#YOU BRAIN IS HUGE AND BEAUTIFUL AND SO FULL IF IDEAS I AM SO ENVIOUS

[corrodedcoughin]

So I know celebrity rockstar Eddie with Just-Some-Guy Steve is popular, but what about the opposite?

Steve, who is a professional Basketball player, got scouted from where he played for his college team. The fan fave, the darling of the locals, and one of the best players on the team. Models for sportswear brands, has had interviews and talks at schools and the media loves him. He's handsome, and nice, and has publicly come out.

And then there's Eddie. His boyfriend since college. Just some guy who runs a music store. Started just as a minimum wage worker and then slowly worked his way up to running a small business himself. Sells guitars and drums and other instruments. Vinyl and cds and music merch. Hosts guitar lessons. Is happy playing music because he loves it, not for the fame and money.

Eddie goes to all his games (or as many as he can) and while he's not a sports guy and never will be he loves watching Steve play. Is only about 80% sure of the rules at best and that's good enough for Steve. And Steve who's not a metal fan, and will never be into DnD but will spend his free evenings helping Eddie plan a campaign or listening to this song Eddie's been trying to learn on the guitar.

Idk I just think it's fun to explore the opposite! Eddie getting excited any time he sees people wearing Steve's merch in public and people keep mistaking him for a hardcore fan because no one knows who he is and honestly he's fine with that. He is a big fan of Steve

he's a big fan of steve' MOMO THAT LAST LINE TOOK ME OUT!!!! OHH!!!!

Okay so as always i am IN LOVE with your ideas and where you take them and explore with the space.

Please can I have Eddie who doesn't completely GET sports but he DOES get collecting so he has one of those card books and collects basket ball trading cards. He has a full page of 'Steves' that he every proud of because he's drawn on some of them, giving him different outfits/hair/facial hair/speech bubbles, some include dragon hatcher steve, android steve, malibu barbie steve and pronstache steve (that one wasn't even drawn on, Steve was just trying something new and it got immortailised in a trading card much to Eddie's delight. His personal favourite is a Steve mid spin of the ball on his fingertip, the image of concentration and Eddie has yet to see a photo that highlights the muscle and bite-ability of Steve's arms quite as well as that one.

When Eddie and Steve are out for dinner and Eddie sees a little kid wearing a shirt with Steve's name on it he's quick to point it out to the delight of his boyfriend, both of them trying to figure out a way to subtly let the kid know that 'Harrington' is here.

Eddie who turns up to games with the kids and a foam finger because 'Steve come on its hilarious' but in reality he just loves obnoxiously supporting him. Steve kisses his finger tips and waves to Eddie before running to join the team in the changing rooms. Eddie who catches it and stuffs it in his pocket in the most dramatic way possible. Steve who laughs every time because he wouldn't have it any other way.

[day-en-las-nubes]

My mom’s stern words echoed in my brain like a broken record. Maybe I should’ve listened to her and stayed until the end of our Family Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I could’ve managed to smile one more time at my aunt’s observations about my weight or the envious resting bitch face of my cousin. Perhaps I could have endured another one of my stepdad’s inappropriate jokes. I had been so sure I had had enough when I had walked through my family’s door into the wintry night. But now, in the middle of nowhere, with the thick snow falling steadily against my windshield, I wasn’t so sure.

I took a deep breath as my car fishtailed left and right. The light of another vehicle flashing behind me in the distance started to close in.

Oh great! A psycho tailing me in this super narrow road is exactly what I need!

I turned my caution lights on, I was not going to speed up and end up crashing against one of the dark trees next to the road. I glued my eyes on the snow covered road ahead of me, pushing the strangers presence out of my mind if only for a second.

“Call out my name” by the Weeknd came on the radio, stirring with it forbidden thoughts of my painful breakup with my ex only about a month prior. I reached to change the radio station, my eyes drifting to the dashboard for a split second. Upon looking up a deer had come out of nowhere and before I could as much as make a move I had hit it with the front of my car. I instinctively slammed the breaks and my car started spinning uncontrollably, derailing from the country road and hitting several trees in the process.

I kept my hands frozen on the wheel, watching terrified everything around me spin. The thought that I was about to die racing inside my head, random regrets popping simultaneously as I sat inside the spinning old Jeep, hopeless in the dark of that November night.

I realized I was holding my breath when my car had come to a stop.

“Are you okay?”- A man knocked on my window, making me jump. I pressed my foot against the gas but my car didn’t move an inch. “You are pretty deep in the snow, I doubt you’ll be able to pull out.” He said, but by now I was too scared, too regretful and feeling too pathetic to acknowledge him. I put my car in reverse and heard the strained sound of the engine, still no movement. I searched inside my purse and retrieved my cellphone. No signal. I glanced at the tall figure standing next to me, a shiver ran down my spine. “Suit yourself!” He said and started to walk away. I kept my eye on him though the review mirror, he was the same person that had been several feet away behind me on the road.

He started his car and began to back away, suddenly the panic of being left all there by myself outweighed my reservations towards that stranger. I opened the door and ran outside, I noticed a dull ache in my back as I stood up. I yelled for him to come back but he kept backing up.

I ran closer, waving my arms around and he finally stopped. I went over to his window and leaned in.

“Are you hurt?” He asked while lowering his window. My heart skipped a beat when I saw his huge green eyes. I was definitely not expecting this person to be quite this attractive.

“I think I’m ok” I shifted slightly uncomfortable.” I’m very sorry for having been so rude.”

“It’s understandable” He smiled and I felt disarmed. ”Would you like a ride?” He asked lifting an eyebrow.

“Y-Yes please.” I said and walked over to the passenger seat. He leaned over and opened it for me from where he was. I thanked him as I slid next to him.

“Don’t mention it” He said flatly. “I was heading into town, back to my motel.” He trailed off without taking his eyes off the road. “Can I drop you off anywhere”? He asked as I took in his exquisite cologne. It had like a lavender and oaky scent, surely expensive.

“I was actually going to drive through the night to make it home. I live about four hours from here” I explained as I stared at his long fingers resting on the steering wheel. ”You can drop me off at any gas station though.”

“You are not really asking me to leave you stranded it at 1 in the morning in some random place, right?” He looked at my possessively.

“I don’t want to impose” I replied fidgeting with my fingers.

“Why don’t I take you to my motel, you can spend the night there and get some rest. Tomorrow morning you can call to have your car towed.” He suggested combing his dark hair with his fingers. He had something so distinguished about him, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was his gorgeous cheekbones or those very full lips. I found myself wondering what tricks he had up his sleeve.  It had been so long since I had felt completely full filled and considering that I had such a scare only moments before I felt different, daring somehow.  I could’ve died a boring, cheated and unsatisfied twenty five year old.

How sad is that?!

“Sounds perfect” I told him and he half smiled at me. He wet his lips and I found myself entirely too enthralled by this.

“Do you mind if I grab a smoke?” He asked and I shook my head. He reached over to the glove compartment and opened it. He brushed my breasts with his arm as he pulled the greenish box out of it. He placed a cigarette in his lips and lit it. ”Would you like one” He offered making smoke rings playfully and I declined. My skin still tingling where his arm had been.

“What brings you to these parts?” I asked him forcing myself to look away.

“My family own a business here. My father insisted upon my assistance to the firm’s thanksgiving dinner” He winced.

“What’s wrong?” I asked when he stopped on the side on the road.

“I believe I’ve gotten us lost… “ he pulled his cell out of his black pants pocket. ”We should’ve been at my motel by now.”

“Can you GPS it?”

“It’s stuck at loading….” He added shrugging and I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath.

“Have you been drinking?” I attempted to conceal my nerves.

“Of course I have little miss or how else do you suppose I get through those awful business meetings?” He laughed and gave me one of those looks that would make anyone blush. “Im getting so sleepy!” He said tilting his head back.

“I could drive…” I offered even though I knew with my sense of direction I would end up getting us even more lost or worse.

“After what you’ve been through I don’t think it’s a great idea.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

“And driving under the influence is?!-I snapped at him. He let out a laugh.

“You look hot when you are not pretending to be this innocent little thing” He retorted.

“Thanks?” I crossed my arms strangely aroused and annoyed by this bluntness.

“When was the last time someone showed you a good time?” He asked mockingly.

“I am not talking about my personal life with you!”

“Who said anything about talking?” He chuckled mischievously.  He ran his sexual green eyes over my face attentively, like studying me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just that..I’ve been wondering…” He kept looking at me, his lips parted.

“What’s that?” I started to have trouble breathing with his intensity.

“What your lips taste like” He whispered and I felt a twinge of desire within me. The way he was just staring made me feel so wanted, so beautiful even. “Ive had too much to drink…” He started to turn away but I grabbed his chin and planted a peck on his warm lips. He looked at me surprised.

Life was too short and that total stranger was impossibly handsome. We were alone, on the side of some country road and I wanted his hands on me.

I caressed his smooth chin with the tips of my fingers while his breath fanned my mouth ever so slightly. His eye lids were half opened, his pupils like lasers pointed at mine.

“So”? I asked gaspingly.

“Definitely too good for just one taste” He uttered and I bit his lower lip. He tasted sweet and delicious.

The man suctioned my lips masterfully, his tongue gliding in and out of my mouth firmly but also tenderly.

My lips made their way to his soft neck, as I left small bites alongside it.

He moaned when my hand slid inside his shirt. His skin was muscular but soft. My fingers glided over the bulges of his abdomen.

“What’s your name?” He asked breathlessly.

“Sofia” I said and a smile spread across his face.

“My name is Bill” He pushed my coat off my shoulders and licked my collar bone as he lowered my sleeves.  The hair on my skin stood up as the anticipation continued building up when his mouth got closer and closer to my breasts.

I clenched my fist in his silky hair when his teeth bit playfully my nipples. His tongue circling them subtly first, then introducing them in his mouth and sucking on them mercilessly.

The vibrations between my legs becoming almost unbearable with the activities his lips were carrying in my chest.

I placed my hands in his belt and untied it as fast as I could. I lowered the zipper of his pants and reached inside.  He froze as my fingers curled around the massiveness of him.

He looked at me wild now, his hair disheveled and his rosy lips swollen. He grabbed me by the hip and lifted me as if I were a feather. He placed me on his lap and lifted my dress. With a finger he moved my panties to one side. The contact of his finger tip while he did this sending powerful waves of electricity to my whole body.

I propped myself up on my knees, and as I was ready to descend on him  the flash light outside the window sent me crawling back to my seat and Bill fixing himself up.

“Need any assistance folks” The cop said as Bill lowered the window. “Let me escort you back to the city, yes?”

Bill threw a frustrated and perverse look my way before answering him.

“Sure officer”

[theliterateape]

Culture in Real Time

by Don Hall

“I have a surprise for you in honor of February!”

Dana and I have this thing we can’t quite find common ground upon concerning birthdays. She is a minimalist from a wholly unsentimental Pennsylvania family. I’m a materialist raised by a mother who calls presents “prizes” and gives gifts as a part of her love language.

While I’m old enough not to care, I still want my birthday to be a celebration of me. It’s small in spirit but, in that self-diagnosis we all attempt on our own psyches, I was the child of a beautiful woman who attracted men who wanted her but tolerated me. Birthdays were my mother’s way of reminding me that, at least to her, I was someone of note.

“I’m putting the blue in the toilet!”

Another unusual record skip in our marriage is those Tidy Bowl tablets you put in the tank and turns the water blue. To her, they are a sign of white trash, low culture, unnecessary expense. To me, they are an odd bluish signal of semi-wealth and extravagance. 

For the most part, the toilet remains clear. She likes it that way because she can then examine the color of her urine to see if she been hydrating properly (too yellow and she’s not). Once in a moon, she indulges me with a tab of unnatural blue with a hint of ammonia. It’s stupid but I love it every time.

We are both Aquarians which means we both are almost zealous in our personal independence and the sight of her in the bedroom and I on the couch, doing our separate things in the same space, is common. We do well together.

Our differences—in terms of how we view money, consumerism, art, reading, politics—are bizarrely cultural.

My DNA is mostly Irish. Some British, a bit African American, some Native American, but mostly Irish. I have the fair skin and propensity to addictive behavior of someone Irish but culturally I’m not one who embraces Ireland or her ways. Culturally, I’m a bit trailer trash, a dash biker gang, a sprinkling of Southern United States with a Midwestern sensibility.

I’m an American mutt.

A child of the seventies, a GenX guy who came of age in the 80’s, I’m the archetype of classic rock and slightly retrograde sexist attitudes that almost every Motley Crue and Scorpions song conveys. I still call women I meet “darlin’” and “honey” as a sign of friendliness. I prefer to throw the rock and roll horns to a thumbs up. I have tattoos but most are quotes from my favorite authors.

Culturally, I’m a fucking mess, man.

I have friends who live a more culturally identifiable life. I’ll admit to being somewhat envious of them.

Arlo is black. I mean, black black. He is originally from a tiny county in Georgia and laughs as I tell him how much he fits the stereotype of a sixty year old black man from Georgia.

"You could be played in a movie by Louis Gossett, Jr." and he cackles.

Arlo has a love/hate relationship with his cultural bedrock. He loves the food. "Barbecued pork, collared greens, black-eyed peas. My gramma's kitchen table was what I think Arab suicide bombers dream of instead of virgins." He loves the music. "Mississippi John Hurt, John Hooker, Buddy Guy? Sh-eee-it." He hates the drug culture which he was surrounded by growing up. He hates the idea that all black people can dance. "No one in my family had any of that. No dancing."

Jim (his Korean name is Junghoon but everyone who knows him calls him Jim) tells me he feels out of place when he sees his family. "I guess I'm like a self-loathing Jew in that I'm Korean but by way of Decatur, Illinois." Culturally, he is a "no zone" in that his parents tried to instill the cultural markers of a second-generation Korean kid but he was never really into it. "I always hated kimchi. Hot Pockets. Pepperoni. Keep your Bibimbap to yourself. Give me a bag of Doritos, please."

Culture is comprised of four things in increasing levels of significance: symbols, heroes, rituals and values.

What the three of us all have in common is comic books. All three of us claim to have learned to read courtesy of Stan Lee.

The Fantastic Four. The Avengers. The Amazing Spiderman. The X Men.

The difference between the DC world and the Marvel world was that the heroes in DC were gods and the heroes in Marvel (mostly) were humans with godlike power.

These were the legends and fables of growing up. These were the morality tales of my youth.

From Peter Parker I learned that with great power comes great responsibility. From Logan, his mantra that "The pain let's you know you're still alive" resonated. Daredevil showed that any liability can be overcome (with the help of some radiative waste). 

Bruce Banner instructed that anger can be managed. As an angry Irish-esque kid in Nowhere, Kansas during high school, I needed that lesson. Arlo loved Luke Cage ("But not the Netflix one. The one with the chains and the afro. I was country-black but he made city-black look cool.") and Jim was a huge fan of Ben Grimm ("He always felt like a freak but had his family to give him a purpose.").

I had girlfriends who had broken my heart but nothing I could compare to Peter Parker's grief from Amazing Spiderman #121-122 ("The Night Gwen Stacy Died"). Not only did he lose his great love, he snapped her neck trying to save her. Holy fuck! I was seven years old when I read that and the gravity of a beloved hero failing so horribly was traumatic and took me years to process.

Iron Man #120-128 has Tony Stark dealing full-bore with his alcoholism in "Demon in a Bottle." 

The entire early X Men storylines find an incredible synthesis of the civil rights issues of the late sixties. While the debates about discrimination, non-violent vs violent protest, and inclusion bypassed my ten year old brain, the ideological battles between Charles Xavier and Magneto set the groundwork for when I started reading James Baldwin in high school.

Even more pervasive in the Marvel Universe was the idea that heroes were as flawed as the villains. Doctor Octopus was the bad guy but not evil. Galactus was not evil but simply trying to survive and his means of staying alive involved eating planets. The crossover of villains to heroes was commonplace in the Marvel Universe cementing an ethic that anyone—even Magneto—could find redemption.

My friend has a kid who loves his superheroes. His introduction to them was the MCU and the films of the Avengers. One day, he and his kid were watching Captain America: Civil War and the child wanted to know if Tony Stark was a good guy or a bad guy. My buddy had a bit of a conundrum because in this case there was no easy answer.

This is a bedrock principle of Marvel: there are no good guys or bad guys. Every character is flawed and can make mistakes. Every hero gets to take turns being selfish, afraid, greedy, and enraged. Every villain has a tortured past and is only the villain out of misguided and traumatized perspective. Like the Netflix Daredevil series when Kingpin doesn't realize he's the bad guy until the thirteenth episode and then is astonished by it.

“Culture is how you were raised,” a friend tells me.

Comic books and the desire to be one of these flawed superheroes are culturally important to me. They are as defining of who I am and who I wish to be as natural hair on a black woman working in an office defines her or traditional prayer rituals are to someone raised in a church. These heroes have been a part of my life since I can remember having memories and I've been engaged with them since that nebulous time.

Isn't that culture? My cultural identity?

We GenX types were raised, in part, consuming pop culture in ways previous generations did not. Hours upon hours of televised stories infused into the soft tissue like an army of Manchurian candidates waiting for the buzzwords to activate our consumerist triggers. The advent of VHS tapes made viewing movies the ultimate babysitter. While a kid born and raised on the streets of Detroit might have very little in common with another born and raised in Idaho, both had cultural roots in their mutual boners for Jill Munroe and devastation over the death of Lt. Colonel Henry Blake. A black kid in Birmingham, Alabama could be as racially different from a white kid in Salt Lake City, Utah but both could bond over Star Warsand Nintendo.

As I read it, culture is comprised of four things in increasing levels of significance: symbols, heroes, rituals and values. By that quite academic frame, it seems that as we parse out our differences in our current multi-cultural war in America, it is a fixation on the symbols that trip us up. Skin color, hair, clothing and style, food, language, sexual proclivities and the presence of certain genitalia are all surface-level identifiers. They are the symbols of each human on display. 

I knew a (white) guy who grew up on the South side of Chicago, went to predominantly black populated schools, had mostly black teachers, and whose only friends were black. He dressed black, spoke black, acted black. Did any of that make him somehow less white and does that make any difference? I know a (black) woman—you'd know her, too, if I shared her New York Times Bestselling name—who, if you talk to her on the phone sounds like the secretary from Ferris Bueller's Day Off but looks like Weezy Jefferson from Good Times. Did her accent and nerdy mannerisms make make her less black and does that make any difference?

“Culture is how you were raised,” a friend tells me. “A lot of it is hidden in the back. It’s not just the food you ate growing up but why that food and not something else. It’s what your family decided to spend money on and what they wouldn’t spend money on. It’s those weird rituals you’d practice every holiday. It’s the clothes you wore but more deep than the fashion is why you wore those specific clothes.”

He tells me a story about clothes. His family didn’t have a lot of money so they saved cash by handing clothes down from one sibling to the next. It was frugal and smart with five kids. By the time my friend got the clothes (he was number four of the five) the strain of wear, the places his mother had stitched up, was obvious. And his little brother then got new clothes because four was the limit of the physical shirts and pants.

My friend spends a lot of money on fashion. He wears the latest trends and has a closet full of suits. He says he spends maybe a third of his take-home on shoes. “That’s culture in real time.”

I don’t dress up for much. I own no suits. I have ties but they’re mostly Marvel, Star Wars, and Beatles ties. My dress shoes are either decent tennis shoes or boots. When I was a kid, my mother wanted to please her aunt. Her aunt was a church-goer so we joined her church. I remember the day she told me I couldn’t go to church because my clothes weren’t up to snuff. “You can’t go to church dressed like that!” she guffawed.

I recall being embarrassed. I didn’t have anything nicer. She laughed at my best clothes. It obviously stuck because I still cringe at the memory. As a result, I bristle at the idea of dressing up for anything or for anybody and I do not go to church. “That’s culture in real time.”

While a follower of The Avengers as a kid, I was never a fan of Captain America. No good reason for that. Steve Rogers just never did it for me. That is, until Chris Evans portrayed the character in the MCU movies. Maybe it was my time to appreciate his retro-goodness; maybe I needed to be a bit older to fully appreciate his specific kind of superhero.

Perhaps I needed to live some life before the ideas that the “I can do this all day” persistence did me any good. The belief in something so strong that he’d go against all of his friends in a fight. His loyalty to Bucky despite the fact that his childhood friend had become a villain. His enduring love for Peggy Carter. His stalwart acceptance that he is almost a century older than he looks and most of his friends are long dead.

I didn’t need those values as a kid. I need those values today.

Dana is fourteen years younger than I am. No, I wasn’t looking for a third wife who was born when I was entering high school. It just worked out that way. The age difference feels sometimes like I was encased in ice for seventy-five years only to be resurrected long after the war was won.

The differences we have are bizarrely cultural. She is a free spirit. I am a worker bee. She is a poet in need of inspiration and subject to the mood swings of that breed of writer. I am an essayist who approaches writing like the laying of bricks to build a house who becomes more a follower of Stoicism the older I get. She grew up in the same house she was born in. I grew up moving from place to place with no true sense of a physical grounding. She is relentlessly frugal. I am an impulse buyer.

But we make it work.

Once in a while I wake up in the morning to take a leak and the toilet water is blue.

[i-am-a-fan-of-empty-spaces]

in which i revisit everything i’ve written in the past year to mine for quotes. don’t bother reading.

romance goals: no jealousy, no insecurity, no pressure, no forced friendships, no pursuit. just me, like i always am, only full of fawning adoration

“1P-LSD was a very emotional experience, intense for a guy like myself who considers himself something of a tough guy and an egghead. I had many moments-- thank God nobody saw me--- of simultaneously laughing and crying with extreme intensity. The very things in life that are pathetic... are staggeringly hilarious, and vice-versa. And for the same reasons. The crying had to do with becoming aware of how all creatures hurt and suffer at times... and the laughing is all about my instinctive knowledge that 'God' is always there with infinite forgiveness. So one minute, I'd find myself crying with shame and pathos... then the very next moment finding it all uproariously, staggeringly, cosmically funny, because I knew that God always loves me and forgives me.”

i have a fascination with fungi. the way they sprout out of bodies, the way they turn bodies into these blooming colorful gardens no longer living but also not quite dead. i dream a lot about dead things, sick things, blind and naked writhing things, things covered in beetles and ants and beautiful fungi.

“I've got a really detailed fantasy world that I escape into in my imagination when I'm lying in bed at night or driving alone, where I've been in an accident and my life was saved by transplanting my brain into the body of a ten year old girl. She was in a vegetative state and her body had been donated to medical science. The doctor performed the operation illegally and therefore had to pass me off as a real ten year old girl. In my new life, I get placed into foster care and then adopted by a family whose ten year old daughter I go to school with, and have a lesbian relationship with. I have been having this fantasy for over ten years now. I could fill thirty seasons of a bad harem anime...”

“The first time we had dinner together, I told her a story from high school about sitting on a porch swing and thinking about all the things that might happen to me, and how I never thought I'd end up in Chicago across a table from Sarah Urist. And she said, "Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia," which I put in my book Looking for Alaska.”

“Pedal, since just a you when you’re sucking beneath shut a grinning wriggling, trembling spruce over nothing arms. “

“[Ikuhara] On this point, Anno-san and I differ in our way of creating. I'm not trying to connect anime and voice that much. But if I have a sentiment close to that, I think it's the complex about the body. I have moments where I think that, not just anime, but nothing can win against the human body. A while ago I was watching the Nagano Olympics on TV. There was this girl who was nothing special during her interview, but who became sublime when she started skating. It was only for instant while she was doing it, but I felt like God was dwelling in her body. A moment when I thought there was nothing more beautiful in the whole world. And it's not like her body changed, either. It's that kind of complex towards the human body that I've got. Even though my work is in anime, I have moments when I doubt we matter compared to a real body. When counting on the actors to do something, I wonder if what I'm actually looking for is corporeality.”

if i were a ghost who couldn’t move on to the next life, it would be because i wouldn’t be able to stop watching the people i love. i would be so unable to look away and so filled with longing for them and enthralled by their actions that i would forget i was dead. i would stir shit up in their lives and bring in fun and excitement. i would throw things off their shelves and cause a commotion so loud they would know it’s me.

“ The last thing I can recall while inside the van was everything switched to a birds eye view. I saw the entire accident occur but from about 50ft in the air. This is likely a vivid concussion of some sort but I can't at all remember "feeling" the crash just observing. I woke up in some random ladies arms whom was crying immensely trying to comfort me, all while I had no idea what happen. When I was watching from above I saw myself in my mothers arms but woke up to a stranger.”

“Sandwiched in-between the enthusiastic, conversation-seeking Ne and the opinioned, action-driven Te, is Fi. It’s pesky, because it’s not a dominant, so often at the time, they don’t know how they feel about things. Unlike Fe-users,talking about how they feel won’t help them solidify their feelings; they find it uncomfortable to discuss their deepest feelings. Even though they are extraordinarily kind and loving, their inability to fully put their feelings into words can make them look “cold” to outsiders. ENFPs would rather take an outsider’s perspective to their own emotions, in an attempt to understand them; they’ prefer to discuss how they reacted to something (through action … Te) than how it made them feel. Typically, when something bad goes down in their life, they work through it alone. Sometimes, they might want to open up to someone and talk about it, but the idea of doing so is so deeply uncomfortable that they suppress it, or never send that e-mail, or tear up that letter. Because their Te is such close friends with their Fi, though, they are more obviously emotional than their introverted cousins, since they’re not as good at hiding their feelings. It channels into Te, which kicks into action (and can make us cry, dammit, even if we don’t want to).

Fi is private, but it’s also directly behind Ne, which is very forthcoming in “sharing,” while channeling into Te “directness,” so often they can “over-share” when they are young, and as they get older, may become more reserved and private (particularly if being too open with their views in the past has caused them pain). They’re most comfortable using metaphors and indirect ways of expressing their emotions and although they can be very kind and helpful in a bad situation, are somewhat envious of Fe’s ability to say the right thing at the right time. Their Te enables them to act on their feelings, morals, and principles, and be confrontational if necessarily, but typically these confrontations are objections to shutting down ideas (Ne), moral judgments they disagree with (Fi), or general unfairness (Fi), rather than confrontation on their own emotional behalf. If you hurt an ENFP, they will turn on passive-aggressive behavior rather than call you out on it like a Fe-user might.”

we were stopping at a place to rest for the night. the town wasn’t right, it was probably a town of vampires. this house we stopped at had doors raised a foot and a half above the ground. inside, the window curtains were sown shut. a door leading to the next room was only a foot and a half high. a song was playing, some kind of folk song. the place was empty.

god was not there in the beginning. god robbed our mother of her children. god killed mother and cut her into 21 pieces, now she lies asleep at the bottom of the world. on the last day she will climb back to heaven, she will eat his flesh and drink his blood, she will carry us home.

“When I was about 10 my parents sent me to summer camp in Minnesota. It was a large establishment right by a thick forest. The first night we played capture the flag, and I got lost in the woods. It was getting dark out and I distinctly remember the fireflies starting to light up around me. There was one in particular which was larger than the rest, so out of juvenile instinct I thought I should try and catch it. Every time I swiped for it it would disappear and reappear further in the woods. I did this for about 5 minutes when I finally looked up and realized I was deep in the woods and it was almost pitch black. I started screaming out of fear and luckily people came to my aid. Looking back at it I know deep down that I was not chasing a firefly. I frequently look up what it could be, but honestly haven't the slightest.”

i want to tell a story about a world like where i am right now, in a town that is warm even in january, with big skies and quickly moving clouds. it will be about me and my spirit friend smoking cigarettes on roofs, and a friendly android that works at a cafe in the neighboring town, and a train that passes through the town every so often, and huge storms in the spring, and an old schoolhouse, and the smell of wet grass. we will pass our days like this for a while.

if i were to write like a manifesto for what i want to do in life, i think it would be to experience the intensity of feelings in the moment and hold them close to me and know that i’m alive, and to watch this aliveness in other people, and to celebrate it, and somewhere in there is the hope that everything, morality and God and truth, will unfold from this if I hold it closely enough.

i think when i'm sad the world and God together become this beautiful thing for me. some non-self that i want very badly to consume the self. to transform it through suffering and sex and beauty and horror. i want to throw myself into the open arms of the world. i feel very much like i'm in love a lot of the time, but not with any person. just an intensity and excitement that grows and grows and when i'm sad looms over me like the weight of heaven

“I came to this dilapidated temple when I was thirty-two. One night in a dream my mother came and presented me with a purple robe made of silk. When I lifted it, both sleeves seemed very heavy, and on examining them I found an old mirror, five or six inches in diameter, in each sleeve. The reflection from the mirror in the right sleeve penetrated to my heart and vital organs. My own mind, mountains and rivers, the great earth seemed serene and bottomless. The mirror in the left sleeve, however, gave off no reflection whatsoever. Its surface was like that of a new pan that had yet to be touched by flames. But suddenly I became aware that the luster of the mirror from the left sleeve was innumerable times brighter than the other. After this, when I looked at all things, it was as though I were seeing my own face. For the first time I understood the meaning of the saying, "The Tathagata sees the Buddha-nature within his eye."”

NEXT TIME I GO ON VACATION I WON’T BRING GLASSES OR CONTACTS. I WON’T BE ABLE TO READ ANYTHING OR SEE ANYONE’S FACE. THE WORLD WILL BE A MUDDLED BLUR. I WILL HAVE TO PRACTICE THE ART OF SURRENDER AND TRUST IN MY LOVED ONES. IT WILL BE FUN.

“writing is catharsis. it aids the reader in catharsis. it must be written as an act of catharsis. in doing it, you must feel absolutely compelled to do it by some divine force. it must be written with a beating heart if it is to have a beating heart. the best writing comes when in moments of unspeakable joy you write letters in gratitude to everything and everyone around you, without pausing to press backspace, then hide the writing away for future selves to read. it comes when in the midst of drunkenness you ramble incoherently about everything that has been happening in these past weeks because you’re sick of keeping it to yourself. it is like deep conversations.

writing is a description of the self and requires that you live honestly and keep your gaze fixed on yourself. feel intensely, spend time with your thoughts, pinpoint and dissect them in pictures and words and conversations. every feeling in your life is part of a larger map of something holy that can’t be described in words, some feeling of the Fullness of Being Alive. maybe you’re on the bus coming back from a town in the mountains late at night, and you pass by a forest, and something about it feels strange and sick and wrong. hold that feeling close, take a shitty picture of trees in the dark, let yourself feel the sickness and wrongness so much that it scares you, remember that moment. you read a poem about a stream divided by rocks, and it makes you fall apart and cry, and you don’t know why—it doesn’t matter why, copy that poem, write it on your shirt, write it in abandoned buildings, make it a manifesto. you see a picture on tumblr that’s absolutely angelic and holy. get that picture printed on a poster. hang it in your room, look at it often. over time the picture of that Something Holy will slowly become clearer. you’ll become more loving and accepting of the darkness in your own heart and in the hearts of others, you’ll become more comfortable expressing it.

writing is performance. when i was in in 9th grade, my art teacher loved absolutely everything i drew and believed i was special among her students. she asked me questions about my life, shared moments from hers. i felt like she was seeing me through my art, and that i was an interesting person, and perhaps this wasn’t true or healthy, but i was compelled by this to keep creating, creating interesting things, pretentious things, bold things. angels with holes in their hearts, flocks of crows, haunted dolls. that was the year i wanted to be a manga artist. i felt like i had something interesting to say that nobody else could say. if you want to create, you must be brave, you must believe that you’re interesting and that the contents of your heart are interesting—to yourself, to friends, to the General Public, to God? i don’t know. but if you can believe that, and art becomes a way of breathing for you, letting yourself into the world, i believe that you’ll one day write well, or express the contents of your heart beautifully however you choose to do it. 

technique does matter a lot, sure. it’s a tool for conveying, it’s how you speak to the public and to yourself. writing is an act of clarifying, technique gives you the skills to express with greater clarity. but the message you bear, the beating heart of art, that’s the real point. if you focus on making what you think is good, the technique will always follow, as you try desperate to shake out that feeling of not being able to write how you want, as you search for the right words and images in the quiet moments of your life. “

What is the creepiest thing you have witnessed out at sea? “When diving, a huge seiner net drifting towards you. It wasn't anchored or attached to anything. Just a huge whirling cloud of death, full of barnacles and dolphin skeletons and decomposing fish.”

“When you were born, your mother told me, a hush fell over the delivery room. A great red birthmark covered the left side of your face. No one knew what to say, so you cried to fill the vacuum.”

“When I was coming round from the operation, I remember the light they shone in my eyes to check for pupil contraction. It was like staring up at a moonlit sky from the bottom of well. People moved at the summit but I could not tell if you were one of them.”

after an accident, whenever a man closes his eyes, he sees a hole in a wall looking out to an opposite wall in a hallway. this persists for several years, and then one day it goes away. years later, he comes across a hallway with the same wallpaper. disturbed, he looks over the wall for holes.

“When a person relies too heavily on Fi at the expense of Te, their outlook will be too subjective. This leads to feelings of isolation or disconnectedness because you will feel like an island, i.e., you will have no way of verifying whether what you believe or value is appropriate or healthy or adaptive because you have nothing outside of your own experience to use for comparison or measurement. This is why high Fi users have an underlying need for validation. They need some way to verify the worthiness of their own beliefs and values. What they actually need is to learn that all humans share certain universal values and, until they can get in touch with those universal values through better balance with Te, they will be very prone to developing some form of low self-confidence, or they will easily fall into feeling insecure or uncertain about things.”

i think that one of my greatest assets is my ability to communicate honestly to others about my own feelings. i’m able to express my discomfort with a situation while not placing blame on them. “i feel this way right now,” but also “i have this motivation here and it might not be right and i feel bad about it” and “i understand you might feel this way and i’m not trying to invalidate that, i just want to talk”. it’s something that takes a lot of effort to act out, usually. my gut reaction is to get defensive or angry or abrasive when i feel something threatening my values or identity, and it takes quiet time alone and deliberateness and urgency to feel the need to communicate more nuanced and honest feelings. usually, it’s something that happens after a whole lot of frustration has built up with no resolution. but the fact that i can, that i have in the past put my defensiveness aside in talking to my parents and to people who have hurt me, i think it’s something i’m glad i can do. i also think it’s about a state of security, as in, there are states where it’s absolutely impossible to do this. it takes a safe place alone and security in my own worth for me to reflect without feeling my identity threatened. i don’t think suffering automatically creates moral strength—that’s an idea that gets tossed around in the bible study. i think in most people who lack self-worth already it further hardens the walls around them against the world. but i think when you finally do find a place of security, suffering can reveal who you are. the security is important, though.

“I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that all the humiliating absurdity of human contradictions will vanish like a pitiful mirage, like the despicable fabrication of the impotent and infinitely small Euclidean mind of man, that in the world's finale, at the moment of eternal harmony, something so precious will come to pass that it will suffice for all hearts, for the comforting of all resentments, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity, for all the blood that they've shed; that it will make it not only possible to forgive but to justify all that has happened.”

i am getting tired of drawing and i tried drawing today and it seemed so pointless like lines on paper, and maybe writing lacks the INSTANTANEOUSNESS and REALITY i am looking for. on nights when i am especially reckless my main thought is always that i need something new something LOUD, that broadcasts the message like a punch, that knocks the SPIRIT out of you. practice is boring, patience is boring. they say dig a six foot well instead of six one foot wells. i say dig one hundred million one foot wells with speed and recklessness until the entire top layer of soil is gone then dig another hundred million one foot wells and then continue until there is no surface and the ancient seas are all that remain. this requires no skill, only sincerity and a willingness to scream.

i think there's a tendency for some people to want to look for reasons and lessons from events in their life so they have a sense of control over what went wrong, so they can feel that it’s no longer a problem for them. the problem with this is that you’re looking for reasons as a defense instead of thoroughly figuring out what this event means to YOU. like, you may be totally right, but WHY do you need reasons for what happened? why do you need a lesson from the event? why is your first instinct for every small event in your social life to find a life lesson to learn from it? is this self-serving in any way? i would say: logic is a terrific tool for self-deception. don't look for lessons first thing. the real lessons you need to find will find you if you examine yourself enough. never have unshakable faith in these moments of insight. entertain the thoughts, let the thoughts pass and if they're right they'll show themselves to be right. it’s more important to ask the right questions than to find the right answers.

there are events in life that will absolutely change your perspective and stay with you forever. when you come across them in life, give thanks to God. but your whole life has become an attempt to maximize these moments and that misses the point. you will not climb your way to heaven through these moments. if you let go of all of these moments, the things that you need to find you will still find you. once in awhile, learn to let go of everything entirely and let God come to you.

“Artaud expressed his admiration for Eastern forms of theatre, particularly the Balinese. He admired Eastern theatre because of the codified, highly ritualized and precise physicality of Balinese dance performance, and advocated what he called a "Theatre of Cruelty". At one point, he stated that by cruelty he meant not exclusively sadism or causing pain, but just as often a violent, physical determination to shatter the false reality. He believed that text had been a tyrant over meaning, and advocated, instead, for a theatre made up of a unique language, halfway between thought and gesture. Artaud described the spiritual in physical terms, and believed that all theatre is physical expression in space.”

“I am not ashamed of reading self-help books, or of liking them despite the fact that they do not possess the subtlety or nuance or pacing of the classics. "Show, don't tell" kind of disappears: you are being told more often than you are being shown in these sorts of reads about how to deal with feelings and emotions, which can be off-putting to like-minded fiction buffs, but I feel like my readings in fiction led me here. This is in part because I was seeking counseling in my fiction: counseling in sadness, wisdom on relationships, insights into how to stay enriched in life despite how awful life can be. Fiction can do this for sure. But at some point I felt like the slow-drip of self-help for which I was exploiting fiction - and the pressure I was placing on the form of the novel to grant me these answers - was a means by which I was misreading fiction and doing a disservice to myself.”

“at the risk of sounding super kiss-ass, though i think this is true - i don't think your personality punches people in the face. i think your personality is super magical and amazing and externalized with an uncompromising honesty and stark clarity that makes it difficult to not be changed by”

It is Thursday, April 14, 2016. I am on a bus returning to Taipei from Taichung. The ride has put me in a strange mood. I wish I could capture it for you. I’m passing by these buildings lit by colored lights, bright blue and green and red, and the night is foggy, and the lights bleed into the fog and make it glow strange colors. There are big concrete highway overpasses weaving over and under each other, illuminated by rows of street lamps giving off an orange glow. I will attach a picture if I have the time. I’m happy. The world is holding me close like a womb. I am thinking of people I know and love, people I do not yet know but would love, I’m thinking of wandering into this night with them, sitting in cafes and looking them in the eye,

excerpts from hearn letters:

i am living in a sea of endless chaotic ideas, flying from one to another at seeming random, unable to zoom out. my spirit animal is a magpie, collector of shiny objects, trapped and dying in a box of christmas ornaments.

everything in life is so terrifyingly uncertain and every rule has its exception, and i am paralyzed by the complexity of it all. my other spirit animal is the trilobite: immobile, thoughtless, asleep for eons under petrified oceans.

i float above the tops of the trees in the night and arrive at your door by morning

salvia:

“I noticed the entire courtyard starting to shift, not with my eyes. But with a very strong feeling, akin to a grand Ferris wheel starting it's cumbersome first spin after a season of dormant winter.”

“The first time I thought I was a book and my pages were flipping in the wind. Turned out I was spinning in the kitchen against the wall.”

“With eyes closed, I could see these spinning wheels diving left to right, and the force was there, a very carnival-like yet child-like force I must say.”

“The wheel is something all too common. I always get the impression that this wheel is rolling over our reality, or creating our reality in its wake.”

there’s an answer somewhere in the tangled mass of thoughts in my head, and i keep reaching in that direction, trying to bring this thing out of myself and lay it out before the both of us, but i don’t know, i feel like it’s not making sense to you. i don’t think i’m speaking the right words. when it makes sense to you, it does only in bits and pieces. i’m sorry if this comes off as harsh: sometimes i feel like you’re grabbing for familiar reference points in order to understand me.

“Honestly though, I think sometimes people just dislike someone, maybe for a legitimate reason, but then constantly look for more reasons to justify it and find it in things that don't really matter.”

“Sentimentality is simply emotion shying away from its own full implications. Behind every sentimental narrative there’s the possibility of another one — more richly realized, more faithful to the fine grain and contradictions of human experience. The distinctive characteristic of sentimental art is not, as is sometimes claimed, that it “manipulates” (all art does this in some measure) but that it manipulates by knowingly simplifying, Photoshopping or otherwise distorting the human experience it purports to represent. It isn’t sentimental for Dickens to want us to feel compassion for Jo, the homeless street sweeper; it is sentimental for Dickens to try to secure that compassion by making Jo more virtuous, humble and forbearing than any boy who ever lived.”

maybe to make art requires a kind of discipline, a kind of insistence that everything else must be sacrificed for the product, for the beauty, and i lack this discipline. i want too badly to satisfy other, momentary impulses.

“I think that sometimes people place their faith too readily in the ways in which consuming narrative or art makes us more empathetic. I feel like The New York Times puts out an op-ed every six months about empathy and reading! But Empathy and the Novel, by Suzanne Keen, basically poses a skeptical view of that and even suggests that there’s a way in which empathizing for fictional characters relieves—we feel like we’ve done our work, but there weren’t really any stakes to that work. Because empathizing with a fictional character didn’t necessitate any kind of action.”

“Religion is the outcome neither of the fear of death, nor of the fear of God. It answers a deep need in man. It is neither a metaphysic, nor a morality, but above all and essentially an intuition and a feeling. ... Dogmas are not, properly speaking, part of religion: rather it is that they are derived from it. Religion is the miracle of direct relationship with the infinite; and dogmas are the reflection of this miracle.”

a few years ago i went back to virginia with my parents and i thought everything would have disappeared but it didn’t. everything was still there, the people in my church hadn’t changed at all. i was invited to play tabletop RPGs with my friend again. i took a walk to my high school. the hallways there were all the same. that week i was filled with all the feelings i used to feel, that guilt and loneliness but also the longing, and i didn’t want to leave.

“In prose, the worst thing one can do with words is surrender to them. When you think of a concrete object, you think wordlessly, and then, if you want to describe the thing you have been visualising you probably hunt about until you find the exact words that seem to fit it. When you think of something abstract you are more inclined to use words from the start, and unless you make a conscious effort to prevent it, the existing dialect will come rushing in and do the job for you, at the expense of blurring or even changing your meaning. Probably it is better to put off using words as long as possible and get one's meaning as clear as one can through pictures and sensations. Afterward one can choose — not simply accept — the phrases that will best cover the meaning, and then switch round and decide what impressions one's words are likely to make on another person.”

“We have no idea, now, of who or what the inhabitants of our future might be. In that sense, we have no future. Not in the sense that our grandparents had a future, or thought they did. Fully imagined cultural futures were the luxury of another day, one in which 'now' was of some greater duration. For us, of course, things can change so abruptly, so violently, so profoundly, that futures like our grandparents' have insufficient 'now' to stand on. We have no future because our present is too volatile.”

dipping hands in cool water in an empty garden. wet leaves stuck to skin.

there is a sort of joy in the scrambling of the tarot cards, like the scrambling of the contents of the mind. then in the drawing of the random cards, saying "the truth is for sure this" and believing it. surrendering the self to novelty. every act of magic is a surrender of self. the results are irrelevant.

a few gods of light and countless primordial gods

“Days, weeks, or sometimes even years later, such people may suddenly emerge from the fugue state and find themselves in a strange place, working in a new occupation, with no idea how they got there.”

“Jones (1909, as cited in Kihlstrom & Schacter, 2000) studied a patient with dense amnesia and found that although he could not remember his wife’s or daughter’s names, when asked to guess what names might t them, he produced their names correctly. “

one of inio asano’s techniques is those moments where panels are suddenly cut away but a huge spread of a single frozen moment. speech is cut away by a shocking reveal, extraneous actions of people are frozen by shock, etc.

“The first time this happened to me was when I was pregnant with my 3rd child. I heard what I thought was my husband coming home (our bedroom was upstairs), I heard the door shut and him run up the stairs, i laid in bed w my eyes closed waiting for him to get back in bed, i figured he got rained out at work. Well he didnt get back in bed and when i lifted my head to look for him there was a man standing in front of me in a running suit, he had his hood on and no face, it was shadowed out, i was sooo scared and couldnt move! then he leaned down to me with his hand reaching out to my belly--i closed my eyes really tight as i was so scared and felt sumthings weird as if something went inside my stomache.(this happened 8 years ago) throughout the pregnancy there would be times when my body would vibrate and I was unable to move, the day I gave birth to my son it happened again in the hospital only this time felt like something left my stomache”

maybe i would say at its core i see religious belief as a language that can be used to sacralize concepts. religion makes things holy, religion creates worlds where these holy-fied things become the central pivot for their reality. i want to play with this language, write stories with it, change my world over and over again in interesting and beautiful and scary and fun ways.

rule: overkill is always better than underkill. everything should always be a little bit too much. beauty should be overwhelming, sweetness sugary and cloying, music so loud it hurts. things aren’t effective on the psyche unless they have the power to threaten. the mind’s natural inclination is always to fight to remain in control, but the problem is that so long as the mind is in control it will make things ugly, because to exist is ugly. art is effective when it crushes you in between its teeth.

if someone genuinely loves something deeply and is changed by that thing and you don’t respect their love as sacred then i think you’re doing something morally wrong

maybe you ARE fucked up, but maybe (i don’t yet agree, but MAYBE) it’s not important to find out a standard for ultimate good and bad or to fix everything about you that’s bad, and instead maybe you should just do what you can to make you feel okay about yourself and group off with other people who are more or less okay with your fucked up ness. and if you still get in other people’s way and ruin stuff by oversharing or crossing boundaries or saying mean things accidentally then maybe shrug and say whatever.”

“Go higher than every height and lower than every depth. Collect in yourself all the sensations of what has been made, of fire and water, dry and wet; be everywhere at once, on land, in the sea, in heaven; be not yet born, be in the womb, be young, old, dead, beyond death. And when you have understood all these at once—times, places, things, qualities, quantities—then you can understand God.”

reading pun pun has made me more aware of just how little control we have over who we are… like, shimizu who joins a cult, and pun pun who can’t seem to connect to other people for any good reason, their lives are not all that different from mine. i think of the very real possibility i could go down some dead end road, it feels realer than it did before. usually i believe that if we follow goodness and beauty we will find fulfillment in our lives, and that this is something we can reach by being honest about our feelings. but lately i’ve been thinking that we need help from outside ourselves and a whole lot of blind luck to get there.

“York’s comment—his criticism of New Age shamanism because those shamans do not fear—is the key to understanding the unique features of this modern spirituality and the reason it has become so compelling. The person who practices modern magic doesn’t fear the jaguar’s claw or anything else (like dark supernatural forces) because on some fundamental and basic level, the person knows that the magic may not be real and so magic can be simply fun. This is not an ontological claim about magic but an observation about secular modernity. Those who practice modern magic are acutely aware that other people like themselves do not believe in magic. They set out to make the magic real in the face of a presumption of its non-realness. They are not describing an enchanted world but a re-enchanted one, which is a very different proposition, because the baseline—for practitioners—is non-enchantment.”

“Media theorist Jonathan Sterne, writing of early sound documentation and reproducibility as a result of the advent of phonography, explains how progress in aural archiving coincided with improvements in archiving the human body through embalming techniques. He writes, “…if sound reproduction simplifies vibration in new ways, if we learn to ‘hear’ other areas of the vibrating world, then it would make sense that we might pick up the voices of the dead. In this formulation, the medium is the metaphysics. The metaphorization of the human body, mind, and soul follows the medium currently in vogue””

THE BLACK BOX: in the story, there will be something like a computer terminal that connects to something like the internet. the catch is that when people use it, they go into a trance state, and because of this, what they see will be SLIGHTLY distorted by their own dreams and fears.

people who spend too much time inside the box are immersed in their minds to a degree where they begin NOT to see who they really are, they begin to get USED to seeing with their own cognitive distortions. when this happens they get more disconnected from reality. this is a type of burnout that happens frequently with the people who use the box—they have to take a break and use grounding exercises to remain grounded in reality.

one subject of collective fascination is the contents of the box from hundreds of years ago. this stuff is distorted beyond recognition, and many people believe that the distortions have turned it into something like a holy book for the collective unconscious.

one way to avoid the distortions is to fragment your personality so that the part of you that’s consciously in control of your body isn’t the part receiving information from the box. this is the origin of familiars in this world—fragmented selves who are always connected to the box, who become feral and alien but also holy and fearsome because of prolonged exposure to it.

great paradox of life: the more stuff i CAN do, the more bored i am. i'm like "yeah this is alright but i could be doing something better". but when i'm on a vacation with no internet, every game and anime i have on my computer is suddenly way cooler. boredom relies on the promise of better things.

“A mandorla is a vesica piscis shaped aureola which surrounds the figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary in traditional Christian art. It is commonly used to frame the figure of Christ in Majesty in early medieval and Romanesque art, as well as Byzantine art of the same periods. The term refers to the almond like shape: “mandorla” means almond nut in Italian. In icons of the Eastern Orthodox Church, the mandorla is used to depict sacred moments which transcend time and space, such as the Resurrection, Transfiguration, and the Dormition of the Theotokos. These mandorla will often be painted in several concentric patterns of color which grow darker as they come close to the center. This is in keeping with the church’s use of Apophatic theology, as described by Dionysius the Areopagite and others. As holiness increases, there is no way to depict its brightness, except by darkness.”