’s not even that Clare’s prose is gorgeous, that she can weave words into a blindingly beautiful tapestry that you just become lost in, it’s the characters behind them. Behind the beautiful words, the tender adjectives, is a love story that just absolutely ruins you because of how genuine it is.
She raises her arms high above her head and pulls, stretching out the cricks in her back, letting sunlight wash over her face and pajama-clad body. Her eyes slip closed as her back bows.
But instead of the comforting darkness of the inside of her eyelids, what accosts her vision is a yellow-painted bedroom, books scattered and toys littered across the floor as though it’s just been through an earthquake. She hears footsteps plod outside the battered wooden door, but they’re wrong, somehow, she knows this—the footsteps are wrong, and they’re coming closer, and she knows that they shouldn’t be, and she has to get someone out, out, out, even if it means that this is it, it’s all over.
There’s a baby’s cry—get him out, get him out, get him out—behind her, but the door blasts open before she can turn, and she’s screaming and crying and the footsteps are too close and too wrong.
“Not Harry! Please, have mercy! Not Harry!”
Lily’s eyes fly open and she staggers backward, nearly losing her footing over nothing but hard wood floor. “What the—”
As she stumbles, the door to her room creaks open, and on some base, animal instinct, she nearly rushes forward to slam it shut—get him out, get him out, get him out—when Eloise’s head pops through the door. Lily’s steps melt into an awkward lurch.
Eloise peers at her curiously. “Er…you alright, babe?”
I don’t know. “Yeah,” Lily waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. Just a bad night’s sleep.”
The absolute disorientation of the back and forth, the past mixing with the present is just…I feel whiplash reading it.
I know this is a long chunk, but it needs to be read word for word. The red to green traffic light. The ache of losing your child. The not knowing any of it, but we know and so it’s a thousand times more painful. Red to green, a whole set of lives lost. Red to green, and we’re here.
That is, until the taxi comes to a red light, and on a passing glance out of her window, Lily sees a young mother putting her toddler into a pram.
Her breath catches. The window of the taxi has suddenly, inexplicably transformed into a wall closing in around her, stifling and suffocating. She plants a lone, futile hand against it and presses hard on the glass.
“—And so I told him,” Ava’s parroting into her phone from the seat next to Lily—a story she’s already heard, minimum of four times. “I want that on record, do you hear me? I want that on record—and I don’t care how many copies you’re selling to them.”
Lily can’t look away from the mother and her child.
Unbothered and oblivious to her gaze, the baby wriggles happily, little arms and legs heaving to and fro as the mother coos and smiles. It’s a little boy—his eyes match his mother’s.
Get him out of here, Lily thinks desperately, which is absurd, because the child is both fine and already in his pram, and the mother is beginning to push him across the street. The thought bears no relevance to the scene in front of her. And yet, like a pulsing up her spine, she thinks again: get him out of here.
“—This idiot has the audacity to ask me where I went to school! I know. I know—”
A jagged piece of Lily’s dream comes flying back to her. It’s a blunt force to her brain.
A name.
“Harry…” Lily murmurs the name to herself, and it rattles around her ribcage, something broken and yearning casting a stammer to her heartbeat. She doesn’t know anyone named Harry; no friends, no family, no passing acquaintances. Not even a particular fixation on the now-abdicated Duke of Sussex. There’s no reason the name should haunt her, neither in her dreams nor—as it’s happening now—in the clear light of morning.
Not Harry! the voice had been screaming—her voice. Have mercy! Please! Not Harry!
The stoplight switches from red to green, and without knowing why, Lily flinches.
And HAHAHA I’m resuscitated because Clare’s. fucking. James. I have things to say about Clare’s James, okay. Namely, he is the most attractive thing to ever be written. This is not an opinion, it’s fact. He’s…no words. No words, except when a fictional character makes me swoon and blush and feel overwhelmed just from three paragraphs, you know you’ve got peak man-written-by-very-smart-woman.
The opposing counsel is a prick. A gorgeous, intolerable prick.
He sits languid and damn near lounging in a large conference room chair, smug like he owns the whole building they’re sitting in. To be completely honest, he just might—Lily has enough posh friends with questionable spending habits to recognize a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch when she sees one. That thing could pay her rent for the next three months.
She spots him as soon as she gets of the elevator, her client shuffling along in tow, and is immediately struck by multiple things: hopelessly messy black hair; strong, handsome features; and a smirk that, for some reason, looks uncannily familiar.
So, although her first thought is fucking hell, you’re sex on legs, all of that is categorically blasted to pieces the second he opens his mouth.
“Hello,” he says smoothly—can one word even be smooth?—as he stands and buttons his suit jacket back up, “James Potter. Representing the defendant. Pritchard and Glick.”
I feel like I can’t even get this across in snippets and pieces so everyone who hasn’t just needs to read it now, but the overwhelming feeling of this fic is how brilliantly it’s done. Every little inference of something familiar, something lost, something found again. Every bit of pain and longing that Lily feels, and the way it all comes together in the end, the way you want to cry because it didn’t end perfectly, but it ended with them together. (And now I’ve begun to cry again, thank u Clare I have an essay to write about Russian serfdom after this what am I going to do ffs)
Their fingers brush as his hand retracts, and before her eyes, the world flickers.
All of a sudden, the conference room has blinked out of existence, and in its place is a hallway of timeworn grey stone, walls littered with antique portraits and broad, detailed tapestries. As her vision focuses, Lily realizes that Potter’s—he’s here as well?—hand is still outstretched to her, and hers to him, but this time he’s not wearing a pristine Armani suit and instead some sort of private school uniform covered by a large, billowing cloak. His gaze is unmistakably fond as he looks at her; his eyes are crinkled like he’s either about to start or has just recently finished laughing. She takes him in briefly and notes that he’s much younger than he just was, build a bit thinner and features still clinging to post-adolescence.
“Well?” He prompts her, and she’s startled—for some reason—by his voice, by the way his effusive happiness seems to have tinged it unrecognizably from the man he was in the conference room. When she doesn’t respond, he continues: “Are you going to take my hand, or what?”
Lily hears her own voice as though someone else has commandeered it: “What?”
“Evans,” James chuckles warmly, “it’s my first official day as your boyfriend—I plan to spend as much time holding hands as is physically possible. I’m afraid you’re about to be subject to a great deal of public scrutiny.”
She watches, a spectator and an actor all at once, as her own hand closes the final centimeters of distance between them, and she feels the phantom heat of his palm caressing her own, but her eyes can’t stop wandering back to his expression, the way his smile cuts his face into impossibly beautiful sections—
The world flickers again.
There is no palm in her hand; only thick-printed paper.
Crying, screaming, the only thing I can say is that Clare’s jily is so fated and matched together, that they’ll always end up in love. They’re just not built to be any other way.
I don’t know if the intent behind James’s email was to make him ridiculously hot, but that is what it’s achieving.
We will be asking for punitive damages or a sum reached by settlement. Attached are evidence files A-F to be submitted, along with the formal complaint and summons.
James Potter, Esquire
Pritchard and Glick Law Office
“I have a feeling you’re going to be a massive pain in my arse.”
“Says he who filed a countersuit on a tiny piece of commercial litigation that’s bound to have a minuscule payout.”
“…Fair play, Evans.”
Is he having some sort of trouble with the Miss Evans thing? Does he have short-term memory loss? For fuck’s sake.
He hangs up before she can ask.
Enemies to lovers makes me go feral. This has added a new element to it and made me discover my true obsession, which is enemies to lovers but they’re actually already lovers just kiss.
Make no mistake: it’s definitely a sex dream. That part is clear from the first, very unclothed moment—but what takes her aback is the cresting wave of tenderness that she rides into the scene, a steady swell of affection and care that threatens to choke dream-Lily up with emotion, to spill out of her on little noises and soft-spoken words.
Dream-Lily’s hands are entangled in dream-James’s hair, brushing errant strands back from his face as he moves above her, watching as his expressions contort and relax as his pleasure ebbs and flows. It’s nearly overwhelming, to confront how beautiful he is; to see it up close instead of safely from a distance; to reconcile the concept of his beauty with the feel of it beneath her hands. Her fingers skirt over skin as though afraid to linger too long in one area.
“I love you so much,” dream-James gasps into her neck, and she feels this more than anything, the responsive crawl of I love you, too from her chest up to her lips and into his ear. It is the most prominent sensation of the dream, and therefore, the most off-putting.
At least—it will be, she thinks mutedly, when the dream ends.
Which it does. Painfully.
To be specific, it isn’t so much that she’s pulled into consciousness as this dream is wrenched out from under her, and in its wake, there is nowhere to fall but into the waking world.
ah the wild ride that reading this has me on, because I’m beaming and cackling about hot lawyers and sex dreams, and then I’m hit in the gut with an emotional punch that’s going to have me out on the sidelines for 4-8 business days. AND THEN HE CALLS HER. And this was the moment that I just. Stopped working. Honestly, I don’t know that there’s much I can say about FG, because what it does is entirely internal. It’s somewhere up and behind your ribs, and it hurts and it makes you feel hopeful and saddened and maybe like you ate a chili pepper and are about to have indigestion. It pulls at every yearning string that makes up jily, two people who always are at odds until they collide like burning stars. (edit: i literally forgot about the splintering stars bit until i read it down the way, so...FG jily give off celestial energy pass it on!) I just. am not working anymore. I’m crying a lot tho.
Black turns to Potter, and the two exchange grins. […] “I can see what you meant about her, mate.”
The way I can just see this as such a good fic about hot, angry lawyers if there wasn’t the tragic longing in the background and like. You know it’s inhumanly good when there are TWO incredible fics happening at the same time and they’re utterly cohesive but also they could be standalones.
Without question, she knows that the voice belongs to James. She could pick it out in a raucous crowd.
The touching of her back, the memory of touch 🥺 some things can’t be erased. they can’t be erased.
I feel both cosmically confused and excited reading this fic, and it highlights my very favorite thing about fanfic. We already know the characters and the story, and so when someone walks on screen we go !!!!!!!!!!!!! probably something to be said for the human nature of loving excitement even when we know the outcome, of caring so much that the enjoyment is not negated by the knowing. I know the people, the place is unfamiliar, so I feel slightly off kilter as I pick my way through the story, but then I see something known—Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, memories—and I latch on and everything becomes brighter, one step closer to them being together again.
Oh also, James Potter the bloody do-gooder 😭 my fav 😭 I love him 😭
HE SENT HER FLOWERS. it’s like I haven’t even read this before, wow. My heart is still surprised. Tumblr is shit at finding non porny memes (how does happy cat lead to bare asses and pouting??????) so insert someone collapsing from sheer overwhelm and being lowered onto a fainting couch.
This is my favorite line in the entire fic, and I stared at it for five minutes when I got to (and I stared some more when I edited this).
Lily feels the press of James’s lips onto the crown of her hair, and she feels a love sitting in her chest that could stop her heart, and distantly she knows that this—all of this, this feeling and this moment and the press of his palm on the small of her back—will be gone when she wakes up. She leans a little closer to his chest. They sway a little slower. Outside, greying branches grasp at tumbling orange leaves.
True, good characters are the most important, but good prose physically builds a scene, builds the emotions, until you get something like this. A little piece that’s been lost, but still lingers and…you have to sit in the moment with them, where it’s so impermanent but so never-ending. The orange leaves and greying branches continue to exist in the world, so it stands to reason that somewhere they’re still dancing to Paul McCartney in the kitchen, and they’re still alive and in love. (Well. Alive. They could never not be in love, not even after).
After them comes James, finally, and he barely makes it in the door before she’s seizing his face, slanting her lips over his and pressing him up against the closest wall. His hands scramble at her waist, her back, clutching at her hair. He pulls back for a dragged breath.
“I’m here, baby,” he murmurs, and a shudder runs through her, possibly because of his tone, even more possibly because of his words and the weight they carry. “I’m here. I’m alive.”
“I was so worried, James, I couldn’t see you, I thought—”
I definitely blocked this out so I wouldn’t have ptsd. Of course Clare would insert my crack of choice, Written-by-Clare-Separation-Anxiety-Order-Jily. OF COURSE. suing you.
Whenever he calls her 😭 the panic, the love 😭 (I would sell my soul for this fic from James’s POV, just saying 👀 just saying 👀)
Splintered star. (This was when I got up and made myself a nice cup of tea so I could steel myself to read the rest because im going to be honest, I was in a rough place at this point)
HAHA the argument at the bar. HAHAH HAHA I’m so sad.
“What happens now?” She whispers.
“Now, we wait.” James takes her hand in both of his and strokes her palm softly with his thumb. “Either for him, or for the train to leave.”
Dream-Lily seems to know who he is, because she doesn’t ask, only lays her head on dream-James’s shoulder and listens to his breathing. When the whistle blows and the train departs, he clutches her hand and they both begin to weep, and Lily jolts awake to a tear-stained pillow.
I literally cried at this bit. The parts with Harry in this fic hit so horrifically hard, because there’s something about children that just…they’re innocent, and a parent loves them so much, and I can’t imagine how losing one would feel.
Even if he’s falling for her the way she already has for him, it will be loving her incompletely, and that—she thinks—might be worse.
I’ve decided from this point forward I’m just going to restate Clare’s name with varying degrees of capitalization and formatting to show emotional destruction. I’ve run plum out of words. (Plum run out? what is the proper order for that no clue) Thank you for your understanding.
“Happy Halloween,” she whispers to him, and the words send a shock through her, though it’s unclear which her receives it, real Lily or dream-Lily, or if it lies somewhere in the nebulous space between.
No, she wants to scream, you can’t, James, you can’t—he’s not allowed to leave her this early. He’s not allowed to go before her, to leave her here without him.
The world tilts and shifts. She clutches Harry to her chest and sprints up the stairs, a sob clawing its way up her throat that she has to fight to push back down. Where is her wand? Why can’t she find her wand?
“Da-da!” Harry wails, squirming in her arms, and she has barely the breath to shush him; Godric’s Hollow feels cavernous, and somehow her steps barely make progress, because the hallway seems to extend out for miles and miles and miles.
There’s an echoing voice that sounds like death, and the sound of a body hitting the floor. The scream Lily suppresses is a dagger’s cut to the inside of her throat.
I’ll find you, Lily thinks as her vision tunnels to Harry’s bedroom door.
In any world, James, I’ll find my way back to you.
I just need to see him, she thinks desperately. I just need to make sure he’s alright, and then it’ll be over. I swear.
Her fingers close around the front doorknob. A clap of thunder makes her jump, but she presses on anyway. Weather be damned. This entire world be damned.
I just need to see him…
Logically, Lily knows that there are no witches or wizards or wands in this world, understands that whatever earth she lived in for her past life was built on different fundamental elements than this one, but when she throws the door open, she decides that there must be some sort of dormant, kinetic magic swimming below levels of dirt and magma, running subterranean pathways that sizzle and spark.
Because there he is. Like she’s conjured him.
James is standing outside of her flat, soaked through from the rain, white dress shirt sticking to his chest and hair flattened to his forehead. He’s breathing heavily out of his mouth; his shoulders heave with it. His glasses are clutched tightly in one fist—presumably useless now, with the downpour—and his other hand is pressed to his side, fingers flexing like he’s suppressing their movement with the last vestiges of his will.
A gasp shocks out of her. He looks up.
Their eyes meet, and it’s a star in supernova, the Big Bang, the creation of the universe. Suddenly there are entire galaxies within her, constellations of loss and longing and joy that crystallize under his eyes, shooting to the surface of her skin and attempting to take flight from her body.
A splintered star, Madame Arnaud had called her. A splintered star, looking for its lost fragments.
But to look at a star is to see it burned out, to stare at its ghost as the lightyears of distance trick the eye, and this, too, is true as she look at James; she doesn’t just see him, but the ghost of who he was, the mirror image of him forged from a life of war and magic, one they shared together, a stellar collision in a different cosmos.
Her head swims under the intensity of his gaze, because he’s never—not in this lifetime, at least—looked at her like this, like the entire world could swallow itself around them, and he’d not spare it a single glance, so long as she stayed within view.
It’s intoxicating. It’s foreign. It’s long overdue.
I can’t even talk at this point, but this jily might be my favorite ever written, because…they’re every jily. Clare writes the jily in my head, the jily I can’t even express with hundreds of thousands of words. 
“I remember everything, my love.”
RIP. I’ll be lying in my grave, clutching my laptop to my chest while I sob.
“Do you hear that, Harry?” She whispers. “Your mum and dad have been waiting for you.”
What the fuck. What the fuck Clare.
James leans up and presses a kiss to her abdomen. “We’ll do it right,” he says softly, to her or to Harry or both—she can’t be sure. “We’ll have more time.”
Yes, Lily thinks, they will. She looks up through the bedroom window. The London lights are dimmer than usual tonight, and above them, the sky is twinkling with stars.
Truly, who even comes up with something like this? Sometimes the power of art astounds me, because out of a line someone tossed into her inbox, Clare built something that makes everyone who reads it overwhelmed with feeling. It hurts so beautifully that I don’t need to reread it often to remember it (and I don’t know that I can I’d just be a constant mess. It gives you a literal hangover I’m going to be useless tomorrow); it’s just imprinted somewhere in my memory, an archive of all the art that has moved me, or made me think about love and life in the real world.
Clare—love you, you’re a shining star of a person and friend, and a witch of a wordsmith. Never stop making magic ❤️
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giulia-lo-art · a year ago
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The coolest girls in Derry!
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btrinidad01 · 5 months ago
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“Goddesses of Love” Claymore pin by InvokedSt on IG
One of two versions. This version is the gold and glitter version, and the second version is black plated with glow in the dark wings.
The writing on the back says - “It’s hardly profound. the reason is very simple; I’ve found a reason to love. From now on, I’m going to live for the girl.”
The seller also made a custom box for it! With images from the manga!
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theanimecollective · a month ago
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uwmspeccoll · 4 months ago
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Staff Pick of the Week
For my Staff Pick, I chose a book titled Country Lesbians: The Story of the WomanShare Collective written jointly by Sue Deevy, Nelly Kaufer, Dian Wagner, Carol Osmer-Newhouse, and Billie Miracle. This book was published in 1976, by WomanShare Books in Grants Pass, Oregon. It was typeset by MaryAnn, who is shown in the back of the book.  
In the 1970s, there were many women, usually lesbians involved in the back-to-the-land feminist movement who separated from society in order to escape patriarchy, capitalism, and homophobia. This book is a unique primary source that gives the reader a first-hand look at their collective situated on 23 acres of land in southern Oregon. It includes poetry, transcriptions of conversations, illustrations, letters, journal entries, photographs, tutorials, and more.  
The WomanShare collective wrote this book together after two years of living on the land. It is a text that explores so many different topics, such as friendships, relationships, identity, family, money, power, politics, class, and how they dealt with these personally and collectively.  
I chose this text because it feels like a portal into a time, place, and community that has striking differences and similarities to today's age. At the time the book was published there was estimated to be around 150 of these communities, and today there are a few remaining with varying practices and ideals. Still, Country Lesbians remains one of the only primary sources of its kind on this frontier.  
View our other Staff Picks.
-- Clare, Special Collections Undergraduate Assistant
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retroillustrates · 2 months ago
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Elric and Clare training.
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