Muttering Retreats

Mi, 16, Multi-Fandom re-blogger, she/her pronouns, I often have opinions and always have sporadic tagging habits, let me know if you want me to tag something and I'll try my best. Also, you're not under any obligation to do so of course, but call me out on anything problematic I do so I can learn and be a better ally.
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Endangered Animals Campaign I
Saw a post of Tumblr (the one about the thylacine), talking about the lack of interest of everyone in general towards the conservation of animals, simply because of the general belief that our ‘modern society’ will not allow these animals to disappear (we do, all the time), and also certain animals, unlike the tiger or elephant, by look or by bad luck, are not ‘popular’ enough. So that inspired me to want to draw these unpopular and critically endangered animals, if only see how pretty they actually are. I am easing in by drawing the populars first, then I will move on with the rest.

Tagged: #animals #q





"I’m sick of how bisexuality is erased in LGBT spaces. I get really nervous before any LGBT event, especially Pride. I feel incredibly sad and hopeless when gay and lesbian people call me insulting names. If gay and lesbian people don’t understand me – Continue reading Prejudice at Pride at Empathize This

This just punched me in the heart.

This really hit me hard. I’m just about in tears.

Its funny cause LGBT stands for Lesbians, Gays, Bi, and Trans. So wtf?

nikki minaj is a gross fuck who is overly sexual and uses too many swear words I'd rather listen to something decent like mozart.








Mozart - “Leck mich im Arsch” - Canon in B flat for 6 Voices, K. 231 / K. 382c


mozart writes about getting that ass licked

nicki sings about getting that ass licked

both true musical masters, honestly

The way art is suppose to be

Best song ever 

true musical masters write about getting that ass licked

Reblog16 hours ago with 18,260 notes






Imagine Hogwarts after the Battle, after the War, sure

But imagine Hogwarts’ students, after their year with the Carrows and Snape.

Imagine a tiny little first-year whose porcupine pincushions still have quills, but to whom Fiendfyre comes easily. The second-year who tried to go back, to fight; whose bravado got Professor Sinistra killed, as she pushed him out of the way of a Killing Curse. The third-year who perfectly brewed poisons, hands shaking, wishing for the courage to spike the Carrows’ cups. The fourth-year who throws away all of their teacups, their palmistry guidebooks, because what use is Divination if it didn’t see this coming? The fifth-year who can barely remember what O.W.L.S. are, let alone that she was supposed to take them. The sixth-year who can’t manage Lumos to save their life, but whose proficiency with the Cruciatus Curse rivals Bellatrix’s.

Imagine the seventh-year who laughs until he cries, thinking about the first-years who will fall asleep in History of Magic while their story is told.

Imagine the Muggleborn first-years left alive, if there are any: imagine what they think of the magical world, when their introduction to it was Death Eaters and being tortured by their classmates for having been born.

Imagine the students who went home to their parents (or guardians, or wards, or orphanages) and showed them what they’d learned: Dark curses, hexes, Unforgiveables; that Muggles are filth, animals, lesser. Who, yes, still can’t transfigure a match into a needle but Mum, there’s a hex that can make you feel as though you’re being stabbed with thousands. (Don’t ask them how they know.)

Imagine the students who will never be able to see Hogwarts as home.

Imagine the students Hogwarts has left, when it starts up again the lack of Muggleborns, blood-traitors, half-bloods, dead and gone the lack of purebloods; the Ministry would have chucked everyone of age (and possibly just below) in Azkaban for Unforgiveables, wouldn’t they?

Imagine how few students there are left to teach; imagine how few teachers are left to teach them.

Imagine the students who can’t walk past a particular classroom, who can’t walk through a hallway, who can’t walk into the Great Hall without having a panic attack or breaking down. Imagine the school-wide discovery that the carriages aren’t horseless after all; that everyone, from the firsties to the teachers, can see Thestrals.

Imagine the memorials, the heaps of flowers and mementoes in every other corner, hallway, classroom; every other step you take on the grounds.

Imagine the ghosts.

Imagine the students destroying Snape’s portrait, using the curses, hexes, even Fiendfyre they’ve been taught how to wield it has to be restored nearly every week; Snape stays with Phineas Nigellus semi-permanently. (None of the other portraits will welcome him. His reasons do not excuse his conduct.)

Imagine the students unable to trust each other everyone informed on everyone, your best friend might turn you in.

Imagine the guilt that everyone carries (it should have been me, it’s my fault s/he’s dead, I told on them, it’s all my fault), the students incapable of meeting each other’s eyes because it’s my fault your best friend, your sibling, your Housemate, your boy/girlfriend is dead.

Imagine the memorials piled high with the wands of the dead. Imagine the memorials piled high with the self-snapped wands of the living.

Imagine the students who are never able to produce a Patronus.

Imagine Boggarts being removed from the curriculum because Riddikulus is near impossible to grasp, even for the sixth- and seventh-years. Because their friends and families dead will never, ever be funny.

Imagine the students for whom magic feels tainted.

Imagine the students who leave the wixen world hell, the students who leave Britain entirely, because there’s nothing left for them there.

Imagine the students who never use magic again.

(Image source.)

(From the mind of the wonderful lavenderpatil, a keen look at how students might be after war.)

Reblogging this kickass post by the equally kickass
because everyone should read it

I think… I could be wrong… but everyone Prof Trwylany (sp) said would die at the beginning of every term DID die in the battle of hogwarts? BUt yeah. The year after that was probably filled with grand speeches about those who sacrificed their lives, and how they would rebuild hogwarts, etc. meanwhile… the kids knew. They were there. They knew what it was really like. And the incoming first years probably had a very different relationship with the older kids, who’d seen shit, than in years past. I think there’d be a long year of seriousness and severity… or everyone would try to put on a happy face and pretend that Colin Kreevy wasn’t working on the school paper any more because he was dead. Stiff upper lip. But with a very subdued attitude.

Imagine the seventh years who came back. Because nobody finished their seventh year. That year was a loss. But the ones it really mattered for were them.

Imagine the older kids who are up in the night because they can’t sleep for bad dreams hearing the crying from the lower dorms and finding that little girl who can’t make pincushions but can make Fiendfyre hugging her knees, and saying, “You know what, bring your pillow up, you can sleep on my bed while I read.”

Imagine the new first years, the ones who hear the story on the train, who’re eleven and still young, seeing an older student sitting alone staring blankly and going over to them and saying, “D’you want some of my chocolate frogs?” because they can’t think of anything else to do.

Imagine one finding someone who’s sitting staring at nothing one day and asking in a quiet voice, “Do you need a hug?” and then staying for an hour while the older student cries and cries and hugs them, because some eleven year olds are really smart (and some eleven year olds already came to the school from Bad Shit) and know that sometimes it helps to hold someone you could look after.

Imagine the older students who look at these younger ones coming in, all new and safe and bright, and swearing on Merlin’s grave that nothing will ever, *ever* hurt these kids.

Imagine the alumni of Dumbledore’s Army, who refused to let the fucking Death Eaters win when they were here and kicking and sure as she won’t let them now, finding things to do on weekends, organizing things, refusing to have it so that people just stay there alone being sad. Fuck the third-year rule: *everyone* can go to Hogsmeade, you just buddy up the young kids with the older kids and I mean, fuck, *who’s going to be a threat to the older kids now*?

Imagine them making up insulting nicknames for their old enemies, taking Voldemort and the Carrows and Lestrange and metaphorically spitting on them every time they use them.

Imagine Ron volunteering to take on the Boggart that takes up residence in the one class cupboard because no, look, the stupid thing *still looks like a bloody spider* and look it’s fucking hilarious when you take its legs off and tie it up with a bow. And the class laughs.

Imagine Harry staying at the school for a couple years, even when he’s done, because once people understand how the charm worked - how because he let Voldemort kill him it meant that nothing Voldemort could do could hurt any of them anymore - everyone just feels *better* when he’s there.

Imagine the nights where everyone leaves the common rooms and camps out in the Great Hall and drinks Butterbeer and tells stories and cries and sometimes there are shouting matches because people get so raw, but in the end everyone falls asleep in a pile together.

Imagine all the really, truly inappropriate jokes the survivors make, the ones that make their parents’ eyes fill with tears and terrify the first years, because actually when you’ve been dragged face-first through Hell the *worst shit* becomes fucking funny.

Imagine how the owls don’t have to be kept in the owlry anymore, because every kid needs the animal they brought with them; imagine that for the kids that lost theirs, or never had one, their friends finding them some, buying them some.

Imagine the girl who knows the Cruciatus Curse breaking down crying because she can’t believe she did that, she can’t ever believe she would and she knows she’s wrong and evil and tainted, and Ginny holding her while she cries and when she calms down, Hermione tells her the story of Regulus Black, and about how just because you made shit choices once that doesn’t mean you can’t make better ones now.

Imagine that people have been dealing with this kind of horrible shit all through human history, and people are out there dealing with it today, and yes it absolutely sucks and it’s horrible and the scars it leaves are real and heartbreaking and sometimes people are too badly hurt to go on, but also former child-soldiers play team games and laugh at funny stories and refugee kids with horrible stories love colouring books with bright colours and play games with the friends they’ve made in the camps.

And these are kids who fought. Who fought like little demons. Who *chose* to fight. So yeah, it could be awful. It could be nothing but bleak from beginning to end, a year (a decade) of sternness and unhappiness. But it doesn’t have to be; it isn’t guaranteed.

(and as @tygermama notes, we Muggles have been figuring out this shit: we give it names and throw our best guesses at it, and some of them are good. So there’s help there, too.)

This is my favourite response to this ficlet so far, oh my goodness, thank you.


Eth’s Skin is a comic about a fisher named Eth living on the edge of a ragged ocean. 

It’s a story set in a slightly different British Columbia, where raft cities called townships make up the bulk of civilization, and selkies and sea monsters swim through kelp forests and avoid strange masked land-dwellers called Beachwalkers. 

Under a sickle moon, on an empty stone beach, Eth mistakes a selkie skin for their own and ends up having to make a journey to a distant cove in order to put things right.  It’s a queer (and genderqueer) fantasy adventure full of monsters and low tides, cool non-binary individuals, queer relationships, and a pet pygmy harbour seal named Goblin.

Eth’s Skin is made by Sfé R. Monster ( tumblr | twitter ) and starts January 1st, 2014

May I ask if there was a particular reason why you're catholic (as opposed to Lutherian or something) or if that was just the way it turned out?





Well, it’s partly inherited—I’m an Irish Catholic from a long line of Irish Catholics, and there’s a part of my world that doesn’t make sense without Sunday mass and homilies and the smell of incense. The church calendar orders my world; I know my extended family through a succession of white dresses and suits (baptisms, first communions, weddings). It’s so strange to me that there are people who don’t get homesick at summer camp and pray the rosary, because they might not have their mom with them, but they can cry to Mary and she’ll listen.

(that’s not a judgement, I’m not saying it’s better it’s just one of those things where—I don’t know what else could fit in that space)

And the other part is—I love the stupid religion. Despite all the dark history, the Vatican politics, the list of sins it’s racked up over the centuries—despite everything, I genuinely, really love my church. I love its its history, early church fathers struggling to figure out this strange Hellenistic Messianic Judaism thing, with desert prophets making miracles; the church of Constantinople, glittering on the crown of the Mediterranean; the church of medieval Rome, clinging to power by its teeth and the marriage of dying Italian families to invading barbarians, with monks in brown robes sailing to rocky islands where they can make golden manuscripts. I love the high church, cathedrals and grey rows of saints, with long faces and long fingers held up in chi-ro. Renaissance art and nuns writing books when women were supposed to be seen and not heard; ecstatic visions and universities and soup kitchens and schools and people saying prayers, humbling themselves, thinking about the world and serving and leading revolutions and protesting and—

I love the fact that every Sunday, I go and do and say almost the exact same thing that has been done and said for two thousand years. An unbroken line back to the apostles, of people both terrible and saintly but mostly just people.

I love the Bible. It’s a strange and sprawling thing, ugly and magnificent, heavy with thousands of years of scholarship and hope. I love the theology of my church, that talks about sin and heaven and bread and emptying yourself to be filled with God, that lifts up Mary and the weak, and the humble; that admits a humanity so fallible enough to fall from grace, but still possessing enough of it to reach for the perfection we sense within ourselves. Redeemable. And given a redeemer.

It is a very human thing, for me, a thing that spans the universe and lives in my cardiac muscle and—no, there isn’t a particular reason I’m Catholic, it’s the reason for everything else.



I love seeing these sorts of heartfelt posts about people’s relationships with their religions. I grew up Catholic, and I still have a lot of respect for the scholarship and history that goes into the Church, and I get genuinely angry when people butcher Church history. (If you’re gonna hate something, hate it for its truth, not for a defamatory lie.)

I also genuinely hate it when people don’t understand what it is they believe or why they believe it. “UHH CUZ JESUS” answers come from a lack of consideration and understanding of one’s faith and I would argue that faith without understanding or connection is not actually faith, just conformity.

So, OP, I love your passion for your faith and I respect it greatly. Even as someone who left the Church for the arms of a Goddess, I genuinely hope that I can carry the same kind of love and passion for my faith that you obviously do.

I disagree with this, more vehemently than I can really convey here. It runs counter to the spirit of the Church, the same spirit that Jesus came in—he called the humble and the poor and downtrodden and the weak and all those longing, not the ones with vocabulary enough to express their theological yearning.

Look, I come to my faith through a natural disposition to wordiness and thoughtfulness, four years of Catholic education, a further four years of a philosophy degree, two years of blogging about the subject, and a mother who loves discussing theology and church history and so encouraged the same in me. Part of the reason I love Catholicism is because it accommodates my disposition—it offers me the writings of Doctors of the Church, gives me mystics to puzzle out and reams of canon law to interpret. But to say that Catholicism is just that, or even should be is—it’s not a church of the world if you restrict it to the library.

Christianity is for those who serve in soup kitchens, and those who eat the soup. For those pray the same prayers on their knees every Sunday, and then go out to lunch with their families afterward and don’t puzzle over the meaning of the homily. It’s for Christmas-and-Easter Catholics and converts and those who only show up when their cousin is getting married and everyone in between. It’s for people who say “Because Jesus” because that is an answer, that is a damn good answer, that is an answer we founded a religion on, this one guy who showed up and said some good shit and was kind and he wept in a garden and he loved people, loved them enough to die for them, and there are worse answers to that question than his name. It does not betray a lack of consideration to answer with him—he’s the only answer really worthy of the question.

To declare Christianity only valid among those who can verbosely and intelligently articulate their belief—to call it conformity otherwise—smacks of the worst sort of academic arrogance.

I have been given, and worked to cultivate, a gift of expressing what so often is inexpressible. I am so proud of my ability to convey the passion I have for my people and my faith. But it is an ongoing project, and there are days when the words will not come, when the theology lies in knots I can’t unravel. Faith is forever a work in progress. (“Ineffable” is the word you use, to describe a thing which cannot be described.) I cannot blame others for not knowing how to convey what I myself struggle with—God is not a tame lion (to borrow a phrase) he can’t be surrounded in words, he defies, he evades, and you are left with some poor simulacrum of divinity that cannot keep you warm in the face of cold reason.

I have days (weeks, months) when I don’t understand what it is I believe or why I believe it. I exist only on inertia, the sustained faith of decades, and the hope that it soon might, if I don’t turn away. Would you deny me Christianity because of it?

Additionally, what I keep before me, always, is the knowledge that mine is a secondary gift. At no point in the New Testament does Jesus say, “be scholars.” He says “give” he says “help” he says “forgive” he says “love” he says “be just” he says “hunger for righteousness and for my father and for heaven.”

None of that requires a litmus test or a written portion.

This is not to say there are not lazy Christians, bad Christians. But their failing is not the inability to articulate what they believe—nowhere in any of our creeds is that ever asked of us. Jesus didn’t come for those who knew how to turn a phrase. No, what our prayer, our founding prayer, given to us by the Savior himself, asks is that the will of the Father be done, the bread be eaten, and forgiveness lift our sins from our shoulders—it asks nothing more of Heaven than that.

#unless it hurts other people your christianity is valid#don’t let anyone ever tell you differently#there is no test to be a christian#just the desire#just the doing#catholic means universal that means everyone whatever you’re like whatever you are everyone#long post for ts

Reblog16 hours ago with 293 notes


doodling something peaceful to the music on my doodle blog  u q u


Games with English: insert the word “only” anywhere into the above sentence and consider how the placement changes meaning.


Also I don’t see enough white feminists giving credit to Nicki Minaj beyond the interview of her doing her eyeliner.  Did you guys forget that she recognized and IDed as cisgender, and recognized that vagina does not equal womanhood, when she called herself a “woman with vagina.”  And that asshole talk show host laughed and said “as opposed to a women without one?” and she gave him a the meanest look and said “yes.” 

Reblog16 hours ago with 104,520 notes

Tagged: #Nicki Minaj



QQ and munchkins + QQ in hat