#is there really such a thing as space untouched by human influence

[streetwiseangel]

been thinking a lot about terms like “wilderness” and “nature/natural” as well as “captive” and the feral/domestic delineation. they’re all ideas that uphold the illusion of species supremacy by asserting that anything people touch will inevitably help shepherd the universe towards its one true destiny—the childish ideal that all life ought to participate in full servitude to the human race

[f1minist]

Feminist Youtube Videos for Every Topic

A collection of feminist content, organized topically for ease.

Separatism:

on separatism and heterosexuality

why separatism is good

we're gonna die sometime. might as well be separatists.

stop choosing patriarchy

separatism is a choice

biggest impact, but most won't do it

on vetting men

the benefits of separatism are endless

men cannot be rehabbed

of course the slave is full of rage for her slave master

Lesbian Stuff:

who can use the word 'lesbian'?

on defending gay rights and spaces

what are lesbians supposed to do about het women?

gender critical lesbophobia

the constant rage for gold star lesbians

Political Lesbian Critique:

a simple breakdown of political lesbians

political lesbians... are you ok?

political 'lesbians' are not actually lesbians

i didn't 'come to lesbianism'. i was always here.

homosexuality is not a choice

for those who confuse polilez vs febfem

Comp Het Critique:

comp het isn't a thing

lesbihonest-art (RIP) on comp het

on lesbian experience, by @sunlight-beauty

on comp het, by @rakastiikeri

sespursongles (RIP) on comp het

Preferred Pronouns:

on 'cis' and other language

pronouns are rohypnol

preferred pronouns? no.

what are your pronouns?

Anti Make-Up / Beauty / Femininity:

3 years without makeup: 5 benefits i've experienced

sephora girls: why are ten year olds wearing make-up?

marked women

makeup isn't empowerment

why i stopped wearing makeup

bimbofication: a dangerously idiotic trend

empowerment? no.

give the middle finger to patiarchy

radfems in eyeliner

makeup infinity

on makeup and radical feminism

maintaining the status quo hurts all women

the audacity of the bare-faced woman

critiquing is not shaming

why do women do beauty?

choice feminism is a lie

actually gender critical

Anti Surogacy / Natalism / Procretion:

about mothers

forced pregnancy is involuntary servitude

egg "donation" is exploitation

on sperm giveaways

motherhood is not untouchable

homosexuality does not include reproduction

why i don't want kids

why i'm childfree

on procreation and patriarchy

Porn / Sex Work Commentary:

instagram vs porn

'sex-positive feminism' benefits men (and hurts women)

the influence of porn on the trans trend

on 'sex work'

speaking out on prostitution

'sex work is work'? no, not really.

let's stop acting like 'sex work' is empowering

is porn 'for women' okay?

porn is apocalyptical

'ethical porn' cannot exist

stop glamourizing 'sex work'

porn is the pinnacle of evil

is r/antiwork pro exploitation?

Trans Critical:

mainstream, revisionist, queer nonsense

why transwomen don't have 'female brains', from @ilistened2transwomen

why the hate?

why i decided to stop using the term 'transwoman'

on trans rights activists

TRAs loooove white men

the untouchable male creep - AGPs on parade, from @ilistened2transwomen

'intersectional' does not mean 'trans inclusive'

non-binary is deeply rooted in misogyny

25 questions for trans activists

women's sports are not a dumping ground for mediocre men

on "identifying as" women

stacia samaya on 'non-binary'

why sex is binary

trans rights, or trans privileges?

always chasing the dragon

27 ways in which trans activism is harmful

the actual human rights law

on 'trans women are women'

is transitioning ever 'the best' option?

autogynephilia - a brief overview

the rise of the heterosexual queer

phobia indoctrination

transing away the gay

5 tips for talking gender critical, by @runawaysiren940

the transing of language

autogynephilia, not dysphoria

rainbow-washed progressivism

transwomen are not women

how i became gender critical

autogynephilia explained

[d-trammell]

It's been a minute, so here's a rant (:

I was sitting here thinking, and the beauty of humanity seemed to be a lingering thought. However, I don't define the beauty as kindness, curiosity, etc. The beauty in humanity is the destruction. But when we initually think of destruction, it’s often in a negative light, like wars, environmental damage, self-destruction, etc. But there’s also a certain rawness and a truth to it. It’s like humanity exposes its most primal instincts, its vulnerabilities, and its drive when we face these forces of destruction. Destruction can tear down, but it also transforms. It's like a cyclical process that gives space for something new to emerge, whether in society, art, or even within ourselves. There’s beauty in the scars we bear, in how we rebuild, or in the chaos that uncovers parts of us we may have otherwise hidden.

We are not born to be violent or destructive in the ways that we are. We start as these blank slates, untouched by the world, and then life happens to us. For example, babies are born with such purity, untouched by the complexities and conflicts of the world. They don’t arrive with intentions to harm or the capacity to understand destruction; they’re just bundles of raw potential, full of curiosity and trust. It’s only as they grow and absorb the world around them, it's norms, expectations, fears, and pains, that they learn about things like violence, anger, and even the need to protect themselves from others. In a way, that initial innocence feels almost sacred, like it represents who we might be in a world without influence. But as we experience more, it’s like layers get added, and we start to build defenses, form judgments, and mirror the behaviors we see. So much of what we call “human nature” is really just layers of experience, society, and culture molding us over time. We experience, we adapt, and we absorb lessons that push us in different directions. It’s almost like we’re a blend of intention and inevitability, of innocence and experience, and there’s something admirable in how we navigate it all. Humans are endlessly adaptable and creative, sometimes to heal and sometimes to harm. Even when people end up hurting others or falling into cycles of destruction, it says something about our desire to survive, to have purpose, or maybe even to connect in ways we don’t always understand. Some things are so woven into the fabric of who we are that rather than picking them apart to find answers, maybe the best we can do is observe and acknowledge the mystery and the messiness of it all. There's something humbling about standing back and seeing humanity as a tapestry of contradictions, both capable of love and harm, sometimes within the same breath. In a way, it’s almost like appreciating a piece of art that feels vulnerable and unfinished, maybe even unsettling depending on how you look at it. We can see the brushstrokes, the flaws, the rough edges, but that’s what makes it compelling. It’s something you can’t quite wrap your mind around but can’t look away from either.

To be continued?...

[superm4ks]

~personally~ of course as someone who is very interested in 3344 i would love to hear from lewis what his perspective is on max, who is compared more to senna, who is lewis' hero within his senna stannie fan card. like if senna wrote the fucking book max wrote the smash remake. like obviously humans are messy and complicated but like in ur pysche if the guy you "hate" is cut from the exact same cloth (and even sharper!) than the guy you love hmmmm. there's a lot of things to be talked about when drivers talk about who they idolize and why (or don't idolize). but i also love what u posted form that 1991 article bc f1 has never not been messy and human and solely about "wheel" or whatever and that makes it more interesting.

This is such supermaks bait anyway lets TALK about it 🌷

Literally thats the whole thing wid Canada that really stuck wid me after Max broke Sennas most wins oat, like Lewis' lil selfie wid him and his 'this is a pretty iconic podium' and that whole sloppy toppy moment wid fellow old Dawg Nando ((yall remember Nando podiums . damn 🕊️)) like theres a certain gravitas here. Max ended the most dominant streak by an f1 driver in the most controversial, soul crushing devastating fashion and followed that shit wid his own brand of dominance. That is fucking brutal lmfao. U said it like this is thee smash f1 remake this is textbook Senna, we've seen the script, we know what kind of driver it takes to enact the script. Its not gonna be a nice lil driver, its gonna be somebody who has a deep cynicism for the whole thing while simultaneously being unable to not execute it to perfection. That is Senna. It is Lewis. And it is Max. Max is, by all measures, in his current form, wid this red bull team, driving this car, untouchable. Bro is the final dawg. And the way that he still drives bro, that aggressiveness he has, that unwillingness to give up the line, thats every ((good)) drivers' dream to face a driver like that and come out on top because, ironically, thats as close to racing as it gets and it is old school. It does emulate a different time, a time that Lewis not only grew up watching but contributed to himself. It is about 'wheel' in the end but theres also a person in that car that can break you, which is like an extraordinarily human thing.

I've always found Lewis' bias for Senna very interesting because I think prolly until he was 25, and mind u I havent watched every Hamilton title winning season only 2008 and then obvi 2020 was my first so like obvi really influences how I c him, but he had that same restless nature. The shouts Max was getting even in 2021, Lewis got them too, including being a risk to his own peers, being rash, arrogant, etc. But then Lewis moved past Senna, imo, and became ‘Hamilton’, took over his own narrative, his team, made his own legend, wid his own dominant cars, and like he was settling back into that. Max came in at a point where u thought a Senna-like figure had no more space in f1. But Max created room, literally by force, and is also slowly outgrowing that to become ‘Verstappen’. I think thats the thread that wont snap between them, the knowledge that they are the last true protagonists of their respective eras. I have in faith in sharl, I think sharl wid a competent car, a good team, can achieve history too, but I dont have faith in Ferrari. Ferrari cannot perform to that level rn. So u have this monster at 25 whos like alone in his greatness and refuses to act the part. I get why people who dont fw Max's achievements might not like it, but that doesnt keep him from being the racing driver he is. That has no bearing on it, on him. Its a complete fabrication from fans. That is why Max feels so inevitable, and like, genuinely upsets people who dislike him by saying or doing anything because he will always own up on track and like theres an almost existential horror u cause haters wid that type of aura. Lewis is that same breed of driver, so he recognizes it, he knows what it takes be f1's villain. U cant cast a shadow on something u dont stand over.

After Silverstone he said: 'for a long, long time we’ve had periods of dominance. I’m lucky to have had one with my team. Michael Schumacher had it, Sebastian Vettel had it, and now Max’s period has arrived.' Just now in Hungary right after taking pole he said some shit like 'Max was doing 'Max things' in quali' which is a lil crazy to me. 😐 when the fuck did u ever hear Lewis Hamilton refer to a 'Max thing' except when Max has his ((much beloved)) category 5 Jeddah moments or bullies him during fp1 because he liked dared to breathe in his direction. Like since when is 'Max thing' a compliment. Like something shifted here and part of that is Max's inevitability in this car but also like how Lewis perceives that inevitability. Yk personally I cud only ever measure myself thru the people who beat me. In sports truly competition is all that is, u find somebody better and u chase after them. That's what Max did. He's rewriting those same records, because he can. And everybody who was ever somebody in motorsport did the exact same thing, including Lewis. And Senna right up until he died, because of the way it happened too, unfortunately, changed not only how u saw motorsport but also how u saw the person inside the car.

sharl was recently asked about lewis and max and had a very Leclerc type answer that I found very interesting:

Q: You were able to beat both Verstappen and Hamilton, who is more difficult to deal with?

Charles: "Both of them, they have completely different driving styles. Max always goes to the limit, I like his approach. He is aggressive and creates spectacular fights. Lewis on the other hand is very clever. In the way he positions the car after a corner, for example. He is less aggressive but thinks more. If he doesn't overtake you in one place, it's because he's thinking of an easier one in which to attack!"

Like is this not the most senna prost shit you've ever read in your entire life 😭😭. I think it comes down to how u approach a race and what u do wid the machinery ur given and faced wid certain track-specific challenges. Like look at this Spa weekend and you'd think it's the opposite of what sharl described, but it isnt. Max and Lewis can both be very aggressive, they just came up in the sport differently and established themselves wid different cars. Also neither of them about to let checo catch a break djdkdkd. In CONCLUSION ‼️ motorsport in general is a narrative driven competition wid a mechanical element that can make or break anybody no matter how good they are. Max himself becoming part of the mechanical element is unique to him, tho. Its above and beyond. Trust that the driver who became synonym for dominance in f1 is definitely paying attention lmfao

[iamthemaestro]

lately I feel like I've come to the conclusion that I don't have any sort of explicit, traditional connection to the world around me. like, I'm not religious. I also don't have a particularly strong connection to either of the cultures I am descended from, though I suppose that could change someday. I consider the place in which I grew up to be "home" but I also don't feel like it ever necessarily defined the way in which I exist in the world or live my life.

which got me thinking, what do I have a connection to? what does shape the way in which I think about my place in the world and the life in which I live? and I feel like the answer lies in my historical interests—not in terms of any a specific place or event or figure, but just in my general awareness of the passage of time. while I would not call myself a spiritual person I do feel like this is the closest thing I have to a sense of spirituality—the way in which I have come to view the world as a product of times prior. and in a strange sort of subverted way I’ve developed this kind of obsession with finding those places which are not a product of that: those places which, through the centuries, have stood untouched by time; places which, if you turned back the clock by several hundred years, would look, essentially, the same as they are now.

this is honestly part of why I love rural areas so much. in those quiet corners of the world you can peek into an undisturbed pocket of time and catch a glimpse of the way the world once was. I see it in the way old trees bend over a road and and in the rolling uncultivated meadows on a patch of otherwise industrialized farmland and those grassy plains on the side of the highway that no one ever sets foot in. I always feel like these places resonate particularly when they’re positioned directly alongside those explicit indicators of modernity and human influence—it’s the idea that these places, however small, have somehow escaped the passage of time even as the world marches relentlessly forward around them. it's hard to explain the feeling I get when I stare at a place long enough and suddenly feel like the gears have shifted and I'm looking back in time. it's close to spiritual, I suppose—I think this is the best term I have to describe it.

I don't really believe in ghosts, not in the literal sense, but in a conceptual, almost literary sense, I see them everywhere. of course, it's hard to really conceptualize the the generations upon generations of people who came before us, who fought and died and killed for us, who did unspeakable things and yet created profoundly beautiful pieces of art, who built our cities by hand. but in these lonely, timeless, spaces, it becomes not so difficult to imagine that at one point this place was perceived by someone much like ourselves, only from another age. did this tree ever provide shade for some reckless farmer's son 200 years ago? for a couple of young lovers, discovering romance for the first time? did someone grow up alongside this tree, and look upon it with all the same familiarity that I look at the one outside my living room window?

these "ghosts," so to speak, haunt the narrative of the life I live. it's the same reason I talk a lot about past lives despite not really believing in them myself in any literal sense. but in a kind of abstract way I do believe they exist, for the people who choose to look for them. it's part of my passion for historical reenactment—this idea that, by donning the same clothing and utilizing the same tools and undertaking the same journey that these soldiers did in 1777, for example, we embody them, we walk in their footsteps; in a sense, we do kind of give them a new life. I almost feel like it's more appropriate to say that I don't believe in modern people having past lives, but rather people from the past having future lives. we acquire these past lives, by proxy, by devoting ourselves to them.

I kind of like the agency inherent in it. I've never really resonated with the idea that everyone is just reincarnated from a past life and that some people are simply too ignorant or skeptical to truly "discover" them. I'm a skeptic by nature—I think it comes with the territory of being anxious and doubtful of the world around you—but I have always loved this idea of having this inherent connection to the past on such a human level. so while I personally don't believe in the idea of being literally, physically reincarnated from a person in the past, I do think that, in a sort of abstract, hypothetical way, we can strengthen our connection to the people who came before us—by looking for them, by learning about them, by loving them.

and then I don't feel so alone.

[livgr3]

A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night Viewing Response

(this scene literally changed the trajectory of my life)

I love this film so much!!!!! I've watched it for a few MAC classes and done a good amount of projects on it, it's one of my favorite films of all time so please bear with me if I have a lot to say :).

To start, I have to say I don't wholly agree with Abdi and Calafell's interpretation of The Girl in their text. The authors describe the titular Girl as a "forlorn chador-wearing feminist-vampire-vigilante, attempting to rid the fictional world of Bad City ... from the violence of patriarchy" (358). It's not that this is a completely inaccurate description, per se, as The Girl inevitably disrupts the patriarchy (which I will of course get into later), and can be revered by women audiences as a sort of feminist icon. Within the world of the film, however, I think this description is a bit heavy-handed, overlooking the intricacies and nuances of her character and her motives.

I don't feel that The Girl is this untouchable vigilante figure who's acts are always for the sake of liberating women and dismantling the patriarchy, even if she does end up doing so. In fact, I think the most feminist and empowering thing about her is that she sometimes acts out of her own self interest and her desire to feel human love. I feel like girlboss feminism has created this "I don't need a man" mindset, but my favorite part of the film is that Amirpour dared to portray that badass women, too, can still desire to be loved.

Ok, now for some actual formal analysis.

What is so cool about this film is that Amirpour uses the form of cinema itself, and its masculine traditions, to display a disruption of the patriarchy. It's notable that The Girl does not appear for the first 20ish (?) minutes of the film. We are instead introduced to three male characters with stylistic influences of old Westerns as well as the works of James Dean, all trademarks of western masculinity. We might expect the film that follows to be Arash's face off against the nefarious Saeed, a sort of dick-measuring contest (for lack of better words lol) that we are all too used to in these kinds of films. When we first do meet The Girl, she is framed through the gaze of Saeed, an emobodied masculine force proven to be physically dangerous. While Saeed sees The Girl while in the car with Atti, Amirpour cleverly utilizes the constructions of the male gaze. The audience sees The Girl only as Saeed does: in the mirror, over his shoudler, then not at all. The same occurs when the two cross paths on the sidewalk moments later. At this point, The Girl is still on the periphery of a masculine narrative.

Then, Amirpour does something interesting. As The Girl enters Saeed's apartment, the cinematic gaze gradually shifts. The space is overwhelmingy, obnoxiously "masculine." As The Girl takes it all in with disgust, we begin to see how ridiculous this masculine aesthetic truly is. Still, she is alone and physically small within a space that might as well be masculinity itself, with a dangerous man and his predictably disgusting motives. As the two get closer, Amirpour really hones in on compositions of the male gaze. In the scene GIFed above, Saeed is above The Girl, emphasizing her physical size. Her face is in focus, presumably to show its seductive nature as he is seeing it.

Despite my qualms with the Abdi and Calafell reading, they had a point that really stood out to me, and that applies a lot here. They remark that The Girl's vampirism "allows her to fight patriarchy; however, she is still living within a patriarchal society in which her raced, classed, and gendered body is disciplined" (365). Amirpour plays with societal expectations of how The Girl and her body would typically be positioned in this moment. With Saeed looking down at her and placing his finger in her mouth, she appears disempowered. In an instant, all of these expectations are turned on their head. After biting off Saeed's finger, it is him that is now disempowered, whimpering on the floor. When he looks up at the girl, she is no longer seductively framed. Her face is covered in his blood and she looks terrifying. In this moment, the patriarchal narrative of the film has been disrupted. What follows is discordance, a cynical view of the world now through The Girl's gaze.

[redemptioninterlude]

ayato is a beautiful fool, a wonderful, strange prince. the one that built himself a castle with walls so high that none might reach him, and that empty space of his called a heart. alice can see right through him, the night, the darkness, even in places like the back of this limousine, all draped in luxury that he didn't really care for, but found himself accustomed to, regardless. how unwilling he was to allow himself an ounce of weakness, or what was perceived as, within his eyes, and oh, how aware she was, that this EPHEMERAL TRUTH SHARED between them frightened who and what he was to his core. can't she pin, and point, and drag out the truth from his lips, even now as she says all the things she knows he's been pining for, ayato in his tower, his desires transparent to the girl who drowned herself within the dreams of all those around her. but what was she, if not a stealth tourist within this iteration of his life, the both of them, temporary residents of wherever they might find themselves in the moment, lives meant to be reset before anybody notices the facts that do not yet align with the human understanding of normalcy?

that she'd be fine to curl her fingers of influence into his chest shouldn't have surprised him, with sweeter words. who was the real monster between the both of them, when framed with such unfiltered truth? it isn't as if alice is unawares of the way that she could sway the household, so long as she played the game of their emotions rightly. what a wicked thing to consider, but she would have considered herself ABOVE SUCH THINGS... was that not yet a trap in and of itself? the arbitrator of truth within these circumstances might not be so generous in their interpretation of events, though, alice likes to think that her only purpose within this play was to simply set them all upon the path with which they utmost yearned for. what a surprise to find that she herself might be what they hoped for, because whatever for? she was emptied out, nothing but a matryoshka doll, resting pieces of herself within yet a further layer, untouchable to everyone, most of all herself. what could they hope to salvage? but then, what has she ever allowed for others to attempt to seek out themselves, within this grand mission she believed herself tasked with, truthfully...

what an UGLY REVELATION about herself to come to.

he holds her now with the hesitancy of a boy who has never known how to give love, as if admitting what he wanted here, now, would have been a strike against the core of him. that he was brought up in the view that love was weakness, and something to be exploited among those who hardly knew better, and ayato was never the sort to imagine himself on uneven ground, in a LOSING BATTLE. because love, too, was loss - in so many ways. the loss of self, of sanity. alice herself so stripped of the measure thanks to years and lifetimes spent pouring it out and out until she's just what she was now ; the vessel for something bigger. how being here, now, provides a near selfish tug at the core of her to wish she could demand more. but her curse was but another to bare... and perhaps he might accept her despite that. regardless of square ones and all the rest of it. she could hope for better. that he wouldn't take each reset as another means or weapon to punish her for something that felt so far beyond her means, her hands. would he allow for that in him? even though she reached out now to him with outstretched hands, how his own fit there against her cheeks, as if wondering, wondering...

but look at him. a soldier against his own upbringing, having gone to war for it, and at the end of it, this confessional that she knew was spat past unwilling lips. it's never meant to be EASY she thinks. love. or even acceptance. that he has spent all of this time painting over each moment with a desire to misconstrue each moment together with the brush of lewdness or denial. it's simple, when people are reduced to such means... she understands the irony and the pointedness of it, his own desire to escape beneath the weight of what could be. "i don't need a dog~ i was always a cat person instead." a tease, that filters through so easily, her attempt to pierce at the tension that has pooled between his shoulder blades, no mouse, no master needed within even this private enclosure as the limo still rolls down along these roads. abandoned stretches, to lead towards that darkened house where he plays lord before all of his brothers, his father, their mistresses and wives. the boy king sat upon a throne of his own creation, his own denial.

there, hands grip at her shoulders as if to shake reality into her bones, but he's there, raw-nerved and willing, regardless, to press on with what she knew pained him. insane, he calls it, as if she hasn't been. who says it's a competition? he wants her, all of her, in a way that she knew if he had the power to, would even consume all of her dreams, and dreamscapes. that within his palms, he'd do anything to tear her apart from the vines that have held her hostage within the pits of purgatory, and for that love, that intensity, alice finds herself so deeply touched, knowing far too well... that this, all of this, went so contrary to his own nature. perhaps SHE TOO could find it within her to fight what fate had so callously assigned to her, before she could remember, before alice was legend. breath drawn, startled and unsure with eyes blinkering back at him with something that felt, perhaps to her too, cut to the bone. "then don't be driven mad. perhaps we were meant to be mad for it all together. you know, sweet, sweet ayato... you can't steal what i want to give you, always, freely, openly-" that he might consume this life, and the next and the next and the next, she had to trust he wouldn't bore of her and her curiosities, her endless spills and pushes and emptiness. she had to believe there was all of this, and more, in a boy who had only ever thought of himself because she knew all too well that he was capable of the world. she'd seen it all there, within the centre of him. she just had to trust that could mean her too.

kiss her, hold her, she laughs at his ask because - "i think i've known you far longer then we've known each other. does that make sense? maybe you've ALWAYS been meant to be a part of me, and me a part of you. i want to believe not in fate, but in what you're telling me now. i want to believe in us, because that feels a far better religion than sacrifice. i want to be selfish. i want to be yours." knowing all too well, that this, this could not be a bell unrung. and perhaps that was better to know, to understand, stealing one more kiss because she knew him a willing victim within this, as she was, fingers twinning where she could capture his, cold against the warmth of her.

- @dangaer

           part of him has never wished for her to be this open,        teasing in one breath yet strikingly vulnerable in the next, truth unspooling alongside the glimmering threads of her hair and where he would once have found it rather amusing, the sort of helpless plight that would leave him laughing for a week straight, he finds himself feeling just all the more exposed staring face to face. despite how frequent such an situation may seem it remains merely one soul who manages to counter him in every step, to leave him as exposed despite the air of arrogance, defense he chooses to enamour himself with every single day. ‘ i want to be with you ‘, she reminds him, lips still pouted from the moment he had taken her last breath away, eyes sparkling, searching, for the weakness he is certain she wishes to batter if not break; the lovestruck protagonist caught in the her very own confession scene, he can tell, brought to life if not from pages then from his wistfulness, for his greed. ‘ that is what i think you’ve yearned for ‘ she offers and manages to counter all the same, forcing their positions upfront, outright in place. the blushing maiden becomes the dauntless saviour, palms holding onto the villains own as though she is unaware of his wishes to devour her in turn, the sole damsel no longer in distress because she knows they’ve gone too far, lest it’s far too late.

but a confession isn’t exactly what such a scene is all about and even he knows better than to just assume that. 

it’s an uncanny stalemate, he reminds himself. alice views him as human, views the stone in his chest as something warm and beating; ayato knows such mortality is no better than weakness, that brick and mortar built in his chest is no difference to a ticking time bomb against his ribcage. this, then, is just another reference towards it. caught between the loneliness of the moon and the downward curve of her lips, throat that stirs a feeling in his chest beyond the hunger that he is so very used to and maybe if he were a selfless soul he would call it enough,  understand his role in a tale he no doubt has already bent too far beyond it’s spine, a detour to the ending he supposes even he recognises coming up so soon but against alice ... he can tell he wants more. has always found himself yearning for something beyond the push and pull he has put them both through these past few months.

and the basis of alice’s words reminds him that he can want it,  that there is a difference between once lust and what he yearns for  and that is what brings him back to the now, here, where they stand and the world turns, her fingers spurned into the wrinkles of his shirt with the anchor of a kite too delicate in the storms they’ve no doubt both learned to call home and ayato is clinging back with the grief of a boy who has long since hardened himself from the warning of his should have been mothers curse, eyes round and mouth curled, hands shifting to run his thumbs over the tips of her cheekbones as it stuck in the denial of how real she actually is to not leave in this very frame. it would have been easier for them both, if he hadn’t forced her to play in the first place. a thought he’s considered no doubt countless times before, though it comes with no willingness to act through on at it, either;  it’s a fact, considering where her frustrations with him lie, but that has never meant he’s wished it to play out another way. for all the times he’s made her bleed, cry, alice has always remained ... special. to him, to them in general. and despite everything else it remains triumphant enough to counter every argument that lingers in the corner of his smile and down his throat. 

❛  the hell d’ya mean, bold?  ❜  he brings himself out of it, his harrowing stupor to press their foreheads together,  eyes baring widely, emotionally,  in a way he hopes the shadows will cover the mist that pools at the bottom of his gaze. not in a way he imagines she’ll completely mind to see it, but ... this is an unfamiliar situation, will and emotion never fully expressed around another familiar soul and as much as alice pleads with him to be true does he have to bury the thoughts of his mother in the corner of his eye, her own pleas to be the only one towards her own man fuelling a dependency to destroy all that he has helped her create, his own sanity merely one of them. alice has never held the same anger however and so he convinces himself it’s safe to continue, a shaky breath the mere interlude to confirm it’s okay. 

  ❛  ━ i could be your damn dog if i wanted to!  ❜   breathless, tone above a whisper but not quite short of breathless, trembling with emotion. he can’t bring himself to allow his apologies to shine through, because he doesn’t know how too, but it wracks through him regardless, the familiar grief that has his head running with a sudden, thrumming static.  he chokes out a laugh, dauntless. maybe he shouldn’t sound so angry, for one. but then again he doesn’t really know how to express it in a way that doesn’t bleed into rage, and if alice wills him to make this so uncomplicated for the both of them, well ... 

  ❛  cat or mouse, master and pet ... i could’ve been them all, ‘cause that’s what i know how to be. how i’ve learned to be. guys like me ain’t supposed to love without bein’ someones full attention, whether that’d be through stealing or scheming or something worse━   ❜  pause, another rocky breath. his hands slip down to grip on her shoulders instead.  ❛  to see you give your attention to another guy, that sort of thing pisses me off. how is that love when you’re makin’ it a competition? threatenin’ to give someone else the kisses i want to take from you, it’s enough to drive me insane ...  ❜  is that loving? he knows it’s not. doesn’t have much of an idea, truly, mouth partially running with whatever rests on his mind and partially just, choosing to explain only half the picture he feels more comfortable to admit, and it would help if he could just affirm the facts she has stated but he sort of, isn’t sure whether he should admit it. wants her to know he loves her, also wants her to still have to chase for it, can’t really see the option to have both at the same time and ultimately he settles for sprinklings of the truth because it’s relieving. incredibly relieving, actually. so that’s what he settles for. 

he presses his lips up against her own indefinitely once more, pulls apart only when a tear threatens to spill on her cheek in turn. there’s a wound somewhere, deep down, that alice has managed to split open and both of them are now so incredibly aware of it he hopes it doesn’t spill further because, strikingly, he’s unsure just how much further he can take it, torn between what he wants the reality of just how much he’s destroyed to compensate for it from the girl now stands before him / the girl he wishes to press his lips into again and again. 

because that is the easiest way for him to express his emotions to her, ayato knows, almost admitting out loud but it’s a secret he’ll no doubt wonder whether to take to a metaphorical grave. 

 ❛  how can you, out of anyone, tell it so easily, then?  ❜  teasing, but not quite so. his gentle attempt at lightheartedness thrown against the shattering break of his defences.   ❛  am i that easy to read, at the end of the day?  ❜ / @redemptioninterlude cont'd!

[nibeul]

How often does the Coruscant Guard have to deal with anti-clone civilians?

question from @outernorth

Ok, I actually had a lot of ideas for this which I was going to include in the original post but didn’t since I decided it was getting too long. 

Anti-clone sentiment isn’t uncommon on Coruscant, and my bet is that most of the CG troopers are more than accustomed to it. It’s kind of an everyday thing that ranges from subtle comments to straight up insult and violence, but there isn’t really anything they can do about it except roll with the punches. There are civilians who see them as nothing more than punching bags, there are civilians who seem them as droids, or there are civilians who blame them for the war. There’s a variety of problems civvies have with clones and they unfortunately just have to sit and take most of it since most of it is unorganized. 

That’s with regular civilians/criminals anyway. 

Moving on, there are a handful of anti-war groups with varying goals/purposes (I might expand more on others in the future), though the main one I’ve been sitting on is called the Republic Peace League [RPL for short]. They formed at the beginning of the Clone Wars and cite the clones as the cause of the conflict. Since clone production drains a whole lot of money from the Senate, it's been pretty easy for them to gain support from the general public, especially the working class and those in poverty (whom make up the majority of the Coreworlds’ population). The organization itself claims to be peaceful, however there have been a number of attacks (specifically on clones) which Fox has desperately been trying to link to them. It’s... not really a secret that the RPL isn’t as peaceful as they promote themselves to be, but the Senate continues to turn a blind eye because the most the group could be charged with is “damaging Republic property” and they also have ties to the Senate itself (gotta love corruption). Since the RPL hasn’t publicly claimed any of its attacks, it’s made Fox’s job that much harder, and the violence continues to escalate. 

The RPL has adopted three Points of Unity:

An end to the production of clones

An end to clone presence in the coreworlds

Redistribution of military funding

The public figurehead for the Republic Peace League is a human man by the name of Haro Zapaal, and he commonly broadcasts speeches over the holonet in what he calls “attempts to reach the common civilian”. Haro himself is upper middle class, as are most of his associates, and he’s said to be extremely charismatic which is appealing to his listeners. He’s the face of the RPL (though there’s evidence that suggests he isn’t actually the mastermind) and the size of his influence is more than concerning. Haro Zapaal himself doesn’t get his hands dirty, though his speeches more or less encourage his followers to, which is part of the reason why it’s so hard to bring any evidence against Zapaal himself. He can’t actually be charged with anything because he’s not directly inciting violence, just leaving a space where it can be encouraged. Putting the blame on the clones is also an easy way to absolve the Senate of responsibility which is.. kind of appealing to the public in a way I guess? Because Senators seem untouchable even if you hate them while clones are on the ground and there. 

Really, the only reason the RPL has so much support is because Haro Zapaal has a way with words and blaming the war on the clones is an easy copout for a lot of people. Zapaal doesn’t... actually care about ending the war, he just knows that his position gives him power. Redistribution of the military budget is really the only good point the RPL puts forward, but uh, it’s also intentionally vague because those resources probably would not be going to help the public and more so the pockets of Zapaal and his associates. There are dozens of other anti-war groups which are actually focused on helping the Republic’s citizens, and like I said above, I might expand on some of those too, though this is the one I have the most ideas for at the moment. 

Lore Tags: @captain-rexter @spacerocksarethebestrocks @stormwarnings @lummolte @anstarwar @mando-meer (if you want to be added to tags, feel free to shoot me an ask! also, I’m going to be tagging my lore posts with “nibsverse”)

[androgynousblackbox]

random thought but something i haven't really seen people realize about the whole creepshow art thing is that people who are actually good and kind don't have to constantly say it. people who oppose criminal/immoral behavior don't have to make these huge leaps in logic or conflate reality and fiction. but the people who do these things always manage to build communities/followings based on their puritanical views. then, when they inevitably "mess up" by liking the wrong thing because they're human, their fanbase will always cannibalize them, but they can't complain because this is the culture they helped create. honestly worried about the youtubers with big followings who do this, like d'angelo wallace or ready to glare or even sz. i'm also hoping they don't try to go into professional artistic spaces with thoughts like theirs so they don't feel embarrassed when they're laughed at. (side note: i always say, game of thrones was one of the most internationally renowned tv and book series for almost a decade and it has everything in it that these folks hate. "normal people" don't care. and the people who create these works understand art).

I don't know anything about Ready To Glare, but about the other two I can safely say I don't trust any of them to keep the favour of the public forever. D'Angello is practically untouchable right now and SZ's influence has expanded to the point I hear random ass commentary video channelS promoting her channel, even if the content has nothing to do with her. They all have everyone else signing their praises and ignoring/excusing away the misinformation/clickaity shit they do, so it seems like a waste of time to even point it out. But Creepshow was also like that at one point. Literally anyone who ever tried to criticize her, no matter if they had their own platform or not, would get flowed with negative attention and scrutiny to the point it seemed like anything they said was null. All her mistakes or awful shit that should have clue us in on what a piece of shit she was just passed over everyone's head. My own posts about her before everything went down felt more personal venting because nobody outside of a small circle of people gave a fuck. She was "their queen", she was "just speaking the truth", she was "just doing her job", she was "calling out those who deserved it"... until someone called her out for something big enough and oh, suddenly everyone "had a feeling" about her, suddenly everyone was "I knew something was wrong with her", they all got "a vibe about her" and bla bla. I am not saying that down the line we are going to find out any of those three people ever did to anyone something as horrific, because I have no way of knowing that and obviously I don't want to imagine someone as abused like Crapshow's victim was. But mistakes do accumulate. Tendencies are noticed by people, even if it seems it's not the case right now. So I will say it's just a matter of time for everyone to be put on it's rightful place. Crapshow did managed to fool everyone for a long time, but she couldn't keep up forever and neither will anyone else.

[sprawa-przybyszewskiej]

Gnostic inspirations in Przybyszewska’s works

At the highest point of her intellectual life, Stanisława Przybyszewska spent over 12 hours each day simply on writing her own works, continously, and with maniacal care, educating herself on absolutely everything (she was constantly looking for fields in which she might be a natural genius) and she rarely did anything else at all, which included things like earning a wage or sweeping her own floors. The effect of such existence was of course that she was severely depressed, but also thoroughly educated. It means that traces of whatever matter from history or philosophy can be spotted in her works, are most likely intentional and put there exactly with the hopes of showing her erudice.

One of such matters was gnosticism. Gnosticism is a set of beliefs which put emphasis on obtaining liberation from this life through gnosis (knowledge) and cast aside all that is not of the mind – so not only the flesh, but also the spirit. Without going into details of some specific gnostic rite it is simpler to say that gnostics value gnosis higher than any of their base beliefs and teachings (in Europe gnostics are mostly mentioned in relation to early christianity, Cathars are an example of this). Then the contrast one can find within religion (for example sin and liberation from it) is replaced with earthly illusion and gnosis, which frees one from the illusion and guarantees a higher level of life, of sorts (in gnostic beliefs, our presence on Earth is not linear, leading from birth, through life and death to afterlife, but resembles more of a ladder, with each rung leading closer to obtaining total knowledge, and simultenously losing all that tethers one to earthly illusions.

In literature, strong contrasts are a good indication we can look into it to spot gnostic inspirations or at the very least make a strong case they could be there, even if unintentional. In Przybyszewska's case, however,  they are all the more probable, for I vaguely recall she was well aware of the presence of these beliefs and everything she wrote on the nature of genius points in the same direction, too. She held these beliefs in her own, private set of core values, and there isn't any better place for her to show them to us but through her works. She presented us with an utopian vision of mental progress in her plays, while in her prose works, she focused on the darker side of the same things.

The axis of conflict in gnosticism is between the mind and the spirit. Robespierre is without a doubt a man of the mind much more so than of the spirit, and all the important figures surrouding him are more on the spiritual side of things (with Camille being the most prominent in this regard). Maxime has achieved the gnosis, the crown that will burn [his] brains right through.Before it happens, though, he is elevated onto another plane of understanding, a place where no other person can reach him, or even understand him:

Danton, of course, is lying.

(There is, sadly, no French translation of Thermidor; on another note, it took me this long to realize the French decided to change the person's tag from Camille to Desmoulines, which is suprising in the best sense of the word).

Robspierre is clearly constructed to be a genius, standing above everybody else and thus bearing greater responsibility, something which demands of him more than it does of others.  Madness which he suspects within himself at the end  is only a threat because it potentially leads to commiting mistakes, and a mistake is an unforgivable offence when it is committed by the one who ought to know better. Mistakes by a hand of another – for example Camille – are a different story altogether, for the majority of people not only don't achieve gnosis, but even cannot achieve it, their mental state isn't developed enough for them to grasp at the higher concepts. I think this is one of the reasons why Saint-Just's words: It is not madness, it's despair, are actually calming Robespierre down. Despair is simply a sign of being weary, something to be expected.

Maxime's knowledge and better judgement of everything is of course still a curse, leading to his death. In gnosticism, death isn't meant in a macabre sense, since it leads to yet another, higher rung of the metaphorical ladder we're standing on, but the gnosis obtained beforehand makes a death a good one instead of a waste. When Robespierre is going through his moment of despair at the end of The Danton Case, he betrays the gnosis he has in favour of admiting that the future will turn out differently than what could be expected: his death won't be a natural progression, but a failure, his depaire sets him back into the crowd of the sad, grey mass of the people who are not – like him – predestined to understand more.

From the linguistic point of view, I find it interesting that in the original and in the French version, he is using somewhat esoteric language (the future is under the sign of Danton – to my eyes, it is a clear refereance to the Zodiac signs, something which is supposed to predestine our futures, and which is also esoteric and ritualistic; given all the hints that she was abused by her satanist father, it makes a really sad, hopeless final note on the grand scheme of things for the humanity, that we, as humans, are incapable of running away from the brute forces which will continue to rule us simply because the world is built like this – not to mention the inability to change the future or even just the fate of one's life is a staple of gnostic beliefs).

No matter what he says about it, the inability to escape from one's fate is something which we rarely associate with Robespierre, because – as much as Przybyszewska makes it clear, thet he is a genius and thus everything he does he is not only allowed to do, but must do it for the greater good – he seems a bit like a self-made man, perhaps because we see him all the time in situations which are hard and difficult, but not impossible. A much more tragic situtation of the lack of escape from his own poor choices is being presented to us through Camille.

Camille has had a chance to be continously tethered to Maxime, securing for himself relevant safety in the public life, and calmess or even happiness in his private one. Yet he breaks with Robespierre over and over again, starting even before the plot of the play. Maxime reaches out to him against his better judgement, and Camille – also against his better judgement – decides to stay loyal to Danton. He is as if glued to his leader, even though he sees him clearly for what he is. Camille is an apotheosis of a spiritual being, someone ruled by impulses, perhaps even with the best of intentions, but whose mind will never achieve gnosis, the clear vision of what is right and true. When Robespierre argues with the Committee by demanding they leave Danton (and Camille by proxy) alone, he plots against Maxime in his newspaper; when Robespierre goes to him under the cover of night, he doesn't want to see him and then throws him out; when Robespierre tries to either break him free from the prison or at the very least console him by admitting his love (I never actually knew what was his plan here), he follows the advice of his bad influences and doesn't admit him. It's as if a strange force kept him by Danton's side, and I don't think it was any normal feeling (of shame or guilt) keeping him away from Maxime. In The Last Nights of Ventose he makes it quite clear being a stronger person's lap dog would never bring him shame, but honour, thus I don't think he'd have any problem with returning to Robespierre after a long while of abuse and slander.

The relationship Camille has with Danton is another aspect of gnosticism, namely its duality. Danton is a stand-in for Maxime, which doesn't work because Danton is anti-Robespierre, his negative double (much like in some gnostic beliefs world was created and being conducted by two gods, one good and one evil). It is unclear whether Camille had any real, true potential to serve "good" Robespierre, but  even if he didn't, if his friableness kept him from serving a greater purpose (which I don't know if I believe, in The Last Nights of Ventose we are presented with a very different portrayal of Camille, one who could achieve something much greater than he did if only he was by Robespierre's side at all times), serving the "evil" Danton couldn't possibly have a good outcome.

He even does return to Robespierre, for a short while, steered by emotions rather than anything else. But in this dualistic, gnostic reality, emotions have little to do, they aren't worth very much. What's more, if we focus solely on Camille, we have to admit that – as in every story, revolving around a single character – a person is in a way stuck in time. He can go about in the space his life takes, but time is more like a deity, untouchable and something you cannot pact with. For Camille, it doesn't matter how many times and at what point in time (before their fallout, during the crisis or at the last hour) Maxime asks him to break with Danton and go back to him, because time and predestined fate hold all the power of what is happening, while individuals hold none (and the aforementioned last statement of Robespierre explains right away that it is so even for the "great" individuals, who in other aspects are being held to different standards, but against time and fate they are just as powerless).

I like to think, though, that Przybyszewska has left a small postern for Camille to achieve gnosis or its more humane equivalent by drawing a symbolic parallel between two scenes, which are only made significat by their possible relating to each other, but mean next to nothing on heir own:

In the first scene, the key could have been a completely incidental choice of words/tools, after all it's a logical conclusion of the scene. There is, however, a more symbolic reading of it, as a key is of course a symbol, and a pretty easy one at that. If Camille gave Robespierre the key himself, this could be read as an end to their relationship, Camille returning the power  that Maxime holds over him to Maxime's own hands. But since we only see Lucille relay the key, and we know that Lucille is also capable of influencing her husband and directing his steps (even if she says she can't; Robespierre's words, seeing as he's the genius here, are the final judgement of this), this could mean she is giving her portion of power to Maxime, whom she trusts to save her husband. And Maxime uses this one more time, when he tries to visit Camille in prison. That he fails miserably is against Camille's wishes, because Camille even in his demise only succumbs to wishes of others.

But we know he regrets this step mightily and we know it precisely because he dreams (or rather has a nightmare) about the very key he was supposed to convey to Robespierre earlier. He regrets the desire to give Maxime his power back, he regrets that by doing so in any way, shape or form he has finally given up his life. Choosing a beautiful death over an ugly, humiliating life only sounded good in his head, but in truth, he is beyond terrified and would love nothing more but to Maxime to come in again and if not save him, then at the very least – forgive him. But for that, they'd have to meet again, and he couldn't throw Maxime out. I also don't understand why both the English and French translation added the word "effortlessly" when describing his last moment with Robespierre, because make no mistake, it is very much an unnecessary addition, going against everything that he has been portrayed like so far. Their last conversation is just as much a tragic one for Camille as it is for Maxime.

Przybyszewska took great pains to paint Camille in front of our eyes as someone so weak that we find him as more of a comic relief than anything else, but in reality he is just a differing portrayal of powerlessness when faced with fate. Camille is not a comical character, but a tragic one, he is just the same as Robespierre, his other half: they both believe in their own agency, they both believe they are the ones making choices and pushing their lives forward, but it is not a coincidence that they both end up in he very same place, in a span of mere weeks.

This post would not have been born if it weren't for @patricidefan​.

[majorbaby]

i woke up with additional thoughts on what this means for engaging with fanwork and my discomfort with 'this is for fun' being used to dismiss things.

firstly because i don't think that gives proper weight to fun, joy and play all of which i think are wrongly cast as being frivolous which is in no small part thanks to grind culture and capitalism valuing production over anything else.

and secondly because some things cannot be fun (except when you find some kind of fun angle to approach them with sorry i can't shake off postmodernism lol) and honest at the same time. you gotta make things bad and awful sometimes not as a choice, but because that's what they are. you take away the awfulness and it's no longer the thing that it was.

like if you can't talk about bad or ambiguous endings or character eing messed up for no obvious reason or flashback to whatever singular event in their life which has traumatized them, then you really cannot address racialized experiences or queer experiences (and the intersection of both) in a varied way. and that's what good representation is - a varied representation of experiences. instead we have now "there's a queer character" and "there's a black woman in this"

this is linked to the 'proship' vs 'anti' debate and the weaponization of the term 'safe space' and the assignment of every last behaviour to some kind of moral standard. this really hurts racialized people. the ritegud podcast used the example of people likening bernie sanders to an 'angry abusive father' for being angry about, idk, the broad state of human rights in america, for cussing about it, for getting riled up during his speeches. setting down the fact that i'd say it's a righteous anger, the podcasters pointed out that he's just a new yorker. to be more specific, he's a jewish man from new york, which i'm sure had some influence upon the way his non-jewish critics on the left attacked his character - but it also has to do with an increased value of the 'kickass' the 'that's the good shit' - which may not appear to demand respectability and order, but as soon as its lacking, your wrist is slapped hard or you're characterized as being a degenerate.

'bad kinks' - you know what they are, 'untouchable' or 'proship' content etc is actually a more sanitized opponent than the antis claim to be fighting against. all stories that are too dark to be told are relatives of that type of 'bad content' by virtue of their creators having been told at some point 'you can't tell this story' and sometimes audiences being told 'you can't listen to this story'

lots of stories about people on the fringes of society contain examples of degeneracy because it's thrust upon us by the ruling class. naturally these experiences aren't fun, so why would stories about them be fun except to pander to people who otherwise won't consume those stories?

LRB raquel and i have had our differences (parasocial) but in her conversation she talks about the "squeedom" movement in literature, which is adjacent to fandom and relies on the online-ity of readers. she approached it from her experience with science fiction and fantasy but much of what she said resonated with me and how i feel, how ive often felt, engaging with fanfiction and fandom.

one part in particular - if you take a racialized character and pop them into a standard sci-fi story, that will do pretty well and the story is praised for its diversity. it's in vogue right now to do that. but readers and publishers are much less amicable to stories that are about a black or latinx or asian narratives, which is hard to explain without naming a specific piece but like - stories which get labelled as being "post colonial" for example, even tho they may belong to a genre such as fantasy, romance, sci fi etc.

and that's in part because escapism is much harder to come by in those kinds of stories, which are often bleak or horrifying or contain sexual taboos that people arent ready for or arent ready for if it isnt white bodies partaking.

[watermelinoe]

This is kind of a weird route to terfdom but one of the things that really got me questioning the libfem blogs i followed was the strange insistence that because a thing was common in one group or they had first heard of it coming from that group, that it coming from anywhere else too was clearly copying or appropriation. Like braided bread was Jewish and Jewish only, hairsticks were asian and asain only, square peices of fabric tied at the waist for skirts were african and african only, dual dutch braids are black american and black american only. It's not that I don't think cultural appropriation is a thing but humans have been coming up with the same basic ideas for fucking ever, all over the globe, because they are simple and sensible approaches to problems. Once i started to question their weird insistance on being right about that stuff in the face of overwhelming evidence otherwise, i began to question trans politics too and look at evidence provided by radfems and spiraled from there. This ridiculous idea that humans of different cultures couldn't possibly have similar solutions to things is really similar to the idea that a western woman has nothing in common with an eastern woman and there is no universal female experiences. They seem to determined to seperate us.

sorry it took me so long to get to this, i wanted to be able to give a really well thought-out answer bc... there's a lot of nuance to this discussion imo!

my problem with the average "cultural appropriation" argument is that more often than not it's the laziest possible interpretation, usually online, usually by some white kid trying to look woke. just a little bit ago kids on tiktok were demanding these like, eastern europeans i think (don't quote me) apologize for appropriation for wearing their own traditional dress bc it "looked mexican." or however long ago when nicki minaj was in the hot seat for wearing a "native american" headdress.... that was actually caribbean.

because you're exactly right, a lot of humans were coming up with the same shit all over the world at different times.

but my other issue is this idea that all of these cultures evolved in an isolated vacuum and were never influenced by any other people groups. that's hilarious to me, personally, but also a little disturbing when i start to get major "Cultural Purity" vibes from otherwise well-meaning people who think we should all just keep to our Own Cultures :)

university is where i mainly observed this weird dissonance where i'm being bombarded with evidence of cultural amalgamation every day in my art history lectures, while in my small discussion sections i'm asked to apply cultural relativity to, say, the practice of fgm in west africa. i wrote an entirely neutral paper on its cultural significance, as if those girls (and boys as well in that case) aren't also people like me. that's just the way "they" do things. it forces you to dehumanize people from other cultures, honestly.

and this isn't to say that the dynamics of cultural interactions don't matter. there's a very good, historical reason why white americans do not and should not ever have ownership over black american culture. to me, for the most part, there's a visible difference in how braids are used in black hairstyles versus the traditional white european hairstyles. but not always. it's not really about the hair itself, but the double standard applied to black people whose hairstyles are called "unprofessional," "inappropriate," while on white people they're cool and subversive. the real harm of cultural appropriation isn't really the decontextualization of a specific culture, but that it obscures discrimination. yes, both white people and black people wear braids, but as white people we're not discriminated against when we do.

at the same time, i love to see evidence of human interaction. oppressive cultural dynamics happen on a very wide scale that can be summed up in your history textbook from a third-person perspective. on an individual level, of course discrimination still exists, but there's no real malicious significance to seeing someone do or make something and thinking "i like that, i want to join." one of my favorite things i encountered studying art history was seeing the way cultural artistic styles combined, yes, sometimes as a result of an overarching subjugating political takeover. and like, i hate to say it, but sometimes that didn't really change someone's daily life. people are very resistant to change on an individual level. look at how many people were converted to a new religion by just adding a new god to their own beliefs.

mudéjar architecture came about because of the islamic empire's conquest of spain over a thousand years ago. and check out this greco-roman influenced gandhara bodhisattva from almost 2000 years ago. cultural exchange!

"emperor qianlong watching the peacock in its pride" from 1760 qing dynasty china, influenced by the italian painter castiglione.

there's a lot more universality to our different cultures than a lot of people would like to acknowledge, i think. it dehumanizes someone to categorize them as Foreign, to label their culture as entirely separate and untouchable, and it feels to me very much like people think culture is something that can become contaminated by the wrong people interacting. and i do think heritage is incredibly important, i do think cultural appropriation hurts people from oppressed social groups. but i also think cultural exchange is very natural and important.

the refusal to see nuance (not to mention the blatant inaccuracies i mentioned at the start that happen all the time) is definitely a big part of what drove me away from liberal spaces, and i do think there are people who have a specific agenda of dividing western white women from other women around the world. specifically to keep us from empathizing with each other and finding common ground. i just think it discourages the genuine instinctive desire to explore something new and compare it to what's familiar to you.

[tarithenurse]

Stolen - 9

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson &/x fem!gifted!reader Content: Angst. Feels. Plot. References to other MCU events. A/N: Thanks for reblogs, comments, and likes <3 It has honestly made me get through these last two days. If you want on the taglist, just send an ask or reblog.

9. Irresponsible Hate Anthem

…   Reader  …

At least Loki has allowed you to sit down, and good thing too considering that today is the most you’ve done since pushing yourself and your limits by healing the priestess. He has also brought you something to drink and some grape-like fruits. All in all: he is procrastinating and it’s making you awfully nervous.

“Loki.” The god scurries off to fetch you a blanket. “Loki!” you call after him. “Just get your ass back here and start talking!”

Whirling towards you, his jaw clenches and eyes darken with fury...but he stops himself and does as asked. “This is the last time I will allow such insubordination, mortal.”

“Fine.” Ramping up the sarcasm, you clasp your hands and plead, “Oh, mighty Loki. Bestow your wisdom upon me!”

Silence stretches. If he hadn’t been completely stone faced then you might have feared you’d gone too far. As it is, however, the Asgardian simply sighs. He and the others...they should be immortal but he looks old now. A smidgen of discomfort wiggles into your chest, sending tendrils out to legs and arms with the urge to fidget, to tap an unsteady rhythm with a foot, anything to ease the tension you are feeling. At the same time, a self-empowering annoyance is nudging your mind from the other side in an attempt to point out the next issue. I should not feel sorry. He’s a bad guy.

“There are influencing factors to the events that have led to this point.” Loki speaks softly despite a strain to his voice that tells you he is holding back. “In a manner, of all this started many thousand years ago by your time...but what is of relevance to you is the understanding of why your realm was beset by the Chitauri under my command. Who I served by doing as I did.”

“It...it wasn’t your decision?” The wine in your glass is sloshing subtly so you set it down with a clatter.

The green gaze wanders from hands to face, wordlessly binding you to anything he is about to say. “I did not propose it...but I did not oppose it.” Sighing again, he shrugs. “Explaining why will take more time than we have available. Suffice to say that I found myself in the questionable service of a being, an entity, called Thanos. The Mad Titan, is another of his monikers...and quite descriptive too.”

“Titan? Like...Greek myth titan?”

“...no. I would almost suppose the Midgardian titans of old would be preferable. Thanos is powerful in more ways than you can imagine and my fear is that his plan is much worse than even I suspect. Wherever he goes, only half of the population survives to struggle through a ravaged realm, slowly dying from the blows he has dealt them.”

Liar! “But Earth survived! You didn’t even kill half of New York, and now you want to tell me there’s a dude that could end half a planet worth of people? Pfft!”

Loki’s cold hands wrap around your fingers. “Don’t be foolish. Conquering Mi- Earth was not his main objective but a bit of fun to test the strength of the forces, the defences.” Hesitating, he focuses briefly on the way he has grasped your hands. “What Thanos wanted – and still wants – from your realm is an object with immense power. That object, the Tessaract, is one of six and all together they will make him unstoppable.”

“The Avengers stopped you...him,” you try slowly, “they’d caught you. So...you didn’t get that...Tessa-thing to him. Right?”

“No, Thanos does not have the Tessaract,” he agrees before meeting your gaze again, “but he will try again. And he will have me hunted down for leaving his side...for failing him.”

There was a time, when someone claiming the epitome of evil from space would arrive to ransack the Earth they would be considered clinically insane. The problem is that every human watched the news footage from New York and saw the aliens pour out of the sky to follow Loki. Can there be someone worse than him? It stings to admit it, but you don’t doubt for a second it’s possible.

Looking to the god, you fight to keep the fear at bay. “We gotta warn them!”

“They have been and they are preparing.” He still holds your hands, grounding you in an inexplicable way. “After having fought the Chitauri, the heroes of Earth know what’s at stake.”

It’s all too much – worn out from the walking, dazed by the information, and frustrated with the situation you’re in – you slump into the seat in silent despair. “Then...but...nowhere’s safe?”

He draws you in by wrapping an arm around you and you don’t even care to bother about it. Of the two evils seemingly available, Loki is by far the lesser if he is telling the truth.

“One. One place might be safe for you although...it’s a long shot,” the god mutters into your hair.

...  Loki   ...

Night has fallen, enveloping the temple in velvety silence. Watching from the balcony, Loki sees the lights of the guards’ lanterns follow the same predictable pattern as always and he knows that for the moment, his frail mortal will be safe, so he retreats to the shadows of one of their rooms to use the Tessaract once again.

When the blue haze releases him, it’s into a cold world under the grey light of dawn. Crystalline particles are shoved around by gusts of wind, worn from the rock and ice that covers the ground as far as his eyes can see. Admittedly, the view is rather impeded by craggy cliffs to three sides and crumbling ruins to the other, but the Jotun knows what awaits him past the remnants of the civilization that dwelt here. My people. Scoffing at the thought, he stalks towards the open.

Between the castle ruins and the very precipice of a deep canyon stands a circle of Alfheim’s druids hand in hand along the precarious edge. Where Loki’s hair is whipping around his face, his cloak tangling in itself and his limbs, the Älfir seem untouched by the raging of the cold elements. At least none of us are freezing, a thought jeers in his mind.

Only as Loki comes to stand behind them can he hear the song. It’s almost as though he can see the words through the corner of his eye like a shimmer dropping into the darkness below but there is nothing to see when he focuses: no sign of the magic...and no indication that the efforts are working.

Crouching, fingers digging into the icy snow, a part of the god seeks to tether itself with the realm he came from. He can feel it. Or rather, he can’t. The frozen core should echo the songs of the Jötun of forgotten ages, reduced to a whisper before he himself silenced them forever. There is nothing. For a week now, the Älfir have done as promised and poured their living magic into the deadly wound Jotunheim suffered yet despite the constants efforts nothing has changed.

It is a lost cause. Loki knew from the beginning this was a possibility. Not all damage can be undone. Not all wounds heal.

This was never my home! Then how come an icy splinter which has been gnawing at his heart now grows and digs its own canyons until, with a painful snap, something breaks? Screaming out his rage, the agonized howl is swallowed by the wind, echoed by the haunting echoes from the depths below.

...  Reader   ...

You’re not sure what has woken you up. Lying perfectly quiet, the song of nightingale – maybe, you don’t really know what sort of bird it is – floats in through the open window and almost lulls you to sleep again.

Wait...there it is, the sound that doesn’t belong. Sitting up, it takes a moment before you figure out which direction the staccato creaks and huffs come from and you’re in two minds about what to do when you recognize the universal sound of a sob that someone attempts to stifle.

Loki?

There’s no doubt it’s him. He’ll kill me, if he realizes I’ve heard this.

[edelwoodsouls]

calling out for one more try (to feel alive) - ch. 1

Adam hasn't been able to sing since he found out what his parents do for a living. Until he stumbles across the ghosts of a band who died twenty-five years ago, and the world begins to look a little brighter. But how did they die? What did they leave behind? (and why is the front man so freaking cute??)

(ghost band au, or the jatp au that possessed me last night and wouldn’t let go)

Shoutout to @exhaustedwerewolf for putting up with my yelling and giving me some brillianty angsty thoughts for later plot

Word Count: 3,071 | Also on Ao3

chapter one: wake up, wake up (if it's all you do)

Adam

It's quiet in the music room.

Just outside the door he can sense the seething mass of teenagers and noise and colour, the pantomine of a clockwork life ticking onwards. But in here it's quiet, and the world stretches out in a haze of blue and grey.

His fingers rest on the piano in front of him, slotting perfectly against the keys. A heartbeat away from making sound, falling short.

He could spend a life in this moment. Let the whole world slip away into silence. He stares at his splayed fingers, stark against the pale keys. Just play, he thinks. Shatter this moment into fragments, break free from the weights around his ankles dragging him slowly to the bottom of the blue.

Just play.

"Adam."

He looks up. He hadn't even noticed her open or close the door, but there stands Chloe, hands on her hips, blond hair so frizzy it looks like its about to make a break for the sky. There's paint on her nose and splattered all over her overalls in messy, natural way aesthetic influencers could only dream of.

"Oh, hey, Chloe. What's up?"

She gives him a frown, hands on her hips. "I could hear your thoughts from the art studio." She raises an eyebrow. "That's on the other side of school, Adam."

"Oh, uh. Sorry."

"Don't you dare apologise!" She comes to sit beside him at the piano, leaning against his shoulder. "You know you don't have to apologise to me, of all people. I know what you're going through."

"Whether I want you to or not."

"Pros and cons of having a mind reader for a best friend," she shrugs, a smile playing on her lips.

They've been friends ever since they started high school, the quiet creative kids who spent more time in their own heads than the world around them. Silent lunches together had become awkward murmured conversations had become a tentative friendship.

That was before Chloe started hearing voices in her head, and Adam found out what his parents do for a living.

Sophomore year had been pretty intense, and their friendship had been forged in fire.

It's certainly strange having a mind reader for a best friend, but it comes with perks. Like not having to name the endless blue sea in his chest for her to understand what it is.

"You nervous?" she asks.

"Do you even need to ask?"

"I like to hear it from the source, sometimes."

"Isn't my brain the real source, technically? So you're always going direct, unless you listen to someone speaking instead of thinking?"

She narrows her eyes in mock annoyance. "You're deflecting. But it's okay, I'll let you. I know you're stressed out."

How could he not be stressed out? There's an unscaleable wall inside his mind, behind which he's trapped everything he cares about. Music. Feelings. Sunshine.

He hasn't played the piano, hasn't sung, since Chloe stumbled across a homeless man with thoughts of Adam's parents burned into his brain. Can't bring himself to even press into the keys resting under his fingers.

And now he's about to get kicked out of the music programme, if he can't perform today.

"I've got this," he says, and from Chloe's expression he's not fooling anyone.

"Even if you can't play, Adam, you know that doesn't make you a terrible person, right? People want you to play for  you, because it used to mean so much to you, not because they think you're only worth what you create."

"Mm," he shrugs noncommittally, as if she hasn't hammered right to home. As if he hasn't always judge his own worth by what he can do.

This is his thing.  What is he without it?

"I'm gonna get to class early," he says, pushing away towards the door before Chloe can stop him and confront him on his so-called unhealthy coping mechanisms (aka - none). "I'll see you later."

"I'm rooting for you!" she calls after him.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he weavs through the halls. He doesn't dare to check it; knows that it's his parents wishing him luck.

The absolute last thing he needs. The one thing, in fact, more likely to throw him off performing than anything else.

He isn't the first to arrive to class, as much as he'd hoped. He could never be that lucky -  of course Caitlin is already there, surrounded by her entourage.

"Oh hey, Adam," she smiles, more viper than girl, as he spills into the doorway. She's dressed stunningly as always, pale purples and creams.

The jacket Adam bought her for her birthday last year, before everything.

If she rememebers, she doesn't say anything, looking down at him with the look of someone regarding an insect.

He knows he deserves it. They'd been close, before last year, but how could he possibly explain everything to her? How could he explain the rainclouds that gathered above his head and made a home? How could he explain what his parents did, the whole world of the atypical, without being thought completely crazy?

It had been easier to let her go, and she had taken it personally. Friendly rivalry had become enemies.

He can't feel enough today to even be sad.

"Hey, Cait," he shrugs into his seat.

"I'm surprised you came today. Wasn't yesterday your last chance?"

She knows that's not true, is trying to get a rise out of him. He busies himself with leafing, unseeing, through the sheet music he's half-heartedly prepared for today.

He already knows he's not going to be using it.

Caitlin sighs dramatically and turns back to her group, the conversation quickly drifting away from him. Frankie is staring at Adam, trying to catch his eye, to ask if he's okay, but he ignores that, too. As he much as he appreciates him - the only other atypical in school apart from Chloe, who knows a little of everything that went to shit last year but has also very clearly thrown his lot in with Caitlin - he doesn't want to give Caitlin reason to pause.

Better to fade into obscurity.

He doesn't notice the rest of the class file in. Doesn't notice the teacher begin the lesson, or the other performances that come and go.

"Your turn, Adam," Mr Beck says gently, and the world snaps back into focus.

Every eye in the room is on him.

He makes it to the piano without breathing. Chest constricting, world contracting to a single, narrowed point. There's cotton wool in his ears, spots dancing in the corners of his vision.

His fingers rest on the keys.

Just play.

Just play just play just play just play just play just-

"I'm sorry." He stands up suddenly and, without looking back, flees the room.

It feels like freedom.

It feels like the cell door slamming shut behind him.

~/~/~/~

When he gets home, he heads straight around the back, avoiding the risk of his parents being home.

Tears burn in his eyes but he refuses to blink them away. He can’t bear to see the sadness on his parents’ faces, the confusion, when they find out he’s been kicked out of the music programme.

Because they know they’re the reason he stopped. They just don’t understand, or refuse to try to, why he’s still not over it.

As if his horror at human experimentation should have a shelf life.

Behind their house is the old garage slash studio his parents had soundproofed, back when Adam first got into the music programme. They’d been so proud, and the world had been so full, back them.

He hasn't been back inside his studio since he found out what his parents do for a living. His mom had been the one to first bring music into his life, and now he can’t trust anything she's ever given him. This studio is built on blood money and half-truths.

The air is thick with dust when he slips inside. Sunlight filters through the garage door window, catching the dust motes in beams, spinning dizzily like planets.

His piano sits in the centre of the room, untouched, surrounded by boxes of half-packed things - relics of Adam’s childhood, old memories and things that might be useful someday, left over objects the last owners of this house forgot to take with them.

He has the sudden urge to smash everything in this room apart.

Instead, he takes a steadying breath. It’s not like he needs a studio anymore - may as well start packing his things away along with the rest of these forgotten memories.

He grabs a half-full box at random and begins shoving things into it haphazardly. The first notebook he wrote songs in. The headphones his aunt gave him that only work through one ear now. The metronome perched on top of the piano, its slider in the shape of a smiley face.

The sellotape at the bottom of the box gives out just as he’s shoving a second notebook in, and everything clatters onto the floor. Of course. This is on par with the rest of his day, really.

He stoops to begin picking things back up when he sees it: a CD box, dusty with age. The front cover is watercolour, blue blending with yellow to create a sea of green in the middle. The band name -  Atypical!  - is emblazoned in black across it.

He doesn't recognise it, though it's in a box of his old things. One of his parents’, maybe? Or left over by the last owners? Curiosity guides his hands, and before he knows it he's clicking play on the old CD player his mom gave him for his twelfth birthday.

Music bursts into the room for the first time in a year, swells to fill the space. This room has felt hollow and empty, a black hole pulling at light, this whole time- until now.

It's good music, too. Rhythm sinks into his bones, sparking something inside him he hadn't thought was still alive.

He's so caught in the music, it takes him a minute to notice the air is beginning to shake. Not with the soundwaves- he's not playing it that loud - but the space in front of the speaker is shivering and shimmering, like a heatwave.

He can't say when it happens, can't pinpoint the moment his life pitches off a ledge. Between one blink and the next- they just appear.

Adam blinks. He blinks again. Rubs at his eyes until they're swimming.

They're still there.

There are three people in his studio. Strangers, teenagers about his own age, two guys and a girl.

The first guy is dark haired, dressed in an over-sized pink hoodie, so many leather bracelets peeking out from his pushed-up sleeves he looks more straps than skin. The girl wears her black hair in space buns that are trying their hardest to escape her head. A slashed denim jacket covered in patches, black pleated skirt, neon green and black striped leg warmers.

It's the second guy that stops Adam's heart in his chest. Bright green eyes, styled golden curls spilling over one side of his face. He's dressed in a red high school lettermans jacket, except the sleeves have been cut off, showing off muscles that are frankly unfair given the current situation. He's staring around the studio in surprised confusion, eyes darting over the room in a remarkably familiar way.

His eyes land on Adam, and it's like lightning has struck. Adam's breath vanishes from his chest.

"Who the fuck are you?" he manages.

"What do you mean who the fuck are you?" the guy narrows his eyes. His voice is low and hypnotic. "Who the fuck are you? What are you doing in our studio?"

Frustrated anger crushes any confusion momentarily. "Your studio? Dude, this is my studio."

"Uh, no, it isn't. Look-" the guy all but lunges across the room, as if he knows exactly where to go. He digs through a pile of discarded objects and emerges seconds later with a guitar clutched triumphantly in his hands. "See! This is my guitar."

"That guitar's been there since my parents moved in. Seventeen years ago."

The guy deflates suddenly, and Adam feels immediately guilty, finds himself wanting to find any way to reignite his enthusiasm.

"We're dead," the guy in the pink hoodie says, in a nonchalant way, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to say. He waves an awkward hello, a bashful grin. "Hey, sorry about him. He's a total jock sometimes."

"Hey-"

"You are, Caleb. Embrace your brand."

The cute guy - Caleb? - pouts, still clinging to his guitar. It’s ridiculously adorable.

"I'm sorry, I'm confused," Adam says slowly, mind racing along with his heart. "You're dead?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry, this is a lot, huh? I'm Mark." He sticks his hand out to shake and Adam, instinctively, reaches out to take it.

Their hands pass right through each other.

Welp. Not much more proof he needs.

"Ghosts," he breathes, staring at the place where their hands should have met.

"Oh my god, it wasn't a dream," the girl says, voice high and taut with anxiety. She's twirling drumsticks in her hands - where did she get those? - so fast they blur into panic-inducing windmills at her side. "I really thought- that maybe- but no-  but how long have we been- I mean, maybe we just- but that means-"

Her gasped sentences are triggering a tightening in Adam's own chest.

"Hey," Mark says softly, reaching over and putting a hand on her shoulder. The twirling freezes immediately, their eyes locking. "Sam, it's okay. We're okay. We're safe."

"We're dead," Caleb deadpans. How is he holding that guitar if he's incorporeal? None of this makes sense.

"Well nothing can hurt you when you're dead," Adam says before he can think better of it. Three pairs of eyes fix on him, unblinking.

"Oh my god," Caleb laughs suddenly, snapping the silence instantly. "I love this kid."

"I'm not a kid - you look the same age as me!"

"Sure, kid," Mark says, turning back to the girl - Sam. "Look, I know this sucks. But for now, we're okay. We've got each other, yeah?"

Sam nods shakily, tapping the drumsticks in a nervous but manageable rhythm against each other.

Caleb practically bounces across the room to Adam. "Hey. Sorry for the freak out. We, uh, we've been through a lot."

"Not surprised, considering you're dead."

Caleb cracks a grin that makes Adam's insides swoop. "What's your name?"

What's my name. His brain short circuits. "Uh, I'm Adam."

"Adam! Cool. That's really cool. How're you so cool with all this?"

"What?"

"You're, like, super chill about this. We just showed up in your studio and told you we're dead. Wouldn't most people freak out about that?"

Why isn't he freaking out? He supposes there isn't much left that can surprise him, after everything. Superpowers? Evil scientists for parents? Ghosts seems like a logical progression.

"You're not the weirdest thing I've seen. Wait, hang on- how did you know I was so chill?"

Caleb's face plummets like he's been caught in a lie, face cycling through too many emotions to translate.

It clicks like a spark to a fuse, understanding crashing through him so fast he's almost knocked over. How the hell did he not put two and two together?

"Oh my god, you're atypicals!"

It's as if he dropped a bomb in the centre of the room. The three ghosts freeze, not in the surprise of before, but palpable, chilling fear.

Sam vanishes.

"Fuck," Mark hisses. Takes a slow breath to gather himself. "It's okay. She'll be back soon. No need to worry."

He sounds very worried.

Caleb is so close to Adam he towers above him. If it wasn't for the open, imploring eyes, Adam would have his own fear thrumming through his chest. "How do you know that?"

"I mean, I played a CD for a band called Atypical! and you appeared. I’m guessing that’s your band? And you said you knew how I was feeling, I'm guessing you're an empath?"

“You listened to our CD?” Mark asks, bright-eyed. “What did you think?”

"More important,” Caleb shoots Mark a look, “how do you  know  about atypicals?"

"Caleb, he can see ghosts!" Mark throws his hands up in exasperation. "He's obviously atypical, too."

"Uh, no- I'm not- at least, I don't think-"

Adam's brain grinds to a halt. Is he atypical? He's never had reason to consider it. He's always been at the periphery, a totally average human looking in through a window at the miracles and atrocities on the other side.

Wouldn't Chloe know if he was atypical? Not if he didn't, he supposes.

Do his parents know? They can't, can they?

The pit in Adam's stomach becomes a sickening, plummeting vacuum.

"My best friend is atypical," he says quietly, carefully boxing away those dizzying thoughts and burying them beneath the sea of blue in his mind. For future consideration.

Or never.

"Oh, cool." Caleb says, no doubt feeling the hurricane going on just beneath his surface. "What can they do?"

"She’s a mind reader. Great in class, not so much fun at parties. Ha." The words fall flat. He's in shock, he thinks. The world is distant, slipping back beneath the grey fog of the rest of the day.

Mark grimaces. "Okay, kid- Adam - I know this is a lot, but you need to chill."

"Chill?"

"Your emotions are all over the place. We haven't been around people in a long while, aren't used to other people's emotions."

"You're an empath too?"

"Mirror. I take on other people's powers when they're around."

“That’s cool.” His parents would have a field day if they knew about this guy.

“Most of the time,” Mark says, something odd and hitching in his voice. “Not right now, though.”

“I can go,” Caleb frowns. “If it’s getting too much-”

“No, no,” Adam interrupts, guilt rising up to churn alongside his apathy. He feels bad enough when he inflicts his depressive thoughts on Chloe - he can’t imagine how awful the emotions themselves must feel. “I’ll go. It’s, uh, it’s been a long day. I’m sorry. I just-”

He flees the room, for the second time that day.

He really does ruin everything.

[yeleltaan]

chamomile :   what is your muse likely to take away from a painful experience ?   are they one to be haunted by adversity ,   or to use what they’ve gone through to become stronger ?  

BOTANICAL HEADCANONS | not accepting

Truth be told? Not much. Cayin is very much wired to behave according to what he was made for, and a bad experience is unlikely to make a big impact in how he spends his time or how he approaches his duties. In some ways he almost feels a bit robotic, and there’s a noticeable contrast between some of the characters he interacts with, who go through various experiences in their lives that shape their perspective of the world and cause important shifts in their behavior, and himself, who comparatively experiences little change since he became aware of his nature and role (though his unspoken thoughts are a bit more open to change than his actual demeanor).

Though certainly capable of feeling physical pain, that’s not something that provokes Cayin any trauma. He views himself as an instrument and he’s not afraid of what might become of him. Emotional pain is more likely to affect him, but he hasn’t really developed a relationship of any kind that’s deep enough to potentially create enough suffering to override the way he carries himself in life. Could it possibly happen in the future? Maybe, he has met individuals that could end up meaning a lot to him, enough to have that powerful impact should he lose them somehow, but even then it’s hard to say if that could ever be strong enough to interfere with his following of Yig’s orders.

The only other painful experience that could result in a huge change for Cayin is if something were to happen to Yig. It’s unlikely for Great Old One to be affected in such a significant scale, at least that’s the impression we get from some of Lovecraft’s works. But Cayin believes it to be possible. He’s aware of the Outer Gods, and by extension he realizes that there’s things out there that make even the Great Old Ones seem small in comparison, just as these seem unfathomably immense to us. They are not “perfect” beings or untouchable, though that’s the impression we get. Many of them are at least partially subjected to the laws of time and space as we know them. They have moods, needs and impulses. If Yig were to die, disappear or be greatly weakened it would turn Cayin’s world upside down. But oddly enough, he doesn’t fear this outcome either, he finds it pointless to dedicate much time feeling anxious for something so unlikely and far off.

Bloodborne interactions get a special mention here, because everything surrounding Yharnam is a list of things that are not supposed to be possible. Humans being able to hurt the schemes of Great Ones and even harm them beyond mere physical avatars. Great/Old Ones allowing them to perform experiments that are, at least how Cayin views it, a bastardization of “ascension” that should normally be fully under the cosmic being’s control. The absolute chaos provoked by the misuse of the Old Blood, which is again an unnatural twist on what would normally become of someone under eldritch influence. And that these cosmic beings seem to haggle with humans in order to gain a surrogate child, in ways that make them vulnerable and lessens the gap that there’s supposed to be between them. Witnessing this deep in hostile territory while feeling the dream interfere with his connection to Yig, and having to rely on his human limits much more as otherwise he risks being detected is... a very strong and thought-provoking experience for Cayin. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that it’s traumatic, but if there’s any situation where Cayin can truly feel vulnerable enough to be hurt remarkably, it’s this one.

And naturally, these rare circumstances also allow for the development of bonds that are out of the ordinary for him, so that’s worth pointing out too.

So overall, no, he’s not really haunted by adversity- there may eventually be exceptions to this, but for the most part it’s endured as “just another day in the office”. He seldom grows and thus doesn’t become much stronger. That being said, it’s possible that the initial stage in his life where he had recently become conscious but was completely unaware of Yig might have made him much harder to impress once he became an active agent of his master.

And truth be told: it’s hard to say to what extent this applies to his current and future interactions. Most of them happen to be “unusual” in some way or another so you might see things play out differently from what this headcanon implies.

[loveinstreams]

Can you share with us incultes some of that trad/folk Québec music knowledge

this is the best anon i have ever recieved!!! i could write a whole essay (in fact many) but ill try to make it short laksdlksdfh 

So basically my father is a trad french-canadian step-dancer from Montreal and i’ve grown up in the trad/folk music community. I am myself a singer in that style and my brother is a fiddler. The traditionnal music here takes its roots in both british-celtic and french trad cultures and is influenced by (and as influenced) american, canadian and metis cultures. Oral traditions are basically just a big ol’ melting pot where each individual culture puts its own spin on it. For an untrained ear an irish jig can sound the same as a québec one, but for us there is a clear difference: its not the same color, the same way of playing, the sames steps, even if the ressemblance is evident. Same thing goes for songs: the lyrics/stories might be the same than in France but the melody/slang varies. My father dances a type of steps called “british clogging” because a guy made him clogs once and it turns out this dance as almost dissapeared from England. One time an Italian guy played a tune from his country that is really well known here but under another name, another rythm. Each region of a same country has its own way of doing it: people dont jig the same in Cape-Breton than in Manitoba, for exemple.

The beauty of oral trad/folk cultures is that everything is linked. Stories and melodies played here can be found in Germany or even Sweden. It travelled trough space and time, from mouth to mouth, ear to ear. It traces not only the history of your people but History itself. The never ending exchanges between humans, since the dawn of time. It tells you both the mythical adventures and the everyday struggles and ugliness of life. It shows you that there is no such thing as a “pure untouched culture” and every neo-fascist scumbags who try to say otherwise dont know a single thing about these cultures. At the root of our “traditional arts” is the simple and yet incredibly rich poetry of the people. Under its magic, a lady turns into a dove to escape her molester, the devil is beaten up by a local farmer, flowers can grow on the grave of the innocent and the drunk man makes a ballad out of his misery, an ode to life.