Thought it would be fun to draw the hands of my OCs! It was fun to try and show a bit of their personality/ backstory through their hands HEH
"we can no longer protect you forever."
by Daniel Danger
24x36” five color screenprint.
Thursday 8/21/14: im posting this new print on tumblr, twitter, and instagram. reblog, retweet, or instagram this image with the title and #danieldanger and i, through some very scientific means, will pick one random follower who does this from each service on monday and send them a personalized copy for free. sound good? cool. shameless? yes.
Ha, you know what? I almost started listing the tragedies I’ve been through. I really did. I put my fingers on the keys and everything. But then I realized: I am bored by this. I’m bored by you, anon, who thinks that you have to bleed to earn belief, as though—as though humanity beating you black and blue somehow makes your love for them more valid. As though it’s requisite. As though you have to deserve it, or they have to deserve it. As though there is any way to bridge the gap between what we are and what we should be but a terrifying leap, and hoping that there is grace in this universe.
The idea of perfection exists despite the physical reality of entropy and I don’t actually care, whether you think my personal tragedies have won me the right to believe humanity is good. I believe anyway. We are deserving of more than we are given, than we make. We deserve perfect justice, and perfect kindness, and perfect love. Else, on what grounds will we ever make ourselves better? How will we eradicate violence and hate and perversion and oppression from this world, unless we say to any and all who will listen, there is something about us that makes such actions unworthy. There is something about humanity that demands better than this; that asks us to lift our gaze to the horizon and strive.
The world is cruel enough on its own to know that. Whether I have undergone personal trials in order to lay claim to such an ideology is, quite frankly, none of your business.
You’re boring, I’m bored. New balls.
I get accused of romanticizing people sometimes but I don’t know what to do with a species that’s 80% crossed signals and half-desperate hoping, grief and warmth and creation of meaning. We’re the only species we can’t exaggerate about; we’re just as terrible and just as wonderful as you’ve ever imagined. Our stories sear and our mundanity crushes—we’re all the verbs and all the adjectives; we’re an infinity mirror created by us that becomes the universe.
What are you supposed to do with us except romanticize what we are? What alternative is there but to be in love with the stupid violent beginning and end of us?
Brontide—the low rumbling of distant thunder.
[a continuation of this]
One of your earliest memories is the children of the village pelting you with stones, and having to remember to bleed.
(In your mother’s stories, you father is a creature of flame and wings, strangeness and magnificence. In all the rest of your life, he is only an absence, sighted slantwise in your reflection on the surface of the river.
You have his eyes, your mother tells you. You wish they looked more like hers; then maybe the villagers would not desire to tear them from your face.)
Sometimes strange men pass through the village, men with wine-dark eyes and cloaks that shift and billow even when there is no wind. They speak to one another in a language none other knows, and you follow them as close as you dare, looking for some resemblance to your own features in their strange faces.
Are you my father’s people? you ask once, when the latest wanderers catch you trailing behind, when you will not be turned aside by a proffered coin. I am Tamiel’s daughter—
Some Nephil’s spawn, the elder of the two sneers, regarding you as though you were one of the diseased dogs that scrounge in the marketplace. Pay it no mind, it will leave us alone.
They abandon you there in the street, with questions you are not certain any other can answer. You watch them go, their cloaks shifting without wind, and hate them.
There is a girl in the village whose dark eyes smile at you when you pass. Once, she invited you into her home, called you a daughter of gods and shared with you the rice-cakes she had made. Afterwards, you imagined it is not only her fingertips that taste of saffron.
You watch her marriage-ceremony from a distant rocky hill, the wind tugging at the membranes of your wings. She was not for you, you tell yourself. She was not for you.
Your mother’s body is small, at the end, small enough to fit in your arms, small enough to wrap your wings around her as she weeps with pain and shame in her body’s weakness. Small enough for her to tuck her head under your scaled chin as you tell her of your visions, those terrible lucid stars and the dark of the sea where the leviathans live. You name your mother’s brittling bones in tongues that have not been made yet and when she is wracked by fever you sing to her in a voice that makes the air warm.
And, when it comes time, you reach out and snap the trembling string that binds her spirit to its pained flesh.
She is somehow even smaller, after.
You scream, you claw, you curse by every god you know, curse the wind and the river, the dirt that is so hungry to embrace the woman who gave you life, the water that would not replenish her, the villagers, who would not call the healer to her side. You curse yourself, curse Tamiel-your-father, curse the One True God who could not bend in his terrible power to save her. You rage until there is nothing left.
No tears have come. No tears will ever come. You wonder at a father who would give his daughter wings, but not allow her tears.
You finally dissolve into a quiet, desolate keening that lasts the night, nursing the emptiness in your chest like poison.
Your mother’s body is barely cold in the earth when half the village is at your door, their eyes flat as snakes’ and full of hate. You are taller and stronger than even the strongest of them, but they move as one, the men pinning your wings and dragging you out, forcing you to your knees in the dust. The women and children jeer as your mother’s house is set to burning.
When it is mostly ash and blackened bricks, the crowd turns on you.
Mateo Renaldo Colombo’s girlfriend: “Oh he ‘discovered’ it, did he?”
Aelia, Graphite & Digital Media, 14” x 11”, 2014.
Art Nouveau vs. Byzantium. Not such a bad mashup after all.
Oh, I was really into Bones back in the day. Also Psych, Psych was great. I liked Life, when it was still on, though I think that was more because of Damian Lewis and Sarah Shahi’s faces. Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries recently grabbed me by the heartstrings, though that one is half period piece half detective show.
But otherwise, no, it’s not really my genre.
As far as I know, she is a person.
if I had to rank the best cinematic kisses of all time the list would go:
1. North and South, and how gently Richard Armitage touches her face.
2. That scene in New Girl when Nick grabs Jess by the elbow and pulls her into a kiss so hot that I watched it six times and Bones and I yelled about it for like, half an hour, and it is still one of the hottest things I have ever seen.
…that’s it that’s the list.
It’s really weird trying to explain the differences between Catholicism and other branches of Christianity to people who aren’t religious because it ultimately ends up, “Well this is Catholic, this is Catholic classic, this is Catholic-lite, this is diet Catholic, this is new taste less calories not as popular Catholic, and this is I can’t believe it’s not Catholic.”