lesserjoke:

Doctor Who: The Story of Martha

(via autisticbones)

Anonymous Asked:
I wanna write a fic where Luna Lovegood, now an adult who has taken over the Quibbler, answers love and sex questions from students under a pseudonym in a backpage column. She identifies as asexual, and focuses on helping kids deal with Hogwarts' heteronormativity, and the intersection of magic and sex (inc. privacy, contraception as well as esoteric tricks). I'm worried it sounds stupid?

That sounds awesome.

dangerhamster:

JACK HARKNESS MEETING BUCKY AND STEVE IN THE 1940s AND FLIRTING FURIOUSLY WITH BOTH OF THEM

JACK HARKNESS SEEING THEM AGAIN IN THE 21ST CENTURY AND THEY’RE ALL EQUALLY CONFUSED AS EACH OTHER

(via sharkrinsoup)

hufflepuff + house traits

(via melissa-blogs)

"At 19, I read a sentence that re-terraformed my head: “The level of matter in the universe has been constant since the Big Bang.”
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely face of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare."

Caitlin Moran (via artvevo)

(via alykapediaaa)

Students are pretty funny. Middle Schoolers and Wonder Woman Anecdote

fandomsandfeminism:

So over the summer, I bought several Wonder Woman nicknacks for my classroom.  I bought a poster, a lunch box, two little toys, a piggy bank, and a water bottle that are all Wonder Woman themed. I sort of want her to be my thing this year. (I also added pictures of her to most of my power points so far.) 

The students so far have thought this is pretty funny, since I have the “nerd teacher” reputation. I’ve gotten a few comments and compliments on it. But there was one conversation that just took the cake.

So one of my little 6th grade boys is taking note in class. We’re introducing some figurative language. As I walk by, he says “Miss, why do you like Wonder Woman so much?”

"Because Wonder Woman is awesome," I answer.  

"Oh," he says. "I figured it’s because you thought women can do anything." 

I give him a smile at that, because I’m not really sure where he’s going with it. “Oh well, that too. Women can do anything you know. Just like Wonder Woman.”

And this little boy nods and says, “Cool, miss, cool. That’s what my mama says too.” And he goes right back to taking notes. 

image

Anonymous Asked:
Hi Rosie, I noticed you haven't posted in a few days, I just wanted to ask if you're okay? I hope you are and everything is fine.

Aw, thank you. Just the beginning of the school year. I’ve been swamped with work.

thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs
potter, please.
you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.
weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.
and really, potter, are you actually that dense
can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you
are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

thegestianpoet:

pulsifers:

snorting through my sobs

potter, please.

you’re twelve. no one cares about a twelve-year-old enough to be archenemies with them except maybe voldemort but then again he’s also the man who agreed to live on the back of other man’s head.

weird notion of “most powerful wizardry”, if you ask me.

and really, potter, are you actually that dense

can’t you see it written all across malfoy’s unhumanly large forehead that he just wants to be bffs with you

are you sure you’ve never banged your head on the ceiling of that stupid cupboard because i’m thinking brain damage here, sir

#omg i love that the over-inflated self importance applies to both of them like draco would TOTALLY consider himself potter’s archnemesis because it’s better than being his nobody meanwhile tom riddle is crying his deformed spirit baby self to sleep at night and anytime in between because what is he chopped liver? so sad how this changes after GOF like as soon as old voldermortz has a body again harry’s like SORRY MALFOY BIGGER PROBLEMS YOU UNDERSTAND and draco is like I MOST CERTAINLY DO NOT UNDERSTAND ugh the worst kind of transgression I THOUGHT THIS ARCHRIVALRY MEANT SOMETHING TO YOU POTTER and sirius dies and voldy truly becomes the sole recipient of harry’s rage I SAID I WAS BUSY MALFOY!!!!!! but malfoy’s dedicated antagonism is still this lovely comforting white noise throughout it all until it ISN’T and despite everything else he has to worry about harry’s like YOU GUYS I THINK MALFOY IS UP TO SOMETHING…. SOMETHING EVIL because obviously anything that distracts draco from their archrivalry is evil (see: voldemort in harry’s case) except draco doesn’t have time for HIM anymore and oh ho ho the tables turn and harry stays up late watching draco on the marauder’s map and thinking about his hair and basically voldemort is just the worst kind of cockblock

(via thegenderqueeralchemist)

fandomsandfeminism:

High Yellow by Ellsworth Kelly 
Bear with me a bit as I talk art nerdy for a while. 
As I mentioned in my last post, I went to an Art Museum today. As is so often the case with modern and post modern art, the experience of looking at these kinds of pieces is far more subjective than, say, a classic oil painting. Few people are going to buck at the idea of a 1600s oil painting of the baby Jesus being “Art”, even if it isn’t done particularly well or in a particularly interesting way.
More modern stuff, well, that’s a different beast. Take the piece up there. 
No, I’m not punking you. That isn’t thrown together on MS paint or anything. It’s a real actual painting from 1960. It has hung in the Guggenheim. It’s pretty well respected as an example of abstractionist art.
My boyfriend uniformly dislikes it.
I find myself liking it more and more and more the longer I linger over it. 
Take a minute. Stare at it. Consider for yourself: Is this art? Is it museum quality art? What does it remind you of? How does it make you feel? Why do you like or dislike it? There’s no wrong answer here, but those are important questions. 
Here’s my thoughts. I like it. The colors are unusual. It’s hard to tell here, but in a gallery of other works, they REALLY stand out. From across the entire gallery, this massive thing just grabs you by the eye. The colors are plain, simple, and bright. There is no white space, no black space. Three simple colors, that’s it.
The works SEEMS to suggest a scene, doesn’t it? Green grass. Blue sky. Yellow…sun? Flower? Probably a sun, right? Yet…this isn’t a scene. It’s no still life. Even kindergarten drawings call to more actual realism than this. It only SUGGESTS a scene, and it does that solely through color and very basic form. A straight line, a wobbly ovoid.
We only see a scene in it because we WANT to see something in it. Because it reminds us of early childhood paintings, and our desire to draw meaning from the abstraction pulls us back to those memories, those archetypal images. Nothing about this REALLY looks like a field with a sun overhead. Grass is never that green. The sky is never that blue. The sun is not that startling yellow lumpy egg. Still, that is what it brought to mind. 
I think I like this piece because it’s challenging. It uses unusual colors and simplistic forms. It seems to purposefully refuse to impress. It makes us WORK for the associations- to childhood, to scenery. It gives us very little, but refuses to let our eye slip away from it with it’s hyper-saturated hues. 
I like it specifically because it has shed all of the pomp and circumstance and tradition that forces us, without regard to quality or effect, to see the ART-ness of the Jesus painting.
It does not insist that it is art. It does not insist that it is meaningful. It is not framed in gold. Yet art it remains. 
How little can suggest so much. 

fandomsandfeminism:

High Yellow by Ellsworth Kelly 

Bear with me a bit as I talk art nerdy for a while. 

As I mentioned in my last post, I went to an Art Museum today. As is so often the case with modern and post modern art, the experience of looking at these kinds of pieces is far more subjective than, say, a classic oil painting. Few people are going to buck at the idea of a 1600s oil painting of the baby Jesus being “Art”, even if it isn’t done particularly well or in a particularly interesting way.

More modern stuff, well, that’s a different beast. Take the piece up there. 

No, I’m not punking you. That isn’t thrown together on MS paint or anything. It’s a real actual painting from 1960. It has hung in the Guggenheim. It’s pretty well respected as an example of abstractionist art.

My boyfriend uniformly dislikes it.

I find myself liking it more and more and more the longer I linger over it. 

Take a minute. Stare at it. Consider for yourself: Is this art? Is it museum quality art? What does it remind you of? How does it make you feel? Why do you like or dislike it? There’s no wrong answer here, but those are important questions. 

Here’s my thoughts. I like it. The colors are unusual. It’s hard to tell here, but in a gallery of other works, they REALLY stand out. From across the entire gallery, this massive thing just grabs you by the eye. The colors are plain, simple, and bright. There is no white space, no black space. Three simple colors, that’s it.

The works SEEMS to suggest a scene, doesn’t it? Green grass. Blue sky. Yellow…sun? Flower? Probably a sun, right? Yet…this isn’t a scene. It’s no still life. Even kindergarten drawings call to more actual realism than this. It only SUGGESTS a scene, and it does that solely through color and very basic form. A straight line, a wobbly ovoid.

We only see a scene in it because we WANT to see something in it. Because it reminds us of early childhood paintings, and our desire to draw meaning from the abstraction pulls us back to those memories, those archetypal images. Nothing about this REALLY looks like a field with a sun overhead. Grass is never that green. The sky is never that blue. The sun is not that startling yellow lumpy egg. Still, that is what it brought to mind. 

I think I like this piece because it’s challenging. It uses unusual colors and simplistic forms. It seems to purposefully refuse to impress. It makes us WORK for the associations- to childhood, to scenery. It gives us very little, but refuses to let our eye slip away from it with it’s hyper-saturated hues. 

I like it specifically because it has shed all of the pomp and circumstance and tradition that forces us, without regard to quality or effect, to see the ART-ness of the Jesus painting.

It does not insist that it is art. It does not insist that it is meaningful. It is not framed in gold. Yet art it remains. 

How little can suggest so much. 

fandomsandfeminism:

2244 Modules  by Isabel del Rio 
Now this isn’t really about feminism directly, but I want to share some thoughts with yall. I went to the Blanton Art Museum today. This little art museum sits on the University of Texas campus (Hook em!) I’ve been a few times before, sometimes with a class, sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own. Each time I come, the same pieces pull me back and new ones find me for the first time. It’s a nice space. Quiet, thoughtful. 
One of the pieces in the Modern section, easy to overlook next to more flashy or attention grabbing neighbors, is 2244 Modules. That’s it in the picture up there. Go ahead and just look at it for a moment.
It’s almost hard to say why this piece draws me in so much. Stacks of tiles on pallets. It’s not the flashiest thing in the museum. (The next room over has a giant fiberglass cowboy riding a horse, lassoing a bull. It has glowing red eyes.) These unobtrusive columns look more like leftover construction material than anything else at first glance. 
Let me give you the story of this piece.

In 2244 Modules, Del Río physically registers the passage of time.  Over a period of six months, Isabel Del Río set herself the task of making several one-inch thick plaster tablets every day. Her efforts resulted in 2244 tablets, each stamped with the date it was produced. The number of tablets completed each day varied according to the artist’s “work” or “free” time. After six months, the artist had filled a considerable physical space with the results of her daily activity. The hours spent in apparently mindless repetition suggest a futile obsession, and also a desire to find a rational order.  Although at first glance 2244 Modules may recall a precise and mathematical Minimalist sculpture, the handmade quality of the tablets and the obsessive nature of the project suggest a more existential and personal concern

[source]
I find myself stuck on this piece each time I visit the Blanton. There’s something about the physicality of it, this way of measuring time. Each tile represents the time it took to make it, time spent not doing other things. 
I look at the days with the tallest stacks - hours and hours of work, surely. What were those days like? Did Isabel del Rio work alone? Sitting in a studio for hours, building bricks? Did she listen to music or sit in silence? Did a friend sit with her and tell jokes? Was it bitterly cold outside? Or bitterly hot? What kept her at her work so productively? 
Then I look at the empty spaces- the days with no tiles at all. The days when not a minute could be spared for art. What had happened? Did a friend from out of town come in? Did she get caught up in a good book? Was she ill? 
It’s such an odd way to measure time, these little stacks of unobtrusive white.
And which days are really the victories here? The days when the most tiles were made, or the days when life got in the way? 

fandomsandfeminism:

2244 Modules  by Isabel del Rio 

Now this isn’t really about feminism directly, but I want to share some thoughts with yall. I went to the Blanton Art Museum today. This little art museum sits on the University of Texas campus (Hook em!) I’ve been a few times before, sometimes with a class, sometimes with friends, sometimes on my own. Each time I come, the same pieces pull me back and new ones find me for the first time. It’s a nice space. Quiet, thoughtful. 

One of the pieces in the Modern section, easy to overlook next to more flashy or attention grabbing neighbors, is 2244 Modules. That’s it in the picture up there. Go ahead and just look at it for a moment.

It’s almost hard to say why this piece draws me in so much. Stacks of tiles on pallets. It’s not the flashiest thing in the museum. (The next room over has a giant fiberglass cowboy riding a horse, lassoing a bull. It has glowing red eyes.) These unobtrusive columns look more like leftover construction material than anything else at first glance. 

Let me give you the story of this piece.

In 2244 Modules, Del Río physically registers the passage of time.  Over a period of six months, Isabel Del Río set herself the task of making several one-inch thick plaster tablets every day. Her efforts resulted in 2244 tablets, each stamped with the date it was produced. The number of tablets completed each day varied according to the artist’s “work” or “free” time. After six months, the artist had filled a considerable physical space with the results of her daily activity. The hours spent in apparently mindless repetition suggest a futile obsession, and also a desire to find a rational order.  Although at first glance 2244 Modules may recall a precise and mathematical Minimalist sculpture, the handmade quality of the tablets and the obsessive nature of the project suggest a more existential and personal concern

[source]

I find myself stuck on this piece each time I visit the Blanton. There’s something about the physicality of it, this way of measuring time. Each tile represents the time it took to make it, time spent not doing other things. 

I look at the days with the tallest stacks - hours and hours of work, surely. What were those days like? Did Isabel del Rio work alone? Sitting in a studio for hours, building bricks? Did she listen to music or sit in silence? Did a friend sit with her and tell jokes? Was it bitterly cold outside? Or bitterly hot? What kept her at her work so productively? 

Then I look at the empty spaces- the days with no tiles at all. The days when not a minute could be spared for art. What had happened? Did a friend from out of town come in? Did she get caught up in a good book? Was she ill? 

It’s such an odd way to measure time, these little stacks of unobtrusive white.

And which days are really the victories here? The days when the most tiles were made, or the days when life got in the way? 

anunfinishedman:

let’s celebrate escaping the prison camp with kissing even though we probably both smell bad uwu

(via thegenderqueeralchemist)

nonbinaryanders:

spellcaster-queen-selene:

Remember that movie in which Jack Black was a teacher and building a rock band and when a little black chubby girl asked to be a singer he only said “sure! let me hear you” and the moment she started using her beautiful voice his lit up like all of his dreams came true, PLUS the same little girl was scared that people would make fun of her because she was fat and he started listing awesome singers with some weight on and included himself and told her that people wouldn’t laugh because she is awesome at what she does and that is all that matters PLUS that it’s ok to enjoy food?

Also, when a little boy asked to be the band’s stylist he just said “sure, go ahead fancy pants” like, there wasn’t a single second of questioning it, he went into “ok, that will be your position then” right away

That fucking movie is an hour and a half of Jack Black teaching kids to love themselves disregarding all of the stereotypes

What movie is this about?

School of Rock (Aka: The one Jack Black movie I truly enjoy)

(Source: selene-the-dragon-princess)