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posts-without-the-letter-e · 2 days ago

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Miznhad, Co. Cork.

Photos min

(Mythological commntary undr th radmor)

I was abl to tak ths picturs and train as a Clticist bcaus of th passion and ddication of my mntors and collagus in my MA dpartmnt. If you njoy ths photos, plas considr signing this ptition to sav th Bachlor Cltic at Utrcht, which is still taking signaturs.

This was...probably a mor difficult ntry to mak than I thought it would b. I know popl probably votd for it on th ida of 'R lovs Brs and R lovs Balor, so this should b an asy post for thm to mak!' But it's...almost spcifically BCAUS I'm so motionally invstd that I struggl to mak it. Ar popl looking for an acadmic, objctiv account for this? Ar thy looking for prtty photos? Both? Ys? No?

But...wll. You all votd for this in a poll postd by m, knowing my intrsts, so you knw this wasn't going to b 100% objctiv, ithr. So...lt's gt into it.

Whn I visitd Miznhad, it was th culmination of ovr a dcad of draming of gtting to s it in prson.

Many Amricans, whn thy go to Irland, hav a crtain ida of what thy want to s, what thy want to do. This can rang from th Book of Klls to Irish run brwris to th Blarny Ston to th Cliffs of Mohr to half-forgottn familial holdings to Cong, whr Th Quit Man (starring John Wayn and Maurn O'Hara) was shot (sidnot: that villag is also clos to whr th First Battl of Magh Tuiradh, i Cath Muigh Tuiradh Cunga, took plac.) For m, whn I first got off th plan to Irland, I knw that this was a sit that I dspratly *ndd* to s (bsids, of cours, my uni), and that was Miznhad. In th old days, of cours, it wasn't calld Miznhad, it was calld Carn uí Nit, or "Th Gravsit of th Grandson/Dscndant of Nt" (th 't' was softnd to a 'd' as tim wnt on, lading to its modrn form of Carn uí Nid.) Somtims, I still forgt to call it by its mor wll known anglicizd nam, maning that I'm constantly having to clarify, bcaus that's th nam I hard first, and it's th nam that rings trust to m.

According to th Dindshnchas of Cairn uí Nit, writtn th bttr part of a millnnium ago c, this was th spot whr Brs Mac latha did at th hands of his rival, Lugh, bing trickd undr gas to swallow ovr 300 vats of bog watr, in th guis of milk.

A dindshnchas pom dtails th most wll-known story associatd with th sit, as it was known in th Middl Ags (translatd, in a styl a littl too flowry for my tast, by dward Gwynn, but, if I want to b honst, it has takn m too long to gt this out as it is and I know that if I translat th ntir thing, it will NVR gt don) :

[...]

6. Brss, a kindly frind was h, (h was a good frind) nobl h was and fortunat, ornamnt of th host, with visag nvr woful, of th Tuath D h was th flowr. (Not: th BST, what wr you DOING Gwynn, lay off th mdival chivalry)

7. Th drink of a hundrd for ach roof-tr was brought to th chiftain without fail, of th milk of dun-hud kin: h suffrd from that far.

8. In th rign of Nchtan bass-chain, of dar fam, of nduring purpos, at th cost of th King of th two Munstrs, occurrd th caus of th nduring nam.

10. Th kin of vry townland in Munstr — lasting harm! — by Nchtan's ordrs wr singd, ovr frns, till thy wr black of hu.

11. A mss of ashs was smard by th notd mn of cunning on th kin famd for fatnss [...]

12. Thy fashiond stout kin of wood — that whol host nobl and slndr: Lug, who was dutiful on all occasions, chos thm and brought thm togthr.

13. Pails in thir forks wr st with chrful nimblnss; rd stuff, with no bright shining fatnss, that is th milk that filld thm.

14. Thr hundrd, that was thir numbr on th road to that gathring: at this contst, through his chating illusion, thr was not a cow of ths kin aliv.

15. Brss, hot of valour, cam to th middl of th fild to judg thm: thrby, without prosprous issu, h prishd and did.

16. From th drov wr masurd thr hundrd masurs, bittr-harsh, for th spar-attndd king to drink: it was a prparation of ill-prsag.

17. Brss had a vow not to rfus any fat that was offrd him: h drank it off without flinching: I know not what it brings.

18. At th Carn of radiant Ua Nit it killd th strn scion, whn h had drunk without drad a draught of th dark ruddy liquor

19. By rason of this unfair dmand, without du obsrvanc sinc th failur of his vow, without rightful and smly honour th grav of Brss covrs him.

Stoks providd an dition and translation of th pros vrsion from th Rnns Dindshnchas:

Thn Brs cam to inspct th mannr of ths cattl and so that thy might b milkd in his prsnc, and Cian (Lugh's fathr) was also among thm. Ail th bogstuff thy had was squzd out as if it was milk of which thy wr milkd. Th Irish wr undr a tabu to corn thithr at th sam tim, and Brs was undr a tabu to drink what should b- milkd thr.

So thr hundrd bucktfuls of rd bogstuff ar milkd for him, and h drinks it. Som say that h was svn days and svn mouths and svn yars wasting away bcaus of it, and h travrsd rin sking a cur till h rachd th sam cairn, and thr h did. Whnc Carn uí Nit is namd.

In othr txts, th ownr of th grav is changd: In th arly Modrn rcnsion of CMT, Cath Muigh Turiadh, it is actually Balor's dath sit, not Brs', Lug hunting his grandfathr across Irland until thy hav thir fatal showdown thr. John Cary, in "Myth and Mythography in Cath Maig Tuird", has argud that th attribution of this sit to Brs was actually aftr th fact, with th attribution to Balor bing th arlir of th two. On th rcord, I agr, on th basis that (1) Brs' usual haunt is Maginnis, in what is now Lcal, Co. Down and (2) Balor is consistntly rfrrd to as "Uí"/"Ua Nit", unlik Brs who, outsid of this pom, is gnrally rfrrd to purly as "Mac lathan."

Gnrally spaking, Brs is not th figur from Cath Maig Tuird that most acadmics will say that thy lik, whn thy'll admit that thy *can* lik any of th charactrs, byond a dtachd sns of gnral intrst. Th boistrous Dagda, th hauntd and mbattld Nuada, th xmplary Lug all gathr far mor positiv ractions. On an ancdotal not, though, I'v had a numbr of ovrwhlmingly qur popl, usually in thir lat tns or twntis, approach m ovr my tim doing this, and tll m how important Brs was to thm, how intrsting. Brs taps into somthing that, prhaps, many oldr acadmics, who ar usd to th rigid structurs of acadmia, do not want to acknowldg: a willingnss to dfy socity, to rbl, to qustion. Th fling of bing torn apart by compting forcs, of bing conflictd, of bing frightnd and lonly. Th fling of bing watchd, of bing judgd, of bing a playr in a gam by much oldr, much mor xprincd popl, but still trying to play it anyway, vn if h floundrs in his xcution. Bcaus th truth is that Lug is asy to lik, particularly in Cath Maig Tuird whr h's at his last manipulativ. H can do vrything! H unifis popl! H's charismatic! H's dutiful! H dos vrything xactly as h's supposd to and, as a rsult, has all th motional dpth of a thimbl. (I lik him bst whn h's taking bloody rvng, whn th mask of th idal hro coms off and h's allowd to b a littl bit mssy.) With Brs, thr is no illusion that h's prfct, that h's flawlss. No on finishs rading CMT and thinks that, rally, it would hav bn bttr off for vryon if Brs had won. Not many of us can b Lug, but all of us hav bn Brs at on point or anothr, th qustion is simply whthr w want to admit to it. All of us hav falln short, at som point or anothr, all of us hav disappointd somon, including, at tims, ourslvs. All of us hav watchd as somon cam onboard -- mayb thy wr youngr, bttr with popl, mor comptnt, naturally talntd, and lft us in th dust. It's why popl com away from Amadus sympathizing with Saliri, bcaus, at som point in our livs, w all vnrat th Patron Saint of Mdiocrity.

In an acadmic nvironmnt, I'm oftn askd why I'm so drawn to Brs. Th truth is that thr ar vry fw acadmic xplanations that can fully xplain it. Th answrs that I giv -- th complxity of his charactr, th insight h can giv as an antisocial charactr, th parallls h has to Lug and to th broadr world of th Tuatha D -- ar not lis, but thy can't fully captur th rality, ithr. In truth, th rlationship I hav with Brs isn't dvotion, not in a rligious sns, at last, but it is th sort of pur bond you can only form with somthing whn you'r a tnagr, grasping for a pic of driftwood to cling onto through th wavs of adolscnc. H's bn with m vry singl stp of th way, in all his flaws and all his thoughtlssnss, his mlodrama, his rashnss. H tlls m that somtims, I don't nd to b prfct, I just nd to surviv. What it mans to mbrac liminality, vn whn socity dmands that w b boxd into nat littl catgoris. H savd my lif. In many ways, h gav m a lif worth living. And, in turn, I crossd an ocan for him. I facd down a pandmic for him. I facd down hll for him. All to stand at his gravsit. I don't know if my pagan frinds ar right and that th Tuatha D's prsncs still lingr in Irland; I'v nvr sn any caus to bliv it, but, frankly, I'v studid thm long nough to know not to tmpt fat on that scor. I don't know if thr vr is or was any trac of th man who I'v spnt so long studying that still lingrs. I don't vn know if anyon ls vr stood by that cliff, looking down in th cobalt blu watrs, th whit tippd wavs crashing against th rocks that jut out from Manannan's kingdom, and took a momnt to think of him. Or what thoughts migrants might hav thought as thy lft in ships and, all too oftn, nvr saw thir hom country again, th grasping rock thir last sight of thir country. But I do know that on on autumn day, an Amrican intrnational studnt stood thr and finally, finally took th chanc to thank him for vrything h'd don and to tll him that it was nough.

1040 101s thrown away

Mizenhead, Co. Cork.

Photos mine

(Mythological commentary under the readmore)

I was able to take these pictures and train as a Celticist because of the passion and dedication of my mentors and colleagues in my MA department. If you enjoy these photos, please consider signing this petition to save the Bachelor Celtic at Utrecht, which is still taking signatures.

This was...probably a more difficult entry to make than I thought it would be. I know people probably voted for it on the idea of 'R loves Bres and R loves Balor, so this should be an easy post for them to make!' But it's...almost specifically BECAUSE I'm so emotionally invested that I struggle to make it. Are people looking for an academic, objective account for this? Are they looking for pretty photos? Both? Yes? No?

But...well. You all voted for this in a poll posted by me, knowing my interests, so you knew this wasn't going to be 100% objective, either. So...let's get into it.

When I visited Mizenhead, it was the culmination of over a decade of dreaming of getting to see it in person.

Many Americans, when they go to Ireland, have a certain idea of what they want to see, what they want to do. This can range from the Book of Kells to Irish run breweries to the Blarney Stone to the Cliffs of Moher to half-forgotten familial holdings to Cong, where The Quiet Man (starring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara) was shot (sidenote: that village is also close to where the First Battle of Magh Tuireadh, ie Cath Muighe Tuireadh Cunga, took place.) For me, when I first got off the plane to Ireland, I knew that this was a site that I desperately *needed* to see (besides, of course, my uni), and that was Mizenhead. In the old days, of course, it wasn't called Mizenhead, it was called Carn uí Néit, or "The Gravesite of the Grandson/Descendant of Nét" (the 't' was softened to a 'd' as time went on, leading to its modern form of Carn uí Néid.) Sometimes, I still forget to call it by its more well known anglicized name, meaning that I'm constantly having to clarify, because that's the name I heard first, and it's the name that rings truest to me.

According to the Dindshenchas of Cairn uí Néit, written the better part of a millennium ago c, this was the spot where Bres Mac Elatha died at the hands of his rival, Lugh, being tricked under geas to swallow over 300 vats of bog water, in the guise of milk.

A dindshenchas poem details the most well-known story associated with the site, as it was known in the Middle Ages (translated, in a style a little too flowery for my taste, by Edward Gwynn, but, if I want to be honest, it has taken me too long to get this out as it is and I know that if I translate the entire thing, it will NEVER get done) :

[...]

6. Bress, a kindly friend was he, (he was a good friend) noble he was and fortunate, ornament of the host, with visage never woeful, of the Tuath De he was the flower. (Note: the BEST, what were you DOING Gwynn, lay off the medieval chivalry)

7. The drink of a hundred for each roof-tree was brought to the chieftain without fail, of the milk of dun-hued kine: he suffered from that fare.

8. In the reign of Nechtan bass-chain, of dear fame, of enduring purpose, at the cost of the King of the two Munsters, occurred the cause of the enduring name.

10. The kine of every townland in Munster — lasting harm! — by Nechtan's orders were singed, over ferns, till they were black of hue.

11. A mess of ashes was smeared by the noted men of cunning on the kine famed for fatness [...]

12. They fashioned stout kine of wood — that whole host noble and slender: Lug, who was dutiful on all occasions, chose them and brought them together.

13. Pails in their forks were set with cheerful nimbleness; red stuff, with no bright shining fatness, that is the milk that filled them.

14. Three hundred, that was their number on the road to that gathering: at this contest, through his cheating illusion, there was not a cow of these kine alive.

15. Bress, hot of valour, came to the middle of the field to judge them: thereby, without prosperous issue, he perished and died.

16. From the drove were measured three hundred measures, bitter-harsh, for the spear-attended king to drink: it was a preparation of ill-presage.

17. Bress had a vow not to refuse any feat that was offered him: he drank it off without flinching: I know not what it brings.

18. At the Carn of radiant Ua Neit it killed the stern scion, when he had drunk without dread a draught of the dark ruddy liquor

19. By reason of this unfair demand, without due observance since the failure of his vow, without rightful and seemly honour the grave of Bress covers him.

Stokes provided an edition and translation of the prose version from the Rennes Dindshenchas:

Then Bres came to inspect the manner of these cattle and so that they might be milked in his présence, and Cian (Lugh's father) was also among them. Ail the bogstuff they had was squeezed out as if it was milk of which they were milked. The Irish were under a tabu to corne thither at the same time, and Bres was under a tabu to drink what should be- milked there.

So three hundred bucketfuls of red bogstuff are milked for him, and he drinks it. Some say that he was seven days and seven mouths and seven years wasting away because of it, and he traversed Erin seeking a cure till he reached the same cairn, and there he died. Whence Carn uí Néit is named.

In other texts, the owner of the grave is changed: In the Early Modern recension of CMT, Cath Muighe Turieadh, it is actually Balor's death site, not Bres', Lug hunting his grandfather across Ireland until they have their fatal showdown there. John Carey, in "Myth and Mythography in Cath Maige Tuired", has argued that the attribution of this site to Bres was actually after the fact, with the attribution to Balor being the earlier of the two. On the record, I agree, on the basis that (1) Bres' usual haunt is Maginnis, in what is now Lecale, Co. Down and (2) Balor is consistently referred to as "Uí"/"Ua Néit", unlike Bres who, outside of this poem, is generally referred to purely as "Mac Elathan."

Generally speaking, Bres is not the figure from Cath Maige Tuired that most academics will say that they like, when they'll admit that they *can* like any of the characters, beyond a detached sense of general interest. The boisterous Dagda, the haunted and embattled Nuada, the exemplary Lug all gather far more positive reactions. On an anecdotal note, though, I've had a number of overwhelmingly queer people, usually in their late teens or twenties, approach me over my time doing this, and tell me how important Bres was to them, how interesting. Bres taps into something that, perhaps, many older academics, who are used to the rigid structures of academia, do not want to acknowledge: a willingness to defy society, to rebel, to question. The feeling of being torn apart by competing forces, of being conflicted, of being frightened and lonely. The feeling of being watched, of being judged, of being a player in a game by much older, much more experienced people, but still trying to play it anyway, even if he flounders in his execution. Because the truth is that Lug is easy to like, particularly in Cath Maige Tuired where he's at his least manipulative. He can do everything! He unifies people! He's charismatic! He's dutiful! He does everything exactly as he's supposed to and, as a result, has all the emotional depth of a thimble. (I like him best when he's taking bloody revenge, when the mask of the ideal hero comes off and he's allowed to be a little bit messy.) With Bres, there is no illusion that he's perfect, that he's flawless. No one finishes reading CMT and thinks that, really, it would have been better off for everyone if Bres had won. Not many of us can be Lug, but all of us have been Bres at one point or another, the question is simply whether we want to admit to it. All of us have fallen short, at some point or another, all of us have disappointed someone, including, at times, ourselves. All of us have watched as someone came onboard -- maybe they were younger, better with people, more competent, naturally talented, and left us in the dust. It's why people come away from Amadeus sympathizing with Salieri, because, at some point in our lives, we all venerate the Patron Saint of Mediocrity.

In an academic environment, I'm often asked why I'm so drawn to Bres. The truth is that there are very few academic explanations that can fully explain it. The answers that I give -- the complexity of his character, the insight he can give as an antisocial character, the parallels he has to Lug and to the broader world of the Tuatha Dé -- are not lies, but they can't fully capture the reality, either. In truth, the relationship I have with Bres isn't devotion, not in a religious sense, at least, but it is the sort of pure bond you can only form with something when you're a teenager, grasping for a piece of driftwood to cling onto through the waves of adolescence. He's been with me every single step of the way, in all his flaws and all his thoughtlessness, his melodrama, his rashness. He tells me that sometimes, I don't need to be perfect, I just need to survive. What it means to embrace liminality, even when society demands that we be boxed into neat little categories. He saved my life. In many ways, he gave me a life worth living. And, in turn, I crossed an ocean for him. I faced down a pandemic for him. I faced down hell for him. All to stand at his gravesite. I don't know if my pagan friends are right and that the Tuatha Dé's presences still linger in Ireland; I've never seen any cause to believe it, but, frankly, I've studied them long enough to know not to tempt fate on that score. I don't know if there ever is or was any trace of the man who I've spent so long studying that still lingers. I don't even know if anyone else ever stood by that cliff, looking down in the cobalt blue waters, the white tipped waves crashing against the rocks that jut out from Manannan's kingdom, and took a moment to think of him. Or what thoughts emigrants might have thought as they left in ships and, all too often, never saw their home country again, the grasping rock their last sight of their country. But I do know that on one autumn day, an American international student stood there and finally, finally took the chance to thank him for everything he'd done and to tell him that it was enough.

#a new record emerges #beating the previous record of 430 by 2.4x!#de-e-ifed #also #fuck your dash

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 2 days ago

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I bliv th nglish phras is “odd duck.” Ys. Jan Kargad was an Odd Duck. H was born in 1922, right aftr Gorgia joind th Sovit Union, in a commun outsid of Batumi. But this was not a normal commun no. His parnts wr strang popl. A small group of Dutch fuckrs, vry protstant popl, startd a winry in th countrysid whr thy could rad thir bibls. You would think thy did not gt along with th Marxists, but you would b wrong. Thy lovd work. Th bibl lovd work. Thr was no problm.

Wll, that is not ntirly tru. Jan was a bit of a problm. H was born with a “wak constitution.” W do not know what that mant xactly, but farmwork would giv him sizurs and vry high fvrs. H was not a good child for farm work. So, thy taught him arithmtic. Young Jan was in charg of counting graps and bottls of win and so on. Mayb th Apparatchik did not mind a child doing all th counting, mayb h was bribd, mayb h did not giv a shit. I do not know. But Jan was in charg of all th counting and, what is th fucking word- logistics. Ys. Logistics. And h was vry good at logistics.

Thr ar thoris as to his upbringing ys. Studying th bibl alongsid Marx and Lnin and so on. But I do not bliv this. In Chchnya in thos days many studid th bibl and Marx lik Jan Kargad, but w did not bcom lik Jan Kargad. I think prhaps it was th fvrs. On ss things with a fvr whn it is bad nough, ys.

Kargad also studid th capitalists. H was vry good at this. H rad Adam Smith, but also Issac Nwton, th South Sas bubbl, and most famously th Tulip Panic. Thy say his journals wr filld with prssd tulips. H was a bit of a, what is th fucking nglish word- prvrt. A prvrt for organizing things and numbrs and so on. Jan Kargad lovs logistics lik a man lovs his wif, and tulips ar a symbol of this for him. Thy bcam a microcosm for him. You s how th bud unfolds into many ptals, its is vry similar to how capitalism unfurls into its many aspcts in th world. But, I am gtting ahad of myslf.

On day, aftr all of his schooling, Kargad has a trribl fvr, mor trribl than any fvr h has vr had. This is in th arly 1940s som tim. Aftr this fvr h bcoms strang. Wll, strangr than h alrady was. H spaks of mn with goldn dog masks, thir ncks chaind to th sun, tulips growing from thir ys, all of that shit. H nvr gos outsid again. H bcoms farful of th sun. H dos not lt it touch his skin.

H writs intnsly for th nxt thr yars. I hav sn his original notbooks and thy ar staind with swat. This man is not wll, but h writs. H dos not gt hlp, bcaus h is vry good at analyzing agricultural output. I bliv it groundd him som how, to spnd days without slp, rading spradshts about graps and what and so on.

H is no longr christian. H throws out all of th crosss in his hom, and rplacs thm with grap-cuttrs. Thy ar similar to a sickl, but with a long handl, for raching up and cutting off high bunchs of graps. H bcoms obsssd with this ida of th grap cuttr, and h bgins to paint. And this is whr many first larn of him. H influncs a group of artists who bcom famous in th southrn sovit union, though thy ar occasionally dridd as bing “mystical.” I prsonally? I lov th drawings. Many figurs raching up to pluck graps from th sun. It bcoms th cntral thm of his work.

Hr popl discovr his strang writings. But first h is considrd a strang mystic. His arly writings ar still vry christian ys, and this influncs how h is rad in th wst. Many think h is spaking of hypr-conomics or whatvr ftishistic bull shit th amricans ar calling it. But I do not think so. His work is vry sovit. Thr ar storis ys, of good sovit mn drinking coff and loving spradshts lik a man lovs his wif, and in this thy bcom a littl bit lik Jan Kargad. Thy ar –you do not hav an nglish trm for this– cutting graps from th sun. But this is not a srious phras you undrstand. Ths mn ar prvrts.

386 101s thrown away

I believe the English phrase is “odd duck.” Yes. Jan Kargad was an Odd Duck. He was born in 1922, right after Georgia joined the Soviet Union, in a commune outside of Batumi. But this was not a normal commune no. His parents were strange people. A small group of Dutch fuckers, very protestant people, started a winery in the countryside where they could read their bibles. You would think they did not get along with the Marxists, but you would be wrong. They loved work. The bible loved work. There was no problem.

Well, that is not entirely true. Jan was a bit of a problem. He was born with a “weak constitution.” We do not know what that meant exactly, but farmwork would give him seizures and very high fevers. He was not a good child for farm work. So, they taught him arithmetic. Young Jan was in charge of counting grapes and bottles of wine and so on. Maybe the Apparatchik did not mind a child doing all the counting, maybe he was bribed, maybe he did not give a shit. I do not know. But Jan was in charge of all the counting and, what is the fucking word- logistics. Yes. Logistics. And he was very good at logistics.

There are theories as to his upbringing yes. Studying the bible alongside Marx and Lenin and so on. But I do not believe this. In Chechnya in those days many studied the bible and Marx like Jan Kargad, but we did not become like Jan Kargad. I think perhaps it was the fevers. One sees things with a fever when it is bad enough, yes.

Kargad also studied the capitalists. He was very good at this. He read Adam Smith, but also Issac Newton, the South Seas bubble, and most famously the Tulip Panic. They say his journals were filled with pressed tulips. He was a bit of a, what is the fucking English word- pervert. A pervert for organizing things and numbers and so on. Jan Kargad loves logistics like a man loves his wife, and tulips are a symbol of this for him. They became a microcosm for him. You see how the bud unfolds into many petals, its is very similar to how capitalism unfurls into its many aspects in the world. But, I am getting ahead of myself.

One day, after all of his schooling, Kargad has a terrible fever, more terrible than any fever he has ever had. This is in the early 1940s some time. After this fever he becomes strange. Well, stranger than he already was. He speaks of men with golden dog masks, their necks chained to the sun, tulips growing from their eyes, all of that shit. He never goes outside again. He becomes fearful of the sun. He does not let it touch his skin.

He writes intensely for the next three years. I have seen his original notebooks and they are stained with sweat. This man is not well, but he writes. He does not get help, because he is very good at analyzing agricultural output. I believe it grounded him some how, to spend days without sleep, reading spreadsheets about grapes and wheat and so on.

He is no longer christian. He throws out all of the crosses in his home, and replaces them with grape-cutters. They are similar to a sickle, but with a long handle, for reaching up and cutting off high bunches of grapes. He becomes obsessed with this idea of the grape cutter, and he begins to paint. And this is where many first learn of him. He influences a group of artists who become famous in the southern soviet union, though they are occasionally derided as being “mystical.” I personally? I love the drawings. Many figures reaching up to pluck grapes from the sun. It becomes the central theme of his work.

Here people discover his strange writings. But first he is considered a strange mystic. His early writings are still very christian yes, and this influences how he is read in the west. Many think he is speaking of hyper-economics or whatever fetishistic bull shit the americans are calling it. But I do not think so. His work is very soviet. There are stories yes, of good soviet men drinking coffee and loving spreadsheets like a man loves his wife, and in this they become a little bit like Jan Kargad. They are –you do not have an English term for this– cutting grapes from the sun. But this is not a serious phrase you understand. These men are perverts.

#tw: unreality #this is really good #like goddamn #de-e-ifed

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 3 days ago

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“Lov Languags” ar just common coupls thrapy tchniqus mangld and rpackagd by an unqualifid homophob. Rlationships gnrally nd all 5 lov languags to b fulfilld, which is to say, vrybody nds to communicat with, spnd tim with, and do things for thir partnrs, and that’s got nothing to do with any spcial way you communicat affction.

MBTI has bn provn compltly inffctiv at prdicting anyon’s succss at a particular job, and half th popl who tak it twic will gt diffrnt rsults. Rputabl psychologists do not rcogniz it, and th company that owns th rights to it uss it to scam popl. Popl don’t adhr to strict binaris in basically anything. Vry fw popl ar going to b xclusivly introvrtd or xtrovrtd. It’s just astrology rpackagd as psudoscinc. Shockingly nough, you can’t boil th complxity of th human xprinc down to a dozn Typs of Guy.

Th concpt of IQ is flawd from th start— “intllignc” is an abstract concpt that ncompasss many diffrnt skills, from social intllignc to motional intllignc to th vry narrow kind of problm solving intllignc IQ tsts gnrally masur for. It cannot prdict how fast you larn, how much you know, or how logical and wll rad you ar. It mostly masurs how good you ar at solving puzzls. Coincidntally, it’s also a prtty good prdictor of incom and ducation lvl, tak a guss why. Most popl’s IQ will chang throughout thir livs, bcaus it’s inconsistnt bullshit w’v only hld onto this long bcaus w’r still kinda hoping w can brd th ubrmnsch. IQ tsts and th way thy attmpt to catgoriz popl ar xplicitly ugnicist and racist.

BMI was dvlopd by a man known as th grandfathr of ugnics, who first of all was a mathmatician, not a doctor, and scond nvr intndd th formula to b usd to catgoriz individuals. It’s intndd to giv a rough stimat of obsity in populations, and it’s not vn good at that. It hangs around bcaus of fatphobia and insuranc companis who want it as an xcus to charg fat popl mor.

Th study which dtrmind popl’s prfrontal cortx was still dvloping at 25… stoppd masuring at 25. vidnc suggsts your brain probably nvr stops dvloping. Stop infantilizing grown adults. This is a branch off from th largr mss of misinformation surrounding fMRIs.

If you havn’t put togthr what all ths things hav in common yt, hr’s th moral of th story: STOP TRYING TO CATGORIZ POPL. STOP TRYING TO PUT POPL IN A GODDAMN BIOLOGICAL HIRARCHY. UGNICS IS BAD, AND WILL ALWAYS B BAD, NO MATTR WHO’S DOING IT

257 101s thrown away

I can't keep having the same conversations about love languages, mbti, iq, bmi, "brain fully formed at 25" and shit over and over again...

#de-e-ifed

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 3 days ago

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Somtims I think about what it’s lik from th bug’s POV whn I gt up to stop my cat from ating it.

Lik, imagin: You’v somhow ntrd a nw plant. You don’t know how or why, but you hav. This plant is compltly forign to you. Unlik your hom plant which is lush with communitis, frinds, family, and flora and fauna to kp you aliv, this plac is dsolat. It’s filld with a plthora of artificial suns that only disrupt your sns of navigation. Suddnly, a massiv apx prdator-looking cratur notics you. You undrstand your fat is grim. You fight, and it dosn’t work. You try to fl, and it dosn’t work. This smingly wild cratur is taunting you. It isn’t vn intrstd in ating you. It just wants to tantaliz you and play with you until you di, so it can gt bord and mov on. You far this is th nd. This strang plant and its strang wild animals. You couldn’t hav prpard for thir siz and agility. All you can do is hop.

Thn suddnly th ground shaks. Th wild animal looks on in far. You don’t know why thy far, but you assum you should too. You look on, and a bing th siz of a skyscrapr turns th cornr. This bing dos not rsmbl any wild cratur on this plant or your own. Its apparanc is compltly forign and… unnatural. Its agility and intllignc far outpacs th wild animal and your own. You s that vn its mr prsnc is somthing to bhold. Th way it xists, and th way its mind works is unfathomabl to you. It xists with a pois and calculation that is compltly forign to you.

Suddnly th wild animal snatchs you up and attmpts to fl. This only angrs th skyscrapr giant, and thy bgin pursuit. vntually th wild animal gts bord with you. Mor concrnd about thir own slf prsrvation than th littl gam thy had in mind for you. Th skyscrapr giant angrily attmpts to communicat with th wild animal to no avail. Alas, your frdom is short livd. Suddnly th skyscrapr giant turns its attntion to you. You couldn’t hav vn imagind a bing lik this, and now you’r fac to fac with on. It lavs, and you attmpt to fl, but th giant’s actions far outpac your own. Thy bnd down, ncasing you in a mystrious clar fortrss that prvnts you from going anywhr ls. You far this is actually it. You don’t know why th giant wants to trap you in this clar, air-tight fortrss, but thy hav.

Suddnly thy slid this mystrious whit sht undr th fortrss. Oddly, it smlls lik th trs back hom, but it looks nothing lik thm. In an instant, th giant stands up, bringing you with it. You climb to hights that mak your had spin in a tim fram that lavs littl to b prcivd. Th giant bgins moving, taking you with thm. Now you’r rally trrifid. What typ of sick gam is this?

Suddnly, howvr, th giant pls th barrirs of thir own plant asid. Thy rip a hol in th fabric of rality, and on th othr sid is your hom plant with all its bautiful grn-nss. You tar up at th sight, yarning for hom, but unsur if you’ll vr s it again. Th giant stps through th portal, and into your world. For a momnt you far h’s com to kidnap your popl as wll, but ths fars ar quickly xtinguishd. Th giant puts you on th ground, rmovs th flat whit tr, causing you to fall on your ass. In th confusion and angr you almost miss that thy’v rmovd th invisibl fortrss. If you wrn’t confusd, you ar now. You watch in aw as th giant pays you no mor mind and rturns to thir plant through th portal. Just as asily as thy opnd it, thy clos it, saling th two worlds back into thir sparat univrss.

And thr you ar: aliv. Tomorrow is anothr day, and you’ll b thr to s it. Why this dity of anothr world flt compassion for you (an intrudr) is byond your own comprhnsion… and yt thy did. Thy savd you. Thy rturnd you to your world. Thy ndd your agony. Thn, thy lft pacfully. And now you’r lft with a liftim of unimaginabl xprincs, and nobody will bliv you.

377 101s thrown away

Sometimes I think about what it’s like from the bug’s POV when I get up to stop my cat from eating it.

Like, imagine: You’ve somehow entered a new planet. You don’t know how or why, but you have. This planet is completely foreign to you. Unlike your home planet which is lush with communities, friends, family, and flora and fauna to keep you alive, this place is desolate. It’s filled with a plethora of artificial suns that only disrupt your sense of navigation. Suddenly, a massive apex predator-looking creature notices you. You understand your fate is grim. You fight, and it doesn’t work. You try to flee, and it doesn’t work. This seemingly wild creature is taunting you. It isn’t even interested in eating you. It just wants to tantalize you and play with you until you die, so it can get bored and move on. You fear this is the end. This strange planet and its strange wild animals. You couldn’t have prepared for their size and agility. All you can do is hope.

Then suddenly the ground shakes. The wild animal looks on in fear. You don’t know why they fear, but you assume you should too. You look on, and a being the size of a skyscraper turns the corner. This being does not resemble any wild creature on this planet or your own. Its appearance is completely foreign and… unnatural. Its agility and intelligence far outpaces the wild animal and your own. You see that even its mere presence is something to behold. The way it exists, and the way its mind works is unfathomable to you. It exists with a poise and calculation that is completely foreign to you.

Suddenly the wild animal snatches you up and attempts to flee. This only angers the skyscraper giant, and they begin pursuit. Eventually the wild animal gets bored with you. More concerned about their own self preservation than the little game they had in mind for you. The skyscraper giant angrily attempts to communicate with the wild animal to no avail. Alas, your freedom is short lived. Suddenly the skyscraper giant turns its attention to you. You couldn’t have even imagined a being like this, and now you’re face to face with one. It leaves, and you attempt to flee, but the giant’s actions far outpace your own. They bend down, encasing you in a mysterious clear fortress that prevents you from going anywhere else. You fear this is actually it. You don’t know why the giant wants to trap you in this clear, air-tight fortress, but they have.

Suddenly they slide this mysterious white sheet under the fortress. Oddly, it smells like the trees back home, but it looks nothing like them. In an instant, the giant stands up, bringing you with it. You climb to heights that make your head spin in a time frame that leaves little to be perceived. The giant begins moving, taking you with them. Now you’re really terrified. What type of sick game is this?

Suddenly, however, the giant peels the barriers of their own planet aside. They rip a hole in the fabric of reality, and on the other side is your home planet with all its beautiful green-ness. You tear up at the sight, yearning for home, but unsure if you’ll ever see it again. The giant steps through the portal, and into your world. For a moment you fear he’s come to kidnap your people as well, but these fears are quickly extinguished. The giant puts you on the ground, removes the flat white tree, causing you to fall on your ass. In the confusion and anger you almost miss that they’ve removed the invisible fortress. If you weren’t confused, you are now. You watch in awe as the giant pays you no more mind and returns to their planet through the portal. Just as easily as they opened it, they close it, sealing the two worlds back into their separate universes.

And there you are: alive. Tomorrow is another day, and you’ll be there to see it. Why this diety of another world felt compassion for you (an intruder) is beyond your own comprehension… and yet they did. They saved you. They returned you to your world. They ended your agony. Then, they left peacefully. And now you’re left with a lifetime of unimaginable experiences, and nobody will believe you.

#shitpost #quality shitposting #gimmick blog

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 3 days ago

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Jay should hav bn Mal's closst frind

Th movis RALLY lan into th ida of vi bing Mal's bst frind, vn though in th first film thy don't vn act that clos. Thy say thy hav a "sistr" rlationship, and ignor th potntial of a sibling lik rlationship for Jay and Mal.

Th books tll us that Jay and Mal hav stuck by ach othrs sids, but in th movis thy don't hav many momnts. Jay and Carlos ar paird off, and vi and Mal ar paird off.

I man, just look at th diffrncs in thir rlationships. Sur, in th first film th girls build a frindship, but in th scond? vi ignors Mal's cris for hlp. Hr frinds is DROWNING, and sh just adds to th prssur. Sh's mor concrnd about Mal's DRSS, and vn thn sh ignors whn Mal says that sh can't brath. Sh's trying to gt hr to stop using magic, dspit knowing that Mal isn't just a fa but also Hads daughtr (in othr words, no human in hr at ALL), which is somthing I hav issus with as wll but that's a diffrnt post. Sh's vn th on who pulls Mal away from Carlos and Jay, who hav arguably known Mal (frinds for Jay's cas) much longr than hr, and vn smd upst whn Carlos calld thm back. That's a rd flag, right?

(Also, what was that thing about pulling hr away from Bn?? Twic?? At tims whn Bn and Mal ar saying goodby, no lss. It's not lik thy'r going off somwhr or anything.)

And th third film... just didn't sit right? I don't know how to xplain it.

As for Jay, and mor of this is from th scond movi but th third dos hav its momnts, h sms to car mor. H's protctiv of Mal, h's always right thr. H's th on that says h'll tak hr back to th Isl (and I'm crtain h'd stay, I can't s him laving hr thr). H's bn hr frind sinc thy wr littl. Why didn't w gt to s thm mor? Is Disny against mal-fmal frindships or somthing?

I'm not saying thr's anything wrong with vi as a charactr, I just don't think th girls work as bst frinds.

205 101s thrown away

Jay should have been Mal's closest friend

The movies REALLY lean into the idea of Evie being Mal's best friend, even though in the first film they don't even act that close. They say they have a "sister" relationship, and ignore the potential of a sibling like relationship for Jay and Mal.

The books tell us that Jay and Mal have stuck by each others sides, but in the movies they don't have many moments. Jay and Carlos are paired off, and Evie and Mal are paired off.

I mean, just look at the differences in their relationships. Sure, in the first film the girls build a friendship, but in the second? Evie ignores Mal's cries for help. Her friends is DROWNING, and she just adds to the pressure. She's more concerned about Mal's DRESS, and even then she ignores when Mal says that she can't breathe. She's trying to get her to stop using magic, despite knowing that Mal isn't just a fae but also Hades daughter (in other words, no human in her at ALL), which is something I have issues with as well but that's a different post. She's even the one who pulls Mal away from Carlos and Jay, who have arguably known Mal (friends for Jay's case) much longer than her, and even seemed upset when Carlos called them back. That's a red flag, right?

(Also, what was that thing about pulling her away from Ben?? Twice?? At times when Ben and Mal are saying goodbye, no less. It's not like they're going off somewhere or anything.)

And the third film... just didn't sit right? I don't know how to explain it.

As for Jay, and more of this is from the second movie but the third does have its moments, he seems to care more. He's protective of Mal, he's always right there. He's the one that says he'll take her back to the Isle (and I'm certain he'd stay, I can't see him leaving her there). He's been her friend since they were little. Why didn't we get to see them more? Is Disney against male-female friendships or something?

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with Evie as a character, I just don't think the girls work as best friends.

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 4 days ago

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man is vaguposting to high hll but rfuss to finish th follow through. upstting.

anyway, unitd w stand don't b a dick.

i think theres a lot to be said about the queer community online and the echo chambers that are created within it, and i think the fact that "bullying straight people for being straight is in fact a dick move" is a hot take really says more than anything else

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 4 days ago

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A skl-TON of puns. What, can't handl a littl rib-tickr? I'm gonna tickl your funny bon so hard. Join m- two skulls are bttr than on. Don't tll a FIBula, you lov ths puns

Steals your bones.

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posts-without-the-letter-e · 4 days ago

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use a text editor, then you can use crtrl+f– it's really useful

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Holy Shit.

This ask has 2052 sets of parentheses. I have been counting for a whole day at this point. I'm not going to double check.

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