#its about how no matter what queer people will be demonized for lashing out when cishet people can and do do the same

[bread-that-draws]

Sorry not to be insane about fictional characters again but like. Nimona’s big “monster” scene. How she realizes nothing has changed. How she discovers her “allies” were willing to turn on her the moment there was a reason to do so. How her roar is an anguished scream. How something as simple as a kids commercial about slaying monsters, something nobody else even bats an eye at, causes so much pain. How what she turns into is so unlike her usual shifting. How the director was ready to destroy innocent people to get rid of her. How it didn’t matter to the director if innocent people got hurt just to get rid of this “threat”. How the director, just as capable as hurting people, isn’t the one demonized. How this moment has been quietly building up the whole movie, even though she brushes it off, even though she pretends not to care (how she seeks out a supposed murderer because he may understand her, how an arrow to the leg isn’t a big deal to her, how she plays up the “monster” stereotype but hates being called one, how her first breaking point is a little girl showing the same generational hate that Gloreth showed, how she always explained what she was as Nimona). How done with all of it she is. How she gives up. “I see you”.

How Nimona is such a fucking queer story that it makes me explode

[homophyte]

it is interesting to me that ive seen lately (n yknow this is subjective and likely not any real social force just what ive seen) many queer people simultaneously talking about taking back and embodying unpalatable and ‘unmarketable’ queerness (the recent return to the terms faggot and transsexual come to mind) which i think is pretty evidently shaped by the conservative moment were in of demonizing queer ppl and especially gnc and trans people as predators--it reads as a return to queer isolationism in the face of external hostility, imo--while at the same time ive seen a lot of rallying around the “original” 6 stripe rainbow flag as opposed to any of the purportedly ‘factional’ flags of different queer identities, with the assumption being different identity flags divide us while the rainbow flag encompasses everyone and its kinda fascinating to me bc the rainbow flag is probably the single most marketable and palatable and uncontroversial symbols of queerness which has been seamlessly uptaken by those who wish to sell it back to us as gets pointed out every pride month with all the cringey pride merch.... i dunno you could maybe take that as a point of hypocrisy and claim the queer community is itself in a conservative moment rn where its returning to a sense of history and historical continuity (perhaps even out of that sense of external threat) or even that the queer community has for some time been in a conservative moment given the like, decade of identity discourse and lashing out at any people deemed to not have a sufficiently established history or however we should categorize the bihets/ace discourse/transtrender-tucute discourse/pan discourse/bi lesbians discourse (because lets be frank its essentially all the same discourse just keeping up its momentum by leapfroging from one target to the next) which i think is, like, SOMEWHAT true but not entirely? its more interesting to me, in any case, as an expression of a conflict the queer community is facing given that current state of affairs RE antitransness and that very recent history. like, the simultaneous need to retreat to a safe sense of community which is welcoming to the very things the outer world is demonizing ie mutable gender, complex or contradictory experiences of gender, gender expression which is hostile to the cis binary, but also the ways in which it has to grapple with those discourses which have largely defined the community infighting for again the past decade. its queer people begging the question ‘how can we make the queer community welcoming to the girlfags and genderfucks and tboys who are being threatened when we have spent so much time making the queer community a hostile place for anyone with a non-conventional or not easily (or even just palatably) sortable sense of queer identity’. and the answer it seems to be grappling with at the moment is like, welcoming all that diversity of experience but being absolutely averse to naming it. yes we love all the fuckery with gender and sexuality never be marketable but like, ew, why are you calling yourself [insert microlabel here]. you can be genderweird but you cant call yourself genderweird. you can only exist as queer in the broadest possible way (the all-inclusive gay pride flag!) but if you try to name the specifics or use those identity labels weve been fighting over for years youre doing it wrong (the progress pride flag is now ugly and cringey and ‘too much’). i think theres something also to the way (at least on this site) transmisogynistic discourses have really taken hold as legitimate (though yknow i wont downplay how much a problem transmisogyny has like. always been in queer spaces no matter what) in the name of protecting n defending trans people. like its just regurgitated transmisogyny but its being mobilized supposedly in the service of helping trans people. idk its definitely getting a little late for me to string this together fully coherently but theres a throughline there, in the ways certain ideas are being consolidated and reified as ‘yes were more progressive now!’ when i think theres definitely something to question there in terms of like...are we? are we actually? are we doing better by the people were trying to help or are we setting strict standards and forcing ppl to adhere to them again?

[intersex-ionality]

I’m sorry for asking but I cannot seem to find any answers. I see a lot of stray anti posts complaining about hazbin hotel, and I can’t for the life of me understand them because I haven’t seen the show. I read a summary of the plot, but perhaps you could explain better. What is it and why do so many hate it (and why have I seen no fewer than 4 unique posts claiming it’s “what happens when you let billdip shippers make things”?)

Now, I was never a billdip shipper, but I suppose I can see the, like, similarity in vibes between Alastor (a demonic radio host with untold evil powers and who speaks in a 1930s radio jockey voice), and Bill.

And since antishippers hate Bill and they also hate Vivienne Medrano, the attempt to compare “billdip” to an entire original cartoon property is, I guess, a logical connection for them.

But let me be clear: there’s absolutely fuck or all that can be said to parallel the popular interpretation of billdip, in no small part because there no Dipper character, and in much larger part because of Alastor extremely rejects all romantic, sexual and even platonic advances.

Antishippers hate Hazbin Hotel because they hate the woman who came up with and spearheaded the project. They loathe Vivienne Medrano for being a successful independent artist capitalizing on the desperate need in the general viewing public for the bright colors, musical numbers, and zany antics that only animation can provide, but without the stifling restrictions of being targetted towards children. Most “adult” animation is focused on being drab or viscerally disgusting as a form of schadenfreude humour. And while children’s animation certainly fills that bright and zany niche, because it is obligated to adhere to the morality of various broadcasters, it’s often very suffocated in what it can or cannot do or say.

The aesthetic that HH/HB has created is clearly a callback to two major styles of animation: the adult-aimed slapstick of early Warner Brothers, and the long-and-lanky exaggerated flailing limbs that were popular as a design choice in low budgets (TV, off-brand film) and fandom animation in the late 2000s.

Since this style of animation is also associated heavily with fandom’s last big burst of creative and sexual freedom before the whole “no boundaries, no barriers, the search algorithms can and will put porn on every child’s dashboard” disasters of 2013-2015, some people are naturally off-put by it, because it reminds them of the time a bunch of corporate overlords decided that they should destroy their own platforms. For whatever reason (it’s the capitalism, probably), people blame individual artists for this trash fire rather than the platform holders that purposefully destroyed organization and boundaries between groups in a desperate bid for ad revenue.

Antishippers have a deep-seated reflex reaction towards hating that art style. You can see it in the hatred of HH/HB, but also in the hatred of things like, “cringey once-ler fans” and of “people who draw all the homestuck like twinks,” and "people who draw Pearl like a man” and all kinds of other places.

Additionally, Vivienne Medrano was at the centre of a few other antishipper fiascos, because her previous projects involved what they call a “pedophilic student-teacher relationship between a child and an adult.” Of course, in truth, the relationship in question is between an 18 year old student and her 19 year old student-tutor, but when have anti-shippers let facts get in their way.

Likewise, she made a living for a while taking commissions for (SFW) furry art work, and has always had a very positive relationship with the furry community (despite not being a furry herself). People upset by her success as an artist are also quick to say that she has sex with animals, “like all furries do,” because as we all know, calling queer artists sexual cirminals is Good Praxis that has Never Caused Harm /sarcasm.

In effect, Vivienne Medrano is a perfect storm of things anti-shippers hate: successful queer creators who refuse to assimilate to heteronormativity; successful creators of color who refuse to assimilate to white respectability; unrepentantly proud of her art; unafraid to engage with sexual themes in a fun rather than puritanical and hateful way; popular in the late 2000s/early 2010s; an ascended fan who was able to turn her fandom credentials into a successful professional project.

Their hatred for all of these facts about her are presented in a way that lets them feel good about lashing out at someone they dislike/are envious of. Namely, by saying that her work is an act of sexual, racial, or gendered violence, rather than, you know, fictional and fun.

HH/HB is not somehow a perfect piece of art. I have made my own discomfort with facets of it very clear. And there are flaws other than my wariness of rehabilitation themes.

Some of the sound design is overwhelming, with a few scenes bordering Johnny Test levels of excessive sound effects; in some cases the editing has clipped too much quiet-space between the presentation of a joke and its punchline; those traits combined with the lack of closed captioning can make the show very hard to process for someone like me who has difficulty with speech.

The immense budgetary constraints of the animation can sometimes be seen in framerate dips or in peculiar background details. Zoomed out shots of the cast as an ensemble are particularly identifiable as places where what would have been filler art in a higher budget production were ultimately left in because there wasn’t time or money to replace them.

The show is extremely upfront about sexuality and especially queer and professional sexuality, which can easily be off-putting to people. Conservative Fox News hosts’ extreme homophobia and violence are put on full display--for the purpose of mocking them for being enormous sacks of shit, but on display nonetheless--which can likewise be uncomfortable.

At one point you see the clearly exposed brain of a cartoon egg, which I won’t lie, makes me gag every time it happens, no matter how stylized and brief the shot. (Why! Does the egg! Have a brain inside it!!!)

But, unironically, HH/HB is the best series of adult animation I have seen in probably a decade or more. Maybe in my entire life. Prior to this, the only option for adult animation that isn’t rooted in sadism or grey-beige palettes was anime, and the design direction and acting of anime are ultimately very different than that of western slapstick.

Obviously, not every anti-shipper is so outraged because they envy the success of an artist other than themselves. But a great many are fuelled by envy, either that they aren’t the success story, or that someone they perceive as The Enemy is a success story.

This is far from the first time that anti-shippers have proudly taken the same side as anti-queer bigots and as open and avowed racists, who also hate the show (for being gay, for featuring an interracial relationship, etc). It won’t be the last. But, for all that their actions are often indistinguishable from the queerphobes and the white supremacists, their motivations are at least meaningfully distinct.

[breeeliss]

gonna be real i never thought I'd see the word Homestuck on this blog but honestly i really appreciate your thoughts on the matter. people shouldn't be defined by things they did years ago that don't reflect their /current/ views and beliefs. people are allowed to change and grow, and the fact that people consistently do this to queer creators but don't give a damn about cishet creators is really telling of how we have to be 100% perfect with no errors or mistakes to be accepted.

i also didn’t think i’d ever mention homestuck lmao. somehow this felt inevitable and im impressed i lasted this long. 

this stuff always throws me for a loop a little bit bc i remember being in fandom when underaged ships like ciel x sebastian (a 12 y.o. and a very adult-looking ancient demon) from black butler was the fandom’s most popular pairing (and it was a huge fandom in its heyday). or when twincest ships were super duper popular and no one batted a lash about it. hell, there was an author in the atla fandom who only wrote graphic torture fics and people were just like “weird flex, but ok.” people also loved taking objectively fucked up ships and writing fics/creating art around them. not because they condoned those relationships, but because they wanted to stretch their muscles and treat it like a creative exercise. 

i’m not saying that excuses the content or that this is why she wrote those fics. but people just didn’t sweat this stuff to the degree they do now. that content was always tagged appropriately, it always had sufficient warnings, and back when LJ was a thing, you stuck to specific communities to write about that stuff so that people who didn’t want to see it wouldn’t have to. and that was it. 

romanticizing and adding rainbows and daisy chains onto shitty content is one thing (that might make me side eye someone). but i don’t think exploring fucked up shit makes you a bad or disgusting person. and i certainly don’t think it’s worth trying to problematize a budding queer author and her original novel almost a decade after the fact. 

there’s SO much other shitty content you could be calling out and so many actual MAPs and sexual abusers on the internet that deserve your scorn. based on what i’ve seen, this author isn’t one of them. 

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt III

Night fled day. Before the others rose I read the sky. Spying an uncharacteristically vernal mustard sliver, I imagined another world past the clouds, opposing ours directly, and their rising summer sun.

God, shrouded in cancerous sadness,  could but weep. Too weak to conjure flame.

The storm, furious mute, spoke through man's works, droplets exploded musically; dull on timbers, shrill on sheet, like crackling fire on thatch.

Foot travel was impossible, even treacherous. Lar wouldn't have it. 'I know someone. Unpaid tab, lovely spacious wagon. Hold tight.'

Unpaid tab, yes. Lovely wagon, no. Against the rising slope, his contraption strained. Its light frame shed water. The man knew his charge and kept us steady. Hold tight proved apt phrasing.

When the carriage wasn't veering towards fatal tip, I dismantled the day's duties into gelded chunks. Easy. Ten manageable tasks. Ten had a ring to it. A certain motivating roundness. Ten tasks set to Heracles condemned to misery by jealous Hera. Ten commandments from on high.

The day passed quickly. I worked mostly absent of mind, scanning peeling labels for keywords. I napped again at some indeterminate point, rising to the first red flares of evening.

Near freedom, the final banality seemed yet more soul destroying. Fortunately it proved easy, simple scribbles to confirm a job done. Mac donned, packed bag overshoulder, I signed the final form with a flourish.

On the doorstep, gazing out at the torrid tempest I was to endure, and again the following day, for a brief moment Cairn Cottage seemed inviting.

I cast a final backward glance. Inside Acrisian frames, there lay my ancestors in oils, frozen in perpetual offence.

As discussed, Charon on his chucking carriage arrived and ferried me back to Sperrin.

Outside the tavern, wet as it was possible to be, I waited. I don't know what I hoped to see. Some queer curiosity took me. I wished to see how they spoke without me. Maybe it was awkwardness that prevented an unannounced arrival. I pressed my ear to the door. Lar told a joke and howled with laughter, joyous overmuch at his own humour. When I entered I hovered in the open doorframe, dripping like a swamp witch. A wave of relief swept over Lar, which he wrestled into a piteous pout.

Two drinks waited, patient as unconfessed sinners. When I peeled off the mac, he flashed a one-sided smile. I muttered a reluctant thanks.

We feasted after. A meal to see us off. For strength, we ate lashings of gravy thickened by meat juices, steaming Yorkshire puddings, slabs of succulent pork, bog mushy peas, and custard to follow.

Afterwards, we reclined swollen. When the small crowd shifted, Fergus rose to slip the bolt unbidden.

My mind was in custardy. I was eaten witless. I wondered had Lar planned the old stuff and sneak.

'Are we, as lantern thieves, away with the light?' Lar undid his top trouser button and grew an inch before my eyes.

'We are.'

'Handled a gun before?' That old chestnut. Long I had anticipated such a discussion.

'I have and don't intend to again. Hate hate hate them. Listen, speaking of, we need to talk about this whole thing.' Lar's brow furrowed. 'I believe with alternate ends, disagreements arise.' I thought carefully and he waited patiently. 'This isn't a fox hunt.'

'I never said it was. You seem a bit peeved actually. If I can be bold, why hate the gun and not its wielder? Is a rifle always an instrument of terror no matter the context? On the shoulder of an adventurer piercing the interior, emboldened by its weight, is it the selfsame tool that greedily dispenses random death in the hands of a deranged person? Say a rifle, bought with pacivity in mind, never packed to shoot, merely to brandish and quell cooling tempers, where do you class that?'

Nobody is perfect and there was the proof. When it came to criticising people en masse, Lar was your man. Less evident was his enthusiasm when the crosshair turned to his own private club. Gunfans, gunmen, - for men they were mostly - whatever their preferred nomenclature, are tiresome, everybody agrees.

Realizing I had zoned out, I nodded extra vigorously at his next points, hoping the nod was taken as a sign of attentiveness and not agreement.

Foam pooled at the corners of his mouth. 'Even if we should not spend a single cartridge, it's a fool that lowers caution in victory! Wear these chains. Be it upon your head.'

I tried to interject, 'Lar, really that's a bit dram-'

He continued unabated, 'Should the beast prove strengthful and beguiling as I suspect, and we its seekers should become gunless hunted, it's not a good look for that book of yours.'

Though admiring of his passion on the subject, I had none to share. 'A gun is a gun. Any given situation is more likely to end in a leaden exchange with guns present, vise a vie, sans guns we are overall safer, despite feeling less protected individually.'

'Right. And when those eviller guns unleash in benign judgement, who better to return fire than kind souls equally armed?' He wagged a finger at my smirk. His voice lowered an octave. He swerved and spat, throwing his arms aloft with such momentum that his knuckles wrapped the timbers.

He paced, every inch of his pulpit touched. Standing again before me, he exhaled the temporary madness.

Fergus rose disturbed, a tremble evident. He vocalised disquiet at our clamour. Lar made his apologies; mine mumbled, Fergus' thoughtful.

He continued 'A thousand fools wait raging. I'll not be one with my arms held aloft in deference to a keeper. Either I should die on spent casings or triumph. Your charisma won't stop bullets or beasts. I'll have Fergus pack a rifle for you. Don't wanna use it, don't.' Empassioned, Lar slammed his hand down on the bar.

'Take your rod, Pilate. We'll see who time vindicates. Have you not heard that he who lives by the sword shall too die by the sword?'

'Have heard you, Judge not?' Pulling aside a rug, he revealed a hatch beneath his feet. Fergus tossed the heavy door to one side with apparent ease and fetched a swaddled armoury, which he laid for my reluctant perusal. I chose a revolver. Six shots, lightweight, swift off the hip. I remember a sense of perceived ceremony, as if my hand should be drawn towards the right snug.

Once I fixed the holster, Lar longed to bequeath a second gift. Claims that my recent experiences left me badly turned on gifts fell on deaf ears. A gift on the house, as he put it. He returned, book in hand, and slapped it face-up on the bar. 'Old Mortimer's Mort Timer' was printed in bold crimson, letters tall as wide.

'If this is a pitiful attempt to convince me guns laws increase gun deaths, it's ill considered.'

'Ignore the cover. Cowboy there is a vessel for universal truths. Makes for a good bedtime story. Try it. If you're still offended tomorrow, we'll debate then.'

Everything seemed less intense once the guns were sealed away. We sank a fifth, then a sixth shortly after.

'Have you a path in mind?' Lar slurred.

'Arrogant I might be, fool not; you know the land better. Speak freely.'

'I have some notions.'

'Notions - mere legless actions! As joint expeditionaries, in name rather than eventual royalty, I offer no pronouncement. What am I paying you for? Hardly your winning anecdotes. We're following your route to success or failure.'

I departed, lifting the flap for myself this time. 'I know the way. See you. First light. Rest well.'

Once abed I turned the book in my hands. Its garish colour lent a faint luminosity which it seemed shameful my hands should dull. I discovered the binding was frayed. The object showed more blemish than the ravages of time; later pages wore blotches. A hypothesis soon formed, which further probing confirmed. This book was licked by the ocean. A sea tome it was.

On the inside cover, faded and difficult, illegible without foreknowledge of the owner, I saw Fergus' name printed, a phyrgian squiggle.

I read it;

Ever hear the story of old Mortimer Considine? He was bold as block letterin', round as a cowerin' brushhog, feared and lovered in equal measure. Them scales was centred for him. Instinctively he knew right from wrong. Round Texas way at one point he was the toughest sonofabitch the world had ever see'd. Papers sid it, wimmin giggled it, smoke signalled it, so it musta been true.

Guns smoking, he toured the land righting injustices, collecting bounties and if rumour holds truth, fathering bastards, later becoming county scourges in their own right. Nothing on their old man though, dull facsimiles, whudever that means. Chaotic he was. Kindly too. Smart as a Greek. Strong as a mountain man, and I hear them Greeks had big boys too.

Now, he was fixing to be the best at shooting after his days out ranging. Tired of hauling baddies in for cash. He wanted hisself a wife and cosy home, young'uns to raise right. Make right some on his past transgressions. Hell, if he had cash enough, as he was heard to say only in deepest cups on full moon nights, when the moon controlled the tides of his tears 'well as them on the beach, he'd seek out his illegitimate sprogs and give 'em something for their hard lot.

Best gotta beat the best. Roving West then East, he rode into town with his holster turned front, making his business clear so to speak. Everyone he'd fought so far he felled easy, like dead trees keeling at a shove. There was big boys, tough men who a punch would never fell. Only the impersonal, devious strength of a bullet would do it, seemed a shame really fer all their liftin' and sweatin'. What finnesse they had in riding and wrasslin' they lost at steels, for Mortimer was quick as cancer and spun like a storm at the whistle, shooting 'em full of steaming holes.

Had himself a reputation now. When he came upon town and rode the highstreet on his black destrier like a demon called from hell, only the toughest mothers dared from the shadow of the awnings. Now this one place he went, or was bound for, he got to hearing was a hovel of wretched rapists and varmint brigands, living in squalor, wallowing in vile hedonism. Imperial in their particular perversions, namely unholy orgies in that there big church built by them mexicans was once this far into the states, them was once from further yonder than Mexico and came upward, with them layered temples like square sandcastles.

Pilgrims passing elsewise in other directions he met, but none going toward. Then he saw it, the black spires silhouetted on the matte of night, which held purple and pink and orange, flashes of winking silver, and all the gold jewels of the firmament. He had no want of killing and no provin' to do with regular folk, so he kept his gun shy in behind, his trenchcoat held firm at his chest with a single button, which he took from a sheriff's waistcoat.

You there, he'd said, so high on his horse he appeared a drawn shadow, as if some perfidious god had set to drawing charcoal on the mirror of the world. Up stole the pilgrim and leapt almost.

Mort?

Nay, giggled Mortimer, almost though. What's yonder?

Pilgrim, without lookin, answered quick, Ain't nothing there and no god. Kindly sort you seem. Can tell from ya eyes. Big ol blue ones like the desert moon at night. Not cold though, blue as magick fire.

Mortimer again requested the name of that spiked tower.

Babel, he says and left.

Babel, Mortimer says and left wondering had he heard that name before. He'd met a guy named Barber once. Polack chap taking his wagon clean through to York. Was that the same word? Maybe. Nobody could kill him, not with a gun. Too fast, too cunnin' at gunnin'. Few years left at the top, at least. If they did it, it'd be ignoble, uncunning and devious. Mind, he was cunnin' at augurin' too. Augured him a plan.

After tracing his steps at a canter, Mortimer spied the same stooped soul, satchel slung on his back, hooded. Pilgrim, he said, help me and I'll pay ye. When the work is done, I'll ferry you safe to your destination.

Deal, said the pilgrim so quick as to be near suspicious.

All the way he walked fast. Faster'n an old man, Mortimer reckined. The man had loped, limped and lounged before, as a man of advanced age, now he sprang more sprightly.

Mortimer had a suspicion maybe. Gut feeling. A gnawing doubt. Not enough too stop him. Reckined he was too cliver 'n devious to get got. That morning when they got close to town and descried distantly, from a rise which he took to be an ancient thing built by them northern southern mexicans, a multitude assembled in the centre of town.

Mortimer turned to his pardner to git planning and found hisself did in, plugged and smoking, a fresh red rosette pinned on his breast. The pilgrim relieved Mortimer of his possessions and stole away back into a fresh day, right quicker than ever he'd gone yet.

That was the story of that there Mortimer.