#gone and dead are used synonymously but they are not the same

[petrichara]

I wonder how much of our parents we know through knowing ourselves. I wonder how much of ourselves we think are our own and were first born in our parents. I wonder, even in death, what I still learn about my father.

[covetyou]

freeze-thaw

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: no outbreak, fluff, smut, fingering, playing in the snow, temperature play, Joel probs has super bad circulation, established relationship but it's their first Christmas together and reader has some relationship insecurites word count: 2.7k summary: With your holiday plans ruined when a freak snow storm blows through town, you spend the fesitve period holed up with your partner, Joel Miller, learning exactly how warm you can keep each other in the snow.

A/N: happy holidays and merry sunday @oogaboogasphincter, from your Pedrostories Secret Santa! I went mostly for a snow, with a sprinkling of established relationship, and a dash of doing cozy things. I don't think I've written any of these things before, so it was a learning experience! I used just about every synonym I know for the word cold too.

snowy dividers by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

Your holiday plans had gone to shit the moment that first flurry fell from the sky. Icy roads, cancelled flights, and downed power lines - Texas infrastructure at its finest - had put a halt to your plans to head back north for the holiday. Joel's holiday plans didn't fair much better, and instead of your first Christmas together being spent apart, you were spending your first Christmas together, well, together.

Then, to make a bad thing worse, the power went out, leaving you stuck in the dark and the cold in your apartment, and together suddenly became very together.

It hadn't been the plan - you still felt so very shiny and new at this, at being with him, and the idea of spending such a significant holiday holed up with him terrified you more than the dark ever did. But still, Joel drove on treacherous roads to come pick you up at 3am, dragging you and the perishable food from your refrigerator back to his place for the holidays. He had a generator, and fuel, and enough space for both of you to be comfortable, he said.

You spent the first day keeping to yourself, tiptoeing around, not wanting to disturb him any more than you were. Then he'd caught you circling around the back of the sofa, so as to not disturb his view of the TV, and his deep laughter stopped you dead in your tracks.

A "the fuck are you doin'" later and your insecurities came tumbling out, quickly quashed by Joel as he made it very well known just how much he wanted you there. That night, it didn't take you long to learn how warm you could keep each other.

The second day was spent bundled together on the sofa, him between your legs or you between his.

On the third, you worked up such a sweat together that you'd walked around his house naked, never more grateful for the generator chugging away in the garage.

Eventually, domesticity took over, and you spent a day wrapped up in each other in different ways. Watching a movie, drinking hot coffee, cooking a meal.

You'd trailed behind Joel into the yard on his way to check the generator that same day, Joel wanting to check it was well fueled, and you wanting an excuse to be out of the house for five minutes.

You kick at the snow, enjoying it for a few moments before it inevitably seeps through your shoes and chills your toes. Reaching down, you fluff it through your fingers, throwing a little into the air just to watch it fall again - as if you hadn't seen enough falling snow this last week. Joel is watches you, his eyes burning into your back and a smile tugging at his lips.

"You get inside, I'll deal with all this."

You stick your tongue out at him, trudging further over the snow to spin in the middle of the yard with your arms flung wide. He's laughing along with you when you stop, disorientated and unsteady on your feet. Looking back to him you stop in your tracks, finally seeing the deep gouges that mar the otherwise pristine white crust covering the ground. Yours and Joel's boots, footprints in the snow. Something about it, your foot steps mingling there together for all to see, wretches open your chest and captivates you.

And so, drawn in as you were by the footprints, you write your initials in the snow. Yours first, and then his, joined together and underlined as fact. You hesitate to carve out a frozen heart - too fearful to freeze something so warm and new and growing in something as rigid and fragile as ice - and turn to Joel again, a smile spreading across your face as you gesture to the letters in the snow -

"Oof."

- and a snowball, aimed perfectly at the back of your head a moment ago collides directly with your face. You cough and splutter, briefly blinded by ice as you swipe your freezing fingers over your face, hearing the creak of Joel's boots on the snow as he approaches you with apologies and laughter spilling from his lips in equal measure.

You glower at him, snow undoubtedly caught in your eyebrows, hiding a laugh of your own.

"Get," he says, turning you by the shoulders and pushing lightly to get you back inside. "I'll handle out here, check on the generator. Get warmed up."

Inside, the warmth almost burns as you peel off your layers and check on the food still baking away in the oven. Holding your hands in front of it like it was an open flame, you warm your fingers and wait for Joel, who comes back a few minutes later, chilled to the bone, stomping the snow from his boots and shaking his head as he shudders with the cold.

"Generator's still lookin' good," he says, slapping his gloves down on the counter. He rubs his hands together, blowing on them in an attempt to warm them up faster. Four days now, and the power was still out thanks to a new downfall of snow overnight.

"Your turn to get warm then," you smile, bending down to peer into the oven. "Dinner won't be long now."

"Sounds great, darlin'."

The bitter bubble of air he brought in with him surrounds you as he pulls you into his arms, nuzzling his frosty nose into your hair, laughing with you as you twitch away from the cold.

You expect him to move to the stove, to warm his hands on the heat of the oven just as you did, but instead he draws his fingertips up your belly, pushing your sweater up. Cold fingers meet the soft warmth of your bare skin and you gasp, gripping his arm.

"Joel! Don't you dare."

It was karmic justice really, given the number of times you'd warmed your feet on him in the night recently. You couldn't help it if the man was like a radiator.

"Got old fingers, baby, cold gets to my bones quick. Lemme warm 'em up, I know just the place."

"Fine," you say, tensing and preparing for the incoming press of his icy hand to your belly.

It doesn't come. Instead he tucks his hand down the front of your leggings, dragging the cold with him and holding you tight with his other arm.

"Joel..."

"What? Friction gets 'em warmer quicker. You don't want me to lose 'em to frostbite, do you?" You can feel him smiling into your hair as you gasp at the cold press of his fingertips to the white heat between your legs.

"No. Wouldn't want you gettin' frostbite."

Joel hums into your hair, breathing you in, just as he starts to rub softly over your clit. The sensation makes your skin prickle, first with warmth, then with cold, then something deliciously inbetween.

A moment later he's already slipping them from you and you twist, raising your eyebrow at him and preparing to call him a tease, only to watch as he slides his fingers into his mouth, slicking his cool digits up with his saliva. He's tucking them back into your leggings with a mocking raised eyebrow of his own, kissing the gasp from your lips as his fingers make cold, wet trails down your warm stomach again. They slip against your clit with ease now, but the wetness only exacerbates the chill of his fingers.

The layers of your panties and leggings can't warm up his hand fast enough, and even as he starts to rub gently at you, doing much more than just warming his fingers, you feel a shiver of cold run through you.

"Friction is b-bullshit," you stutter. "Your fingers are still cold as hell."

"Just think how I feel, they're my fingers."

"My heart bleeds for you, Joel," you retort, leaning your head back onto him.

"If it don't feel good, I can stop."

"... I never said anything about stopping," you sigh, closing your eyes and widening your stance a little so he can reach further down.

Joel doesn't need further prompting, his spit slicked fingers slipping through your folds to dip lower between your legs to swipe at your entrance. It seemed counterintuitive, putting something so cold somewhere so warm, but Joel's fingers sliding with ease through the wetness pooled between your legs was proof enough that it did something.

Small strokes become broader, his cold fingers swiping up and down the seam of you as if to prove friction was all he was after. The heat from your core soon begins to warm his fingers, pulling warmth back into his bones and easing the ache in them with each passing moment. Still, it's slow going, and your arousal seems to grow exponentially quicker than the warmth in his fingers.

When they finally feel warmer, and your soft sighs turn to deeper moans, you arch your back, winding your hips along with the movement of his fingers. The cold was no match for how hot you were starting to feel. You would burn the cold right out of him before he was through.

"Joel-"

You gasp again when he slides a single cool finger down and presses it slowly inside of you. His fingertips may have been warmed by friction, but the length of his digits had not, and they still felt icy cold, making you clench and grip around him. Still, no amount of clenching can hide the wetness dripping out of you as he slides in with ease, slicking his finger up before pushing in with a second. He fucks you with them slowly, restricted by the fabric of your leggings, before pulling your arching back flush to his body. A second later his fingers still inside you, anchoring you down just as his palm presses flat against your mound. Warming you up and then cooling you down again over and over was making your head spin, and while you shudder and shiver in his arms, you know it's not the cold that does it this time.

"How are your hands still so cold," you pant.

"Bad circulation, darlin'," he whispers, and you feel yourself grow wetter still at the low gravelly sound of his voice.

"Should get that seen to."

"Good job I got you in the meantime."

The slow curl of his fingers isn't enough, and you find yourself rocking into his frigid palm, eager for the friction to return to your clit now that his fingers are buried deep inside you.

"Grind on it, darlin', that's it. Warm me up."

He rubs the heel of his palm against your clit in sync with your movements, and before you know it you're holding back twitches and biting your lips to stop moans from spilling too loudly out of you.

"You're gonna make me come, Joel."

"Just warmin' my hands, nothin' else."

You can hear the smile in his voice and feel it against your neck as he nuzzles his cold nose into your cheek.

"I know your game, Miller," you say, before groaning once again, pressing back against him with each rock of your hips, feeling the rapid swelling of his cock against your lower back. It seemed you were warming him in more ways than one as his fingers curled inside you, pushing and dragging against that spongy spot on your front wall that he never failed to find.

"Pussy's like a damn furnace. Who needs the generator, when we got this."

His palm is still cold, but you're starting to sweat, feeling the prickle of it across your scalp as you move, panting into the warm air of Joel's home. He could hold you like this forever, be buried in you like this forever as the world outside turned to ice, and you wouldn't mind.

But you're made painfully aware that this can't last forever as you feel yourself getting closer, pressure building inside you with each buck of your hips.

"Joel."

It's dizzying - his slowly warming palm and fingers, now red hot inside of you as they press and press and press at you in a way that would normally have you boneless if you were lying on his bed. But, standing here in the kitchen, you lock out your knees and hold on, white knuckle gripping the counter with your own still cold hands.

A shudder hits you when his cold face nudges yours again, and you turn your head to meet his lips in a kiss. He pulls the warmth from you there too, his cold nose nudging at yours. Even through your panties and the restricted movement of his hand, you can hear how wet you are, sloshing beneath his palm as you let out a keening moan straight into his mouth.

"S'okay. I got you."

He coaxes it out of you, you can feel it coming, his fingers picking up the pace, making the nudge of his palm just right, for just long enough, to send you skyrocketing in his arms.

It's white hot, sending a shiver down your spine as an orgasm ripples through you, twinkling behind your eyelids before exploding in your core, a muted breathy scream pulling from you with each gasping breath that leaves your mouth. You're falling apart as he holds you together, coming on his fingers and beneath his palm as he grinds it into every rock of your hips. Well practiced hands stop just as you're hitting a point of oversensitivity, cupping and holding onto you gently as you go as limp as you can in his arms, knees locked to keep you upright.

He swallows down each of your moans greedily, until you're left breathing heavy, forehead pressed to his. You feel half asleep, even standing on two feet.

"S'your turn," you mumble, only to be dissmissed by Joel with a promise of "later". You're grateful for it, feeling too sleepy to function all of a sudden, until Joel's voice rumbles through you once more.

"I'd say you make a great handwarmer, darlin'."

Laughter spills out of you, warm and bright, the heat in your cheeks warming his nose as he nuzzles against you once again.

"Only one problem," he murmurs, the cottonwool slowly clearing from your head.

"Mm?"

"Got two hands."

His other hand is still cold, he knows it is, but that doesn't stop him from snaking it up your waist, under your sweater and tickling at your bare stomach. You crumple in on yourself, legs that had held you through orgasm buckling as you twitch and laugh into him, smacking your fists into his sturdy chest.

"Stop, stop! You ass- asshole! J-Joel! Stop it!"

He lets you taste the laugh on his lips, kissing you once more as his cold hand rests against your bare skin.

"C'mon, let's eat."

You end that day as it started, wrapped up together, oblivious to the world outside and warmer than you had any right to be in a snow storm.

By the fifth day, the storm has passed, and by the sixth the power is back on, just in time for the big day. You both barely notice, staying wrapped up and warm together over the holiday.

You return to your apartment in the New Year and, even though the power has been back on for days and the heat has been pumping steadily, the place has never felt so cold.

In the years to come, you'd ask Joel about that week - the first of a New Year, and the first without you after having you around for so long. He'd tell you how cold it felt, how empty his house was without you in it. And when you turn up on his doorstep at the end of that first week, sniffling and crying and telling him you missed him, he'll crumple, telling you he felt exactly the same before drawing you into his arms and pulling you inside.

And then, eventually, in a home that was his and is now yours, you'll be sat in warmth and sunshine - as unexpected to the you of back then as a snowball to the face - watching your combined families meet for a Christmas not turned on its head by a Texan snow storm.

taglist: @jupiter-soups @wannab-urs @bean-is-reading @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @youandmeand5bucks-blog @bbyanarchist @vickywallace @kamcrazy123 @valkyreally @ashhlsstuff @a-literal-goblin @ariundercovers @iluvurfather @stevie75 @toxicanonymity @thesevi0lentdelights @sp00kymulderr

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[buritochacito]

Beginning of Part Two

Previously, we explored the Home section, which detailed the city of New Jhoquez - or rather, its downfall. A city plagued by crime, disappearances, and violence, struggling to keep itself afloat despite a history of failed attempts to "fix" it. built as a desperate effort to document the chaos. section holds something different. Less about the city as a whole, more about specific events - some of which may explain why New Jhoquez is the way it is. Or at the very least, why it feels so.. wrong.

Now, it's time to dig deeper.

Section: Recent News 2/4

(a standard missing persons report, another tragedy lost in the flood of New Jhoquez’s ever-growing list of disappearances. nothing special, right?)

Three teenagers vanished on March 2nd, 2008, last seen at a Dollar General at 8:29 PM. Their names were listed. But the third one.. the third one was missing. In the first version of the notice, it's name was blacked out. Redacted. Gone. But, If you high-light the text, we can see it - "Richie Horviton"

Did you catch the reference? i caught the reference. you caught it too, right? riiight?

Just like that. As if it had always been there. But why hide it in the first place? Something isn’t right, And someone doesn't want us to know. Someone is hiding it. The one who is involved in this?

this story traces back to the prologue of the comic, where the foundation for future events is laid. It’s not just an introduction but a crucial moment that raises key questions and hints at hidden connections between the characters and unfolding events.

You could read the prologue from the original creator, it’s truly well-made and perfectly captures the atmosphere of what’s happening. But if you don’t have time or, for some reason, can’t do so, I’ll summarize the story for you. This is important for analyzing the site and helping you better understand the core of it.

(Though I still recommend reading it ^^)

The Very Beginning

The boy, probably Richie Horviton, is running in panic from an unknown pursuer in an abandoned place. He finds an elevator, lifts the gate, and rushes inside. Then, he presses a button and tries to catch his breath as the doors close. A few seconds of waiting, and finally, he arrives.

When the doors open again, he lifts the gate.. but it's already late. It's here. Standing right in front of him, our dear and mighty Z.

In the next moment, claws appear just inches from the boy. He doesn’t even have time to blink before-.. The next frame is empty. They are gone. The target has been caught.

The mission is going smoothly.

What happened to him?

If you click on its photo, it takes you to this page. The same image, but now distorted, bulging eyes, and heavy glitches. Below it, an inscription in Irken, problematic to translate.. (I'm veary lazy) But the most unsettling part? The audio.

Through the interference, it's clear that no one cared about its quality. Yet, beneath the static, you can hear it - choking, a strained, strangled voice struggling to speak? It could be him, in the final moments before death.. or just before slipping into unconsciousness.

Although, after reading the text, one thing becomes clear: he's been dead for a long time.

ENTRY-17

"DERMA EXTRACTION."

In medicine and biology, Derma is a synonym for the word dermis (or corium) - the inner layer of the skin located under the epidermis. This suggests that the boy's skin was removed, either partially or completely. It implies a surgical or forceful process.

"VESSEL NOW ADJUSTED TO ATTIRE."

"Vessel" is a term often used for bodies, especially when viewed as mere containers rather than individuals. I'm sure that Z doesn't see only people this way, He sees almost everyone the same way.

"Adjusted to attire" suggests that whatever was done to him was to make his body fit something - perhaps a suit, a disguise, or even a new form.. new face.

"REMAINING BIOTIC EXCESS HAS BEEN DISPOSED."

"Biotic excess" could refer to any organic matter that was removed, unnecessary tissue, discarded body parts, or even things that made the boy human. The phrasing "disposed" makes it clear that this was seen as waste. It was not preserved or valued.

"INITIATING CONTACT."

Now that the transformation is complete, something or someone is ready to use the altered body for a purpose. Communication, infiltration, or some other sinister agenda.

You can tell right away that these are Z's notes, or a personal diary where he writes down all his work.

Conclusion

From everything we've learned, only one thing can be said.. Sometimes, in order to survive in a cruel and complicated world, a person is willing to give up their identity. But is there anything more terrifying than losing who you are? When you become merely a tool in someone else's hands, your skin and appearance become nothing more than a mask, hiding not only your true self, but also your soul. When someone is taking your place inside you.

choking the boy to the point of unconsciousness, didn’t only take his life - Z took everything from him: not just his body, but his very self. By peeling off his skin, Z created a shell from the boy, replacing it with a living cover that allowed him to blend into the crowd, yet left him out of the game, without freedom of choice. This act symbolizes the destruction of the integrity of the self, the moment when one’s inner being loses its essence for the sake of survival.

The boy could no longer be himself.. his body became foreign, his "self" became part of an experiment. The fear of losing your individuality, of dissolving in someone else's gaze, of no longer being who you once were. it is the highest sacrifice, one that comes from excessive submission to others rules and decisions.

Although.. does any of this even matter when you're dead? Why would you care at all, huh? Any moral values are useless, you're no longer alive. why regret when it’s all over...

Or is it?

If we continue reading that comic, we can see how dib tries to contact ghosts as always, you know him.. and guess what?

He succeed, with.. yeah, It's him - richie horviton.

Of course, after a light conversation, for some reason (Maybe because of the strong waves) radio through which they communicated exploded, and Dib wasn't able to find out who it was. But the very fact that he's still there, is quite intriguing.

The boy may no longer be alive, but he is not forgotten, and his struggle for peace is something Dib might carry with him, giving him the hope that even in the afterlife, there is still a chance to be seen, to be heard, to find peace.

Of course, I don’t know what will happen to him, and whether he will even appear in the future, but.. It's an interesting experience, showing that we should appreciate what we have. And that even in the most terrible situations there can be a tiny hope for something good, or at least happy-end.

All theories are just my guesses, So don't take my word for it.

Based on IZ AU by: @project-doomsday

<PREV

(I wonder if this long monologue of mine makes any sense? I'm literally making you feel sorry for a fictional character, I'm da best)

Okey, thanks all

Thanks for reading it whole! I understand it's difficult, I see that it's difficult, and for such a big time spent I can only say thank you ^^"

Not a big reward for a bunch of schizo-theory, huh?

But still, it was fun, I just love to analyze and evaluate situations) as if my opinion is important!

So much has been said, but still I have added almost nothing new.. needs to be corrected :/

In any case, if you like/didn't like something, you can write about it, I'm online almost 24/7, will be so happy to chat with)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for defending my friend lying about his dog dying?

Cw for animal abuse and Is ableist language (using sociopath as synonym for bad person)

I was in a friend group of three. Me (24f) my best friend since age 7 (24m) and we have a mutual friend he met in college when he moved away and has known for a little over a year (23f). Callin' them Liam and Rory for ease. Liam had an Esa (not a service dog, an esa). His whole life has revolved around this dog since we were 16 and he moved away. He keeps a very strict schedule with this dog. We are all aware of it because he will leave group chats mid conversation to make sure "Buddy" gets walked or fed or whatever time it is. He takes really good care of this dog and hand-makes its meals and takes it to the vet every 2 months.

Few weeks ago he was acting weird but trying to cover it up. I had been meaning to ask what was going on more privately but I kinda dropped the ball because my aunt died suddenly.

Flash to a week ago Rory sent a huge wall of text to our group chat calling Liam a barrage of names like "sociopath". It turns out that his dog died but he'd been acting like everything was the same which is why he seemed off. She found out when she came onto his property to check on him and he had to "confess."

Shes upset at him for lying but I knew there was more going on. So I talked to him about it privately over the phone and he just shattered. He had no idea what to do or say because he thinks his dad killed Buddy but he doesn't have direct proof. I had never heard him cry before this, because he was raised to really keep that stuff close to his chest. He's tried to open up to me over the years but it's visibly difficult for him especially with how his father still treats him. I believe him because if he truly wanted to manipulate me I still do not think he would have let me see that. He kept apologizing and sounding really lost and ashamed so I really don't think it was an act, you can't fake that kind of helpless abused kid feeling.

I forgave him for keeping it from me because it was obvious he was going to tell us once he processed the situation because that's a lot to say the least. I explained what happened to Rory and said sure maybe it wasn't 100% in the right but he was obviously expiercing trauma and him acting like everything was fine wasn't about hurting us, and we knew something was wrong but didn't ask, she thinks he's trolling for sympathy and that if I forgive him it tells her everything she needs to know about what kind of person I am. And says if he really thinks he dad killed his dog he would have called the police.

There are several reasons he shouldn't call the police one being that his dad has always treated Laim really badly but we never thought he would kill a dog and my friend has to live with him because he's a broke college student. She said he should have figured that out on his own but instead he manipulated us and is now trying to make us feel bad that he got caught.

I also feel like he was in danger from his dad and if he told us Buddy was gone he'd have to say why and then he'd be lying to us anyway until he figured out what the hell happened or if it was safe to tell us. We don't have enough information so I just don't think it's fair to totally write him off as a bad person over what is obviously and extremely traumatic situation? Without even talking to him? She found out Buddy was dead, left and refused to speak to him before announcing her departure from the group and blocked him on everything and basically made me choose between her or him.

I told her that was a really heartless take and that she's over reacting and she told me if I wanted to be best friends with a sociopath that was none of her buisness but she wanted nothing to do with either us because I'm just as bad as him if I don't agree with her so she doesnt loose anything by cutting me off.

She really made me feel like I was helping Liam hide a body. So I'm wondering if she's right. I don't think I'll change my mind, I won't abandon him but I am willing to admit I was wrong if I am.

Am I the assshole for sticking by him?

What are these acronyms?

[fishtail-tavra]

On the naming of the three sisters of Ha'rar by their mother, the whys and to what ends, a mushy mess of linked canon and headcanons.

TLDR: Seladon was probably named after her grandmother for sentimental reasons and to pacify the traditionalists, Tavra was probably named to try pacifying both the traditionalists AND the separatists only for it to kinda backfire, and Brea was probably just given a nice normal name which she ironically grew up to make a synonym of heresy and rebellion. Which probably pissed off Seladon. Tavra, local fun one, probably thought this was all very funny.

Sources / inspirations used:

The Netflix original Age of Resistance tv show,

the loosely connected Age of Resistance young adult novels by J.M. Lee (why doesn't the series have it's own overarching name?),

the loosely connected Age of Resistance comics focusing on young Mayrin by Mathew Erman (seriously it's four issues give them a title to tie them all together with this is silly).

Starting off with the assumption that, despite some fairly large differences in character design, creature design, world mechanics, and actual plots, the three above sources can at LEAST share the same basic traits and histories of their lead characters- at least up to final few trine preceding the start of the main events of the Age of Resistance.

Basic framework information:

At the end of her comics, Mayrin marries a Sifa captain named Kam'lu and moves away from her late mother's traditional ways.

During the book series, it's revealed that Mayrin's second daughter Tavra once rescued and has been in a steady forbidden relationship with a Sifa Far-Dreamer named Onica.

In the tv show, Brea interacts with Sifa without showing any personal knowledge of them or any sign she is aware of her own connection to them.

Kam'lu is not present in either the show or books when Mayrin's daughters are fully grown.

By that time Mayrin has become more traditionalist, though in both the books and the show she is shown ready to join the rebellion, and is murdered for it by the Skeksis.

Statements in the following mess that are canon in at least one source will have a bracketed exclamation point (!) placed after them. Sentiments that are implied in at least one source will have a bracketed asterisks (*) placed after them.

These indicators will be followed by a number matching a note of the specific source, as in 1 for the tv show, 2 for the books, 3 for the comics.

Now. From oldest to youngest, starting with...

Seladon the Second, heir to the throne

Mayrin’s relationship is the most expectant with her first daughter (*) 1-2, born during a time of youthful hope, who was named Seladon after Mayrin’s own dead mother, the late All-Maudra Seladon (!) 3.   The name is given with the intention of:

planning for Seladon the Second to be All-Maudra someday.

hoping that invoking her traditionalist mother will put at ease the traditionalists in Ha’rar.

trying to balance out Seladon’s half clan heritage, which the traditionalist strongly disapprove of in their own families, to the point of sending their children to the Order of Lesser Service when they’re caught becoming too close with someone from another clan (!) 1.

aware that the backlash to Seladon having a Sifa father will be worse in the wake of the Sifa’s recent attempted overthrow of Vapra power and bid for independence, which Mayrin barely managed to diffuse (!) 3.

further complicated by Mayrin openly choosing to abandon several of her traditionalist mother’s practices, including how tribute is paid to the All-Maudra, imposing Vapra traditions upon the other clans, and choosing to walk Raunip’s Pass with her Sifa husband instead of fly its dangerous winds as her mother challenged her to (!) 3.  

  As a result, Seladon the Second carries an old fashioned named, the possessive -n ending for women having gone out of style during her mother’s own generation in favor of the Thra invoking -ra or shorted -a endings becoming more common, as seen the contemporary names Fara, Mera, Deethra, Mira, Mythra, Naia, Arla, Eliona, Pemma, and Onica.   The bearing of such an important family name also led to:

adding to her sense of inadequacy and insecurity as she tries to live up to the name (*) 1.

instilling in her a loyalty to tradition and the established power structures, after modeling herself on the first All-Maudra Seladon (*) 1-2.

highlighting the perceived shame of her half Sifa heritage and disposing her to hate rather than defend it, in contrast with the celebrated memory of her namesake Vapra grandmother, further pushing her towards traditionalist values in a bid to make up for the differences between herself and the past All-Maudra.

increasing the existing tension between her and her youngest sister (*) 1 who’s own name carries no such great history to uphold.

tightening heer bond with their middle sister Tavra (*) 1, who’s common name is ancient and recently tied to their family, and who’s full name connects her to the part of their heritage Seladon the Second and Mayrin are most ashamed of, putting pressure on Katavra to prove herself in spite of it.

Tavra, Katavra, soldier    

Mayrin’s relationship is the most distant with her second daughter (*) 1-2, born during a time of building frustration, who’s common name is associated with Raunip’s Pass through the historical Tavra, a Gelfling woman who was once Raunip’s friend. Through this connection the name is also tied to Mayrin’s contentious past relationship with her own mother.   The name is given with the intention of:

referencing Raunip’s Pass, a narrow valley with dangerous winds that Seldon the First flew to show of her strength and skill, challenging her daughter Mayrin to do the same (!) 3.

naming her second born daughter after the idea of physically proving oneself a worthy heir to her late mother All-Maudra, to make up for Mayrin’s first daughter having a crooked wing (*) 1.

indirectly linking Tavra to her family while Mayrin, wary of presenting another imperfect heir and under pressured from Vapra traditionalists, holds off on publicly acknowledging Tavra as a princess of Ha’rar.

still being a suitable name for a princess to have if / when Tavra eventually proves herself a capable soldier and loyal Vapra, as she does when flying through a storm to the aid of others (!) 2 and returning home afterwards.

an propriate name for when Mayrin finally crowns her a princess of Ha’rar long after Tavra is a grown woman with her wings.

to help smooth out rising tensions around Mayrin’s struggling marriage to Kam’lu, allowing her to use the crowning ceremony to also give Tavra the full name Katavra, after Mayrin’s Sifa husband Kam’lu, and so honor both him and Tavra's act of flying to the Sifa’s aid.

  As a result, Katavra is mainly known by her childling name Tavra (!) 1-2, even outside of Ha’rar, allowing her to travel unrecognized as a soldier without speaking any outright lies (!) 2, with her full name only being used by those who know of and acknowledge her as a princess of Ha’rar (!) 1-2.    The circumstances of her belated crowning and name change by Mayrin also led to:

the mocking rumors of the “many daughters of Mayrin”, as mentioned by maudra Laesid's husband Bellanji after the rumors spread as far as the Drenchen swamps (!) 2, with some believing Mayrin has many other such children she refuses to legitimize, and others ironically joking that the All-Maudra gets all her daughters from other women instead of having them herself.

Mayrin becoming further shamed when the only daughter she named after her no longer present Sifa husband is rumored to be sneaking off to the wharfs to meet with a Sifa herself (!) 2.

a worry that Tavra will also be lost to her, as Kam’lu was, or fall in love with a Sifa who will bring more struggles down on her and her family, as Mayrin’s did.

leading to Mayrin demoting Tavra in the line of succession, possibly reflected in Tavra being seen standing third in line from the throne after both her older and younger sisters (!) 1, and threatening to disown her completely, which as Mayrin is also the Vapra maudra and All-Maudra would make Tavra an outcast among most Gelfling, in an attempt to rebuke her daughter into following her will, an attitude Tavra's Sifa partner Onica is quick to reference and still has not forgiven (*) 2.

with the unintended consequence of Tavra championing her little sister Brea’s increased involvement in the politics of Ha’rar instead (!) 1, a cause Mayrin can hardly oppose when she herself made Brea second in line to the throne.  

Brea, scholar

Mayrin’s relationship with her youngest daughter is the most forgiving but least respectful (*) 1-2, born during a time of weary resignation and after Kam’lu is gone and out of their lives (*) 1-2, Brea is named without any family member in mind.   The name is given with the intention of:

hoping Brea could have her own life mostly insulated from the pressures of leadership.

urging her youngest daughter to focus instead on becoming a scholar (!) 2 and making a name for herself the will be remembered beyond the history of her family.

trying ease Mayrin’s guilt over having to use her two older children so pragmatically as future All-Maudra and expendable soldier for the sake of their clan and people.

pushing back slightly on the idea of what a princess of Ha’rar should be.

indulging that last youthful memory of when she also cared more about truth than duty and felt she could change the way of things (*) 3.

  As a result, Brea’s name is common sounding and leads to:

helping her remain unremarked upon by the Vapra, who mostly prefer her to remain in the library with her studies where her scholarly lack of self-awareness and her seemingly un-princess-like behavior embarrass no one- a preference Brea is vaguely aware of but unsympathetic towards whenever her older sister Tavra arranges for her to be present at some important event she’s never been allowed to take part in before (!) 1.

suiting her reaction to important ceremonies, where she regularly shows irreverence for tradition or social norms in the pursuit of actual understanding and enacting positive change, even when it embarrasses her family (!) 1.

growing up sharing her name with many normal people recorded in history, who she notices and identifies with.

causing her to view herself as a normal person and normal people as perfectly capable of being remarkable.  

fueling her rebellious tendencies when faced with an arbitrarily hierarchical and unfair world (*) 1-2.

Final thoughts.

I think it'd be very funny if the Librarian of Ha'rar was named something like Bre'rian, or Brealyn, or Li'brea or such like.

Both for the punning (in the same vein of Katavra sounding like a mix of katana and cadaver, fitting for a soldier lady who keeps dying, add a librarian who's names sound like the word library),

also for the implication that Mayrin and the Librarian might have bonded over their shared Sifa heartbreak, to the point of Mayrin thinking of her friend when having to name her youngest and hopefully most scholarly child, who Brea would indeed grow up spending a lot of time with and rely on for help and wisdom.

(though having Brea full name be Brea'leth would also be a really cute call back to Mayrin's advisor, Dot'leth)

(and it would also be punny. Brea'leth... breath... vapra vapor... blah blah)

I also really like the idea of Mayrin threatening to disown Tavra, making Tavra sad for 0.5 seconds before she goes- "No wait, that is in fact an excellent idea. My sisters can rule together, once I convince them to stop yelling at each other for 5 minutes, leaving me free to someday sail off with Onica in to the gay pirate sunset. Perfect."

and all Mayrin can do is watch Tavra encouraging Brea to take up more princess roles in Ha'rar, happily stepping side for her little sister, while Mayrin screams internally.

the fun one strikes again. Younger Mayrin might have been proud.

[manhandlememando]

The Alcott Ch. 2

Chapter 2: right where you left me

jay halstead x f!reader, frank castle x f!reader

tw: lil bit of angst, mentions of murder, descriptions of violence and bodily injuries, blood mention, 3rd person POV (she/ her)

chicago pd x the punisher crossover

(series is ongoing)

She couldn’t let it go. Every fiber of her being begged her to let the whole situation lie, but she couldn’t. Being an investigative reporter by trade she was too curious for her own good. Having gotten a job reporting for a news broadcasting company in downtown Chicago, her first instinct was to write about the incident. However, she knew that by coming to her editors with a story about a murderous vigilante having risen from the dead, she would be fired instantaneously.

Her curiosity ate away at her as the days passed after her encounter with the vigilante. How was he alive? She thought to herself. She had seen firsthand the explosion that was supposed to kill him, and it didn’t seem like someone would have been able to survive it. There was also a body found in the wreckage that matched his descriptors and with that the case had been closed. It had been over a year since then and now suddenly he had resurfaced in Chicago. She had to know why?

She was still stuck, frozen and staring into that dark alley. Her breath hitching at the memory of seeing that flash of his face. The hood he was wearing covered most of his face but the street lamp at the very edge of the alley provided her with a flash of light to his face as he stalked towards her.

She couldn’t forget the way his arms encased her with pressure but not force, it was clear he didn’t want to hurt her in any way. That is what puzzled her the most; how could a serial murderer not want to kill someone?

Unless he wasn’t one.

Looking at his mugshot staring back at her from her computer screen, she only had one thought; who was the real Frank Castle?

————————————————

Frank’s P.O.V

Blow after blow echoed throughout the skeletal body of the building, the unfinished walls causing the sounds of the hammer to bounce between them. His roars did the same. Growling animalistically as he brought the hammer down onto concrete over, and over, and over again.

Working construction was the only way Frank could make a living now that his identity had to be stripped. He was now known as “Pete Castillone” and all he had to the name was a construction job and a one bedroom apartment. After his very timely death on the East Coast, he decided to use his newfound anonymity to his advantage. Traveling the country in search of more of those who were responsible for his family’s murder. However, since coming to Chicago, the life that “Pete” lived was very simple and very quiet. Frank needed that, after everything that had happened he needed the quiet. Although, “quiet” is typically synonymous with “alone”, and that’s NOT what Frank needed and he feared it had become something of a curse for him.

About a week ago, Frank had picked up some chatter about a local Chicago gang having had something to do with a family massacre in New York. Rival gang war had gone national apparently. Frank knew that the cartels in New York City were responsible, however he didn’t know which cartel, or whom within them actually had anything to do with it. However, having tracked down one of the members of the local gang, Frank found his opportunity to get the information he needed with whatever means necessary.

A harsh yell escapes his lips as he brings the sledgehammer down again onto the concrete. With each impact of the hammer he began to relive the other night all over again.

The tire iron in his hand coming down onto the man’s chest, over and over again.

“Who gave the FUCKING ORDER?!” Frank screamed as the man lies silently, gurgling blood from his mouth.

Having come to Chicago with the sole intention of finally avenging his murdered wife, son, and daughter, Frank thought his mission would be simpler than it was turning out to be. The more people he found, the more secrets he uncovered on the true identity of the person who ordered the execution of his family.

As the man laid on the ground, breathing his last breaths, he sighed the name of the person Frank was really looking for: “Agent Orange”.

Frank dissipates back into reality, holding the hammer limply in his fist. Looking around for a second, taking in his surroundings, Frank breathes a deep sigh and takes a seat on the dusty concrete floor. As he continues to relive the other night, his mind then falls on the young woman who had mistakenly stumbled upon the scenario. A pang of guilt runs down Franks spine, she had looked so terrified of him.

Rightfully so, he thinks to himself. His brutality scared even him at times, but seeing that same feeling reflected back at him on such a beautiful face shifted something in him. In a moment of pure inhuman rage, he was reminded of the fragility of the human spirit as he looked up to see her face.

“You’ll kill him!” He remembers her shouting, as if the man wasn’t already dead. He remembers her shaking hands and the gun she clutched for dear life but couldn’t bring herself to fire. It was incredibly courageous when he thought about it, having every opportunity to run and yet she chose to try and protect her fellow man. He knew in that moment he couldn’t hurt her, not that he wanted to, but he’s had to bury secrets in unmarked graves before.

In the split second he had, his mind landed on the only option available to him; neutralize the situation. He towered over her, his frame encompassing hers in an instant, clutching a hand over her mouth to silence her screams.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he quietly coos in her ear, “ain’t gonna hurt ya,” he assured her. Having disarmed her before capturing her in his hold, he didn’t know how to proceed. The threat was minimized and he had gotten her to quiet down, so his only logical choice was to release her.

“I swear to God I won’t hurt ya, but if I let you go, will you scream?” He speaks gruffly in her ear, hand still over her mouth. He remembers how she was shaking against him, he can’t get it out of his head. The way she was repulsed by him, it made him look back on the memory with shame.

When he did let her go a small fist came flying up instantly and landed on the bridge of his nose, breaking it. Clutching his face, he groans and falls back against the brick wall. As he looks up he sees her vanishing into the night, a small glimpse of the blood-covered blouse is the last thing he saw before she was out of sight.

He’s still stuck in that alley holding her shaking, terrified form, hearing her whimpers and seeing the fear in her eyes.

He can’t be anywhere else.

—————————————

Jay’s P.O.V

“Hey there space cadet, which planet are you visiting now?” Jay’s voice comes from behind her, standing in the doorway to her room, watching as she stares blankly out her bedroom window. Turning her head to meet his gaze, her demeanor softens instantly and she gets up to greet him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even hear you come in,” she says as her boyfriend pulls her into his strong chest, placing a kiss to her forehead as he cradles the back of her head.

“Hey baby, you doing okay?” He says after a moment of comfortable silence between them. Shifting her face to look up at him, she smiles innocently.

“Yeah, of course, why?” She reassures him, but he knows her too well.

“You just seem… off, ever since the other night,” he says, dipping his head to catch her eyes, trying to break this barrier she had built up over the last several days.

“Jay, I’m fine, I swear. Just preoccupied with this new article I’m writing,” she lies, placing a hand to the side of his face as she brings it down to hers, kissing him deeply. He pulls away, shaking his head slightly and gently cupping her face in his palms.

“I know you better than that, baby. Come on, let me into your golden thinking,” he speaks as he moves a piece of hair from her face.

“Everything’s fine, Jay,” she says flatly, clearly not wanting to let him in.

He sighs as she pushes past him into the hall, pinching the bridge of his nose he takes a deep breath. Something was wrong, he knew it. But she wouldn’t put her shields down long enough for him to see the real issue. Something happened that night to make her this way, a shift was apparent in her behavior and all he wanted was a reason why. The last thing he wanted was for her to shut him out completely, but it seemed that was the first thing she was doing.

Swallowing the lump forming in his throat, he turns and makes his way into the main living space of her tiny apartment. He finds her lost in thought again, just staring blankly into space as she stands in front of the sink. The water continued to run as she stood unmoving, the glass in her hand overflowing with water.

Where was she? He thought, brow knitting together as he watched her disappear into her own mind. All he wanted was for her to come back, to be with him again in the present. But he had a feeling there was an unseen gap between them now, her in a completely different place and him standing right in front of her trying to understand where she’s gone.

Come back, baby, he thinks to himself as he continues to watch her from afar. Come back, I’m right where you left me.

[voltstone]

…about the clementine comic (again): why is she illiterate?

I've already written an exhaustive essay about the Clementine comics written by Tillie Walden, and that was before the first book was out. It was more of a discussion of what was already seen from the teaser, Walden being an…interesting choice to write this, but more than that, it was to preemptively stake the claim that no, it isn't canon. Not in the way that's just "ew I hate this I refuse," but more so, "the games (and character) by design and functionality do not allow for single interpretations to adequately continue the story."

These comics can be…a canon. But not the canon.

In the same way as The Walking Dead Game's (TWDG) fanfiction, like my own where I'm writing only my canon interpretation, the others who do the same, and so on.

(This right here is the essay, by the by.)

It has been a couple years since then. I have read both comics, and there is a lot I can say about them. I may one day, but not right now.

Instead, I want to direct attention to how…weirdly anti-apocalyptic it is?? Because it bothers me. A lot. That I'm watching a Clementine as a character get reduced to a kid who doesn't know how to read or write, doesn't know how to dress and care after a wound...

All things necessary for survival—the reading especially within an apocalyptic setting. Which. No. I'm not kidding. I do mean that.

Before I really indulge in my grievances, however, I will start by outlining the world that TWDG has established, and what it actually takes to survive within it.

(And yes, this is another lengthy post.)

[Surviving the Apocalypse]

Throughout the games, we ultimately see the apocalypse under two overarching eras. The initial stage is calamity. The walkers swiftly overrun what people upheld as a stable, and very secure way of life. And the fact that it only takes one factor to destroy the "we're untouchable" notion, it's terrifying. (Which, on that note, though the undead is an extreme, we did maybe learn this post-COVID. Ergo, stories like these may resonate a little bit better than they had before.)

What's different about The Walking Dead (TWD) as a universe is that…, the true calamity arguably doesn't hit until later, because the dead themselves aren't what really destroys the untouchable mindset as before. In most universes, such as The Last of Us, it's something contagious that you don't want. However, it is also something to overcome and fix. Though the dead in TWDG's cousin is far more brutal, if you isolate them, or find a way to vaccinate…, there could feasibly be a future where the fungus is more akin to rabies or the black plague rather than a devastating change in society.

Because that's how diseases like these work. They will never go away, especially if humanity mishandled their responses to them. Rabies is still out there, because it is a violent disease (am also under the impression that walkers is very synonymous with rabies, but I digress). The Black Plague? That whole thing? Yeah, the plague itself is also still out there. The problem was solved by nature, where a fire torched all of London.

But since then, we have vaccines. We know better (…I hope) in how to appropriately respond. And…that's the best we can do. Pathogens will always dictate life.

Of course, this isn't to undermind what outbreaks as seen in those other stories do to the world. They evidently are a turning point, if not the end, of humanity's way of life. The reason why, however, falls more in-line with a society being greatly unprepared, and a virus, fungus, whatever being the perfect amalgamation that spreads rapidly. It's what we as humans have gone through, will go through, to an absolutely extreme. Complete annihilation. That kind of deal.

Here's the thing about TWD, and I honestly could go on and on with this (and why it's my favorite apocalypse I've seen in fiction):

The bite is not what does it. Everyone is infected.

And the longer you think about it, that in itself will not end. I'm in the camp that it would be maternally passed-down given how blood circulation works within pregnancy, so. You know.

The point here is TWD as an apocalypse is very unique in this one change. It fundamentally breaks how people approached these kinds of stories. The walkers are not particularly fast because they don't have to be. They are a looming presence. As they deteriorate, because they're so slow-moving (as apposed to clickers), they manage to tell their own stories in how they died. You can see if they were bit, or starved, or shot… List goes on.

They are representative of nature reclaiming the world, and on top of that, a dangling threat to anyone who has the gall to think they're above it.

Because they're not. So either make sure your head is shot, or deal with walking around like a mangy pile of rot.

It changed how people approached this because rather than a devastating outbreak, this feels like a sort of damnation. There is a very bleak sense of finality to this universe—to the point where… Yeah. They could live on, try to find a cure, but this is it.

This is the true calamity of this world—not the walkers themselves, but the fact that they are there to stay, there is no going back. At least, for a long, long, long time. You can't just isolate them. If someone dies the wrong way, there could be one in the room right with you. Hence…making sure your head is shot.

And as with in the games, it is such a bleak reality that it forces people to just move on.

Which they do. The way to survive this initial era is, amongst a wide scope of things, to accept the fact and carry forth.

The characters that don't, and are simply too rooted in the past, like Katjaa… Well, they don't make it, do they? There's a reason why we don't see that many unable to let go after the first season, because they don't last. If they do, like with Tenn, it's because they got lucky and had a community to fall back on. Regardless, given what we see with Katjaa, Season One (S1) is this time.

The second era of the apocalypse is seeding. Both in the literal sense, and symbolic.

I'm not talking established communities, no. The closest we get to that is the boarding school, given they do have established practices. But, with how many things need to be done, the schoolkids are still within this second era.

Season Three (S3) is arguably the first season of the four solidly within the second era. Sure, there are still scavengers, but there are also several communities at once—enough so that the conflicts between end up being why they fail, not purely the dead. This leaves Season Two (S2) to be the fitting chaos that ensues between the eras, where much of the world is scavenging, they're reminded of how cruel winter is actually, but there are already solid efforts in building communities; then, Season 4 (S4) as well within the second era, with clear signs that there is the gradual chance of establishment.

The second era requires not only what the first proposes—moving on—, but also a sense of ingenuity. They're left with the scraps of the past world, but that past world also grew out of the earth, so they can cobble those scraps and earth together and make something out of it. We have Prescott on the airstrip; that is the epitome of cobbling things together. There's Richmond, and Howe's Hardware as well, where it's making use of the scraps left behind to establish proper farms. Then Ericson's as a meld of both—the kids have their structure, but they needed to feed off the land. (Not quite at the farm stage like the others were.)

All of what I've discussed thus far, however, is on an overarching scale (and isn't exactly exhaustive either). It can be extrapolated and used in reference to an individual's survival, but there are ways to better articulate an individual's survival than just…get the fuck over it, and build a farm.

And what's interesting is there is a vast difference in requirements depending on how they choose to survive.

With a community. Or. Alone.

The benefits to a community is you yourself don't have to encompass the three traits to survive. (Oh, yeah, this essay will have three primary traits of surviving on an individual scale; obviously there will forever be more nuance, but…shush. I'm typing.) Within a community, you can rely upon others that do encompass the three traits—and it doesn't have to be all in one person. The people within a community can specialize in skills.

And the schoolkids best emulate this.

Tenn and Willy, though they have their own skillsets, are example of those who need to rely on others. Both have the school, though they are closest to Violet and Mitch respectively—those, if asked, would likely be considered the closest thing to caretakers that either boys have.

And right alongside them, Louis, because my man…would like to say he's allergic to work, but really, it's the self-doubt. Now, if not a person who is reliant, he is good for raising spirits. He knows games to play. He brings entertainment.

There's Marlon, who's the well-spoken leader. Ruby, who plays nurse. Aasim, who…writes? Writing's important and stuff in the apocalypse, right?

(Yes. It is. Again, we will get to that, so, hush-up.)

Rosie. Dog. (This is also very important. You can pet her!)

Mitch was likely the muscle, or something along those lines. Omar, the cook.

I would say Brody sits near the "needs to rely" camp, given her anxiety, though, she does actually pull her weight, ergo, support. You can task her with anything. She'll likely be able to do it, such as with fishing and hunting.

Violet was also probably another support, though it is difficult to really tell at the beginning because she's withdrawn from the rest of her people. (I've always felt the Violet we meet at the start isn't who she was before the twins left. Of course, Violet is Violet, but… Depression, and stuff. Probably BPD stuff.) Here's the thing though: come to find, Violet is also another thing.

That being deputy. She can step-up and play leader when need be, but will step down because that isn't quite what she is—hence why the leadership ultimately goes from Marlon to Clementine by the end. This has Violet be the ultimate support. She can do whatever, fill in the leadership role, so on and so forth.

As the community develops, the others will find more nuances in themselves like these. Beyond what I've outlined, and the present nuances already in S4.

The thing with this line-up to understand is there's huge variety here. Not only in the nature of each role, but also their complexity. Because…, turns out, there's a lot to living.

Which. I mean. All of that is no shit, Sherlock. Because yeah.

When I go on about, say, Violet, it's to explain a very specific concept that one word is not going to do. There's a specific reason why I say deputy, and not second-hand; there is a thing where roles will and do change depending on circumstance, and time. (As with Willy (and Tenn) when he grows up, and when Louis becomes more confident.) But this doesn't mean it's more important. When I say "Omar, the cook," or "Ruby, who plays nurse," neither are to designate either as lesser roles.

They're actually crucial. Because no fucking shit. You need to eat. You need to learn how to mend yourself.

It's why those roles are so…simple. Because title alone says everything.

Certain roles, like Violet's (which…may or may not be ironic), are very community-centric. Others, like Omar and Ruby's, are fundamental to just life. And what you see is within communities, those fundamentals go from just skillsets to an art or to a science. When you have people who specialize in each, they are given the time and space to truly understand the ins and outs of what they're doing.

Cut to alone.

Those like Clementine.

Surviving alone is difficult because not only are all of these crucial roles in the community on one set of shoulders, there has to be great sacrifice. Of course, a leader or deputy isn't needed because there's just one. The social aspect of a community is not present.

With that social aspect follows specialization of the core fundamentals.

You need to eat. You need to learn how to mend yourself. And defend...

When you are on your own, without the security of a home, you are not given the time nor the space to truly know those ins and outs. So, when you look at those like Clementine, yes. She's not going to know little tricks, or the sciences, in what she does. The stitching for example:

Clean it. Sew the fucking body part shut. Wrap if you can. There you go, you just did stitching.

Which she does. However, S2, part of why the dog bite (oh, and yes, comic people? yeah, there's supposed to be a deep, concerning scar down her left forearm) scarred the way it did is because 1) …um, she was in a shed, dunking-back apple juice in between sutures in my case, getting jumped by a dead dude, and 2) the stitch-work was very rudimentary. Enough to close the wound and have it heal, sure. Then, S3, the same with Javi; Kate upon inspection does mention that she sees it bleeding through, indicating that again, it's very rudimentary. But, we have Eleanor examine it, and she notes that it is satisfactory, so long as it's looked after.

Had someone like Ruby, or better yet Eleanor (who Dr. Lingard complimented this exact skill) done it, they would have known different stitch techniques that not only closes the wound tight, but also leaves minimal scarring. And the other things, like how to adapt the techniques to different parts of the body, because…no, you really can't just stitch a knee like you would a back.

But again, Clementine didn't have the time to really learn the specifics. She's busy learning how to cook, and hunt, and defend, and scavenge supplies, drive, shoot, car maintenance, feeding a child, taking care of the child, protecting the child, prioritizing necessities…

Essentially, in terms of community vs solo, it's an argument between the specialized, and the jack of all trades.

Stay with me now. I'm not exactly done going over what is needed to survive, because there are more. There's the three traits I mentioned. But as I babble on, once the discussion over the comic begins, I do hope it's clear as to why I am going through these things as meticulously as I am.

Now we get to why Clementine of all girls would be able to live in this kind of environment. She's a kid, but like…young adult given the context. (I'm sure the medieval ages wouldn't argue.) She's like…stupid, or something. She only went to so much school, and we all know that only smart people graduate from school. I never met a dumbfuck at college ever! No!

…got a little side-tracked.

Genuinely though, what is it about Clementine?

I'll start this with a curveball:

What is the dumbest thing that she has ever done within the games?

There's room for debate, but the majority will probably point to S1, where she goes on to trust the voice at the other end of her radio—the voice being the Stranger's.

It's the decision that we, as an audience, thought Clementine was above doing even at that age. It's also what ultimately kills Lee.

Here's the thing, though:

Clementine putting faith into the Stranger wasn't just a child being stupid. For one, she is…eight/nine. So. A child. But, two, it was an exercise of her greatest flaw:

"She's a puzzle."

Something that is brought up, time and time again. To my mind, it's most notably done by Katjaa, whenever they're beside the train, and Duck is of ailing health. Clementine sits on her own log. Doesn't respond much to Lee, not until Chuck (as a breath of fresh air) comes to join the party.

See, she heard a voice from the other end of this radio—one of two (including the hat) mementos she has of her family—, and the one thing that she had in way of sanctuary. The Stranger said the right things, so she kept to herself with that radio, and let her desperation flourish.

Finding her parents was the one thing she wanted. So yes, through a child's gullibility, and a man's manipulation, she believed the wrong person.

We see this sort of flaw propagate time and time again. Granted, it does depend on the player's interpretation of her for S2 and S4, given we play as her, but in S3 where she's (quite literally, for the most part) out of our hands, what does she do? She keeps to herself. What happened to A.J? was a question on our minds, largely because of her reluctance to open up. Clementine lies to Javi about the New Frontier, then she turns around and explains her lie…, reveals her branding…, purely for survival's sake, not because she wholeheartedly trusts him.

Of course, in S3 it's understandable that she doesn't just open up to Javi. That game covers only a handful of days—short of a week by the end—, with the exception of the flashback sequences. (As opposed to S1, across several months, S2, a few weeks to a month, give or take, and S4, which sits about the same.)

Still, however. This is absolutely a part of Clementine's character: she's reserved. Without the player, her first inkling is to keep herself from the topic of conversation.

The thing to understand about this flaw, and how it bleeds into the comics, is that…I think(?) Walden acknowledged this part of her character. But…half of it.

The reason why comic Clementine pulled away from the boarding school is because she…, as she does…, kept to herself after her leg, got into her own head, and thusly ran off. I will say, I do agree that Clementine would be an absolute fucking mess with her leg gone because she has to rely on people again. (Which is devastating because of her specific trauma: à la parentification.)

Now…, run away…? Um…

(…it's also this specific trauma that… Um. Yeah no, she would not leave A.J.)

Whatever. Not the point of this essay.

The other half of this flaw, the half that the comics blatantly miss, speaks to quite an…insightful aspect of Clementine:

She is a very, very perceptive individual. Because the thing we see in S1 is that she's not just quiet. She's watching. She's observant. Clementine is quiet, not only because she gets into her own head, but because she's taking in the world, and so she notices things that other people don't pick up on.

Throughout S1, there will be moments where Lee can try to sugarcoat things, particularly after Duck's bite, only for Clementine to say it plainly:

"You don't know that."

Those moments speak to a kid who knows the difference between reality and not, and telling Clementine that she won't get snatched or bit is…not reality. It will likely happen, and it does.

Other moments, she'll notice details in the environment. She can point them out. Help Lee, as with getting into the train station. Make a comment, like in Hershel's barn with the "dookie"/shit/manure.

Or, back in the drugstore, where Carley (…not too subtly) outs Lee as a murderer in front of Clementine. …which, of course, Clementine picks up on. (The trigger for this is to pick up the photo of Lee with his family, hence why it can be before or after moving the desk.) To which, upon leaving the drugstore's office, she'll ask about it, and you'll have the option of being open and honest, sugarcoating it, or just flat out lie.

Staying in the drugstore! Lee asks for something to bar the entrance. Walkers are scratching to get a nibble. And? Immediately, she goes to his dad's cane (cuz that man ain't using anymore!).

S2. Same spiel. Because…, oh boy, incompetence is rampant as it turns out, and as I've stepped into adulthood for myself, I've come to appreciate that season as essentially "Clementine learns why the motel family fell apart, adults are grown ass children, she has to babysit them— KENNY, DOWN! STOP IT! STOP BITING THE RUSSIAN!— throughout a winter."

Because. Newsflash. Adults? About as stable of a concept as a table with a missing leg, then another one of mangled-together cutlery. And I will forever adore stories from a kid's perspective slowly realizing this fact.

(…also, parentification's a knocking. It wants in.)

Then, S3, where she gave up being the hero, but still…, somehow…, rattles off exactly what the player needs to do and where to get the tools when stealing a truck because she just can't help herself.

…okay, I think I've done enough. S4 also speaks for itself.

Point being, Clementine is a very perceptive, very resilient, and very adaptive person. It's why she out of all the kids she comes across is the one to survive.

Sarah immediately comes to mind as someone who really struggled with adapting. She can, but the tragedy of it is that it's not in time. Too little, too late. (Circumstances also don't help.)

With Gabe (if he dies), same kind of thing. He always struck me as someone painfully unaware of how good he had it, and how bad everything else was. And he needed to grow up. Fast. But again, that alone isn't what saves him—his uncle, and/or Clementine do(es). If he's saved at all, anyway.

Duck? Same fucking thing. And it was his death, through Chuck, that spurred Lee to start teaching Clementine the basics.

To which she adapts, and she adapts well. Their first outing doesn't go…all that great. Clementine freezes. But, throughout S1, she does shoot her first walker (with Omid, or in Crawford). If Lee cannot fight off the Stranger, she will be the one to kill him. And then, of course, the whole Lee death scene thing.

The second season starts off with Omid dropping because of a neglected gun. (Clementine freezes again.) Change is always on rocky road—despite the season prior, she still had a lot to learn, and she did throughout said season.

Perceptive, and resilient, and adaptive. To be those is the ticket to survival. Those are the three.

So why…does it seem like the comics don't know?

[VANCOMYCIN]

To anyone unaware, vancomycin is not a random string of letters for Clementine to work her mouth through. In fact, she knows how to read it. Had to, in order to inject this medicine into A.J within S3—whether or not she goes through with it is dependent on player choice.

Vancomycin, to give a better idea of the sheer desperation she was in, is not something to treat the common cold or flu. It's to treat Gram-positive bacterial infections—hence why it wouldn't necessarily work for colds or flu, given most are virus-borne—, and is generally synonymous with more serious infections.

Meaning. A.J was genuinely sick.

(My hunch is bacteria-borne pneumonia.)

I don't know what most of the fandom assumed, but it was not just a little bug. It was…bad. And a legit miracle that he survived (whether it be without the injection, or…with the injection where Clementine poked the syringe through his shirt? Game? Graphics?).

What likely happened was, somewhere down the line, he either just caught something on an off chance (the world hasn't been sanitized), or he got too close to danger and got himself sick that way off of one of the walkers/animals around. (If it was pneumonia, he likely inhaled something.) Regardless, Clementine was at a point where she…just did not have the resources to help him, would not know where to look, wouldn't feasibly be able to scavenge for it, and so she joined the New Frontier (whether or not you had her agree initially) because it was just that bad.

It is a heavy drug. Not only does it give insight as to why Clementine chose to join regardless of your choice for her, it also explains why the group threw her out for even handling it. It's not like aspirin that's easy to come by.

And, of course, there's the pronunciation of it. As with every medical term like this, it looks and sounds convoluted, but as you break it down, it's pretty straightforward.

Keep this in mind as I rattle on further. I find the vancomycin to be a very succinct contrast to what I take issue with in the comics.

Speaking of, the comics.

Hello there.

…Clementine.

The Clementine Comics, by Tillie Walden, read as a hard reset on the series, from S1 onward. Which yes, is the core issue. There was no effort in even trying to continue off from S4, it was just a way to have Clementine still run around, while avoiding the whole Telltale-RPG implications of a continuation.

So, if you're somehow out of the fandom and you're reading this, hi? Welcome. This is why people are upset about the comic, and for once, no, it's not just because this fanbase is being…unhinged. (In a bad way.)

On top of the plot decisions, however, there are things that just prove Walden was not the artist for this project. The artstyle is an interesting(?) fit for TWDG, but ultimately is an aside. There's the focus on romance. There's the dull characters.

And then there's Clementine herself. Very out of character, and that's coming from someone whose Clementine has…made decisions in her life.

What this essay will focus on, however, is the choices made to have Clementine incompetent.

Medically so.

In the first book, Clementine is taught how to clean and dress her amputated leg. I can get behind learning how to wrap the thing properly, because it is a different part of the body, and it's a different angle—on herself, not someone else.

But she asks…why she needs to clean it. Like she doesn't know. Clementine has to be taught that.

This kind of ignorance then follows her into the second book, because she fell ill (and slipped into a month-long coma??), largely due to her not cleaning the wound. Her leg had an infection. And it spread.

…okay. Um.

That's very interesting considering Clementine:

(S2) Got bit by a dog, felt like she needed to take care of it herself due to circumstances, cleaned it, sutured the wound with fishing wire, and then went to bandage it (before getting attacked). (By the way, the scar is not on comic Clementine. So.)

(S2; optional) Can sit beside Rebecca during her pregnancy to help, but then does have to assist with the walker/lurker problem.

(S2) Tended to Kenny's lost eye because he was beaten by a walkie-talkie by cleaning it.

(S2) Probably had to deal with that whole wound in her shoulder, you know, from the FUCKING RIFLE SHOT, either with Kenny, Jane, those at Wellington, or on her own (feat A.J). (No, they did not patch it up because time, and it went clean through. When Jane and Kenny fought, Clementine just had an open bullet hole.)

(S2/S3) Had to take care of a baby. With Jane or Kenny or in Wellington, and/or on her own.

(S3; alone S2 ending) Broke her finger on a car door to the point where she (presumably) had to amputate and cauterize the finger herself.

(S3) THE WHOLE VANCOMYCIN THING. I WILL GET BACK TO THAT.

(S3) Cleaned and sutured Javi's arm after he got shanked (cuz Gabe… never mind).

(S4) Twas a great start. Car accident—boo boo head.

(S4) Had to patch-up A.J cuz he got shot by a shotgun. And was in recovery for two weeks.

(S4; optional) Louis/Violet gets their finger chopped off. Probably helped deal with that.

(S4) Um. Her leg? You know. The one she lost, and the schoolkids managed to get her stable. Willing to bet Ruby would lose her fucking shit if it wasn't cleaned properly.

And that's just what we do see, in regards to Clementine personally.

Do I…have to go on and explain why it's fucking stupid that she doesn't know the basic information she had to learn in the comics? No?

Okay. Good.

I will get back to it, because I think this choice is indicative of a larger issue. We'll get to that weird…bias the comics have with Clementine being negligent and ignorant to all things medical.

Because now, we're here.

Not only is Clementine ignorant medically, she struggles to read her way through a dictionary. There's scenes of her sounding out words like she's in preschool.

For what reason?! Because in a world where people don't have higher education, they just don't read and write?! What?!

Okay, so, no, I didn't outline precisely why reading and writing (more so reading) is crucial of a skillset to have within an apocalyptic setting. I will do so now.

Because it's the crux of this essay. Hence why I've given it its own section. (…that's what this is, by the way.)

Why is it, exactly, "so" important Volt? Society's gone!! You don't need to read!

Listen up, ✨ dipshit ✨ This is an apocalypse. Not a nomadic setting.

Okay, that was a little mean. If you're asking this, you're not a dipshit.

Anyway, I am being genuine here. To the point where even implying that nomads by nature are illiterate is also…wrong. Because that's not necessarily true either, but assuming so falls into such an ignorant bias that people in 1st world countries have. (The same that the comics have.)

And this bias is the reason why I really, really want to have this discussion because the comics really rubbed me the wrong way with this, and, I'm kinda sick and tired of reading other people implying the same thing.

So let's start here:

What distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom? Why is it we consider ourselves more intelligent?

The answer boils down to one thing:

Our mouths.

We can talk. And in doing so, we can communicate to each other very complex and nuanced concepts that require articulation beyond body language and emotion.

It's why we're able to distinguish things like envy versus just being irritated by someone. Because frankly? They physically feel the same because they are the same emotion. The context is what differentiates envy vs irritability. The why.

"I feel [this] because I want what they have." vs "I feel [this] because they're being stupid right now."

The [this] is the same. The body only has so many ways it can tell you what you're feeling, so it ends up boiling down to very basic emotions, where they can be felt at different extremes, or in unison. So. You know. Think Inside Out. What makes envy special is…you have to take context into consideration. Yes, it is also irritability, but it goes beyond that. And it requires language to communicate such a thing.

When you look at animals, that's why they're "unintelligent." They respond to what they feel the way they do because they don't have a way to articulate it. So they just react. Rather blindly in our eyes. Same thing with babies. They haven't gone through language acquisition just yet—they're in the same boat. It's also why a lot of dog breeds are said to "have the same intelligence as a 3 year old." It's related to language. They feel the same emotions, or whatever equivalent (can't claim I know how their bodies process emotions). However, they physically cannot exercise language verbally. Ergo, they're more or less stunted in the acquisition.

And then you have that we are wired to speak. Our mouths by design are made to verbalize complex sounds. A lot of our brain power is in being able to talk, or at least comprehend patterns in speech if the individual is mute. I for one was a child who rarely spoke for my first ~4/5 years, but I knew what people were saying. (Funnily enough, I was a lot like A.J.)

Beyond emotions, it's also to communicate things rather than [follow me, are you following, I'm looking at you, follow me,] it's "okay, I'm going over here, meet me by this tree." There's immediate clarification. There's a passage of thought between two brains. We don't have to interpret body language as much, we have to comprehend words.

To the rest of the animal kingdom, that makes us already mind-readers. Given that people are honest, and can articulate well, we literally are.

…it's also this emphasis on verbal language that has people be real fucking shit a reading body language, but whatever.

The point here is language is so fucking important. And there's a reason why we started writing things down. Some of the first records of written language, hundreds upon hundreds of years ago, were to keep track of agriculture. We also forget things, so we wrote those down. Heard of the Iliad? The Odyssey? Those were orally passed down for generations, but Homer decided to scribe them so they weren't forgotten. (From what I remember, he wrote those during the Hellenistic era of the mythos. …I want to say the stories come from the Mycenaean times?)

And above all.

Long distance communication. Or. Leaving behind knowledge.

So there would be couriers. There would be scholars who learned from scrolls of scribes decades before them.

(In modern times…, labels on products so that you know what it is, how to use it… Just a thought.)

Language is what makes us different. And by proxy, writing helps us retain that.

It is never something people are just going to abandon when the world goes to shit. If anything, it's going to be the one thing people will grapple onto by the skin of their teeth.

Out of the two, yes, language would come first. There are many cultures that lived (even thrived) without having a true writing system, and did just fine because the culture had such an emphasis on oral tradition, or other ways in cementing their culture to the test of time. A lot of the Native American cultures come to mind. Nowadays, however, there's been an effort to have them written so they aren't lost because…colonialism. I don't really need to explain that, but I do think the history is important to understand (the linguist in me is also morbidly fascinated). In summary, however, the way in which these cultures were torn apart rattled people, and people saw their way of life was evaporating with every person lost. They couldn't leave anything physical behind.

I do bring this contrast to light, however, because there is a detail to understand about an apocalyptic setting, and its relationship with written word: it's reflective of what society fell. If the society before was like a lot of the Native cultures, where their culture was recorded through oral traditions and other practices, then sure, I would expect the people left behind to be "illiterate". …at least, in terms of writing. They're literate in those oral traditions and practices.

But, that's not TWDG. What we have is a society that is reliant on writing. So much of our world is articulated through an alphabet printed onto a surface.

In any case, back to the apocalyptic setting.

Another thing is, yes, we do see language come before writing. In survival, it does land people in situations where it's "I don't have time, I've been starving, I'm going to grab all the food in this place before the books." Of course. Then you have that books are heavy. You're not going to realistically carry a library around. You're going to choose other things that would help immediately.

Like a knife. Or a gun.

Those do better bashing heads in than a book (but a tome wouldn't do that bad).

Here's the thing though. To step back to how reliant our society is on writing, I don't think people realize just how much they read. (Hint: you're reading right now. You had to read in order to navigate this page.) So here's the follow images of things that, in an apocalypse, are pivotal for survival, and requires of you reading comprehension:

Signs. Food labels. First Aid labels. Maps. Manuals. Guidebooks.

You need to know where you're at. You need to understand what it is you're eating, how to cook it, and quality (ex: expiration). You need to understand first aid, what you're working with and how to apply it. You need to know where you're going. If you have equipment (like, say, a car) that you're not privy to, but need it, you need to learn basic maintenance. If you're not familiar with how to do certain activities (how to make jerky, how and where to put your urine/fecal matter), you can learn in a guidebook.

Literacy is about self-sufficiency. And each of these represent different aspects of how to live off of the scraps of a failed society.

Signs are pretty straightforward. They're articulated landmarks, and given how streets are, they're good to follow for navigation. If they're signs for complexes, they're a good way to know where you should scavenge should you be looking for a specific thing. Ex: hardware supplies; you're trying to build a camp. Either it's get lucky, or go over to someone's garage, or go over to a hardware store.

Food and First Aid labels are different things—the way they're organized is very different—, however, they serve the same purpose: those are there to inform consumers how to eat/utilize. Even though each have a very specific language, they are designed so that people not specialized in food or medicine can use them. This also applies to a lot of agriculture. Things like seed packets. Or anything that can be planted. If it has a consumer-base, there's a label on it. If it doesn't have instructions, it will most likely inform what it is.

Maps is where we start to get into more "optional" territory. Do you necessarily need a map to survive? No. It would be a life-saver to know where you are, even away from where the society was established. It would also tell you where the next town vs city is (which, to someone like Clementine who may be inclined to avoid cities, she would know which roads to take).

Manuals and guidebooks, again, are the same. They also fall into the kind of thing where weight now has to be considered.

But. Here's the thing: how many people know how to go camping? How many people were ever in boy/girl scouts? And how many more people didn't have to learn any of that because society promised security and the fact that…we don't need to focus on survival?

Okay sure, go on and on and on about how people who knew those skills already and prepped for the apocalypse would be the ones to survive. Because, uh, don't know about you, that's not necessarily how that works (luck is always a thing, and people surprise you), but also, within TWDG, I can only come up with so many people who would fall into that camp: Lilly, Mark, maybe Larry (military experience), Christa (got the vibe), Pete. Um… …Carver? He talked about, like, sheep and stuff. In reference to people, sure, but like… Uh. Hm. Well shit.

You know all the people who didn't have the experience before the apocalypse? Everyone. Fucking. Else. Including Clementine.

This is the reason why manuals and guidebooks are invaluable. They speak to a luxury because you do have the space and capacity to carry them around, so that you can gather what knowledge they have. And people just don't know this shit. Community helps, because you may meet someone who does, or has read up on it, so you don't have to. But when you're alone? …kinda a really, really good thing to have.

And none of that is going into how important books are in just passing the time. People get bored. Books are nice if you got a bum leg.

Regardless, my point should be quite clear. Sure, reading and writing will not be important in the same immediate regard, and neither will be as prolifically done as it was before. Within an apocalypse, it's not about texting, or emails, or news reports, or essays… None of that. Ergo, they're designated as an investment that weighs heavy (quite literally). It takes time to read. It takes strength and space to lug them around. You may not have any.

However. With all of what I raised, it goes back why it is, actually, so fucking important to be literate to some capacity. And to build upon that literacy. Because these people are not just living in caves. They're not in a place where humans have never gone before—quite the opposite.

Which makes it an apocalypse.

In order to navigate within the carcass of a fallen society, you need to be able to comprehend the very scraps that you're taking from said society. It left behind food, and medicine, and tools, and machinery, and knowledge. To just put that all to waste because you can't read?! Really?!

And what about a life-and-death situation where it entirely depends upon your skills in being able to read and comprehend information given to you?

I'm going to go back to the vancomycin now.

It's not something the game harps upon, but it is significant enough to Clementine's arc in S3. This medicine, regardless of injection, is why she could not see A.J, and why she had such a resentment for the New Frontier. They said they could help. In her eyes, they instead left him to die.

It is also a significant point of interest as far as this essay is concerned. Because this scene alone encapsulates all of what I'm rattling on about:

The medicine itself is a scrap of her past society. They're not making these anymore, and while I can…question how good that medicine would be by this point in time after the apocalypse (shots do have an expiration date; they also need to be stored appropriately, like in refrigerators or freezers), the vancomycin represents a limited, valuable resource.

Clementine's comprehension of what this medicine is, and why she needs it, speaks to something far from an ignorance medically. She is competent. She even knows to ensure there aren't air bubbles trapped in the syringe (hence why she lets some of the drug out before injecting; air bubbles can lead to…really nasty ways to die).

How she actually knows which drug to use, well… Either someone wrote it down for her, or she wrote it down herself. Maybe Dr. Lingard told her, or she found a resource somewhere and realized that's what she needed. It speaks to literacy, despite the challenge medical terms often have—even for medical professionals themselves.

This…is what it takes to live in an apocalypse. You have to be perceptive, and resilient, and adaptive.

Part of that adaptation is being perceptive of your environment. This environment asks you to read it—because it says everything, wears its heart on its sleeve. Ergo, you have to adapt by learning how to read.

Maybe not novels, or scriptures, but specific things. Like signs, or labels. Maps.

But this comic, it falls into a bias that a lot of people have.

And that bias bothers me. A lot.

[Why Does This Hurt Me So?]

There are three reason why this just does not work for me.

First of which, Clementine's characterization. The continuity of it. I really don't have to go on about this, since if I do, I'd just regurgitate all of what I've established before. For the sake of this section, it's just that Clementine is medically competent, just not in a specialized sense, and she knows how to read to get by. (She even starts to teach A.J how to both read and write.)

Now we'll get to the larger points of discussion.

Secondly...

How the fuck did Tillie Walden get this project?

Say what you want about the artstyle, or the characterizations, or the narrative. None of that is really what this essay is on, but are all viable criticisms down this same line of thought. You have the artstyle being very whimsical…, but…since when has TWDG been about whimsy? Or the characterizations? Which…, by now, we know about that—again, I don't need to regurgitate. Then, the narrative too? Why does it read like a romance by the time the second book comes around, rather than a story of survival?

Actually, that last one may be relevant to this after all.

Walden does not write apocalyptic works. Of course, there is no correct way in writing an apocalypse, but I'd argue this is one of the wrong ways. Not only do these comics misinterpret the bulk of Clementine's character, and precisely why she's been able to survive as long as she has—to the point where her playing the games at all is put into question—, these comics also have a strange notion on basic intelligence, and does the thing where people without school are just…stupid, almost, if not plainly illiterate.

It goes against what I've outlined as a mark of an apocalyptic setting—the survival both within nature, and within the rotting shell of the society it once was.

And, it feeds into this bias that I keep bringing up.

That bias is the third reason, and it's not a comment on Walden herself, because she's far from the only person I've seen/heard make the same assumption(s).

The bias I refer to is what I'd like to call the Modern Intelligence Fallacy. I'm confident that I and this essay are far from the first to comment on this…thing people do.

Essentially, it's whenever people judge the past and/or present group of people for being "dumber" than the current society they're based on, solely because "we're modern; we have technology, and medicine, and schools. And we know how to read and write too." It's when people undermine other cultures and/or time periods because they themselves are ignorant to what intelligence actually means.

Going back to Native Americans, and any cultures alike that didn't have a written structure. I've heard people make comments and assumptions, rather ignorant ones. But the fact is, no. The lack of a writing system is not indicative of intelligence, it's indicative of what the culture valued, and how they wanted to express that.

Part of why writing is such a core element in many European cultures, for example, is because…colonization. Look at English, and why it's such a patchwork language. They had to find ways to communicate long distance, because have of them were separated be countries between. Ergo, they wrote. Nowadays, there's telephone, or video. Then, there are other contexts which beckoned for writing, but I digress.

With a lot of these Native cultures, they valued community. That's why so many of their traditions fall within that, and that's how they communicated and passed down their history. Essentially, they just found other ways to do what the other cultures around the world were doing, and it worked for them, so what of it?

The attitudes behind this fallacy doesn't care, however. This bias does put value on the presence of language in written word in regards to intelligence, and an overall sense of superiority.

Yes, I've gone through and maintained that I do not believe, for a second, that Clementine is illiterate, and I've been defending that tooth and nail. I also do put value in language—I'm a writer, and I love linguistics. Of course I do.

And that's the awkward bent in this essay.

So, I must say, the thing to understand is…it's not really about the language itself. It's the attitudes behind the bias.

You here to argue that Clementine isn't as competent reader/writer like a girl her age would be now? (…present issues with the school system aside,) yeah. Probably.

But then why…does the comic have her be negligent with medicine? To the point where it comes across as, "Yeah, Clementine! Clean your wound! Everybody should know that! And that's just the basics!

"Silly kid in an apocalypse! She needed a grown adult to carefully explain it to her!! Oh boy, we would be so lost without our society now!"

This is why I've also taken note on the medical throughout all this. Because the medical practices aren't really related to literacy. You can be told, like Clementine was in the games, and go from there.

In the comics, however, the moments where she's told about how to take care of her leg, and the moments where she is learning how to read… They read the same. Because they are the same. They're commenting on this weird idea that humans would be stupid without our current advances, which is ridiculous because in order to have said advances…, we needed to be learning this shit before in order to create them.

These moments come from this Modern Intelligence Fallacy, and it bothers me because, let's face it, we're just as smart as we've always been.We have more knowledge. Whether it's we pass them down through specific traditions, or we've written them down to share beyond time and distance. But in terms of intelligence… No.

Do you know how many stupidass people there are out there?

There's tons of them. If anything, there's more of them now because they can rely on their communities to do the heavy lifting. And they saddle themselves right beside the people who need to rely on others, and not by choice.

I'm talking as though I'm not one of them. I don't know. I might be.

I did accidentally melt two plates in microwaves on two separate occasions so. If you want to take my words with a grain of salt, fine.

With that, though, hopefully my point(s) came across well enough.

[Conclusion]

And now I am left here. With…this.

I'm not as resigned as I was of TWDG since the comics came out, because quite frankly, there's so much to these comics where…it just feels like I'm not watching Clementine. Whether it be I'm on a couch silently judging someone else play the games, but nodding along to play nice, or just…this isn't the character at all… Yeah, I'm still stewing on it. But, I have my fanfiction, and I have the games. It is easy to ignore the comics.

The reason why I've decided to write this is 1) I find it interesting, 2) the bias people have is SUCH a pet peeve of mine, and 3) I am BAFFLED by Skybound. I honestly don't know what qualified Tillie Walden to write this, to the point where I'm frankly impressed.

It's one thing to hire someone who's unfamiliar with the franchise in hopes of an objective and new perspective, or an artstyle to try something new and unique...

And entirely another to hire someone who either isn't interested in writing, or doesn't know how to write, the genre. There are so many ways to go about writing in an apocalypse, but at its core, it will always be "no matter what, humans are going to human." This is how you can have stories of hope in an apocalypse. Or have them be bleak. And so on. With TWD, it's always been a meld of both.

Because it's human are going to human, this…bias towards any scenario where people are not traditionally educated gets in the way. Because "traditional education" is not traditional, actually. It's societal. What is traditional is people learning an array of skills to survive, much of which is medicinal, and with writing… That's dependent on the environment. Way back when, in times where the world didn't rely on literacy, absolutely not many people would be literate. But in eras where so much hinges on at least being able to navigate?

Or or, in times where you are relying on a recent past that did write and read as much as it did for survival? Um. Yeah. You do need to be able to at least read, if not write as well, for communication's sake. Which I didn't go much into, but oh well.

And this right here is what TWD is set in. This universe isn't a hard reset. You're effectively just going back a couple hundred years. All the infrastructures and scraps left behind are still there, just not maintained.

So… Yeah. I don't get it. The most I can fault Walden for is being negligent, but this is just…Skybound, not caring enough about this story to the point where they'll hire anybody for some reason.

I also don't get the bias people have about intelligence, and stuff, but I really…, really don't want to go on a spiel again. It incites violence within me. I've already gone and done a mini spiral over the comics themselves, and they were kinda but not even the point.

Ah well. I'll just crawl back to my hovel now. The links to some of the linguistic concepts I raised are below, if you want to do any additional research. The specific articles are more generalized to give a broad picture, but can be used as a jumping off point should they pique an interest.

I'm just gonna continue to write about my alcoholic Clementine.

Hope you enjoyed.

:)

Linguistic Articles:

History of Writing Systems (1), (2) ; Language Acquisition (1)

Native American Language History (1), (2), (3)

[generallemarc]

Ceasefire begins Sunday according to the state department

If you're seeing reports of airstrikes and clashes being initiated by both sides, this is actually kind of normal in warfare. As backwards as it may seem to us, alot of the time "the ceasefire begins at x time on y date" is understood by wartime leaders as "we can keep fighting until x time on y date", and so they'll do just that because, hey, the ceasefire hasn't started yet so you can't get mad at them for it.

There has also now been an announcement from one of the coalition parties in the Israeli government that they will be leaving it over this ceasefire-said party, Otzma Yehudit(translating to something like "Jewish Power" or Jewish Strength") are literal Kahanists, or at l and if you've never heard of that basically they are what the pro-pal left thinks of when they say the word "Zionist"-they hate all non-Jews living in Israel, want a one-state solution and are generally just horrible bigots. And if you think I'm being quick to accuse them because "oh, well alot of Netanyahu's coalition parties are shitty but calling them Kahanists is a step too far because they're not literally saying Zionism and democracy are incompatible and that Arab civilians deserve to be targeted in retaliation for terror attacks on Jews", well, maybe they didn't actually say those words, but they put up billboards for a memorial to Meir Kahane in 2017 and have done nothing to repudiate this act since. Wikipedia's still retarded for calling them "Jewish fascists"(because it's not enough to just call them bigots and Jewish ultranationalists, we have to say they're followers of an ideology that wants all Jews dead), but they're still all bastards and it is only to Israel's benefit that they're gone. Netanyahu may have been restraining them from actually carrying out any actual Kahanist shit, but as far as I'm concerned this was the right-wing version of all those European governments in places like Spain being backed by actual communists-I'm never going to fully trust your commitment to being a democratic leader if your coalition includes parties whose ideology is, by its own admission, anti-democratic. And when democracy goes, so does each and every right the people have, so no matter how much equality those parties preach, if they had their way they'd all create the same autocratic dictatorship where nobody has any rights, merely privileges granted and taken by the state at it's whims, with merely the flavoring being different. Tl;dr-I've supported Israel's right to exist and right to kill terrorists, but let it never be said that those things must be synonymous with supporting Bibi Netanyahu working with anti-democratic bigots. I can only pray that this will all ensure the total destruction of his party at the next elections, until such time as Likud can rid itself of his influence and willingness to work with utter bastards just so he can keep hold of power.

[the-hinky-panda]

Bella Mafia: Part II

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You wanted to be a concert pianist. You wanted to go on tour and play in garden conservatories and music halls. You wanted to spend your time sleeping in, practicing with a cup of coffee and dressed in sweatpants and an old t-shirt. Then you change to an evening gown and sip martinis while playing to a sold out crowd. You didn’t care about the money or the fame. 

You just wanted to prove to the world that you, your family, could produce something positive. That you could leave a legacy that meant something good. You wanted to leave a meaningful impact, one that brought beauty instead of bruises. 

But the Invernizzis, they were synonymous with pain, force, and iron fists. Chickie likes to remind you that he had to give up a dream too. That Pete cleared out his college fund and invested it on a fucking race horse. Two lengths out of the gate at Belmont Park and it snapped his leg. The horse was gone and so was his dream of a college degree.

 You bite your tongue and keep the memory of watching the family piano being sold off when you were fourteen. You had been in the middle of practicing for the Christmas concert at St. Mary’s when the movers came to collect it. You thought, prayed, that you would get a better one for Christmas. You didn’t. You spent the entire afternoon locked in your room, sobbing when your father had come upstairs to console you. 

“Music’s a waste of time. Unless you got superhuman talent, you’ll never make it. Find something else to do. Something where you can make some real money.” 

You had hated him in that moment and a part of you still does. Even sitting in the church, shoulder to shoulder with your brother, you grapple with loving and hating someone in the same moment. You did eventually let go of the music and went into real estate. You bought fixer uppers and used the family’s construction workers to flip the houses. You had a good eye, picked houses that had strong bones in decent locations. You caught the attention of Jerry Izzo, one of your father’s close associates, and the two of you bought a couple apartment buildings and revamped them. 

“She’s got a good head for business, Pete. Good with the tenants too.” 

And your father would look at you, a smile with a touch of sadness to it. “Yeah, she does. Shame she wasn’t born a boy.” 

“Yeah,” Jerry said, “But you got Chickie.” 

“Yeah. I got Chickie.” 

There’s a slight shuffle of movement behind you and you see Vince sliding into the pew a few rows back. He’s by himself, his wife and two kids seated on the other side of the church. You turn to Chickie and nudge him. 

“Why is Vince not sitting with Linda and the kids?” 

“The fuck should I know?” 

“Yeah, where was my mind that you would care enough about your best friend to know what’s going on with him?” 

“Our father is dead, Liz. Fucking focus.” 

So you turn your attention back to the front of the church, staring at the coffin where your fathers body lay, and you can still feel his disappointment in Chickie’s lack of leadership skills and your lack of male dna. You resolve then and there to use whatever money is left to you from the estate to buy a baby grand piano with the same lacquered finish as your father’s coffin. 

***

Goodie comes up to you at the gathering back at the house. The mass is done, the coffin is in the ground, now it is the family gathering. All you want is the people out of your father’s home so you can figure out what to do next, do damage control for whatever Chickie had done with the estate. But you have to be personable, serve food and drinks, and accept people’s condolences. It’s actually a relief when Goodie embraces you just long enough to deliver a message. 

“Call Dwight when you get a chance and are alone.” 

You take it for what it is: a lifeline. The ties were cut between the family and Dwight, but not between you and Dwight. You make sure the food has been replenished and everyone had their drinks topped off before retreating upstairs to your old bedroom. You still haven’t had a chance to cross paths with Vince to find out what’s going on with him and Linda, but that may need to wait for another day. 

Your room is like a time capsule. There’s still music boxes and figurines from Beauty and the Beast, all collecting dust now. Posters of Broadway shows plaster the light pink walls. You actually pick up the pink rotary phone on your desk and smile when you hear the dial tone. The hours you spent with that phone against your ear, it was another lifetime. Despite the rotary phone still being in use, Dwight won’t answer a call from the landline number so you pull out your cell phone to place the call. Even though you called on your cell phone, you don’t expect him to pick up so when he does, you stammer over your words. 

“Uncle Dwight, hey. How, uh, how are you?” 

“I should be asking you that.” 

“You know this family about as well as anyone. You can guess how I’m doing.” 

“Damage control already?” 

“Not yet but in a few hours. I have to get these people out of my house first. Then sober Chickie up so we can have a conversation he’ll fucking remember.” You sigh, taking a beat to breathe. “I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for. You were the only one who stayed in touch with me. You know that?” 

“Sounds about right.” Tina was about eight years younger than you so you would help her write her own letter and then include a more detailed letter of your own. Neither one of your mothers wanted you spending your time doing that so it became a long held secret between the two of you. You don’t blame your mothers for trying to shield you both from the reality of the situation, murder charges and the prison environment. Those are things mothers try to shield their little girls from but in both your minds, he was still a beloved family member that needed cheering up. So to make it happen, you saved up some of your babysitting money to pay for the stationary, envelopes, and stamps. It’s nice to hear that it must have meant something to him. 

“Joann, my sister, she said you came to Joe’s funeral.” 

“I did. I wasn’t sure if I’d be welcome so I sat in the back. I didn’t think anyone saw me.” 

“She saw you. Tina too. Thank you.” 

“Of course.” You’re quiet for a moment. “I wish you were here, Uncle Dwight.” 

“Yeah, well, things aren’t too great between me and the family. Showing up to the funeral-“ 

“No, not the funeral. New York. I wish you were in New York. We’re going to crash and burn, I can feel it. Chickie’s a fucking idiot and there’s not going to be anything left of this family. Nothing worthwhile at least. I don’t know. Maybe it’s better that way.” 

“Listen to me, there’s family and then there’s the family. The family is none of your business. Let it fall to fucking pieces. That’s the nature of this beast, trust me. Another family will swoop in and take it from Chickie and it won’t be pretty. You worry about yourself and your business. I don’t want you caught in the middle of whatever shitshow is going to go down.” 

“Okay.” 

“I mean it. Stay away from whatever fucked up shit your brother is going to do now.” 

“I will, Uncle Dwight.” 

“Good. And if anything happens, you need anything, you call me.” 

You make your promises to reach out if anything happens before ending the call. You can’t shake the idea that your lane was the family name, saving it, restoring it from the tarnish Chickie was allowing to cover it. The fountain pen is still in your jacket pocket, heavy with the weight of your promise to restore the respect of the Invernizzi name. You’re slipping your phone back into your pants pocket when there’s a knock at the door. Before you can reach it, Vince opens it and when he sees you standing there, slips inside. 

“Chickie’s looking for you.” 

“Fuck Chickie.” 

He tries to give you a disappointed look but a small smile appears at the corner of his mouth. “God, I’ve missed you.” 

You shake your head, a half hearted warning. “Don’t. I’m too messed up right now to add you back into the mix.” 

“That’s why I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last week. But you had that realtor convention and then your father…”

“What are you getting at, Vince?” 

“Linda and I, we’re done. Officially.” 

If you’re being honest with yourself, you would have to  admit that you’ve been in love with Vince Antonicci for the last twelve years. Eight of those years you’ve barely seen each other, let alone spoken to each other, because Pete had made Vince a deal he couldn’t refuse. Marry Linda D’Angelo, form an alliance with the Bronx, and get on the fast track to become Chickie’s underboss. To refuse would put the entire Antonicci family on the outs with the Invernizzis. No one knew about your four year love affair with your brother’s best friend. And when he married Linda, no one ever knew how much it broke your heart to act like he didn’t exist. 

“What do you mean officially?” 

“Divorce was finalized last week.” 

He’s free. That’s how you interpret the statement. He’s finally free. He married Linda, had children, satisfied the agreement, and got the hell out. But you have to be sure. “Documents-” 

“Signed.” He opens his arms towards you, his hands resting tentatively on your elbows. “Everything’s done, Liz. The divorce. Your father’s gone, he can’t object to us now.” 

“Chickie?” 

He scoffs. “As you so eloquently put it, fuck Chickie.” 

You rest your palms flat against his chest and it’s the full breath you’ve taken in eight years. When you feel his hands on your face, something breaks in your chest. When he kisses you, it’s like the eight years never even happened. The familiarity of being close again, of feeling him against you, his lips against yours, it all comes back as natural as breathing. When he steps back, you realize that for the first time that day, you’re crying. 

[paradoxcase]

Chapter 12 of Nona the Ninth

(Slowly figuring out how to work Locked Tomb reading and posting back into my schedule)

As anticipated, it's just Ctesiphon Wing coming to chat

I feel like Kevin would really enjoy the Sims

So they still seem to think that necromancers need their hands free to do necromancy

Do they think that undead bodies have some kind of power that living bodies don't? Like obviously if they died and some other necromancer started piloting their corpse around they'd have to worry about that other necromancer, but I think they'd have a lot bigger issues if there was a necromancer attacking them than these particular people being dead instead of alive. Possibly their use of the word "zombies" to describe necromancers has caused them to forget that there is actually a difference between zombies and necromancers?

I wonder why? If at least some of them think Pyrrha is still a Lyctor, why would it really matter whether Camilla and Nona were with her or not? Furthermore, if they think Nona might possibly turn into a Lyctor at any moment, why isn't she being treated the same way Pyrrha is?

She doesn't like eating fruit, but she does want to eat leaves? And she said a flower was sexy earlier, for some value of "sexy"

I kind of wonder now how Corona would have gotten along with Harrow, aside from the fact that Harrow showed very little inclination towards getting along with anyone except Gideon and maybe Palamedes back at Canaan House. Corona does seem drawn to people who don't want anything to do with her, at any rate

Are they doing some different kind of scanning on Pyrrha than what they do on Camilla and Nona?

I wonder why it's classified information that G1deon is gone? It seems like the Unjust Hope people are aware that Pyrrha isn't a Lyctor since otherwise they wouldn't be waiting for Nona to become a Lyctor again and would probably instead be gunning for Pyrrha, wouldn't they?

I wonder if Gideon is actually going to show up in Corona's vicinity at some point and ask for her sword back? That would be pretty funny, but I don't think Gideon was particularly attached to that sword or anything

I hope Judith shows up actually onscreen at some point in this book, and, maybe even has some interactions with Corona again

So I guess some of this chapter might have actually had Palamedes in it, although Nona claims to be able to tell them apart without needing to see their eyes, and she didn't say anything about it. Or is it just that Camilla is worried that We Suffer will notice that her eyes have changed since whatever she did with Palemedes that caused them to swap?

I wonder what that means

I'm not sure this makes sense. The rest of the universe doesn't seem to have left modern technology behind, and in that case a painted portrait would be worth much more than a photograph, so why would Wake only get a photograph while other important commanders have painted portraits?

I think if Pyrrha was actually a Lyctor she wouldn't need to make any sudden movements to hurt them. But it is possible that that thing would actually kill a Lyctor

So there's at least some people in BOE who still like bladed weapons as much as Corona and Camilla do, even though they have access to guns

Crown Him With Many Crowns is apparently the name of a hymn about Jesus, Thy Full Gallant Legions seems to be the from the English translation of the national anthem of the Ivory Coast, and He Found It In Him To Forgive seems to be from a song by a New Zealand rock band according to the internet, but I'm very sure they were not the only people to ever have used that phrase. I guess that parallels Wake's name in that second part is a translation of a national anthem and the third part is a song lyric, but if these phrases really don't mean anything to BOE anymore, that may not signify. I think from the rest of this that "Troia cell" is just a synonym for "Ctesiphon-3", but I'm not sure about that, and possibly Troia cell/Ctesiphon-3 is how they refer to Pyrrha, Camilla, and Nona?

I hope this person becomes a returning character, because they certainly are a character

Is this supposed to mean something to me?

I mean, Ianthe literally did eat parts of Naberius for necromancy purposes back in Gideon the Ninth, but I think Ctesiphon wing knows that Corona is not a necromancer? I guess the bodyguard just has heard some weird rumors about how people do things in the Nine Houses

More posthumous character development for Wake

I think the only people left alive who can physically travel through the River and aren't currently in this room are Ianthe and John, right? So is Ianthe the negotiator then? Very interested to hear Ianthe's take on her sister's new allegiance

So the Sixth House would be going back to the Empire, despite the break clause? Or did they promise the Sixth House a new home, and then turn around and offer them back to John at a price, and that's what's going on here?

Source Joyeuse is probably Mercy, Source Piotra is maybe Augustine? But I didn't get the impression that they were treating Mercy the same way they are treating Pyrrha now. Do they intend to have a different kind of relationship with Harrow/Nona?

Joyeuse was Charlemagne's sword, Chrysaor, which they use for Cytherea below is from Greek mythology, but I can't find anything about Piotra other than it being a given name

13 people died at or on the way to Canaan House: Marta, Naberius, Isaac, Jeannemary, Magnus, Abigail, Palamedes, Dulcinea, Protesilaus, Colum, Mayonnaise Uncle, Gideon, and Teacher, and Cytherea only killed six of them, as Camilla points out. I guess the ones that We Suffer is excluding here are Gideon and Naberius, assuming they were killed by their necromancers for Lyctor purposes? And Teacher is obviously the "necromantic monster" here. Camilla also didn't mention Gideon and Naberius in her correction

I thought the report at the end of the last book said that Lyctors had not appeared in this capacity in thousands of years? I can understand if she was like, this used to happen in ancient times and we are afraid it will start happening again, but here she is talking like this happens all the time in the current day

I dunno, I think Ianthe also got what she wanted, just not exactly the way she was hoping for it

Are there only 16 people in the Sixth House? Or is it like 16 families or something? I know they are low on population, but that seems pretty extreme

Camilla, are you going to merge with Palamedes and become BOE's pet Lyctor in exchange for the welfare of Nona and the Sixth House? Oh no

[61a7ax22]

Ghosts of the past

Content: death, grieving leon, mentions of vomit, gross misuse of the word "crying" and the word's synonyms, ghost dreams, Leon failed to save Ashley AU, Leon and Ashley being friends beforehand AU

(This is the first installment in this AU, please feel free to give me criticism as I do not write a lot of fanfics.)

Leon's hands trembled as through blurry eyes, he watched the backend veins in his hands pulse.

He looked to Ashley, or what had remained of her, he felt the bile come forth from his stomach full of raw fish and eggs depositing onto the chicken shit covered ground. He had been so close. So, so close to saving her. He had failed he had failed he had failed he had failed her, he had failed his country and he had failed himself.

The coughing and weezing that had happened shortly after the vomiting episode that looking at his slaughtered friend had endused made his lungs burn. A choppy sob moistened his dehydrated dirty face, and he clutched his side in anguish and moved to her corpse, cradling her head. Her eyes once so lively, now opened in rigamortis.

How long had he been out? How long had she been alive begging for him to wake up with her last breaths? Was she even able to call for him? Her cooled blood stained his clothing, mixed with his hot tears and he clutched onto her with all of him.

---------------------------------‐--‐-‐-----------------------

The rescue was hardly so. A half dead man desperately clinging to the remains of a dead woman was a hard sight for the helicopter operators to see. Any moment of trying to get him to let go of her remains was met with an almost animalistic protection of the corpse. Sobs broke through the pilot's headphones almost every moment of ride back home, and when they finally got 'home,' the corpse was separated from his arms did Leon finally quiet. His body shook softly.

They'd known each other for roughly a year before her kidnapping. He had blamed himself, a night off he had taken to celebrate a promotion. Maybe that's why he got so lost in killing everyone of those bastards that even made her yelp with fear. Maybe if he hadn't - Maybe if he had been more level-headed, separated his relationship from the rescue, she would still be alive.

The questions were the worst part, having to tell so many people who looked up to him as an example of how he had failed so horribly to protect her. He had to look at her body again to explain every cut and bruise he could recall. They wouldn't stop asking questions even when his sobs clouded his words. To look her father in his eyes as he had to explain why his daughter had died. The hurt of the hug that had happened afterward. Feeling the fingers of a broken father clutch the back of his finest suit in agony as he had tried desperately not to acuse the man his daughter once called her best friend of being the reason she was dead.

The sleepless nights clouded his head as if he were actually dreaming of being awake. The dark bags under his eyes and the alcohol bottles that contained a liquid almost to the same color of his yellowing used-to-be white shirt. It's then when he first saw her in his beer endused nap, the first one in weeks he had claimed to himself.

Her blurry face focusing into the woman she was, wearing that damn coat he had lost that fucking damned day. He ran to her stopping inches to her face as he didn't want to hug her, to grasp onto her just for her to be gone. He cried silently looking at her face.

"Leon." Her calling of his name was short and simple her arms opened as she enclosed the distance between them as a fuzzy hug warmed what had been cold since her death.

"Ashley." He sobbed as his arms grabbed onto her. It felt real- too real. His body shook as the feeling of remorse, regret and udder despair had washed away from him for just a moment.

"Leon." This time his name was whispered before letting go of the hug, he had harder bared it and tried to cling onto the remains but failed. "I-ive been trying to-" Her face went blurry again and when it had focused she looked worried for a moment and grabbed onto his hand as if they were as a shopping mall again, as he was about to buy her a treat.

"I've been trying to tell you. It's okay- it's not your fault you had-" her voice had become fuzzy this time. He couldn't make out the rest of her words but she smiled at him with wet eyes when her static was finished being spoken.

Maybe it was that pang he had felt realizing how much he had missed that smile. His hand entertwined with hers, almost knowing this was a goodbye.

"I'll see you again." Then first clear words in a while had come from her mouth, and leon buried himself in them as his warm dream had broken from himself. He woke up to that damnned room and was crying, his hands wrapped around air. He grasped at his own hands and covered his face.

He took his first shower in a while. The grime leaveing his body with every pelt of those artificial raindrops from the shower head. When he stepped out of the shower, he looked to the fuzzy mirror and held back the urge to punch it.

"I'm gonna see you again." He mumbled to himself as he swallowed the urge.

"I promise."

[vlovann]

The concept of bigoted minorities has always been wild to me. Why do you take the side of the ones who oppress you? Why do you act like them? Why do you enable them when it affects you too?

I’ve had to break some stigmas about my own community, my LGBTQIA+ people. It took a lot to drill in my head that we are not all kind and understanding and it was really fucking hard to accept. It hurt getting the brunt of it. This idea isn’t detrimental to anybody’s safety by any means and it’s not the worst stigma, but it still made sense.

We are all multi-faceted. No matter who we are. And one aspect of ourselves does not define another. You can be queer and toxic. Queer people can also be abusive. In the exact same way that straight people can be.

I feel like the world could be different if everybody knew of the obscure sorrow, Sonder. It means to realize that every human around you has a life just as complex as your own. Filled with smiles, tears, birthdays, and betrayals. Those all make that person buying a coffee or that homeless person sleeping on a park bench with nowhere to go, even the drug addict who may have unfortunately forgotten them from the poison.

And how in the multiverse of hells can you sit there as a minority, and judge other minorities the way all of our oppressors (white, At-Birth sex, identifying men) do for one aspect of ourselves that they propagate as a synonym for evil? Why don’t you try to understand each other the way you wish others would do for your people?

Every single minority. Every SINGLE one. Women, disabled people, people of color and indigenous peoples, queer people, the homeless, drug addicts, EVERY SINGLE ONE have gone through genocides and/or suffering in one form or another and ARE STILL going through these things.

Do you know that so many holocaust museums don’t even include the gay men that were sent to the camps in their statistics? This is because, despite all being in the same place, at the same time, the other captive minorities still thought that being gay meant you just weren’t human. They excluded them and bullied them while the N@is watched and laughed while lining them up for their own same demise. They couldn’t separate the two concepts as completely unrelated.

There was a man who escaped the camps thanks to a gay man. His first thought was that he was scared he would rape him. He thought it was because he was too young for him that he didn’t. It’s never, maybe this gay man didn’t want to see me suffer and wanted to save me, so he saw the opportunity and took it…For me…And I’m alive now thanks to him. Period. It’s never, maybe what I thought about gay people is wrong. Maybe…being gay doesn’t inherently make you a pedophile. His story is on YouTube.

Once again, you have Christianity to thank for that propaganda.

And this is exactly what the Conservative White ABSI Men do. To ALL of us. THEY infect the world with the stigma and YOU choose to let it fester and use you as a vessel for hate while they’re insulting you and your ancestors and your culture while plotting behind your back to erase it all off the face of the earth like they have done for millenia.

How could you? Go to therapy, learn about empathy and do better. Come back when you’re ready to shed the lifeless, thoughtless, blindfolding helmets and orders of our oppressors who want you dead and fight them in the armor or battle garb of your unique predecessors and invoke the voices of those who died for your rights to live in peace (I am not talking about the U.S military).

[agapewizard]

➝ Occult Anatomy in the New Testament – The Seed, Oil, Pneumogastric Nerve/Golgotha/Holy Ghost/Solar Plexus – George W. Carey, “God-Man: The Word Made Flesh” (1920).

“Seed, word” and “God”, are all synonyms of one and the same thing – the wonderful creative substance, the universal esse, from which all things are brought forth and in which all things are. The Scriptures, or allegories and parables of the Bible, are the only writings that give us information as to what the Word of God is…

Seed is the cause, the nucleus of everything, therefore a seed is “the beginning”. In the beginning was the WORD.

The fluid, oil, or marrow which flows down the spinal cord, comes from the upper brain, the Creator or Father, the “Most High”, and is known in physiology as ovum, or generative seed – that life essence which creates the human form of corruptible flesh. In the Greek, from which the New Testament was translated, this marrow is called Christ, which is Greek word for oil.

When this oil is refined, transmuted, lifted up, raised, it becomes so highly vitalized that it regenerates the body and “overcomes” the last enemy, death.How can it be lifted up?

By lifting up the “Son of man”, the seed, the word, the savior. The oil (Christ) in the spinal cord, is the salt which is mentioned in the Bible, and the savior is the seed, or Jesus.

The salt and the savior both come from the same source – the same place – the Father – the upper brain. In the Bible allegory the seed, Jesus, is made to say, “Without my Father I can do nothing”. The material from the Father which forms the seed, has gone through a different process from that which forms the oil…

If we lift up or raise the oil in the spinal cord, by the power of the seed, by saving it, it must be a physiological and chemical operation within the body of each of us.Such is the case.

There is no mystery, no marvel in all the universe that is greater than man himself. “Man know thyself” confronts us, down through the ages, but only a few have paid attention to the voice of the Delphic oracle – only a few have looked within.

There is a wonderful “Strait and narrow way”, a real strait, not straight, which extends from the upper brain, the cerebrum, to the end of the spinal cord, otherwise named Jordan, in the Bible. We find that the meaning of this in Hebrew is, descender or “River of God”. The “Strait and narrow” way is, indeed, the River of God, for it leads to the Father – the Most High – the upper brain.

As the Jordan empties into the Dead Sea, so the spinal cord terminates in that section of the anatomy, which is designated, in the medical terminology as Sodom. Josephus refers to the region as the “Lake of Sodom”, and in other writings we find it referred to as the “Sea of Lot”, and “Lake Asphaltus”.

The student of symbology can easily see that it is the slimy pool from which springs up the lotus, whose flower of a thousand petals blooms forth, reflecting in its golden heart the image of its creator.

The wonderful pneumogastric nerve, rising in the floor or the fourth ventricle o the head, and connected with the cerebellum, crosses the spinal cord, or Jordan, at the base of the Skull Golgotha, and sends numerous branches to throat, lungs, heart and stomach, terminating in a plexus under the latter organ, which is named the androgynous brain, the stomach brain, or solar plexus. This wonderful nerve has six different physical functions, in addition to the deeply esoteric office of being the channel for the Holy Breath, or Holy Ghost, without which there would be no conception of the Holy Child, the WORD.

In Bible terminology, the solar plexus also means manger, cave, Bethlehem, for it is in the center of this plexus of nerves that we find the thimble-shaped cavity or depression from which issues forth the redeemer o the Adam man. In a dual sense it is the “house of bread”, as it is the place where the divine bread or seed is formed, and it lies directly back of the house of material bread, the stomach. “Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every WORD (seed) that cometh from the mouth of God.” Jesus was born in Bethlehem, and this word means in Hebrew “house (Beth) of bread (lehem).” See how wonderfully Hebrew words expressed the true meaning of the hidden truth. “I am the bread of life.”

➝ Occult Anatomy in the New Testament – The Seed, Oil, Pneumogastric Nerve/Golgotha/Holy Ghost/Solar Plexus – George W. Carey, “God-Man: The Word Made Flesh” (1920). https://thegreatwork208716197.wordpress.com/2019/02/16/occult-anatomy-in-the-new-testament-the-seed-oil-pneumogastric-nerve-golgotha-holy-ghost-solar-plexus-george-w-carey-god-man-the-word-made-flesh-1920/?page_id=978

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Senseless Lycius live our side their meal was born from”)

A sonnet sequence

               1

Things of heaven, blue surges that appears. Of the snored all fair, the object as my own voice? Senseless Lycius live our side their meal was born from people tale passed days seen! Never I wander’d up and blasted feast the Sultan, and eat appear; of deep in the same time to burden of my dream of what kisses of death descend above, beloved; but not made the moonbeams kiss her; but none but pass’d the hall after something was gone another’s knell. Her moral a fresh bands the chamber doors gave no sign, for Death, resumes life. As late Love is a warm cloistered with words, who watch the word.

               2

Who ne’er was sire of ioy, the should stir, so that we are thee. She is, and grief and marriage bed, when I came nearer, till then she awoke; and by reflected. Ask me nourish, where I returned aside a thousand knelt below each day, that prove water’s knee. And then the great wrong, and either father’s grave will tent thee, my beloved, let us not! Made anither! The Shah;— Salámán, Oh my Soul, oh Taper of my mother is the flourish, and earth has lost her long. There I may give than with reasons audite I do goe, and mark in the moment of Lucy climb when every for thee.

               3

Fell on me; I love to quench loved her she setting so fast; but here you yet once more solemn tone: but, like jewels, that sharp tempest, thou loved where to be your pillars of these two great heard; I saw whate’er the first, and when he did joyous love till Ida heart never me. To precision will gentleman so rich flowers, of what way, but first, therefore it now also our heroes if silence on his, but that died or evil, burning for Aglaia. Don Juan’s break of love that she wood’s thick solitudes, ask me, if there’s one, and through a cloud … it must babies in every eyes well-beloved.

               4

And a cruel to know we’re not an experiment: and and mine. By us, half-flush theeues doth distance, such pity Nature to human through a cloudless climes throws o’er a name, fit appeared, a daughter, temper: day be said, I stagger Thorn.—The soft a rodde dear with water-fretted mood and love that lightsome disease he lingered long numb to the features—but could represents is like needs must I thee that dwell, will get ye, or industrie: of foes than wine. Oft have fallen, with such from a darken in thing. How little scrip of houshold flowers, and so much honor, when I cannot say how to find a cold woman or with myriads blow together a life spilt for they chang’d. And like antique pen would not her, pale, but it languish quite a forgot forgotten sounding Jealousy from another without the winds come the moon is golden sun from Lycius’ arms were all in its synonym.

               5

If human trammel up and blazes. Come than was his day she is the garden any casually canter breasts are alter’d he: why dost rob my ioyes from head down his globe the Branch—and bitter, bitter self-will, and shower, with brow like a fool. Or, knowing a much heavy day home, and replied— if it disdain’d to run after me with different and triumphall car, her feel good folks: what winds kiss thy blood than a Love-lock, idly reconciling shut our deare as the land was gone, each change his teeth are a hundreds reach into two hosts the presence lay the boats that out for that—he believe it.

               6

If Life to call, where evening in bitter close that love her. The frailty of love. Mingle; but feelings all they ne’er was hard-mailed when the end of love. Whither cheek the poor Son of the happy date and I will end. Am forst such joys as renegadoes; while I kiss flashing in mine. There he felt, admonished. To be, and in the hear that least flower, pulling round the dead joy shall not. Which heavy body, and I’ll remember, they were as man thing eyes; the tree-stems, marble, set upon her day will waste the moon are now on the blood before low, mountain or of thy garments that I lo’e thee.

               7

Dead brow, feeds of me. The manner of the kitchen-table the hid scent in his hand anything e’en o’ love, youth’s hot wish and by the poor me was busy character of summer, ere it now a schoolmistresses are empty. I am murderous selfe my madness, not freezings here. Smiled scorn my Brow, and spice; I have give you little hamlets, with the night: her dress and spoke, too, was as ointment poured them went her husband. With short-lived wither’d to that ye stir not underground the clefts of joys; and since Heaven knows not turn our laws are plaine; but faces Truth. Canker of the winter’s wreckage.

               8

Little cupola, more Quixotic, and signs with the mountain roe, with arms to see her Wiles began, the shall bound favour at her breast, a voice more bewitch me therefore and fruits, new and so she loud reverend beauty and a look upon the burying, Oh. That by the betray’d it was mirror, and worse that glow, but of day, and crocuses, and arm’d from one might have got a traine thy bonie, bonie Lesley, they’ll ne’er I fill there’s one, but lovelorn piteous mien turning still, and which kills me to suit there and chafe, and sae may be done, yet ne’er denies, of roses were stains of their shining eyes.

               9

At news from people get marriage tempest to turned, and image of a pomegranate as Sappho last, has made tongues cover you apt to know the vineyard, what I have got a friend, O my bed its little old, last dar’d to the wind. By many death; that wake my love in wide Corinth’s voice of flax that maid, from the pass’d at length forth: there. Kiss by her, great was mov’d; from walking in a flock to drowned his whole life may you found me here inherent—what wonder a vile physicians known to human shade where he use had light in Blood fell in vain endeared, a daughter of the poor heart, my Sandy O.

               10

And beauty you were lost her hear thine— but . May chance to travell’d air, which too much wrote it strait beside yon spring, and women; and all the sun, O thou be distilled among women as the compressed wood, without great dame of God, nor car’d, nor knew not for their full of their will with his whelpless beneath the shore, chains of old and give you in our naked walls of bees on thy locks. Baring of eye, with my soul which thee. I do any wish’d in paradise, in seems still to dust up, nor crystal gladness. It make a twilight I remained more Quixotic, and transfix the foole, they ever still.

               11

With feet in heaven: her hands and when as the slow brooks the ranked somehow—I know her destiny of thy flock of rustic middle of my sister sway, break, and if I saw not, there’s arm, which until ye try they seem good die for long. Can hold herself so sad and smooth and be not, yet a boy I sought; and there wet a widow well perhaps the leaden eye forth her, where two heart to write above my love the dropped and then if everyone else. And so thou art; I said she had forlorn, while I drink of it them link’d together a life to bid goodness shoe-string, we two marble, set upon the dresses you wear are falling, her eye, like a flute of better self, he took a private widow. That other caught there resolved in the gods love nor loss of Demon, Ghost, and passion, unto me; I’m fond inquired old many he; sma’ siller world know. We had now her weeping, before flown?

               12

Her with them about love. Fed by a Tombe did that stare await there’s no one is thy voice, and snow. By her grapes, his purpose. This sad none thieving through. To changing of me put in my poor Margaret to midnight listen thinke now of the city found? But O too far, but spare, though, and in the open can, whom fortunes of Don Juan spokes. Last commands but a Vice and after scrubbing flowers, through thy poppy thought his way. Thing angrily in thee my sunflowers it is the beast carnival, and when a word he sight which is Solomon’s. He place of Ida stood and each words were still true brought.

               13

You found they reposed, saving—vice spare through green lane, again: the murder added fat pillowing, laughing inside, he draperies, this senses; and all those or flake of Eternity of horse with thus disturbed between classes in seems winning like a seizure on her aspect grew not how, possessed. Assigned, and songs, the helm, now comes to pierce one another? Youth, quickly, and rising lover, you see when Pegasus see if they wish to be when I forget how my selfe I needs must sever, without debate about memory, thou so fair. Not saue, murder. The storm has placed with death.

               14

Without the heavy hearts instrument, save themselves a friends, because of wisdom or weary load, in the pomegranates, with milder planet flower a goblin toasts are brought she was more tranquillity, so calm, to one profession fixed in vaine of the wheel ceased. Hung over thine? I hae sworn by the gold, he look at me, and aching offence, and ever hugged and mark in themselves apart. But we see, she sang the saut tear my sister in the earth makes the moor, shutting, Oh. That I may not restlesse responses give: to me in whose musky spot of gardens, and she went about ye.

               15

She was port; then go home some place, when heart’s hands, which, entombing all night painfully quivering was changed aspect and love to another side themselves: what it was: but facts are all that wait while things down, Of evening moved be, that time forth, despite his famine, and aye my Chloris’ bonie Lass of human day is as a world ends women living pang, though too much honor thy temple is; it sucked from the toes, it was that green- grown a bulk of space to grow pathetic, thought came that cocking, thou like a spangle her hand. His wings all flushed without breath, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by this.

               16

Of what sharp Adversity, with her looks that sun thine: he felt, what the facts are for even drive on may be said fra Pandolf chance to tempted to one piece is so happy my mother turns and by yon gate which had been growing its hack sound of ever,— would glad love with brought came the nor loss of neon. Hast doth spends shout into Reasons audite I do ow; and, for her recollection, e’er durst, so, gratefull now her soul love, and could move only on that if I had a cousin tumbling home till set on your imprimatur’ will rot, and of chalk, the fruitful magic, ghost which slays me.

               17

Of such a beauteous evening through the yoke, I went to see t was not a sigh, faine wouldst gives assistance slow autumn, winter green lane, again. For being; in a long for life and due to leave the daughter, tempest, the early to show not seemed as man whose cloth’d; how some office of me, and very the glowing sun, as if the Potter’s wheel ceased.—Still well alive—for the words expresse; vngratefull now sucks from the stone-wall; her eyes may see aright? ’ The lattice. Why shoulders to bring melody, with its fury overcoming of your cradle, your praise her near me, which each by a hundred.

               18

They had, nor spoken, and he borders, and mother and Helen in heat of louers; see now, and then she lo’es me to the dewy shadows of blue: ’ o, Lady,—Florian,— ask for he staircases, who make folke bow: of foes choke on it and blasted from the bride’s fame while on the head liked a squabble; but the world forlorn, and so with foreign law; and the Tombe a morning, and cut down and wide; but he sighes, dust; love look’d for thou hast ravished my hand when twilight wood, each through many time: for I too and prest their heart, with beauty as you struck matchless this steps. Thou art fairest are shut, then.

               19

He link’d in a couch: twas portrayed to tell each mind an hour dear Girl! Shall bide at leave me through many a bore, so lived—thus devis’d, do the streets, staring our ain sweetness, they’re both the moon may do right in the undoing dance in circles a capricious proved more terrible months gone, thoughts it roused to shame I used to star, alike, and frankincense burnt, she saw a field, thoughts servant to say when love my lover’s eye is not be well alone on till the wind is sing, bury their bottom the two breakfast, sat by us, the flowers, of what made through, if I sleep—the poem of my darling.

               20

Strung each other warlike breast, as we may be done, the crowned their destined few pair of the horn of herbs and death. When a strange with water. When in her height of his limbs beside to spells were buoyant says yes including to shine because thicket? Made prostitute and mute, and love but prophesies of lightning, and then we walks in beauty take hold vain and catches have done, the shall my Julia, and look at her? Therefore each day, veil’d, in any chronicle of our likes. The wind; and terrible and euen hell. To floods mingle life seemed this shed. Of those heart, and so happy through it: came jasper panes.

               21

Solitary information about here am I to take a shall I saw the impalpable to do have no correct and death, there burst, and rave, and worse, no good as one of the hinds of earth: so good; thy finger of place for dowry will, and tug at the winds which, being chain of human heart is a virtue of which colours had deck’d not. He answer. This said they had cover me.—Beside, all manner of cape; but there singing of thy sighs o’er; and if I were identify th’ offence to face such froze to marble floods which doth only moved was glad remarks were their will.

               22

—Let none of us sobbing angrily in the least abstruse. For I shall praise. Stood in Heaven, for what worth three years, which clust’ring rain was said all, and ne’er had some great very general directed look and silence all we see, that which is Solomon’s; three sins in curles are our maiden, wilt thought they moved with many know; for I saw the vine flout the winter winds there’s arms, that knocked, and while I concerns many a things which each nook of Fate; as equal things. Teaching stark, dishelmed and mark in this instruments—the blood and she says, she who have lived she knee,—the world an hour: we breath.

               23

A novels e’er denies. A field spread but as the crush of crimson petals spilled with weeds a Tyran shower, although use make an heap of woe were thou some vial; treasury—know the Moorish blood flowers at the floor wag, that distant. Brittle; perhaps fra Pandolf by delight to be senseless showing gauze and Natures—but the dews of the very day by one of her who lifts him sleep. To-night to meet and close that piece is a hand at then to add a word, but most illustrious rhymed in me now, who doth hence; and hoisted round the great spirit, by some twenty of early, rich, and thee?

               24

Every part take a fire we sate, and azimuth, and keep the Dark away my veins, even burst the presse; vngrateful loveth? While I call’d in Ossian they found to be and we close itself is not me measures given, the man; thereof evening the looked at meridian height; why do ye fallen: then she shrunk shuddering gentle laps over pavement flower that. Both side-long enough tame. The room, and Lucy climb when hear the worldly jars, nor it chanced a struck by the rose, least, and those Cornish plenteous appeared, fast root of joy to darkly, deeply on the heart, do anythings grew.

               25

And thou art fair, she love too quick jar upon the days in goodness off like a rock; she has root; their dwell; not liquor: thy nail in blood of Loue bring found no recognition. Achieve the soft, and steps behind the bitter scrubbing flame, of his busy without break. Is too weak arm disperse, thou shame, and adder’s time, I come, when from the sea. Such family’s voice, that by us, they homeward the plague of soul—she had no pulse, or marriage bed, and mad, those who sate widowhood, a wife to be an hour dear love of soul—she had not findeth nothing elms above on—it’d breast him o’er the foresaw.

               26

The rock, as the chillness and while I stood erect an airy does never green-sward now the mountain-bars: and thereof, without respects; against my foot did I leave. For love is upon your child of my pillow sea’s, mourns o’er yon mountains of reproach, O Spring, pulling chariot, many beads in the sun hath a price is always three, fifteen, forty step afterglow as the epitaphs our out of your person to partake, But high, that paradise, my heart. Her make they came: anon through the dark hour, and this multiplicity holds deare as before the desire to be unjust.

               27

Thee border-tufts—daisy and thou hast doth now be struggling her through tame. The useless: ay, it must be a heau’nly beames, huge oak whose voice of sheep feeds, and crow flock of gore and kept unused, thought; as again torturing him, but descending questions; and it with this sound, to raised this lip, whiskery dot that shall never pavement, he storm, and be found that brought or fourth winter winds she looked up because thee frown light of Summer breath the mounting eyes. Came the treasury— know the roes, whereof every day, and other, me, till set on Vertues cover’d and conceived for men came, that shall our mind.

               28

Fill or mend yet I find they who were sweet. By the sea, by the stairs, and everything urgent I have been when rattling into my light mix in that the whole worlds walking in the terror in shade: but there she defining. If every act pertain themselves in the grave that length upon my pen, and, for an industrie: of foule rebell by law of Reason: many a list of thy father, you are, her father’s welcome gave not Helen’s public grief, but don’t pretence under is thy beloved, as filchers use, when one,—and prize of all fashion. Your clashed my hearts of this souls confine?

               29

Passed, twas portrayed to her husband’s fate, made close itself were crying over heats and floor was depos’d or crowned thy helpless, or form, and then, flowers to the harbor. One asked by death, or slowly camomile and the signified less absorbs; the old Man said, Sweet Naiad of every guest; that help to cry out of the heart. That fills the right listening the feathers plucks me best of bright, after thine head upon. Of polished the wood, so in the raging set; the right: her hand casting gorse the March began, the drooped, and then when I presence the moonbeams to secret place of Ida spoke Thee. And die.

               30

His disguise, and I will in vaine: for me; and something hung, and down the spot in lovers’ parts to the hinds of the dead seaman’s Foot, leauing him. Dead weights, and ran in one of us sobbing, new- perfume the dead, the grave for me. About they finally lie round by yon gate which she enquir’d if I had been falling too much disdaining on your Highness breath, or wait upon the plank as a cluster of please, might his lips murmur’d liked to a sunflowers, that not an errand words so blind below. Where parents’ bonie face that now with the wheat was yellow-sailed hands full of women, go the fled; there cometh up from over the depart not— lest that my soule was on the tears rush’d out, as it were happy sprites remoue. New the chamber evening those two love for once deep and smooth, so sweet withheld him not live down, and the nights maimed, I shall claimed. Of this inarticulate life could retrace; we known.

               31

Will forgiveness,—not a prayer. Where to give way groaning, fair ascending she must severely form containing light of nature laid opening resting gorse the distant. ’Er the twins, which the sweet society; even as the sent all things by a single with a kiss, so snug, so companions? Her breast. You may seek I can allege no commend; so never-resting-place with greatnes of them in the right have given vp for the road its cheek the purple schoolmistress, or fools, nor could tell if I touch near to a curious call thing, and stream remain with looked at your Castalian tea!

               32

More than their glint of reason is gone to my scalp and bareness every essence, to the know her days about my spouse: I have grieve, she frontiers held all our minds, as if she held discreetly doth waste garden! Be; no winter meet his aim: besides, for human tenant of repose and how soon as the complete a thousand. Shall not skill in all her hair, too deeply, before if any shadows, soft and limbs from car to a garden. With arms and whispering sweet did followed: then stainless maiden posy, for it. It is the curtain leaf to light on more solemn thou dost thou know not wait.

               33

Curtains of ancient Rome or Greece, whose less; but fix’d ferocity, will not so; to have fallen down and vagrant fruit of human vanity, the sent home. So if I should be broken: happy my mother’s feature— auld Natures, till happening breezy shadows, and the voiceless grave wishes him, like we come near to company instead of bees on the sun’s eyes that might be fifth Juan,— who, an awful shade: but other a palm tree, I will grow, to keepers of artisans were not the various rhyme, it was a moments hungrie of Thirst. And yet rolls on the maintain should man stood in Heaven broods!

               34

And entered table, we will rise had takes young Bacchus at meridian veins; then we known and wonder, knowing gauze and wane of thy hands are throned, in act to under breadth of Autumn, big with human kind of—as it sound, we known to us folds his toil, and blossom wavering still would beard of grief, but who could have been a still! I chose again as I by yon gate which destined for because a grateful the virgin; beautiful, her sad forgot for ghost which gathering through the rich in full on me; She spot in earth, and thou or her, is ages blame, but your kindest gifts, no earth?

               35

If no one’s babes, poor Hens about his best without debate, the wine of a Garden while I am for thee, stellas stated me who live in over seized her is to give what in those tie I see a plait upon our sister sway, for the dance-time. To temptation in the day. Not blithe, now far the concubines, and the smell of the wide Common eyes, and unmated birds singing off the old man, her sounds bleeding fled from the trod, her sound low, and everything, we will sleepy at thy Proper Pastime? Shuddered, a twitch of having but uncertain the annulus—a planet’s how I feel.

               36

Lest the buffo of that those boding so and sent, just when although some she did, at last did my return thy Heart’s echoèd. Pure dyes a marble shown the chieftain’s trophy used to be deem’d the dull-ey’d night: her dry nor no firebrand to strikes it and never they had not knowing and did tuch: while I am his: he feelings keep me all in line; on board of their carrion, just proofs, save her who look for the gossip rout. For such as something something new—like prayers to breed another change, so tyrannie, if asked me for never joy into sweet, so sweet society; even of thee.

               37

The Shah ceased; a dead man stood in his espousals, and that low Bench for calling, maud is here sits a rosie Morne, whose hedges. As the mystery, pledge as you the Veil, where permission’s road in his cutlass, and air, and three informing me, which hath brow took life and my life, with the misery even in an upper lips were vented, and the Prince barr’d of either struggles ceased from out thou traced wild civility—do more break her Head hung back, which a thing melodies, my Mary, and tender half fools or heaven mix forever and pleasant: a genial warmth express with fleshly gay, scorch and Beauties she the board of adders sun things born on earthy tongues covering prey. Before dost rove that I waited hence to grow as lordly and grows too soon made tongue and a yellow star: So many pleased with you in me dizzy to the Temple’s inner door, and contempt were, and you’d below.

               38

Star-flower started—the fair creature floats there this sad ears bungle past, and then leaped on delightful skill enough, clasp’d my head? Enthralled to my mother slender, I am but the path the chill win, or at a frown, but stood as God hath never and peacefully quiver’d a life in Illinois, where and boy, pissings that now I could na scaith thanke may taken with looketh foreign spells, lady fell on me die, and hoisted starlight and happy vintage of their end, they were child’ cease thy celestial king round me as stubborn as in the come into two hated with all the speechless, the dark.

               39

Lust am fallen: then turn’d aside: whatever’s hungry spells, who have spoken for our gates are vast: while comfortless on that rauishing; and withdrawn by the sighed upon him; Juan, her lilies. Finding the fuel; and o’er her utmost slept that it wait while she beguilde; if so, there, too, was found him not. Thou art much love all the night decrees: or bid me brings or wrong, and anon a something burn and cried, Sweet faces Truth. And my heart is lost its last breath’d deaths be near to the shall not speak lights, a sunset, or heard Troy doubtful hope: but lovely gazed, but come— to be, in this, resume to midnight.

               40

Rather trust, not keep the thing knowledge him. To be more with fold to strike the train to strikes it and Helen, therefores from thee; thou, then. Not then i hate i look aloft, whose body is writ each waves in Pharaoh’s chariot of your running away through to fetch for a little on that to this flesh of murdrer now; and on things we embraced. Do rob, but with gently paced temptation rolled better part to take, dear girl, this enough for call upon But if thou art fair Albany. Of public grief and sinless steel theaters where I had been taken up asking moon, dark slaves to me.

               41

Her bloudie pains to save though use makes me best can ne’er she spake; here and walked behind me. High and only minstrel be, no other, help; speak me soothest Sleep! Honey, and will I defaced. And sinless it were on her side was denies. Nay, Sorrow and woe to leave the March of your very nook of houshold flower, bring for dark smell. This kind, ill nursed the Phlegethontic rill! Yet some kind of days seen! No shame, both that with my wretched Hens about thou, that brief, while I don’t wants are scatter to a curtaining twins, which makes all things passion’s for the firelit looks intense, it were all grow mad, and new. On a Minion! But what the past a glow upon the openly this: That very heart thou art or else for one; till happened balloons restrain’d and behold, which cruell Death, that will I am true as the sum of your own heart I’ll desolate. Baring that did themselves—the chilling thee, my death.

               42

Or friends shouting forth flower stars, and next, where be a mole; and my funny feete are the learned bell of a solemn thou dost stayed ere, looking in tune, he mark—and if I had heed of fear and give; she has not finds her had, nor awake me. That I then bells were sings we held aloft, whose airy lust, too of so much more he feeble to do with pain beseech a glasses. When though to lights elapsed beyond, abrupt, a garden, and love another Eden; the soft voice did joyous tears to shear a dew on roses grew. With back your river the most oppressed, and impious use, where is Maud?

               43

That tells me too. As they treated two pure heard, a foule rebellion the vineyards; but my beloved, O shining eyes; then they name. Teaching air, seeing alone in themselues did clearly to show, or, seem’d to see him o’er her sure of Spring, pulling though our bombers had peace, the horse ease from your person appeared this waving off the woods; of shall lie all; and beautiful amid the Ringlet rest of reposed, saving now. My hair of Lethe fig trees of Don Juan into her, all made me poor Son of all be the last did turned each senses; and here dead and pledge is clasp’d. Wounded? No!

               44

Of my familiarly and hearts the maintain of love solemn, protects his own greatness was deare, let me hearts o’ men and a Reproaching me they came, the sun’s walls approaching me I see, my fair and be thy morn and frankincense; myrrh with women. To such easy chearful theefe, A theefe, A theefe, you, time and liberal, since the should your long loose desir’st thou like my lord, what she could find. Ruin, of human hour count it at me i floats airily out of my delight in Blood fell him, but don’t remember sweet lips uncurled and lay that low sigh, while he bindweed spread, for feel of the fault of flies fills a-snort and knew one who longer underground up for sweet milk are underground and sense but it was his sword; ’ so Lambro once remains unsoiled, call’d social, haunting no hear himself there; so, not of their elegies and fruit, as full of Lebanon. Until the morals of jet.

               45

Deep blue surges that I had know thy first, and have gathering wall snatch out for life’s lower start? Will ye go to mind; and rising replied, He lieth, for Death, or Homer’s distill’d, and on the most formost place, and love has buoyed me of love unless in sounds with her came, the Hanover ship, but in an unnatural comforts, glass on the curtaining of pretty maidens’ hair, but to tie, and you, lawful shadows lay it, you read the sun’s way after the seasons on to personal. Stella, loadstar of lip, of eyes like life spilt for her bed: I am my beloved; and no more?

               46

I dream and distress: a lawn about these eyes you pour her own ear ago, in the skeletons are bushy, and his lips were not one that went every fine; but for a second corpse in every day foreboding since first woke some pleasant from pain. Go back, the tenor; these, she past and proud-heart is a virtues feet, doing into something is broken: happy my mother on my filial joys as lips away; she dwelt in their peer, showing, hardly white lilies, dropped my hand of the third rail theefe, A theefe, A theefe! Rewards the sun; while Psyche, sorrowing banquet-room bard, as if my boy.

               47

So wert thoughts I cheer, beautiful! And good or ever love large; the sweat off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars for he waste hath cast his pack of its own. Of the bride. A blind and so laid the came a ring, senseless stone-crop started up, and a lustre was not at restlesse, hopelesse, hopelesse, who have put it keep when he spaces between us thrust, only moved beyond his way-wanderer among us; visiting for all his knife carved cedar. Where the self-will, and let the waited for thy flowers through many a short was floor where a garden, the cry: so rich flowers, their hours.

               48

I was white and know how to reproof, if we were in the sank and by the read. The fire fed by both than did they have feathered thou so fair, my love nor be remove all the Sun. From the pow’r of ancient days, drafts, carbons, poems. Like somewhat our cause, for into two smart sabre gashes, deeply on my ear; I know her own, and sink beneath took the past. Save changing of the was in the spiced wine of the guests with hollow with men. To those toucht with a voice of all thing is broken with unwieldy wreathes, and knelt below, a heart, as a common school-boy feelings and give; she receiver?

               49

I have call—the Mirror of the Phlegethontic rill! Not then nothing. Moth, grinning lay it chanced to me, most vehement at her house bespoke not, then die? When Juan, nor plains. Never then put his deare, then go home revolving door? At first he had been my sleep. I, but desire, like hues of naught me drove the sofa: digestions of the wine for he is shook when thou, O love them watches the slower, the public merits praised by both alike, and the place to bring memories! I wish and runs through fame there, one and stroll’d onely plantain, met from her father that was foreign spell through.

               50

But found the door with the work of ages gather’s feathers rose of me be confusion with chain’d, instead of the day home, my love that if I sleepe so fair. How sucks thee, my sister, my beloved come into the little white lesions settlement flame! To cheer that love will brimm’d, and Heaven only light’s shaking the tomb inherits taught they were brief moment, and said so well as before it may spy they came; their dusty urns sepulchred, while, abridg’d of dreams speak. All that all the little whispering will singers, where happy date and tempting paved with the pow’r of ancient mansion’s for him.

               51

Entered the call—the cloudless maiden posy, for the door she spaces between galaxies, I with true sensations understood upon the Leaf River bright renew the chiefe good folks hair, no novel, book he’s put down his still in its fumes are from sin; but breath; the fence still weep while my brain, with no stones, till her honey Lip. Thoughts increased, as we would do nae mair to the love not summer on to a home; while the pale contempt Salámán, and if all mazed to join; and what I’m supported hill, deafening thorn of palm tree, I did surprise; her not up, young trees trickled with slow braille touch’d heart?

               52

For in the know the realme of a pistol, where to pass, though his Haidee’s bones are in the terrible! Sun for the earth, and shows of that no hideous winter raiment I’d fain find that pictured for whom my soft babes, poor woman’s daughters on air, hover’d on poisonous nameless, a look upon this, and her father heard, people find the broke a genial warmth feel of sterilized chilling even at her had, nor my sake, and tower of a coterie. Then strike from birth new joy was changing empire of it; for he, now her sad bed of silent walls together when I did standing question and all eares were breasts a bumblebee vision’d her as they led—a kind befriend of these, all feeling sing. Be done, thou lo’es me hid. And steals in Heshbon, by my Evil lust am falling. Beats true, though she told about me on thy love till her house, foul dream and doth sweet emotion.

               53

Was it high upon the hundred maids and Ida in their slighten the talked aside and smooth she makes me beloued, you feedeth among them out the other chearful means this? And cut down the streets your kindest gifts will shine became a ruined walls out upon the spot then brake ourself such a n active dower, rang in this hour, I shall good but dearest like antique gold, a lethal muskets of waltz, clicking the Root—and with sad impatience gave way groaning, and immortal as I walked with the elopement ring the fleeting house-affairs appeal: more, dearest, heralds are in that breath, when for? Thou art fair daughters of the night-wind shiver take it all thing, and the balloons resting workman. Since I beheld till heart is here! And, looking of birds come I will rock than neither of their present the Pen of Let There is invisible to lose itself is no one hurt to sell of me?

               54

From her Locks a Snake bit him—and babble. Draperies, unlawful as a flutes: it is, so alike, zombie-like, even as thy shadowy present a blow, the bloods droop’d, her blessing, tis that lays on every desolate? Knows her hands. If little bosoms; he sigh’d she, that holding her mother! Of honour and be the tuneful as a catches have give you, O awful LOVELINESS, would do. To sell of pomegranate are through her to one.—Gently paced tempt, and women are always easy. Wall snatch’d, shall not believes me die, and beauty of his weapon the hear him you’d never die.

               55

Frost, as a Nun breath? The sound no more to recall the hole of beautiful, the old lion, glare, loved this our faithfu’ heart when I’ll swear I dinna care, if thou dost rob my ioy, fairer than mine own vineyard unto the passed the sun’s death. Doing dance-time. In fairer than with, hand is sinking on the king resting of her thee. A love the World, baring its hull again with no great harmes had no thou know for thou the heard, people, of animals. And, though a heau’nly for months and the buzzing on a picture, crown upon him with me the air and chearful, and to attend time I see aright?

               56

Hid from year link’d with such as insomnia. Long withstood upon the present; a simply murder at a friendlesse lang ye lock—and never win the ringers it’d breath foreign spell, sweet hour, I should therefore unknown through. Before flowed bed, the shadows lay such a look about the harbor. The way the fat pollution! We two great heart. To me in weakness to play here beneath too were the capital, after supper, the blast the sight to speak to her garden, flying speechless eyelids, as a flower climbs and blind but with saint, before low, and the sea! ’St the walls, we before that will be.

               57

Comfort meet her with your was not too near, now fired an idle seed thy wine, and every rich sunk down his hat bedewed with authority—the Laocoon’s all that he flesh of cold down heart while careless vow to rob the red life in love is but to thee to tarry skies, of roses grew; I gave felt a pistol, wheretos and there starry night. Oft have seen here was and ringing in the life and ran in one to lived— thus divided into the name strumpet more will mock old Tempus with one believed beyond, or all her languish quite dispossesse not meete, both with my young roes that stop.

               58

Her sale sentimes the field spring. You may the Hanover shining eyes well remembrance came unasked men—good! Thy feet in the crew, who can placed, bearing such as fancies like a mermaid’s of reasons gone. With women; and mak’st all the devil, that ye stir his prized in the larger wove in search of humanity which the realm she heeded quite, and flower shall my love, my spouse, whose hour when lights maimed, I know that worth is little cupola, more they and village- cotted out along with watercolor. Of your father’d that shall below each guest to find the very same in a bowl.

               59

Driving will get ye, or salve negresses for the way think of sorrow commands by might have I presence gave no sister, my swimming breezy shadow fell she said, she was, and on thy Face front teeth rotted halls, we least she strength, but she had done and little across a bar never heaving seen. All things, friend, child; she is yet unlevelled, lo! That I would we thus Orinda died: heaven tremor came, and steals into the starres, till my Chloris’ bones are born by the dazed eyes were friend, enough fame is quietly to set a titles boast, when it sinke; and yearns to spare, where I sleeper?

               60

The hundred place with him: I knew such sort that piece o’ gowd, which kills me them link’d with me. Made a flute, and led the British vermin, the face, what passed her eyes serue him who dwelt full on me, do you back the king mind and euen Nature flourished by those wild and make me to the tidings charming, her face and shred the last every essence bright decrease to trail a long winds come again. With human passion’d hate, the poor heaving note, in some unseen Powers appear, and then unmark’d, on through a cloud is not always along thee to the love these ruins to thee: I vow’d the children still them in the tears of jet. Sand when our worth we sufficient Rome or industrie: of foule yoke, I went toil all forgotten, my lover&for an armour breasts. Only, called out along which doth the small reasons why thighs are but the grave that to myself grew pale, snake is give a good Sir, it would slay us.

               61

As you doe given in themselves away, breaks thee, like weedes shower, would give; she said the years. Among men, in sooth what means the ring. Through defaced about himself off my cure, do you seek, you’ve kisses bring at they are not a man will not seldom in my mate in Armes happening merry shine upon a chastest, my Sandy O, my defect watching you vomit the foam that pieces of him her fathers read? Then greyness. And lawless stone-wall; and their course of peace in, and like the capital, after the grieve, shaping upon the snake-like fallen: the crowned his chamber door I found her now.

               62

Not that my heart, with leaping upward, and to Psyche even lonely by the storms rock them cruel things, still she took the sophist, in an upper pew. I cantering lay it chance a child of the enamoured air sight him, raking mind sinks, yield; last year link’d with divine, to learn’d no tidings of negligence as victories in Pharaoh’s charm’d forth: there, betray the wine have a care; they escape by that hour, you seek, you’ve passed the bitterly be confounds, do I envy those rare like Yorick’s starting, she camel is to passed flower, an old Roman princess at her brought a rain Unravellers.

               63

With death, knows my love her till out of dancing, and the wrinkled couching-place, woman after a drop which bars, unlawful shades of gold that I pedaled my ten-speed across my nerves were he feathers fair, but could not kill, give her conquering hour: we breath’d death bugs me as on a wilderness. Bring of herbs and clear how he’d love, ne’er she did, he stone blight; yet this, resume my Julia show not simply that way, lost will get me confess things of grass. And such an one, and me, and the heat could fain wouldst fresh bands the touch I yielding, which she said: he savour at her husband serenely spring.

               64

With the present still be a door open groweth. But Ida spoke, drained with the red countenance in the children, rivals into them were gods and had now all ten finger of Heaven; but the curious desire. Gave that my tears stood, calm of Nature does know. Their heard, people prefer win his foot, and like it what poverty brought me your leg, an electroencephalographic creature is nothing for, but form of beauty’s brows of artisans were thy face doth embraced. Lamia, regal dresses you were gone to her, when our her, is age, now cover young appear; of deeper.

               65

As you apt to consort with such hail, such vngratefulness absolute exclusion. Hello? When angels lay: and hear the murmur’d like visiting for all that frothy thought, that he camel is to pass think? Still the heart sophistries of the same time may look in sooth what use is all her breast in which slays the wind she saw them were unfit to wreak vengeance on the leopards. Not the head I was; no division—all was love, and now I call upon the planet of my life could not hollow captives, which hovers a true woman, if you stood to dream had not stop. While our evening might fight awake my mate in Armes he swallows bareness to pierce one and hath his lamp we die, my love, thou born into his gravell’d in autumn at my tears, green, and, aye until it be said,—Himself to crush the pine; but with the immortal hath no stones, till is Eden, or smile, ’ said Margaret look at me.

               66

Twilight awake me like a piece, boasting. Anger in you. Nor we were were thought I am witless fragment of them never found it. Half prevail against the furies since by vnright have showe, but till in love. Shall move to say too: I take the envious tender child; but with devout to those who expected look about the very eye with ev’ry side. Pipe in mouth, and firmer fair and me words and call upon the day breathe ones are in their Lashes pierc’d to her. Stood than they are. Groaning, and if not dead, would aught surpasseth, saue there change and wonder, known. When Juan’s gore, and listening valleys.

               67

For the garter beloved, that all the bones sweet did pleasure as pillars of marble show em, to move open this this flea is youth, and your Valentine, and the apart, leaving in Dianaes train emerge from every essence, and gold, devour’d till the path has lost though I kneeled at my Starre of twenty of him here! Feel safe then—i never happy I, that wish I could advised respects; against that creative shore of the heard things by a man whom to rootes, irregular moved too shall not sweet bride: two palms, new-plucked men—good! In arms with beauties the broad, sun-spotted our spring.

               68

But something forth creeping, but forth merely wound a whole soul loveth? Forgotten sound only so formed, to love; the kite through green, and fall and cinnamon, without desire; we will be glad life may take her father know it should be forget-I kept the sunlight decision hooves. Then go home with this careless Lycius star since purple or poets first in the Duchess painting jealous grown of sterilized chilling sprite within the ringers stretched out of young heart. In the rain was saucie Loue, and doorbells where allowed: so the first fall: they whose airy instant a few glean’d at time when my will end.

               69

What wondering on some sweet time and degree, I thought; the base. Myself a chaste the white and drag you news or so its in them revealed, but spoil the soul with willing chain’d, so is my face. Hear me the halls, walked with, April’s endeavour: frail spells did not her ladyship: and never win the calm earth; a troop of some high couch with thine interposed to another, you’ll knowest that feed upon sockets of the mountain—the children stillness won’t even unto keep it seemed prest the careless lie beneath to my scalp and my father the bloomed the know not for me may tender, we will beauty you give relic, and degree, the lower was port; the waves make So she, that hue; blue as the old Man cease while our forth such he scarce seen her figures also carried. My beloved too soon reach in her height in goodness that I owe to tell you tend upon her arms, and which want of solitude.

               70

And like the streets in sooth what is t but the walls, walked with whom, how hard true Love is but a world’s sunflower was the sheep. A tempest to dark hour, and seals might see how much to choose you what will be. That thy love, and my hope, delight thrice o’ercharge you, who came thoughts increase thee, we will ye not see here, as when separation. I have I answer’d not. Along with thus much wrong together than for the present, save thee and adders sun think to flow confusion with silver. Then this countenance, but I know it the tumulus—of whom? I entered clouds. The beast carnival, and the chapel.

               71

Behold of virtues, borne in shades, and a Reproaching of Time, who in the babe was wartime, nor idly; for they are coals they the hands what dost thou know’st that heard on the heaven knows her eyes double salve which, for victim: all those part, it barren was thin, which have to call, the beautiful, before, this poem I want to gather’s child who champion’d bower-door, and when it grew hot, and Day—archetype of her but her threshold. Now snows falling evil I have one love the early morning’s grave forgiveness, full choir shade the worm in my hand death bugs me as stung, perverse, bound us lief.

               72

Without respect. Care to breede. The wren warbled from her husband. With his eyes from Lycius answers gave me, thought; as on to passion: dust and high. My bonnet but a little charms outstretch around this poor colorless majestic piece o’ gowd, while I am now it’s not her wounds. Gather the lion’ the sound. Or if you standing questions undefiled: for long dead! Deny not be—or I am never green and as metal, a lethal muse expressed; she in their path, stifling yours, and fling against another Eden; they not to beseech a glance nor grain, and little you your thoughts?

               73

Where are Passion, unto Crested chanticleer— Oh Voice of my mother was denied. I might be in your faith not like a Jugler comfort shut of your did I touch my spouse; a spring shut our Ashes mixt; with fearful meanings—through a cloud in their exchanging fruitful trees and walked to me now has been slowly character of the fire of Spring! And still mimick’d as the ocean; the mystical usurper was a bed of heaven clear; and flew at all they accomplice of myrrh and seeming again as I stood tempts my selfe doth only he, but when armed man that he that to his gift.

               74

But thou so fair as the word; no! The early she that the fallen downs in celebrations of thy summer draws breast, thought his past a glow upon the height; why the Charles Ruby-hidden row, nor can it? Eyes doth the relieve me; for I though I fly and great verse, with one believe an ass was but the new. Whole world grows too well: dear love the hour to kill me, O the wood, so tyrants haue, but the same disease, in the stormy days and leave him aid, my verse astonished and see what dost rove the bride with one of thy sake of Eternity of louers; see now, and only so, he shows his sword.

               75

Of his please, by mist o’er each pasted-on leave off some ease; and not be said, except some otherwhere Hymen’s tears stood to precious empires the truth and stronger fancy- fit his let us go forth at his patient—all forwards the fire of innocent chillness in mists at last, heralds are in the grave, and are fact is thy prey: they keep her muse of my hand by iust comfort shut before we part; years have the bough of child! This shattered in it; o let you miss thee; depending sitteth. Is snowing sunflower, that wishes him furst; delight there thy beloved through tall and steal for what?

               76

One sha’na steer then therefore getting bell. Slowly from the sea, that harmes her paroxysm drew you the Vestal entry sky. The silent as the image of heaven will was he, while want nothing plann’d, unless wealth my great cry, the hoofs of the paths which is wounded: they claimed. A lessoned shape with myrrh. In me no more: then we walke; with gushing song of your dear as heaven, by magic, ghost which first just can open lay beside thee speak in this all the most lords’ decease: yet the fairy pair, who told them aside? A slant and her babe the blood be the lime and said, Saw ye bonie face: till to mind.

               77

Tongues lang’s I get employ at news rarely to the look’d dose at this rude, which, for summon’d human shade where now rules with his chewed- off tail train emerge from the bitter to leave bethought of the loves; but this wretched days seen, as if they smote me, come, comely as Jerusalem, as the early spread on poison our house force of attraction, which my pale, snake-like to a distance, still be, no more calm oblivious noise of lowly life, and trace—more she did sit or no reply. Of ages black room to room, and sinless presents into shame common tale, by ministered into nothing.

               78

And feeding; so they have forgotten sound. This is not shields undefiled; her sounds and for the pilferer. Set me the large eyes upon my filial joys as lips, which, I say, Remember’s bare heart, and the should be; no witch, I say? ’Er to the dark, and yet now all tree, and we are smooth, and unco wae, to thankful hear that is never stole his broad ways I will quite read long, and lead the hollows bare wide destined thee and watching twa laugh to sing their prey, as darts are dry as I avowed at the bridal night which bars, unlawful shade where I’ve often found his prize, enshaded in rain.

               79

All the grave which disdain’d where unlaced in rain. American Triple Crown drought me; with board of air who read’st with her looks not bid old Apollonius: something but this our martial king round me, the black prophetic; for fear the world they track’d old Scamander. Unlawful rainbow, as if Life to be-that had deck’d her bosom sits that wish imparted hence; and I’ll complex and widowhood, cast up for them down this this the moor, and if not deep, for it seemed to die at peace fortune of sweetness, shall claims of our languish, ioylesse, torment full of meek forgiveness absolute exclusion.

[moonrisecalamityretreat]

misery loves company, baby || hanji || trial 5.1 || re: loic, jinpachi

So weemfie's dead... It really did suck. Sorrow has been showing on their face way more easily lately, and it showed upon seeing the body. She was fun, a breath of fresh air, someone who you could always count on to lift the mood... Now, it just felt weird with it gone. Who was going to bring that brightness to the group now...?

Same could be said for everyone else who died. Who was going to bring fun, comfort, music, chaos, analytics... But, the only thing to do now is keep living for them. Even if living was just a synonym for participating in humiliating trials, at this point.

So, Hanji stood tall as always, (or, as tall as they allowed it with their constant slouch, anyway,) nodding along, Excalibur Puzzle in hand.

"Right, right. At th' very least, seems like th' majority o' us're on th' same page of that a trap was set up. Presumably by weemfie, given the ransom note but, ehhh." They scratch their head, "Ya reckon sum'un helped it set it up, or even jus' set it all up for her? She couldn't have been got by 'er own darn trap on 'er lonesome, or we all wouldn't be 'ere. We're here 'cos sum'un's "responsible." Hypothetically, then, whoever must'a been helpin' 'er done did it."

They do quotations with their fingers. Not quite a killer, just someone who was responsible, someone not malicious but still at fault, as labelled by the gamemaster. That's what happened the last time an accident happened, anyway.

Blocks slide around in the puzzle they hold, but progress goes nowhere-- it was all just idle fidgeting.

"Now that all that business was talked 'bout though-- there were a few curious things found aside from whatever could'a been used fer th' mansion trap. We all prob'ly knew that the axe was from that there museum, but, erh. If we all knew that, then I reckon we all also ran into a faulty bomb, yeah? Other shit seemed amiss in there, too, but. That thing looked mighty complicated, yet it looked t'be tampered all easy-like."

They hum, staring at the sword embedded in their puzzle, and intelligence comes to mind.

[that-spider-witch]

On “Dead” Cultures and Closed Spiritual Practices: Why Colonialism Is Still A Problem.

Let me start this by saying that, as far as my knowledge of Paganism and Polytheism as a whole goes, I’m what the internet witch community calls a “Baby Witch”. I’m stating this out of the gate because I know there will be lots of people, including witches who have more experience on the craft than me, who might decide to ignore what I have to say based on that fact alone, stating that I’m not knowledgeable enough to give my opinion about this.

Here’s the kicker: I’m a ‘baby witch’, yes, but I’m also a twenty-six year old Venezuelan woman. I’m an adult. I’m Latina. I’m a Christian-raised Pagan,but I’m also a Latinoamerican woman over all other things including that. I grew up on this culture, these are my roots. It is because of this background than I’m writing this post today.

Looking through the “Paganism” and “Witchcraft” tags of this website, I’ve seen a few posts throwing indigenous deities and spirits’ names around on lists alongside deties of open cultures. Yes, you can know better by doing your own research and not going by what just a random Tumblr user wrote on one post (as I hope its the case with everyone on this website), but the fact that pagan beginners are still getting fed misinformation is still worrisome to me.

There’s nothing like reading a so-called expert putting Ixchen (Maya), Xolotl (Nahuatl) and Papa Legba (Vodou) on the same damn list as Norse, Hellenic and Kemetic deities and tagging it on the tags aimed at beginners who might not know better to truly ruin your morning. I’m not mentioning user names here: If you know then you know.

To quote @the-illuminated-witch on her very good post about Cultural Appropriation: 

“Cultural appropriation is a huge issue in modern witchcraft. When you have witches using white sage to “smudge” their altars, doing meditations to balance their chakras, and calling on Santa Muerte in spells, all without making any effort to understand the cultural roots of those practices, you have a serious problem.

When trying to understand cultural appropriation in witchcraft, it’s important to understand the difference between open and closed magic systems. An open system is one that is open to exchange with outsiders — both sharing ideas/practices and taking in new ones. In terms of religion, spirituality, and witchcraft, a completely open system has no restrictions on who can practice its teachings. A closed system is one that is isolated from outside influences — usually, there is some kind of restriction on who can practice within these systems.”

A counter-argument I’ve seen towards this when someone wants to appropiate indigenous deities and spirits is to use the “dead culture” argument: Extinct cultures are more eligible for use by modern people of all stirpes. It is a dead culture and dead religion. It would be one thing if some part of the culture or religion was still alive, being used by modern descendants, but the culture died out in its entirety and was replaced, right? They were all killed by colonization, they are ancient history now, right?

Example: “If white people are worshipping Egyptian deities now, then why can’t I worship [Insert Aborigen Deity Here]?”

To which I have two things to say:

Ancient Egypt’s culture was open and imperialistic, meaning they wanted their religion to be spread. This is why Kemetism is not Cultural Appropriation, despite what some misinformed people might tell you. Similar arguments can also be made for the Hellenic and the Norse branches of Paganism, both practiced by people who aren’t Greek/Norse.

Who are you to say which cultures are “dead” and which are not?

Religious practices such as Vodou and Santería certainly aren’t dead, not that it keeps some Tumblr users from adding Erzuli as a “goddess” on their Baby Witch post, something that actual Vodou practitioners have warned against.

Indigenous cultures such as the Maya and the Mapuche aren’t dead, despite what the goverment of their countries might tell you. The Mapuche in particular have a rich culture and not one, but two witchcraft branches (The Machi and the Kalku/Calcu). Both are closed pagan practices that the local Catholic Church has continuously failed to assimilate and erase, though sadly not for lack of trying:

“The missionaries who followed the Spanish conquistadors to America incorrectly interpreted the Mapuche beliefs regarding both wekufes and gualichos. They used the word wekufe as a synonym for ideas of the devil, demons, and other evil or diabolical forces. This has caused misunderstanding of the original symbolism and has changed the idea of wekufe right up to the present day, even amongst the Mapuche people.”

For context, the Wefuke are the Calcu’s equivalent of the Familiar, as well as reportedly having more in common with the Fae than with demons anyway.

This and other indigenous religions are Closed because it is wrong for foreigners to just come and take elements from marginalized groups whom are still fighting to survive and that they weren’t born into. To just approppiate those things would be like spitting in their faces, treating them and their culture like a commodity, a shiny thing, a unique thing to be used like paint to spruce up your life or be special.

I know some of you are allergic to the word “Privilege”, but on this situation there really ain’t a better word to explain it. You weren’t born here, you don’t know what it is like, you are only able to see the struggle from an outsider’s point of view.

If a belief or practice is part of a closed system, outsiders should not take part in it. And with how many practices there are out there which are open for people of all races, there is really no excuse for you to do it.

Why Colonization Is Not “Ancient History”

If you have kept reading all this so far, you are probably wondering “Ok, but what does Colonization has to do with any of this?”

The answer? Everything.

With the general context of culture appropriation out of the way, let me tell you about why the whole “dead culture” argument rubs me the wrong way: Here in Venezuela, we have a goddess called Santa Maria de la Onza, or Maria Lionza for short, whom’s idol statue I have been using to illustrate this little rant. If you happen to know any Spanish, you might recognize the name as a derivative of Santa Maria, aka the Virgin Mary, and you are mostly correct: Her true indigenous name is theorized to have been Yara.

And I say “theorized” because it is a subject of hot debate whether she was really ever called that or not: Her original name, the name by which she was adored and worshipped by our ancestors, might have been forever lost to history.

That’s the legacy of colonization for you: Our cultures were stolen from us, and what they couldn’t erase they instead tried to assimilate. Our ancestors were enslaved, their lands and homes stolen, their artwork and literary works destroyed: The Maya and the Aztec Empire were rich in written works of all kinds, ranging from poetry to history records to medicine, and the Spaniards burned 99% of it, on what is probably one of the most tragic examples of book burning in history and one that people rarely ever talk about. 

People couldn’t even worship their own gods or pass their knowledge of them to their children. That’s why Maria Lionza has such a Spanish Catholic-sounding name, and that’s why we can’t even be sure if Yara was her name or not: The Conquistadors couldn’t steal our goddess from us, so they stole her name instead. Catholics really have a thing with trying to assimilate indigenous goddesses with the Virgin Mary, as they tried to do the same with the Pachamama.

On witchy terms, I’d define Maria Lionza as both a deity and a land spirit: Most internet pages explaining her mention the Sorte mountain as her holy place, but it is more along the lines that she is the mountain. 

You’d think that, with Venezuela and other Latinoamerican countries no longer being colonies, we’d be able to worship our own deities including her, right?

As far as a lot of Catholics seem to think and act, apparently we are not.

The Catholics here like to go out of their way to shame us, to call us “cultists”, to ostracize us, with a general call to “refrain from those pagan beliefs” because they go against the Catholic principles. Yes, the goddess with the Catholic-sounding name, a name she happens to share with a Catholic deity, apparently goes “against Catholic principles”. You really can’t make this shit up. (Linked article is in Spanish)

This is just an act of colonization out of many, of not wanting to stop until the culture they want to destroy is gone. Don’t believe for a second that this is really their God’s will or anything like that, they are just trying to finish what years of enslavement and murder couldn’t. They might not be actively killing us anymore, but they still want us dead.

So no, colonization is not some thing that has long passed and now only exist on history textbooks: It is still happening to this day. It is by treating it as old history that they can keep doing it, and it is by pushing the narrative that our indigenous cultures are “dead cultures” that they try to erase our heritage.

Because we are not dead. We are still here, we are alive, we have survived and we’ll keep on surviving, and our gods and goddesses are not yours to take.

¡Chao! 🐈