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See, that’s what the app is perfect for.

Sounds perfect Wahhhh, I don’t wanna
hell-and-pepsi

fun fact: in russian, one of the slang words for ‘gay/homosexual’ is 'голубой’ which means 'light blue’

and obviously the translators of good omens had to work with that while translating the bit about aziraphale’s gayness

so one of the variants made him 'so light blue that any tropical island would hire him to illuminate the sky in the middle of the touristic season’

light bluer than the summer sky in the advertisement pamphlets of small touristic agencies a different translation put it as but i like the first one better good omens
onlythegeste

Never going to not find it weird that bits of the Good Omens fandom call Aziraphale/Crowley ‘Ineffable Husbands’ and other bits call them ‘Air Conditioning’ when the absolute wonder that is ‘Consenting Bicycle Repairmen’ is literally right there in the book.

Like, I am fully aware that I am late to this party and someone else has almost certainly said this before, but it makes a small (and excessively British) part of me very sad.

good omens possibly an unpopular opinion in which case many apologies but who made this decision and why? anathema herself gave us the most delightful ship title for them and nobody seems to use it maybe i'm just looking on the wrong bits of the internet idk
elven-child

Thoughts about Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship

After reading Good Omens, it took me a while to put my finger on why I wouldn’t exactly call Aziraphale and Crowley my ship. Yes, they’re absolutely married and I loved all of their interactions and the book left me wishing I could read more about their shenanigans. But the word “ship” felt… not quite right. And then I realised it’s because they’re not the usual “oh just kiss already“ kind of duo. To me, they’re more like “oh just hang out together and have your casual everyday life for eternity“ kind of duo.

These two have their dinners at Ritz, Crowley drives Aziraphale home, they spend a lot of time together (we know that Crowley would often stay at Aziraphale’s way longer than he should), know each other very well, fundamentally disagree on numerous things and that’s how it works.

But from what we read in the book, it’s not like they don’t have lives apart from each other. Aziraphale has his books and his music, and Crowley has his plants and his Bentley… But still, they are immortal beings among humans. Sure, they love it, and they love the Earth - but it works in a way which I think nobody else (immortal or not) can understand. So it goes without saying that both Aziraphale and Crowley would be very lonely without the other.

And they are obviously fond of each other (it’s hard not to bond over something eventually after 6000 years) but it usually remains unspoken. Plus, I think what Michael Sheen said about them is absolutely spot on: Aziraphale is an angel, a being of love, so of course he loves everything and everyone in a way, including Crowley. And I like to think that Crowley, whether he likes it or not, hasn’t entirely got rid of that piece of his nature either. He’s not as good at being evil as he thinks.

Their relationship, their chemistry and dynamics can’t really be fit in human labels and if you ask me, that’s what makes it so unique. Trying to describe it with mortal aspects of a relationship is an easy way to lose the subtlety of what’s between them. That’s also why I hope the show will not change, but expand their relationship through the years.

tl;dr: Aziraphale and Crowley are disfunctional idiot husbands in their own special way and that’s why we love them and I hope the show sticks to this

sorry for the wall of text i just have a lot of feelings also this post was inspired by my conversations with @svogliata-mente and @wrappedinchocolateblanket good omens aziraphale a j crowley elven-child rambles into the void gomens essay
owl-librarian glumshoe
adayinthelesbianlife: “ For more than forty years, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived on Cape Cod with the love of her life, the remarkable photographer Molly Malone Cook. When Cook died in 2005 at the age of eighty, Oliver looked for a...
adayinthelesbianlife

For more than forty years, Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived on Cape Cod with the love of her life, the remarkable photographer Molly Malone Cook.

When Cook died in 2005 at the age of eighty, Oliver looked for a light, however faint, to shine through the thickness of bereavement. She spent a year making her way through thousands of her spouse’s photographs and unprinted negatives, which Oliver then enveloped in her own reflections to bring to life Our World - part memoir, part deeply moving eulogy to a departed soulmate, part celebration of their love for one another through their individual creative loves. Embraced in Oliver’s poetry and prose, Cook’s photographs reveal the intimate thread that brought these two extraordinary women together — a shared sense of deep aliveness and attention to the world, a devotion to making life’s invisibles visible, and above all a profound kindness to everything that exists, within and without.

Oliver ends Our World with The Whistler, a poem on never fully knowing even those nearest to us — a beautiful testament to what another wise woman once wrote: “You can never know anyone as completely as you want. But that’s okay, love is better.”

THE WHISTLER

All of a sudden she began to whistle. By all of a sudden
I mean that for more than thirty years she had not
whistled. It was thrilling. At first I wondered, who was
in the house, what stranger? I was upstairs reading, and
she was downstairs. As from the throat of a wild and
cheerful bird, not caught but visiting, the sounds war-
bled and slid and doubled back and larked and soared.

Finally I said, Is that you? Is that you whistling? Yes, she
said. I used to whistle, a long time ago. Now I see I can
still whistle. And cadence after cadence she strolled
through the house, whistling.

I know her so well, I think. I thought. Elbow and an-
kle. Mood and desire. Anguish and frolic. Anger too.
And the devotions. And for all that, do we even begin
to know each other? Who is this I’ve been living with
for thirty years?

This clear, dark, lovely whistler?

Source: brainpickings.org
poetry