#and yet I am still insufficiently salted

[tj-crochets]

In the category of new and unpleasant muscle spasms, I found out if I have bad enough muscle spasms* in my throat it can make me cough so hard it almost triggers an asthma attack but my inhaler doesn't help I'm okay now but wow that was unpleasant, so I will not be sewing any more fish tonight

*I have salt wasting syndrome and the electrolyte messed-upped-ness can lead to muscle spasms. I have been tested for nerve and muscle issues, I don't have them, it's just salt problems

[sheafrotherdon]

A sequel to Not All That Wander (also at AO3)

*

For many weeks after there is sand and dust by day and the insufficient protection of blankets by night, and Yusuf cannot still his mind or his heart. He feels pulled to and fro by his conscience, by his mind, despite the seasons he has had to make peace with his lot. He yearns for water as every man in the desert must, but more, he yearns for the ocean, for salt and storms and cresting waves that could bear him home. A child’s wish, he realizes; a futile longing. He thinks of mother’s firm instruction and his father’s indulgence and wonders if his siblings would recognize him, or he them. He cannot—so fundamental a thing—understand the magic that presses vitality into his flesh when it would rip him from those he loves and leave him alone.

And yet he is not wholly abandoned. Nicolo stays with him, and does so out of something more than his first keen terror. They had staggered from battle stained with blood and dirt, their ears ringing with the confused pain of the dying, and Yusuf had seen in Nicolo’s face the panic he felt upon his own. Yet they deferred without question to the awful miracle that had driven their swords into each other’s bodies and dragged them back from the brink of damnation or reward. Their steps had faltered, but they were matched. To be yoked together was foul and bitter, and yet Yusuf found there became something dependable about the very stench of Nicolo’s body at his side. Yusuf felt sure that spirits did not shit and sweat as he and the Frank did, nor rush to sink up to their armpits in the first river they found with twin groans of aggrieved relief. There was reassurance to be had knowing they had not surrendered their base humanity when first they did not die.

Yusuf pokes now at the fire as Nicolo sleeps beside him, a man he has killed again and again and whom he no longer wishes to suffer. More, he admits—he would rather imagine a future built from the rubble of his life with Nicolo in it than not, a conclusion he has turned over and over in his mind, trying to find a maker’s mark etched into the clay of such foolishness, forced at least to admit he is the craftsman who has forged the idea. Yusuf shifts his crossed legs, the better to return feeling to one of his feet, and rocks forward with his eyes closed as a wave of feeling twists through him. He could still howl to the crescent moon with the force of missing his family, and yet the man beside him gave him a crumpled shirt and he found himself comforted.

“I am not built to contain these things,” he whispers into the dark.

The darkness does not reply.

[manufactoredxbyxdesign]

🍎 🍎 🍎 (Three is the magic number in Heck okay 😭)

For every 🍎 I get, my muse must confess one of their sins.

"I cut things off at the root before they have a chance to grow. I will salt the earth before I let someone's vine grow freely in the garden of my mind. I am unkind even when only a firm 'no' would have sufficed - to keep others out I have made myself so barbed and jagged around the edges that the temptation is insufficient.

Yet...a part of me still wants someone to reach in. Beyond the stings.

I'm not sure why. Because I'd never never them in. Maybe I just enjoy the futility of it all."

[andromeda3116]

oh my god these cookies (which i do every year!) have been a complete clusterfuck like

i realized that i didn't have enough butter when gathering the ingredients, which is frustrating, but like, there's a walgreens on the end of the block, i can just walk up there and grab some. problem is, all they have is salted butter, which is not what you want when baking. however! i think, i also only have all-purpose flour rather than the self-rising that the recipe calls for, so i was already planning to add salt anyway. i'll just add a little less. this actually ended up not being a problem, but i should have seen it as a sign

one of my coworkers is gluten-free (mild sensitivity, not allergy), so i picked up some gluten-free flour and intend to set aside some of the mix and make some gluten-free for her. i get overeager and pull aside mix before adding eggs. in fact, i forget the eggs entirely until after i've added the flour

cue rapid googling "gluten-free egg substitutes you can find in your pantry"

peanut butter, apparently, can be used in place of eggs. i have absolutely no idea how much to use, since i didn't really measure a specific amount of mix to pull aside. i just kinda dollop some in there until the consistency looks right and hope for the best

right also i fucking forgot to put the eggs in until after the flour was in

i cannot stress enough that i make cookies quite often, and this specific recipe every year for the holidays

my bowl -- the largest bowl i have -- is not quite large enough and bits of dough keep falling out over the side or getting slung into the netherworld by the mixer

(this recipe makes over three hundred cookies. not hyperbole)

my kitchen is a fucking mess

my mixer gives up the ghost halfway through blending the flour and sugar mixture

this recipe calls for three different kinds of chips, walnuts, and oats, none of which i have yet added

i'm about to get fucking j a c k e d

i'm literally tossing chips and nuts and oats into the mix with salad utensils

i realize that i have forgotten the cinnamon and nutmeg, which i was supposed to sift into the flour, and which are fairly crucial parts of this recipe's flavor profile

I HAVE MADE THESE COOKIES MANY TIMES

I AM NOT DRUNK OR ANYTHING THIS IS JUST LIKE. AN ADHD ATTACK

i am a cup short on oats because of fucking course i am

"oh well," i think, "it won't make that big a difference, right?"

it has definitely made a difference

or maybe my salad tossing* was insufficient to mix the oats in properly

(*intentional)

like, it's not bad. but the cookies are just a little too sweet with too few oats to balance them out, and the texture is just slightly off from normal

otoh, the gluten-free ones actually came out good, considering it was my first attempt at gluten-free, i eyeballed everything that went into it, and the Egg Fiasco. they're a little powdery and drier than i'd like, but still good

i'm four pans down and you cannot tell i have made a dent in the bowl of cookie dough

[askhubertvonvestra]

Lord Vestra, your eyes pierce the soul with immense coldness and instill a great amount of fear the goddess herself couldn't replicate, Yet they are strikingly beautiful. They appear to glow they're so vibrant in color, and it's blatant in the dark, which can be terrifying for the right person in your case. Ah, but you probably already know that. I imagine you don't get a great deal of compliments with that piercing gaze of yours, but I notice the underlying beauty of darkness, and you are no exception. You can take my words with a grain of salt if you must, but I have to wonder, what would happen if you put all that hidden charm to use, hm? I know I'm not the only one who sees your assets, and a lesser person might cave at the prospect of earning an ounce of your affection. Perhaps even in exchange of... information? Something to think about, my Lord. Regardless of all that, I hope the days are treating you well. May you find the opportunity, however brief, to rest between contracts.

Frankly, our full supply of salt would be insufficient to express my skepticism at your flattering remarks. I’ve heard often that my eyes are piercing, cold, and forbidding. This, I believe readily. The applications of their fear-inducing qualities are highly familiar to me.

Few are those find beauty in them, and fewer still have my trust. Trust that took years to earn and to cultivate. As such, it cannot hope to be replicated in this one exchange.

There is no ‘hidden charm’ to use or develop. Even if there were, nothing would come of its use. Better that I continue as I am, and those who have deluded themselves into perceiving any such striking beauty in me can uncover the truth on their own schedule.

My network is vast and its agents, talented. If I wanted information through those means, rest assured that I have countless contacts in the shadows who are poised and prepared for such a pursuit. I leave nothing to chance.

But allow me to end this on a light note as you have. May your days also be favorable. Now, if you’ll excuse me, one such contract requires my attention.

[tolkienhorror]

My pain, your thrill, chapter 2

Warnings: Abuse, torture, cbt, watersports.

Please note: This was created on a tumblr prompt given by @outofangband  on my main blog. Prompt: Morgoth/Sauron, Omorashi

************************************************************************************* ************************************************************************************* *************************************************************************************

"Where do you think you're going, Lieutenant?"

Mairon cursed inwardly but he knew better than to turn his back on his Lord when he was regarded with that certain icy hiss in Melkor's voice, especially in front of a whole group of orc and Balrog commanders. Oh, so one of those days it was. "I have a pressing matter in my office to tend to, milord. It will be but a minute." He tried, though he knew how small chances were of convincing his master once Melkor had got it in his head that this was another good moment to remind Mairon of his place.

Of the annoying fact that years after what had probably the biggest failure in Mairon’s career, he still deserved retaliation at every chance, even and especially in the presence of others. Nothing better to keep possibly rebellious minions in check than demonstrating every now and then that not even the highest people in Melkor's ranks were safe from his power. And that very decision being made in this fortress had to be sanctioned from the highest place – not least because last time Melkor had given Mairon free reign, they'd lost their most valuable prisoner. Melkor could hold grudges for an incredibly long time. "If there's any dealings more pressing than debating strategies to increase our hold on these lands, Lieutenant, maybe you would be better advised servicing the enemy." The temperature in the room seemed to drop with every of Melkor's venomous words until Mairon was shivering under the flimsy fabric of the ruby robe matching his hair that he'd chosen for this gathering in the weak hope of appealing to his master's occasional appreciation for beauty in his bedroom.

Another failure, obviously.

While the orcs, too, shivered and ducked their heads at the aggression suddenly roaring through the hall, more than one of the greyish, scarred faces showed a scornful grin.

A weak flame of delight flickered in the red sockets that were Gothmog's eyes from the other side of the room. From the way, the tip of the Balrog's whip wrapped around a leg of the table, Mairon could tell, the bastard was fondling the handle of his preferred weapon, probably daydreaming about Melkor becoming angry enough with Mairon to order him to serve his most hated rival tonight once more.

Mairon had no interest in a repeat performance of that kind and bowed his head in apology, quickly taking his place behind Melkor's chair again, his face blank as he forced himself to listen to every detail for the upcoming attack wave that he'd long memorized anyway. This was not about his uninterrupted presence in a wholly expendable meeting, of course. It was another test of will, of physical endurance. If he didn't have to be so careful about his lover invading his mind to monitor his thoughts, Mairon would probably allow himself to silently admit that he was getting a little tired of these games. Even coming up with the most attractive and mighty new shapes when the last one got too ruined became tedious at some point, especially when your master had no second look to spare for it.

It wasn't just that Melkor refused to forgive him. He refused to touch him.

Well, that was if Mairon didn't count choking on his lover's cock every once in a while. It felt like at least two Ages since Marin had last been fucked; and since his lover forbade him from finding at least his own pleasure alone, the growing yearning was mixing with more frustration by the day.

Even more so since Melkor had found out that it was a lot more fun, torturing Mairon when he also prohibited him from using any of the powers his folk was gifted with, merely reducing his physical and mental resilience to the embarrassing fragility of an elf.

Mairon wasn't only mildly irritated and impatient any longer. He was miserable. What had Eru been thinking, bringing something so flawed and insufficient to life? When it wasn't some deep cut in this far-too thin skin from his master's whip that Mairon had to sing together every other week, he ended up mending bones or pushing some organ back where it belonged. It was time consuming, it was most uncomfortable and most of all it was humiliating.

Yet, apparently, his lover was of the opinion, none of that had been humiliating enough yet. Mairon should have been suspicious already when Melkor had insisted on sharing a couple of cups of wine too many before this meeting. And he still handed him a new one without even looking at him every now and then, though Melkor himself was doing the talking and Mairon certainly had no need for any more wetting of his throat. Debauchery usually was not for either of them.

It was only now, hours in, that Mairon started to feel, he needed a bathroom break rather sooner than later. And how very inconvenient it was when you were not allowed to just cleanse your body out with a few hummed tones from your lips. It went from inconvenient to distracting after the next cup because Melkor still made no move to end this stupid discussion about arms deployment anytime soon. By now, Mairon's robe was starting to stretch uncomfortably around his midsection, and the muscles in his lower body cramped from the growing need to relieve himself. Only now, it started to dawn on him why his Lord hard insisted on him attending this gathering from this very particular spot, with no empty chair in sight. Distraction turned into annoyance and growing anxiety when the first few pairs of eyes turned his way repeatedly because it became more and more impossibly to stop shifting his weight and trying not to press his legs together too conspicuously. Inside his head he was cursing in all languages he knew the choice for this nothing of a piece of clothing, the white and gold color of which would give away immediately if he failed to control even such a primitive, basic function of this useless body for just a second. Mairon thought, he was doing a pretty good job, still hardly moving a muscle, but whenever he caught just a glimpse of his master's twisted mind in the shredded, cloudy bond between their souls, he could feel the lazy acid bubbling there that was Melkor's sadistic arousal, and he knew, his little, inaudible gasps and the heat of his temperature rising, radiating from his body more by the second, did not go unnoticed.

More than one of Mairon’s own subjects was openly leering at this point, some whispering and chuckling darkly as pale eyes watched the small beads of sweat from strain building on Mairon's forehead.

Gothmog was shamelessly staring at his midsection and licking his lips with his forked tongue, clearly indulging in the perverted fantasies of all the things he would be allowed to do tonight if Mairon managed to anger his Lord enough with his mortal weakness.

It was mostly the stubbornness not to give in to these wordless taunts that helped Mairon, somehow, to hold on to the last of muscle control by sheer willpower alone until the room finally started to empty.

"Am I excused, my Lord?" he got out between gritted teeth, his hands hard fists by his sides just from the effort of not grabbing his bloated midsection, or his aching cock through his clothes, to make sure he would make it the few feet down the hall, to the next free chambers, to finally empty his bladder.

"Not until I decide you learned how not to fail me," Melkor said flatly, still not turning around but busy gathering the last of parchments from the notes one of the orcs had taken during the conversation. "But if that's what you mean: Since you are obviously not even able to control a weak shape like this for half a day, you may go. Try not to make a mess on the floor."

Another day, Mairon might have returned the provocation, might have stayed just in spite, to prove to his master that he was very much capable of everything his Lord asked him to do. Only he was not, not when he was deliberately slowed and restricted in his powers. Mairon was ready to prove himself to his Lord anytime, but not if it was only for Melkor's amusement. If he wanted to be a thrall, he could as well have stayed in Valinor. "Milord." With a rather cool nod, he finally walked past his master, his steps as stiff as his posture. Not for long though, because just before he could get out of reach, a harsh slap from a huge hand suddenly landed on his behind, hard enough to bruise. Thanks to all his muscles contracting from the unexpected impact, a sinister pain stabbed his midsection. With a small scream, Mairon toppled over and reached between his legs in growing desperation to prevent the worst, but it was too late. His hand came back wet, and another hot, treacherous stream trickled down the insides of his thighs, darkening the front of his robe, leaving a sharp-smelling trace on his skin and dripping from his knee-high leather boots on the uneven, rocky ground.

"Look at that. Here I was just thinking about complimenting your excellent fashion choices, my pet, and you had to ruin it again." The same unforgiving hand grabbed his hair and pulled him back upright before he could regather his composure. The ominous lights of the Silmarils shining on his master's pale forehead stung in Mairon's eyes when Melkor pulled him close and licked the salt of sweat and tears of humiliation off his cheeks, off his lips, then biting the sensitive skin hard enough to bruise.

The other hand found the bulge under Mairon's now-ruined robe and pushed against it until Mairon cried out, fighting the hold on his braid in vain, shuddering both in disgust and relief when another small trickle of shame escaped his straining cock, the wet patch at his front growing.

He had long learned better than to beg, but his eyes were apparently a clear enough mirror of the torture of the last few hours, because Melkor's sharp-toothed grin only grew; he let go of him unexpectedly and pushed him away to get up, a clear bulge of arousal showing under his own tight pants. "It looks like we'll have to start teaching you discipline from the very start again, my pet. I will see you in my quarters tonight. I trust you will keep yourself properly hydrated until then." With that, his master left him to his shame.

*********

Mortified and wrathful as he had been, it turned out, it didn't take Mairon long to wish himself be back in that moldy conference hall full of people amused by his comparatively meager suffering.

"Is this not what you wanted, my favorite pet?," Melkor chuckled when another pained groan came from Mairon's lips at the merciless metal pull of metal rings around his cock and balls, endangering his skin that was already stretched beyond its limits, raw and chafed, more by the minute.

Even if he could have, Mairon would not have granted his lover the satisfaction of an answer. But he tried to turn his head away from the thick metal phallus stretching his mouth open anyway, in vain, when another gush of ice cold water came through the hole in the middle of the toy, flowing fast and harshly right towards the back of his throat. Which left him no choice but to swallow again though his belly was already bloated painfully from too much fluid once more, hanging low from where his master had strung him up by his wrists and ankles, swinging and gurgling lazily with every thrust of his master's enormous cock into Mairon's lube-dripping hole. Swinging, just like the huge bucket that his master had tied to his swollen genitals with heavy chains, positioned in such a way that every unwanted new stream of waste from Mairon's bound cock filled it up further. It was really only a matter of time until this easily breakable flesh would no longer be able to resist that gruesome tug, and Mairon had a vague idea, his master had no plans of patching the deadly, tasteless kind of wounds up that unpleasant moment would leave. Apparently, another body had run its course. What bothered Mairon most about spending all his energy once more on another disposable shape, was that his lover was right, of course … This was exactly what he had wanted. Finally being the center of his lover's attention again, being speared open by that magnificent cock, used and abused only for his master's pleasure … He thought he might even have been able to come just from this, in spite of the pain in his groin, if his lover had not once more made sure he couldn’t. No, the noises from his lips were not of protest. They were offense. After all these punishments Mairon had endured today – in all of these last years, really –, the least he deserved was finally being allowed to come properly again.

But his wishes, as was life in Melkor's fortress, were rarely of any concern for his lover, so he had to be satisfied with the telltale twitch of his lover's crooked cock inside of him when Melkor reached under him to feel the grotesque swellings of Mairon's overfilled stomach and bladder and press his sharp-nailed fingertips deeply into the cramping organs until Mairon screamed around his gag and relieved himself unwillingly into the bucket once more.

If it was only the pleasure of his suffering that could close the wound of hurt pride and tactical disadvantage that Mairon's mistakes a few years back had torn, he would happily sacrifice another dozen bodies. Something tore between his legs that was not supposed to come off when the relentless pull of the chain ripped harder on his flesh, and Mairon was pretty sure, that was no longer just waste in that bucket, but that was also when his lover came deep inside of him, finally, the comforting, too-hot pulse of rotten seed warming his shaking body from the inside. Mairon's trapped balls gave another helpless pulse of their last ruined orgasm before they came off with a wet gush. As he gave him to the darkness of agony washing over his mind, Mairon decided, his next shape definitely needed a bigger bladder.

[ravencromwell]

"What Depression Is"

The thing about depression is that even though you know – or hope you know, when your thinking moves beyond reason – that there’s a difference between it and you, it’s very, very good at persuading you otherwise.

Depression is insidious, laying quiet siege to the deepest foundations of brain chemistry – mood, motivation, memory – and steadily repurposing them as weapons against yourself.

Depression is a one-two punch, first making you feel incapable of enjoying the many things you love, then branding your fear at trying them (lest the fear prove true) as laziness: a self-fault, rather than yet another symptom.

Depression is a weight on your chest from the moment you first wake up, pinning you to the mattress with the realisation that nothing you could do today will possibly matter or make you happy, so why not just stay where you are?

Depression is sleeping either fourteen hours or four out of every twenty-four, and still feeling equally tired.

Depression is struggling to distinguish between apathy, selfishness and self-care while knowing they’re sometimes the same.

Depression is not so much wanting to die as wanting to press a button that makes everything stop, but there’s only one button that does one thing, and the more you hurt, the harder is it to remember that pressing it can only take your pain at the gross expense of transferring it to everyone you love.

Depression is an all-encompassing fear of failure: fear that your success is either insufficient, meaningless or fundamentally invalid; fear that there’s no point in trying; fear that you’re incapable of doing anything at all, and always were, and always will be.

Depression is thinking you might not be a real person, after all.

Depression is an absence of emotional object permanence – if your friends and family aren’t expressing affection right now, then they must feel none – coupled with a deep discomfort whenever you’re offered praise and reassurance (as you clearly don’t deserve it).

Depression is telling your child, “Mummy’s sick today.”

Depression means looking for tiny victories: taking a shower, making lunch, laughing.

Depression means walking each day as if across fragile, cracking ice that covers a roiling dark.

Depression means finding your own purpose in impermanent things and states of being, over and over again.

Depression means hanging on.

Depression means hanging on.

Depression means that every day doesn’t have to be a good one, but perhaps today might be.

Depression means moving a mountain when you throw off the covers, running a gauntlet to get dressed, a marathon to get outside.

Depression means breaking your heart, your resolve and your limits in the hope that, like a fighter’s knuckles, the microfractures will steadily heal you stronger.

Depression means a signal beaten back by noise, but your brain is a broken radio and your heart is the hand on the dial, turning and tuning for music in static, for bursts of speech that say I’m here, I’m still here.

The thing about depression is that I have so many words in me, so many wants and so much will, but my body is broken, my brain is part of my body but I am my brain in a way I’m not my stomach or elbows or aching ribs, and my brain is broken, my brain is trying to fix itself, my body is trying to heal a wound that isn’t a wound because my pre-installed virus scanner reports that there isn’t an injury here, just an old, inferior floor model; my body will not execute the commands I can’t route through my broken brain: there’s a barrier there, a pane of glass between me and the way I ought to feel about books and fish and Wednesdays and the smell of petrol; there’s a barrier between how I ought to feel about the way I’m feeling and how I’m feeling; I’m ripping away at my mental lantana almost as fast as it grows back, but the deficit is full of thorns and weeds running riot in overgrown places; I wish I could riot; I wish I could convert the way I feel in dreams to the suffocated waking hours spent with my eyes cracked open and stinging like two spoiled oysters, but the thing about depression is that it’s a civil war where you’re fighting both fronts in the battlefield of your broken body: each backfired nerve is a gunshot, and I don’t want to salt and burn the earth like a demon’s grave or an enemy farm, but what does that make me afterwards? I ought to lie down, depression says, but darling, these white bones were sown in bloody soil from dragons’ teeth, and though the marrow aches at night, at least

I can still feel.

--What Depression Is by the incomparable Foz Meadows.

[keeperofhounds]

Minority Report (Quirkless)

Hello, I am a college student studying abroad in Japan. I would like to share the similarities and differences between the United States and Japan. This is to expand and teach others about how Japan is like to people from the outside.

This story was inspired by @aconstantstateofbladerunner who wanted a story that expanded on the world of My Hero Academia. Note this story takes from modern day Japan, but as an American it might not be entirely accurate. 

Recently I bore witness to an event that shook me to the core, there was a student. Normally this wouldn’t matter if I were to describe him, I would go so far as to say that he looked like he had a bad attitude. You could see it with the way he carried himself and glared at everything as if it all personally offended him. Yet, I don’t want to focus on him, that student will be mentioned later. What I want to focus on is another student who was at that event on the same day.

At first glance you can tell the other student is nothing special. In fact he’s very plain with nothing special about him. I would even say that he might be shy with how he held himself, trembling, looking at the floor when the heroes were talking to him. Not that I blamed him those talks were actually scolding.

You see dear reader, this boy did something crazy, he went running towards a villain, and from what I heard that same boy was quirkless. Let me give you some context on what was happening before this kid came running into the scene, throwing his backpack and clawing desperately to give a victim breathing air.

Earlier in the day at around 3:30 pm (roughly the time when schools let out) a villain with a sludge like quirk robbed a store. Luckily the occupants at the time were not seriously injured after the villain left, in a stroke of luck All Might, the symbol of peace happened to be in the area and gave chase. At some point All Might lost the villain in the sewer system which can be described as long winded and confusing, which allowed the villain to find a hostage.

After some research after the story broke the hostage's name is Bakugo Katsuki, he is a middle schooler with a quirk that allows explosions to be set off from his hands. When he was caught, the student tried to get away as any reasonable would try to do in this situation, this in turn caused complications. The heroes were unable to find a way to extract with the sludge villains clutches.

I’m not going to focus on them, what I want to focus is on the other boy. Despite all my investigation I could not find the name of the boy in any publications about the incident. There was one thing that stood out however and it was the boys status. He was quirkless.

At first I was surprised, but then I was impressed, not unlike a blind person learning to play the piano, or a deaf person learning to sing. Although these might be poor comparisons given the situation it did answer some questions I had in mind, but also bring some more questions. I finally knew why the heroes were scolding him, but I also noticed they were praising the other boy.

Not to rub salt on a wound or blame the victim, but the boy made things worse not only himself, but the people around him. Not to mention the heroes stood frozen as a child ran into the fray doing only enough to give another time to breathe. It’s a small thing, but it mattered the most.

Knowing this, I would have expected people in the area to talk about what happened. News stations talking about how this kid brought enough time for All Might to swoop in and save the day, but nothing. They talked about the victim, they talked about All Might, they talked about the villain, but they never talked about the other boy. 

What happened? In the United States the local news stations are always about bringing up local heroes, even if it’s as simple as inviting a stranger into their home for thanksgiving after a mistaken phone call (the stranger accepted), but nothing in Japan. It was as if the other boy was erased from the narrative all together.

I was simple to figure out what happened, the people involved were embarrassed. I couldn’t fathom about what made this kid different until I really thought about it. While in Japan I noticed an unusual tell when it came to people introducing themselves, they always said their names, and the types of quirks they had. This was especially true with children when my co-worker brought them to work.

It really started to make me wonder, but I didn’t want to make any assumptions. I knew that Japan had some issues when it came to how they did things. I know the United States still has issues when it comes to descrimination and racism, but when you really look around there is something clearly wrong. In Japan not once have I ever seen or heard of any people without a quirk.

I asked a few of my co-workers in the college what was up with that, and they told me that they didn’t think that quirkless was still even a thing in this country. Which made me wonder even more, I didn’t like how flippant the dismissal was from my friend. Another stated that the hate speech on the internet they have found in chat rooms has increased.

According to NGO reports, incidents of hate speech against minorities and their defenders, in particular, on the internet, grew. The national law on hate speech applies only to discriminatory speech and behavior directed at those who are not of Japanese heritage and is limited to educating and raising public awareness among the general public against hate speech; it does not carry penalties.

Further research shows that “Quirklessness” is a disability in Japan, with similar protections to any other disability by law. The Basic Act for Persons with Disabilities prohibits discrimination against persons with physical, intellectual, mental, or other disabilities affecting body and mind and bars infringement of their rights and interests on the grounds of disability in the public and private sectors. The law requires the public sector to provide reasonable accommodations and the private sector to make best efforts in employment, education, access to health care, or the provision of other services. The laws do not stipulate remedies for persons with disabilities who experience discriminatory acts nor do they establish penalties for noncompliance. Other law mandates that the government and private companies hire minimum proportions (2 percent) of persons with disabilities (including mental disabilities) or be fined. Disability rights advocates claimed that some companies preferred to pay the fine rather than hire persons with disabilities

Nonetheless, persons with disabilities faced limited access to some public-sector services. Abuse of persons with disabilities was a serious concern. Persons with disabilities around the country experienced abuse by family members, care-facility employees, or employers. Private surveys indicated discrimination against and sexual abuse of, women with disabilities. While some schools provided inclusive education, children with disabilities generally attended specialized schools.

Mental health professionals criticized as insufficient the government’s efforts to reduce the stigma of mental illness and inform the public that depression and other mental illnesses are treatable and biologically based.

As I write this article, I am appalled at the complete lack of protections and descrimination faced by the minority. It’s as if they don’t exist in the eyes of the public and the government. There this one article written by a reporter, who covered a murder, but some how they spun it to make it sound like it was the victims fault. The victim was an elderly man who was attacked while on his way home with some groceries. Apparently there were many witnesses, but no one was willing to come forward.

Interviews stated that people assumed that someone else would help, that a hero would come to save the day. Others just didn’t care, assuming that the injuries weren’t as bad they looked. The perpetrators were never found and this murder became a cold case. To me this is clearly a hate crime, but to them it’s nothing, but another statistic in a growing trend.

I feel pity for that boy who ran, but at the same time maybe it’s better if people don’t know he’s quirkless. I bet life is difficult, I just hope that someone else see’s a good kid and sees what he has other than what he doesn’t. We need more people like him, because some people are too busy being full of themselves. 

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Sections of the text is not my own but taken from https://www.state.gov/reports/2018-country-reports-on-human-rights-practices/japan/ (This in regards to italic passages)

If anyone has ideas on what should be brought up next, please leave a message. Not to mention any other reliable sources of information about Japan.

[cartilageandperfume]

I’m finally gonna post one of my first short stories! This one was for a school assignment, and seeing as the school year’s over, it should be fine to publish. @yupokaysuremhm helped me edit!! (Don’t repost, but please feel free to reblog.)

Undercurrent

"Sunset and evening star and one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

when I put to sea."

Excerpt from a gravestone at Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington, DC.

'Have you ever been out on the beach at night, my dear?'

I have. I know the pull of the ocean, stronger still on a dark night, the waves at once thunderous and silent. I know the feeling of such insignificance compared to the vastness of the water. The frothing white of the sea illuminated by a round, full moon that would seem massive in any other context swallowed by the weight of the sea. 

We step onto the sand together just after dusk. The beach is empty save for a pair of seagulls who take to the sky when we get too close, bone-white feathers bright in what little light remains. The late July heat is vanished with the wind-off-the-water, and I shiver in the dark fleece jacket I brought along. You have no such qualms, still wearing the plain t-shirt and long, flowing white skirt you threw on this morning. Now it seems thin, insufficient protection from the chill of the night. I've never liked the droning heat of summer, but now the cold does nothing but put me on edge, wind lifting the hair on my arms, winding around my ankles. I can't help but imagine the wind wrapping around me as cold, heavy weights dragging me down to the bottom of the ocean. Shuddering to clear the image from my mind, I make my way to the abandoned lifeguard chair, lifting my feet as far above the ground as I can with each unsteady step through the shifting, hungry sand. I watch you pull your long hair out of its hair tie, already curly with salt from a morning spent at the sea. Not this beach, though, but yet another of the beaches on your list. You told me that this summer you want to revisit every beach on the coast, every beach you knew so well when you lived here as a child. A few feet from the ocean, you can no longer resist the pull, and you charge in, meeting the crest of a wave with your full body, entirely soaked and still in your clothes. I can't help but smile as I watch you, seemingly more at home in the sea than you ever are on land. We met at college in the city, you, an unwilling emigré from back here, I, a generation removed from these same coastal towns. 

My mother had described it as an escape to the city, away from the unchanging monotony of small town, USA. She and I went back to her parents’ for a weekend or two every year, though, staying as long as we could until the tension between them snapped like frayed ropes during a storm. Then we'd return to our sophisticated urban life, impossibly far, yet only a few miles away from their rough, saltbox-style home. I loved the beach then. I'd spend all day wading, dodging waves, too skittish to venture the ten feet or so beyond where they broke over the sand. Sometimes, on those brief weekend trips, my grandparents would take us for a drive, to see the marinas, the marshes, historical homes in the area, and of course, the statues. One statue, a man boldly steering his ship through a storm, the other, his family waiting for news-- a safe return, or a wreck. They that go down to the sea in ships. We stopped coming up here, my mother and I, when she met a man her parents disapproved of. No great falling out, the visits just stopped. I came up alone for each of their funerals. My grandfather, a heart attack in the cellar. My grandmother fell into the water on one of her daily walks. Descended from a long line of North Shore fishermen and their wives, she had never learned to swim; many who make their living on the water up here never do. The water's so cold, and nobody can fight off hypothermia no matter how strong their crawl stroke. 

The flow of memories ebbs, and I look up to check on you again. Your crawl stroke is good and strong, and you weave through the waves with practiced ease. I still worry, though. I'm sitting up straight and craning my neck in the assumption that I'll be better able to see you, and I realize I'm unconsciously mirroring the posture of the fisherman's wife statue. Does that make you the fisherman? A ship's cook, perhaps, or a deckhand? I laugh a bit as you dive under a wave, long dark tangles of your hair like seaweed, filmy skirt half blending in with the white of crashing waves. No, you're the siren calling the poor humans aboard to their doom. I realize, watching you cheer when a wave douses you, that you're not as reckless in the waves as I initially assumed; I've never once seen you turn away from the ocean, and you seem to be able to predict and avoid which waves that are larger than they seem. 

Experience from a life spent here, I assume. You lived here all your life, your father a lobsterman who turned to taking tourists around on his boat when you were born, a safer, more predictable living for a newly-responsible single father. And so you grew up no stranger to the sea, only leaving for college, where we met in our first year. At the time, I was studying to become a historian, and you, a writer, and so we ended up taking the same nonfiction-writing class. It was your first story that captivated me, a piece about a local shipwreck. And every story after was a dive into life on the ocean. I can't remember most of my pieces, but I do remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the sea. It made me homesick for a place I'd never truly lived. 

You call to me from the ocean, waving, beckoning me closer. I laugh you off, motioning to myself huddled on the worn wood of the lifeguard chair. I'm fine right where I am without any late-night soaking, and besides, you're having enough fun for the both of us. You laugh at that, then turn and dive beneath a wave. It takes you a long time to come back up, and I worry, but you resurface the same as always. 

You've been in the water almost twenty minutes now, and I wonder about hypothermia. It's true that the water now is warmer than the sand, due to some principle of thermodynamics I never cared enough to learn. Still, the temperature on the sand is frigid at best, and I can imagine the water slowly draining the warmth from your body, fingertips turning blue. Just my imagination, though, and you're moving around plenty enough to get your blood circulating. You beckon me in again, and again, I decline. Your loss, you call, and I make a face at you, laughing. And I hope I'm not misunderstood; I do enjoy being here, content watching you and taking in the ocean as a whole. The water stretches out in front of me, the beach in a ragged crescent of sharp rocks reaching out into the water, almost encircling you in an embrace. Those same rocks all up and down the coast spelled doom for many a sailing ship and fishing boat long ago. Now they're mapped out on every electronic system, nearly making obsolete the lighthouses adorning these beaches and islands. The biggest danger these days is the weather, or equipment failure, or human error. I glance down at you again, to make sure you haven't fallen victim to the waves. You're fine, as always. 

The sky stretches out above us, nearly as large, nearly as deep and dark as the ocean. There are no clouds tonight, and the moon is full. It hangs there, alone, dwarfed by everything else. It simply can't compete with the roiling inky-blackness of the ocean. 

I check again, to make sure you're still alive, still breathing air. You catch me watching, and beckon me down a third time. And this time, I listen. The water around you calls, too, pounding and crashing, thundering all around us, almost quietly. Almost precise, but so wild as well. I leave my clothes and shoes on the lifeguard chair. I'm wearing a swimsuit beneath my warm outer layer; you always manage to convince me to join you, so I've dressed for the inevitable. I'm not steady on the sand as I walk down, stumbling over the thick and shifting crests of sand. The wind picks up the closer I get to the water, battling me as I come towards you. The realization that the ocean's too far away from the lifeguard chair for any lifeguard to be of rapid use drifts across my mind, but I give it no thought.

The ocean is warm, both warmer and colder than I expected, and a wave pulls away from me as soon as I step in, leaving my ankles now wet and exposed to the bitter wind. I laugh and go deeper. I'm up to my waist in the warm water, clinging to me like a hug from a long-lost friend. You swim up to me from under the water and surface with a spray of salt water. I laugh again, and you grab my hand and pull me yet deeper out. I follow willingly, sinking to my knees, up to my neck in the water. I tilt my head back and let a wave crash over my face. When I surface, I see clouds for the first time tonight. I point the sky out to you, and you laugh, almost flippantly. What does the appearance of the sky matter, compared to the strange beauty of the ocean? It matches your eyes, you say to me, and I laugh. My eyes are dark brown, and I tell you so. You shake your head. Not the color, you say, but the depth. I flick water at you. You pull me out yet deeper. I'm taller than you and I can't stand. 

I'm worried about being out this deep. I tell you as much, and you dismiss my fear. You grab both my wrists this time, and playfully pull me down in the water. Your hands are so cold around my wrists and as we swim deeper together, the water grows colder as well. I pull up before you, needing to breathe. You don't want to let go, keeping me underwater. Frustrated, I try to break free. 

You hold me down with you. Angry now, and a bit afraid, my eyes fly open in the harsh salt water. It's dark, of course, nighttime above and even less light below. But I see your eyes, flashing and playful. I try to kick away, towards the surface, and something circles my ankles, scaled and twisting. I scream, and the last of my air bubbles float away towards the surface. You let go of my wrists only to embrace me bodily, and I can feel where your skin gives way to thick scales, cold and grating against my unprotected limbs. You kiss me one last time, full of salt and sharp teeth. I close my eyes in the depths of the ocean. It's not so cold anymore. I wrap my arms around you, tangling my fingers in your hair, and give in to the pull of the water.

[sometimesrosy]

Is bellarke the only reason you like season 5?

Lol. No. I don’t only watch The 100 for Bellarke. I’m a sci fi fan. I was practically BORN a sci fi fan, raised on Star Trek. That’s 40 years of scifi fanning before I ever heard of Bellarke. When I found the show, I was looking for something like The Walking Dead, and/or The Hunger Games, and someone said The 100. I’m not really a shipper, or not the way most of fandom seems to go about it. I like ships, but it takes a special ship for me to get really invested. 

 I liked the season 5 story, the dilemmas, the symbolism, the independent journeys of the characters. I liked Bellamy’s story, Clarke’s story, Murphy’s story, Emori’s story, Octavia’s story, Monty’s story. Didn’t love Raven’s story but it was okay. Didn’t love Abby’s or Kane’s story. Loved Diyoza. Madi.  Loved the valley. Hated the bunker but in a good way. Hated Kara Cooper but in a good way. Hated McCreary, good way. Was slightly disappointed with Shaw but not too badly. I had high hopes. Was delighted with the creepy gentility of Vinson and his story precisely fulfilled all my hopes for him. lol.

I liked the action of s5, it moved fast. There were no filler episodes. The people who thought there were, well, I think they thought everything but bellarke was a filler episode. Which, I apologize, is a ridiculous way to engage with a story. To say that everything but your favorite storyline is filler. My goodness. The universe does not revolve around you.  

Maybe I’m wrong, but that’s the only way I could imagine people saying the sandworms were filler episodes. LOVED the sandworms. Or a mcguffin. That was not a mcguffin. It was a plot point and an obstacle and a tool. That’s not what a mcguffin is. A mcguffin is a “thing” that is a pointless goal while the real journey goes on about something else. In some ways the Iron Throne was a mcguffin in GOT (okay that’s an interpretation.) Or the Holy Grail in Monty Python’s Holy Grail-- that was definitely a mcguffin. An excuse to get people to go on an adventure, when it’s not really the point. The sandworms failing to work as a weapon does not make them a mcguffin. They would need to be the *goal.* The *goal* was the valley, not the worms. The worms were an evil tool that wonkru wanted to use to TAKE the valley and bellarke wanted to stop them. 

Y’all should google terms before you start attacking people or content with them. Don’t delight in your ignorance that way. Know what you’re talking about first. Or at least be willing to learn. We’re all on the internet and we all have access to google. This whole fake it till you make it doesn’t include using inaccurate terms to try and hate on other people and/or. stories. 

Season 5 was about, as always, the obstacles facing Clarke and Bellamy and The 100. I do not dislike them facing obstacles, even when they fail, because that’s always been part of their story.... how they deal with failure and how they come back to win in the end. Seeing Clarke isolated was hard, but it made sense and it was part of her own journey of isolation that started, honestly, in the pilot, where she was released from solitary confinement, and dealt with her continuous efforts to run away from the people who make her vulnerable, compounded by the terrible “love is a weakness” advice, and the trauma that came from that. 

I find that whenever I reframe my interpretation of The 100 as either Clarke or Bellamy’s personal, psychological and/or heroic journey, everything makes more sense. If I place Bellarke ABOVE the individual characters, I am disappointed. S5 was Bellamy becoming the hero we always knew, and Clarke always knew, he could be. It was him completing his hero’s journey. In that light, the season was FANTASTIC. Look at it as his choices and struggles and development and it’s great. 

If you look at it from CLARKE’S perspective, it was about her personal and psychological journey after losing EVERYTHING. Someone recently suggested that this was not a hero’s journey but maybe the HEROINE’S journey, and I think that’s what it is, but it’s not done yet. 

HEROINE AWAKENS TO FEELINGS OF SPIRITUAL ARIDITY/DEATH. The heroine’s new way of life (attempting the masculine/dominant identity) is too limited. Their success in this new way of life is either temporary, illusory, shallow, or requires a betrayal of self over time.

INITIATION & DESCENT TO THE GODDESS. The heroine faces a crisis of some sort in which the new way of life is insufficient, and the heroine falls into despair. All of the masculine/dominant-group strategies have failed them.

HEROINE URGENTLY YEARNS TO RECONNECT WITH THE FEMININE. The heroine wants to, but is unable to return to their initial limited state/position. [x]

Apparently, the heroine’s journey takes over when the hero’s journey ends, and that would mean that in season 4, saving her people from another apocalypse was the completion of the hero’s journey, and “dying” and waking up to an arid world is stepping into the feminine archetype rather than achieving the masculine archetype hero and staying there. Outside of this heroine’s journey, the whole season was about Clarke reuniting with Bellamy and her people after six years of isolation and it was not an easy story, which works for me. Too easy would have been cheap. 

Oh and omigarsh I loved that talk with Echo and FlameLxa where she finally confronted her initial damage of “love is a weakness” and Lxa’s betrayal, which she was REPEATING with Bellamy.

The other characters also had side stories and I could go into them too, but in the end, they’re supporting the main story of redemption and meaning and transformation. Including Octavia’s fall into darkness and NOT reaching redemption (because they refused to give her the easy way out and her redemption needed another season.) I liked that, too. A lot. Since she was an antagonist, I read it more as part of Bellamy’s journey to claim his identity and power and set boundaries.

Season 5 was where Clarke and Bellamy were able to BREAK the cycle of violence and abuse and vengeance, which means that the entire narrative of the show has shifted from descending into hell or being lost in purgatory not knowing where to go next or how to fix things, and is now ASCENDING into upper realms of forgiveness, understanding, reconciliation, healing, change, unity, growth, and transformation.

This is what I am here for. This is why I like Post Apocalyptic stories, because they are about transformation, not just survival. And not just whatever you can do to survive, but choosing to be the good guys, being better people, believing in a better world, and having hope. 

I mean. I can write reams about all the things I’m getting out of this show and all anyone ever hears is “bellarke.”

That is not a good thing. It’s reductive. It’s oversimplification. It doesn’t lead to understanding. When I say I thought s5 was a bellarke romance, I include that in part of my analysis. It is not the only thing I am saying, nor is it the only thing I like. 

I am not sure where you ever got the impression that Bellarke was the only thing I liked. 

And also, just because other people, even most people, didn’t like season 5 does not mean I am wrong to not like it. I get the feeling that the people who didn’t like season 5 were disappointed because Bellarke didn’t live up to their expectations. It DID live up to my expectations. And, as usual, their story was longer than what I predicted. This does not bother me. I just have to keep recalibrate my narrative time line. It’s still going in the direction I’ve been interpreting, confirmed by season 6. Season 5 is an interesting part of the whole story of Bellarke, the end of the story, we can now see, being s7. I can wait for that. And I can appreciate how season 5 is them coming back from the “all is lost” moment of Clarke dying for spacekru, and the complications that caused. 

Also, I am not opposed to a love triangle. I do not read it as a betrayal of Bellarke, but an intensification of a love story that before had been subtextual. Love triangle is a LITERAL ROMANCE GENRE PLOTLINE. So for me, it’s confirmation. I truly don’t understand why other bellarke fans don’t get that. I think they’re just too full of anger and resentment to accept that a plotline they would LOVE in fanfiction is actually giving them what they want and so they reject everything that season 5 DID give us.

So what I’m saying is I think that the reason why people didn’t like season 5 is because it didn’t fit the fanon expectations they had for Bellarke. So they hated s5 only because of Bellarke. Which is the reverse of what your ask seems to imply.

If you didn’t intend to make me salty implying that I only liked The 100 for Bellarke, or there was nothing in s5 to like except my interpretation of Bellarke, then I apologize. You should have rephrased your question more like, “what besides bellarke did you like in season 5?” But as it is, I gave you what I liked with a rim of salt. Like a margarita.

[playquiz]

What is a good thing about sleeping anyway?

"People who say they sleep as a toddler usually don't have a toddler." Leo J. Burke

I wholeheartedly believe supported learning experience. If you haven't tried anything, how does one know if it works or not? For several years I used to be curious to understand how my body skilled some nutritional and training interventions, and that I recently started trying easy ways to "penetrate" my systems using technology within the sort of tools and applications.

Being the most unaffected copy of yourself requires tons of trial and error. We, humans, are complex beings, and that we are all different on the within as we are on the surface, so what works on behalf of me may have the other effect on you. I also love the system-based scientific approach to biology and physiology, not "well that ought to be true because I read it during a magazine" or was endorsed by a star or athlete. What involves us within the sort of food, scenes, thoughts, muscle stimulation, and sounds determines what comes out—our behavior, performance, memory, and health. If we would like to return up with something useful / better, we'd like to enter something good / better. Three of the foremost critical areas you'll specialize in when it involves self-experiences and breakthroughs in your health are food, sleep, and stress... Why? Because even small changes in each of those areas can have immediate and exciting effects on your life. I will primarily specialize in the sector of sleep, and more specifically, I will be able to test natural and cheap methods supported science to enable me to enhance the standard and quantity of my sleep. I will be able also to examine some recommended technology to ascertain how effective it's. I have been using the sleep tracker for over a year now, and although it hasn't helped me get more sleep or better sleep, it's made me more conscious of the small I'm already getting and the way different situations affect my height and depth of rest. The info I will be able to collect also still will be useful on behalf of me to work out the effectiveness of the methods that I shall develop over the subsequent month. What is good at sleeping, anyway? Let's check out this from the opposite angle. What's bad about not getting enough sleep? It's quite direct effects like bad moods, lack of focus or other signs that you simply feel exhausted, like feeling emotional, hungry, and ragged. Sleep deprivation can have severe consequences for your long-term physical health. Here is that the frightening side of lack of sleep Stroke risk According to research, even without typical risk factors, like weight gain or having a case history, lack of sleep can increase the danger of stroke. Contributes to obesity Lack of sleep can cause you to gain weight! Really? Perhaps "if you postpone you lose" it seems like a true saying after hearing this. Sleep is essential if you would like to lose fat or maintain a slim body. Insufficient sleep can contribute to some less-than-ideal food options, including serving more food and looking for fast meals, because of some complex hormonal changes that happen once you aren't getting enough food. Sleeping for 6 hours or less seems to extend the assembly of the ghrelin hormone and reduce leptin, helping you balance food intake. Also, decreased sleep appears to be related to the division of unfavorable nutrients, which suggests that within the event of reduced caloric intake, more weight is going to be lost as a lean mass of body fat. It increases the danger of diabetes Studies have examined the connection between insufficient sleep and insulin resistance, a risk factor for diabetes. Among the healthy adolescents, the researchers found, their shortest sleepers had the very best insulin resistance, meaning that the body doesn't use insulin effectively. Other studies have examined fat cells, especially, and have found that lower sleep increases insulin resistance in these cells, even when caloric intake is restricted. Fuel amnesia You may know that on days once you are exhausted, you forget and not focus, but sleep deprivation can cause permanent cognitive problems. The less we sleep, the less we enjoy the memory storage characteristics of sleep. But lack of sleep can cause a deterioration within the brain, which can partially explain a minimum of some amnesia later in life. Bone damage Long-term sleep deprivation appears to contribute to osteoporosis. Loss of sleep reduces the body's secretion of the human somatotropin liable for strengthening the bones and repairing wear and tear. Your heart hurts The stress and stress caused by a scarcity of sleep can cause the body to supply more chemicals and hormones, which will cause heart condition. Lack of sleep can accelerate signs of skin aging because the body produces cortisol (stress hormone) which will break down collagen and weaken the skin's ability to repair in the dark. Finally, when our sleep suffers, our system also suffers, which makes us more susceptible to disease and infection. I always knew how important sleep was to my health, but I have never taken it seriously yet. Sleep science - it isn't as easy as spending longer in bed. To make changes, you would like to create and build achievable daily habits in your routine. However, what should these habits be? How does one know they're going to work? It's where I address the research project to assist me. I've talked tons about hormones here already and the way they affect us negatively thanks to lack of sleep but guess what? When it involves good sleep, the hormones are again... but this point, they're going to help us. Understanding which of them and the way to enhance them should be the key to improving our health. The hormones that make us sleepy The magical hormone liable for regulating sleep cycles is melatonin, which is, of course, released with darkness and tells our body to sleep. It not only controls your usual sleep pattern but also reduces stress and is additionally anti-oxidant, which suggests it slows down the aging process. Once we are younger, our melatonin levels are high, but unfortunately, we see a gradual decrease as we age. Many things can also eliminate natural melatonin production within the body. These include long flight disorder and shift work, but the foremost common cause is abnormal exposure to light after dark hours. Blue light is the most harmful emitting from cell phones, computer screens, and televisions. So yes, reading from an iPad before getting to bed is worse than reading an honest old book! Even awakening in the dark and checking the time on your phone can stop your body from producing melatonin instantly! Unfortunately, whether you've got been fighting for an hour or a second, the effect is that the same. The problems that have seem to be mainly thanks to our modern lifestyles, which differ significantly from how our ancestors wont to live. They weren't awake late using laptops or watching TV. Instead, they used light to make a decision when to sleep and when to awaken. Increased melatonin So, if melatonin is so excellent and its production will help me improve my sleep, the procedure that I will be able to take must answer the question: "What simple changes am I able to make to extend melatonin levels naturally? The straightforward answer could also be to use a dietary supplement. Still, the matter is that the utilization of Repetitive artificial melatonin can reduce my body's ability to supply it, so instead, I want to develop lifestyle habits that will maximize melatonin production without the necessity for outside help. What do I do? I always seem to sleep better after a hot shower just before bed (high and low blood heat appears to market drowsiness) and do so occasionally during the week. It's best if I throw some Epsom salts (which contain magnesium) that my body absorbs through the skin. Sometimes I will be able to use Betteryou Magnesium Spray, which I mainly use as a relaxant after training, but it's also useful for bedtime use to assist me to sleep. It appears that the body more readily absorbs magnesium through the skin instead of taking oral supplements. I regularly use Bulletproof Sleeping Mat for 20 minutes before bed. On most nights, I sleep in complete darkness (faster for dimming), even the slightest amount of sunshine can disrupt your mechanism and produce melatonin. Although there's no thermometer in my bedroom, I tend to sleep better when the weather may be a little cooler. Indeed, the perfect temperature for an honest night's sleep is between 60 and 67 degrees Fahrenheit. I regularly eat eggs, nuts/seeds, salmon, chicken, bananas, and oats, which are known to be a potent melatonin booster. I always eat a night meal that contains protein, fat or low-glycemic food in blood glucose to enhance tryptophan levels (tryptophan is an aminoalkanoic acid that promotes sleep that contributes to the assembly of serotonin, a brain chemical that helps us relax and is employed to form melatonin). I take a magnesium supplement after dinner and again before getting to bed. Magnesium is the most potent relaxing mineral available. However, it must be supported with proper nutrition for the body to soak up and use it. (Time for an additional blog) My phone, although it shouldn't be charged in my bedroom, is placed in airplane mode to avoid EMF which may disturb sleep. I now use the Lome timepiece that gently wakes me up with natural light rather than sound. What I'm not good at - what is going to I attempt to improve my sleep? Sometimes I will be able to impose a curfew on myself, but this never seems long, and that I find myself getting to sleep later. As I write this, I'm committing the last word sin of sleep. It's 11:30 pm, and that I drink coffee and stare at the pc screen! I will make a concerted effort to sleep at 10 pm nightly. It's going to be unrealistic to try to do this seven days every week, but I will be able to attempt to be as consistent as possible. Every hour of sleep before midnight is adequate to two hours after. Now, I do not skills correct this is often, but I've read it quite a couple of times, so maybe it's worth looking into it. I installed F.lux on my phone, iPad, and computer (it's free). Change the color on your screens, counting on the time of day. F.lux uses warmer colors after sunset to match the inside lighting. Although there are not any scientific studies to prove its success, the thought seems plausible and price the experiment. I have already got a pair of blue, orange glasses that block the sunshine but I admit I do not wear them that much. I downloaded "Pzizz" which is an app that claims to assist you in nodding off faster with a variety of soothing sounds and acoustic signals intended to help you relax and squeeze. I'm currently also researching other techniques supported by vocal neuroscience, and I am trying to experiment with a system developed by the brain. I will replace my coffee after dinner with herb tea (really yes!) Caffeine not only acts as a stimulant but also will start to release magnesium from my body. Getting an honest night's sleep seems to be an art and a science and that they are crucial to our health. With some simple strategies, we will all get top quality and cozy sleep that our bodies and minds deserve. There are not any shortcuts, and that we got to make sleep a priority. Our physical, mental and emotional health depends thereon. Take hold of your actions and surroundings, be consistent and allow us to enjoy Zzzzzzz.

[reimenaashelyee]

Cackling

I’m reading this book on the aftermath of Alexander’s campaigns and I’m licking my chops MMM I love this hot, burning historian tea unafraid to call out incompetence and colonialism.

The historian uncle is fair-minded though, so he does acknowledge Alexander’s successes and brilliance in specific things. But Alexander’s disinterest and lack of foresight in everything else? And the side characters who act like vultures after his death? *SLAMS FIST* YEAH!! I LOVE IT WHEN HISTORY GAINS COLOUR!!

Never in my life am I ever interested in Great Man history (and its related machismo) until the facade comes crumbling down, after which I clap my hands and dance around the salt pyre demanding for more destruction.

It’s really interesting to see historians’ account of Alexander in comparison to the romantic one. I’ve got some carrots in the soup now, brewing some ideas about how to portray those differences (and where they overlap and disrupt) in comics form.

And special treat for you all. A snippet of the first draft of the Alexander Comic.

In a coffeehouse somewhere in Persia, an old storyteller speaks, with a quirky kind of gravitas. He does not reveal himself, except through his hands, which gesture dramatically. He is clearly our narrator for this book.

Now, my friends, tell me: have you, with your two eyes and two ears and one mouth, known any figure such that the world had never seen before, and never will again?

You have? Brilliant!

We know him by many faces and many names.

Can you say the same of his life and his deeds?

Ah. You at the back, you nod. And you at the front, you shake your head.

Such is the fate of this man, to be known by everyone and no one.

And yet here I am, telling you another tale about him.

And yet here you are!

He claps.

Hush now, and turn your two ears and two eyes and one heart to my story among stories, of the many lives and many deeds of this man of manies.

Of Alexander the Great.

---------------------------

1.

Babylon, 323 BC.

We open to a party in a Persian palace. Wine flows freely, as men appear to grow drunker in the reverie of court dancers and bards and acrobats. Seated on a couch is Alexander, a leonine, stocky man of 32, with skin tanned brown from the labour of conquest, tousled waves, and a neck that forever tilts upwards, defaulting his head in the silent language of arrogance. What stand out the most about him, are his eyes. Gentle, with a feminine quality, and strikingly asymmetrical. The left is blue as the sky, the right is dark as the night. Through those eyes, he appears disinterested.

This physical appearance is the Lysippos’ face; the main face that Alexander wears across the story.

Beside him is a young cupbearer, pouring wine into a goblet that Alexander holds. He takes a long sip, and wipes the wine from his lips.

Alexander: This isn’t enough.

The young cupbearer is replaced by an older servant, an elderly uncle in green robes and a magnificent white beard. Alexander places the goblet on this servant’s plate.

Servant: Oh, my lord, how come? Is all this pomp insufficient?

The party melts away, and Alexander is now alone in his private quarters, except for the servant who still holds the plate and goblet. Alexander leans against the balustrade, and gazes at the night sky. His blue eye is striking.

Alexander: I’m not talking about my wealth. I’m talking about...me.

Alexander: One day, Alexander will grow old and lose his mind. And they will say, oh what a shame, he was once great. Now he is a useless old man.

The servant smiles patiently at him. A bit of ironic humour.

Alexander: Servant, how is it that I can conquer lands innumerable, create riches where there is none...but I know not the secret of life? What is the point of all this goodness, all this hard work, if I cannot keep them forever? Am I the fool? No, no. I’m Alexander the Great. I can’t be the fool!

His anxiety clearly shows. He grips the balustrade tightly, and hangs his head low, so that his long hair covers his face.

Alexander: There must be a way…

Servant: If my lord allows me a word…

Alexander: Speak.

Servant: I’ve heard tale of a Water of Life.

Alexander turns around in interest at this piece of information. His hair still covers most of his face, only his blue eye is showing.

Alexander: Really?

Servant: It is said to flow at the very end of the world, in the Land of Darkness. Whoever drinks it shall maintain their youth, and live...forever.

Alexander’s mood turns around and he is very happy. He pulls the hair away from his face.

Alexander: Perfect. Let’s go find it.

Servant: Oh, it’ll be a difficult journey, my king.

Alexander snaps his fingers.

Alexander: That shan’t be a problem. After all, am I not Alexander the Great, son of the god Amun? Have I not proved I can do anything?

He smiles with a mixture of arrogance and delight, and a glint in his black eye.

Alexander: Tomorrow we rise at dawn, and travel.

[cathcacen]

I’d actually toyed with the idea of some OCs (my current favourites, Phylophe’s Lear and my Rei) in this situation, but those babies have enough drama as it is, and I ultimately decided Rei would smack the shit out of Lear if he dared tell her he was undeserving (and she actually has oops).

Luckily, some good ol’ angst is always in the stars when I’m feeling the Jonsa. So here, y’all.

In which Jon and Sansa bang, but he thinks he’s not good enough for her and ends up referring to that night as ‘a mistake’.

EXCERPT:

“I’m different. I’m prone to fits of violence. I don’t even know if I’m really alive, or if I can father sons. If I can love you the way you deserve to be loved.” He kneels by her side, sinks low, slumps forward. Suddenly, she’s not as mad as she’d thought. “Sansa… I’m not good enough for you. That’s what I meant, when I said that night was a mistake. I’m so very insufficient.”

She can’t help it. She’s told him before – that he’s worthy, that she loves him, that she wants him. But now that he’s lost again in the dark sea of his own creation, she has no choice but to show him.

So she kisses him. Fiercely, as a wolf might. Angrily. Hatred, fury, and yet love mingle together as she takes his lips in her own, her hands tight about the straps of his fine robes. She pulls him to her, grips him tight, and tells him as much as she is able in that one kiss: I want you.

She wakes to the sound of winter birds in the barren trees beyond her chamber’s windows, shafts of sunlight streaking through the cracks to paint the picture of dawn. Despite the echoes of last night that linger in her mind, she wakes to an empty bed, the side previously occupied by her lover having gone stone-cold. Their goblets sit on her desk by the fire, the flagon of Dornish red tellingly empty.

Sansa sits up and feels the world spin. It’s not a feeling she particularly enjoys, but one that takes a back seat nonetheless when she considers just how alone she feels at present.

He’s just been called out for work, she tells herself. Surely that is it, and I am merely overthinking his absence.

Yet, when Jon avoids her throughout the day, she can’t help but feel a little concerned. So she has Ghost lead her to his master, and finds the man himself brooding by the heart tree, hunched over the water’s edge with Longclaw by his side.

She wonders if this is how Father had always looked to Mother.

“You’ve been scarce.” She tries for a smile as she settles by his side, and feels her heart sink when he flat-out refuses to look at her. “Jon, what is it?”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m just thinking, is all.”

“What about? Can I help?”

“No. Well, that is…” Jon’s eyes flicker up for the briefest of moments, and it’s then that she realises – she understands what it is he is trying to say.

“You regret it.”

The furrowing of his brows all but confirm the sentiment.

“I see.”

“It was a mistake.” Jon lowers his voice, and she watches as his hands tense about his knees. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I know there is nothing I can say that will make it better, but I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence. Last night… won’t happen again.”

She feels her heart skip a beat. Last night, the mind whispers. Last night, when we had celebrated the success of our trap – when we’d brought down three of the Night King’s lieutenants. When we’d, for the first time in months, truly believed Summer would come again.

She regrets none of it. But for Jon’s sake, she’s prepared to pretend it’s okay.

So she nods, gathering up whatever remains of her dignity, brushing off her skirts and adjusting her gloves. “Don’t worry. I’m fine as you can see, and we’ll have more battles to fight yet. You can attend to that with a clear conscience, cousin.”

When she walks away, she swears she feels her heart crack. She hadn’t even known it was still in there, any more. But there is work to occupy her mind, and she spends the next few months deep in discussion with the maesters and Northern lords alike, formulating plans for evacuations, sending missives for food and healing rations to the other noble houses, and overseeing the supply of materials for building war machines. All the while, she entertains court with the lords, sets up shelter for the refugees, and looks into wintertime garments for their people.

All in all, Sansa has very little time for love, and she makes sure to remind herself of the fact every night.

But when the war for dawn has ended, and when the people have begun to rebuild, her mind falls to Jon once again. Poor war-ravaged Jon, who’s beaten and broken and bruised in every way – and yet still alive. Jon, who skirts around her in the halls and barely meets her eyes with a strained smile upon his lips.

It happens the night Lord Manderly welcomes a new grandson. There are precious few opportunities for celebration now, but with the Night King defeated, the Northmen have more than earned their barrels of wine and the slaughtering and subsequent roasting of a few fat cows. She dances with some of the lords’ sons and japes with the daughters. More than once she comes to the rescue of Brienne, shooing off Tormund with a well-meant smack to the arm.

“You’ve saved me enough times,” She tells her sworn sword, and Brienne favours her with a smile.

By the time Arya’s gotten into her sixth cup of mead, she’s about ready to leave for her chambers. There is a pile of papers to be looked through, and other work to be done. They won’t miss her presence; and so she takes her leave. The last thing she sees is Arya belching in Jon’s direction, the latter letting out a laugh.

Something inside her twists and turns.

When she finally allows herself to feel the full brunt of emotion, it brings her to her knees, and she sinks onto the ground, sobbing into the night. The stone is warm, and she’s put enough of a distance between herself and the party to fall apart. And so she allows herself, for once, to cry for selfish reasons. Ghost pads up to her, and she sobs into his fur, fingers sinking into the thick, slightly coarse pile of pure-white.

It was a mistake. I was a mistake.

It feels like hours later before he finds her, and for the life of her, she doesn’t understand why he’s there at all. But Jon’s arms are warm, and she allows herself to sink into him, even as he lets out a less-than-elegant cuss in his panic. But once he’s satisfied that she is in fact physically unharmed, he makes to withdraw.

“Wouldn’t want to make another mistake now.” The bitterness in her voice surprises even her.

Jon goes ashen, and she knows she’s hit a nerve. But when he speaks, it’s the words of a broken man. “You were never the mistake, Sansa. I was.”

She clenches her fists, but says nothing.

“I’m different. I’m prone to fits of violence. I don’t even know if I’m really alive, or if I can father sons. If I can love you the way you deserve to be loved.” He kneels by her side, sinks low, slumps forward. Suddenly, she’s not as mad as she’d thought. “Sansa… I’m not good enough for you. That’s what I meant, when I said that night was a mistake. I’m so very insufficient.”

She can’t help it. She’s told him before – that he’s worthy, that she loves him, that she wants him. But now that he’s lost again in the dark sea of his own creation, she has no choice but to show him.

So she kisses him. Fiercely, as a wolf might. Angrily. Hatred, fury, and yet love mingle together as she takes his lips in her own, her hands tight about the straps of his fine robes. She pulls him to her, grips him tight, and tells him as much as she is able in that one kiss: I want you.

He doesn’t pull away. Eventually, he stops fighting her. When at last they part, she leans her forehead to his own, and feels the salt of his eyes mingling with her own, wetting her cheeks and lips. “You’re an idiot, Jon.”

“Aye, I am.” Despite the mist in his eyes, he’s smiling. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been stupid, and you’ve hurt for it these past months.”

She nibbles his lip, and relishes in the way he winces at first, and then melts. “Gods help you if I wake tomorrow to find my bed cold and empty.”

Jon manages a chuckle, and she kisses him again.

He tastes like forgiveness – and how sweet a sentiment it is.

[crispturquoisewater]

Another day, another battle...

I constantly find myself astounded at the gaslighting that goes on from the doctors at my surgery. It’s absolutely shocking, and has recently brought to my mind the podcast ‘Dr Death’. When listening to this podcast, as a naive listener, you think ‘how could this guy possibly get away with this for so long?!’ But it’s simple really, doctors stick together and belittle patients. So, any complaint that is raised is dissolved or made to be the patient’s ‘mosunderstanding’ and is flung carelessly into the ether.

Yesterday, I called the surgery and spoke to one of the new doctors. I had to request repeat blood test (which were already requested on the letter from hospital for the surgery to carry out but of course that doesn’t happen without having to make an appointment). I mentioned that at the weekend, whilst bleeding profusely and in agonising pain in my kidneys, I didn’t know what to do. I received no answer or advice. I said that I’m waiting for a referral for nephrology, but that doctor X had refused to make the referral because he said that it wasn’t his job and that he wanted to make a point that the hospital could not “workload shift”. Immediately, this new doctor jumped in and “explained” (like I’m fucking incompetent) what doctor X meant by his comments, and that actually he was saying that it was quicker for the referral to be done in-house and that it would be easier for me if it was done this way (queue internal scream of utter fucking frustration!).

Firstly, do not patronise me. I am a grown women who, despite everything I am going through, is perfectly competent and reasonable - unlike like the doctors at my practice. Secondly, how unfathomable that a doctor that was not a part of the conversation thinks she has any right to tell me what was actually said(?! Arghhhh!!).

As much as I was infuriated by her blatant attempt to manipulate and dismiss what doctor X had so clearly said (I still find it astonishing that a doctor would try and tell someone else what happened in a conversation that they were not present in - she didn’t even say, ‘I think what he meant was’... just flat out gaslighted me. Nope, no denying it, he called the hospital lazy, was furious that they hadn’t done their job, and was perfectly happy to see his patient suffer in pain, rather than make the referral, in order to prove a point, because they “had to learn”. Narcissism at its finest), I still kept my cool and was polite and explained that he was clear in what he so emphatically and angrily stated. What I wanted to say was, how the hell do you think you know what was said or meant? But I didn’t. She then went on to try and patronise me further by explaining how the system works. I’m very clear on how the system works. For a period of time - not so long ago - I worked in an area of the NHS. I know perfectly well how the system works, but it incredibly concerning that they do not. However, brilliant to know that they are ignoring patients’ requests, and filling their responses with a load of infantile lies.

It may seem like nothing important, but this constant belittling is having a massive affect on my self-worth and self-belief. I try not to let their gaslighting affect me, but it does. Massively. As I am sure is the point. After all, if you continue to feel worthless or lacking in self-confidence, you will stop pushing for the treatment you deserve.

After we’d moved on from that, I asked to be referred to physiotherapy. I’ve got osteoarthritis, and due to severe bone pain and joint swelling, I can barely walk anymore - even around my apartment - and I desperately need someone to look at me, and help me. For a normal surgery, this should be simple. You have a physical problem including joint pain and muscle weakness, you get referred to physio. The fact that I cannot walk properly, and barely at all anymore due to the pain in my feet being so severe, is not normal. I have been reporting worsening bone pain and swollen joints for six months.

At the end of December I insisted on actually being seen in practice because the pain in my lower back and legs was so severe (they still weren’t seeing anyone due to covid). The doctor openly mocked me, asked me no questions about how long id had the pain (even though I’d reported it multiple times), told me that she “does yoga”, like I was lazy and not helping myself (I’d actually started physio of my own from watching videos to try and help myself), and told me that MRIs were SOLELY used if a patient was considering neurosurgery and not for any other reason (🥴 I’d asked for an MRI because the pain in my spine and hips were so bad and had been progressing for four months. I was at the point of not being able to sleep or stand for long properly). Actually (as well as arthritis), what that SEVERE pain turned out to be, was adrenal crisis. My cortisol levels was so low that it was (as the A&E doctor put it), barely existent. And all the symptoms I was reporting were clearly it.

I don’t mind a doctor not knowing something - they clearly are not trained in everything - but please do not mock me or make me out to be a hypochondriac without even looking into it or trying to find out. I came away from that appointment distraught at being belittled, again. Oddly, when I found out that I had adrenal insufficiency, I actually felt vindicated, because I think their attitude towards actually made had started to make me doubt myself.

I truly feel for people who present with traumatic symptoms of mental illness. My symptoms are physical. My bloods are showing issues. Im pissing blood. I’m unable to walk properly or without pain, and yet I am STILL being treated as though I am making the seriousness of this up. I can only imagine how harrowing it must be when there is nothing physical to show. And my heart goes out to you. I’ve spoken to friends who have been mocked or belittled by doctors over their mental health. Im so sorry they do this to you, and us. They are definitely in the wrong profession. The one they must switch to is the Narcissistic House of Disbelief.

Anyhoo, I digress.

So, what should have been a simple request for referral, turned into another battle. The doctor will not refer me until she gets my latest bloods back. And then she will decide if she deems it worthy of me to see a physio. I am in so much pain I can’t describe. How is it that our health is at the mercy of these people?

So, now, almost totally unable to walk because any pressure on my feet is so agonising, and my knees are ankles are so swollen (I’m vegan and eat a healthy diet, this is not excess salt or fats), I am left, yet again, in pain and without a referral.

It’s utterly exasperating. Totally and utterly exasperating, and draining, and mentally, emotionally and physically horrendous, which counteracts my ability to get better, because I end up facing a constant stress from the people that are supposed to help. And stress makes the symptoms worse.

Yesterday, after this agonising call with the doctor, after which I thanked her for her time (despite feeling despair inside - no need for me to be rude, even though the anxiety of each call with that surgery knaws like a ball inside my gut), I had to call the hospital to see if the referral had been made their end (it hasn’t - they simply sent the same letter back to surgery), had to call a different part of the hospital to see if the bloods had been put on the system and then call the blood department to make the booking. That was aside from five other phone calls chasing things. Being ill is a full-time job. And not made easier by doctors with inflated egos who believe they are untouchable.

If you haven’t listened to Dr Death, listen to it. It’s very easy in this situation to believe that this is only happening to you. But it isn’t. My surgery has a 2 star rating. That is testament to the fact that this is not just happening to me. But who will change it? No one, likely. Because complaints are buried. Patients are ignored. And you’re made out to be a complete crazy who somehow, and for reason, wants to be sick.

And why don’t I change? Because my illness is complex, and I don’t have the strength to start again. Also, I don’t believe that any other surgery will be any better. If it’s anything more than a cough and cold, they don’t want to know. Actual doctoring rarely goes on.

I want to finish this blog with a praise to doctors in A&E. because my surgery refuse to look at issues or pay attention to serious problems, it forces patients to go to A&E - because they’re not overstretched and exhausted enough already. Due to having a reaction to my new medication, I ended up there two weeks ago. And the doctors and team were fantastic. I was there seven hours, but I never, ever moan about the wait. These people are inundated with cases. And the reason it took so long is because I had to wait to see a specialist medical team once my bloods had come back. But, throughout, I was treated with respect and dignity, and left feeling assured that I was okay.

Respect and dignity should be a given, however, unfortunately, so often it is not. I do believe some doctors that have been practising for a long time believe themselves to be untouchable, and that is a dangerous precedent to set. But unfortunately, I believe it is one that rings true far often than anyone would like to admit.

Maybe if I was a man, and spoke to them with rage, I would receive a different result. It’s amazing how respect is expected one way, and not the other.

Is the NHS sexist? I think so...

[centaurrential]

“The Spice Jar”

“Let me live the lie, So long as it gets me through the day.”

For a long time it baffled me why activists would choose to devote so much energy to a cause that always seemed like overkill to me: free speech. I suppose the reason for that is because I grew up in a fairly liberal environment in one of the most liberal countries in the world. My feelings of security in the realm of free speech were a result of direct contact with a family that, more often than not, found itself on the right side of political privilege. Juxtaposed by the harsh realities experienced by another portion of my family (but not by me) under dictatorship in Yugoslavia, it seemed like the threat to free expression was a dead issue, a thing left in another world, in the past and locked in a strait jacket, never to seriously perpetrate again. How naive.

I see now that the cause is not overkill at all, but rather in need of periodic resuscitation, with the medics on stand-by; and the best medics would be those who excel in “aspect perception”. Like evil, issues needing that particular kind of attention crop up in unexpected places, and so much vigilance in monitoring the sneaks is due. And a simple mandate of “free expression for all” is stupid and insufficient, because as we always see, static gaming rules can produce matches with vastly different phenotypes. (The existence of “language games” was originally observed by the Austrian philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, so I give him his due credit here.)

I spoke of ideology in my last posting, and wherever one wishes to locate (and I don’t use that term accidentally) themselves on the grid of political persuasions, there will always be conceptual pockets that are purposely left unfilled, often because no one has the guts to touch them for fear of being labelled too politically incorrect, or undiplomatic. But even more radical are those ideas that don’t even find themselves on that grid, because they lie so far outside of the limitations imposed by the prevailing paradigm. A person brave enough to attempt to give validity to those ideas is not only denigrated for being “uneducated” but crucified for being a downright dumbass, and possibly psychotic, if the definition of psychosis is a “detachment from ‘reality’.” But what we think of as reality is merely an idea that has been agreed-upon by people who happen to have sufficient charisma and power to persuade others.

I’ll give you an example: I have, I believe, collected enough evidence that demonstrates astrology is true. Because of this passing interest, I once mentioned to a relative that I was reading a book on the influence of astrology in history, political and otherwise. She asked who the author was and what his credentials were. Nothing “noteworthy” there, and because of that, she actually insulted me and declared it preposterous that I, a usually intelligent person, would consider an argument not backed by the mainstream meritocracy. It’s crucial to note that she has a doctorate in history. I didn’t even have to ask her why she was so appalled, because her answer would have been the same dished to me, on a silver platter, out of fucking Buckingham Palace, that is given to me by every other lazy asshole who considers astrology to be archaic and an immediate write-off. She would have said that “all the studies” performed on astrology show CLEARLY that the “daily horoscope” and the “sun signs” are all bullshit and believers suffer from a case of confirmation bias. Academics believe that mythology and established archetypes have value and are therefore worth studying. And there is a tight link between them and the representational entities found in astrology. But none of “The Educated” give enough of a damn to investigate its complex grammar (see last posting), and the precision required of any astrologer worth their salt.

My little rant about astrology isn’t meant to be a full-scale defence of the practice, but I am trying to demonstrate something. The shallowness displayed in these disses to astrology is indicative of the fact that things already thought to be errant are not even encompassed in the span of that “grid of persuasions” I mentioned earlier. (The grid may be two- or three-dimensional, but who cares?) Those who are already convinced something is “wrong” simply won’t go to great lengths to play the devil’s advocate and explore why there may be a teensy-weensy chance it is RIGHT.

In my mind, if it’s been spoken of, then you should do your homework and read between the lines.

They say, if you can’t find yourself anywhere on that grid, there must be something fundamentally wrong with you. You’re crazed, you’re spacey, out to lunch, et cetera. The grid seems to offer a menu of choices, various combinations of platitudes you are free to choose from. So my point is this: if enough people, with enough influence, tell you that something is off the table, they’re telling you that not even the ingredients are available to conjure something worthy of bringing to the table. Therefore, to those who still hunger: you must look elsewhere.

I can’t say with certainty whether or not there was some grand agenda to marginalize and persecute people who can see outside of things (*cough*lust*cough), but if there is (I use the present tense cause...duh) it’s DEFINITELY ideological. And the reason it’s so fucking scary is because, if your wild ideas reach a certain density, the majority won’t even listen to you. And by ‘majority’ I don’t mean 50.1% of the population, I mean the people you interact with who possess a disproportionate amount of power. And further, by ‘power’ I mean the capacity to effect significant change in something, or to neutralize a challenge to a pre-existing situation. Anyway, never mind disagreement--you might as well not have a mouth at all. Even if your ‘kooky’ ideas are not that dense, the introduction of even one idea that doesn’t fall within the rules of the prevailing paradigm leads to others viewing you with suspicion and the belief that there is a crack in the philosophical foundation of your life.

To give you a visual: think of the scene in The Matrix when the Agents cause Neo’s mouth to grow over with skin, and he freaks right the fuck out. He falls backwards into the wall, as if to put physical distance between himself and this monstrosity. Speaking--expression--is so innate to us as humans with personalities. To add insult to injury, many of us find some things in this world that utterly compel us--that which ignites our “fire”, that which we cannot ignore no matter how detrimental we are told it can be, no matter how hard we try to resist.

...Who am I kidding?! I’m on a roll (!!!), so I’d like my readers to consider the following: We believe that the past and present both exist, yet we have enough trouble interpreting them. Why should interpreting what the future holds be any different? I think we all know why people are so vehemently opposed to that idea...it’s kind of the elephant in the room.

~~~

Now, I work in a grocery store. For a moment during the COVID-19 pandemic, we were all the rage, with people touting us as ‘heroes’ and heaping thanks on us because we’re “essential workers”. Or at least, we were. That died fast. But we’ve always been heroes. I don’t mean to insult my customers, the majority of whom I love interacting with. But I sense that some people just need to be put in their place.

The supermarket is an interesting one because it’s like a little laboratory for human behaviour studies--but it’s better, because it’s not artificial. Virtually every person on this planet leads a life that revolves around food, and when we don’t have good food, we are sad or grumpy. I understand the feeling of having one’s heart set on something and the disappointment experienced when our expectations aren’t met. But I plead with you: try thanking your lucky stars every now and then for all the options you have, as a result of lowly grocery workers.

Everyday, everything is splayed out for us to pick and choose from. And for that benefit, producers apply their intelligence to generate AND to coordinate, so that things are always “in stock”. Luckily all the food waste that’s generated in the name of “looking nice” (I’m serious) now goes to the food bank. If that didn’t happen, some of us would have to force ourselves to ignore the fact that the only final utility of some of that product was to ensure our shelves were pleasing to the consumer eye.  An understudy, if you will: an immensely complex thing, formed for the sole purpose of “just in case”.

Our lives consist of an economy that’s so sophisticated we really do not have to think twice about having SOME kind of satisfying meal. If not our first choice, then our second or third. Show some bloody respect. Right now, we’re all able to shop in relative luxury, but when shit hits the fan--like for example, perhaps, a prolonged power outage occurs--we’ll be yearning for the days when we had to settle for spinach because the all the kale was gone.

I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge the janitors, custodians, cleaning staff, and the specialized COVID sanitizers of the world. The mundane reality is so backwards sometimes. It’s like evil took all that was good and pure and turned it on its head. There is a premium placed on orderliness and cleanliness. Wash your hands for 20 seconds, apply hand sanitizer, kill those bacteria and kill ‘em dead. Ok, you don’t want to get sick--fine. But large-scale operations that exploit people who help you reach the “godliness” that is cleanliness, yet rob them of respect, appropriate compensation, and appreciation--you are grotesque.

So, money. I’m not well-versed in economics, but I call it like I see it. The nice thing about money, and the reason it’s so widely used, is because it’s an easy tool that supposedly ‘justly’ facilitates exchanges of goods and services between people. If something is expensive enough to the point at which you pass the threshold between “justifiable” and “unjustifiable”, that’s the only reason a person needs to not buy something. And the immediate source of justification is the psychology of the individual. Of course, there are many factors that contribute to the rationalization process.

Money may be easy, but money doesn’t reflect the true value of things, and it’s because money doesn’t reflect the true value of things that it is easy. Imagine you bartering spices for someone else’s dairy cow. In order to save time, you’d better hope that your bartering partner and you agree quickly what amounts and what types of spices are justifiable in trading for a cow. The processes that allow the accessibility of both types of goods are different. You and your bartering partner may not agree: they may want more, you think they should get less. BUT, this person you’re engaging with is the only source of a cow for you! Now imagine a plumber, for instance, trading a repair for a haircut. You help me, I help you, and we apply our respective skills toward that symbiosis. Is the haircut important enough to the plumber that they are willing to provide a service in return, sans money? Is the hairstylist appreciative enough of the plumber’s work to design and make them look good for free? A haircut and plumbing services are similar in some ways, but entirely different in others. The function and utility of each is different, and the consequences they generate permeate lives differently. Consequences may be far-reaching, or they may occupy less space in the progression of your life. A tree compared to a blade of grass. That is the nature of choice in this life. And when money leaves the equation, it’s like a dark sheath has been torn away from the true values of things, which are realistically very complicated.

People generally do act rationally, but it’s not in the way neoliberal economists think. The mistake they’ve made is assuming that a ‘rational choice’ is the same for everyone, across the board. Or maybe that’s what they want you to think. Liar, liar, pants on fire. What is rational to one person is not always rational to another. Much of it is subjective, at least if a person is true to themselves. And people’s inherent personalities are different, and therefore their specific motives are different. It’s not clear that there’s an absolute benefit that should be maximized (other than the obvious quest for happiness and avoidance of pain), because the true value of things isn’t strictly definable.

Think in these terms: What fuels our economy is consumerism. When there’s a recession, people have less money and therefore will purchase less, and so the goal to rejuvenate the economy is to get people buying things again. It doesn’t matter too much what, just as long as they’re spending money.

Now consider the resurgence in the ‘minimalist’ ideal. People are starting to wake up and see that having all sorts of shit just because you have the capability to buy it (and because money doesn’t reflect consequences) is destructive, and not only to the environment and the oppressed, but also to the soul. There are plenty of people in this world who absolutely cannot, in good conscience, own a lot of shit and be okay with themselves. This is a thing that I know for certain compels people. To deny this is to deny peace of mind. So, what place does a passion for minimalism have in neoliberal theory?

In what some like to call a post-modern world (a scary thought in itself; does that imply the end of history?) we increasingly find ourselves detached from the larger picture, and that is NOT good. What we see “in front” bears few clues into what happens behind the scenes. People don’t farm, we go to grocery stores. People don’t weave and knit, we shop at the mall. Things are presented in such a refined way that it actually takes some mental work and introspection to develop gratitude for the people working to make us comfortable, often at their own expense, and often not because they are at liberty to do so. Coercion and rationality have a love-hate relationship.

To tie things up, please pay attention to the source of your information. I don’t mean “Angelfire websites” and all that shit, I mean the individuals and groups of individuals in charge of disseminating  information. Karl Marx developed Marxist/communist theory because of his situation in life. He had motives, like everyone else. Motives can come from a place of genuine compassion, sympathy for the meek, and a belief that everyone deserves kindness and less pain in their lives. But motives can also be positively diabolical, and when such motives inhabit the hearts of people with influence, evil spreads insidiously, like a metastasized cancer gone undetected.

[castellankurze]

@templarhalo I couldn’t resist another thing based on your suggestions.

-

The rumors had not been mistaken.  Her hair was white as snow; white as salt - not the product of dye or bleach, but rather the byproduct of the moment that had shaped the fortune of the entire Imperium.  It contrasted sharply with her dusky features, with the sleek ebony finish of her armor.   She approached with caution, but without fear, her ceramite boots crunching on the jagged beads of glass that lay upon the stone floor.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.  Even after untold thousands of years of terraforming procedures, the atmosphere of Venus was wretchedly volatile, churning with unrelenting thunderstorms.  It suited his mood well.  Wind blew through the open window frames, stirring the tattered threads of the sole banner that had survived the brutal bombardment, two of the four spokes of the Templar cross fluttering softly.

Sigenandus felt his hands tighten upon the pommel of the Sword of the High Marshal, its point grinding ever so slightly against the stone in response to the subtle motion.  She couldn’t possibly have heard it, but nevertheless she stopped a double arms’ length from him, eyes intent as if they might pierce the armor of his helm.

There was silence.  Even the roiling atmosphere seemed to hold its breath.

“I had the great fortune to set eyes upon this place, once,” the High Marshal finally said.  “I was then a man of the Sword Brethren of the chapter, and from the moment I first stepped through the gates I knew that I was stepping into history, into a grandeur of something so far beyond myself that even I for all my honors, could not picture the fullness of it.  A greatness held aloft by thousands of brothers before me, and thousands who would follow.”

She had the grace to turn her head from him, to look upon the destruction wrought by Vandire’s orbital bombardment.  To see it firsthand.

“Our loss is incalculable,” he said, his voice grave.  “So much more than stone and steel, men and materiel, trophies and testaments.”  He lifted his head, looking towards the open space where once the roof of the cathedral had come to a point above the great altar.  “The very being, the very memory of our chapter has been sundered.”

She turned her head to look upon him once more.  “Will you put your blade to my neck in vengeance for that atrocity?” she asked.  He tone was frank.

Sigenandus lowered his head once more.  “No,” he finally said.  “The head that most richly deserved taking has already been culled.”

“But you will resent me,” she said.

“That is my prerogative,” he replied.

She considered him for another moment and finally dared step closer, turning on her heel to face the remnants of the altar with him.  “I would not presume myself to understand the extent of your loss, High Marshal,” she said, her voice quiet and hard.  “Buildings can be remade, but you are correct; some things cannot be.”  He did not respond to this, and after a long moment she spoke once more.  “How long will you hold your vigil here?”

“Until I am certain,” was his reply.

For the first time, she seemed taken aback, and looked at him with an eyebrow raised.  “Certain?” she echoed.

“These chapter keeps were constructed in the days of Sigismund and Scharn; as much founding pillars of our chapter as the men themselves.  Now they are but husks, destroyed from orbit on the word of a madman for my chapter’s crime of insufficient loyalty.”  He paused, listening as yet another boom of thunder echoed in the distance.  “And I, I will be remembered as the High Marshal who declared crusade against the soil of Holy Terra itself in vengeance.”

“To excise the darkness from its soul,” she said.

He glanced her way, the rubied eyes of his helm glinting.  “A space marine knows no fear,” he said as he turned forward once more.  “The better that he might wield his certainty as a weapon in the service of the Emperor.  A space marine who cannot be certain in his own strength of conviction, one who cannot so much as bring his blade to bear against the foe, is no less a shell than this once-great keep, and for him to bear the name Astartes is to dishonor his kind and his chapter.”

Her eyes had narrowed.  “It’s not the political upheaval that bothers you, is it?” she asked sharply.  “You know that measures have been taken to ensure another Vandire never arises.  It’s not declaring war on Terra, either.  You knew what you had to do.”  She turned and faced him squarely, hands on her hips, her frame no less iron than his own.  “You’re shaken by the knowledge that you lost this keep, that you took the enormous step of going to war with Holy Terra itself, and yet even with all that righteous wrath your chapter failed to carry the walls of Ecclesiarchal Palace.”

She had struck a blade straight through both his hearts, and the High Marshal discovered that his hands had become so tight upon the pommel of his sword that the activation rune was flickering.

She stepped forward so that he had no excuse but to look upon her, eyes molten.  “You will stand here forever and a day, High Marshal, and you will not be certain,” she said.  “If there is one thing that these past years have taught me, it is that certainty is but a comfort in lieu of wisdom.  I was utterly certain of everything I knew.  My faith unshakable, my skill unquestioned, my position at Vandire’s hand inviolate.  And now?”  She shook her head, her snow-white hair rippling with the motion.  “Let that be your certainty, High Marshal Sigenandus.  Every action we take, even those in the name of the God-Emperor - perhaps especially those - is driven with our will to make right that which is wrong.  That does not mean we will succeed; perhaps we will fail much more than we do not.  It is not success alone that signifies our righteousness, it is perseverance.  Take the burdens that have been placed upon you, shoulder them, and step forth.”

Thunder boomed as if to underscore the emotion in her entreaty.  She watched him for a long moment, waiting for an answer, and finally began to turn away when, as if pulled forth from him by some external force, he finally said “I am still resentful, Lady Dominica.”

She paused, brow raised once more.

“You make it very difficult to turn blame against you, rather than admit weakness within oneself.”

The corner of her lips turned upwards and she tilted her head to one side in consideration.  “Hm.  I have had the incalculable blessing in my life to meet with the God-Emperor himself.  I did not think I would also have the good fortune to meet Sigismund, as well.”

He boots crunched on the broken shards once more as she departed, and once her back was safely turned Sigenandus lifted one armored hand to scratch a thumb against the grille of his helm, unaccustomed to the warmth of the flesh beneath.