[hi! i’m mitzi, and i can’t draw, so instead of making mads or animatics or whatever when i get a blorbo song stuck in my head i write really pretentious songfic. this particular one is something i’ve had cooking in the back of my head for years, about the end of tpp anniversary crystal, and azure chasing OLDEN through the depths of reality. around - the end of last year, criminy, life’s really been happening a lot lately - i started rambling about the fossil gods on the tpp lorecord, which segued into rambling about amber, which segued into rambling about OLDEN, which segued into this. i’ve been working on this post since march, bird jesus save us all. check my ‘mitzi writing’ tag for the previous rambles, but they shouldn’t be strictly necessary to understand this]

[our story starts at the end of anniversary crystal, itself the end (and also the beginning, it’s complicated) of the long battle against OLDEN. the REALITY-DEVOURING GODMONSTER has been defeated (though IT isn’t quite dead yet), the voices are getting ready to leave evan, the world is slowly falling apart, but don’t worry, that’s supposed to happen, and at the tomb of the voices on top of mt silver, a meeting takes place]

[our song being ficced tonight is cosmo’s ‘the ai girl and the deep heart sea’ - specifically, the first fifty seconds of it. it’s a long way to the bottom of the ocean of reality, and this is just the first step]

you ever hear that story about the shadows on the cave wall? like, some people were locked up underground, chained in place, unable to even move, for their entire lives. in front of them was a blank cave wall, and behind them was a blazing fire. between them and the fire, sometimes, would pass... things. people, animals, objects, moving behind the prisoners where they couldn't be seen all the prisoners could see were the shadows projected on the wall in front of them. that was all they knew of reality it's a metaphor, like. just as the prisoners see only the shadows and not the objects that cast them, so the world we know is just a distorted reflection of the true reality beneath. beyond this transient, illusory physical world, the philosophers say, lie the forms and concepts that create it, abstract and eternal. reality as we perceive it is just a flimsy crust over the true nature of the universe now, that's not entirely true. just because our world is a product of the deeper structures of reality doesn't make any less real. every part of the universe, from the most distant depths of the substructure to the soaring peaks of the noos, exists just as much as every other part. still, the philosophers do have the right idea. beneath our reality lies concepts, and beneath those concepts lie mathematics, and beneath that... well, it gets hard to describe the substructure in human language past that point. but it continues down, for many, many more layers. if the shadows on the wall are cast by objects, then those objects are themselves shadows, as are the things they are shadows of in turn. really, the allegory of the cave breaks down too quickly to be that useful. a better metaphor might be... the world we know is just the surface of an endless black sea

0. the surface a short conversation beneath a black sky

at the top of the mountain, among the ruins of the tomb, she sits. once upon a time the icy biting wind might have bothered her, but she's weathered far worse. she tosses snowflakes between her gloved fingers, and waits

above her, the phantom stars are slowly fading away. next will be the sky, and after that -

"hey!"

he strides through the rubble, limbs passing straight through solid stone. in his eyes is a light from beyond the world, but around them is still a lenseless pair of glasses. he talks as he walks, Voice perfectly pitched to catch her attention. "i've been looking for you everywhere! what're you up to?"

she glances at him, and then back to the sky. "waiting for the end"

he sighs, a little wistfully. "yeah. it'll all be over soon." he finds his own spot to sit in the ruins, and for a moment, they watch the stars blink out together. then he hrmmms. "actually"

it always has to be business with him, doesn't it. "what do you want now," she groans, more tired than anything else

"oh, nothing, if you don't want to get involved!" he shakes his head so hard his neck almost twists. "I just thought you might be interested, and you could -"

she groans again, more irritably. "get to the point already"

"right, right." he exhales, adjusts his empty glasses. "OLDEN"

he stands up and starts pacing in a circle, hands flying through gestures she doesn't even try to interpret. "see, IT's not - the Voices injured IT pretty badly, but IT's still existing. IT's fled into..." he slows down, furrowing his brow. "...I'm just going to call it the substructure of reality for now, we really don't have time for the full explanation. the fossil gods are going to chase IT down and finish IT off, once and for all. I’m coming along, as..." another furrow. "sort of a focus? anyway"

he stops and turns to face her again. "we wanted to know if you were coming too"

she - pauses, just for a second. then she narrows her eyes. "why would I?"

neither of them so much as glances at the back of her right hand. what point would there be in alluding to things they're both all too familiar with?

instead, he starts gesticulating even more wildly. "because you could help, most of all! you're better at navigating the haze than I ever was, you must know a thousand shortcuts we can use to catch up with IT. it'd be a good idea to have someone who isn't plugged into the heart of the universe along in general, just in case IT throws up an anti-reality barrier or an outsider-sifting net or something like that. and..."

he trails off. then he nods his head, just once, and looks her right in the eyes. "and there's a chance - just a chance, I don't even know how we'd do it - that we could save him." he shuts his eyes. "it's probably the last one we'll ever get"

the words hang in the air. he is silent, she is silent, the stars vanish, one by one. finally, she lets out a long, slow breath. "alright"

"all..." his face lights up again. "yes! great! cool! thank you, Azure"

there's maybe a slightly fond twist to her mouth. "let's just get going, Abe"

"yeah, we probably should. if you just..." he tilts his head like he's listening to something, and then nods. "just take my hand"

he holds out his. it's already tinted purple, its borders beginning to fuzz into incoherence like every other object around them - except the clear, sharp outline of the one she extends to grasp it. their palms touch and their fingers lock -

and they plunge beneath the surface of reality

deep, deep down in a sea of possibility

in blackness so far down no hint of form ever pierces it

a single IDEA coalesced in bright white

the world blocked out by the haze of ITs tears

the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.

three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.

two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.

their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.

one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.

i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.

i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.

and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?

you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.

a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.

someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.

I'm sure a million people have already written about this and better than I ever could, but there are so many hypocritical moments in the hunger games that stick with me. the way the capital citizens gasp and are furious at the flag being torn down, but not at the dead children directly under it. the way they riot after peeta says "if it weren't for the baby" as if they don't watch children slaughter each other every year. the list could go on.

those moments are something I think of daily, just given the current political climate in america. suzanne collins really took a mirror right to our society and nailed it. makes me insane to think about it too much

aaa games: we have some of the most CUTTING EDGE character customization options for you!! you can't make them fat tho, only cause we'd have to design more clothing models and adjust the animation for them and we just don't have the resources for that haha you understand right. that's totally the only reason we don't let you do that. anyways which of these 6 cocks would you like your character to have

Danny, Sam and Tucker co-own a resturant. (Yes this is going exactly how you think if u got it) Danny makes the mascots, Tucker supplies the coding and Sam is both their biggest donor and takes over the vegan menu.

Surprisingly, the resturant goes extremely well and so far hasn't been robbed even though they're in Gotham.

They hire a nightguard just in case.

However, none of the three knew that a few specific ghosts keep coming back every night to possess the animatronics and have their fun while also throwing out intruders.

Jason Todd thinks that his bosses should've at the very least told him their mascots would try to put him in the grave again.

(They aren't but he doesn't know that and they don't know he's supposed to be here.)

bruce 'tired single dad' wayne: *lecturing jason once again on something he did during a fight*

jason 'theatre kid extraodinare'' todd who immediately starts fake crying on the spot: do you just not love me anymore?

“the submarine trip was stupid and rooted in classism”, “it’s absolutely hideous how much more manpower was put into saving and reporting on them vs the 500 migrants who died in a similar horrible fashion”, and “despite their actions, no human being (especially not a nineteen year old) should deserve to die like this, especially when their death will not actually herald any positive change/abolishment of the billionaire class” are three thoughts than can and should coexist. you don’t have to mourn their deaths, but you don’t need to celebrate them, either.

I love this gay ass show with its literally life ending injuries that heal immediately, but only when convenient to the plot, and its ridiculous use of modern phrases, and its laughing in the face of historical accuracy, and its kissing the face of the fans instead of trying to outwit them, and the way everyone involved in the show seem to go 'I KNOW RIGHT! I'M EXCITED TOO!' instead of mocking the fans

anyways happy pride to all my high risk queers out there, to all my disabled queers for whom events aren't accessible to, to my immunocompromised folks who can't risk attending events where people aren't masked or taking covid precautions! happy pride to my fellow cripqueers that want to be out there fighting and celebrating with their friends and family and can't because it's not safe for them to do so– you're not alone and you deserve to celebrate too. we all do.

"Do not let anyone convince you that you need to get sick to be healthy."

Damian's online friend is sleeping over at Wayne Manor, and its going great.

Well, until he dies.

They had all gone down to "sleep", which meant that they had Daniel go to sleep while everyone went out on patrol.

Upon returning, Damian checked on Daniel.

Just to make sure that his Grandfather had not sent any assassins that had taken advantage of Damian's weakness in friendships, of course.

Daniel isn't breathing.

When Damian goes to check his pulse, it isn't there.

Damian storms out of the room on a warpath; he would find who had killed his friend and he would make them pay.

Danny wakes up six hours later on a metal slab in a secret underground lair with one Leslie Thompkins hovering over him with a scalpel.

Do you ever think about brook thinking about being human? How that changes how his music sounds? How the skin of your fingers grow calluses from the strings, and how bone doesn’t do that? How bone against string will fundamentally sound different rather than soft flesh? Do you think Brook ever misses the way his music sounded when he was alive? Or do you think he's glad that the sound changed? That they way he used to play will always remain with his first crew and his new sound is for memories with his new crew?

Also a version in one image below :)

hey btw if you're in the USA at  2:20 p.m. ET on Wednesday, Oct. 4, they're testing the emergency broadcast system. your phone is probably going to make a really loud noise, even if it's on silent. there's a backup date on the 11th if they need to postpone it.

if you're not in a safe situation and have an extra phone, you should turn that phone completely off beforehand.

additionally, if you're like me, and are easily startled; i recommend treating it like a party. have a countdown or something. be surrounded by your loved ones. take the actions you personally need to take to make yourself safe.

i have already seen mockery towards any person who feels nervous about this. for the record, it completely, completely valid to have "emergency broadcast sounds" be an anxiety trigger. do not let other people make fun of you for that. emergency sounds are legitimately engineered to make us take action; those of us with high levels of anxiety and/or neurodivergence are already pre-disposed to have a Bad Time. sometimes it is best to acknowledge that the situation will be triggering for some, and to prepare for that; rather than just saying "well that's stupid, it's just a test."

"loud scary sound time" isn't like, my favorite thing, but we can at least try to prevent some additional anxiety by preparing for it. maybe get yourself a cake? noise cancelling headphones? the new hozier album? whatever helps. love u, hope you're okay. we are gonna ride it out together.

i found you in the future

Shit post!

Don't take this too seriously, but LMAO XD. -Bubbly💙

Michael on the Zoe Ball Show on March 1st: "And he looks good in a kilt as well, doesn't he?"

David on Comic Relief tonight: