#commodification of housing

[ltwharfy]

My landlord pissed me off today, so I'm just thinking about how awful the commodification of housing is.

Shelter is one of the most basic needs of all living creatures.

However, in the good ol' USA, in order to have a shelter you basically have to give a bunch of your money to either landlords (mostly evil) or mortgage companies (mostly evil).

I just want a roof over my head my head an a place where I can hide from the rest of the world when I am exhausted. Why does that have to require giving my money to awful people/institutions?

Fuck this shit.

[dekaydk]

Cities are the human equivalent to ecosystems: complex, having a variety of contributing elements, evolving. Actual residents and local workers are the lifeblood of a city. This is why businesses in the financial district in post-pandemic San Francisco are struggling or just closing: many tech firm employees are working from home. This is why the Main Street sections of Disney parks, as well-crafted as they are, don't feel quite right, because the ground floor "businesses" are just selling food and Disney merchandise, instead of the full mix of options that a real town possesses. Venice is the leading example of cities which have been damaged this way, where at some point in the last several years the housing stock crossed a line where more of it caters only to non-residents, with much not even owned by residents. Today, most of Venice is its own Disney park, with the cruise ships disgorging tourists by the tens of thousands each day, to mill about the Piazza San Marco, get in a vaporetto to see the Grand Canal, eat mostly bad food, buy trinkets or overpriced jewelry, and after sunset leave the city to the tourists who are staying there, while many of the workers get on the train to Mestre or Padua because (aside from government housing) Venice isn't an option. Parts of Paris are losing residents to short-term rentals and suffering a drop in local non-tourist businesses; Greek island towns; US towns like Santa Fe, Key West, Carmel-by-the-Sea, etc.. I'm particularly sad to hear this story because Barcelona is an amazing city with amazing people despite its tourism problem, and among other civic improvements has been doing great things with pedestrianizing/slowing the streets in the Eixample.

The takeaway: AirBnB and their ilk take long-term housing out of circulation, displacing locals, which drives up living costs for everyone in the local economy, while mostly transferring income away. They market an image that you're supporting some sole proprietor or family business, but it's more likely that your money's going to some kind of investment company (REITs, private equity, owner pools, etc.).

Hotels aren't necessarily better when it comes to local ownership (except as noted above by (@kapustainu), but it is inarguable that hotels don't displace residents on a massive scale and drive up housing costs. Hotels employ lots of locals and (usually) pay decent wages. If you're going somewhere with plenty of acceptable hotel options, please consider the hotel vs. the AirBnB.

(And if your local government is considering restricting short-term rentals/AirBnBs, support the initiative if it seems like it has real teeth. Don't listen to the arguments about "harming competition" or "hurting small businesses" because that's a classic frame by monopolists.)

Xavier Olivé is the last person renting a flat in a building in the Eixample [neighbourhood of Barcelona, Catalonia], after a Dutch company has bought the whole building. He denounces that the owners have expelled all the neighbours who always lived here and now all the other flats are touristic or luxury apartments.

Despite being saddened by the situation and fearing they might expel him as well, he is decided to resist because he doesn't want to leave.

By Barcelona TV. English subtitles added by me.

Sadly, this is a common story in Barcelona and other cities and towns affected by touristic massification.

We urgently need laws that regulate housing so that locals aren't massively expelled to make room for tourists or second homes for rich foreigners, and to stop vulture funds from buying up huge amounts of property to raise the prices. But right now, as a tourist, the most important thing you can do to stop kicking people out of their homes is easy: NEVER, NEVER STAY AT AN AIRBNB, AN UNCONTROLLED TOURISTIC APARTMENT, OR SIMILAR. Always stay at certified hotels (or, of course, with friends and family if you have them there).

If you rent an apartment that is being marketed to tourists where there's a housing crisis for locals, or an Airbnb anywhere, you're effectively destroying the local community.

[ohcorny]

i reread all of chobits recently as insp for my next TT book and every time i think about some aspect of it all i want to do is rip it open and tear it apart and go "why?". it brings up so many concepts and scenarios within the premise of "what if computers looked like pretty girls" but it doesn't want to commit to saying anything about it or take its own world seriously.

i have a lot to say about chobits. arguably i have more to say about chobits than even chobits wants to say about chobits.

chobits is about sex except it isn't about sex at all. chi's power switch is in her vagina. we're shown images of chi doing sexy things, she gets tricked into doing a strip tease, and two separate men try to finger her and she does her Do Not Touch Me There magic powers thing, and we eventually learn every time she resets from the power button, her memories are erased, so you can't have sex with her without deleting her.

but we never unpack why her reset button is in her vagina, or why it's so important that nobody can ever touch her, or why people's personal computers were built with vaginas in the first place (we never have it confirmed that all persocoms have them, but that two separate men try to touch her there imply it's expected). why do the personal computers shaped like women have vaginas if not to fuck them. as a product, it is expected that you will fuck them*.

*i assume, because the comic never says so!

the man who invented persocoms is the same person who built chi and her sister, and he built them to be daughters for his wife. he put the reset button in chi's vagina. we never find out why. we never get a HINT of why. he built the chobits so they could feel and fall in love, but also built them so they could never fuck. you can extrapolate a reason why a man might build his daughter-androids that way, but the series itself never touches it, and never makes any sort of point about it. it's just presented as an immutable fact that chi can't fuck without it deleting her, as if it was born of happenstance and not a person's choice.

what does that actually say about anything? what is it trying to say about sex? is it about the commodification of female bodies, how once they're used up sexually they're worthless? that if you can't love somebody without fucking them, what good is your love? that love without sex is okay (but also a huge burden and sacrifice a man must accept for the sake of someone else's happiness?)

what does it want to say! chobits is about sex, but it doesn't want to commit to any specific message about sex.

and that's just ONE issue i have with it. there are so many things chobits wants to be about but won't say anything about. it wants to be about the persocoms replacing human connections, we constantly get told 'gee people hang out with persocoms a lot', chitose publishes a whole inexplicable book series about people preferring persocomes to humans. it's to the degree that a prominent character's husband gets So wrapped up in (presumably) fucking his android that he locks his actual wife out of the house, having just straight up forgotten she exists. we don't have anything to say about it though. she falls in love with a new man. the people who hang out with their persocoms too much are all background characters in crowds. we never look at how the rise in persocoms has affected society as a whole.

it wants to be about grief, in the story about the man who marries a persocom and has to watch her slowly degrade until she can't remember him anymore, or the kid whose older sister died and he tried to replace her with a persocom who he dresses up/treats as a maid and lives alone with despite being omega orphaned and 11 years old. but then it's fine. the man who married a persocom gets in a relationship with a high school girl 20 years younger than him (CLAMP!). it's fine! the boy who tried to replace his older sister just accepts that the persocom replacement won't replace her. still treats/dresses her up like a maid and lives alone. is she his legal guardian. i don't know. don't worry about it.

and it wants to be about women, because everything about the story is about women, all the persocoms are women, all the tragedies are wrapped up in the death of a woman, or a woman's heartbreak, or a woman's feelings. but it has fucking nothing to say about women beside look how pretty they are. my boobs are E cup, sempai :) teehee

it makes me insane.

friend @amphiaria put it best as "Unfortunately the story is uninterested in itself" and i can never forgive it for being so aesthetically good, giving us the best design for an android (the ear things are Perfect) and then being So Fucking Bad.

in conclusion:

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[mayasaura]

There's a fascinating double standard in a lot of the analysis of John's influence on the Nine Houses' society. Like, the role of cavaliers, the widespread commodification of the remains of the dead, these are all faults the Nine Houses have inherited directly from him. Fair enough. But the lack of gendered roles, the complete lack of male primogeniture, homophobia, or patriarchal family structures, these of course have nothing to do with John, who is definitely a misogynist.

edit: what I mean is that the stuff that makes it easy to hate John and frame him as a mustache twirling villain tends to be entirely credited to him, while complications to that narrative tend to fall by the wayside. this post has nothing to do with misandry and everything to do with craving nuance

[widefuturesss]

I am no longer interested in circulating certain visual aesthetics of Blackness, I find need to protect my findings...... "critical selection and intimate evaluation", I wonder if we will outlive the internet,, we need a new house or morgue or sanctuary or space to lay ourselves in - I seek a space for the retelling of the images away from cultural commodification

[glass--beach]

hi !!!! :3 so, pd seems, in my reading like its a decent part about the kinda mass surveillance and commodification of personhood shit the world has got going on rn, in a kinda (yes, its cliche, but the radiohead influence makes it a bit more palatable) modern ok computer-esque way. anyways, i wanted to ask u, what motivated u to write about these subjects especially ??

i am transgender and so so scared

near every single person in the world carries a camera on them at all times with the capability of broadcasting its view to all of the internet. we have a culture of emotional armor and swords built to slip between its plates, to be angry or afraid or upset or even the wrong kind of happy is cringe. those who believe in some shadow government in some hidden room somewhere spying on us at all times are delusional - this is wrong - where labor can be outsourced for cheaper it will be. taxis are expensive to run, making people drive their own cars and find customers on an app for measly pay is much more cost effective. giving a music writer a salary is too pricey compared to hiring freelancers on a per article basis. and now surveillance has been, like so many other things, outsourced to civilians and their cameras and smartphone apps. a man sitting oddly on a couch is cheating on his girlfriend, a fold in a woman’s clothing is a hidden penis, we are the panopticon and the prisoner… this is the “society of control” - freedom as tyranny.

the nature of reality is at stake in our culture - “what is a woman?” “a woman” - those who refuse to understand transgender people are helplessly tied to some “deep reality” - “i know what you are!!” - which is ultimately an enforcement of the status quo socially constructed reality. transgender people recognize reality as something socially constructed and seek to bend it to their liking… pronouns and chosen names are after all meant for others to use rather than ourselves, they are third person terms, gender never worms its way into the terms “I” and “We”. our personhood is defined by other people, and can be invalidated or revoked by others… the insecurity created by this tension is ripe for advertising. take this boner pill, it will make you more of a man. take this injection, it will make you a woman. we are defined by our outside, our house, our car, our clothes, our skin, our bodies.

this is where the “family nexus” concept comes in - groups of people create their own pockets of reality. to christians, god is real and to deny this is insanity. to hardcore atheists, believing in god is insanity. to many psychiatrists years ago and some still today, to believe to be a different gender is insanity… and the insane deserve less rights than the sane, they don’t even know what is best for themselves. queer people seek to create a new sane. or rather to go “insane” in our own way the same way anyone who believes in anything does. create our own nexus where our experience of reality is simply true.

hope that helps at all and makes any amount of sense

oh yeah ok computer… maybe i’ll go off about that another time… much of the themes and sound of that record were a jumping off point for us. written in the 1990s, the end of history, time has marched on and yet we are still here stuck in capitalist reality. “did you lie to us tony” as if labour could ever do something about the fact that post 1991 “there is no alternative”… deeply tragic record but love runs through all of it undeniably… maybe i’ll go off about that in another post…

[hiwaaranit]

Looking at a the asks you answered about indigenous people in fantasy and about indigenous rep by non-indigenous writers, I have a follow up question, if you don't mind- Seeing how common it is for fantasy works to use cultural mish-mashes, especially like medieval Europe-ish or Warring States fantasy Japan, is there a way to respectfully incorporate indigenous cultures into that sort of world (particularly ones near to each other), or should it be avoided entirely, in your opinion?

Surprisingly Peter Pan 2023 did a great job, still it’s weird that native people are just chilling in neverland but I appreciate that they faced their past and hired native people. I think about harry potter’s little grubby hands trying to world build magic lore for the United States AND IM HORRIFIED. Already the four houses and eventual "monsters" in that setting is making my stomach hurt, honestly that is cultural appropriation and commodification at its finest, the worst example. Then I think about ATLAB and the mixing of cultures is kinda crazy like I love the show so much! But at the same time this is kinda crazy! I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with the level of commodification and the melting pot of cultures. If I saw someone cosplaying the "sun warriors" like🧍‍♀️it scares me. We know that culture isn’t a custom 😣🙏 right? Right? At what point do they say "put a headdress in the show" and everyone starts cosplaying, like a Disney Pocahontas/mulan/moana custom situation, ITS CRAZY. I’m saying this because you don’t want to go the avatar or the Harry Potter direction there is some crazy nuances that can only be created and managed by indigenous people.

I can’t recommend their videos enough because they really do get into cultural sensitivity and misappropriation of them.

[boymanmaletheshequel]

Things I do to honor Hestia 🏠

• purchase my furniture and home furnishings secondhand and pre-loved, instead of funding soulless corporations that have destroyed the coziness of homeliness through price gouging and market manipulation.

• offer money and food to the homeless, and point them in the way of help or shelter when I am afforded the chance.

• Take pride in my home, and try to keep it cozy and clean as much as I possibly can

• decorate according to the season to celebrate the vibe that each season brings to my home, such as pumpkins and seasonal China for autumn, and flowers and garlands for spring.

• advocate for the right of affordable housing to all, and actively fight against the commodification of housing by the government, corporations, and landlords.

Do you have anything you do in particular to honor lady Hestia?

[oflights]

god someone put that fanfic-to-pub post on twitter and the replies/quotes make me want to eat rat poison. it's 75% "you're just jealous and bitter" from rey/los and 25% the least self-aware people in the world going "no YOU'RE not normal, we are!!!"

see i would be absolutely mortified to publish some of what that machine churns out. if they put my name on it i'd change my name. would never leave my house. there is no amount of money in the world you could give me to do that. i low key think that subsection of tradpub is teaming up with booktok etc. to form some of the worst brain drain that exists in publishing, and the money involved is horrifying.

the commodification of fanfic goes against everything i like about fanfic, and most fanfic directly conflicts with what i want to get out of published fiction. these two streams run parallel to each other and only peripherally overlap in my mind; joining them for profit is genuinely gross. i think you can become a really amazing writer writing fanfic and then go on to write original stuff and publish that, but paywalling fanfic is not something people who actually value it (or any kind of literature, really) as a creative form would want to do.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms: Aemond POV

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines, rape, underage sexual themes

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Three

“Relax brother! This is every man’s dream!”

It may have been some men’s dreams, but to Aemond, this was a nightmare. He found himself standing in side a brothel on the Street of Silk, his older brother Aegon dragging him inside to celebrate Aemond’s thirteenth nameday in the most debauched manner possible.

Settled inside the dimly lit establishment, Aemond’s senses were assaulted by the overpowering scent of incense mingled with sweat and perfume. The air was heavy with the sound of raucous laughter and the low murmur of conversations, punctuated by occasional bursts of music from unseen musicians. The walls were adorned with lavish tapestries and paintings depicting scenes of seduction and desire, adding to the atmosphere of decadence and indulgence.

Aemond’s heart sank as he took in the sight before him, feeling a surge of disgust and embarrassment wash over him like a wave. He couldn’t believe that Aegon had brought him here, to this den of vice and immorality, on what should have been a day of celebration. The thought of indulging in such depravity made his skin crawl, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare from which he couldn’t escape.

As Aemond sat awkwardly upon a chaise, he couldn't shake the bitter irony of Aegon's words echoing in his mind. His brother had promised to teach him to be a real man, but this was certainly not what Aemond had in mind. He felt a deep sense of unease and discomfort settling in the pit of his stomach, his moral compass recoiling at the debauchery unfolding around him.

Across the room, Aegon was surrounded by a throng of whores, each vying for his attention and the promise of gold that came with it. Aemond watched in silent dismay as his brother indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, oblivious to the disapproving gaze of his younger sibling.

The whores themselves ranged in age, shape, size, and experience, each one adorned in scanty attire or, in some cases, no clothing at all. Their painted faces and suggestive smiles were a stark reminder of the commodification of desire, their presence in the brothel serving as a stark reminder of the seedy underbelly of King's Landing's nightlife.

“I think we are better getting someone with more experience. This is his first time after all,” Aegon suggested, his words attempting to convey an expert education in this field, yet this did nothing for his little brother’s nerves.

With a click of Aegon’s fingers, the madam of the establishment entered, clad in red silk and hair flowing freely, with a jug of wine in hand. The older Prince’s eyes lit up as the whore began to disrobe, but Aemond averted his eye, his face beet red at her nudity. No matter the sickeningly sweet spoken words the woman ushered, the offerings of the finest wine from Essos, or the crude encouragements from Aegon, the young one-eyed Prince remained limp and unsure if this is what he wanted.

He was snapped back into reality when Aegon yanked his face to the side, pulling on his bottom jaw and thrusting a goblet into Aemond’s mouth, dark red wine pouring down his throat and spilling out of the sides of his mouth. When the whore climbed atop Aemond to straddle him, Aegon pushed his brother’s head back around to take in the sight before him.

“No more child’s play, Aemond. It’s time to get it wet.”

As the woman’s skilled fingers began to stroke against the fabric of his tunic and started to descend lower and lower, the wine forced into Aemond’s mouth began to take affect, his mind growing fuzzy and body becoming number. With a defeated exhale, his mind wandered, in an attempt to distract him from his situation.

He dared not dwell on thoughts of his mother, or the inevitable disappointment and disapproval she would express if she knew where he was, led astray by Aegon or not. Even the refuge of historical facts or philosophical questions seemed too daunting, requiring a focus he simply couldn’t muster in the midst of the chaos.

Instead, Aemond found himself retreating into a more pleasant memory, one untainted by the darkness of the present moment. In his mind’s eye, he was transported to the tranquil beach outside the Red Keep, a secluded sanctuary where he often sought solace and solitude.

The beach stretched out before him, its sands golden and glistening in the sparse sunlight that peaked through the grey storm clouds, lapped by the gentle caress of the cerulean waves. Seagulls cried out overhead, their calls echoing against the distant horizon, while a refreshing sea breeze stirred the air, carrying with it the salty tang of the ocean.

Aemond found himself skipping stones across the water, the rhythmic sound of their skipping creating a soothing melody that washed over him like a balm for his troubled soul. With each toss of a stone, he felt a weight lifting from his shoulders, the burdens of the present momentarily forgotten in the simplicity of the moment.

But then, a familiar face appeared beside him. Aemond’s heart skipped a beat as the image became clearer, revealing the unmistakable features of Lady Maera. Gods, how long had it been? Almost three years now. Yet his mind had chosen to seek her out in this moment, as the whore bounced above him and stole his virginity.

Maera's round and gleeful face came alive before Aemond's mind's eye, her cheeks flushed with the rosy hue of childish excitement as she reveled in the brute force of the wind. Her dark brown curls and the silver streak intertwined, usually meticulously styled, became loosened and tousled by the ocean breeze as she ran freely along the beach, her laughter echoing against the backdrop of crashing waves. Aemond could vividly recall the sparkle in her dark green eyes, alive with mischief and joy as she embraced the freedom of the moment.

Lying on the chaise, surrounded by the suffocating atmosphere of debauchery and vice, Aemond couldn't shake the overwhelming sense of loneliness that engulfed him. Despite being surrounded by people, he had never felt so isolated and abandoned. In this moment of despair, he found himself yearning for Maera's presence more than ever before, and yet, there was also a hatred within it.

If Maera were here, Aemond knew he wouldn't be in this mess. He wouldn't have succumbed to Aegon's misguided attempts at brotherly bonding, wouldn't have found himself dragged into the depths of Flea Bottom's depravity. He couldn't help but place the blame squarely on her shoulders, the absence of her friendship leaving him feeling adrift and vulnerable in a world that seemed intent on swallowing him whole.

“Well done brother! You lasted longer than I did the first time.”

The time with the whore seemed to last forever yet be over incredibly quickly at the same time. With sheer stimulation, Aemond’s body did what it was programmed to do, earning a clap and a cheer for the onlooking spectators. He would never admit this, but hearing Aegon cheer him on was actually quite nice, for his older brother had never encouraged him in any other way before. It felt good, as good as it could given the circumstances.

As Aegon paid the whores, Aemond felt his face flush with embarrassment and shame, another part of his childhood slipping away in the wake of his brother's actions. He couldn't help but feel a sense of loss, as if something precious and innocent had been stolen from him, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness.

Exiting the brothel, the brothers found themselves back on the dark, winding streets of Flea Bottom. Aemond's heart felt heavy as they made their way towards the Red Keep, the weight of their shared secret hanging heavy in the air between them.

Aegon slung his arm around his little brother’s shoulders, tousling his hair with rough affection, and Aemond forced a smile, though it did not quite reach his eye. He knew that this fleeting attention from Aegon was temporary, just as their camaraderie was built on shifting sands. Deep down, he knew that he would never willingly return to the Street of Silk, no matter how much his brother might insist.

As they walked, Aemond couldn't shake the thought of Maera from his mind, her absence casting a shadow over his thoughts. Despite his best efforts to bury his feelings beneath layers of resentment and anger, a pang of longing pierced his chest, though he could not name it for what it truly was. In his mind, it had to be hatred for her, for nothing else felt as powerful or consuming.

A year later much had changed again. Now Aemond stood beside his brother in his chambers, who was racked with nerves on the day of his wedding to their sister, Helaena. A wedding that Aegon had fervently protested. Gods, he was so selfish. The union was for the good of House Targaryen and their family, to further the line and produce children of pure Valyrian blood. But Aegon had never cared for duty or honour, only his own desires and happiness, instead of what was for the good of the Realm.

The Queen had forewarned the one-eyed Prince that Lady Maera had been invited to return to the Capital, not only to attend the wedding, but serve Helaena until her marriage bore fruit. It was then the girl would be sent back to Rain House in order to seek out a marriage pact of her own. Alicent thought he would be pleased, recounting how close the pair were as children. Yet Aemond showed indifference, as if he did not care for past childhood friendships.

However, despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, Aemond's body betrayed him, reacting in a way that contradicted his feigned indifference. His palms grew slick with sweat, his jaw clenched tightly, and his heart raced beneath the fabric of his deep green doublet, its color almost blending with the darkness of his thoughts.

In his mind, Aemond resolved to treat Maera's return as he would facing any other enemy on the battlefield. He convinced himself that he felt no sentimentality for their shared past, nor any compassion for the hardships she had endured. He refused to acknowledge the distant bond they shared through the blood of the dragon, dismissing it as irrelevant in the face of their supposed enmity.

To Aemond, Maera was simply another adversary to be faced with steely resolve and unwavering determination. He would not allow himself to be swayed by emotions or nostalgia, for an enemy, in his mind, remained an enemy regardless of any shared history or blood ties.

The One-Eyed Prince was distracted from his consuming thoughts as he walked Helaena down the aisle in the Great Sept later that day. The grandeur of the holy building surrounded them, its towering pillars and ornate arches echoing with the hushed whispers of attendants and the strains of stringed music. Despite the festive ambiance, a palpable sadness hung over the sept, reflected in the somber expressions of Helaena and Aegon, both of whom were not willing participants in this charade of happiness and unity.

Attendees clad in their finest attire filled the pews, their expressions a mix of reverence and anticipation as they awaited the union of Prince and Princess. Symbols of the Seven adorned the walls and alcoves, their presence a constant reminder of the sacredness of the occasion and the vows being exchanged.

Aemond looked ahead, his gaze first fell upon his father, the King, seated in a pew near the front. His once proud and regal figure was now slumped and delirious, his eyes glazed over from the effects of the milk of the poppy. A wave of resentment and disgust washed over Aemond as he beheld the pathetic sight before him. How could their father be so weak and feeble, unable to even walk his own daughter down the aisle on her wedding day? It was yet another burden Aemond had to bear for the sake of his family.

His one-eyed gaze shifted to his mother, the Queen, who who watched the procession with a bittersweet smile. It was a smile tinged with sadness, reflecting the complexities of the match that had been made. Beside Alicent stood Lord Otto, Aemond’s grandfather, his expression grave and contemplative. Though his face bore no smile, there was a subtle nod of approval, a silent acknowledgment of the political significance of the marriage unfolding before them.

Aemond’s attention then turned to the High Septon, who awaited the arrival of the bride with an air of solemnity. The aged religious leader turned the pages of the Seven-Pointed Star, his devout demeanor a testament to the sanctity of the occasion. To the right of the altar stood Aegon, tears glistening in his eyes and dark circles beneath them betraying his inner turmoil. The sight of his older brother’s distress only added to Aemond’s own sense of unease and apprehension.

As they drew closer to the altar, Aemond felt a sharp pain as Helaena dug her nails into his arm, her silent plea for support evident even as she maintained her composure.

“What’s wrong?” He whispered her, barely audible for anyone else to hear.

Helaena looked up at him, tears in her violet eyes, which were now widened with fear. Like a lamb being sent to slaughter. “Dragon fire melts the steel to bridge the gap between sky and sea,” the Princess replied, desperation coating her hushed words. The gibberish spiked at times of stress, and the weeks leading up to the wedding were littered with them.

Meeting her gaze with his one-eyed stare, Aemond offered her a reassuring nod, “Come now. We are almost there, and then it will be over.”

As Aemond reached the High Septon with Helaena, he felt her grip tighten on his arm, a silent plea for him to stay by her side. But duty called, and Aemond knew he couldn't indulge in sentimentality. They all had roles to play for the greater good of House Targaryen and the realm, and he couldn't falter now.

Stepping away to settle beside Aegon at the altar, Aemond couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from the solemn proceedings. As the High Septon conducted the ceremony, Aemond's gaze wandered out towards the crowd gathered in the sept. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity about who had come to witness the union, knowing that a royal wedding was often an opportunity for lords and ladies to further their own agendas.

Starting from the back, Aemond scanned the faces of the attendees, making mental notes of those present; Leygood, Caswell, Tarly, Ambrose and Blackwood, who was no doubt seeking support against the Brackens. Pathetic, Aemond thought, to use a joyous occasion like a wedding as a platform for petty squabbles and political maneuvering.

The closer to the front, the more powerful and wealthy the Houses. Lannisters, Baratheons, Arryns, Starks. The front row on the left was reserved for members of the royal family and their closest relatives; The King, House Velaryon and House Hightower. But the front row on the right was reserved for members of the Small Council; Maester Orwyle, Ser Tyland Lannister, Maser of ships, Lord Commander Criston Cole and Lord Jasper Wylde, Master of Laws. But Aemond’s one eye widened when he spotted the figure beside the dark-haired Lord.

It was her. Unmistakably, it was her. How could she look the same yet so different? Her face, once cherubic and rosy-cheeked, had matured, losing some of its youthful innocence yet retaining its natural charm. Her dark green eyes, once filled with the boundless joy of childhood, now held a depth of wisdom and discernment befitting a noblewoman. Aemond’s gaze was drawn to the silver streak in Maera’s dark brown curls, illuminated by the soft light filtering down into the sept. Though she had grown taller, so had Aemond, and he was sure that he had overtaken her in stature.

Even Maera’s attire seemed to reflect the transformation she had undergone. Her dress, still adorned in turquoise and gold, hugged her form in a different way, one that accentuated her developing curves, hinting at the woman she was becoming. The neckline of her gown, once modest and childlike, now hinted at her breasts that were undeniably a sign of her transition from girlhood to womanhood. And if that was only the case, why could he not stop staring at her? Why did his trousers begin to feel uncomfortably tight?

As Aemond looked up from Maera's form, he found her dark green eyes locked onto his own, and he felt as if he were being held captive by her gaze. Try as he might, he could not tear his gaze away from her, drawn in by the intensity and familiarity of her stare.There was no malice in her eyes, no trace of the animosity or resentment he had expected. Instead, he sensed something softer, something akin to longing or perhaps an attempt at connection. It was a revelation that left him uncertain and unsettled.

Caught in a silent exchange, Maera darted her eyes briefly to Helaena before returning her gaze to Aemond, as if conveying her concern for his sister. Aemond felt a slight softening of his brow in response, acknowledging and sharing Maera's unspoken sentiment. With a silent understanding passing between them, Maera and Aemond turned their attention back to the ongoing service, the Prince attempting to push down the confusing mix of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"I do not recognise you. All I see in front of me is a stranger with one less ally in this place…and one less eye to see with.”

A flicker of anger crossed Aemond's features, but he quickly masked it. "I have nothing to prove to you," he said icily, his tone final.

The exchange between Aemond and Maera on that evening had been nothing short of a disaster. Aemond's usual sarcasm, once a familiar banter between them, had struck a nerve this time, evoking hurt and anger in Maera's response. As their conversation progressed, Aemond found himself growing increasingly frustrated. How could she be the one to feel hurt and angered by his words, when she was the one who had left him when he needed her most?

Despite his awareness of the harshness of his words, Maera continued to challenge him, her own frustration evident in her tone and demeanor. Her words, though laced with anger, only served to fuel Aemond’s own ire. How could such hateful words come from someone so beautiful? But he pushed aside the distraction, refusing to be swayed by her appearance.

When Maera stormed away, Aemond couldn’t help but smile to himself, a sense of victory coursing through him. He had won their battle of words, proving his superiority in their exchange. Yet, even as he reveled in his triumph, a lingering sense of anger gnawed at him. Why did he still feel so unsettled? Why could he not find solace in his victory?

A short time later, Aemond stormed out of the wedding party, his frustration boiling over as he slammed the door of his chambers behind him. In that moment, he hated her—or so he told himself, unable to admit the truth of his conflicted feelings. His brow was coated in sweat, and his doublet felt unbearably tight, constricting his chest and suffocating him in its confines.

With trembling hands, Aemond quickly tore off his doublet, ripping it over his head in a fit of frustration. The loose cotton tunic followed, discarded in a heap on the floor as he struggled to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his chest. She was driving him insane, he thought bitterly, her presence in his mind and his life wreaking havoc on his emotions.

Aemond knew he couldn't afford to feel this way, to let an enemy—albeit, a former friend—infect his mind and body with such turmoil. He couldn't afford to appear weak, not when he had so much at stake. Yet, despite his attempts to push her from his thoughts, he found himself consumed by her presence, unable to shake the hold she had over him.

His trousers remained ridiculously tight and when he dared to look down, he saw a very obvious bulge that had formed, a growl of anger leaving his throat. He would be stuck with this for hours if he did not do something about it. Hastily undoing his laces, he spat on his palm and wrapped it around his cock, using his thumb to smear the pre-cum leaking from his tip around the head. Gods, one conversation with her in four years and he was tugging at himself like an animal, no better than Aegon when he caught the sight of a young maid. He hated Maera for making him do this, for having this effect on him.

The Prince bit his lip as he began to stroke faster, desperate to be rid of this feeling. He had not done this to himself since his night on the Street of Silk, yet for some unexplainable reason it felt right, and with her image in his mind, it felt safe to do so. But he could not appreciate this safe haven, for his mind still swirled with the confusion of emotions he felt for his old friend.

“I hate her,” he whispered aloud, as if saying the words into the air made it more real. “I hate her.” His pace increased, cock twitching as he brought himself closer and closer to the edge, jolts of pleasure shooting through his veins. She had bewitched him, body and soul, and even in his thoughts he could not escape her.

Gods what he would give to be freed from this torment, for to be so ensnared by an enemy was a sign of true weakness. The slope of her nose, the furrow of her brow, the twinkle in her green eyes. How soft her hair must have felt, how warm her hands must have been, her breasts, her mouth…

With a stifled moan, Aemond released into his hand, the powerful orgasm threatening to overwhelm as his whole body convulsed. After a few deep breaths, his mind came back to reality, and he located a cloth to wipe away the remnants of his seed. It was at this moment that he realised that Maera would not just be here for the wedding. She would be serving Helaena until the birth of her first child. Aemond gulped nervously. This what not the end of his problem. It was barely the beginning.

Yet he survived the agonising twelve moons in her company. Thanks to Lord Larys's spies in the Keep, Aemond was able to learn Maera's movements and strategically avoid her. The few times their paths crossed, it was a brief and tense encounter—Maera would hastily make her exit with an excuse, or Aemond would swiftly depart, both eager to maintain their distance. The arrangement seemed to suit them both, allowing them to coexist in the same space without confrontation.

Despite his efforts to avoid her, Aemond found himself still plagued by thoughts of Maera. Her presence lingered in his mind, haunting him with memories of their shared past. The mere sight of her smile or the sound of her laughter stirred a tumult of emotions within him, driving him to the brink of madness. The familiar scent of vanilla and rainwater that accompanied her as she passed him in the halls served as a constant reminder of her presence, further fueling his anger and frustration.

Through the use of palace maids, he managed to get a grip of himself, bending them over tables and rutting into them desperately in an attempt to find temporary release. When his peak would hit, he would climax into his hand or onto their backs, for his seed was sacred, a tool of House Targaryen, and would be used to father many of his heirs. No whore or mere maid was worthy of such a thing.

Aemond actually found it amusing, how he could simply just use these women. Most of the time he did not even need to convince them. They seemed to appear, willing and ready, when the time was right. Sex was a way to assert himself, to regain control, to fight his inner demons in a way that stopped him from using Vhagar to set the world alight in flames, for the hurt and anger he had experienced over the years had twisted and contorted within him into something he did not recognise.

However he was not cruel to the women. He did pay the maids for their time and ensure they were taken care of, a stark contrast to his brother who was known to terrorise the young women. Aemond did not remember their names, nor their faces, for every girl he used seemed to somehow morph into Maera within his mind, her name spilling from his lips when he came.

After Helaena birthed the twins, Maera departed from Kings Landing once more, causing relief to wash over Aemond, mingling with feelings of sadness and regret that were all too easy to bury. Maera’s ability to elicit such strong emotions from him only served to confirm her status as a formidable adversary. A part of him hoped it would be the last time he ever laid his eye on her, wishing to put an end to their tumultuous relationship once and for all. And yet, another part of him—small, but insistent—longed for their battle to continue, unable to deny the undeniable force that drew him to her, despite everything.

Notes: Heavy chapter🖤 I wanted us to sympathise with Aemond and some themes from this chapter that will be useful later on 👀 also I didn’t wanna go too heavy into the brothel scene, it just made me mad uncomfortable writing it but it’s needed for plot 💀 and shout out to my husband for help with this chapter about how to get into the mind of a fifteen year old boy, as well as confirming that male teenagers can and still do jump to conclusions so hard their legs snap on the way down, AND get horny at inappropriate times 🙃 I’ll stop spamming you all with Aemond POV for now 🤣 Back to writing original ODAM this week too 🖊️

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @manipulatixe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[moonshynecybin]

literally marc and devotion topic of alllllll time... wld love to hear all ur thoughts...

Okay your post got me on this and it is beautiful!!!!!!! essential scholarship…

like marc has never liked anything or anyone casually in his LIFE!!! i am. constantly thinking about this lol i think its a load-bearing aspect of his personality. idk like professional sports is already such a chaotic whirlwind of travel and media barrage and commodification of your person that it means you really need those big pillars in your life to ground you… and marc chose a lot of those people from a pretty young age. i mean his best friend is his brother. he cried about leaving his team all weekend in valencia he looooooves them. only way he was remotely okay leaving that team even to win was if he was going to the garage next to alex lbr. and he still maintains he might come back. 

and one big theme from all the motogp journo’s podcast and stuff i listen to is how kind of removed from the rest of the paddock and weird marc is. very good at holding everyone at arms length. not reallyyyy good friends with the other drivers. withholds in a very deliberate way. please consider this hilarious photo of him hanging out with joan mir and ignoring his ass to talk to his brother. like for example fabio loves marc! but marc likes fabio. hes still nice! hes friendly! hes not. well forgive me he is not going to anyones house in the offseason. anymore. wonder why.

hes just… so selective with this devotion and so complete with it. its an exclusive little club but he would die for them all…. never lost anything he didnt leave clawmarks on. including racing! he just cant except a reality in which the things he loves are absent from him he finds it intolerable. which is a big part of why i dont really believe him when he says he’s over his and vale’s epic breakup. I think he wants everyone to BELIEVE he is over it bc itll lead to less questions about it and well. my man marc only likes being percieved on his own terms and the sepang incident was something decidedly not on his own terms. and he hates showing his soft little underbelly about it. I think his little docuseries are very much coming from a place of discomfort wrt to how the inability to define his own narrative happened with all that. and also so he can tell the world he is Over valentino Please Stop Asking. so.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Brett Christophers is a professor of human geography at Uppsala University’s Institute for Housing and Urban Research and the author of four books on economic geography and political economy.

Brett and Ed discuss the commodification of electricity, the role of the state in renewable energy projects and why markets can’t be relied on to decarbonise the energy sector.

[dankxsinatra]

whats a 15 min city?

urbanites are sectioning up cities so 'everything you need' is within 15 minutes of walking. On the surface it sounds like an idea built on efficiency but it's designed for the express purpose of lowering 'car dependability' and therefore, lowering the citizens ability to travel on their own terms.

In 2020, a proposal was signed by 160 academics and 300 architects. The proposal had four core elements to it:  reorganization of mobility, (re) naturalization of the city, de-commodification of housing, and de-growth.

Those last two are especially concerning since the lack of growth and the overregulation of the housing market plays a major role in why real estate is so fucked up right now. This will just make things worse.

[terven--godess]

Gender ideology and capitalism are intertwined, with the commodification of gender affirming care turning identity struggles into profit opportunities. Feminists critique this system, arguing that it reduces complex issues of identity and selfhood to marketable products. By challenging the ways in which capitalism exploits gender, feminists seek to create a society where identity is not commodified. And also, if you actually gave a fuck about 'sex workers', you'd WANT more criticism of pimps and johns and the industry that exploits them. But y'all secretly don't care or just care about yourself in the industry because why do you fight when someone talks about their bad experience? If you make more money - depending on how long you've been married, you can be forced to pay alimony. Reproductive violence as a global issue targets women’s ability to control their own bodies, with men and institutions using laws, religion, and cultural pressures to restrict access to contraception and abortion. Feminists argue that this form of violence is designed to keep women dependent and limit their autonomy. I'm aiming for the legal protections of the prostitute but a crackdown on johns and pimps. I want prostitutes (and other 'sex workers' of course but I am focusing on prostitutes) to be able to seek aid, go to the police, and get other forms of help without fear of being arrested or fined. I want johns to be scared to even walk near a prostitute. I want pimps to face a minimum of 10 years in prison if not more.

^^^ reminder that slimber think stuff like this is ok. Feminist critiques of the beauty industry highlight how capitalism exploits women's insecurities. Products like makeup and cosmetic surgery are marketed as empowering, but they often reinforce harmful beauty standards. Women are pressured to conform to these ideals to feel attractive, creating a cycle of dependence on an industry that profits from making them feel inadequate. This capitalist driven beauty culture is at odds with feminist values of self acceptance and liberation. hands…balls…peanut butter…Under the couch…Notice anything? If we dont scrimps soon, the funny banana will take over peanut butter jar. If I had a erf for every time WIM tried to peenut butter, Id own my house.

[dailyanarchistposts]

New ways of well-being

The way we relate to land must be altered in a future ethical society. No longer would land be thought of a property to be exploited and hoarded. We realize that land is alive, and it is not a commodity to be divided up and bought and sold. Land will belong to those who manage and care for it, holding it communally for the benefit of all. To defend the land is to defend ourselves and it something we should undertake at all costs. We must all come together to design the lands we care for in such a way that they may heal from the centuries of capitalist degradation.

An ethical consideration of water usage will show that all communities need to be returning the water they use to the river, lake, or aquifer it came from, as clean as they found it. We all have the responsibility of cleaning and purifying the watersheds after so much pollution wreaked by capitalism. Water scarcity is a new fact of life in our changing climate, we must take water efficiency seriously when designing future systems. The ability to exist with the least amount of water possible will be advantageous. Pollution of waterways is a threat to mutual survival and should be treated as an act of aggression.

There are many natural borders on the planet but the Nation State borders we are familiar with have been used by those States to homogenize or genocide diverse cultures within it’s borders. They are mechanisms for State sponsored murder, and must be abolished. People can decide for themselves which communities they want to be a part of and how to organize those communities. This is the anarchist principle of voluntary free association. Negotiations and discussions can allow us to develop principles for free movement between such communities, as any community deserves some expectation of privacy from unwanted tourists. Any migrants should be taken care of though, whether travelers or climate refugees, basic hospitality should be extended to these vulnerable people. Between these communities, based on natural borders and watersheds, federations might pop up to coordinate actions across territories.

The need for secure housing is a human right and should be defended as such by our future society. As Malatesta pointed out, capitalism is the system in which builders go homeless because there are too many houses. Houses will belong to those who occupy and care for them, much like the land. No one has a right to more housing than what is needed for their chosen family. This does not mean one house one family, but it does mean that communities should allow for enough housing to meet the needs of every person, however they constitute themselves. We will encourage design that changes the ways people come together in public space, promoting more communal experiences when it comes to child-rearing and kinship.

The commodification of land under capitalism has led to the destruction of whole cultures, and the wholesale destruction of the planetary climate systems. Additionally, this current system has cause the 6th mass extinction, mass starvation, pollution, and the murder of the living soil and torture of non-human animals. The way we feed ourselves says a lot about our values as a society. Safe, healthy, and culturally appropriate foods should be a right under Anaculture. Making sure everyone is fed is the responsibility of all. Food shouldn’t be commodified, it should be produced by workers…for workers, not for the profit of the capitalist class. Farm land and food production facilities should be expropriated to serve this purpose. The Indigenous knowledge assembled into permaculture can inform the future design considerations of our food systems.

A topic not usually confronted by permaculture in depth is healthcare. Most written on the subject is about medicinal plants and herbs used to treat common maladies. The issues of trans rights, neurodiversity struggles, medical racism, and women’s access to birth control are rarely discussed. Under Anaculture health care would be a human right, including preventative therapies. People will determine for themselves what constitutes a healthy life, and be able to access the resources needed to achieve it. People will have the ability to freely alter their bodies for any purpose, including gender expression. The knowledge of healing will not be gate-kept by educational institutions but shared freely with communities so that they may begin to treat themselves with more autonomy. These institutions, along with hospitals, will be anarchized and the worker’s will do their best to equalize treatment for historically marginalized populations.