#John Lilly

[kdejaentendu]

In the province of the mind, what is believed true is true, or becomes true within limits to be learned by experience and experiment.

[hurgablurg]

those dolphin language experiments probably would've worked better if the guy had endeavoured to learn the dolphins' languages instead of trying to force them to speak english.

also if they had given them a better habitat, just saying.

[protoslacker]

In the late 1950s, Lilly had attempted to contain the world of intelligence operatives within a cybernetic, networked discourse, made susceptible to external control. His later texts envisioned similar models of entire societies in which all human beings were connected through networks that were susceptible to external manipulation.

Charlie Williams via The National Center for Biotechnology Information. On ‘modified human agents’: John Lilly and the paranoid style in American neuroscience

Hist Human Sci. 2019 Dec; 32(5): 84–107.

Published online 2019 Oct 9. doi: 10.1177/0952695119872094

[victusinveritas]

[baptizedincum]

[zil-street]

Malevolent: Reversal (I don’t know what else to call it)

[thatonekimgirl]

Filmed in Oahu, Hawaii, the pilot of Lost was the most expensive ever made, costing between $10 and $14 million. It was first broadcast on ABC on September 22, 2004, and was seen by 18.6 million viewers.

[hobgoblinbard]

Fun fact: I have a separate sketchbook specifically for Malevolent. Might scan it entirely and post with alllll the cringe doodles once I finish it

[haveyouseenthismovie-poll]

[l0v3tast3]

ur fics/hcs r sooooooo good!!! i binge read them all in like one day theyre sctually addictive im not kidding 😭😭

anywho, i saw the pervy older bf!price and i was wondering how he would be like with a shy reader…. like would he tease her or would he be gentle with her? idk!!!!!!!!! give us more content pls queen

nmhgmfmh i need pervy!price so bad just foaming at the mouth for him. thank u anon for this request n thank u for the uber sweet words ily !!! \(★ω★)/

mdni! f!reader, age gap, exhibitionism

pervy older boyfriend!john who's so gentle with you (at first). you're his sweet girl, an innocent angel sent to bless him with serenity- how could he poke fun at that? he eases you into everything, slow and methodical. he tells you everything he's going to do before he does it. he makes sure that you always feel good (not because he doubts his own abilities- he knows anxiety can block out the good things). but all that doesn't mean he doesn't like making you squirm.

when he first starts to ease you into it, john likes to pick you up and put you on his lap with your back to his chest and map out your body with his hands. no matter how many times he's repeated it, he'll do it again and again- john loves your body, every inch of it, every dip and curve and corner. he also loves how you're too shy to tell him how far gone your patience is by the time he gets close to dragging your skirt up your thighs. after awhile he starts to make you tell him what you want, demanding more filthy words from you before he goes any further as time goes on.

and that's how the rest of it goes- as john corrupts you, takes over your mind with himself and how good he always fucks you, he wants more. he wants more of your squirming, more of your bashfulness when you choke out the words he wants to hear from your pretty lips. orgasm after orgasm is your reward when you give him what he wants. john always sings his praises (half praise, half teasing) to you from between your thighs when you do; "keep still, sweetheart, not done with your pretty pussy yet," and "bein' such a good girl f'me, aren't you, love? you are my good girl, right? say it for me, c'mon."

as much as he gets off on your innocence and the erasure of it, he also loves when he's able to take it all up a notch. when he can finally get your leg over his shoulder in the backseat of his car. when he can feel you up at the bars and restaurants he takes you to. when he can sneak into dressing rooms with you and make you watch yourself try to stay quiet while his cock is buried to the hilt in you. and the best part is, he'll make you shy all over again when he teases you about it.

"you're the one lettin' me fuck you here, love- dunno why you're actin' so scared to get caught," he'll mutter in your ear. one hand's holding up your increasingly-limp body and the other snakes around to rub your clit. "y'want them to see me fuckin' you, is that it? such a dirty little girl. should i just open the door, give'em a show?" when your eyes widen and you shake your head "no", he chuckles and plants a rough kiss on your cheek. "y'can't lie t'me when i'm inside you, sweetheart."

(ﾉ´ヮ`)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ likes, comments n reblogs are always appreciated!!

[harrisonstories]

George Harrison with his mother Louise (1964)

NOTE: This is an article from The Guardian posted in 2007 which I happened to come across. It's long but a lovely read. Enjoy!

With love from her to me In 1963, like many girls, Lilie Ferrari had a crush on George Harrison. When she wrote to him, she scarcely expected a reply, but an admiring letter did come back - from his mother. It was the start of an extraordinary, enduring correspondence In 1963, I was 14 and, like almost every girl in Britain, I fell in love with a Beatle. "My" Beatle was George Harrison. From the first photograph I saw of the Fab Four, I was drawn to his dark eyes, serious face and enigmatic demeanour. He rarely smiled, even when he was being funny, and this made him all the more mysterious and enticing. Compared to the uncouth boys I had to deal with at school every day, George was a delicate, idealised vision of what I thought boys ought to be like. If he had pimples, I never saw them. If he swore, I never heard it. I never saw his hair greasy, his armpits damp, his shoes scuffed. In short, he was perfect.

We had just moved to Norwich, and I had missed a Beatles concert by a few weeks; but a girl in my class had somehow obtained all the Beatles' home addresses (I daren't think how, looking back) and was selling them at playtime for half a crown each. A bargain, I thought, handing over my two-and-six eagerly. Immediately upon the exchange, 174 Mackets Lane, Liverpool, became the repository of all my fantasies.

That day I hurried home to compose my first letter to George. I had discovered the joy of words, and wasn't about to be intimidated into single syllables by writing to a Beatle. I don't remember exactly what I wrote, but in spite of my best intentions I suspect it was a gauche jumble of repressed adoration, along the lines of "You're the best Beatle" and "I much prefer From Me to You to Come On by the Stones". I don't remember waiting for the postman every morning. By then the Beatles had started their journey into the stratosphere (it was the year the term Beatlemania was coined) and I guess I assumed I was too small a cog in the great Beatle wheel to merit any kind of response.

But one day a letter with a Liverpool postmark did come, addressed to me in careful looped handwriting. I opened it with trembling fingers and, instead of a letter from George, found one from his mum, Louise.

After a few niceties and general bulletins about "the boys'" progress, a question leaped off the page: "Are you," she asked, "by any chance related to a writer called Ivy Ferrari, who writes doctor-and-nurse romances?"

I bellowed a great scream that brought the family running: my mother was Ivy Ferrari, a romantic novelist churning out Mills & Boon paperbacks with titles like Nurse at Ryminster, Doctor at Ryminster, Almoner at Ryminster. I couldn't believe it - I might be a fan of her son, but Mrs Harrison was evidently a fan of my mother. I felt as if I had been raised from one among millions to a special place in Mrs Harrison's head.

Of course I wrote back to tell her that I was indeed Ivy Ferrari's daughter. I was happy to have made the connection - but so, it seemed, was she. I couldn't quite grasp it. Beatles were glamorous; my mum was a harassed woman with inky fingers, unruly hair and scruffy skirts who sweated over a typewriter all day. How could they compare? In the past I might have been indifferent to the overwrought love lives of the fictional staff of Ryminster hospital, but now they seemed to take on a glamour of their own. George never wrote to me, and my mother never wrote to Mrs Harrison, but the two of us began a correspondence that lasted for several years - years that took her from the Mackets Lane council house to a smart bungalow in Appleton, George from gangling teenage guitarist to married man, and me from schoolgirl to young woman.

I sent Mrs Harrison signed copies of my mother's novels. She sent me signed pictures of the Beatles. I asked her intense questions ("Which one is your favourite, besides George?" Answer: "John, because he does the tango with me in the kitchen and makes me laugh"). She interrogated me about the mysteries of my mother's creations, such as whether my mum knew any real doctors like Dr David Callender. ("He was fairly tall and tough-looking, with tawny-brown hair and a lean, intent face. His eyes were dark and compelling, so full of fire and life they drew me like a magnet . . .")

On my 15th birthday, Mrs Harrison sent me a small piece of blue fabric, part of a suit George had worn at the Star Club in Hamburg. Once, I got a crumpled newspaper cutting containing a photo of the Beatles with their scribbled signatures on it, and a big lipstick kiss, which, she said, had been planted there by John Lennon.

She sent me notes that George wrote her on used envelopes: "Dear Mum, get me up at 3, love George." She wrote on the backs of old Christmas cards and odd bits of paper - I never knew why. She told me funny stories about her upbringing in Liverpool, a world of men in caps on bikes and old ladies with jugs of gin. I told her about my life in Norfolk, about my sisters, my pony, the dog, my mother. I told her things I didn't tell anyone else - my fear of failure, my terrible, hidden shyness, my longing to have real adventures, lead a different kind of life to the quiet, rural existence I endured. She was my invisible friend, the silent recipient of everything I had to say.

She always answered my questions, and offered up teasing glimpses of life as the mother of a superstar - "I'm sitting by the pool with Pattie. Had a lovely time at the film premiere" - remarks tantalisingly combined with more mundane observations about knitting and cakes. Of course I never mentioned "real" boys who had caught my eye - that would have been somehow unfaithful to George. That was the only omission I can remember - apart from never articulating how I felt about her son, because I wanted her to think of me as a "normal" girl, and not the wide-eyed obsessive I really was.

After several years the gaps between our exchanges grew longer, as real life began to get in the way of teenage fantasies. I can't remember which of us wrote the last letter, but by the time I was 18 and working in London, the correspondence had petered out.

Soon after we had slipped from each other's lives, I found myself standing a few feet away from George himself, in the Apple boutique on London's Baker Street. He looked tired and unapproachable. The George that I had conjured up in the kitchen of Mackets Lane, propping notes for his mum on the mantelpiece, seemed a kinder, gentler prospect than the gaunt-looking superstar standing before me who might just tell me to get lost. He was close enough to speak to, but I've never been sorry that I backed away in silence.

Mrs Harrison died in 1970 when I was 21. I remember reading about it in the papers. I grieved for her on my own, and remembered her small acts of kindness to a girl in Norfolk she had never met. Her son, of course, made an enormous mark on my life without ever knowing it. I even married someone who embodied all the things I thought George represented: quiet strength, spirituality, the same dry humour, the dark good looks. My husband Colin had been, among other things, a roadie and the owner of punk record shops. Fortunately, he also had a sense of humour and a high level of tolerance. He learned to live with the omnipresence of George, and would sign cards to me "Love from George and The Other One".

As the years passed, my life came into focus and George receded. He married, had a son, as did I. I went back to live in a Norfolk cottage, while George retired to a Gothic mansion in Henley. In 1994 I went to Liverpool for the first time with Colin, as a football supporter rather than a Beatles pilgrim: Norwich City were playing at Anfield. I took time out to stand in front of 174 Mackets Lane and tried to imagine Mrs Harrison sitting at the window in the front room, answering my letters. I wanted to weep, but I didn't. When Norwich scored the winning goal that afternoon and we leapt to our feet, I cheered instead for that kindly Liverpudlian who took the time and trouble to light up my teenage years.

I've gradually lost the priceless relics of those years. They would have made me rich if I hadn't been so careless with my belongings; then again, I would never have sold them. So my side of that eccentric correspondence has all but disappeared, along with my youth.

In September 2001, Colin died of Hodgkin's disease. A month later, George was dead, too. It felt as if two distinct parts of my life had ended all at once: my dreamlike girlhood, and my real, adult life with a beloved partner and friend. But every day in my study at home, I look at something that binds these two parts together. It's a photograph of George taken in 1962 in Hamburg by Astrid Kirchherr (girlfriend of "fifth" Beatle Stuart Sutcliffe). Colin secretly sought it out, bought it, hand-made a frame for it, and gave it to me on my 40th birthday. It is one of my most treasured possessions.

[snake-spire]

Not John getting therapy and finding out he’s gay while Arthur is down for the count.

Slay.

[saltair-and-webweaves]

running down to the riptide.

she shall be called women - may sarton/what the water gave me - florence + the machine/exiled - edna st. vincent millay/letters to home - sylvia plath/inkheart - cornelia funke/never let me go - florence + the machine/vincent van gogh/march - louise glück/eragon - christopher paolini/never let me go - florence + the machine/harbor - john ajvide lindqvist/riptide - vance joy

[toastydumpster]

magma doodle dump with @trustypaladin !!

I'm absolutely feral for their Oscar ...

[coqueverette]

good evening tumblr

[lil-tachyon]

Cetacean Psiberwarfare