#Personal Essay

[longreads]

Predator or Prey

In her new Longreads essay, Diana Saverin explores the tensions inherent in  sustenance and desire:

I didn’t grow up killing animals, but there was a period in my mid-20s, the period that overlapped with my relationship with K, when I killed a lot. There was the beaver I retrieved by swimming naked through a half-frozen lake. The duck wings I hung like prayer flags from the porch. The organs we liberated from the belly of the caribou.

I had qualms. I’d stopped eating meat in high school, citing animal cruelty and climate change. In my 20s, I let my vegetarianism slip when I moved to rural Alaska. Eating caribou roast and moose tacos and salmon burgers seemed different than ordering a steak whose origins as an animal were concealed; these wild creatures led uninhibited lives in vast landscapes. Choosing to eat the calories from their flesh meant not eating something that had flown thousands of miles to reach me. It’s a painful inevitability: the calories have to come from somewhere.

Check out the full essay here.

[knifedog-machina]

(Non)Humanity and Species Dysphoria: the Forced Transformation Trope

Written by Gavin on August 25, 2024.

As a nonhuman, do you ever think about why there's so many stories and myths and legends about humans being turned into animals? You ever wonder why it's usually a punishment or a curse, or why the characters try to do whatever it takes to become human again? You ever think, "I don't understand, I would love to be an animal and get rid of my human body, what's the problem?"

As a human myself, one whose system has been in the alterhuman community for years, I hope I can help bridge the gap of understanding here.

The way many humans see being turned into an animal as a curse, the way they'd be incredibly distressed about becoming nonhuman?

That is species dysphoria.

That is a human experiencing species dysphoria, because being perceived as nonhuman or other-than-human causes the exact same feelings of pain and wrongness and disconnection from their body that a nonhuman can experience when perceived as human.

(Particularly, this might be an orthohuman, someone who has a normative relationship with their human cultural and species identity, as opposed to an alterhuman, who experiences alternative/nonnormative humanity or a species identity separate from humanity. Human alterhumans can also experience this sort of species dysphoria - hi, I'm one of them.)

Imagine being your species your entire life, the way you know you're intended to be, living in a body you're comfortable in - and then having that body ripped away from you. Being forced to live in a form that doesn't match who you are, what you know you are, and desperately wanting to find a way to change back because you know you're not meant to be like this.

If this sounds familiar because it's what you experience as a nonhuman - that is how a lot of human beings feel about being transformed into something nonhuman. It's the feeling of being the wrong species! It's the desire to return to the form that you know as yourself!

The fact that orthohumans are born into the species they identify as does not mean that they could never comprehend your nonhuman experience. You can explain your nonhuman species dysphoria to an orthohuman. Given all the examples of unwanted transformation stories throughout human history, I think you're likely to find that they'll understand when you put it in that frame of reference.

"How would you feel about being turned into another species against your will, leaving behind everything that feels good and right and comfortable about your human body? That sounds horrible, right? That's how I feel, being nonhuman in a human body, and it's distressing in the same way you would hate being human and stuck in a nonhuman body."

I know that the gap between humanity and nonhumanity looks enormous. The horror of, say, werewolf mythology looks like a completely alien experience when you are a wolf, so you see being transformed into a wolf as nothing short of a wonderful experience, and you don't understand why anyone would see it as horrifying.

But if you understand that it's not about the species, but the experience of species dysphoria, of being trapped in a body that has never been yours and desperately trying to return to one that feels like you, well - that's a lot more understandable, isn't it?

Humanity and nonhumanity are not two opposite ends of a binary, destined to never understand each other. I know many alterhumans who are both human and nonhuman, and their humanity is an identity in much the same way as their nonhumanity. Humans are just another species on this planet, as bipedal tool-using social primates, and we have our species identities just like many nonhumans. You are not as alone in this world as you might think you are.

There is room for understanding and connection. Your experiences as nonhuman are not purely individual, not wholly unique, not utterly incomprehensible to human beings, and this is a good thing. The gap isn't actually as wide as it seems. You can reach out and cross it if you just remember - you have far more in common than you might think.

[teapetal44]

TW: ABUSE, CHILD ABUSE

“He wants to air this dirty laundry to the world does he…? Dabi, you fiend…you’ve been waiting for this moment…when they couldn’t prevent mass destruction…and faith in heroes is wavering.” - chapter 292

I truly, wholeheartedly, believe that MHA as a story upholds the myth of the perfect victim. I do not want to discuss if Horikoshi did that on purpose, or subconsciously because of inner bias – I find no meaning in doing so. For me the execution of an idea, in the grand scheme of the narrative, holds more value than the intention of the author. I’ve also had my fair share of people infantilizing Asian authors in the anime community for their poor writing decisions for one lifetime. It’s patronizing to both the author and the people reading it. Whether or not Horikoshi intended for his themes of abuse to paint the picture they did does not matter, because that’s how it reads as.

MHA puts victims of abuse in narrow boxes and softly dictates what’s an acceptable reaction to said abuse. Victims are continuously walking a tightrope between being deserving of compassion and sympathy and being unredeemable monsters who are too far gone and are only good for martyrdom after being put down.  

Eri fits the clean cut depiction of abuse victims that media usually gears towards. She is untouched by the cruelty around her - she preserves her innocence and kindness. She isn't assertive, but rather meek and passive. She doesn't fight back with force. And when offered help, she is receptive to it. That is not to say that Eri's depiction doesn't have a place in fiction, or that her portrayal can't be representative of the experiences of some - as we all deal with trauma and the inhumanity people throw at us differently. We see the same thing in the portrayal of Fuyumi, who shares many of the qualities discussed above. The same thing applies to her - i personally love the idea of all the siblings having different reaction to their childhood trauma and abuse. It shows that victims are not some type of monolith.

But the narrative treats the "forgiving" or "receptive to help/support" victims of abuse with more grace and with much more kindness. if you are willing to forgive, or the very least be quietly tolerant, the story grants you a happy ending. Forgiveness isn't a bad thing, it is an individual choice - but an abuse victim shouldn't have to do it for them to have a happy ending.

In a vacuum Eri and Fuyumi's character arcs and depictions of abuse are good but it becomes a problem when that's the only experience and type of victim we ever hold in high value or recognize as valid and deserving of compassion. Which the story reinforces.

Touya and Tenko's backstories aren't pretty nor comfortable or easy to sit through. Their responses to abuse aren't either. Reactive abuse is very much real.

[jewelleria]

I don’t usually talk about politics on here, if ever. But it’s been almost six months since the conflict in the Middle East flared up again, and I’m finally ready to start. Here are some of my thoughts.

I say ‘flared up’ because this has happened before and it’ll happen again. Because, even though what's currently going on is absolutely unprecedented, those of us who live in this part of the world are used to it. Let that sink in: we are used to this. And we shouldn’t have to be. 

But I use that term for another reason: I don't want to accidentally call it the wrong thing lest I come under fire for being a genocidal maniac or a terrorist or a propaganda machine, etc., etc.—so let’s just call it ‘the war’ or ‘the conflict.’ Because that’s what it is. Doesn’t matter which side you’re on, who you love, or who you hate. 

This post will, in all likelihood, sit in my drafts forever. If it does get posted, it certainly won’t be on my main, because I'm scared of being harassed (spoiler: she posted it on her main). I hate admitting that, but honestly? I’m fucking terrified. 

I also feel like in order for anything I say on here (i.e. the hellscape of the internet) to be taken seriously, I have to somehow prove that a) I’m “educated” enough to talk about the conflict, and b) that my opinion lines up with what has been deemed the correct one. So, tedious and unnecessary though it is, I will tell you about my experience, because I have a feeling most of the people reading this post are not nearly as close to what’s happening as I am.

How do I explain where I live without actually explaining where I live? How do I say “I live in the Red Zone of international conflicts” without saying what I actually think? How do I convey the fear that grips me when I try to decide between saying “I live in Palestine” and “I live in Israel”? I don't really know. But I do know that names are important. I also know that, due to the various clickbaity monikers ascribed to the conflict, it would probably just be easier to point to a map. 

I haven't always lived in the Middle East. I've lived in various places along America’s east coast, and traveled all over the world. But in short, I now live somewhere inside the crudely-drawn purple circle. 

If you know anything about these borders you probably blanched a bit in sympathy, or maybe condolence. But in truth, it’s a shockingly normal existence. I don't feel like I've lived through the shifting of international relations or a war or anything. I just kind of feel like I did when COVID hit, that dull sameness as I wondered if this would be the only world-altering event to shape my life, or if there would be more. 

I've been told that, in order for my brain to process all the horrific details of the past six months, there needs to be some element of cognitive dissonance—that falling into a sort of dissociative mindset is the only way to not go insane under the weight of it all. I think in some ways that’s true. I have been terrifyingly close to bus stop shootings when my commute wasn’t over; I have felt my apartment building shake with the reverberations of a missile strike; I have spent hours in underground shelters waiting for air raid sirens to stop. 

But. I have also gone grocery shopping, and skipped class, and stayed up too late watching TV, and fed the cats on the street corner, and cried over a boy, and got myself AirPods just because, and taken out the trash, and done laundry on a delicate cycle, and bought overpriced lattes one too many days a week. I have looked at pretty things and taken out my phone because, despite it all, I still think that life is too short not to freeze the small moments. 

So I'd say, all things considered, I live an incredibly privileged life—compared, of course, to those suffering in Gaza—one filled with sunsets and over-sweetened knafeh and every different color of sand. One that allows me to throw myself into a fandom-induced hyperfixation (or, alternatively, escape method) as I sit on the couch and crack open my laptop to write the next chapter of the fic I'm working on. 

But there are bits of not-normalness that wheedle their way through the cracks. I pretend these moments are avoidable, even if they’re not. 

They look like this: reading the news and seeing another idiotic, careless choice on Netanyahu’s part and groaning into my morning coffee. Watching Palestinian and Jewish children’s needless suffering posted on Instagram reels and feeling helpless. Opening my Tumblr DMs to find a message telling me to exterminate myself for reblogging a post that only seems like it’s about the war if you squint and tilt your head sideways. 

These moments look like all the tiny ways I am reminded that I'm living in a post-October seventh world, where hearing a car backfire makes me jump out of my skin and the sound of a suitcase on pavement makes me look up at the sky and search for the war planes. They look like the heavy grief that is, and also isn’t, mine. 

Here's the thing, though. I know you’re wondering when the ball will drop and my true opinion will be revealed. I know you’re waiting for me to reveal what demographic I'm a part of so that you, dear reader, can neatly slap a label on my head and sort me into some oversimplified category that lets you continue to think you understand this war. 

No one wants to sit and ruminate on the difficult questions, the ones that make you wonder if maybe you’ve been tinkered with by the propaganda machine, if you might need to go back on what you’ve said or change your mind. We all strive for our perception of complicated issues to be a comfortable one.

But I know that no matter what I do, there will always be assumptions. So, while I shudder to reveal this information online, I think that maybe my most significant contribution to this meta-discussion spanning every facet of the internet is this: 

I am a Jew. 

Or, alternatively, I am: Jewish, יהודית, يَهُودِيٌّ, etc. Point is, I come from Jews. And, like any given person, I am a product of generation after generation of love. 

I'm not going to take time to explain my heritage to you, or to prove that before all the expulsions and pogroms, there was an origin point. If you don’t believe that, perhaps it’s less of a factual problem and more of an ‘I don’t give weight to the beliefs of indigenous people’ problem. But, in case you want to spend time uselessly refuting this tiny point in a larger argument, you can inspect the photos below (it’s just a small chunk of my DNA test results). Alternatively, you can remember that interrogating someone in an attempt to make their indigeneity match your arbitrary criteria is generally not seen as good manners. 

Now, let’s go back to thathateful message (read: poorly disguised death threat) I received in my Tumblr DMs. I think it was like two or three weeks ago. I had recently gained a new follower whose blog’s primary focus was the fandom I contribute to, so I followed them back. I saw in my notes that they were going through my posts and liking them—as one does when gaining a new mutual. Yippee! 

Then they sent me this: 

I tried to explain that hate speech is not a way to go about participating in political discourse, but the person had already blocked me immediately after sending that message. Then, assured by the fact that I surely would never see them complaining about me on their blog (because, as I said, they blocked me), they posted a shouting rant accusing me of sympathizing with colonizing settlers and declaring me a “racist Zionist fuck.” Oh, the wonders of incognito tabs.

Where this person drew these conclusions after reading my (reblogged) post about antisemitism…. I'm not actually sure. But I greatly sympathize with them, and hope that they weren’t too personally offended by my desire to not die. 

For a while I contemplated this experience in my righteous anger, and tried to figure out a way to message this person. I wanted to explain that a) seeing a post about being Jewish and choosing to harass the creator about Israel is literally the definition of antisemitism and b) that sending a hateful DM and refusing to be held accountable is just childish and immature. But I gave up soon after—because, honestly, I knew it wasn’t worth my effort or energy. And I knew that I wouldn't be able to change their mind. 

But I still remember staring at that rather unfortunate meme, accompanied by an all-caps message demanding for me to Free Palestine, and thinking: the post didn’t even have any buzzwords. I remember the swoop of dread and guilt and fear. I remember wondering why this kind of antisemitism felt worse, in that moment, than the kind that leaves bodies in its wake. 

I remember thinking, I don’t have the power to free anyone.

I remember thinking, I’m so fucking tired. 

And before you tell me that this conflict isn’t about religion—let me ask you some questions. Why is it that Israel is even called Israel? (Here’s why.) Why do Jews even want it? (Here’s why.) But also, if you actually read the charters of Islamist terrorist organizations like ISIS, Hamas, and Hezbollah (among others), they equate the modern state of Israel with the Jewish people, and they use the two entities interchangeably. So of course this conflict is religious. It’s never been anything but that.

But I do wonder, when faced with those who deny this fact: how do I prove, through an endless slew of what-about-isms and victim blaming, that I too am hurting? How do I show that empathy is dialectical, that I can care deeply for Palestinians and Gazans while also grieving my own people? 

There's this thing that humans do, when we’re frustrated about politics and need to howl our opinions about it into the void until we feel better. We find like-minded souls, usually our friends and neighbors, and fret about the state of the world to each other until we’ve gone around in a satisfactory amount of circles. But these conversations never truly accomplish anything. They’re just a substitute, a stand-in catharsis, for what we really wish we could do: find someone who embodies the spirit of every Jew-hating internet troll, every ignorant justifier of terrorism, and scream ourselves hoarse at them until we change their mind.

But, of course, minds cannot be changed when they are determined to live in a state of irrational dislike. In Judaism, this way of thinking has a name: שנאת חינם (sinat hinam), or baseless hatred. It's a parasite with no definite cure, and it makes people bend over backwards to justify things like the massacre on October seventh, simply because the blame always needs to be placed on the Jews. 

So when a Jew is faced with this unsolvable problem, there is only one response to be had, only one feeling to be felt: anger. And we are angry. Carrying around rage with nowhere to put it is exhausting. It's like a weight at the base of our neck that pushes down on our spine, bending it until we will inevitably snap under the pressure. I’m still waiting to break, even now.

I wish I could explain to someone who needs to hear it that terrorism against Israelis happens every single day here, and that we are never more than one degree of separation away from the brutal slaughter of a friend, lover, parent, sibling. I wish it would be enough to say that the majority of Israelis (which includes Arab-Israeli citizens who have the exact same rights as Jewish-Israelis) wish for peace every day without ever having seen what it looks like. 

I wish I could show the world that Israel was founded as a socialist state, that it was built on communal values and born from a cluster of kibbutzim (small farming communities based on collective responsibility), and that what it is now isn’t what its people stand for. 

I wish the world could open their eyes to what we Israelis have seen since the beginning: that Hamas is the enemy, Hamas is the one starving Palestinians and denying them aid, Hamas is the one who keeps rejecting ceasefire terms and denying their citizens basic human rights. Hamas is the governing body of Gaza, not Israel. Hamas is responsible for the wellbeing of the Palestinian people. And Hamas are the ones who are more determined to murder Jews—over and over and over again, in the most animalistic ways possible—than to look inwards and see the suffering they’ve inflicted on their own people. I wish it was easier to see that.

But the wishing, the asking how can people be so blind, is never enough. I can never just say, I promise I don't want war. 

When I bear witness to this baseless hatred, I think of the victims of October seventh. I think of the women and girls who were raped and then murdered, forever unable to tell their stories. I think of the hostages, trapped underneath Gaza in dark tunnels, wondering if anyone will come for them. I think of Ori Ansbacher, of Ezra Schwartz, of Eyal, Gilad, and Naftali, of Lucy, Rina, and Maia Dee, of the Paley boys, of Ari Fuld and of Nachshon Wachsman. I think of all the innocent blood spilled because of terror-fueled hatred and the virus of antisemitism. I think of all the thousands of people who were brutally murdered in Israel, Jews and Muslims and Christians and humans, who will never see peace.

My ties to this land are knotted a thousand times over. Even when I leave, a part of me is left behind, waiting for me to claim it when I return. But when I see the grit it takes to live through this pain, when I see the suffering that paints the world the color of blood, I look to the heavens and I wonder why. 

I ask God: is it worth all this? He doesn't answer. So I am the one, in the end, to answer my own question. I say, it has to be. 

Feel free to send any genuine, respectful, and clarifying questions you may have to my inbox!

EDIT: just coming on here to say that I'm really touched & grateful for the love on this post. When I wrote it, I felt hopeless; I logged off of Tumblr for Shabbat, dreading the moment I would turn off my phone to find more hate in my inbox. Granted, I did find some, and responding to it was exhausting, but it wasn’t all hate. I read every kind reblog and comment, and the love was so much louder. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🤍

Source Reading

The Whispered in Gaza Project by The Center for Peace Communications

Why Jews Cannot Stop Shaking Right Now by Dara Horn

Hamas Kidnapped My Father for Refusing to Be Their Puppet by Ala Mohammed Mushtaha

I Hope Someone Somewhere Is Being Kind to My Boy by Rachel Goldberg

The Struggle for Black Freedom Has Nothing to Do with Israel by Coleman Hughes

Israel Can Defend Itself and Uphold Its Values by The New York Times Editorial Board

There Is a Jewish Hope for Palestinian Liberation. It Must Survive by Peter Beinart

The Long Wait of the Hostages’ Families by Ruth Margalit

“By Any Means Necessary”: Hamas, Iran, and the Left by Armin Navabi

When People Tell You Who They Are, Believe Them by Bari Weiss

Hunger in Gaza: Blame Hamas, Not Israel by Yvette Miller

Benjamin Netanyahu Is Israel’s Worst Prime Minister Ever by Anshel Pfeffer

What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas by Amaney A. Jamal and Michael Robbins

The Decolonization Narrative Is Dangerous and False by Simon Sebag Montefiore

Understanding Hamas’s Genocidal Ideology by Bruce Hoffman

The Wisdom of Hamas by Matti Friedman

How the UN Discriminates Against Israel by Dina Rovner

This Muslim Israeli Woman Is the Future of the Middle East by The Free Press

Why Are Feminists Silent on Rape and Murder? by Bari Weiss

[nyxiathewander]

Tips for doing college essays!

Tip 1:

Cry

[balrogballs]

Finding Celebrían

For Tolkien Meta Week — an essay on autofiction, archives, healing, and why I moved across the country after finding out Elrond Peredhel had a wife. Being an essayist irl, believe me when I say I was thrilled to see @silmarillionwritersguild have the personal essay form as a format for Tolkien Meta Week! Here's something from the heart - warning for discussion of cPTSD and (non explicit) references to violence.

When I first found Celebrían in a footnote, I wrapped up warm and followed, certain she'd lead me to where she truly lived in the text.

By that point, it had been a good decade or so since I first read Tolkien – I had been aware that Elrond had a wife, and assumed she was dead or hung up in some other cold meat locker alongside a procession of wives spanning literary history.

It was only years later that I properly came across her, and blinked, realising she was a cursory line which led to a footnote in Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings trilogy, one which referred to her torment in passing, meant to explain why the sons of Elrond and to an extent Elrond himself, were the way they were. 

Fridging was one thing, but torment was another entirely, I thought — and so casually! Tea and torment in the Third Age, tra-la-lally traumatised into "losing all joy" in Middle-Earth and leaving the year after, taking ship to Valinor and leaving behind a grieving family. It was simple curiosity, really, until it turned into a cold, familiar grasp: the clear-cut knowledge of exactly what sort of torment it would have been, that drove away the wife of a noble lord living in what was very clearly described as being one of the last great sanctuaries in a ravaged realm. 

But to understand why The Footnote stopped me in my tracks, I need to tell you about The Fields. 

When I speak of The Fields (which are of course not really fields and neither are they called The Fields anywhere but here), I refer to one of the most beautiful spots in the country. The Fields combined the peaceful pastoral with quaint urban charm, rustic without being remote, safe without being detached. I lived in The Fields for several years, and made a little life for myself that grew into something bigger. 

I had been an activist in The Fields — moved from scrappy student to card-carrying revolutionary — and I did it because I loved where I lived very, very much, enough to think I could kiss it better. And I was good, I was! I belonged on the stage in that sense, I was invited to panel after panel, talk after talk, and I stood on little podiums that grew alongside me. I knew how to carry myself, present myself, leveraged my palatability and conventionality in return for rights and bare-minimum environmental reparations. 

Such wonders, of course, came with a cost I hadn’t foreseen — an incident, a couple really, that tossed a diagnosis of cPTSD into my lap and turned my lovely home into The Fields. And because I had been so good at presenting myself and clambering on podiums with shiny hair, the incidents became the talk of the town, and I in turn very quickly became a subject, the walking, talking cost of resistance. 

A feature of cPTSD, one that sets it apart from PTSD, is the overarching dullness with which the emotional flashbacks grasp you. Not like being plucked off the surface of the earth by a monstrous thing, but rather drowning quietly in sludge you never realised was beneath your feet in the first place. There was never a thing that terrified me about The Fields, it was only ever a quiet, creeping mass taking over everything, and in being so — easy to ignore and disguise. 

I love The Fields, I told myself, even after. I loved The Fields, even though life had turned into air and static, and I had turned into an unfeeling thing. I lived in the middle of that little city but felt as though I was in a small hut on no-man's land, or a joint security area, suspended between towers. I couldn't stand the wonderful hills and valleys, so I tried my hardest to cling onto the reasons I loved them, tried to medicate them back into my heart with the forcefulness of a pacemaker. I shoved things down throats and up noses, walked back onto all those stages, turned myself into an electric hearse chasing a long-dead dragon. I would walk around The Fields on some nights, very cold and very young, the bleached bones left behind by something very promising. 

Can you see why I stopped still at Appendix A, at Celebrían? I tried to follow her, and see where her story began, and what wonders it would end in, because if Celebrían's story ended in wonder then maybe, there might be a chance, perhaps….. 

It would be easy, I thought, I was a writer, a journalist, a researcher - I trained in asking questions and knowing things, even sticky, stunted, back-of-the-throat things that you'd rather not catch sight of in a mirror. The History of Middle Earth book sets were ordered, fresh copies of all the old texts, magnifying glasses held over Unfinished Tales. 

I’d been so certain I would find her. That Celebrían would ramble across page after page, legs dangling over the edge and an indolent expression fizzing on her face. She would be stubborn and glorious and righteous in her fervor to change the world. I would find her in the flesh, and then no longer would I stand in The Fields each night, hollow-eyed, self-haunting spectre holding myself thrall to a single series of events in what has been, objectively, a lovely, loving life.

But a full month went by, and all I found was footnote after endnote after cursory mention, almost all of them clothing her in torment, growing stiff and sharp against the tooth of the page: vicious, like a blade angled backwards. For Celebrían and I, the richest text in the world turned into a landscape of loss. 

What a wonderful, rich, textured world you have!

All the better to swallow you whole, my dear. 

I couldn't find her in the story. I spent weeks and weeks on her, and I couldn't find her in the story and by then I had already fancied myself and Celebrían to be counterparts, like if she laughed, I would laugh too, like if she ran, then I would run too, and if she was lost, then… well. I suppose it shows the power of an enduring text. I had a PhD, at that point I had just gotten my publishing deal through, I'd spoken on all those podiums and done all those real-world, adult things, and still I was not immune to the indulgent tether of a good old self-insert. And then it turned out we were not counterparts but rather more akin to co-morbidities, that The Footnote and its friends were all I would ever know of Celebrían. 

It was summer, I remember, but my hands were cold — autopsy-fingers, my partner called them. Archive-fingers, autopsy-fingers, scrabbling around to find nothing, no indication as to how Celebrían's story truly ended and why I was the person I was. The texts shifted uneasily under my hands, like the Professor himself was turning out his pockets and shrugging, reminding me that it was neither Celebrían's nor my story, not really. Pointed me back to The Footnote like it was a pacifier, and still I turned in circles like a dog chasing its tail, looking for other instances of her name. I found nothing. I began to fear that I had wasted my life.

The Footnote started to blur across weeks, and soon it turned itself into My Footnote. The one I had found, a year or so before the hunt, in a fantastic, recently published book that spoke about activism in The Fields, where I came face to face with myself. But there, I hadn't been standing on a podium or being interviewed or writing pressure pieces or anything I had really, truly done, but I was instead a single footnote — condensed into the things that had happened to me, as opposed to the things I had made happen. As the months went on, I looked for references to myself in new books, newspapers, magazines — and I would find myself, but in the same scrap of footnote, wearing the same costume of torment, tragic poster children of a violent world. 

I sat there looking at the thousands and thousands of pages in the legendarium, the stack of books on things I had worked upon, statutes I had pulled down and little laws I had changed. And then at the scraps of Celebrían and I, reduced to scribbles and crossing outs in the margins. It was like we never lived at all. It seems a rather childish reaction, perhaps, to not finding the story you want in a book you bought. Still, that afternoon, when I put down the last page of HoME I had access to, I crawled into bed and stayed there for a very long time, trying very hard to not touch even the bedclothes around me.

But I think that was always what drew me to her, that absence. I didn't find myself in Celebrían, but in the footnote that gestured to her presence. It wasn't that I understood her so much as I knew how to decrypt the desperate scratches left behind by someone who drowned on dry land. That was how she and I were truly alike: people who wanted to change the world, or a little part of it, and did, did something good — and had all of it forgotten, crammed into a footnote read with a tender, pitying fret. 

But that's not canonical, is it? Yes, her absence shaped the story of the Ring War in certain regards. But who said Celebrían, Celebrían the Person, not Celebrían the Footnote — had ever changed anything, let alone the world in which she lived?

Simple – I did.

My Celebrían was a complete nutcase. I wrote her as a daughter born to a borderline-squirrel of a wood elf, who herself hated small creatures with a passion. I had her take off her shoe and beat earwigs to death, had her talk the ear off a perpetually grieving mother, irritate a kinslayer into planting a pine forest, and threaten the High King with a shovel. She would shove cotton in her ears to block out her husband's snoring, and put four teaspoons of sugar in her tea. She bribed her sons to dispose of a snake, and demanded magical healing for a little scrape on her forehead. 

I cut her into familiar shapes: the shape of someone who spent months unable to bear the slightest touch, whose loved one slept on the floor beside the bed, clinging to a listless hand dangled off the side. The shape of a small house in a forest, and the shape of a wonderful ending, in which she truly did change the world in all the ways she could. I don't know, if I'm being honest, whether Celebrían changed me, or if I changed her. Whether change was an instant or a process, whether this version of almost-Celebrían mattered to anyone but myself. I knew one thing though — my Celebrían is a thousand footnotes long, and counting. 

Footnotes, like most things in the archive, are of course caging things: keeping unpalatable violence in the past, or at least elsewhere, keeping the here and now good and quiet. It's easier to outsource healing and rediscovery to other places, to archives and museums and books and Valinor. Was being a footnote a punishment? What’s worse, being pickled wrongly or never being pickled at all? Was this yet another installment of the cautionary tale stretching all the way through time and reality from Celebrían to me; footnotes about women who held themselves thrall to the memory of violence, who lived as well as they could, till they couldn’t? Would it have been better if she never existed at all?

I don't know. All I know for certain is this: at some point between finding Celebrían and writing her, I moved out of The Fields and across the country.

It had been a long time coming. But for years, I had thought I would weather living in The Fields because even after the Torment, the Footnote, the Diagnosis, I never felt a disconnect from the place, because I was still extroverted and irritating and fizzing with the desire to stay in the Fields and love it, as I had always done. And then suddenly, I wanted to run.

It wasn't as if Celebrían burned The Fields down, leaving me there to watch flames eating its flat, starless sky. But what she did was this: carefully take off my rose-tinted glasses, and say run —- this earth has swallowed you whole. 

I had assumed it was my fault, my attachment to The Fields, that I was looking at things wrong, that I was maintaining unhealthy attachments to sites of trauma, prioritising the wrong perspectives, the body keeps an atlas and all that. But Celebrían did not call me crazy. Celebrían was not the kind of person who would ever call you crazy. She was the kind of person who would lay in a wide-open field beside you and ask you what you were looking at. 

And when you say "oh, just up at the big sky", she wouldn't probe. She would know exactly what you mean when you didn't say "-- because there is nothing ahead of me", and she wouldn't say a word about how the ground around you was soft with decay, reeking like a corpse, that you were caught in the straggling grass of its hair. 

She would instead shrug, wink, and point you towards Gollum, because of course she would. She would tell you that Tolkien, ever the Catholic, had drawn out a perfect depiction of what might have happened if Lazarus was left in that cave. And then she would say, run, for god's sake, girl, run, and you would. I did!

How stubbornly we all cling to the idea of staying fixed until being fixed, to the idea of a ready-made Valinor to sail to if we do well enough at life, stay still enough in the margins! How faithfully we believe that if you spend enough time being a very, very good cracked vessel, maybe one day you might feel the quiet triumph of bearing water again. Celebrían, not the Celebrían of The Footnote but my Cel, the manic pixie freakshow of Imladris, said shut the fuck up and run. That it was no use hungering for the impossible and thumbing listlessly though footnotes, and to instead run, and run, and start digging a garden at the ground you come to a stop at because it is only in new soil that something gentle could unfold unbidden. That as time passes, you will belong less and less to the ground you left behind and more and more to the ground you walk upon, to the new trees and new hills around you, to those who love you still.

Run! she said. How alive you looked, hunting for me. How badly you craved my story. See? There are still stories you crave. You are still human enough to crave. Run! 

I think many of us who love this brief, inexorable footnote of a Celebrían, whether we read her or write her, are bound by a similar truth: that in her we caught sight of something within ourselves. All around the world, these tiny, unflinching mirrors in Appendix A and the rest, tie together and create a hundred different Celebríans, all part of the same thread, each version carrying its own burden, though rarely do we ever acknowledge it in each other. It's a quiet nod, an unspoken connection, a reminder that we are all more alike and less alone than a cursory footnote might imply.

To find Celebrían, I had to write her. And in turn, she wrote me in her image. I look at her now, as she is in my head, and there Celebrían is neither alive nor dead. No, what is most clear in my mind is a girl in a dusty wing mirror, a life packed into boxes, sunglasses sliding down her nose. One hand sandwiched in an ordnance map, prying the pages open, hurtling at a perfectly legal speed down an M-road, The Fields growing smaller, and smaller, and smaller in the rearview mirror. Not gone, not truly, but invisible to the naked eye, unless you know exactly where to look. A grain of sand in a bucket of water, a single, sad-looking fish half-buried on a tropical beach. A finger to the past, a wave from a window, a footnote in an appendix. 

[larkingame]

hello hello! this november bianca (@beeanca-writing ) and I our hosting our very own writing and productivity challenge!

this is an indie (and slightly more lax) alternative to NaNoWriMo, where the focus is routine, accountability and above all else progress!

the rules for this challenge are simple:

prior to friday, november 1st 2024 choose a writing goal. this can be a total word count, daily word count, a page count, a certain number of chapters or an amount of time spent writing. remember to choose something attainable for you in thirty days. make a post on tumblr, discord, substack, twitter...(somewhere) presenting yourself (basically who you are as a writer!) your goal and discussing your writing projects or plans using the tag #novemberwripro!

plan and establish a routine. productivity isn't so much about time management, a packed schedule or any sort of fancy tools. productivity is about consistency. by establishing a writing routine for yourself you'll put yourself into a familiar enough rhythm that not only will you be able to write when you don't necessarily want to--you're setting yourself up to produce the best work you can possible put forth.

use your routine to help you work on your writing goal daily throughout the month of november. the goal of any writing challenge is to show some sort of progress on your current projects after all.

document your progress in some way. whether this be through a month long journal, a vlog on youtube or tiktok or even just posts in the discord server or on tumblr--it's important to reflect on all the work you've done and help build a community of accountability!

all are welcome to join--whether that be novelists, non-fiction writers, interactive fiction developers, fic writers, essayists, poets, screen-writers, academics or those simply looking to do more writing!

helpful links you may need:

challenge discord | substack

[gigigazelleloves]

I love the symbolism of Carlos taking off his hat and immediately cuddling up with Tk.

It shows that his dad has stopped third wheeling in the relationship. He has finally solved his father's murder and taken his place as a true ranger.

However, he states that even though he brought justice to his father, it still hasn't given him the resolution he magically wanted. This leads to him realizing that he isn't going to suddenly heal from his grief and that he needs to deal with that grief, outside of being a ranger. He's done the most he can do with in uniform, now he needs to work on this outside of the uniform.

Now he realizes the importance of focusing on the people around him (as he mentions his mom as an example) and the live surrounding him instead of the love that he's lost.

As soon as TK approaches him to cuddle, he makes sure to take of his hat to let TK know that he is ready to focus on him as he's the most important thing in Carlos's life. That's the beauty of their marriage, they can rely on each other no matter what.

Video credit: @fangirl-paba

[raptorish]

Being 'Kin Without A 'Heart

Written by Max on October 28, 2024.

I think I have an interesting disconnect between being otherkin and being otherhearted. I see people who feel as though the two terms are nearly indistinguishable, and for some reason it's not like that for me! There's a clear line between them in my brain, and I wanna journal about my personal experience with that.

I'm a velociraptor, velociraptor therian, raptorkin, raptorkind, a prehistoric bird, a wereraptor. I use those words interchangeably, since they all convey the proper information: I'm a raptor. I also strongly identify as human. I have two species, equal in value, and they fluctuate in intensity - in my daily life, I'm content to see myself as human, and my raptor side is almost a separate creature entirely, but not quite. It's a median headmate, an important part of me, and also different from me. We are the same until we are not.

And I'm not raptorhearted, even when I'm only partly identifying as a raptor, when I'm feeling more human. I don't identify with raptors, with the traits humans have given them or with their reconstructed biology - I don't feel a sense of belonging, or home, or love for their species in a way that's beyond what I feel for other animals. Raptors are, for some strange reason, not very special to me. I just happen to be one.

Even when I'm not a raptor, when I'm a human with a raptor side and raptor instincts, I don't relate to my raptor brain - that's why I separate it from me! I don't feel a sense of familiarity with it, beyond the familiarity of being it and knowing how it works from being it.

Other raptors aren't inherently family to me. I'll call them cousins, as an affectionate shorthand, because they're like me and not quite the same, but I don't feel a sense of caring for them simply because they're raptors. I feel familiar with them because they're like me - I enjoy seeing how much we're alike, what ways we might differ! But I don't deeply care about them, in the same way someone who's raptorhearted might.

Here, for contrast, let me tell you about how I experience being fictionhearted with a particular canon, and why I'm confident in calling that a hearttype.

My heartcanon, the fictional canon which I'm connected with, is a personally-created alternate universe of the video game Detroit: Become Human, which I've named Detroit, Machina. I've named it, given it a different title, because it's so fundamentally important to me and feels so different from the original source from which it was derived that calling DBH in general my heartcanon feels painfully wrong.

I don't identify as any character from Machina. I identify with the beats of the story, with the characters and their struggles, with the joys and failures and everything about creating it. I say I have a heartcanon because I could tell someone about it as a story, as a fanfic, and it would not convey the depth of how this story is embedded into my psyche. I would not be the same person if I hadn't written about it for years of my life, put pieces of myself into it. I'm not fictionkind, I'm not anyone in this story, but the story is an integral part of me anyway. I have such strong feelings about it that I don't know how to put it to words, and I don't feel comfortable trying in a public post. It's important to me. If you told me I could never talk about Machina again, I would crumble to ash.

Contrast that with being a raptor. If you were to tell me I could never have any piece of dinosaur paraphernalia ever again, I would shrug. They're cute, sure, but I don't care about raptors that intensely. I would be just as disappointed if you said I couldn't ever have any cat paraphernalia, and I'm not a cat in any alterhuman sense.

Basically - I don't care about raptors in such a strong, personally intense way that they've changed who I am. I am a raptor, and that's changed who I am, and that doesn't mean I necessarily love them. And that's perfectly okay.

[milquetoast27]

The Emotional Reticence of Holmes and Watson

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, two shy Victorian men, maneuver their vulnerable feelings of affection for one another in an expertly flawed and human manner crafted by Arthur Conan Doyle. First and foremost, I am examining their use of "my dear Watson" (91 times in the canon) and "my dear Holmes" (14 times).

The first time Holmes ever uses "my dear Watson" in the canon, it's actually in a rather sarcastic tone.

"What is your theory, then, as to those footmarks?" I asked, eagerly, when we had regained the lower room once more. "My dear Watson, try a little analysis yourself," said he, with a touch of impatience. "You know my methods. Apply them, and it will be instructive to compare results." (SIGN)

Note: for The Great Game, this absolutely isn't the first time Holmes has used this phrase, but from the narrative perspective, it is absolutely the first time Conan Doyle put this phrase to paper, which is more relevant to this examination.

Holmes uses this phrase with a touch of exasperation, which even in itself holds some love within it as he encourages his friend to utilise his own beloved methods. And even in this first instance, while Holmes's tone indicates some displeasure, the personal address ensures that it isn't a genuine blow. But the intimacy of "my dear" is quite daunting, isn't it? so Holmes utilises the veil of sarcasm to break the barrier, in the spirit of "look, I've said it now. Now I may go and say it as much as I want."

Oh, and he does. The frequency of 'my dear Watson' slowly builds through the canon and peaks through FINA, HOUN and EMPT. It isn't surprising, considering they hold some of the most critical points in their relationship.

• "My dear Watson, you were born to be a man of action." (HOUN) • "Not for the world, my dear Watson. I am perfectly satisfied with your company if you will tolerate mine." (HOUN) • "Then these are your instructions, and I beg, my dear Watson, that you will obey them to the letter." (FINA) • "My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected." (EMPT)

It is evident, that it is after this barrier is broken in SIGN, that Holmes feels comfortable to use this address in such a sincere manner. In fact, it is apparent that it is in particularly emotional circumstances that Holmes is more likely to call for Watson through any means at all.

So, how about Watson?

His use of "my dear Holmes" is almost exclusively out of shock or surprise whenever his 'Johnson' claims anything particularly outré. Again, while Watson is in disbelief, and most probably doubtful of Holmes's claims, the personal address softens this blow to say that no real harm is done between them.

• "My dear Holmes," said I, "this is too much." (SCAN) • "My dear Holmes!" "Oh, yes, I did." (SPEC)

The first real instance of Watson using this phrase sincerely is in FINA.

"You are afraid of something?" I asked. "Well, I am." "Of what?" "Of air-guns." "My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

Holmes is acting more than out of the ordinary to put Watson in some kind of concern and this question comes no doubt more from worry than simple surprise. He even asks again, "but what does it all mean?" which highlights his wish to be by Holmes's side, even in danger.

The first and only instance of a good-hearted affectionate address comes to Holmes in HOUN. However, interestingly, it is only through the written word, in Watson's letters to Holmes from Dartmoor.

• Congratulate me, my dear Holmes, and tell me that I have not disappointed you as an agent. • Such are the adventures of last night, and you must acknowledge, my dear Holmes, that I have done you very well in the matter of a report.

Watson's method of breaking the barrier is to send it remotely through his pen, which is, after all, much less daunting than saying it directly. It is absolutely worth noting that Watson has also used this language when specifically wishing for praise - it shows us that he feels the closest to Holmes when he is able to follow his own methods.

Conan Doyle shows us the ways insecurities and pressures can collaborate with our most earnest and deepest affections. Holmes and Watson aren't perfect beings, but navigate through their web of reticence and inner desires to find an unspoken but profound dialogue between them.

[longreads]

The Rip in the World

“At one point, we paused to take in the site of the 2021 eruption: a cooled lava sheet extending nearly to the horizon. Far in the distance, well beyond the marked trail, a few hikers took wide, delicate steps across the jagged basalt. Old lava is brittle; it tends to form hollow tubes, the insides of which can remain somewhat molten for months. Absentmindedly, our guide told us about an acquaintance of hers, a geologist, who once stepped on a section of lava he thought entirely cooled, only for his legs to break through the crust into the hot bubble below. She even described the smell. Then we were off walking again, keeping strictly to the trail.” 

As Jonah Walters recounts visiting Iceland to witness volcanic activity and his move to an earthquake-prone region of the United States, he wonders why humans are attracted to disaster. Check out The Rip in the World.

[knifedog-machina]

Being Human: A Species Identity Compare and Contrast

Written by Gavin on June 27, 2024.

Hey, I'm Gavin, and despite hanging out in various alterhuman spaces, I'm 100% a human person. I live in a system with two headmates who are also human, but identify as other species as well - Max as a velociraptor therian, Jude as a dog archetrope and an android. In contrast, I specifically, completely identify as human.

What's so special about that, being human? Statistically, it's nothing remarkable - most people on Earth identify as human after all. I think what's really interesting is that, over the past year, I've been connected to communities that all contain people (or non-people, as the case may be) who partially or fully identify as nonhuman - otherkin, therians, a solid number of fictionfolk and some alterhumans. Therefore, I feel like I can compare and contrast my species identity to the experiences of others, in a way that most people who philosophize on what humanity is don't get the chance to.

We tend to think of humanity as The Default, a non-identity, since the majority of self-identified nonhumans were raised as human, and we all live in human societies. Most people don't bother clarifying that they are human unless they're dehumanized, because it seems obvious that being born human means you're human. Given humanity's position as a default state, a lot of nonhumans see it as an opposing and fundamentally different experience from nonhumanity.

In this way, species identity is similar to gender identity - cisgender people, who identify with the genders they were assigned at birth, are often assumed by transgender people to have a fundamentally different understanding of gender. I feel like both of these assumptions are oversimplifications, ones that miss out on a lot of nuance, and throughout this essay I will be comparing gender and species, as a trans man whose species is as important to him as his gender.

There are some common threads I've noticed when it comes to having a sense of identity. I wouldn't call them universal experiences, I can't read minds, but they're frequent enough to be significant. They may be more obvious when it's an identity at odds with your body (e.g. being transgender or nonhuman) - but I'd go so far as to say that plenty of cisgender (and human!) people also experience these feelings, and simply don't have the words or desire to describe their feelings with these terms.

First off, identity euphoria - the internal sense of alignment, joy, and contentedness one gets from presenting and being perceived as their identity. A trans man might experience gender euphoria from presenting and being treated as a man, and so do many cis men. Think about how thrilled many guys are when their beards fill out; that's facial hair as a presentation of masculinity, and gaining it is a gender euphoric experience. In a very similar way, a nonhuman experiences species euphoria from being perceived as their species - and so do I, as a human being.

I’m trans, so I know how gender euphoria feels for me. I find that the more I'm just treated as a man, the more that the bright elation of being correctly gendered turns into a sense of quiet satisfaction - this is what I am, and everyone knows it, and all is right with the world. There's no reason to think too much about it unless something calls attention to it, and then I feel confident and comfortable enough in myself that other people's judgements are more annoying than hurtful. I exist peacefully in my body, happy with the way people see me in it, and sometimes I'll do something that feels extra masculine and grin about it for five minutes.

My species euphoria falls into the same sort of category - I feel content with my body, the way it matches how I feel internally, and the way other people treat me because of it. I feel fundamentally comfortable with my human body map and movements, having a flat face and hands and nails, walking upright on the soles of my feet. I feel comfortable when I'm acknowledged as a human and a person, when I do something that’s known to be human - when I wear different clothes to express myself and keep out the cold, when I cook a meal to eat with people, when I sing for the fun of it, when I write and draw to share something creative, when I interact with human technology and invention and creation. Humans have been making clothes and foods and songs and adding marks to the world for about as long as they've existed, and we're still doing it, and if I think about it too long I get emotional. I’m human and I feel deeply connected to humanity, and most of the time I don't think about it because I'm treated as one, but sometimes I’ll notice that I'm doing something that just feels fundamentally human, and it's really nice - sometimes species affirmation can be in the little things, like wearing a beat-up jacket or writing a personal essay.

On the flip side, there's identity dysphoria, the distress experienced when one's identity doesn't align with the way they present or find themselves perceived as. A trans woman might feel gender dysphoria because of her body hair; many cis women also feel less feminine if they don't shave. Species dysphoria is a well-known experience in the nonhuman community, the distress of being seen as human or having a human body when you don't identify as one. Given what I said earlier, hopefully it doesn't come as a shock that people can have the opposite experience - feeling distressed about being seen as nonhuman. I get this kind of species dysphoria.

It feels odd to talk about species dysphoria when I’m not nonhuman, but I still feel it. Mostly it comes up in the context of being in alterhuman spaces, being accidentally mislabeled as nonhuman through proximity to those who are, and I've also felt it in the context of playing around with visualizing myself as nonhuman in art. My body map doesn't have nonhuman features, parts like wings or tails or claws or pointy ears. Picturing myself like that feels wrong, it feels like sandpaper, like there’s this foreign thing attached to my body and I need to cut it off so I can stop this crawling sense of my body not being my own. I used to have an awful amount of gender dysphoria, and I feel like the two are very comparable experiences - the distress of feeling like your body doesn't match your mind. I got top surgery, so the gender dysphoria is gone, and thankfully my body is actually human, because I would be just as distressed about being seen as nonhuman as I was about being seen as a girl.

It’s kind of fascinating that I feel this way, that I can’t picture myself as nonhuman without feeling incredibly uncomfortable. On the other end of the spectrum, there's the entire furry fandom, a subculture of people - most of whom definitely identify as human beings - who regularly depict themselves as nonhuman animals for fun and self-expression. We’re all human, what gives? Do they have a more malleable sense of species identity than I do?

Maybe, maybe not. I don't have a straightforward answer to that - like I said, I can't read minds, and I'm just one person. But I do have a couple thoughts on the way humans interface with nonhumanity, on the topic of enjoying it.

See, I get dysphoric about being considered nonhuman, but I've found some loopholes in there. I’m completely fine with my fictional counterpart - the character getting tossed into different AUs for our personal enrichment - being turned into a vampire, a werewolf, a selkie, an android, a person with wings. How's that any different from other expressions of nonhumanity? Well, for me, those stories don't induce dysphoria because they're about humanity, at the end of the day - how people cope with being seen as or turned into monsters, the way they treat one another and the way they treat supposed outsiders, the ways society might change if humans were slightly different animals but still called themselves human. If I were a werewolf, I'd still be human, just one living with the consequences of also being a wolf. If I had wings in a world where all humans have wings, I'm still human in the context of that world. That baseline sense of humanity is what’s important to me.

In a similar vein, I can't stand seriously being seen as nonhuman - but pretending to be nonhuman? Roleplaying? Dressing up in a costume? I can do that. I feel like there’s something very human about being fascinated by the abilities and strengths of every animal that's not your own kind, and wanting them for yourself - the human desire to fly like a bird, swim like a fish, hunt like a wolf, run like a deer.

I think a lot of what people like about fursonas is this sort of wish fulfillment, of having the cool traits of all these fascinating animals, and having that animal self-portrait still being anthro - human - enough to relate to. It's animality through an anthropomorphic lens, through how fun it can be to play pretend and express yourself as a cool deer-wolf-lion hybrid. And usually, those animal choices are symbolic, and the fursona reflects the personality of the person who made it - more often than not, it reflects the cultural stereotypes of what that animal is, instead of being true to what the animal is like as a living organism. It's about the way humans see themselves in animals, not necessarily the way we are animals. So, ironically, being a furry tends to parse as a very human thing to me.

So far, most of this essay has been a comparison, since I see a lot of similarities between identifying as human and identifying as nonhuman. Putting my species into my list of self-identifiers, like how I'd list my name and pronouns, has cemented it as a crucial part of how I view myself and want to be seen. That's the same way a lot of nonhumans think about their species. I have a strong sense of species identity, it just so happens to align with being human. Contrasting the categories seems harder to me.

I could list a bunch of different nonhuman traits that I lack, but it would be on the same level as saying one kintype is different from another. I don't care about walking on all fours, and neither does Max as a raptor. I don't instinctively try to bite a threat, I’d rather kick it, and I know a horse would agree with me. I don't long for the sky and neither does Jude, they're a dog. I don't have a prey drive and neither does a hamster. I don't feel like a nonsapient animal, and neither does an elf.

When it comes down to just being a certain species, there’s not that much of a difference between identifying as a human and identifying as a dragon. There's a bunch of traits that feel correct, and a million others that don't feel right at all.

I could say that I don't understand feeling like I don't fit in my own body, but I do - I had gender dysphoria. I have species dysphoria. If one of my partners is having a phantom shift while co-fronting with me, I invariably end up either leaving front or nullifying their shifts, because I just don't feel comfortable if our combined body map is nonhuman. I don't have memories of being a different species than I am, having abilities that I don't have in my body now, but those aren’t necessary to be nonhuman in the first place.

Do I need to find a contrast that makes sense? Does there need to be some fundamental difference between human and nonhuman identity?

I don't think so. It's all identity, at the end of the day.

[leechteethwrites]

[frenchnewwaves]

Joan Didion's Packing List:

TO PACK AND WEAR: 2 skirts 2 jerseys or leotards 1 pullover sweater 2 pair shoes stockings bra nightgown, robe, slippers cigarettes bourbon bag with: shampoo toothbrush and paste Basis soap, razor deodorant aspirin prescriptions Tampax face cream powder baby oil

TO CARRY: mohair throw typewriter 2 legal pads and pens files house key

“This is a list which was taped inside my closet door in Hollywood during those years when I was reporting more or less steadily. The list enabled me to pack, without thinking, for any piece I was likely to do. Notice the deliberate anonymity of costume: in a skirt, a leotard, and stockings, I could pass on either side of the culture. Notice the mohair throw for trunk-line flights (i.e. no blankets) and for the motel room in which the air conditioning could not be turned off. Notice the bourbon for the same motel room. Notice the typewriter for the airport, coming home: the idea was to turn in the Hertz car, check in, find an empty bench, and start typing the day’s notes.”

—Joan Didion, “The White Album” (1979)

[shycoconutt]

You, Me, & Armin Arlert: Keeping a Kind Heart Amid Despair

So, I finished Attack on Titan last night and I want to talk about someone in particular. I’m sure that what I have to say here doesn’t add anything new to the discourse, I know this story has touched countless hearts already. But, the feeling I have left in my chest after last night I feel can only be relieved by purging my thoughts.

No other character, besides Aang from Avatar: The Last Airbender, has been rooted in my soul more deeply than Armin Arlert. There have been countless characters who have tugged at my heartstrings, based on my blog alone I bet you can figure out who a couple of those are. But, I’ve never seen myself in any of those characters. Maybe in certain traits or actions, but never the all-encompassing sphere of who they are and all their little facets. 

Sheesh. Even as I’m typing this, tears are blurring the bottom of my vision, and my nose has that uncomfortable, burning tingle. Because all I can think about is this:

“I hate you and I always have. Cause you've never done anything but betray me. The second one we were given. You haven't done a thing with any of it! So get up!”

Ah, crap. I’m seriously not going to be able to keep typing if I can’t get it together… Okay, phew, I think I have it under control now. So, I’m sure a lot of us can picture ourselves in this image. Maybe it was a dream, just a moment you caught your reflection in a mirror, or, in my case, a point in time where you were completely alone. 

I feel that it is important to have moments of silence and solitude where you can take inventory of yourself without any outside influence or distraction. These moments, at their best, can be very healing, but other times, you are brought face to face with the ugly beast you chained up in the dark corner of your subconscious. Armin was brought here during the climax of the battle, where he believed his friends on the outside would all perish if he couldn't get back to them in time. With the souls of his comrades, Eren, and the entire population at risk, everything came to a head. What is the point of it all if you can’t, at the very least, die trying? 

Get up. Don’t betray me again like you always do. You’re a piece of shit. The good others see in you is nothing but a farce. Worthless. Predictable. Incapable. Why must everything be so damn difficult for you?

These are the tales of my ugly beast. What about you? Does yours say something similar? How often does it sneak out of its cage to wrap its claws around your neck, forcing you to listen to its scripture, only for you to shove it away? How often do you visit it when it fits your agenda, to serve as fuel to your fire of self-hatred?

I’m sorry, that might have been a little much. I just need you to understand, okay? Because here is the other side of the situation. We know Armin Arlert is anything but what he is telling himself at this moment. I don’t think it needs any further explanation. You watched what I did, so you know. 

Armin, regardless of his lack of physical talent, defines what it means to be a soldier of humanity. “Dedicate your heart.” A salute with various diluted meanings in the different oppositions of war finds purity in him. I see myself in Armin Arlert, not because of his intelligence, or his worth to the cause, I see myself in his humanity. His heart. His ability to confront the beast. His ability to shoulder the pain and despair of the ones he loves most. His ability to keep a kind heart amid despair.

His ability to love, listen, let go, lose, fall, get up, and do it all over again, all while remaining vulnerable and steadfast. He did it, so how about you and I try and do the same, yeah?