#corpus clock

[thesargasmicgoddess]

Today, I say goodbye to England...

**warning: emotions and ramblings ahead. 😆

I'm toasting the end of what I'm fondly calling my "2023 World Tour" 😆 I've been home for exactly 7 days since the end of May. I've traveled over 25000 miles over 7 weeks to Asia and England. I've packed and unpacked over 20 times and have been on countless planes, trains, and automobiles.

This last week, I've been overwhelmed with emotions I can't quite fully place yet--but they all seemingly revolve around an aching theme of feeling bittersweet about new and old experiences and longings.

(Well, THAT was a plot twist I didn't expect on this trip. 😂)

There are certain growths that can only be experienced through pushing beyond comfort zones. I was, surprisingly, stronger, less introverted, and more flexible than I ever expected. There were challenges and new things: the nostalgia of old friends and old haunts; the paying of respects to those that are no longer with us; the visiting of those I grew up with; the first time meeting of a longtime online friend.

As exciting as all of this travel has been, I'm ready for home. Maybe it's the absence of routine and home comforts, or maybe it's the mental shifts required for traveling this long and traveling alone, but I seem to be more emotionally vulnerable during this last week. That bittersweet feeling I've had all week hasn't wanted to let up, and I've been trying to chase down all the reasons behind this feeling.

Visiting places that had helped shape the person I am today, 22 years ago, is in itself, bittersweet. I remember 20 year old me thinking about the passions of the future and yearning for more. I've changed quite a bit, yet the buildings and memories remain. It is an odd feeling of time flying by, yet standing still.

I've pondered a lot about the magic of connections on this trip, juxtaposed with the blessed angst of being someone who feels too much. Every touch, every step, every memory, every feel--I want to capture it all like lightning in a bottle, yet it's almost too much to take in all at once some days. I tell myself to breathe, but sometimes I can't quite catch my breath because I feel so much. Wanting to live a full life can be quite overwhelming for introverted souls who feel too much, but I am so blessed to have the fortitude and opportunities to live fully--albeit sometimes a bit crazily 😆

When you think about the growth of a person throughout their lifetime and the range of intense emotions, experiences, thoughts--it's really quite amazing.

I know my blog hasn't exactly been on "fun smut" brand this last week, but I've always been authentic here. And what has been authentic this week has been....well...a lot of writing, emotions, and processing. I believe in balance-- and I believe that to each irreverent light fun side, there is a darker, more soulful, extremely sensitive side lurking right beneath the surface. I've definitely been more of the latter this last week.

If you've read this far, thank you. This was a needed catharsis for me and a step in processing everything.

So, where to go from here?

I'm not sure. It will take me a minute to mentally and emotionally decompress, unpack, and process all the experiences I've had over the last 2 months. My posts have always been mood-dependent and my moods have been all over the place so......stay tuned 😆😂

Since I can't do anything in a normal, typical fashion--I just have to go with the flow and say cheers to adventures and unexpected soul-searching vacations. I will still take living passionately and deeply over feeling nothing at all most days....

But a break for the rest of today might be a good idea. Or else I'm drinking on the plane.😂

After all this rambling, The Corpus Clock and all that it represents seems appropriate for this post 😂

Onward...

[moonywalker]

• C O R P U S C L O C K

The weird grasshopper-like creature (lovingly nicknamed ‘Hopsie’ by the local students), is actually a ‘chronophage’ which means a ‘time-eater’. It is constantly eating away at our time. The  inscription at the bottom reads:

“The world will end, and all it’s lust thereof.”

[have-you-been-here]

Corpus Christi Clock, Cambridge, UK

[yuucandoit]

Separated them bc they are long. I suppose I should make a mer form.. but I'll come back to that

My Hook twst guy - wasn't sure if he would be a ghost or alive

credit to https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/716126 and https://picrew.me/en/image_maker/611021

@chaoticgremlinbrainspace

Jas Blacklock (Hook twst)

Octavinelle 3rd year (he's an (crocodile) icefish mer. Because they have white blood and I thought it was kind of ironic that his issues could line up in that way (Hook hates the sight of his own blood). He has a prosthetic left hand that can be switched to a hook.

Age: 18

Height: 182cm

Homeland: Coral Sea/Sunshine Lands

Birthday: March 15

Likes: Spatchcock duck

Dislikes: Oysters

UM Corpus Croc - it's basically a targeted magic attack with all sound being slowly drowned out until the only thing that the person affected by the magic can hear is the sound of many many ticking clocks - meant to induce a state of delirium/hysteria/displaced sense of time

[magicaldogtoto]

First attempt at sketching Momo. I imagine her skin is darker than it appears here, but that would be something for when I make a colored image. The pose is inspired by that one photo of Alice Liddell that Lewis Carroll took (Alice was meant to be a "beggar girl," which made me think of Momo), while the insectoid creature is inspired by the Chronophage from Cambridge's Corpus Clock. As a creature meant to eat time, it seemed as an appropriate symbol for the Men in Gray, while also doubling as something the Men in Gray would promote to scare humanity into "saving" more time.

[open-hearth-rpg]

Open Hearth Video Roundup - December 2, 2024

Welcome to the monthly Open Hearth Gaming video roundup!

These recorded sessions represent only a portion of the games we play every month, and anyone is welcome to join the fun! If you'd like to play in games like these, join our Playabl community and click on the "Calendar" tab to sign up for upcoming games. To browse our entire library of session videos, please visit our YouTube Playlists page. To hear our recorded sessions in audio-only form, please check out our Playing at the Hearth podcast.

Discussions, Panels, and Seminars

Talking Game Facilitation Lowell Francis A talk on running games in our community and generally. Chapters marked to make it easier to find material.

Open Hearth Gaming Calendar

Eclipse Phase - DECAY: Season One (Episode 2) Paul Rivers runs for Horst Wurst, Lowell Francis, Puckett, and Will H The team finally escape the Titan Quarantine Zone (TQZ) heading for the city of Noctis. A worrying pattern emerges within the group when many of them recognise that they are all missing roughly six months worth of memories. This gets confirmed as the enter the city when they learn they are only beta forks of themselves. With clock now ticking on their legal status and the status of Dr Mobius unconfirmed they rush to locate the only person that my know where their true selves are. They arrive at the doctors residence to find that chaos software has been released onto the house AGI and the doctors faithful friend Habeas Corpus down for the count. Can the team discover what has happened to Mobius, and can they find their original selves before they are outlawed and sentenced to erasure?

Eclipse Phase - DECAY: Season One (Episode 3) Paul Rivers runs for Horst Wurst, Lowell Francis, and Will H The group navigated through a chaotic situation at Dr. Morbius's residence in the city of Noctis. They discussed various scenarios involving a synth, a skinned body, and a telepresence robot, as well as making decisions about the game's progression and exploring the situation. The team also discussed strategies for dealing with a robot attack, the identity of Dr. Klatu, and the connection between the killer robot and the warehouse. They finally discover what is behind the Titan Quarantine Zone (TQZ) disturbance, but are still left without the knowledge of their true selves or what has happened in the missing six months they cannot remember.

Girl by Moonlight: Lumina Danny Rutherford runs for Clarisse, David S., Fumi, and Will S. A group of magical girls use the powers of friendship, expression, and starlight to contend with the strict social hierarchies of the mundane world and the nefarious plots of an abyssal court of nobles. With each of their victories, a long-absent star returns to the night sky.

Heart: The City Beneath (Session 1 of 4) Marc Majcher runs for Eliot, Nic, and Sabine V. Our new Deadwalker, Junk Mage, and Deep Apiarist set out from Grip Station to acquire some totally safe fungus for a Legitimate Doctor from Redcap Grove. Surely the Druid syndicate there will be no trouble at all.

Star Wars Saturday

Swoop Gangs: Niamos (Session 5) Rich Rogers runs for Anders, Cody Eastlick, and Steven Watkins The Gundarks run roughshod over the Gilded Fangs, party, and meet with the Three Hooks.

Swoop Gangs: Niamos (Session 6) Rich Rogers runs for Anders, Greg, Marc Majcher, and Steven Watkins The big Limmie game happens! The gang drives out their rivals! Party party.

Swoop Gangs: Niamos (Session 7) Rich Rogers runs for Anders, Cody Eastlick, Greg, Marc Majcher, and Steven Watkins Sen dies and Slise rises!

Outblastered (Session 1) Anders runs for Greg G., Rich Rogers, and Steven Watkins Escape from Corellia - The first session in a monthly run of Outgunned set in Star Wars. Iceman, Leblanc, and Azer get run out of Corellia by the Pyke Syndicate. Surely nothing worse will happen in this series.

Outblastered (Session 2) Anders runs for Greg G., Marc Majcher, Rich Rogers, and Steven Watkins Betrayal of the Crimson Dawn

Outblastered (Session 3) Anders runs for Greg G., Marc Majcher, Rich Rogers, and Steven Watkins Showdown on Mustafar! - Our intrepid heroes face the many dangers of Mustafar in their desperate attempt to find the ancient Sith artifact. Will they succeed? Will they survive? Will the dice roller be more annoying than usual?

Off-Calendar Highlights

Hearts of Wulin: Numberless Secrets: Gaze into Silken Night, Season Two (Episode 3) Madelancholy runs for Jonn, Michael D., and Rod Santos Jade Starlight lets his friend Pan Haoran know what he really thinks of Soup. Mu gets some good advice from an elder then causes some misunderstanding when he tries to help out an acquaintance. Pan starts to become suspicious of Soup, especially after talking with Mu. Jade has lunch with one of the competitors. Mu enters the tournament only to find a very familiar face lined up as his first match.

Hearts of Wulin: Numberless Secrets: Gaze into Silken Night, Season Two (Episode 4) Madelancholy runs for Jonn, Michael D., and Rod Santos An accidental dinner date, stalked, is ambushed. Well-meaning advice becomes a calculated way to get information. And a practice match is filled with amusement and bemusement. Another competitor is dead by the end of the night...

Hearts of Wulin: Numberless Secrets: Gaze into Silken Night, Season Two (Session 5) Madelancholy runs for Agatha, Jonn, Michael D., Rod Santos, and Thomas Manuel Soup blames Pan for Radish getting hurt in the ambush at the tea and dumpling shop. Jade applies a temporary balm to Jintong's rapidly advancing condition. So much unsaid between Jintong and Soup. A Puzzle Sword could be a motive for murder... During a sabotaged match where Mu and River Glass compete honestly, yet another ambush awaits Pan where he found the coded message.

Hearts of Wulin: Numberless Secrets: Gaze into Silken Night, Season Two (Episode 6) Madelancholy runs for Agatha, Jonn, and Rod Santos Pan Haoran survives the ambush, but in his delirium reveals more than he should. Jintong thinks to take care of this threat once and for all but River Glass intervenes. Mu checks on the King of Pearls, concerned about his success. Jintong has a drink or two with Skycast Red to find out more about last year's competition. The players take some time to go through the Revelation Move.

[swampert]

✨ 🌠 🔥 for the ttrpg ask game!!!

ooooh yayyy i get to answer questions

✨ A game I wish more people were talking about.

there's so many!! but i think i'll choose DOMINOES by @jeffstormer which is an incredible game about playing as bronze age superheroes, low-powered vigilantes who stand against a threat to their city and hope to survive on the other end. it's incredibly well designed - a Doomsday Clock hangs over the whole game which you're filling up with dice as you roll throughout the game, and at the end when you come face to face with the ultimate threat and the clock is filled, all the dice are rolled and we see how each die result describes a moment of the final battle! sick as shit and designed with such absolute love and understanding of the genre.

jeff's also putting out Back Issues that you can modulate the game with, which are also incredibly worth picking up. imo this should be getting talked about in every conversation about superhero ttrpgs

🌠 A game with a mechanic I love.

obviously there's a million games with a million mechanics i love, but the one i'm thinking about right now is A Place to Fuck Each Other, a three player game about queer women and the complex relationships they build together. scenes proceed in a rather freeform way, but (this is the mechanic i love here) as soon as one of the characters thinks to themself "i shouldn't be here," the scene IMMEDIATELY ends.

setting up your room in your new partner's house when you see a picture of them with your ex? hooking up with that cute girl from the bar in the woods at night when you hear an unexpected shuffling of feet coming closer? interrupted by a call from your bestie after you skipped out on them to go to a concert with an old flame who's back in town? "i shouldn't be here." "we shouldn't be here." "i shouldn't have done this." the scene ends, and instead of playing out the conflict we come back to this character later in the game at a later point in their life, seeing how they've reinvented themself or reimagined their needs.

🔥 A game designer whose whole design corpus I admire.

again, there are SO many, but i think here i want to bring up sniperserpent who is just constantly putting out games that are thoughtfully made with regards to genre, how simple mechanical tools like table rolling and card draws can be used to drive a game's theme forward, and the importance of yuri.

[theresattrpgforthat]

🌠 🔥

🌠 A game with a mechanic I love.

Okay, this is hard. I have a lot of mechanics that I think are really cool. I could talk about Clocks from Forged in the Dark Games, which really heighten the pressure and keep the players on a timeline. I could talk about the Theorize Roll from games like ECB and Apocalypse Keys, which allows the players to generate the mystery organically, rather than expecting the GM to figure it all out. I want to give an honourable mention to Troika's initiative mechanic, which has the GM draw random tokens from a bag that represent players and NPCs.

I think that instead I'm going to focus on a mechanic that has a different name depending on the system it's in. Willpower (WoD), Player Intrusions (Numenera), Tokens (BoB), Force Points (Star Wars FFG), Momentum (Scion), Fate Points (FATE). You get the picture.

Basically, it's a personal or communal pool of an abstract resource that allows the players to tweak fate, add a narrative detail, or re-try a failed action.

It's such a ubiquitous thing; I think every game has it in some shape or form. It's a nod towards the players, telling them that they have the ability to change the story. It's not all up to the GM. Perhaps that's supposed to be a given but I think it's something that seasoned role-players take for granted, something that someone new to the table might not realize they have the power to do. It reminds us that we are telling a story together, and that's my favourite part of TTRPGs.

🔥 A game designer whose whole design corpus I admire.

Gotta be John Harper. Their games got me into roleplaying, with the extremely easy-to-learn Lady Blackbird. One year later, a friend of mine introduced me to Blades in the Dark, and it took one read-through for me to fall in love with clocks. And then last year I picked up AGON and ran it and was impressed all over again. I haven't played Lasers and Feelings yet, but I have my eye on it and I have a feeling it will be a fun time.

[grandhotelabyss]

What's your opinion on MFA writing programs? Not a very favorable one, I suspect. I'm not living in the States now, but it seems to me the Iowa Writers' Workshop doesn't enjoy quite the same reputation it did when luminaries like Cheever and Salter taught there. Am I right?

The network it makes available is still the only way into the husk that remains of literary publishing. (Note how all the tributes and elegies to Louise Glück are from her former students or colleagues; I may be the only "common reader," and I am just a common reader when it comes to poetry, who has written anything about her.) But as literary publishing has lost prestige, so has the program. I didn't get an MFA, so I can't comment on the quality of the pedagogy. I'm sure everyone is trying their best. Obviously, however, the whole idea seems misconceived from the start, and not only because of the CIA seed money.

In reducing art either to craft or to psychology, the MFA has made fiction into a set of routinized procedures (show don't tell) and a form of group therapy (find your voice). You do have to learn techniques, but techniques alone cannot create great art, and the very greatest art has often been careless of technique. And individuation is part of the writerly vocation, but you're not finding your voice per se; you're finding a much larger, much more agonized and conflicted thing, which is the whole of your sensibility. If you want to write more than one book, this had better contain a veritable pandemonium of voices.

Such an education keeps you, almost as if it were calculated to do so, from the only true literary education: an encounter with the best literary works of the past, with the main line of the tradition. (There are non-literary educations that will also shape you as a writer, both in life and in school, everything from what you learn as a person in the world to what you learn as a student in physics class or history class, but those aren't my concern here.) The purpose of this encounter is not to make you slavishly worship literary tradition, but to enable you to transform it, even to escape it, intelligently; if you don't know your tradition, you are the one who will only be repeating it. But no, we have taken Hemingway's canny modernist streamlining of a vast corpus he had tenderly internalized—he did this for a good reason: a chivalric kitsch version of the canon had been used as propaganda to lead a whole generation of young men to their slaughter—and we have made an idol and a fetish of it, so that educated people today can no longer appreciate, perhaps can no longer even comprehend, a complex periodic sentence. I hold the MFA partly responsible for this decline in the general intelligence.

Meanwhile, the academic setting of the MFA turns the literary enterprise into a game of social oneupmanship, the pettiest form of competition. In the same way that runners and swimmers say you'll only make your best time if you race the clock rather than your competitors, you should be writing with and against Shakespeare, Austen, Woolf, and Faulkner, not some random matriculates on either side of you, themselves as stupid as you are, in a cramped and sweaty seminar room. Such environments—small groups full of young people either trying to be nice to one another or, more likely, trying to be cruel to one another in subliminal and deniable ways—also encourage the ideological herding we've seen in recent years. This helps to account for the vaguely "Soviet" feel of contemporary mainstream fiction: its endless promotion in book after book of the same collectivist ideological pieties, its implicit disparagement of strong imagination, unless this take the form of tediously allegorical fantasy.

In general, MFA fiction feels both overworked and underthought, the product of much tinkering but little experience (personal or mental), a filigreed little balsa wood figurine, and nowadays moreover inevitably carved into the shape of our age's political idols. To quote the old headline the malicious LRB editors slapped onto Elif Batuman's 13-year-old essay, whose arguments I have rehearsed above: "Get a real degree."

[bearsinpotatosacks]

For the Rest of Her Life - a Penrole Fic

Carole's sick with cancer and everyone's working around the clock to make sure she's as well as can be, including Penny. Late one evening, she starts to have some realisations about how she feels towards Carole, and recognises what she's wearing too.

~~~

For the prompt challenge I'm doing, this one was "A wearing B's clothing"

Words: 1471

Nighttime was drawing in as Penny placed the medicine bottles and a glass of water on a tray and made her way upstairs. Despite feeling deeply tired, she could, and would, do this all day. It had been six months since Carole started treatment and they’d fallen into a routine, her, Bradley and Pete. 

Pete would wake up Carole, help her with breakfast and make sure she took her meds. She’d get up and see Bradley off to school, even if she could barely walk from fatigue, she loved her boy in a way she just didn't understand. Penny would take over caring for her in the afternoon, cooking, cleaning, making sure Carole was okay and taking care of Bradley.

They’d all had to adjust to deal with her cancer. Carole was on sick leave from work. Her colleagues had been great, cooking food for them, helping Bradley with school work, going grocery shopping and even helping Pete and Penny clean the house. Bradley’s friends had been surprisingly helpful too, he’d been having more sleepovers, especially after her treatments, and they'd been helping him with getting to baseball games. Pete had Iceman, Slider, Merlin, all the navy guys really, apparently he'd done more than his fair share of sobbing on their shoulders.

And Penny? Well, she was lacking in the support area of her life. Her dad was busy commanding trainee aviators back in Pensacola, her brothers were all on boats or stationed on bases all over the world. Her mother had been better, asking about Carole everytime she called, making sure she wasn’t getting too stressed through the whole ordeal. 

But no one visited, not even for a weekend. Pete managed to get a temporary role at Corpus Christi, Viper pulled some strings for him, but her Dad, an Admiral higher than Viper, couldn’t even get an afternoon off to spend the weekend with her? And of course her brother’s couldn’t find a phone to save their lives, it was almost like there wasn’t a connecting phone line to anyone she knew that would lead to her. 

And her boyfriend was being less than helpful. Penny was working full-time shifts at a cafe nearby, getting up at five in the morning and racing here after her shifts ended to make sure Carole was okay, getting home at nine o’clock at night to collapse into bed. 

She knew she didn’t have to, she wasn’t her carer or anything, but she wanted to. Since she moved out here a few years ago, her and Carole had been as thick as thieves. She’d been the only person she knew, and she hadn’t heard much off her since Goose died, so they had a lot to catch up on. From there, it was like they’d been friends for life, not that she was just her friend’s ex- although she'd always been the friendliest person in the room.

She couldn’t stand around and watch her get sicker as she fought this disease. Penny would help her even if it meant barely getting any time for herself. 

Her boyfriend didn’t see any of this, of course. On top of all of this, he’d been starting arguments about her avoiding him on purpose, of her being back with Pete behind his back like he couldn’t see she was stressed up to her eyeballs. She’d just stopped caring about his fights now, if he thought that, so be it, they’d deal with this when Carole got better and she wasn’t effectively working two jobs.

Shaking herself out of thoughts, she made her way up the stairs and heard the distant sound of the ER intro music. Apparently there was a character who looked suspiciously like Goose on there, she didn't see it.

"Hey," she called, pushing the door open with her foot.

Carole sat up in bed. The television lit the room blue. Her book sat beside her, she'd been reading them like mad, and her knitting, she'd been doing that obsessively too, kept joking that she was getting ahead for Christmas.

"Hey, any fun drugs there?" Carole said.

"Nope, sorry, just anti-sickness and some painkillers,"

Her eyebrows raised at the word 'painkillers' as she turned down the volume on the television.

"Sorry, just boring prescription ones,"

She deflated as a joke, but perked up and patted next to her.

Penny placed the glass of water in her hand and the pills in the other, putting the tray aside. She took them with a trained hand, at first she had to take them one at a time with practically a pint of water with each. Now, she could almost swallow them dry.

After she'd taken them, she placed the glass down and lay her hand on her face, "You should go home, you look exhausted,"

Penny shook her head. Here was Carole, sick with one of the worst diseases in the world, and still thinking of her first.

"Come on, it's the weekend, you should be out partying, not watching ER with me," 

"What if I want to watch ER with you?"

Carole squeezed her hand and smirked, "Why can't you watch ER with that boyfriend of yours, huh?"

"He hates ER," she said. "Says George Clooney can't act to save his life."

"But he is hot though,"

She pondered it, "Yeah, he is hot."

They giggled. She loved how Carole could make her feel like a teenager with no cares in the world. Just seeing her could make her feel like the world was okay.

As the laughter subsided, Carole's eyes turned serious. Penny could almost see her staring into her soul. She knew people well, although sometimes she didn't know when and when not to tell people of what she saw.

"Fine," she said, feeling the pressure to talk. "He's not exactly making things easy."

"How'd'ya mean?"

"He's making it all about him, says I'm avoiding him, cheating on him or something."

"Ugh, get rid of him,"

"Yeah, I might," she chuckled, she didn't even think she could say she loved the guy.

"Anyone else caught your eye?"

Penny looked at her. Her pale face, sullen cheeks and bald head were constant reminders of her illness. But she also saw the sparkle in her eye, how smooth her hand felt, how deep she cared for her. It was nice to be cared for so deeply despite everything.

"Maybe,"

"Do I know them?"

"Maybe."

"Ooh," she clapped her hands together. "Let me guess!"

"Slider?" 

She shook her head.

"Ice?"

She shook her head again.

"Your feelings for Pete aren't back, are they?"

"God no, that ship's sailed."

She furrowed her brow and stroked her chin, "And I know them?"

"Uh huh,"

Looking down at her, she was a few inches taller, she noticed her t-shirt was familiar. It hung off her body, bright blue with large white letters beginning to peel with age.

"I'll have to ponder it some more," she said, then noticed the time. "Oh wow, you should get going, it's past nine, I don't want to keep you."

"That's my t-shirt," 

She recognised the words, now. It was her college lacrosse jersey, she'd been on the team and had been one of the best. She'd had a shower here a few days ago after getting herself messy making lunch, she'd borrowed something of Carole’s to wear, and must've left this here.

"Oh, sorry, just threw it on this morning after-erm-"

"Vomiting?"

She nodded and looked away. Despite trying so hard to stay positive, to accept it, it still hurt to admit that she was ill sometimes. For all of them. After a few moments, her smile returned. Yet, Penny could tell it was a little faked, not entirely, but it was stretched.

"It's comfy, though, soft and smells nice," she smoothed it in her hands. "Do you want it back?"

"No, no, you keep it,"

"Thanks," she said, then added. "Actually, it smells of you, kinda."

She smiled. There was that feeling again, the one that made her realise that she’d be happy to do this for the rest of her life if it meant making her smile like that.

Their moment was ended by the ads ending on the TV. Penny here thought of how there was nothing waiting at home for her, not really. Her boyfriend would be out partying, not thinking of her. And it hadn't been much of home lately, she spent way more time here.

"Hey, move up will you?" She gently moved her along.

"Aren't you going home?" 

Her smile told her she didn't want that. She didn't either.

"Nope, not yet."

Carole rested her head on her shoulder and hummed. Penny placed an arm around her shoulder. Yes, she thought as George Clooney's face came on screen, she could do this for the rest of her life.

I've been running out of inspiration recently so decided to do a prompt list. I"ve put them in a wheel and my top gun ships and am spinning them each day to write something.

I love these two, don't know why, just do, hope you do too. Thanks for reading!

[kafkaoftherubble]

^THAT'S exactly why!

I mean, I (presumably; never went for any diagnosis /scratches head) don't have ADHD, and still "time lost in a bathroom" is a problem.

Yo, if I manage to make more people hang clocks in their bathrooms, that's gonna be so sick. I contributed to the grand growing corpus of Pragmatic Organizational & Living Solutions, y'all!

From the book Organizing Solutions for People with ADHD:

Putting a coat on the back of a chair by the door is fine, but if you prefer, use coat hooks and a large catch-all basket for dropping keys, hats, gloves.

Small bookcase end-table next to the couch to store craft projects, books, and other things being worked on for easy access.

Add a storage unit near the dining room table to transition between eating and working there.

Daily toiletry items should be stored in a basket that you can move easily

Extra toiletries and medicine cabinet items go in open shelf/basket storage so they can be seen and used easily. If items no longer fit, purge the excess. Don’t obscure the view!

If you disrobe in the bathroom, place a tall hamper in there.

Keep a set of cleaning supplies in each bathroom

[bkh-s-7449]

My, I. I hhave become so spoiled… I get all achey after such short shifts. In the Corpus one works for cycles without clocking out.

[dopewinnerperson]

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[templesofdelight]

Subaltern microcontinuity sets search parameters

Boolean operator in postcolonial splendor

Epigenetic clock ticking through total institution

Marked up on doggerel-papered walls

A sundial of planetary correspondence

Telomerase in relation

To the mentalist performative asylum

The dispossessed seek

The opening of the gates of the ill to flood

Into the de-imperialized society

wishing you well

tumbling down and hitting the dry bottom

cleft in twain

water marked on the wall

Like the sodden papers that give me passage

into the world of complete isolation

And remove my identity and individuality

In the care of the state

Of mind

That is based on yours

And not mine

Punitive measure ruled lines on the paper

Smothering

Smothering

Smothering the abhorrent thoughts

great sets of information bounded by delimitation

superluminal spaces, tubes that accelerate matter

Until what matters to me buckles under the weight

Of the petit bourgeoisie

landed gentrification of

This mercantile mentality

the entirety of my corpus in absentium

given to you

I'm given to you all

[theinternetisaweboflies]

Jägermeister

Chapter Twenty-Two: Promises

“Newton, stop!”

Hermann told him to stop an average of 14.9 times per day, but usually without so much desperation in his voice, unless Newt was taking apart the laboratory microwave again.

Newt stopped. He was about four steps from the edge of the Shatterdome helipad. Hermann was standing several meters behind him, one arm still outstretched. 

Hermann liked Newt.

At least, Hermann had said that he liked Newt. They hadn't spoken much since then, what with Newt's jampacked sleep schedule. Then Newt expanded into sleepwalking, which didn’t leave a lot of time for small talk, which was the only kind of talking they did these days. Hermann kept his questions limited to, “How are you feeling?” and, “What do you need?” and, “Why are you taking apart the hospital bed?” 

Newt still felt affection through their ghost drift, especially without a hive mind to block the signal, but that didn’t make sense. Newt wasn’t exactly a reliable narrator these days.

Death to the ego.

Death to the author?

Definitely death to something.

Anyway, most of what he felt from Hermann was relief, which did make sense. Newt was also relieved he hadn’t destroyed the world. That would have been a pretty big bummer for everyone who just busted ass to save it. 

Hermann might have said some things and returned some kisses, but he had obviously done so in order to collapse the Breach about to open in Newt's corpus callosum. It was just like their first drift, in that sense. Hermann didn't really have a choice.

Not to mention all the manual strangulation, which was kind of a deal breaker for most people. 

Some things were just too good to be true. At least Newt got to taste it for a moment, like a dog with late-stage cancer, allowed to eat a Hershey’s bar before its final vet appointment.

“Newton,” Hermann said again, one arm still outstretched, as if he was afraid to come any closer.

He probably was. 

“I didn't come up here on purpose,” said Newt. “I was sleepwalking again."

He swiped a hand across his upper lip. A little more stubble than normal, but no blood. So he probably hadn’t been on his way to reopen the Breach.

The Precursors were gone. The clicking was gone. The clock had stopped.

Sometimes, Newt could still feel them in the back of his mind. His neural pathways were all halls of mirrors, them looking at him, looking at them, looking at him. Then, just when Newt was about two seconds away from attempting auto-lobotomy, Hermann would remind him that the ghost drift was a thing. As if Newt didn’t get to relive it all enough with nightmares alone.

The doctors pinky-swore that he was getting better. His fever had finally gone down, and he had been taken off antibiotics. The encephalitis was in complete remission. The nightmares were still pretty Kaska-esque, but the doctors insisted that was a symptom of garden-variety PTSD, which did add up. Listening to all that opera was bound to be traumatic.

This wasn’t the first time Newt had gone for a little late-night sleepwalk. He was always so fucking scared, after waking up cold, or wet, or bleeding, that he had done something unforgivable, but every time he asked Tendo to pull the footage, it turned out he had just wandered into Pentecost’s old office and fallen into the basins again. 

Eddie usually caught Newt before he could get that far, although he was now out on what he called paternity leave but Tendo assured them was just regular accrued vacation. Lou and Dierdre had also been approved for vacation time, which they were spending at a tropical island of undisclosed location. Tendo said that was normal for Security staff.

They were all returning in a month for orientation at the new-and-improved Hong Kong Shatterdome. The PPDC was continuing its operation on a trial basis as a Breach research facility, with renewed emphasis on funding for K-Science and educational initiatives in both xenobiology and Breach physics. They were calling it the Pan Pacific Defense College. Newt was already having flashbacks.

He had been relieved of his security detail now that the threat was apparently neutralized, and he wasn't about to argue. More people may have wanted Newt dead than he would have ever expected, even during his Paranoid Phase, but he was still the one with the best access.

Hermann tried to spend all his nights in the Medical Bay, but sometimes his hip simply wouldn't allow it.

It was a lot harder to be self-sacrificing when your drift partner could feel it too. 

“Please come here, Newton.”

Newt started across the icy helipad towards Hermann. Somehow, it was still January. Hail had fallen during the night, and then melted into something that looked like an amphibious egg mass. 

“Careful!” Hermann grasped Newt by the elbow once he was in range. “Your ribs are still broken. If you slipped, you could puncture a lung. It was a miracle you didn’t do so already with all that seizing.”

Hermann pulled off his parka and wrapped it around Newt. He had been doing that a lot lately. Newt wasn’t complaining, especially not when his pajamas consisted of spare scrubs and a pair of those omnidirectionally-grippy hospital socks. 

“You look unwell,” said Hermann, as he began leading them back towards the Medical Bay. 

“Just unwell-rested.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like we- I-” Newt cut himself off. Hermann had definitely noticed his newfound difficulty with singular pronouns, but he hadn’t said anything about it, because that wouldn’t be small talk.

Ontologically speaking, Newt was a bit of a dumpster fire. 

Epistemological analysis ameliorated matters, but teleological analysis did the exact opposite. Newt’s greatest purpose these days was trying to decide if the risk of repossession outweighed the benefit of continued operation.

He tried not to think about it too hard in case Hermann was eavesdropping. An intervention was just a surprise party where the surprise was that it wasn’t a party, and Newt needed that like he needed another Breach in his head. 

“Like you what?” Hermann asked encouragingly. 

“Like I went another round with Aleksis. You know, I think he had a strange kind of respect for me after that. He definitely had a greater respect for Fenway Franks.”

“Try wariness.” Hermann scoffed. “I believe you managed to scare even the Kaidonovskys.”

“Yeah, right.” Newt scoffed right back. “I couldn’t scare a kaiju skin mite.”

“You scare me.” There was a pause as pregnant as Eddie’s gecko, before Hermann punctured it with a grumble. “Speaking of which, I thought Tendo was supposed to watch you tonight?”

“Come on, dude. We don’t need a babysitter.” Newt winced. “I mean I. Don’t worry. The Evil Think Tank is definitely over. There's just a little collateral brain damage.”

It was Hermann’s turn to wince, but all he said was, “You told Tendo to leave, didn’t you?”

“It’s their anniversary!” whined Newt. “I made them a card that said, ‘Throuple the love.’”

Hermann winced some more, but now it was his normal, math-related wincing. 

When they were together, it was a little like being stuck in a sensory feedback loop. Not like a hall of mirrors. More like… trying to take a pulse with your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. Overwhelming, but never unfamiliar. Even when it was an objectively negative sensation on loop, it still felt better than being alone.

That was the problem. Newt wanted to be around Hermann all the fucking time, and Hermann didn’t deserve that. 

It was still hard for Newt to think of himself as drift compatible with anyone, let alone Hermann, but they hadn’t even considered compatibility before initiating their first drift. 

Newt had (briefly) considered compatibility before initiating his drift with Mutavore, though it turned out to be a non-issue. You had to be compatible to drift with another human being. The hive mind got you with sheer numbers.

The hive mind was hard to describe in human terms, of any language, schadenfreude included. They were a species without empathy, sympathy, or compassion. They were pure, personified self-interest with the means to make it reality. Newt had despaired of humanity more times than probably even Hermann could count, but the Precursors made people look good.

They made it back to Newt's room in the Medical Bay, and Hermann helped him get settled into bed. Newt was about to say goodnight when Hermann pulled up his usual chair. 

“You don’t have to stay.”

“Someone has to keep you from sleepwalking into the Hong Kong Bay.”

Newt wouldn’t have gone into the bay, because the roof of the Shatterdome’s lower level was immediately below the helipads, but it was immediately below them by about twenty meters, so he knew better than to mention that.

“Just strap me to the bed again, dude.”

“If you keep suggesting that, I’m going to think you have a kink,” said Hermann. 

When Newt had finished coughing, he croaked, “Well, it's either that or sharing the bed with me….” 

“I don’t think it’s large enough, darling.”

Newt started coughing again. Hermann picked up the cup of water from his overbed table and handed it to him. It was a plastic travel cup with a lid and a straw, so it wouldn’t spill, even when Newt’s hands shook so much it looked like he was trying to recreate Hermann's attempt at a high five. This was karma for threatening to make it their secret handshake. 

The tremors were still bad enough that Newt had to use a special spoon so he wouldn't spill applesauce all over his government-subsidized sheets. Going to the bathroom required a lot more concentration. Secretly, Newt was relieved he couldn't get a good grip on anything. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can hardly be blamed for your somnambulant perambulations,” said Hermann. “Really, I blame the medical st-”

“For choking you.” 

The feedback loop echoed with breaking hearts, and Newt wondered how he could score a psychic connection to his crush but still always say the wrong thing. 

It wasn’t Murphy’s Law or even the British Gas Formula. It was just Occam's razor: The explanation requiring the fewest assumptions was most often correct, and the explanation requiring the fewest assumptions was most often that Newt had fucked up.  

“You can hardly be blamed for that either,” said Hermann. 

“It was still being terraformed,” Newt tried to explain. “My brain is kind of an inhospitable environment at the best of times, and they hadn’t even thickened the atmosphere yet. They were so accustomed to the hive that they couldn't even conceive of autonomy. We- they had never gone into a single thing without backup before, let alone a fight with two rangers, five nurses, and a repressed German mathematician. Also, they really hate you. Almost as much as they hate me.” 

“Snitches get stitches,” Hermann recited. 

“And end up in ditches,” finished Newt. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

Hermann frowned. He was going to get so many wrinkles. Newt reached out and smoothed down the Wall of Life between his eyes. 

“Drifted with the kaiju?”

“Drifted with me,” said Newt. “You did it even after you knew I'd been… fucking infected or whatever. They could have gotten you too.”

“I had to try.”

“You didn't!” Newt wasn’t sure how his apology had turned into an argument, but at least it wasn’t small talk. He sucked at small talk. “You shouldn't have! It was stupid and- and dangerous! It’s still- I’m still dangerous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Newton. You're not going to suddenly grow a bile sac or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermann. That would be cool as hell,” said Newt, “and you know what? You don’t know anything. That’s the point. No one does. This is a brave new world. Anything could happen.”

“Newton-”

“They could come back.”

“They could come back,” Hermann agreed. “The Breach could reopen. Sometimes, we must live with uncertainty.”

“You mustn't- needn't must- Man, I hate how much I care about grammar now.” 

“What are you trying to say, Newton?”

“The war is over. The clock stopped. I’m not your problem anymore.” 

Hermann sighed. It wasn’t his usual sigh, exasperated and loud enough for Newt to hear from across the lab, so he would know it was entirely his fault. It was a small, soft expression of pure exhaustion. 

“I have seen other worlds,” he said, “but I cannot conceive of one in which you would not be my problem. Nor would I wish to inhabit such a world.” Hermann hesitated, but only for a moment. “Before we drifted with the kaiju, you asked if I would do that for you.”

“With me,” Newt corrected, mostly out of habit. 

“I would do anything for you,” said Hermann. “I love you, Newton. I know you’re having trouble accepting that. You can take your time. We have time. For now, I just need you to do one thing for me: I need you to believe that it’s true. I promise you it is.”

Newt licked his lips and tasted salt but told himself it was just another nosebleed. “I thought promises were lies.” 

“Not between drift partners.”

“Politics and poetry?”

“Still lies,” said Hermann. "Especially politics.”

He had filled Newt in on the finer details of what happened during his abduction(s). Newt wasn't particularly surprised. The military industrial complex was really quite simple. At least Secretary Krieger had sold out Trump. 

"I don't actually mind some of your poetry," added Hermann.

"Those are rock songs."

"Of course, dear."

“I love you,” said Newt. He still couldn’t bring himself to add ‘too,’ even though he believed Hermann. Of course he did. Hermann had been the voice of reason in Newt’s head since long before their drift. 

“May I take you out?”

“Like a hitman, or like-”

“Oh, hush, darling.” Hermann entangled Newt’s unbroken fingers in his own. “Perhaps we can even take a trip once you’re well enough. We’re both long overdue for a vacation. We can go anywhere you like. Even that ridiculous Godzilla theme park.”

“Sounds expensive.”

“I’ve recently come into some money.” Hermann’s smile turned secretive, even though Newt knew all his secrets now. It turned out most of them were about him. 

“Well, if you insist…” Newt felt like his fever was coming back, but he was pretty sure it was just a full-body blush.

“May I kiss you?”

Newt nodded, unable to trust his voice anymore. Hermann moved from his chair to the edge of Newt’s bed. He curled one hand around the back of Newt’s neck and drew him in for a kiss that was somehow both gentle and thorough. Newt made a noise, relegated to the back of his throat, since his mouth was otherwise occupied. It must have sounded a little bit too desperate, because Hermann moved his attention to Newt’s jaw. 

When Newt had caught his breath, he said, “I think the bed’s big enough.”

Hermann huffed a laugh against Newt’s throat, but he still toed off his shoes. Newt made room, fluffing up the pillows that were stacked three high to help him breathe easier. 

Hermann lay on his right side, in order to take the pressure off his bad leg. Newt lay on his left side, in order to take the pressure off the worst of his ribs. This left them facing each other, and suddenly the bed seemed much smaller. Then Hermann kissed him again, and the bed couldn't be small enough.

When the kiss ended, Newt slid a leg between Hermann's knees in place of his usual orthopedic pillow. He had to shuffle down the bed a little bit to avoid any contact that might be considered an HR violation, and his head ended up tucked under Hermann's chin. Newt could smell the mixture of mothballs and lavender from the cardigan Hermann had on over his pajamas. 

Maybe it was just the lavender, but Newt felt himself starting to drift away almost immediately. He forced himself back from the brink to say, “Thank you for saving me.”

“Thank you, Newton,” Hermann murmured into his hair. 

Newt shivered at the sensation. “What for? You guys were the rockstars. I just sat there and drooled on myself.”

“You survived,” said Hermann, in that voice-of-reason, and Newt had always known that it took more courage to live than it did to die, but for once, he felt like he might have enough. After all, he would do anything for Hermann too.

...

@lastdaysofwar

[itsmoosetx]

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