#fuck conventional labels all anybody needs to know about me is the fact that I am Gandalf big naturals in my heart 😤

[elluminis]

Mutuals and other folks who follow me: do not be alarmed. I’ve graduated from the b:apo stained glass window that I’ve had as my profile pic for some 5-ish years into my final form: Gandalf big naturals

[not-terezi-pyrope]

I am not concern-trolling about actual manosphere incels, fuck the people who make their personal pain other people's problem, but there are two things I think are manifestly true here that are often sidelined in this conversation.

1: We minimize these issues by conflating loneliness/social atomization/distress at a poor sex life with the "incel" label. See, even though I tried to expressly say that I was not talking about that, the conversation has turned back to incels, who (by being obviously terrible) allow the actual issue under discussion to be sidelined. I genuinely think that society as a whole needs to have more empathy for people struggling with lack of physical intimacy, and especially confront the reality of how radically one's experience with that can be altered by physical appearance with respect to the cultural image of conventional attractiveness. Which leads me to...

2: It is absolutely material reality that how you look/are perceived affects the extent to which you can have your physical and social desires fulfilled. I know there are fat trans women; I know that many of them fuck pretty hard. Heck, yes, even I do on occasion (although all my partners have lived abroad, and still do, which makes things difficult).

But the fact is that there are sexual communities that I simply cannot access due to my body. I know that there is a temptation to say that anybody can do anything with the right attitude, and... I am sure increased confidence would help me in many ways. But it would not solve the fact that when I enter into sexual spaces, my experience is being repeatedly ignored or rejected by the vast majority of people. That while other queer people are able to belong to vibrant sexual communities, my experience is of being (unintentionally, without fault, but still very definitely) sidelined by people who will, at the same time, loudly talk about how liberating and accepting those communities are.

It's incredibly demoralizing, and I don't think it's my fault! I don't think it's cis men's fault either when they have similar experiences. And my point is mainly that I think people should be able to talk about that feeling without having it downplayed or conflated with incel rhetoric.

I genuinely think there are a lot of people out there who have consistently had sexual interest from other people in some form all their life, and so quite literally cannot conceive that other people have the opposite experience. That for some people that self-discovery, that liberation, is unattainable in the ways and timescales that people are ready for and desire it. And even if they do, I am not sure they really grok how much that can fuck a person up.

This is the funniest possible moral panic

[mtraki]

I’ve debated whether to post this or not, but I saw this subject as an ask for another writer and figured ‘why the heck not?’

It was a slow Wednesday night when the cowboy came in.

She’d never forget it.  She’d take the memory to her grave.  It was so surreal.  That stereotypical scene from all the old westerns spliced into the small, smokey space of the dive bar named The Dandy Bear Saloon: The door opened and in he came, boots thudding, spurs jangling, black hat tipped low over his brow, covering his eyes.  Everyone stopped and turned to stare-- all five of them, herself included.  She swore the old jukebox skipped, Bob Segar’s ‘Beautiful Loser’ (“a perfect lodger--a perfect lodger, a perfect guest”) playing quietly in the corner for the sixth time tonight.  It was Terry’s favorite and she was having a hard time with her mom and husband, again.

Immediately, the cowboy saw them staring, feeling the abrupt change in the air, and could sense the antagonism.  She’s sure only she could see the briefest hesitation in his stride as he continued toward her where she stood behind the bar.

He’d crossed half the distance with his purposeful, swaggering stride before she noticed the guns.  One revolver slung slow on his right hip, the other across the left side of his belly in a cavalry draw, rounds in the belt between them.  A bandolier across his body and over his right shoulder housed old brass shells for the double-barrel slung over his left shoulder.  At the same time, she noticed the smell.  That was the other thing she’d never forget: if seeing him had been surreal, it was smelling him that made the situation all too real.

He’d smelled like horses, and all things associated with horses, leather, and the inside of the men’s locker room at the gym the week the a/c had been out.

Dick and Roger were watching the cowboy warily, giving her looks she figured were asking if they should call the cops or if she had the situation in hand.  There were only five of them.  If this guy was a psycho, rolling in here with loaded guns, he could kill them all without having to reload.

But she didn’t think he was a psycho-- despite the way he looked, despite the way he smelled, there was something very lucid in his steely blue eyes flecked with green when he leaned his elbows on the bar, looking her in the face.

That was the other thing.  He looked her immediately in the face, deliberately ignoring the generous cleavage provided by a good push-up bra and neglected upper buttons of her blouse.

“Hey Tex,” She grinned at him, quelling her rolling stomach.  He stank like he hadn’t bathed in a year.

“Miss.” He returned quietly, his voice cordial, but his expression was controlled.

“You want something to drink?”

The emphatic answer led her to believe that his evening was going perhaps as well as Terry’s, “Yes.”

“Great.  I’m gonna need you to hand over the iron first, though, partner.  Before one of my off-duty cop regulars rolls in and loses his shit…”

“... Loses his what?”

She beckoned, “No, seriously, hand over your guns.  You’re scaring everyone.”

Turning his head, he looked at the four others.  Dick and Roger stared back evenly.  Terry was gathering up her purse and jacket to leave.  Oscar had his back to the rest of them again, smoking the last nub of his cigarette over his beer.  Obviously none of them were armed.  State law allowed licensed concealed carry, and Clark had a pump action shotgun under the bar just in case, but most people in town just didn’t carry.  The cowboy looked back her way and drew the off-hand revolver with his left hand, sliding it across the bar, grip toward her with one hand, drawing the other with his right to do the same.

They sounded like real metal, they looked real, and when she reached for one to tuck it under the bar, she noted the weight.

“Jesus,” She whispered, “it’s real…”

And loaded.

“Sure it’s real.” He answered quietly, unflustered, still looking her in the eye, though his gaze flicked toward the muzzle of the weapon, as if worried she might turn it on him.

Snatching up the other revolver, she ducked and stowed them under the bar, taking his shotgun-- also very real-- when he handed it over.  The weapons all showed signs of use, but nothing very recent, she thought.  She wondered what kind of insane convention he’d come from.  She wondered how he’d made it down the street without getting stopped by every patrol car.

“Great��� So I can get those back to you when you leave, I guess… mister…?”

“... Morgan.  Arthur Morgan.”  He’d said it like he’d debated saying something else.

“Mister Morgan… Unless you’ll let me call you ‘Arthur’?”

“... Sure.”

“What can I get you to drink, Arthur?”

“Anythin’...”

“Don’t say that.” She grinned, jerking her thumb to the full shelves behind her.

“... Whiskey, then.”

“... You’re killing me, Arthur.” And she indicated the shelf of whiskeys.

“Christ!” He sputtered, staring at it as if it were some incomprehensible thing.

“Want me to…” But she didn’t finish her question.  He wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was looking over her shoulder, reading the labels.  She watched his lips move ever so slightly as he did so, and the blood ran out of his face.  She couldn’t imagine why.

“... You okay?” “... I dunno, no more…” Was his very soft confession, voice no longer steady, “... Can y’pour me somethin’?  Please…?”

“Sure.  You opening a tab--” She reached back for a bottle at random--Jack Daniel’s No 7-- and was turning around again when he put two large coins on the bar.  She looked at them, then looked him in his pale face and finished, “... What the fuck is this, Arthur?”

“Money…?” He seemed even more genuinely confused than she was, which only made her all the more uneasy, and therefore irritated.

For a moment, she strongly considered throwing him out or calling the cops-- or throwing him out AND calling the cops-- but then she exhaled slowly out her nose and slid the coins over to inspect them.  They were good sized silver coins, one side depicting a seated woman, the other an eagle with the words “UNITED STATES OF AMERICA” across the top and “420 GRAINS. 900 FINE.  TRADE DOLLAR” along the bottom.  The year for one was 1883, the other was 1875.

The smell was real.  The guns were real.  Maybe the money was real too?  And whereas two dollars in coins wasn’t going to cover what she’d been about to pour him, if they were real, they were probably worth a great deal more.

It was a weird night, and she’d been willing to gamble.

She poured him two fingers and slid the glass over, “I’ll open your tab.  Try that, see if you like it at all.  You mind if I send some photos of your coins to a friend of mine?”

“... What for?”

“To check their authenticity.”

“Authen-- you tellin’ me my money ain’t good here?!”

In her most placating-without-backing-down tone she said, “I’m telling you I don’t know.  Try the No. 7.” “... Check the authenticity…” He muttered, picking up the glass, “Will it take long?”

Pulling out her phone and setting the whiskey bottle down, she snapped a photo of the coins on the bar, turned them over and snapped another, then sent the images to Paul from the pawn shop two blocks down, who knew more about collector coins than she did.

“Nope.”

“... Is that a camera?” He wanted to know before shooting the whiskey.  Then he frowned at the glass. “... What kinda…?”

“Sure.” Shrugging she said, “You don’t like Jack?  I got Jim, Jameson, Makers, Crown, Johnnie, Wild Turkey… I could probably find some Seagrams for you somewhere…”

She went through the whole shelf without finding something he liked.  Meanwhile Paul was texting back that if the coins were legit, they were in fact worth good money, and that he knew a guy who could take a look at them for her.  Curious, she poured the cowboy two fingers of moonshine-- against her better judgement, really, and he announced that it tasted like something he was used to.

“I keep pouring you that, Arthur, it’s gonna be a short night for you and a long one for me.” “Ah…” He waved off her concern, but admitted he’d like to try the Jim Bean again.

She recognized he was drunk when he pointed at her arm and said, “... What’s all over yer skin…?”

“You mean my tattoos?”

“‘Tattoos’?” He echoed, as if tasting the shape of the word, trying to find out if he liked it or not, “... So yer a sailor?”

“What?”

“A criminal?”

“Excuse you?”

“Well you ain’t a princess…” And he grinned at her.

It was the nicest thing anybody had ever said to her, really.

“Only sailors, criminals, an’ royals-- or folk tryin’ t’copy royals have tattoos, I hear tell…” He explained.

She leaned on her elbows, running her fingers along the dark, twisting lines of ink on her forearm, “Well, Arthur, you heard wrong.  Lots of people have tattoos.  You probably passed three parlors on the way here.” “... Strange town you got here…” He confessed, brow furrowing as he fiddled with his glass.

“I guess.  Usually it’s pretty boring,” She raised her hand in a wave as Oscar stumbled out into the night, mumbling about his ride.

“Sure.”

The drinks had relaxed him and put some color back in his face, but she couldn’t help but think she was pouring whiskey for a deeply traumatized man, and that she ought to maybe be calling an ambulance or a police car instead.

“Think we better call it a night,” Roger said, climbing to his feet along with Dick.

Standing back upright, she went for the register, “I’ll close out your tab then.”

They shuffled out their payment-- Roger always paid with Visa, Dick always paid cash-- and Roger kept his eye on Arthur who paid him no mind while Dick leaned in toward her, eyes wide and serious.

“You gonna be okay here, Cat?”

She smiled and patted his arm with her other hand while taking his cash.  They were nice men, both of them with kids not too much younger than herself.  While they often came here together to get away from the noise of their respective houses, they still insisted on trying to quietly look after her.  Whether that was for sentimental reasons, or just to preserve the sanctity of their bar, she didn’t dare say for sure.

“What was that li’l thing…?” The cowboy asked her after the old regulars had left, leaving her alone with him at the bar.

“What do you mean?”

“That mean-faced feller gave you a thing… Din’t look like no money…”

“You mean his credit card?”

Waving his hand at her, Arthur pushed his glass forward, “... Credit from a bank?  With a card?  Can you buy drinks wit’ that?”

“Credit from a lending company-- Wait, okay… seriously.” She laughed at herself, “Arthur, what’s your deal?”

“Whad’ya mean?”

“It’s a good act, partner, but it’s gotten a little stale.  I’m about to close up the bar, so you’ll have to mosey on somewhere else for the night…”

“... Weren’t aware I was puttin’ on…” He sighed and shook his head, “...Y’know a place… a… a hotel or someplace?”

“Sure.  Two or three right around here, closer to the freeway.”

“... Freeway?”

“This is what I’m talking about Arthur,” She rolled her eyes, “You know what a freeway is.  Do you have some modern money to close out your tab?  I can take anything except a check…”

Frustration started to crease his brow, “Th’hell you mean ‘modern money’?”

“Money from this century, cowboy.”

His finger jabbed the bar wood with a thud by where she’d left the trade dollar coins, “These is from this century!”

Looking him in the eye, she was aware once again of the lucidity in them.  He was drunk, not crazy.  Or if he was crazy, it was a deep-seated crazy he’d operated all his life with.  He also thoroughly believed in the veracity of his words.

“... Arthur, no hotel is going to accept this money.  I can’t put this money in the register.”

“Why the hell not?!”

“Because it’s over a hundred years old.”

“What the hell is wrong wit’-- What are you playin’ at?!” His fingers scrambled a minute before he picked up one of the coins to try and read the date, squinting at it in the light and his drunkenness, “... Th-this says ‘1883’.  It’s only seven years old!”

“...Okay.” She said simply, blinking at him. “Forget the tab.  I’m closing.”

He watched her at the register as she closed out the log, swiping her own credit card to zero out the balance.  Clark was going to give her hell about it, but it was just easier.

She’d gambled and it was only right she paid for her losses.

Arthur was still watching her as she started to wipe down the counter for the final time of the night, so she looked at him.  “You need to go.”

“... Right.  Sure.  Thank you… for the drinks…” Unsteadily, he pushed away from the counter, turned around… and couldn’t seem to find the door again. “Um…”

“Oh boy… Come on.”

She walked him out, and he went docilely enough.  The Dandy Bear opened out into the alley, and he still seemed lost, so she pointed him toward the main street and stood there to watch and make sure he left.

He made it to the corner, almost swaggered into oncoming traffic, stumbled back and fell on his ass.  Cursing to herself, she hurried over to make sure he wasn’t hurt and to pull him to his feet.  She really should have called the cops earlier…

“Are you hurt?”

Slowly, in ratcheting movements of his neck, the cowboy looked at her, though his haunted blue eyes seemed to look past her.  He looked at the headlights of the next car coming through, at the buildings towering high above, and then finally at her again. “... My Lord…” He murmured gravely, “... This is Hell.  I’m in Hell…”

“Not quite…” She sighed.  “Come on.  Stand up.”

After getting him up, he took hold of both of her arms, his hands careful, as if he couldn’t trust his own strength, “... Get me outta here, miss.”

She knew that sentiment.  She knew that in her bones.  In the depths of whatever soul she might have.

Get me outta here...

That was how he ended up in her apartment, she figured.

It was a weird night.  She couldn’t explain her logic to herself, it just felt like something she needed to do.  It just felt right that she bring this crazy man home and dump him in her bathroom.  Her family always said she had a self-destructive streak.

He stared open-mouthed at the tile and porcelain, doing a bit of a double-take in the mirror on the wall.

“Get yourself washed up.  I’ll get you a towel.” She instructed.

“... What?”

“Please take a goddamn shower so you don’t make my place smell like death warmed over?”

“... Miss I…” He gestured at the room, then at her, “...I dunno what yer… tellin’ me…”

“...Okay.” She replied in an even tone, “Let’s take this slow, then… You need to wash.  So I’m going to let you use my shower.  Over there.” She indicated the shower stall with the curtain pulled aside, “The plumbing is pretty decent in this building, thank God.  So see this?  This turns the water on…”

She demonstrated, and obediently, water started coming out of the shower head.  Arthur stared at it, then asked, “... Somebody pouring…?”

“What?  No.  It’s the plumbing… The pipes in the walls… Is this seriously a conversation-- Nevermind.  No.  Nobody is pouring.  Look, you can control the temperature of the water that comes out.  This way for hot… This way for cold.  To turn it off, you just push it back in like this.”

“... It’s amazin’!”

“... Sure, cowboy.  Think you can handle that?”

“Sure, I guess…”

“Great.  I’ll find you a bar of soap and a washcloth because I don’t have the energy to try and explain shower gel…”

“... ‘Shower ge’--”

“Exactly.  What about shampoo?”

His blank look told her all she needed to know, “... It’s soap for your hair.  Comes in a small bottle.  I’ll bring you some.  Put it in your hand, massage it into your scalp, rinse it out.  You won’t need a lot.”

She paused, “... You do know how to use soap, right?”

He scowled at her, “Of course I know how to use soap, what do you take me for?”

“... At this point, I have no idea…”

He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.  She rubbed her hands together, “... Anyway, I’ll go get that stuff…”

[ahsokalivesbitch]

Are you for or against Jedi, even in spite of their mistakes?

Okay so I’m going to have to sincerely beg your pardon forbringing my own personal religion/spirituality into this discussion, but itabsolutely plays a role in how I view the Jedi, and the question of whether Ithink it’s important this saga have the Order eventually reestablished, orwhether it really and truly is ‘time for the Jedi to end’. I am in no waytrying to push my religion on anybody else, or even trying to coerce anybody toagree with me about the Jedi. This isall, 100%, just me expressing my own personal thoughts and observations. Iunderstand if others don’t agree with them.

Philosophically speaking, I am a very proud, you might even say ‘devout’,Christian. I’m also proudly bisexual,devoutly feminist, pro-gay and transgender rights, pro-abortion, anti-capitalist,and a lot of things certain people would have you believe is decidedly non-Christian. 

In my own very personal study of religious philosophy, I don’t believethat my stance on any of the aforementioned issues is in any way incongruentwith the teachings of my Lord. In fact it’s the exact opposite for me: I amcompletely and irrevocably convinced that my God has always and will alwaysstand on the side of the marginalized and oppressed.

That’s not to say I’m unaware of the very real and veryproblematic ideas espoused by certain other figures in the Bible. Or the rolemany powerful religious institutions have and continue to play in upholdingoppressive attitudes rather than tearing them down. While I’ve never feltcompelled to give up my faith of choice, as I don’t blame God for humans whoexercise their free will to be shitbags, I’ve certainly wondered whether itwould be best for me to give up the title ‘Christian’ and all the baggage thattends to come with it. Rebrand myself as something else to better distancemyself from these ‘communities’ who dedicate themselves to things I cannot reconcilewith the God I know. And I know I’m not alone. Hell, even William P. Young,author of the bestselling novel “The Shack”, incorporated a very candidconversation into his book where Jesus bluntly asks the main character, “Do Ilook like a ‘Christian’ to you, Mack?” Honestly, that line hit home for me in a very real way.

But what has kept me from turning my back on the legacy ofChristianity altogether is the fact that my religion is not a monolith. Not all priests and pastors arebible-thumping, fire-and-brimstone-spewing judgmental monsters who want nothingmore than to put the fear of hell into you. Many if not most are very genuinein their desire to serve and help others, and I’ve had the fortune of connectingwith a number of them who not only welcome LGBTQ individuals like myself intotheir churches with open arms, but also proudly perform gay and lesbian weddings,rebuke discrimination and denial of women’s reproductive rights from theirpulpits, and advocate openly for gay and transgender rights.

On a more broader level, for centuries there have been innumerable churches around the world who devote countless time, money,and resources to feeding and clothing the poor, sheltering the homeless, providingresources to single mothers and orphans, providing sanctuary for hunted-down immigrantsand refugees, helping abandoned and abused animals. There also have and continue tobe MANY Christian minority groups (not just in America) who were able to drawupon the religion as inspiration to push back against their oppressors and succeed. There were thousands ofChristians present at the Women’s March, Black Lives Matter, and Muslim banprotests this past year alone.

On a very personal level—both times my sister was diagnosed withcancer, not a day went by when she didn’t receive a letter, phone call, goodiebasket, you name it, from one of her pastors or fellow parishioners. Wheresomebody didn’t offer to come and help her watch the kids, clean the house,cook her food, whatever she needed.

Two months ago I came to receive the very same response from myown Christian friends when my father was diagnosed with bladder cancer.

I’m in no way suggesting Christians deserve giant gold medals fromthe rest of the world for any of this. This, in my opinion, is just doing their fucking job. But these acts do matter, even in the shadow of all the horrible thingsother, more powerful institutions who use the Christian ™ label to advancetheir shitty causes perpetuate. Because they demonstrate that being a judgmental,small-minded, holier-than-thou hypocrite is not inherently some ‘consequence’ of what itmeans when you decide to become ‘Christian’. In fact the true purpose of thereligion always has been just theopposite.

So tying all of this into my view of the Jedi—it’s very hard toargue that, just from the stuff we’ve seen in the films/tv shows themselves,the Jedi Order didn’t operate under some pretty fucked-up ideals. Separatingchildren from their parents at infancy? Forbidding emotional attachment,marriage, a family of one’s own forever?That’s downright deplorable! And the canon itself frames how this directly leadto a number of people who couldn’t possiblyfit into such restrictive ‘ideals’ turning to the Dark Side of the Force,Anakin Skywalker himself being the most notable example. Based on all this, I understand entirely where certain peoplecome from when they think it might be better if Rey just dumps the mantle of ‘Jedi’altogether and starts an entirely new institution. Just like some days Iwish I could come up with a new way of framing my religious identity other than‘Christian’.

But here’s the thing—the Jedi also did a lot of things RIGHT. Theyespoused selflessness, serving the needs of the weak and helpless first, compassion, justice, therestoration of peace, fighting for the rights of those threatened by fascistideals, and using their abilities to defend others rather than gain any sort ofpower over them. You could also be literally ANY species or gender under the sun to be welcomed into their fold  and climb high in their ranks. They pushed back ceaselessly against greedy, opportunist, discriminating and oppressive forces in all forms and fought and gave their lives to try and uphold aRepublic that, while arguably equally flawed, at least stood resolutely fordemocratic ideals and equality among all species.

One of the things I LOVED LOVED LOVED most about Luke’scharacter development over the course of the OT is that he recognizes where his masters’ old ways of interpreting the will ofthe Force failed, while not forgetting where he also very much succeeded in learning from them. Becauseyes, the training and encouragement he receives from Ben in ANH (however brief)was absolutely ESSENTIAL to his ability to “trust the Force” and ultimately destroythe first Death Star. In TESB, his journey with the Force continues to be strengthenedexponentially by Yoda’s insistence he must forget all the arbitrary limitations convention taught him to believe about himself.That moment in the swamps of Dagobah where Yoda lifts the X-Wing after Luke’sattempt failed is very powerful, because it is here that Luke FINALLY learns heneeds to stop doubting himself, dammit tosucceed.

But even in spite of all that, Luke never, not once capitulatesto his masters’ insistence that he have to let go of all emotional attachmentfor good to win the day. He knowsintrinsically this is wrong. And ultimately it is his refusal to adhere tothis faulty principal, to abandon his friends in their time of need or killVader even when not one but TWO of his masters tell him he must (one frombeyond the grave), that ultimately leads to the long-promised achievement ofBalance in the Force. “I am a Jedi—like myfather before me.” It’s a very multilayered statement because he’s not justsaying ‘I’m a Jedi like my Dad’. He’s also saying “Like my Dad, I’m a Jedi whoembraces unconditional love and attachment, even in the face of my destruction”.

Because he KNOWS the Old Jedi’s interpretation of this issuewasn’t just wrong, it was actually downright COUNTER to what the Light Side ofthe Force really stands for (again, it was his unwavering love for his fatherthat brought him BACK TO THE LIGHT). But he doesn’t throw the baby out with thebath water either! He had enough insight to understand (before Disney and RianJohnson screwed this up for UNFATHOMABLE reasons), the best way to proceed inthe Force is to build on all the goodthat the Jedi espoused and accomplished, while preening away all the bad elementsat the same damn time.

Because, when you come down to it, if every successive generationjust throws away everything the previous generations learned and accomplishedbecause of how muddied or imperfect their general approach was in retrospect, nothing gets built. No legacies stand. Invaluablelessons inevitably get lost along the way as we just dismiss all of ourancestors’ insights as ‘meaningless’. And ultimately what would happen isanything anyone would attempt to build would just get burned to the ground over and over again as every humaninstitution tries and fails to achieve perfection. That’s not how people themselves work. We don’t abandon everything we are every time we realizewe need a major shift in our world view. We build upon all that we’ve already learned and experienced throughout ourlives, keep the good while casting off all the toxic bullshit. So why shouldour institutions be in any way different?

So yes, I am very much pro-Jedi, in spite of their many, many egregious mistakes. In fact(and this was actually a very good message that would have been SO MUCH BETTER COMMUNICATEDhad it not been delivered in the context of Luke’s shitty character retrograde)I DO believe failure is an invaluable teacher and absolutely 100% necessary ifany institution or humanity as a whole is to grow and improve on what camebefore. What I WANTED to see Luke achieve, but hopefully we’ll see through Rey,is a Jedi Order that, while probably never ‘perfect’, learns how to balancelove, family, and attachment while never abandoning the virtues of selflessnessand commitment to justice, compassion, and equality the Jedi always dedicatedthemselves to. There’s a beautiful legacyalongside all the fuckery there and, imo, it doesn’t deserve to be burned away alongwith all of the bad.