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kedreeva · 1 year

Note

Yeah my laptops os definitely has a personal vendetta against you and that is why i have been unable to use my graphic tablet for a couple months now

Funnily enough about 1 hour after sending that ask i encountered Another one of my kids in public transport on the way home and my first thought was that i mustve summoned him with the previous ask

Now

I CANT BELIEVE THERE IS LIKE AN ACTUAL BATHROOM SCENE™ i thought the fucking robin and steve bathroom floor scenes for the fic™ that was lead to the proper beginning of the undoing of my sanity were just like a fucking thing in that fic i didnt know they were A Thing™ goddamn

AND STOP TELLING ME INTRIGUING STUFF ABOUT THE DAMNED SHOW CAUSE I CAN ONLY POSTPONE WATCHING IT FOR SO LONG WITH MY SANITY IN SHAMBLES

Goddamn it kedreeva ive never even properly Encountered either hopper or dmitri but now i am Invested in them i curse you to continue thinking about them in those circumstances until YOU crack and end up making something about the fuckers

Also no worries about taking a bit to reply idm in teh slightest i just thought tumblr mightve eaten my ask cause it does that quite a bit but yeah im glad youre getting your shit done (unlike me whos currently writing this reply in an attempt to further postpone making a google forms for a fucking poll that was supposed to be done hours ago so that tomorrow it can be sent out cause i fucking need the results by monday at the latest- and NO this ISNT _That_ assignment thats about to make me fail that class this is a completely different very very urgent thing im ignoring gotta love the executive dysfunction)

*soft gasp* the bathroom scene is so good....

You must have seen gifs of it! I've reblogged a few!! I will make some gifs tomorrow, but please... imagine.... Steve and Robin have been drugged with something to loosen their tongues, Steve's been beat to hell (robin was hit once, for spitting in a Russian officer's face), they've both just gotten ill, and they're slouched on the filthy floor in separate stalls of a movie theater bathroom. And to check if the drug is still in their systems, they start asking each other questions, and Robin's question is: "Have you ever been in love?"

And Steve tells her yeah, with Nancy Wheeler. Robin scoffs, but then softly asks him if he's still in love with her, and he thinks about it a second, and then says no, and she asks why not, and he starts to tell her that he found someone better for him. Someone that makes him laugh, someone that he has fun with, someone he should have been friends with long before now and he doesn't know why he wasn't except that he was an asshole before, and cared about things that didn't matter. And the cinematography is showing Robin in the other stall with her head in her hands, and when she doesn't answer, Steve slides under the stall wall to join her in her stall and asks her what she thinks.

And Robin tells him the girl sounds amazing, and Steve looks her in the eyes as best he can with only 1 good eye at the moment, and tells her earnestly "she is." and she tells him but the boy isn't thinking clearly. Then!!!! She asks if he remembers when she told him about the class they shared, and he says yeah, because it was like an hour ago, and she tells him well, she was jealous of Steve because Tammy couldn't look away from Steve, and Robin wanted her to look at her.

And Steve, precious baby boy, tells her, but Tammy is a girl? And Robin says his name, so soft, like he's being an idiot because he is, and he gets it, and leans back, thinking, and Robin looks a little crushed but she stays, she waits, she prompts him for his thoughts, and he says, like, yeah, it's fine but you need better taste in women. and then they start loudly singing like muppets and that's when and how Dustin and Erica find them.

You HAVE to see this scene, but I think I actually like the interrogation room floor scene a LITTLE better because Steve's beat up, but they haven't been drugged yet, and Robin comes up with a plan to jump-walk the chairs they are bound to over to the torture devices table to get something to cut their ropes with, but they just. fall over. and Steve - who is beat to hell - hits the ground with a pained noise and the utter silence of someone fighting not to make more of them, and Robin's shoulders start shaking and they're bound back-to-back so he feels it and immediately pulls himself out of his pain to tell her "it's okay, it's okay, don't cry, robin." Except, she's laughing because she cannot believe THIS is how she's gonna die or that this is WHO she is gonna die with.

And then Robin's telling him she sat behind him for a year and he never noticed her, and that he was a dick in hs but she wanted what he had and he softly confesses it wasn't worth a goddamn thing, actually. He tells her he wishes he had known her back then, maybe he'd have passed the class and be on his way to college, and she tells him she'd have no idea there were evil russians and she'd be slinging ice cream with some other schmuck.

and he just

so softly

admits that he has liked being her schmuck.

"It was fun while it lasted," says the boy that just tried to reassure her they weren't going to die.

breaks my heart, Delightful.

Episode 3.06 and 3.07 if you wanna find them :)

Also if you need more answers to your poll, you can send a link in and I'll post it. I hope you're able to find the drive to do your other assignment, I am rooting for you!

#anon asks #asks #Anon (Delightful)#stranger things #buckington besties

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okaybutlikeimagine · 3 years

Text

A Father’s Day Triptych

TW: past/referenced child abuse, emotional hurt/comfort, child neglect

(you can find it on AO3 here ♥)

Father’s day in the Hargrove household was always pulled taut with expectations of kindness and submission hanging over Billy’s head.

They didn’t always used to be that way. When he was a kid, Father’s days felt like a reprieve rather than a burden. Billy and his mom would prepare special things- a nice card that would make him laugh, those new fishing poles he’d been eyeing in the big sporting store a town over, a pretty cake with fresh fruit on top from the grocer down the way. His mother went all out. She’d get Billy all excited for it too. The strenuous relationships were softened for a day where they did everything they could to make him happy.

They really did… everything they could just to make him happy. Sometimes Billy still wonders why it had to take so much.

Around Father’s day, his mother would use all her spending money to make his father smile. It usually worked. And for that day, it was so good. It could hardly get better. Grilling and watching stupid baseball games Billy never cared about but would pretend to be interested in, just for him. Fake smiles almost became real. Hot dogs and hamburgers and watermelon always tasted better on those days when his father would put his arm around Billy amicably- when he would laugh at the card and compliment how Billy’s penmanship was getting better every year.

The year that she left was the worst.

The year that she left Billy stopped getting an allowance. He had no money to soften the edges of his father with fresh cakes and fancy presents. He panicked. He stole a stupid fishing keychain from a store and made a card from his school notebook paper. He presented them with shaking hands to his father who seemed glued to the couch, eyes bloodshot, surrounded by beer cans, baseball game so loud Billy’s ears felt sore.

He got a grunt and a lazy eye roll in response. A slurred groan of “your writing is sloppy”. A quieter admission of regret.

He got resentment. Billy was 9 and he knew it was resentment towards his very existence. He slid away to his room. There was no dinner to eat that night as his father passed out on the couch with the TV still on far too loud.

When Susan and Max came into the picture, Billy miraculously found a reason to be happy for it. Suddenly there was pressure taken off of him. He let Max know it too, as Susan encouraged them to go out and “at least get him a card”. They’d lazily look through all the forcibly funny and generic pieces of paper. Max was nervous that first year.

“It’s whatever.” Billy had grunted, looking through ugly green cards with stupid phrases on them. “She’s gonna bang him tonight, he won’t care about a dumb card.”

“Ew.” Max had whined, covering her ears and pouting. Billy couldn’t find it in himself to care.

It was never fun. Billy felt like he was on a leash all day long, obligated to do everything he could for his father just to keep him civil. Susan made a steak, the kids handed over the card, his father remarked how his penmanship was the mark of someone lazy and sloppy (no matter how hard Billy would try to make it as neat as he possibly could), and the day would end. And he could stop thinking about how this man still had a hand in his life.

…

Father’s day in the Hopper household was always bumbling and awkward.

By the time that first one came around, Billy was just beginning to feel less like a burden to the house and more like an addition. He’d found comfort in the space they all shared. They had a sort of routine set between all of them. There was still no second bed for Billy, so he still felt like he was imposing when Hop slept on the couch, but it was a sort of pull out couch by that point and Hop insisted and Billy decided not to pay it too much mind.

And that first Father’s day was just… awkward. Billy had completely forgotten the date- summer had just started for him and days were rolling by in hot and languid and lazy moments of feeling out every new situation. He had just started getting really serious with Steve. Not just touching for the sake of getting off but really starting to need and want each other in ways that scared him. In ways that made him want to keep things how they were- ways that made him scared to change a thing. It was a new and alien feeling for him.

El had inadvertently learned about Father’s day from Mike when he briefly groaned about dinner plans his family had. Billy found that out from El on their drive to the store to pick something up for Hop. She had to convince Billy it was a thing they should do, because Hopper was their father. He did fatherly things for them. He took them in and gave them a roof and food and asked how their days were and wished them goodnight and good morning, however groggily. He made stupid jokes that made them moan and he danced horribly to the old records he kept on their dusty shelf and he was horrible with laundry and he whistled as he did dishes.

He introduced Billy proudly in the grocery store once. It was the weekend after Billy had a really good basketball game that Hop had decided to attend. Hop bragged about it to some friend of his. Billy flushed red and elbowed him and tried his best to escape.

He thought about it every single day.

Billy and El bought a large cheesy balloon, ingredients to make a nice lasagna dinner, and a green and white cake from the bakery. The balloon was more for El. The lasagna was a little burnt. Hop was too nice to say he’d have preferred pie to cake, but he ate it anyway as they sat around the TV and watched whatever program was on. Billy only remembered as he fell slowly into sleep that night. He jolted awake quickly, remembering a sort of far off conversation months ago where Hop had proclaimed confidently that pie was the superior dessert of anything else- yes, even Eggo's with whipped cream and sprinkles. How he admitted cake was never his favorite.

Billy felt shame overcome him as he remembered, pushing himself out of bed and turning to the sofa with the immediate want to apologize for it. He wasn’t sure what came over him.

But instead of sending pleading apologies into the darkness, he just looked towards the sofa with a heavily beating heart and let his eyes adjust. And he thought about all that man had done for the two of them. Thought about how he took in these two stray kids. Thought about how he knew Hop was getting flack for it, because Billy heard the whispers and the snickers and the sneers about Hop running a dog pound. Thought about how he gave up his probably comfier trailer for the rundown cabin, gave up the main bedroom for the dusty spare bed, gave up the dusty spare bed for the couch, gave up parts of his sanity probably…

Billy didn’t wanna apologize anymore. He just whispered a thanks, even though it was hard to push up through his throat and would fall onto sleeping ears.

The Father’s days after that first one got better. They got Joyce, and along with her 2 boys that had their own rocky past with fathers and celebrations of them. Just four kids who feared and resented father figures. It ended up being better than Billy could imagine. It was never quite as awkward as that first Father’s day, but never quite comfortable either. That being said, it was never a bad day. The bar was low, but that didn’t matter. Billy found appreciation for the general ease all the same.

…

Father’s day in the Hargrove-Harrington-”whatever we’re together now and that’s what’s most important” household is filled with guilt and feelings of imposter syndrome.

They don’t celebrate it the first two or so years after they’ve adopted their first child. He’s just a toddler, he doesn’t quite understand yet what it is. And they… they’re still struggling with what it means to be fathers. They’re confident in their rights but they’re not immune to the judgmental voices, always eyeing them oddly when they’re out together with their boy or asking after the mother when they’re out separately. Always looking a little judgmental or harsh when they have to explain why the kid doesn’t look like them- whoever is with him at the time. Or getting looks of pity when the people clearly begin to assume it’s because they couldn’t get pregnant with whatever wife must be at home.

It’s hard to hear. It makes them question everything. If their boy doesn’t know what he’s missing, then there’s no need to explain.

Billy calls Hopper and feels his heart lurch when Hop and Joyce wish him and Steve a happy father’s day. They do it with joy and certainty. As if it belongs to them, too. Billy hangs up the phone and lays in bed for at least half an hour. Steve can’t get through to him.

It’s an odd feeling. A rough feeling. When they adopt their second child, a girl of 9 years old, they know they’re going to have to confront it. Their son begins school that year too. They find out about the day from their friends and television ads and store windows. The children are timid with them- they were adopted as supposed “problem children” from rough homes and tumultuous pasts. Billy and Steve don’t expect anything of them but they’re still not sure how to explain that. They figure ignoring is easier than explaining. Maybe it’ll make it go away.

It doesn’t work well.

And Billy… Billy’s just struggling being a dad. He couldn’t explain the job if he tried. He helps make lunches, he gives timeouts, he buys and subsequently sneaks himself some silly little snack foods when he’s hungry and busy and doesn’t have time to do more than rip open a pouch. He deals with tantrums over vegetables and he wipes mouths with napkins and he sings lullabies in the wrong key and he reads bedtime stories until he himself dozes off in the tiny bed with a small head on his chest and drool pooling onto his shirt.

He’s trying. He gets frustrated at stores. He gets a little hot headed, a little loud. His heart breaks when they cry. He’s straddling the line between being a pushover and a hard-ass. He lays awake at night, staring at the ceiling, dreading ever becoming like Neil. He asks Steve, in the stillness of the night when the darkness acts as the weight of every horrible outcome imaginable, if he’ll follow Neil’s wretched footsteps.

“You’ll never be like him, Billy.”

“How do you know? What if it’s inside me already.”

“It’s not.”

“Maybe it is… maybe I won’t be able to help it.”

He stresses and he struggles and he wants to rip his hair out.

But that first father’s day comes around with their new daughter and newly knowledgeable son. And the two children blunder around the kitchen while their two dads are asleep. And then they wake the two parents up, both teary eyed and breathing heavy, faces full of apology and sorrow, asking for help to clean up the mess.

And Billy and Steve find the kitchen a single step back from full on disaster. There’s juice all over the counter and dripping onto the floor, the cereal box is all soggy from it, the toaster is smoking, a plate is broken on the ground, the fridge is still open. Their daughter pulls on Billy’s pajama pants and holds out her finger that’s bleeding. He gets out of her that she somehow managed to cut it on the butter knife she was using to cut up some fruit.

Steve gets busy cleaning things up. He asks their son to help do smaller things like close the fridge and grab some towels.

Billy takes his daughter’s small soft hand into his large, rough one and plants a kiss on it. It sends something like pure love surging through his heart. He guides her to the bathroom to put a bandaid on it and asks if she’s okay.

“Mmhm.” She nods and his heart softens. She sniffles. “M’sorry. We wanted… wanted to make breakfast and w-wanted to do something nice.”

She sounds like the weight of the world is on her small shoulders. Billy sees himself at 9 years old, doing his damnedest to get anything close to a damn smile out of his father while he sat unresponsive and unamused on the couch.

His heart yearns. It breaks and it pulls and it screams and it shouts. He pulls her in close and hugs her tight and tries to find the right words. Tries to tell her it’s made his entire year. It’s made him feel validated and happy and worth it, like all of that stress is worth it just to know that these two children got up early as hell on a Sunday morning just to surprise their fathers. Just to surprise the two of them. Just to say they thought of them, wanted to give them something, wanted to make them feel special.

“It was nice.” Is all he can croak out through his froggy throat.

“It’s a mess.” She sobs, but he just grips her arms tighter.

“It was wonderful.” He says and he’s crying too. He can’t get the tears to stop. He’s kneeling on the bathroom ground, the two of them crying to each other.

And Billy swears he’ll never get good at the father thing. He has talks with Hop about it, when he’s feeling vulnerable and Hopper’s able to get it out of him. By this point they’ve adopted another child- an older boy, a teenager. He’s rough and he’s jaded. He listens to loud, angry music. He kind of picks on the other two kids, even though he’d jump in front of a bus for either one of them. Hop asks how he likes it.

“He’s a lot like you were, y’know.” Hop tells Billy, who still doesn’t really see it.

Steve doesn’t have as much of a problem with the boy as Billy does. Billy and him just never seem to see eye to eye.

“It’s because you’re the same people.” Hop insists. Steve agrees. Joyce affirms with pity. “You clash.”

They clash hard. They get into yelling matches. Billy never puts a hand on him, but the arguments aren’t exactly great. Billy cries to Steve at night, fear shaking him down to his core, still able to see and hear himself yelling at that boy who fights tooth and nail back with him.

“You’re not a bad person, Billy.”

“Why do I do that shit?” He asks, knowing full well no one but him could ever really know.

It’s not like it’s anything too vitriolic. It’s not like it’s anything really poisonous.

It’s over the fact that he stays out too late at night, and Billy gets worried. It’s the fact that Billy found cigarettes in his room and he knows the bad effects of cigarettes. It’s the fact that he pushed his little brother one day and made him scrape his knee and he needed to learn some boundaries. It’s the fact that he lied about his grades when Billy felt they gave him no reason to do such a thing.

It’s fatherly things. That’s what Hop assures him as Billy cries on the phone with him.

“It’s things I would have done with you.”

Billy never ever knows what to make of that. What to make of what he’d be like now if Hop was his father from the start. If Hop was there from the beginning. If Neil hadn’t made him a monster in his own image.

Billy does his best to get through to him. Get through to his son now because he’s his son now.

Billy feels like the worst, most undeserving father.

As the kids have gotten older, they learned better ways to celebrate father’s day. They learn breakfast in bed isn’t really what the two of them would prefer- a nice lunch and getting to spend some time with them sounds better. A homemade card always goes on the mantle or the fridge with the rest of the collection. A few hugs because those are like treasured gifts in this house with kids who have a history of boundary and trust issues with parental figures.

The older son catches Billy alone in the kitchen.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Billy replies awkwardly back. The silence is jarring.

“I uh… uhm.” He’s struggling. Billy wants to do something more than just stand here, but he’s not sure what. He doesn’t want to push anything too far. He wants to be good at this.

The boy puts a small, wrapped box on the counter with an envelope underneath and slides it over.

“Happy Father's day.” He mumbles, suddenly fidgeting.

Billy stares at them.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

There’s another pause, heavy with all the weight and worry in Billy’s heart. He reaches for the box, rips the paper open easily, lifts up the lid.

“It’s uh… it’s just a couple tapes of some of those… bands you like. And talk about. All the time.” The boy snickers, but it catches in his throat. He’s so nervous. “My friend’s family was getting rid of a bunch of their tapes and I know you’ve got your old tape player still so… uh… yeah.”

It’s a mixed bag of absolute classics. Some tapes he used to have, others he’s always wanted. Zeppelin, Ted Nugent, Def Leppard, Billy Idol, AC/DC, Alice Cooper… his heart skips. He lost a lot of his tapes after all the sudden moves he’s had to make. His eyes start to well.

“I… I don’t know what to say.” Billy pushes out on a whisper.

“Are they any good?”

“They’re… they’re awesome, kid.”

“There’s a card too y’know.” The boy adds, still shuffling nervously.

Billy slips it out from under the box, pulling his finger underneath the flap to open it.

It’s… it’s ridiculous. It’s one of the cheesiest cards Billy’s ever seen. He thinks back to all the stupid, jokey cards he used to pick out with his mother. The joke inside actually makes him laugh, loud and bright.

There’s words written underneath, quite a few scribbled out and then-

Sorry for all the trouble. I think I just don’t like knowing you’re right sometimes… but thank you for everything.

The words are nearly chicken scratch- wobbly letters clearly written with a nervous and shaky hand. The boy is damn near bouncing now, damn near trying to crawl out of his skin with nerves.

It’s the best, prettiest, most wonderful chicken scratch handwriting Billy has ever seen. He can barely see it now through his misty eyes.

“Your… handwriting is really nice.”

The boy scoffs loudly.

“Uh, thanks?” He sounds like he doesn’t believe it. Still, Billy could swear he sees the boy preen, just a little.

“Thank you.” Billy says, fighting back tears, trying like hell to hold himself together. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t… I don’t have to yell at you so much. At all. I’m sorry about it.”

The boy is just staring at him, eyes a little wide and a little shocked. Billy feels his heart lurch. He just wants to be fucking good at this.

“I’m gonna do better.” Billy asserts through a not-so-wobbly-anymore voice

The boy gives a small smile that grows a bit wider. If Billy isn’t absolutely crazy yet, he’d say that the boy’s eyes are getting a bit misty too.

“So are those tapes actually good?” The boy asks, clearing his throat and trying to seem casual. Billy sees more and more of himself in him.

“Hell yeah… do you think I’d have bad taste?”

His son cackles just a bit, rolling his eyes.

“Yeah, alright then. Whatever you say.”

There’s a pause. Billy takes the card and tucks it back into the envelope to save for himself- to put in a special place in his and Steve’s room. He then busies himself with shuffling through his tapes before his son says-

“We can… listen to some of them. If you want.”

Billy’s eyes shine with excitement and appreciation.

Listening to the tapes together is wonderful. They rib each other about what songs are better, what voices do and don’t sound the same, what the lyrics are like. They learn more about each other and maybe Billy is finally forced to admit that they’re a lot more alike than he realized.

And Billy starts to feel that maybe… maybe he can finally define what a father really means to him. And father’s days start to feel a bit more like they belong to him, too.

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joezworld · 3 years

Text

Story - The Railway Prometheus, or, when the Diesels discover fire

Based off of this headcanon that I made.

And this one.

And also parts of this one.

I decided to write an actual honest-to-god RWS style thing

Dragons teaching Diesels

2001

Most diesel engines dislike being cold started.

Cold starting occurs when a diesel is started while their fuel and engine block are both cold. Diesel engines do not work like petrol engines, which use a spark plug to ignite the fuel, and instead compress the fuel vapour, causing it to ignite on its own. This is called compression ignition.

When the engine block or the fuel is cold, the fuel does not compress properly, and it means that some of the engine’s cylinders will fire, while others do not. This causes the engine to fire unevenly, makes a ghastly knocking sound, and produces a lot of smoke and soot - commonly called clag.

On the Island of Sodor, a cold started diesel also produces another ghastly noise - this time coming from the Steam Engines watching. They assume that something has gone dreadfully wrong, and make many unhelpful comments about the clag and the noise.

Bear and BoCo are well aware of what cold starting is, and try to avoid being near other engines - partly so that they can cold start without Gordon or James’ unhelpful commentary, but mostly so that no one could hear them yelling...

“FUCK!” BoCo swore from within a cloud of soot and clag. It was a bitterly cold February morning, and nobody wanted to start properly. His engine was knocking like it belonged in an old jalopy, and he felt most uncomfortable.

Bear grimaced in sympathy as he shot his own tower of clag into the otherwise crisp morning air. His motor mounts were going to ache later, and- “Aggh!” He cried as fire shot out of his exhaust vents.

Another issue with cold starting was that unburnt fuel would build up within an engine’s exhaust manifold. Once the manifold got hot enough, the fuel would then spontaneously combust - sending huge gouts of flame out of the exhaust stacks. Bear hated it when that happened, as it caused a very unpleasant sensation. He knew BoCo hated it as well.

But, for some diesels on the island, it seemed to be the highlight of their day…

“Three, two, one, GO!” shouted Pip and Emma in unison. At their call, massive pillars of flame shot out both sets of exhaust stacks, bathing the yard in a bright orange light for a moment.

“How do you two enjoy that?” He asked. Before this winter the HST pair had been stabled at Barrow, but had been moved down to the Tidmouth diesel shed in the summer of 2000. Now that he was regularly in close contact with them, their numerous eccentricities began to stand out.

“It’s fun!” Came the response from the blue and yellow passenger train.

From inside his cloud, BoCo hacked incredulously. “Fucking How?!”

“You have to do it right.” Said Emma. The massive grin on her face meant that she was eagerly anticipating somebody asking her to demonstrate the ‘right way’.

“There’s a wrong way?” Bear raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t letting her get what she wanted that easily.

“Of course there is! It’s the wrong way if it hurts!”

“We’re catching on fire. How does that not hurt?”

“By being a dragon, silly!”

“What.”

“Just be a dragon!” Pip shouted from the other end of the HST trainset.

“You still haven’t made sense.” Bear puzzled as his engine finally started firing on all cylinders.

More bursts of fire belched from within the BoCo-shaped cloud - his motor just wasn’t having it today.

“Bear - stop. What is the right way Emma?” Implored the cloud.

“I - I don’t know how to explain it,” she began. “But you need to - it feels like-”

“Just breathe in through your exhaust manifold!” Bellowed Pip, as if this made any sense.

After a few minutes of listening to BoCo making bizarre sounding whistling noises, Bear began to think that Pip and Emma were making fun of him. His only evidence against this was Emma’s genuinely earnest expression as she tried to talk the diesel through this ‘breathing exercise’.

Finally, a hacking cough emerged from the Cloud Formerly Known as Boco, before a giant column of flame shot ten feet horizontally out of where BoCo’s mouth would be.

Swearing loudly, the Hymek lurched backwards as Pip and Emma cheered.

“Was that supposed to happen?!” He cried.

“Yes!” Pip called as BoCo began to fire on all cylinders.

Bear goggled at her, to which she wryly grinned, before shooting her own blast of flames - right out of her mouth.

“See, this is why we’re the Dragon Sisters!” She said exuberantly.

“Really?”

“Nah. But it sure is fun!”

As Bear pondered the class 43’s sanity, BoCo’s cloud dissipated, revealing a happy Metrovick - engine now firing on all cylinders. “Pip, Emma, however did you learn how that worked?” He asked as his crew emerged from the yard office - totally ignorant to the many bursts of fire that had just happened.

“I dunno,” Emma said after a moment of thinking. “It just sort of happened. But it’s really cool! I can do it whenever I want to as well!”

To prove this, she smiled, and a small burst of flames licked around her teeth, but didn’t explode outwards like before.

“What an incredibly odd thing for the factory to do to you. Carry on.” BoCo was at a loss for words and was unsure if he should be concerned, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and said no more as his crew ran across the yard and into the warmth of his cab. His cold engine had made them very late, and they wasted no time in driving him away.

“You weren’t built like that, were you?” Bear said as BoCo disappeared into the distance.

“No.” Said Emma.

“Can you teach me?”

----------------------------------------------------

Revenge is best served on fire

BoCo lived on Edward’s branch line, serving as the primary freight diesel for the industries in Suddery and Brendam. As a result of this, he is often forced to be in close proximity to Bill and Ben.

Bill and Ben are two yellow menaces tank engines that work for the China Clay company in Brendam. Originally, they were restricted to working just on the small industrial spur that served the clay pits, but as cargo traffic increased in the late 1990s, they had been given permission to travel as far as Wellsworth to deliver their trains of clay directly to the main line.

This sounds like good news for BoCo, as it means less work for him, but in actuality it is the opposite.

You see, Bill and Ben are very dedicated pranksters, and spend many hours having fun at BoCo and Edward’s expense. While the pranks only work occasionally, their goal of annoying BoCo and Edward is often met regardless.

One day in March, BoCo was resting between trains at Wellsworth Station when Bill and Ben peeped into the yard, a long string of clay trucks rattling behind them.

Maybe they’ll be too tired to do anything. He thought to himself.

“Oh! There’s BoCo!”

“He’s sleeping! Let’s do plan seven!”

How naive I must be.

BoCo kept his eyes shut as Bill and Ben began babbling to each other in German. He had no idea how or when the terrible twosome had managed to learn it, but it had proved most irritating - which was probably why they learned it in the first place.

“Mal sehen, ob er das merkt!”

“Ja!”

BoCo had no idea what they were saying, but knew he’d be annoyed by it. Perhaps a pre-emptive strike could be arranged…

Breathing in deeply through his exhaust vents like Pip and Emma had taught him, BoCo waited until the twins drew nearer.

As they got close, he dropped his jaw open as if he was about to begin snoring. After waiting a few more seconds, he let out the deep breath he was holding.

A massive blast of fire shot out of the Diesel’s mouth - BoCo couldn’t see it, but it almost scorched Ben's eyebrows off.

“SCATTER!”

“AAAAAAHHHH!”

The sound of frantic steam engines vanished into the distance, and BoCo sighed in relief.

For a moment, all was still.

For a moment -

“What in the world was that?!”

BoCo cracked open an eye to see Henry, sitting at the signals with a load of hoppers. He had seen everything, and wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or not.

“Indigestion.” Was all BoCo said before going back to sleep.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Wendell, Dragons, and Bears, Oh My!

Despite what many engines may claim, Pip, Emma, Bear, and BoCo were not the only diesels on the North Western Railway. There is also Wendell.

Wendell is the works diesel for Crovan’s Gate works. He is a Blue and Yellow Class 47, and spends most of his days rescuing broken down engines and returning empty stock from the works to the yards where they’re needed. Because he normally meets engines while they are broken down, he is regarded well by all the engines on the Island - even James, who normally views Diesel traction with suspicion.

Just like the other diesels on the Island, Wendell dislikes cold starts, but has much less experience with them than the others do, as he has a nice warm shed at the works that he lives in year-round!

Bear and BoCo aren’t jealous, but Pip and Emma are! No matter how much they enjoy cold-starting, they still don’t enjoy being left outside in the frigid air.

One morning in April 2001, Wendell was dispatched to Tidmouth - Henry had failed, and an engine was needed to take his morning trains.

Wendell had agreed - in no small part because he didn’t know that Henry’s ‘morning’ included the Flying Kipper, which left Tidmouth at 3:15 in the ‘morning’!

To make things worse, there was an unseasonable cold snap, with temperatures dropping below freezing overnight.

Wendell missed his shed as he shivered in the yard at Tidmouth. His engine was cold, and the fuel that his driver had pumped in wasn’t any warmer.

His starter motor tried and tried to make him start, and when it eventually happened, he was enveloped in a cloud of soot and clag as his engine fired on maybe three of its twelve cylinders.

“Yuck!” He moaned as the cloud thickened. “I can’t see anything! And my motor mounts hurt!”

“Breathe through your exhaust!” Came a cry through the haze.

“What?”

“Breathe in through your exhaust manifold! It should help!” The mystery voice said again.

“Okay!” It wasn’t like he would lose anything by trying, so Wendell tried, and eventually managed to take a deep breath in through his exhaust stacks.

Unfortunately, this meant that he inhaled a lot a clag and fuel vapor, which caused him to start coughing and hacking until -

“Yipe!” A jet of fire shot out of his mouth!

A cheer broke out from beyond the haze as his engine started to fire on more cylinders. In a few minutes, Wendell was much warmer, and his engine was firing on all cylinders as the haze began to clear, revealing Bear and Pip.

“Isn’t that better?” The HST called to him.

“Yes, but - what?” Wendell tripped over his words. “How does that happen?”

“We’re not sure,” Said Bear, as flames danced around the inside of his mouth. “but it works wonders on cold nights like this.”

“Ooookaaay.” Said the Works Diesel slowly. “So, I can just do that now?”

“Pretty much!” Pip said cheerfully.

Wendell, feeling like he had just been initiated into a cult, said his goodbyes as his crew stumbled up to him, coffee thermoses firmly in their grasp.

This island is insane. He thought to himself. But I live here. So I must be insane too.

As he was driven towards the docks, he breathed in through his vents again, and felt a pleasant warmth fill his mouth.

He smiled to himself. Maybe being a bit crazy isn't so bad.

--------------------------------

Fire Breathing Dragons

While Pip and Emma live on the Island of Sodor, their duties require them to travel from Tidmouth to London and back on a daily basis. Ordinarily there is no issue with this, but every now and again, they will be forced to stay the night in London.

One night in the summer of 2002, planned track work meant that their return service couldn’t be run, and the sisters found themselves in a very shabby looking depot outside of Euston station.

God, this place has gone downhill since BR. Pip thought to her sister.

Too right. I think the shunter said that this was going to be torn down after they replace us with Pendolinos. Emma replied, referring to their class as a whole. It was an open secret that the Intercity 125 sets were going to be replaced with new tilting trains on the West Coast Main Line - soon the Dragon Sisters would be the only HST on the line.

“Eurrgh,” Oiled a voice from a few lines away. “Must we stay here tonight?”

Pip was blocked by a rake of coaches, but Emma could see that there was another HST set a few roads away. The power car looked disgusted to have to be in this shed.

“Yes Chauncey,” Came the voice of the other power car on the set. “We have to stay here tonight. I’m not any more pleased about it than you.”

“I know, 092, I know,” Chauncey said resignedly. “At least it could be worse.”

“How can it be worse?”

“Well, that other HST set could be awake - then we’d have to talk to them!”

“Oh heavens! I hadn’t even thought of that!”

Well they seem nice. Pip sarcastically thought to Emma - clearly Chauncey and 092 didn’t share the same mental link that they did, and assumed that the sisters were asleep.

Yeah - like Gordon when he gets boiler sludge. Emma replied. She vaguely remembered working with 092 back in the BR days, and didn’t have fond memories.

Several hours passed. Pip and Emma were idly discussing the newest gossip that they’d heard, a few trains rumbled past on the WCML, and Chauncey and 092 made inane conversion around which railroad in the country was worse than the others.

Emma was on the edge of drifting off to sleep when 092 spoke up.

“Oh! That’s right! What about the No-Where Railway? That place must be a pit!”

He didn’t. Emma thought.

“You mean that one off of Furness? The retirement home for antiquated heaps?”

He did. Her sister replied.

“Excuse me!” Pip spoke out loud for the first time that night. “But are you, by chance, talking about the North Western Railway?”

“Oh goodness!” Chauncey said in fright. “I’m sorry! Did we wake you?”

“No,” Said Emma. “What were you saying about the NWR?”

“The No-Where Railway? There isn’t much to say about it really,” 092 said blithely. “It’s a hole in the countryside that you shovel old metal into - I’d be ruder, but I don’t think that they ever got the notice that BR dissolved, so I can’t blame them.”

“92?” Said Chauncey, who had suddenly noticed the lettering on Emma’s side - and the expression on her face. “Perhaps you should stop talking now.”

“Why? It isn’t like they’re from that island - they don’t look like they came out of a black and white film.” 092 said, unaware of who he was speaking to.

“Actually,” ground out Emma. “We are from that Island.”

“Oh. well how unfortunate for you,” 092 sniffed. “Tell me, do they still believe that Beeching is alive there?”

The late night trains at Euston Station practically jumped off of their rails at the barrage of sounds that echoed throughout the station yard. It sounded like the Tyrannosaurus from Jurassic Park was yelling at someone, and punctuating their conversation with massive fireballs.

Fire crews from Railtrack and the borough of Camden responded, but found no traces of any fire - or a Tyrannosaur.

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transsteves · 6 years

Text

dead stars [CH.2]

[MASTERPOST]

WARNINGS: possible angst?? ptsd, nightmares

AUTHOR’S NOTE: hey so there’s now a playlist to go with this fic because when I get into something, I go all out and do fckn everything. I hope this is okay! message me if u wanna go on the taglist 💕

the ride to school is quiet, apart from the soft chords of some obscure indie band playing on the car’s speakers. will helped eleven make the cd - taught her how to rip songs and burn them to discs so that she could wrap them up with tiny bows and lots of stickers and give them to mike on his down days; he has less of them than he used to, but el still has a pile of cds beneath her bed, ready to go, just in case. it comforts her, sometimes, to think that maybe she can still save him, even when the town of hawkins, indiana, is not being invaded by shadow monsters or demogorgons. that maybe, just maybe, she can save him when he can’t save himself anymore.

but today, the music floats past her ears without recognition, and her focus is not on mike. in fact, her focus is nowhere in particular, seemingly lost in the forest without a thought for her sanity. her eyes have been trained on the same spot on the windshield for ten minutes now, mike notes, and will is forcing himself awake in the backseat. one hand moves from the wheel to rub absent-mindedly at the back of his neck, glancing between the road, the passenger seat, and the rear view mirror (a useless attempt to catch a moment of eye contact with one of the other two teenagers in the car, clearly to no avail).

“h- hey, movie night after school?” mike manages, lips forming a false smile beneath furrowed brow.

will hums, almost too low for mike to hear, and shrugs his shoulders lop-sidedly, his whole body sagging even further into the faux leather seat. try as he might, it doesn’t sound as optimistic as intended, but mike seems to ignore it and move on, so he doesn’t correct himself.

before long, they’re pulling into the parking lot of the school, and mike is ever-so-lightly resting his hand on eleven’s leg to ‘wake her up’ from her aimless, zombie-like stare - she turns to him with wide eyes, before glancing out of the window to see the school and grabbing her satchel from the footwell (she doesn’t remember the journey, but pays it no mind).

the cold air hits el’s face as she clicks the door open and slides from her seat, and she swears, just for a moment, a dark cloud visits the horizon (she pays it no mind, shakes off the ominous feeling that weighs so heavily on her shoulders; push it down, it’s all in your head). legs that suddenly tremble beneath her weight carry her to the opposite side of the car, and she opens the back door to pull the groggy will byers from his seat. neither of them want to be here, and they both know it - but their silent shared thoughts agree: it’s better to be here than anywhere else.

“it’s not your fault.”

hopper’s voice, through the heavy air. will was in the hospital, his body weak and frail. if she had never run away, if she had been there from the start to guide the party–

“it’s not your fault, el. stop blaming yourself, please, and eat your eggos.”

but the smell of her favourite food caused bile to bubble up into el’s throat, and she pushed the plate away as she stood, all five foot three of power and unresolved trauma, to softly patter to her room.

“not hungry.”

the sheriff’s face had contorted through confusion and pity, before settling on something akin to a father’s worry for an ailing child. while he’d never admit it, the terror of losing her had crossed his mind many times in the few months since he took her in. god, not another one.

the door of her bedroom closed, softly, softly, softly, as she slowly sank down to sit with her back resting on the wooden bed frame (the floorboards splintered beneath her fingertips, embedding themselves into soft flesh, and she paid it no mind).

crying silently was a skill she had almost mastered, but the soft squeaks that escaped her lips with every sob seemed to resonate more within the wooden shack of home than they ever did in the lab.

but the tears seemed unavoidable; thirteen years old, with the world on her shoulders and enough guilt to break her back and force her to the ground. she pulled her knees up to her burning chest and buried her head between them - “my fault,” she muttered, under her shaky breath. “my fault.”

she had adopted the role of elder sibling for will as soon as it was safe for them to visit the house, and mothered him consistently when it was safe enough for el to join the party everywhere else. she always made sure he was happy and okay, and that he knew she was always there.

will did the same for her, but different- signing her up for tumblr so they could talk without having to involve the others, and he started sending her posts to put words to her feelings.

they began to know each other perhaps better than they each could ever know themselves.

shared trauma is a bond that no one can break.

she squeezes his hand as he slides out of the car, and they both take quick, deep breaths before pulling their tried and tested masks over their questionable behaviour.

soft, matching smiles as they separate from one another, el reaching upward to plant a careful kiss on the edge of mike’s lip as he unfolds himself from the car.

fingers entwine again, mike finding himself watching for any possible sign in el’s features that she’s not okay, but it doesn’t come. not clearly enough to cause him more worry. instead, he tries to let it go.

the fingers of el’s free hand tap at her thigh, rhythmic patterns burning their way into will’s brain as he dawdles behind the couple into the school.

-… .- - …. .-. — — –

bathroom.

so! that’s the end of chapter two! I hope you lovely people are still enjoying it. pls feel free to message me with any advice or criticism!

TAGLIST:

@beforetoday @king-wheezy-trash

#dead stars fic #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #mike wheeler #will byers #eleven #eleven hopper #jane hopper #mileven #aged up

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essayaboutfamilyrelationship774 · 4 years

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aboutelan-blog · 5 years

Text

10/24/17 Lunchtime

I watched this interesting PBS video on the topic of time last night. The subject kept me up in a swirl of thoughts, confirming some of my own imaginative thoughts about time and how I think of heaven. Who knows if I'm right, but sometimes it’s fun to think of something and let my imagination run away with it. Before I share what my musings are, I’ll write this: As I was running late this morning – running late with my new perception of time, I realized this isn’t meant to be my end all, be all. This isn’t what I'm supposed to be doing: struggling to get enough sleep, feeling anxious when I oversleep though my body needed the rest, rushing to work, only to get into the formation of repetition.

To ultimately deny myself the expression of my fatigue through rest and expression of creativity to shove myself into the round hole of a static day-to-day despite being a flexible, ever-changing peg.

I want to change and grow and discover what I am fully capable of, and I will despite the unchanging infrastructure I was built and assembled into. This is the freedom I was striving for. To create endlessly, explore endlessly, rest endlessly, experiencing time outside of the parameters of someone else’s or even society’s limitations. The work world is like a cult. We all signed up to believe this path would give us everything we need, stability for a great life. If businesses weren’t chasing money and employees following suit to chase money through a cut of the profit, we could truly exist for what we’re made to do. Some of us will never know what we’re made for, because we are helping pursue someone else’s dreams and path in life at the expense of ourselves.

I’ll show you world what I'm made of, though technically I already have.

Now for what I've learned about time and what I believe to be true. According to this video: The Past, Present, and Future all currently exist. We all just have different entry points/access points to the “Now.” If someone were visiting me from light years away now, during my now as I’m writing this, they would land at a point in time where they would meet a future Elan. Their Now is future Elan, my now is Elan writing at lunch. We have different nows and here my future would have had to have already happened for their now to take place. Same with the past. My past is someone else’s or something else’s now. My past is still happening, my future has already happened and each moment of now is just another catalogued still photograph period of time that’s being projected in the universe, and where someone or something comes in to view is irrelevant to when it took place for me, but when it takes place for them.

Another thought on time, just because I haven’t done something yet doesn’t mean that my actions already hasn’t had an effect on someone else. My actions may have already shaped the world, which someone or something is experiencing as their now. I just haven’t gotten there yet because I'm still experiencing my now.

We all experience time differently. For some of us, the minutes may linger, palpatable. There’s a weight to it, a heaviness. For others, time may scatter and whiz as if a pin ball or lightning storm. Time is a very personal experience and something unique to us like fingerprints and brain chemistry. What’s even more fascinating, as we find our truth, God has perfect timing for us, because only He knows us best, only he understands the vessel of time.

------

There’s a heat in the air that drives out sanity. I’m writing during a fall heat wave in Socal. It’s 90° at 7:34 p.m. My living room has become a sweat lodge.

I believe it was Brené Brown who said to Oprah, “we already have everything we need, we only have to access it, download it from the universe”. If someone/something else now is my future, then that means I can access my future of greatness. I am already great. I already have everything I will be given access to, I only have to stay on the path that I chose because that still frame already exists. And then after that...destruction. All my cells will entropy. Order goes to chaos, death being the inevitable result of this disorder.

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We’re running away from the person we don’t want to become, not realizing we are running straight into them. If I want to know who I am, I have to know who and what I am running from. I am never the idea of who I think I am.

Sometimes I want people to dream like I do, or at least let me dream in peace.

Every time I hear “no” from a man, it’s like I’m hearing “no” from my dad all over again. It takes me back to a place where I want to die. Recovering from Zach is like recovering from my dad all over again. It’s not an easy process, but the more and more I accept that he’s gone, the easier it gets to live and that’s why I have to go through this, the loss. Am I truly re-living it if I’m letting a little bit of it go each time. Pretty soon I’ll be new.

“I’m offended that you won’t accept my ‘no’ as an autonomous person. Because that’s who I am. I shouldn’t have to tell you I’m in a relationship with another man to get you to back off, as if that defines ownership of me. I’m the property of no one and my ‘no’ should merit more weight than another man’s especially when it comes to matters pertaining to me.” → Line for my script

The person I’m most scared of becoming is my Dad. The anger. He’s vitriolic and sometimes my own anger feels inconsolable. Does this mean I’m becoming him or that I keep myself so wound on a leash in an effort not to become him that I’m losing my grip and this anger is a result of that. Who is future me?

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jamiekturner · 5 years

Text

Inspirational art quotes from artists and famous people

Art quotes inspire us to do our very best, working with renewed vigor. When you read quotes about art, you may feel uplifted and motivated to do your very best.

Artists have experience in the field and understand what it takes to stimulate creativity.

We’ve put together a collection of inspirational art quotes to uplift, motivate and encourage you.

As an added bonus we’ve also added some funny quotes about art, simply just to make you laugh.

Quotes about the arts:

“For me, insanity is super sanity. The normal is psychotic. Normal means lack of imagination, lack of creativity.” Jean Dubuffet

“If you hear a voice within you saying, ‘You are not a painter,’ then by all means paint, boy, and that voice will be silenced.” Vincent van Gogh

“I can’t understand how anyone is able to paint without optimism. Despite the general pessimistic attitude in the world today, I am nothing but an optimist.” Hans Hofmann

“A picture is a poem without words”Horace

“I just decided, when someone says you can’t do something. DO MORE OF IT.” Faith Ringgold

“I have no fear of making changes, destroying the image, etc., because the painting has a life of its own.” Jackson Pollock

“A really good picture looks as if it’s happened at once. It’s an immediate image. For my own work, when a picture looks labored and overworked… I usually throw these out, though I think very often it takes ten of those over-labored efforts to produce one really beautiful wrist motion that is synchronized with your head and heart, and you have it, and therefore it looks as if it were born in a minute” Helen Frankenthaler

“The principles of true art is not to portray, but to evoke” Jerzy Kosinski

“As my artist’s statement explains, my work is utterly incomprehensible and is therefore full of deep significance”Calvin & Hobbes

“If you are not skillful enough to sketch a man jumping out of a window in the time it takes him to fall from the fourth story to the ground, you will never be able to produce great works.” Eugène Delacroix

“The mind loves the unknown. It loves images whose meaning is unknown, since the meaning of the mind itself is unknown.” Rene Magritte

“Art is something that makes you breathe with a different kind of happiness.” Anni Albers

“I am happy to be alive as long as I can paint.” Frida Kahlo

“Color provokes a psychic vibration. Color hides a power still unknown but real, which acts on every part of the human body.” Wassily Kandinsky

“I didn’t expect to recover from my second operation but since I did, I consider that I’m living on borrowed time. Every day that dawns is a gift to me and I take it in that way. I accept it gratefully without looking beyond it.” Henri Matisse

“Painting from nature is not copying the object; it is realizing one’s sensations.” Paul Cézanne

“You don’t take a photograph, you make it” Ansel Adams

“If I create from the heart, nearly everything works: if from the head, almost nothing.” Marc Chagall

“Every good composition is above all a work of abstraction. All good painters know this. But the painter cannot dispense with subjects altogether without his work suffering impoverishment.” Diego Rivera

“The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel.” Piet Mondrian

“Those who do not want to imitate anything, produce nothing.” Salvador Dali

“ In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

“The job of the artist is always to deepen the mystery.” Francis Bacon

“What moves men of genius, or rather what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough.” – Eugene Delacroix

“Art must be an expression of love or it is nothing.” Marc Chagall

“Don’t be an art critic, but paint, there lies salvation.” Paul Cezanne

“Life obliges me to do something, so I paint.” Rene Magritte

“Life is the art of drawing without an eraser.” – John W. Gardner

“The object isn’t to make art, it’s to be in that wonderful state which makes art inevitable.” – Robert Henri

“Painting is easy when you don’t know how, but very difficult when you do.” Edgar Degas

“To create one’s own world takes courage.” Georgia O’Keeffe

“The object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.” Alberto Giacometti

“Art is a collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.” – Andre Gide

“I invent nothing, I rediscover.” Auguste Rodin

“I would rather die of passion than of boredom.” Vincent van Gogh

“Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” Henry Ward Beecher

“It is important to express oneself…provided the feelings are real and are taken from you own experience.” Berthe Morisot

“A Good artist has less time than ideas.” Martin Kippenberger

“To be an artist is to believe in life.” Henry Moore

“Every good painter paints what he is.” Jackson Pollock

“Art is not what you see, but what you make others see.” Edgar Degas

“Don’t think about making art, just get it done. Let everyone else decide if it’s good or bad, whether they love it or hate it. While they are deciding, make even more art.” Andy Warhol

“I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality.” Frida Kahlo

“I paint for myself. I don’t know how to do anything else, anyway. Also I have to earn my living, and occupy myself.” Francis Bacon

“I am seeking. I am striving. I am in it with all my heart.” Vincent van Gogh

“Creativity takes courage.” Henri Matisse

“If I could say it in words there would be no reason to paint.” Edward Hopper

“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” Andy Warhol

“What I am seeking is not the real and not the unreal but rather the unconscious, the mystery of the instinctive in the human race.” Amadeo Modigliani

“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” Pablo Picasso

“Great art picks up where nature ends.” Marc Chagall

“A work of art which did not begin in emotion is not art.” Paul Cezanne

“Nature is not only all that is visible to the eye.. it also includes the inner pictures of the soul.” Edvard Munch

“An artist cannot fail; it is a success to be one.” Charles Horton Cooley

“There’s no retirement for an artist, it’s your way of living so there’s no end to it.” Henry Moore

“One can have no smaller or greater mastery than mastery of oneself.” Leonardo da Vinci

“An artist never really finishes his work; he merely abandons it.” Paul Valéry

“The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.” Aristotle

“No great artist ever sees things as they really are. If he did, he would cease to be an artist.” Oscar Wilde

“Whether you succeed or not is irrelevant, there is no such thing. Making your unknown known is the important thing.” Georgia O’Keeffe

“Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.” Pablo Picasso

“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” Stella Adler

“To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts – such is the duty of the artist.” Schumann

“I want to touch people with my art. I want them to say ‘he feels deeply, he feels tenderly.’” Vincent Van Gogh

“I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way–things I had no words for.” Georgia O’Keeffe

“The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place: from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.” Pablo Picasso

“The main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live.” Auguste Rodin

“Painting is a means of self-enlightenment.” John Olsen

“The emotions are sometimes so strong that I work without knowing it. The strokes come like speech.” Vincent Van Gogh

“If I were called upon to define briefly the word Art, I should call it the reproduction of what the senses preceive in nature, seen through the veil of the soul.” Paul Cezanne

“If you always do what you always did – you’ll always get what you always got.” Unknown

“I don’t say everything, but I paint everything.” Pablo Picasso

“The only time I feel alive is when I’m painting.” Vincent Van Gogh

“The holy grail is to spend less time making the picture than it takes people to look at it.” Banksy

“Art is the only way to run away without leaving home.” Twyla Tharp

“Art is the stored honey of the human soul.” Theodore Dreiser

“An artist is not paid for his labor but for his vision.” James McNeill Whistler

“Great things are done by a series of small things brought together.” Vincent Van Gogh

“Creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. Art is knowing which ones to keep.” Scott Adams

“Inspiration does exist but it must find you working.” Pablo Picasso

“The emotions are sometimes so strong that I work without knowing it. The strokes come like speech.” Vincent Van Gogh

“The artist’s world is limitless. It can be found anywhere, far from where he lives or a few feet away. It is always on his doorstep.” Paul Strand

“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Henry David Thoreau

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.” DrSuess

“There are painters who transform the sun into a yellow spot, but there are others who, thanks to their art and intelligence, transform a yellow spot into the sun.” Pablo Picasso

“It is not the language of painters but the language of nature which one should listen to, the feeling for the things themselves, for reality, is more important than the feeling for pictures.” Vincent Van Gogh

“If a man devotes himself to art, much evil is avoided that happens otherwise if one is idle.” Albrecht Durer

“It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child.” Pablo Picasso

“I wish they would only take me as I am.” Vincent Van Gogh

“Painting is the grandchild of nature. It is related to God.” Rembrandt

“Art is never finished, only abandoned” Leonardo Da Vinci

“To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it.” Kurt Vonnegut

“It is a widely accepted notion among painters that it does not matter what one paints as long as it is well painted. This is the essence of academicism. There is no such thing as good painting about nothing.” Mark Rothko

“Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.” Salvador Dali

“The longer you look at an object, the more abstract it becomes, and, ironically, the more real.” Lucian Freud

“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” Leonardo da Vinci

“Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” Pablo Picasso

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free” Michelangelo

“For me, painting is a way to forget life. It is a cry in the night, a strangled laugh.” Georges Rouault

“There is no must in art because art is free.” Wassily Kandinsky

“Poor is the pupil who does not surpass his master.” Leonardo da Vinci

“If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all.” Michelangelo

“Colour is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.” Claude Monet

“Art, Undeniably, is conductive to happiness.” unknown

“Love always brings difficulties, that is true, but the good side of it is that it gives energy.” Vincent Van Gogh

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” Pablo Picasso

“Everything has its beauty, but not everyone sees it.” Andy Warhol

“The greater the artist, the greater the doubt. Perfect confidence is granted to the less talented as a consolation prize.” Robert Hughes

“If you ask me what I came to do in this world, I, an artist, will answer you: I am here to live out loud.” Émile Zola

“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh

“The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau

“A painting is never finished – it simply stops in interesting places.” Paul Gardner

“A great artist is always before his time or behind it.” George Moore

“As practice makes perfect, I cannot but make progress; each drawing one makes, each study one paints, is a step forward.” Vincent van Gogh

“Do not fear mistakes – there are none.” Miles David

“A man paints with his brains and not with his hands.” Michelangelo

“In our time there are many artists who do something because it is new; they see their value and their justification in this newness. They are deceiving themselves; novelty is seldom the essential. This has to do with one thing only; making a subject better from its intrinsic nature.” Henri de Toulouse Lautrec

“You come to nature with all her theories, and she knocks them all flat.” Pierre Auguste Renoir

Did you enjoy these art quotes?

We hope you found inspiration amongst these art quotes. As Joseph Beuys explained, every human being is an artist. We hope the wise words found in these art quotes will inspire your creativity.

Famous art quotes can motivate you to work from the soul, do your best and to keep trying until you reach your creative goals. These quotes about the arts are sure to inspire and motivate you to keep striving to do your best. Remember to share your favorite art quotes on social media.

If you liked this article about art quotes, you should check out these as well:

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The post Inspirational art quotes from artists and famous people appeared first on Design your way.

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mrsteveecook · 5 years

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updates: the hoarding volunteer, love of job vs. love of money, and more

Here are four updates from people who had their letters answered here in the past.

1. Is it better to love my job or love the money?

I was so surprised by all the replies to my dilemma and was really blown away by how nice and helpful everyone was. I tried to read all of the replies and the overwhelming response seemed to be that while money can’t buy you happiness, having enough to live a good life outside of work could certainly bring more joy.

I’m still in the job that I mentioned back in July, mainly because I didn’t want to leave after a couple of months and come across as a job hopper. But as I’m coming up to a year at the place I work now, I’ve started looking for something new, and branching out into different industries for something that’s better paid and a bit more senior. I have found a position I’m interviewing for at the moment that isn’t in journalism but content marketing, and I’m hoping I’ll get the job.

This has been and continues to be a really hard decision to make, but the advice was so helpful – particularly from people who had left similar careers for something a little more corporate with better prospects and better money and were loving it. I ended up talking to a lot of my journo friends about it, and it turns out a lot of them feel the same – the industry is so uncertain and so poorly paid that a lot of them are thinking of moving into a different industry too, like charity or marketing. I didn’t know this until I asked. I was feeling like a failure because I wasn’t able to succeed in journalism, but that’s not it at all – it’s tough on all of us, and it’s strangely comforting to realise that, in a selfish kind of way. Anyway, I’m making steps to change things for the better, but I genuinely don’t think I would have started down this road without encouragement from the commenters. So, thank you.

2. Volunteer is a hoarder and her office is a mess (#2 at the link)

Well, disappointing update, but completely predictable. Hoarding volunteer continues hoarding and the board turns a blind eye. I’ve given up because I would try to take stuff out to trash at home, but more stuff would come in. So we’d be back to the same “stuff” level. However, it may all soon be a moot point because … the nonprofit is in terrible trouble, declining donations, declining volunteers, declining enthusiasm. The board turning a blind eye to this was just a small part of a bigger problem — they only see what they want. People have gotten fed up and here we are. I do feel for Anne though, I know her daughter is off to college (across the country) and that she’ll miss her horribly. I have no doubt her tendencies will get worse.

3. I said “EEOC” and things got weird (first update here)

Although it has been some time, I thought I’d send an update.

About 10 months after my letter, I managed to secure a different position in my department. I got more interesting work and, more importantly, got away from my horrible supervisor. While Niles still was my “Big Boss,” my daily work conditions became so much better! Niles and I went on to have a totally fine professional relationship which makes me suspect that much of the drama (and BS) came from my supervisor.

About 14 months after my letter, my public company was purchased by private equity firm and, shortly thereafter, Niles got a nice severance package and was shown the door. My old supervisor has been totally marginalized under the new regime, Fergus continues in his same old role, and, most importantly, my last day at the Office of Angry Bees is this Friday! I received a fantastic offer from a large, established company and I could not be more thrilled! Smell yah later! :)

Anyway, I just went back to your archives and re-read your response and the whole comment string for my letter. I wanted to thank you again for being such a great, level headed resource, especially when I started questioning my sanity. Your readers are also great. I appreciated not only the “way to stand up for yourself” comments but also the constructive criticism. I still don’t regret throwing that EEOC grenade and am pleased I survived to tell the tale.

Here’s to a new, hopefully saner, workplace!

4. Is it too soon to ask about working remotely or part-time in a couple of years? (#2 at the link; first update here)

In a nutshell – I’m engaged (the wedding’s set for next summer), I’m four months pregnant, and I have my very first day of working from home tomorrow! And since my due date will be in the midst of winter, my boss has also suggested that I work at home full-time once the weather starts getting bad until the baby comes.

I’ll know more about the specifics of my leave and schedule afterward in a few months once all the paperwork is filed, but altogether I’m excited. It’s going to be an eventful year ahead…