#cultural appropriation is theft

[druid-in-hiding]

I can't... I can't just not weigh in on this.

Judaism isn't a death cult (to be clear these posts are NOT saying that at all). It's the mythohistory of the tribes of Israel, warts and all.

And Christ's new testament is just the story about a guy who might be a rabbi or a prophet but was definitely a dude that Spoke Out about the Vichy-style government supporting the Roman Empire that had conquered the territory at the time.

So where did the death cult aspect come in?

Saul the Roman.

This guy took an aspect of his family's history and weaponized it for the Roman Empire, which (after stealing all the Greek religious stuff to glue their civilization together) was looking for The Next Big Thing to expand further.

Rome's original promise to the heathens was (a) pretend that your faith that is crucial to propping up your culture is just a re-skin of our Superior Faith and (b) fight for us so that (c) we will make into citizens and give you land.

But they were running out of land to give and the OG citizens were running out of fucks to give for all the "immigrants" who thought they "deserved rights".

So how do you get around that?

Well, steal a religion that successfully kept the Israelites as a functioning society, claim that the reward IS in the afterlife (and nothing so paltry as "a patch of land"), and package it so that there is Only One True Faith (through Christ, defined as a Figurehead Who Cannot Be Questioned, as opposed to all those pesky Jewish prophets, who can be debated about endlessly).

And it worked. While Rome, the Empire, fell, the considerable amount of effort poured into the cult succeeded and lasted all the way up until Martin Luther, when he shattered the Universal Church myth forever, leading to the current situation of My Death Cult is Deathier than Your Death Cult, which is what we're fucking stuck with today.

Israeli mythology is this cool history about how farming--specifically what the cities did--is stupid. And shouldn't we just be herders who get along with their neighbors and try to love the land?

Irish mythology is a luscious look at a large queer family trying to (re) claim what was once a land connected to the world, but through shenanigans, it ended up being an island.

Norse mythology is a band of brothers trying to claim and protect a beautiful land which just changed enough for many more people to live there, as well as a fable about how you need to respect all of your family members, not just the (often pretending to be) straight ones.

But Christianity? That's the object lesson that you shouldn't steal shit that belongs to other cultures, because that will end up with you following assholes who think Death is the only reward... for you. For the top dogs, they still get to reap the riches of others and shit all over you while claiming their High Position is because they are sacred, and not the monstrous, selfish assholes they actually are.

keep thinking about that facebook post i saw one time about this mom mourning over her daughter going to college and getting corrupted by "The Liberals" and there was this other woman on the thread talking about how thankfully her son avoided being "turned liberal" because he got a factory job right out of high school and worked 6 days a week 10 hours a day in the factory.

you think he preserved his good republican "values" because of that? you think those are values? he hasn't grown beyond what you taught him because he doesn't have the energy or the time to explore beyond it, and you think that's GOOD?

[antinativefaves]

YOUR FAVE IS ANTI NATIVE: Temu and Shein

Don't support businesses that steal Indigenous artwork and then mass produce it for pennies. Support Indigenous artists and shops.

[ohsalome]

[druid-in-hiding]

Okay... but, to be fair, Yeshua was a real person (now deceased), YHVH is just a linguistic placeholder for universe, Allah is a placeholder for YHVH, and Odin and Santa are the same thing. Zeus and Galactus, though... Having said all that, adding in an Odin story (opening chapter to "Silence in the Chapel" by William Bucclan, available now)

HOLIDAY [ˈHⱭːLƏˌDEꞮ]; NOUN, LÍNGUA ÆNGLIA originates from haligdæg, meaning a consecrated or godly day; also, a day meant to commemorate something preserved whole or intact, or that cannot be transgressed or violated.

Confession time, people – this time of year, when people expect angels to come soaring in on the Winter Solstice and bring good cheer until Twelfth Night, while half the world is under the cover of white and cold, and as everyone else is out celebrating and ringing in the holiday cheer, I lay low. No jobs if I can afford it, which is less often than I like. Minimal contact with the public so no last minute ‘favors’ I’ll have to complete, no digging into problems. Just take time off and refusing to be judged.

Of course, that also means no booze because sometimes I get a little testy on the sauce, or inquisitive. Which might make you wonder why I am hanging around a classy whiskey joint like the Seven Grand on a Wednesday, listening to a hell of an axeman wail out the Blues. Truth is, I like the place; I like the clientele. I’ve been a customer here for, oh, about a couple of months, maybe less. Grateful client laid me out with a six month tab and an introduction into the finer things of life, the Whiskey Society among them. And Johnny, regular barman there, makes a mean cup of coffee for the designated drivers. Thick enough to stand a fork in, sweet as licking the devil’s hind tit, dollop of cream on top to smooth things out. Served in these tiny little cups he gets from a mosque in Culver City.

All told, the atmosphere’s nice, the people are good and I’ve got nothing to do for a couple of hours until I meet up with my partner, Kasey. So, feeling good all around. Johnny’s regaling me with stories of his latest conquest. Guy can have anyone he wants. Doesn’t hurt that Johnny’s easy on the eyes. Green eyes. Rich brown hair like old oak. Body like a marathoner. Charisma’s as natural for Johnny as a fish to water and, because of that, I’ve noticed he’s the one people tend to spill their secrets to. Far as I know, he keeps those secrets. Smart guy.

Speaking of secrets, I notice the guy at the end of the bar. Haven’t seen him here before and hard not to notice someone like him. Big guy – and I mean burly big, weightlifter class, wrestle a bear to the ground big. Old man, too. First look, I peg him as homeless. Full beard, hair kind of a mess but back in a loose ponytail and white as the Holly Wood Land sign. Lined face, deep and experienced. Eyes—should say ‘eye’ cause there’s something wrong with the right one but his profile’s away from me in shadow— are a lightning blue. He’s got this brown-ish duster on, which is weird for southern California in general. Maybe it’s a prop from some set? I’ve got the color wrong, too. Less brown than reddish-brown almost all the way to black. But what catches me is his right hand. As he unfolds it to pick up his drink you can see long white scars across his palm. Lots of them. Must have been painful as hell to get them.

I absently nod in his general direction and go back to my drink. It’s not like the guy has invited me to bother him, and besides, despite his homeless chic look, if he’s drinking here in the Seven Grand, he’s got some sort of pull somewhere and you just don’t mess with that. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Johnny walk over to him, say something softly, then grab a bottle of top shelf and pour it neat for the Old Man. The Old Man thanks him; thick northern accent. This man is a continent and an ocean ocean away from home. When Johnny comes by to refill my coffee, I smile in thanks “Hey, how do I get a tab like that?”

Johnny shakes his head. “He drinks for free.”

“Studio head?” I ask. “Mayor? Owner?”

Johnny goes back to his all-knowing bartending ways and I bring my gaze back to my cup. The Old Man’s posture is tired, putting out a ‘don’t bother me’ vibe. The rest of the bar certainly has picked it up. He’s there alone. I know I shouldn’t bother him; probably isn’t in my best interest. Probably will piss him off.

Crap. I have to know.

I get up. Go over to him. Nod as he notices me. “Peregrine Dunn.” I say. He cocks his head to one side, and I swear to all the heavens that this dude’s shadow just sidles up to him and whispers in his ear. It isn’t there when I focus on it. Trick of the light? I’m trying so hard to sort it out, I almost miss it when he replies.

“I know.” the Old Man rumbles. And when I say rumble I mean his voice sounds like it comes from a cracking glacier.

I really don’t want to say anything more. I want to crawl up and go back to my stool after apologizing for ever bothering him. But before I can move, I feel my lips moving. Part of my idiocy, I know. Habits are hard to break. “So, what’s your story?”

He turns to face me and I get the full effect of the other eye: cataracts, cracked, shards of blue and white like icicles boring into me. His lip curls back and for a moment I honestly think he’s considering whether to throw down with me. And believe me, being the focus of that anger? I’ll be on the losing end of that battle. Then he blinks, shakes his head, and the rage seems to leave him. Instead, he lets out a rolling laugh.

“You want a story?” He turns back to Johnny and taps his glass, getting that instant top shelf refill. “Rank piss and straw.”

“Excuse me?”

“You wanted to hear it…” he replies “and that’s where it starts. Rank piss and straw. It was the smell that told me the Bani Móðir was pregnant again.”

Banny Mudder? I take a sip from my cup and flinch. Johnny has apparently put something a bit stronger in my drink. Tastes like it’s the good good-stuff. Hunh. Hope I’m not paying for that.

“I need you to understand, young man…” the Old Man continues “this isn’t something that happens often. Hel, if I’m very, very lucky, maybe once in a decade. Even less, some centuries. Does it surprise you that I’m that old?”

I offer him a halfway decent grin. “Don’t look a day over sixty.”

He chuckles at that. “And here I thought politeness died before your generation was born.” He taps an upright finger to his forehead for a moment, contemplating. “This thing that happens — when the Mother of Killers gives birth — it is not a good thing when it happens but it always happens like this: she drops the calf about a month early—usually a scrawny little thing—on the Summer Solstice. I have to be there for the whole birth. It isn’t an easy one. And my… companions, I suppose you’d call them— they’d be there as well, like a couple of doting hens.”

There’s movement next to the Old Man, two young men, intense stares. They have some family resemblance to the Old Man. Grandsons, maybe? Only problem is, the Old Man is technically sitting next to the wall, so, there is really no room on the other side to have two people. And while my brain is still processing this, the two men are gone.

The Old Man leans forward and winks. “Sometimes, I wish I had a way of keeping them out of it, giving me a moment’s peace.” He whispers conspiratorially. “But those two bird-brains are like upright cockroaches. Everywhere and hard to get rid of.” He leans back and smiled. “Still, I suppose I’m being too harsh. After all, they’ve served me for so long they’re like family. Family…” the Old Man hesitates. “I suppose that’s what this is all about. Who we take care of and why. You ever work on a farm?”

I shake my head no. “City boy here, through and through.”

“Pity. Lost art for many. Listen, part of birthing any calf is letting it stand on its own, then letting the mother take care of the birth caul. But this calf… its leg was twisted, deformed. And in that leg, I saw Skuld’s fickle finger messing around in the world. This calf was destined for greatness. That long cold Ride would be waiting for both of us. ‘Bani Hróðólfr…’ I named him, then and there and I held him until he stopped shaking. ‘Bani Hróðólfr. I need you. We need you.’”

The Old Man rolls his shoulders to release the tension, shoots his drink and growls. “I am as old as the hoarfrost and the Northern Lights. My image is everywhere in the world for at least three months every year. I have a day of the week named after me. But people don’t understand me. They think I’m laughing all the time, ‘jolly’, fat, surrounded by elves. Well, those parties were done, centuries ago, and the elves have long back returned to the lands they came from. And I’ve never been the most pleasant of companions in the best of times. ‘Grim’ they’d call me, and they’d think I wouldn’t catch wind of it. Oh… and elves? Light or dark, they were never the best company for people like me. That’s the truth.”

He takes a moment to toss a salute to the stag’s head above the bar. “You understand, don’t you? You old fraud.” The Old Man smirks and turns back and points his glass at me. “I am what remains of a very ancient promise, one made to all of you at the beginning of the world. I work VERY hard to keep that promise. I asked for it. I wanted it. From the first time I created a covenant between the people and the world to the first time I was forced to make a sacrifice of my… no.” The Old Man puts the glass down. His expression darkens and sadness just seems to ripple off him. “I can’t talk about that yet.”

“You said you made a promise.”

“Right at the beginning. A simple one to make, a complicated one to keep—I promised to be there for you.”

For a few drawn out minutes, the Old Man pulls back into silence. Long enough to feel uncomfortable; figure he might be done talking. Johnny does a refill for the Old Man. When the Old Man does start up, it’s softer; almost a whisper, like he’s ashamed. “Let me tell you how it’s done. Each morning I go down to the pen. The reindeer all chuff at me and nuzzle my gloves and look for treats. Silly things. Stupid things. Wonderful things. My friends and companions in this long life, boon to my People when they were alive, life to the Saami, my cousins as long as they are alive. And I give them my attention, my love; oh I’m not ungenerous, boy, but my focus remains on the stall at the end. There is the Hróðólfr, suckling, content and in a few weeks I know he’ll be grazing with the rest of the herd, but right now, he’s a mama’s boy. Each time, I carefully take off my gloves and set them aside. I wait for her calf to finish his meal and I then rub his muzzle, as gently as I can.”

The Old Man pats a pocket on his coat. “That piece of horn that I keep in my pocket—this one, here…” The Old Man pulls out the nub of a reindeer horn and you can see the point gleam in the light. “-it came from a Hróðólfr; the first reindeer I named that. It’s only fitting given what I do. You take the tip, like this, see? And tear across the palm.” He makes a motion across his right hand; the scarred one. “Yes, it hurts. It always does and when it gets really cold, it gets hard to close my hand. I’ve done this so many, many times the scars never really go away. That’s why you always see me with gloves in the pictures. But I’m strong, inside. I swallow that pain and let the blood come. Then…”

He lowers his head, closes his eyes and rubs at a now furrowed brow with the knuckle of his right hand.

“Then I paint Hróðólfr’s muzzle with my blood. I know, I know. I understand how it sounds to you, but it’s needed. I need to leave it raw and red and dripping and shining in the growing daylight. Sometimes he takes a lick off it. Just as often, he ignores it. He never backs away, and I give him credit for that. Because I will do this same ritual every day, every morning until the night of the Ride.”

The way he said ‘the Ride’ makes me not want an explanation. The Old Man looks up, and then tips his glass towards me while looking at Johnny. Johnny nods and pours a shot in my mug. I take a sip. It’s mead—fermented honey if you didn’t know that already—but in naming it, I’m pretty sure I’ve already lost the chance to explain how over-the-top good this is. It’s like drinking the color gold, like sipping on a symphony. It is the distilled essence of sweet, but it’s also bubbling with life. The fermentation, you can actually taste the yeast working to convert the sugars. Not the yeast themselves but their effort poured into their endeavor. It’s a vision and it’s poetry and I’m swimming in and the only really coherent response is “Holy… that tastes good…” which is really lame considering the liquid pleasure I have in my cup.

The Old Man chuckles. “I haven’t always been portrayed as kindly as I am today. You know…” He smiles, lost in memory. “I once had the privilege of getting in an argument with some esteemed scholars; over drinks, of course, because there really is no better way to get into a fight. They put aside the fact, conveniently, that at the beginning of the world, my two brothers died while building it. They glossed over the little fact that my name meant ‘Mad Poet’. They couldn’t picture what a body looked like hanging nine days on the World Tree and they certainly couldn’t wrap their heads around the kind of person who would tear out his own eyeball to get a drink.” I know I must seem thick but it takes until that point to realize who he is — or who he thinks he is. If the Old Man sees my reaction, that doesn’t stop him from carrying on.

“Not being a well-educated fool, I’ve got a less legendary view of myself. Unlike those academic sots, I’ve had to live with the consequences. And I’ll tell you this: memories are tricky, tricky things. The curse of all ages is that you lose track of time. Some memories stay bright and green and eternally present. Others gray out and move away. How long ago doesn’t matter; only the intensity remains. I remember this young woman I bedded at the dawning of the world.” The Old Man grins, remembering. “We screamed loud enough to shake the sky. Her hair… amazing; the texture of fine moss after a storm. And a rich, loamy smell to her and between her legs was a tangled thicket in which a man could die happily.” He nudges me at that, almost knocking me off my stool. “Strong, strong legs. As I remember it, she left bruises. A very insistent lover.” He pauses for a second. “From that epic wrestling, she bore a child and though his name is remembered to this day, I don’t remember him. My only son by her and I remember the tracing of all the lines across her body. All of them. But almost nothing about him.”

The Old Man’s brow furrows. “Fierce. He was that. Stupid, but not always so. More in the style of the recklessness of youth than slow in the head. I always imagined he would grow out of it in time. Around the time he was born, I started to realize how difficult my promise would be to fulfill. To be there for you. I needed to see into the future and to do that, you need to see over the horizon of tomorrow. My woman could not go there with me and I had to leave her behind. My first sacrifice, but not the worst. But I saw things there. I saw that all things consider themselves eternal but aren’t. I realized that ancient giant I had slain had never considered a thing like me. And I would not be able to conceive of my own killer. But even if I couldn’t see the details of my death, there was something I could do about it. Power—and wisdom—both were readily available at a price. And that price would always be sacrifice.”

His hands shake slightly as he says that but then he takes a deep breath. “It only takes a little while for Hróðólfr to get used to the ritual. To get used to me. The others, though… the rest of the herd never gets used to the blood scent. They always reject him. Automatically. And when he tries to pair with them, they force him out. Last time, I had to thin the herd to prevent him from being gored, and I don’t like doing that. They are as close to me as my own family, do you understand that? I had to choose between them and the world. Don’t get me wrong, young man. I spend many nights in the company of regrets. So many dead. So many friends gone, shuffled into the shadows of history. Regrets… nothing lasts forever and I am as likely to pass into death as those who gave birth to the world. But ending my promise to you is not what I want to be remembered for. So, here’s my dearest secret, Mr. Dunn. Here’s how I pull off the magician’s trick of living forever. And it’s the most simple thing in the world.

“I cheat." “I sacrifice an eye and the perspective that goes with it for understanding. I learn that the fate of everyone—everyone!—is inscribed in the bones of the world. Then I hunted those bones down—the roots of the tree that stretched between worlds—and then I sacrificed to it. I let myself hang for nine days and get as close to death as I could so I could learn its language. Because once you know the language, you know Spelling. And once you know where Fate is written and if you are very, very crafty and just a touch mad you might be able to change it. Here! I’ll share them with you; the words inscribed in the fabric of the world: The mad poet faces the all-devouring wolf and the mad poet is swallowed whole. The world dies in fire and ice but the good bright lord comes from Death to lead the way into a new world. Those are the words that have meaning to me. Part of the Ragnarok. The end of me and my people. The final battle and the destruction of all my dreams. Unless… unless… How much would you sacrifice to save the world?”

Somewhere out there, later tonight, Kasey will be waiting for me. And I know how far I’ll go to make sure Kasey is safe. I’d shake the world to its foundations. The Old Man sees it, sees my expression and shares in that moment. “Yes… that’s it! That’s what it feels like. All the pain, worth it, like that stain I put upon my Hróðólfr, my blood. Or how I can barely curl my hand but I will still hold the reins when the time comes to fly on Solstice night. Still fight. Some sacrifices are more than worth it.”

Some memory crosses the Old Man’s face; I can see them cling to him like filth. “And some sacrifices aren’t?” I ask him.

He frowns. “They are.” He sighs. “They are worth it even if they take you to places you never want to go.”

He taps nervously on his glass, waving Johnny away when he tries to refill it. The emptiness seems to fill with melancholy.

“I hope you understand, I loved my second son. Honestly, purely, deeply. I loved his mother, too--I swear it to the roots of the world--but I never told her what I was going to do. I couldn’t break her heart like that. By that point, I had ruled for so long. I had taken on so many names. Though the ‘mad poet’ stuck, I was also described as a lord, the Lord of lords, a good and bright ruler. When she gave birth, I waited until the exhaustion set in. As she slept I took the young child and presented it to the stars. I named him Baldr—‘the good bright lord’—one of the many names I too had been called. Even as I spoke the name aloud, I knew what I was going to do. That’s how it started. I sliced my palm open on my spear and gently massaged the blood into his cheeks. ‘Such a ruddy-faced child.’ His nurses said when his mother awoke. Before the reindeer, before the line of Hróðólfr, he was my first and greatest sacrifice."

“Do you remember what last year was like? Did you feel it? Could you hear Him? The dark dweller, that old ghost who tears at the roots of the universe. I can feel him, always. And I’m not alone; many others can sense it too though they can’t put a name to it. Maybe you can as well? This is not the wolf of a pack. This is not something sane. This is something that exists outside time and sanity. The focus of all the maliciousness that comes from isolation, abandonment and pain. It slides up into the spaces between your thoughts and it fills people up with a hatred and a fierce greed. This is the Fenris.

When I first fought this thing, so long ago, it had meat and shape and form. It was easier then, even though I knew death couldn’t keep it chained. If we—all the powers in the world—couldn’t chain it, death certainly couldn’t. The Fenris was the thing that I feared the most. One of the few monsters that could tear down the whole world and I couldn’t allow that; I wouldn’t. How could I abandon the people through my death, to leave them to be savaged by a ghost? There is a deep fog upon the shores of the world; the Dweller’s breath was upon us and I will always ride on the Longest Night to fight him, ghost or not.”

The Old Man savagely throws his glass at the wall behind the bar, shattering it. “My son… my second son. I don’t know how his mother found out but she knew what I planned. She raced across the world and claimed favors from everything. I had to go to my stepson to stop her, to stop him and don’t think for a minute I don’t regret that decision. I will owe that deceitful child until the end of time for that favor.” He drags his fingers across the bar and I can see the top peel off in small strips under his fingernails. “You see, this is how it works. To all things, they are given a measure of life. But what if Death could be bribed? Or tricked? Or addled? By the blood of one’s blood. By a presence so strong, it can only be yours. And when this sacrifice is taken, this one who you have cared for so much that you have put a piece of yourself within them, then Death is satisfied. On the grave of my second son such a bargain was struck and answered. And no one knew that this wasn’t even my time. That I was saving it for another time to come.”

Everything seems colder, stiller.

“I haven’t told you about the names, have I? The power has always been in the naming of things. My very first name translates to ‘furious of mind and spirit’. My brothers, Strength and Intelligence. My servants, Will and Desire. Bani Móðir, the Mother of Killers. Bani Hróðólfr, the Killer of Famous Wolves. I once wrote a poem about Hróðólfr. Someone else put it into a song. I changed the words on the wall of the world. A small change: the mad poet faces the all-devouring wolf , the good bright lord comes back from Death. The good bright lord was dead now. Death had already eaten its fill. I was the only ‘good bright lord’ who could return.”

For the first time, I notice blood on the back of the Old Man’s hand, from a glass chip that had flown out when he shattered the shot glass. Absently, he pulls the chip out and flicks it aside.

“The end of the world is like nothing your mind can imagine. It is flames and it is ice and it is screaming and it is silence. Kin and kith dying around you. The terrible scents of hollow deaths and living agony. At the appointed and prophesied time, I took my place in the battle against the Great Wolf and as I watched my eldest son die impaled on the World-Serpent’s sharp tooth, I died. I jumped down the Great Wolf’s throat, as it was written and I was swallowed whole. All that I was was emptied out and I thought for a moment I would never return. Until I was thrust up onto the gates of Hel itself and they would not let me pass because, to their knowledge, I, the good bright lord, was already inside. I had no choice but to return so I did. I returned so I could watch after you.”

There was a clink as something solid hit the bar, breaking the spell. A bottle, old, covered in dust. Johnny nodded. “Compliments of the Master of the House.”

Slowly a twinkle returns to the Old Man’s one eye as he pulls off the cork and takes a swig. He off-handedly offers me some but I politely indicated I’ve had enough. “I was once known for war… you know that.” He slurred. “Not presents and mistletoe and evergreens but war. Most ghosts were just practice for an old hand like me. But the Wolf’s spirit lingers. So I keep convincing Death to leave me on this side.”

Hróðólfr—the Wolf Killer. Yeah. I get it. The Old Man is slipping in a substitute for his own death. Every time.

“Let it be swallowed, let it be sacrificed and let me linger. That has been my prayer and it has always been answered. Each time, Hróðólfr dies and I kill the Wolf and I lay there, so near to death that I draw my last breath. And then another one comes as my doom leaves me.”

“And then you come here.”

“And then I come here.” The Old Man agrees. “My present is my presence, the red gift that of my blood and my sacrifice, even in a world that only considers me a jolly, fat, useless old man. Ah… I remember the song I made for him.

Mighty Hróðólfr! Blood-muzzled, Battle-proud, Alone. In the breath Of the Wolf, I call you, Blood-kin. Sweet Hróðólfr. Son of my Making. Guide my sleigh, Guide us! And forever Be remembered.”

His voice trails away.

“To Rudolph.” I hold up my glass in a toast.

“To Rudolph.” The rest of the bar replies and the Old Man looks up, noticing the rest of them for the first time. He snorts in amusement. “And thank you, Nick.” I smile. “Or Kris. If you’d like. For everything.”

He chuckles and slides the bottle back over to Johnny. “One name is as good as another.” he lies. Then he pulls on a furred, beaded cap out of his coat pocket and puts it on. One-Eye, mad poet, giant-slayer, dwarf-cheater, wolf-foe, way-weary wanderer and spear charger. Kind of a jerk. No jolly elf, that one. Odin of the Aesir. Raven God and Yule Father.

The door opens, letting in what passes for winter in the City of Angels—a balmy mid-50s—and the Old Man steps into the night.

[becomingabeing]

Day 10: They bring me flowers

@desi-lgbt-fest 12th Century Apsara sculpture ft flowers from our garden

[meirimerens]

you know i must have been bone-tired when this part of the herb brides lore didn't come to my mind when i discussed how the Kin fundamentally differs from the cultures it is inspired by um There Is The Human Sacrifice part. like it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you are doing human, or anthropomorphic (if you want to see the Herb Brides as closer to spirits, which comes with its own set of problematics regarding how to approach their oppression) sacrifice. it's an important part of pathologic 2 that you kill a woman, as part of the journey and in direct resonance with you ritualistically killing cattle earlier, and she offers herself to you with cultural and religious significance.

human sacrifices have been done across the globe for millennia, but i cannot, for the life of me, find any source at all that mentions the Buryats (since that was the discussion point) partaking in human sacrifices by the turn of the 19th-early 20th century (or even anything past the 16th). every single source mentioning offerings and sacrifices i've read mentions animals, things such as milk and vodka, and often both at once. would love to read anything about these rituals if papers exist, but i'm personally drawing a blank.

the Kin has Obvious and very Visible influences but it also differs from specific (in this discussion's case, the Buryats) or wider (here, turkic/mongolic as a whole) cultures from the area by so many pieces, big and small, that i wouldn't have enough appendages on my whole body to count them all. and sister. i have plenty of appendages.

[shewhotellsstories]

Reason number 562,000 that the theft and appropriation of AAVE sucks, people using phrases out of context to revel in self-victimization. "Maybe you'll call me a pick-me for this," dude, no one cares if you like your partner/boyfriend/spouse. A lot of people forget this, but you should like your romantic partner. A pick-me is very specifically a woman so desperate for male validation she validates misogynistic and anti-feminist talking points so that men with open contempt for women will see her as one of the "good ones" and pick her. Women like this delude themselves into believing that they'll be spared from poor treatment by the men they're striving to impress, but spoiler alert: they won't be. .

Thanks for coming to my ted talk

[kareenvorbarra]

it's been so long since i've seen a silmarillion post that filled me with genuine stomach-churning rage that i kind of thought i was above such things now, but i just saw another one, so apparently not!!!!!

people really are out here trotting out the same old "these characters were justified in sacking towns and murdering civilians and setting fire to refugee camps and destroying the greatest works of entire cultures because someone stole their personal treasure" arguments and dressing them up in social justice rhetoric because they want to feel morally superior about their favorite characters even when those characters are instigating and carrying out mass-murders

at a certain point it's like. is it just poor reading comprehension? is it an unwillingness to admit that you like characters who do Bad Things? maybe it's both, i don't know

[queeraliensposts]

Friendly reminder that all the elements that Leah Kate "stole" from Melanie Martinez had been done by Jpop and Kpop artists as early as 2004.

I said what I said.

[gaykarstaagforever]

Man. White rock groups from the 60s, like the Beatles, were sure lucky Black artists back then weren't in a position to sue the shit out of them.

[oodlenoodleroodle]

Watch Marimekko start selling this next year.

Bowl Depicting a Swarm of Mice. Medium: ceramic and pigment Period: 180 BC - 500 AD. Culture: Nazca; South coast, Peru. Now on display at the Art Institute of Chicago. Illustration by Elena Izcue (1889-1970).

[ohsalome]

Raids on about 30 museums around the country have been led by Russian curators in what experts regard as a systematic effort to seize Ukraine’s cultural treasures. Many of these treasures, an important part of Ukraine’s cultural heritage, made easy pickings for invading Russian troops. On top of murder, rape and robbery, they have pillaged national antiquities and artworks in the biggest case of cultural plundering since the Second World War.

“The orders are coming from someone pretty high up in the Kremlin,” said Sir Antony Beevor, the historian and author of Russia: Revolution and Civil War. “Vladimir Putin’s propaganda is that Ukraine as a country doesn’t exist, it’s part of Russia — so they can grab anything they want.” Robert Service, another British historian, described the looting as being “Russian state-sponsored” and added: “This is different from soldiers stealing things.”

Today’s Russian looting is “very reminiscent of the Red Army in 1945”, said Beevor. More than 2.5 million items were sent back to Moscow. Some were returned to communist East Germany in a gesture of goodwill in the 1950s but the remainder, including Gutenberg Bibles and gold from the excavation of Troy, has remained in Moscow, despite German pleas for its return.

Yet experts have little optimism about the prospects of Ukraine recovering its stolen artworks or archaeological treasures. “Losses, I’m afraid, are irreplaceable,” said Symonenko. “The Russians have not yet returned what they stole from European museums in 1945.”

[sociologyboom]

I knew you knew…did I? Did you? Cultural appropriation is something you must understand to make progress with your thinking. As we were discussing in class - remain skeptical and your thinking will become more sophisticated and less linear. As always bring your thinking to us in lessons.

[valeria-sage]

Someone just told me that cultural appropriation doesn’t actually exist outside the US. So that’s how my day’s going.

[etz-ashashiyot]

We really need a term for cultural theft and unauthorized sharing that is done by rogue members of the marginalized community.

Yes, "cultural appropriation" exists, but people are extremely annoying about when it's done by members of that community and honestly has the not-great implications that you can appropriate your own culture. I... really dislike the precedent that sets. But at the same time, one or a few token permissive members does not equal community permission or endorsement and it would be great if we had a real way to discuss that.

[elliottkay]

You ever miss your hometown so much during a pandemic that you wrote a whole novel about it with magic and car chases and sexy immortal mercenaries and a sketchy secret FBI task force and adorable cats and the sweetest monster-chomping ghost dog ever? Or is it just me?

GRAND THEFT SORCERY is out now! You can read chapter one for free on my website!

The vampire lord of Los Angeles is dead, plunging the nightlife into chaos. His subjects fight over his title and his missing treasure hoard. The conflict brings werewolves, sorcerers, and djinn close to open war.

Repo man Evan Murphy knows nothing of the supernatural. He only wants a roof over his head and food for his cats. When a risky job lands him in the dungeon of a Hollywood Hills necromancer, a forgotten god offers him the power to escape—making him the target of a beautiful immortal mercenary and every monster within a hundred miles. Evan’s new magic may save the city from its shadows, but only if he can save himself.

WARNING: Grand Theft Sorcery contains explicit sex, explicit violence, explicit criticism of American law enforcement, bilingual profanity, a meet-cute that ends in homicide, conspicuous consumption, Los Angeles, demons, monsters, cops, vampires, talent agents, tautologies, street racing, attempted murder, successful murder, axe murder, motorcycle helmet murder, matching basketball hoodies, carjacking, kidnapping, brief torture, discovery of animal abuse (past/off-page), destruction of evidence, rampant traffic violations, premeditated hotel reservation with Only One Bed, desecration of the dead, awkward meetings with the ex, awkward meetings with the ex’s mom, deadly bisexuals, hypermasculine podcaster trash, acknowledgment of white privilege, false license plates, conspiracy, squatting, looting, mauling, home invasion, trespassing, witchcraft, abuse of authority, aggressive generosity, arguable cannibalism, destruction of private property, search warrant violations, outright lies, phone hacking, petty theft, grand larceny, vandalism, arson, defenestration, resisting arrest, driving under the influence of existential shock, appropriation of queer meme culture, shooting, punching, kicking, biting, couch surfing, bribery of wildlife, old timey Hollywood stereotypes, internet sexism and exploitation thereof, unflattering implications about Heaven and angels, two entirely normal cats, and the Black Dog of the Mojave.

GRAND THEFT SORCERY stands alone as a thrill ride unto itself, yet it shares a world and characters with the Good Intentions series. No prior reading required, but GI readers will recognize events and a few very familiar faces. Again, if you want a good preview, chapter one is here on my website!

Cover illustration by Julie Dillon, title design by Lee Moyer!