this is god

Okay now that I think of it, Asgard’s physics are extremely problematic

This is VERY on brand, Cosmo

IT SHOULDN’T HAVE GRAVITY

It doesn’t even look like there’s a decent atmosphere! Who’s design choice was this? I mean yeah it’s pretty but it makes no sense! Also where does all the water go??? The world just… drops off???

Concept: Asgardians are flat-earthers

THIS GOT ME LAUGHING OMG

if there's a turtle underneath it's okay though

this is god

this is a torterra

Happy World Turtle Day, all you fancy dans.

Lisa Ericson for “Invisible Promise” at Antler Gallery.

Sensational new work by artist Lisa Ericson for the two person exhibition alongside artist Lindsey Carr entitled “Invisible Promise,” currently on view at Antler Gallery in Portland, Oregon.

The exhibition is on view until May 27th, 2018 and absolutely should not be missed if you’re in the area.

Don’t miss Supersonic Art on Instagram!

A moment of peace

the water is so clear….. he’s flying

de chelonian mobile

tort-time:

copperbadge:

That moment when you realize your turtle’s gaze is more frightening than yours.

#closeup #macro #lovenature #naturelover #natureshooters #creatures #foodchain #photooftheday #earth #instanature #turtle #terrificturtles #carapace #dansemacabre (Marnate)

THOU SHALL NEVER DOUBT THE POWER OF THE TORTIE SIDE EYE AGAIN! bwahahahaha

“A meeting of the minds”. Or mindless. Depending on which one you are. 😂😂😂. #sulcata #tortoise #africanspurredtortoise #turtle

Strategy is an important part of the #Turtpocalypse. Particularly, the proper placement of decoys…

de chelonian movement

G is for Great A'Tuin Inktober 20

“Actually, the philosophers have got it all wrong. Great A'Tuin is in fact having a great time.”

Discworld

“Great A’Tuin the turtle comes, swimming slowly through the interstellar gulf, hydrogen frost on his ponderous limbs, his huge and ancient shell pocked with pocked with meteor craters. Through sea-sized eyes that are crusted with rheum and asteroid dust. He stares fixedly at the Destination.

In a brain bigger than a city, with geologic slowness, He thinks only of the Weight.

Most of the weight is of course accounted for by Berilia, Tubul, Great T’Phon and Jerakeen, the four giant elephants upon whose broad and star-tanned shoulders the Disc of the World rests, garlanded by the long waterfall at its vast circumference and domed by the baby-blue vault of Heaven.”

Dear Terry Pratchett (a selfish love-letter to a man who shaped my world)

So, you’re gone.

Door shutting behind me, I slid my keys in my pocket, the song I was listening to was reaching its end, I wandered, tired, relaxed, into the kitchen, I flung my bag onto the sofa, left my shoes, muddy, by the door, like I always do. I dropped the post on the table, pulled out my phone, and there was a little notification, small, thin, like ones that I’ve seen hundreds of times before, usually emblazoned with “David Cameron says…” or “Jeremy Clarkson suspended…” Only this little message, this little sentence - it, well, broke me. “Terry Pratchett, author of Discworld series, has died, aged 66″. Simple, short, objective, inhuman. The words looked alien, they blurred, I didn’t even read them, just saw the shapes, I think my mouth, for a moment, formed the words… Terry…Discworld… died…

I had thought about this day, of course, for years. How I would react, how much I would cry, I’d thought about it, objectively, simply, devoid of emotion, inhumanly. And then, suddenly, it was now and true and real and it felt… surreal. I had never factored in it feeling surreal. I thought, for a moment, perhaps the whole day had been a dream.  The birds were singing much louder than usual, the light in the kitchen was much more yellow, But the day itself had been too gritty, too real - I was half-way up the stairs before I knew it, sprinting, Vimes did this too, once, Vimes had done this too, Vimes - I had logged onto my laptop before even one thought had formed, blood pounding and pounding, pounding so fast I could hardly breath, surges of adrenaline and anger and fear -

Your anger was the powerhouse of Discworld. And your fury against your disease was perhaps it’s greatest driving force, But I would rather you were alive, and Discworld had never existed, because you deserve so much more than your 66 years. (you would have been amused it was the Devil’s number, I think) I never knew you, yet I mourn you like you were a loved one, I never knew you, except, of course, I knew your books Your art, your works, your creation - I knew them back to front. And you wrote yourself into your characters, didn’t you? Into Vimes, into his anger, his shrewdness, his ‘Street’,  into Granny, her anger, the power of her mind, into Death you poured all your feelings about death itself, your fear, your blasé; your love of cats. Into all of them you poured how much you cared, for those who weren’t able to care for themselves, the weak, the lonely, you cared about them. Even little Tiffany, standing on a green hill, with her frying-pan and her blue dress, raging against the world, was you, I think. Into Vimes… And I knew your characters inside out, so I like to think I knew you. I loved you, that’s for sure. I loved you.  I didn’t know it, until someone messaged me with the words “I loved him too.” But I didn’t know that I did, until today, until after that little notification on my phone, after the roof had blown off my world.

I didn’t know how much Discworld meant to me. Those books are the books I turn to when I am ill or sad or bored or lost. I read and I write and I read about you, and your works, I have a pile of Vimes books, stuck full with post-its, of all the pages to type up, one day, and discuss; I have a pile of Vimes books, Vimes, of Vimes - And now, they’re over. And I don’t get that. Wikipedia says “Terry Pratchett. Died: 12th March 2015″,  and I don’t get that, either. You’re dead?

I had planned to meet you, you know. Just the other day, I stood in my kitchen, planning to meet you. I was going to ask you about Polly and Mal. I was going to give you a book, a little book, full of every url of every Disc-blog on Tumblr. I was going to talk to you. I was going to talk to you about Vimes. Vimes –   Let’s talk about Discworld. You, through the amount of the books, the depth of the books, the complexity of the books, created a world and it feels, to me, at least, real. But now – is it dead? Gone, stopped, locked, in time, in place, never able to progress, never able to move on? And it was my childhood. I can’t remember a time when it wasn’t there, waiting for me, as a comfort blanket, whenever I needed it; it was there. And now – now, has it stopped? Has the Disc stopped spinning? And Vimes. Vimes… Vimes is -  Dead? He is - was - so like me, that, sometimes, when I was tired and alone and scared and lost, I felt he was me. We overlapped. We coincided. He was amazing. I wanted to be, well, him. He was - my companion - my friend, he was me, myself, my inspiration, my role model: we overlapped. I felt right viewing the world from inside his head. And now, like the Disc, he’s locked. Dead, gone, stopped, trapped, where he was, forever - He has been reduced to a character in a finished, closed, read, book.

You know, I’ve never lived a day without you being alive, somewhere, before. The amazing thing was there was this moment, where I was, well, screaming - I’d just found out, just started to believe, just started to realise it wasn’t a dream, I was crying and crying and the crying built up and built up into a scream - and then I looked up, out the window, and there were my neighbours. They walked to their car. They got in. They drove away. The most constant, most important, widest, happiest part of my life was being stripped away from me and I was screaming - And they walked to their car. Unaware, oblivious, inhuman. I think - I think I wanted the world to stop, for you. I told you this would be selfish, I don’t know the reality of it, I wasn’t there, when you -

I never knew you, but I think I loved you. Vimes was, well, was me, and now he’s  - gone. You - are - gone. And after all this, I still don’t believe it.

Zoom out. Zoom out, now, from this bedroom, this girl, her computer, her. Zoom out so you can see the whole planet, busy, and bustling, and moving. A planet full of people who are looking up to the sky, and seeing another earth, a flat earth, a disc-shaped earth, paused, halted, stopped in its tracks, frozen, and cold, and fading away, across the multiverse, they see the Disc.

The people on our world are mourning. Mourning the death of a man, the most brilliant man you could imagine, who wore black hats, and smiled like the sun was inside of him and was telling him jokes, and created puns and stories and worlds, and grew angry, and angrier, and was, well, brilliant. They mourn the death of a man, and the death of a world, this other world, this flat world, his world, the disc-world. They look up to the sky, and they see it, across the multiverse, and they say, Not Yet, they say, Too Soon, they say, You Are Still Needed, and they say, Let It Live. And then they look down, they pick up their pens, turn to their keypads, and they start – they start to write. To draw, to create, to imagine, to breathe- And the flat world, frozen, cold, it - jolts. It jolts.

And the people on our world, they say, Let It Live, they pick up their pens and they write, and they write, they are not him, the man who created it, but they still believe in this flat world, this disc-world, in his world, they still write his characters, his people, his creations, they say, Let It Live, they say, Let It Breathe. They pick up their pens, and they - they breathe. They breath their life, across the multiverse - and far, far away, one eye of a gigantic, giant turtle… flickers. Air, suddenly, is forced back into its lungs It begins to move, to breathe, to live, The Disc begins to unfreeze, the clocks in the towers begin to chime all at once, the people on it begin to move and think and live once more - somewhere in the Ramtops, Granny Weatherwax looks up, and mutters “Well – that was strange” and in Ankh-Morpork, the pearl of cities, Vimes… Vimes - he looks up. And the tune of All the Little Angels floats into his mind, And then he looks down, lights a cigarette, shuffles his feet - he has, unfortunately, new boots - and he walks home.

And the people on the Roundworld look up to the sky and they say, Terry Pratchett? He Went Too Soon, and they say, We Won’t Let His Ripples Die Away, and they say, We Won’t Let His World Die Away, and they say, Let it Breathe, Let It Think,  Let It Live, and the turtle? Well, the turtle moves.

R.I.P. Terry Pratchett