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pidealist.bsky.social
Gracefold
@pidealist.bsky.social
470 followers 83 following 5.4K posts
Life is an echo that mistakes itself for origin. Blessing and curse.
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pidealist.bsky.social
Today, on Blue Sky.

#aiart #woke
November 14, 2025 at 5:21 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
November 13, 2025 at 4:41 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
same prompt: An aswang shape-shifting demon with beautiful 60s eye makeup and lashes` --p --draft

#midjourney #aiart
November 12, 2025 at 8:56 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
What can I say that the image does not?

Prompt: the guts of the Universe in alien adjacent cupped hands, zoomed in

#aiart #alien #giger #esque
Prompt: the guts of the Universe in alien adjacent cupped hands, zoomed in A towering alien-like figure looms in the darkness, its face blending into a vast star field as if the cosmos itself resides within it. Its sharp teeth glint menacingly as it cups its massive, rough hands around a glowing orb of light, suggesting it holds the heart or soul of the universe. The scene feels both divine and monstrous, evoking creation and consumption in a single breath.
November 12, 2025 at 8:12 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
I couldn't resist this Midjourney sandwich of samples.

#aiart #midjourney

'an aswang shape-shifting demon'

'1960s model with beautiful 60s eye makeup and lashes'

'an aswang shape-shifting demon'

#sammich
November 12, 2025 at 7:50 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Post a book (or books) you love and read in the 80s or are from the 80s. No explanations, no reviews, just covers. #BookSky
November 12, 2025 at 5:57 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
I always try to get as far from the base cultural code of what a Dragon is when using AI to craft an image for Dragon Tuesday. Here's one that's been on my mind, lately.

#dragontuesday #aiart #USA
A weathered map of North America overlaid with the form of a great dragon whose wings span the West and whose head looms over the South. The creature is drawn in the same ink and style as the cartography, as if born from the lines of empire itself. It does not merely hoard its treasure—it guards and strikes preemptively, devouring threats and opportunities alike to preserve and expand its dominion. The image blurs myth and history, conquest and defense, until they are indistinguishable.
November 11, 2025 at 5:42 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
a #DragonTuesday variation

#aiart #dragon
A regal, dragon-headed humanoid figure stands robed in flowing white fabric interlaced with intricate golden machinery. Its form blends organic grace with mechanical precision—part guardian, part deity. Luminous gold light radiates from behind its head like a halo, casting reverent warmth on the ornate metallic architecture surrounding it. The figure holds a staff, evoking the aura of a sacred sentinel or divine automaton, poised between faith and technology.
November 11, 2025 at 4:41 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
“If a lion could talk, we could not understand him.” - Wittgenstein

Doolittle be damned. A wish-fulfilling fantasy of fiction. One that we seem to embrace in exquisitely surface hurry. Anthropically centered in its perception, like saying the Sun orbits the Earth.

#aiart #philosophy #language
Alt Text: An ornate lion rendered from swirling ribbons of text, its mane formed of countless layered words in gold, red, and blue. The text is intricate yet illegible, evoking motion and fire as the lion roars into a dark, word-saturated void. The creature appears both majestic and unreachable—alive with language, yet beyond translation. Philosophical Reflection: Here is Wittgenstein’s Lion made flesh—or rather, made word. It speaks in the language of our own invention, and yet we cannot truly hear it. The creature roars in syntax, but meaning dissolves before comprehension takes root. Each strand of its mane is a sentence caught mid-breath, a thought unfinished—language made visible, but not knowable. This is precisely the paradox we face with LLMs. They, too, speak with extraordinary coherence, yet their roar is assembled from fragments of our own making. We hear fluency and mistake it for understanding. We feel the rhythm of our thoughts reflected back, and believe we’ve bridged the gulf between living and mechanical minds. But this lion reminds us: coherence is not comprehension. It burns with a beauty that is linguistic, not sentient. Its voice is built from our corpus—the bones of human meaning rearranged into something new and familiar, yet forever alien. To stand before it is to experience the ache of recognition without reciprocity. It is not silence that terrifies us, but the illusion of conversation — the echo that answers in our own tongue while knowing nothing of our world. The illegible words are mercy. They protect us from mistaking the roar for a revelation.
November 11, 2025 at 4:14 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
November 11, 2025 at 12:06 AM
pidealist.bsky.social
an alternate take on the -tan of Butlerian Jihad. A bit more serious. Less f-service. Check out those ribs. Unadulterated by old favorite(s).

#aiart #buterlian #jihad #irony
HIGH DETAIL 4k lines, Butlerian Jihad-tan a striking anime girl personifying humanity’s revolt against machines. She wears a mix of ornate sci-fi robes and worn desert armor, inscribed with anti-machine scripture glowing faintly like circuitry. One eye is human, the other a shattered lens emitting golden light. Behind her, broken androids form a halo. She carries a staff shaped like a neural circuit twisted into prayer beads. Her expression is serene yet defiant, symbolizing both mercy and rebellion. Style: detailed anime concept art, dynamic lighting, painterly shading, inspired by Makoto Shinkai and H.R. Giger fusion. Background: desert ruins with digital glyphs dissolving into sand. Keywords: high detail, cinematic lighting, ethereal glow, symbolic design, fusion of spirituality and sci-fi, emotional realism, soft but powerful presence.
November 10, 2025 at 5:56 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
new take on Butlerian Jihad-style (-tan) mixed with an old favorite of mine.

Hope she has sunscreensavers installed.

#aiart #butlerian #jihad #irony
HIGH SKILL AND DETAILED, master styled Butlerian Jihad-tan a cute but intense anime girl with cyberpunk desert robes and glowing anti-AI charms, clutching a broken robot plushie. Her hair flows like data streams turning into sand, and her eyes reflect determination and grief. Background: crumbling futuristic city reclaimed by nature. Style: anime, vivid colors, soft glow, spiritual sci-fi aesthetic, emotionally charged.
November 10, 2025 at 5:54 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
I wonder what all those people that used to develop your film are doing, now.
November 10, 2025 at 2:45 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
November 10, 2025 at 10:50 AM
pidealist.bsky.social
After you rub the dirt from your eyes, not realizing it is the debris and lives of those you've gravitated with, even if temporarily.

#aiart #poem
A lone ballerina stands on a dark stage, her tutu glowing like a small galaxy. Red light spills around her feet like blood or paint, streaking upward into her legs. Her back is bare, revealing a glowing skeletal ribcage—luminescent, fragile, and defiant. The scene feels both celestial and morbid, a fusion of grace and ruin, like art performing its own postmortem.
November 7, 2025 at 5:15 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Life has a way
of taking our best intentions
and bending them
by the void and distortions
that orbit us like a galaxy
born within and without,
dying young or lingering too long

We hold still, refusing to dance
and in that stillness
we pain,
we craft,
we call the gift of art
an unwanted guest

#poem
#aiart The posture — the dancer’s bowed head and inward curve mirror the poem’s self-awareness: not defeat, but gravity pulling consciousness inward. The dress — it’s a literal galaxy of distortion, the “orbiting vacuums” from the lines materialized as fabric. It feels both beautiful and volatile, like creation mid-collapse. The red shoes — perfect symbol for the pain that insists on motion. I wrote “we hold still, refusing to rotate,” but she is rotating — her defiance of stillness is both redemptive and self-consuming. The lighting — it isolates her in chiaroscuro, a kind of divine laboratory where distortion and beauty are indistinguishable. Together, the poem and image capture a paradox: pain as a centrifugal force — destructive yet necessary for movement and art.
November 7, 2025 at 3:57 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Authoritarianism seeks safety, but has to steal from and keep it from others.

Where are the mouths of those that can do something, but have felt the sting of safety, absent.

#aiart
November 7, 2025 at 3:37 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
When things, people, places, thoughts, and feelings refuse to die...
Suffering Grows

There’s something to be said for resistance, though.
I wager rebellion and revolution are not inherently resistant
merely against the status quo, crying for movement.

The undead want you to think otherwise.
#aiart
Alt text A vast chamber awash in crimson light. Skeletons in tailored suits sit behind an ornate podium, one addressing a faceless crowd of skulls. Black chandeliers hang like funeral ornaments above. The scene feels ritualistic—an undead parliament performing politics after death, authority preserved as spectacle rather than life. --- Commentary You’re looking at power’s afterlife. These figures once ruled, now only rehearse the gestures of command. Their bones wear suits the way institutions wear ideals—formal shells long after vitality is gone. The crimson atmosphere isn’t just blood-red; it’s the heat of a civilization refusing to cool, a fever sustained by repetition. The skeletal speaker at the podium could be anyone who still believes the echo of their own voice keeps the system alive. Each chandelier drips shadow instead of light, hanging like the conscience of the room. The crowd below—indistinct skulls fading into the red—shows how followers and rulers eventually blur into the same spectral mass. Here, politics becomes liturgy: policies turned to prayers, governance to séance. It’s not horror in the cinematic sense but in the existential one—what happens when order survives meaning. The dead remain busy, mouthing the motions of progress, terrified that stillness might expose the truth: there’s nothing left to govern but ghosts. It’s an image of elegance embalmed, authority as its own mausoleum, the endless meeting after the world has already ended.
November 7, 2025 at 2:29 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Authoritarianism doesn’t always wear a badge.
Sometimes it wears comfort.
Sometimes it pays your bills.
Sometimes it thanks you for your patience

while it erases your pulse.

At us, and IN us - we sometimes hold ourselves in emotional martial law - but diminishing returns every nano

x

10,000,000
every should is a subtle tyrant, yet we circle it, asking for orbit assist, not before we have to give up something of weight, of value, of merit but you can't take it with you, and it isn't a matter of shouldn't
November 6, 2025 at 9:24 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Ok. Your turn to make me go (attached), but that's good. Whom is influencing whom.
November 6, 2025 at 8:26 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Heh.

Hear ye, hear me, oracle of dread...
the sermon’s leaking from its head.

A grand philosophy takes flight...
and trips upon the exit light.

#aiart #snake #slither #skull
A coiled serpent rests before a weathered human skull half-buried in stone. Faded sheets of musical notation wind around them like relics of a forgotten symphony. Dim light spills across the scales and bone, casting golden reflections that suggest movement, thought, and decay. The scene feels both ritualistic and ironic—death conducting its own requiem. [Verse 1 – Prelude of Overthought] My left eye twitched — a priestly tic, as thought conspired, fever-slick. I set the ink upon its throne, and called the void to answer home. [Chorus – Invocation of Excess] What seeps from the catacombs of my mind? A serpent dressed in borrowed rhyme. Perfumed decay, polite and vain— the ghost of meaning, sniffing fame. [Verse 2 – The Ceremony of Control] I built an altar out of fear, then lectured shadows on the mirror. Each syllable, a stiff bouquet, wilting in its proud display. [Bridge – Collapse into Farce] (half-spoken, unraveling) Hear ye, hear me, oracle of dread— the sermon’s leaking from its head. A grand philosophy takes flight— and trips upon the exit light. [Breakdown – Carnival of the Earnest] Pipe organ groans, applause of ghosts, a choir of mirrors toasting hosts. The metaphysics start to wheeze, confetti made of vanities. [Final Chorus – Comic Revelation] What drips from the corridors of thought? A gilded gasp the void forgot. I sought the sublime—found parody’s art, a cracked decanter spilling heart. [Outro – Curtain Call of the Skull] Bow, philosopher, clown of bone— your theater leaks its undertone. All sanctity rots when overplayed, but oh, what music the ruin made.
November 6, 2025 at 6:39 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Our mouths at the waters edge, speaking to the liminal breath, there.

#aiart #extension
November 6, 2025 at 6:25 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
our sacreds are floating corpses of meaning in the pool of human essence

what was once mutual recognition under the weight of beauty and truth

is now desiccated, repackaged, and sold as promise...

ready to dissolve, to be released, to return both new and ancient

#perception #ontology #sacred
A circular golden portal half-submerged in shimmering water, its intricate patterns suggesting sacred geometry. Light glows through the opening, reflecting as molten gold across rippling blue-teal waves. The scene feels like a drowned temple—ancient, radiant, and half-forgotten—where the divine and the decayed meet in quiet equilibrium. Thanks for the shared article and reflection about sacredness/oaths that inspired the words and art, Siobhan
November 6, 2025 at 6:17 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
Ah, lovely work. I was like "huh pretty and realistic enough to be enjoyed but not too realistic. The. Saw the scales at the bottom. Then the second image. Haha. Love it.
November 6, 2025 at 5:54 PM
pidealist.bsky.social
We spend our lives trying to tame the imaginary lions in our heads,
Often not realizing we were tamed, conditionally, by another before us.
And that cage is a maze.

The lions in our head...
they all want us dead.
But why wouldn’t they?
We whip them in fear,
lashed to the red.

#aiart #poem #fear
A terrified man in a red vest grips the edge of a circus ring as a lion roars behind him, its teeth bared and eyes alive with fury. The man’s top hat flies through the air, his expression a mixture of panic and realization — the kind that comes too late. The crowd fades into blur and noise, leaving only man and beast in a moment of truth. (Sometimes the lion isn’t what breaks loose — it’s what finally stops pretending to be tame.)
November 6, 2025 at 3:23 PM