#knotweed family
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One of the bitters in our summer salads is sorrel. It’s a calm member of the Knotweed family and shares lots of love with my favorite summertime cover crop buckwheat. It’s also the cousin to rhubarb.
The photo shows how I was transplanting sorrel yesterday.
#sorrel#knotweed family#atlanta urban ag#food systems#food access#herbs#compost#transplanting#food sovereignty#soil food web#healthy soil#drought tolerant#food culture#simple food small farmz air bnb#maurice small
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Some things I’ve been thinking about. At times being an American trad witch is incredibly frustrating and at others it’s absolutely exhilarating, rewarding. Reconnecting with my ancestral ( primarily french and scottish ) lore, magical practices, witchcraft etc has and will continue to inform my practice but I’ll never be a “french” witch. I’ll never be a “scottish” witch. I can find a lone hawthorn or a sacred tree guarding a hidden spring to tie the cloutie to, I can divine via a snail’s mucus trail, Fly to the Sabbath to meet The Abbess, heed the Dame Blanches, pluck the golden bloom with songs to St Columba, safeguard me and mine via silver, spring water and juniper. Yet there’s many things I’ll never know or be able to do. Whether that’s because these things are so tied to the land or a specific place, language barriers, ( working to overcome this one ) or due to the ( well warranted) gate keeping of lore and practices.
This used to be a source of great confusion for me. I think because I was afraid( due to my previous new age fuckwittery ) to experiment, do anything other than what I understood as “traditional”. My understanding being too rigid at the time; the pendulum swung from one end of the spectrum to the other. This delayed my progress and “froze” me. I was left wondering what an “American” trad craft would look like; most our books do come from a European POV. Learning of our own magical traditions as well as those of my Canadian family ( still working on that one haha ) helped. Reading Robin Kimmere helped. Reading Schulke, him being an American and writing on American plants, helped too. I’ve come to know Sugar Maple and Plantain as powerful spirits. Both teaching important lessons on how to rectify my ancestors mistakes, to foster relations with the First Peoples and how to incorporate the magic of this land into my craft. Rather than being frustrated by my being American I see it as a challenge now. I get to explore spirits, plants, places, animals, spiritual/physical ecologies ( is even really a difference between these?) completely unknown to my ancestors. I get to reconcile the old and the new. To learn from Spirit Direct. Tradition isn���t the worship of ashes, it’s the preservation of Fire. New wood must be added to keep The Fire burning. The Devil of this land certainly is a spirit of the unknown.
I am the land, the land is me.
I don’t own it, to it I owe all.
To it my body will return, the tithe paid.
I’m not rolling hills of heather, white chalk cliffs, the monk’s island nor the azure coast. The memories of these places echo distantly in my blood, sung alive by my ancestors shades. Part of me they’ll always be; yet it’s not who I am. Not what I am.
I’m craggy shores, dull-jade waves bearing down upon the tired rocks. I am musky pine forests veiled in mist. Sun-venerating oaks hugging the shoreline. Bleeding alders in damp ground swelling. Proud maples sustaining generation upon generation with their boiled blood. Death-grey clay, exposed by running spring.
I am the kudzu, the itching moth, the knotweed, the Norway maple, the ivy wrecking havoc upon the land. My surname and light skin proof of a genocide ongoing. I am my ancestors sins; the specter of the Old Growth forests, their grief hanging over the land like a fog. Every interaction with The Land tinged with sadness, loss.
I am my maternal side’s copper curls. Melusine’s pride. Ave Landry! Ave Gauthier! Forebears mine.
I am my paternal side’s grief. The end result of decades of cultural warfare. The Jesuits stole our name….my hair will not be cut.
Never will I libate these glacier carved valleys with booze.
I am the plantain, learning a kinder way. The sumac reclaiming the orchard.
My Februarys, my Marches aren’t snow drops and daffodils peaking through the frozen ground. They’re steely skies and walls of sleet. Bloodroot heralds winters wane; not Brigid’s flower.
My June isn’t fields of poppies, it’s seas of crimson staghorn blooms skyward reaching.
My augusts aren’t golden shafts of wheat, swaying in summer’s last breaths; they’re explosions of neon-violet and honey-yellow. Corn ripening on the vine, supporting the climbing bean. The cicadas song reverberating.
Old Michaelmas marks harvest’s end, October potatoes long buried in soils darkness finally exhumed. The Devil his Rosy Briar to ascend and plunge.
With Novembers first snows the Dead come in.
I’ll never process around a standing stone nor know what it is to live and eat off the land my dead lay in. Finally, I’m learning to be at peace with this. To love and know the land I live on. I’ll always be a stranger here, a guest. I hope to be a good one.
#folk magic#tradcraft#traditional witchcraft#witch#folklore#magic#magick#traditional craft#witchcraft#occult#animism#animist#animistic#animists#witches#indigenous#reparations#Michaelmas#native plants#invasive plants#ancesters#ancestry#ancestral veneration#American witch#American witchcraft#Daniel schulke#traditional American witchcraft#American traditional witchcraft#Corrine Boyer#poetry
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I have an mha oc:3
Amaya Kazumi
The catnip hero, Bonsai
Quirk(s):
Neko: Can do anything a cat can do plus she can turn into a cat, only downside is frequent sleepiness and frequent hunger
Plant manipulation: self explanatory, basically can control any surrounding plants if she can touch them (she specializes in vines) downside is when overused she’ll start getting small cuts on her arms and/or legs
Personality:
Sleepy due to her quirk
She’s protective of her friends
She’s very calm and collected
Tries to avoid conflict as much as possible
Confident
Calm under pressure
Favorite hero(s):
Kamui woods
Crimson riot
Knotweed (Amaya’s brother, Teru)
Bakusquad or Dekusquad?
Bakusquad
Favorite people:
Kansatoki Hikari ( @theyslaydemons’s oc)
Yume Hoshino ( @unofficialmuilover’s oc)
Yuki(hara) Fujiko ( @cloudymistedskies’s oc)
Pixychu Midoriya ( @tokito-dulya20’s oc)
Sumi Hikau ( @muichinno’s oc)
Mina Ashido
Eijiro Kirishima
Denki Kaminari
Famale bestie:
Mina Ashido
Male bestie:
Denki Kaminari
Teru Kazumi (big brother, 20)
Hiro Kazumi (little brother, 12)
Family
Mom- Ami Kazumi
Dad- Hirohi Kazumi
Big brother- Teru Kazumi
Little brother- Hiro Kazumi
Thoughts on the rest of the Bakusquad:
Bakugo: “He has a unique way of showing it, but he cares.”
Kirishima: “He’s really sweet..” *blushes*
Mina: “Throws the best parties imaginable!”
Kaminari: “He’s awesome, I wish people wouldn’t make fun of him so much. He can’t help it that he short circuits so much.”
Hanta Sero: “Spider man.”
Sumi Hikau: “Judy Hopps.”
The Bakusquad’s thoughts on her:
Bakugo: “She spends a lot of time training, come to think of it I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eat. That makes no sense cause I’ve heard her say that frequent hunger is a side effect of her neko quirk.” *worried Baku noises* (i’m not good at aggressive characters, i’m sry:( this bakugo will still be aggressive but he’ll be like, nicer for lack of a better word)
Kirishima: *blushes* “She’s so cute! I love her cat ears and her tail! They’re so soft!”
Mina: “She’s very pretty, very fun to have at parties too!”
Kaminari: “She always defends me when people make fun of me for short circuiting. I hope she starts taking better care of herself cause I literally never see her eat.”
Sumi: “I love her ears!”
What Amaya is like in school:
She’s very studious and hard working
She spends a lot of time training, often overworking herself
She does eat, just not around people very often which has resulted in even Bakugo worrying about her health
She occasionally falls asleep in class but is excused for it since it’s a side effect of her quirk
Fun facts about Amaya
She’s Japanese American, her mom is American and her dad is Japanese.
Despite her slight laziness, she’s always had good grades in school.
Bakugo’s nickname for her is catnip (that’s how she came up with being the catnip hero).
Her hero name is Bonsai cause of the plant aspect of her quirk.
Oki doki this is all I can think of, if you have questions feel free to ask them! (she doesn’t have a backstory yet, i’m thinking about not fully traumatizing an oc for once lol)
pls check the tags to see the kirishima x amaya ship name choices i have come up with
#amaya kazumi#mha oc#new oc#hehe#oc info#oc information#hehee#kirishima x oc#kirimaya#or would it be kiriamaya#idk#y’all choose
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@shanzhuyuu submitted: Hi! These are some bugs I found while travelling across [removed] (please remove the location). I have a lot more, but these are the ones I haven't seen before, so I need help with ID-ing them. There are a lot, so you don't have to be precise with all of them if you don't wanna, just Genus is fine
The guy below lookes like a Chafer, but it was a lot smaller, maybe a different type? (Two different bugs, but I'm pretty sure they are the same species)
Very long slugs as a bonus! (😳😳)
Probably some of them the best I can do is an order or family, not genus. Often I need clearer/closer/better lit photos to see enough details to ID specifically.
But in order from the top:
Some kind of hemipteran, probably a plant bug in Miridae
Broad-nosed weevil in Entiminae
Knotweed leaf beetle
Male non-biting midge in Chironomidae
Some kind of wood wasp, probably an alder wood wasp
Mayfly
Scarab beetle, too vaguely brown to ID
And another scarab, but it doesn't look like the same species to me
2 very long leopard slugs playing tag!
#animals#insects#bugs#submission#long post#true bugs#mirid bug#mirid plant bug#beetle#weevil#broad nosed weevil#leaf beetle#knotweed leaf beetle#non biting midge#midge#diptera#wood wasp#alder wood wasp#mayfly#scarab beetle#slug#leopard slug
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@hprecfest Day 9 - rare pair
1. Flying Lessons by phantomato
Andromeda Tonks/Rolanda Hooch
First person point of view. Love me some older women finding love again, and what I really, really enjoyed is Andromeda's feelings about her body - as a woman who has internalised some things growing up in a family that valorised respectable pureblood marriages - settling to a healthier place within the fic.
Summary:
Andromeda takes Teddy to flying lessons so Harry doesn’t get that, too.
2. Till We Have Faces by TeddieJean
Andromeda Tonks/ Rodolphus Lestrange
A very, very layered Andromeda, with her love for Tonks, Ted sitting at the edge of her compartmentalisation and her love for Bella, along fatalism stay as centerpiece for this narrative.
Summary:
When everything comes to a head, sometimes it's hard to tell what's inconsequential. Otherwise known as the implausible yet oddly intriguing Andromeda/Rodolphus story that I don't understand the conception of.
3. End of the Road by StarlingFlight
Godric Gryffindor/ Salazar Slytherin
Starling's writing is rich with details, and you can feel the texture of each scene: the angst, the political tensions and of course, the desire.
Summary:
The beginning of a new year at Hogwarts brings tensions between its founders to boiling point.
4. Lucretia in Paris by @artemisia-black
Lucretia Black/OFC
We all deserve a sensual smut that luxuriates in each moment.
Summary:
At 20 years old, Lucretia Black is sent to Paris to learn etiquette and instead she learns about pleasure.
4. Knotweed by @turanga4
Poppy Pomphrey/ Pomona Sprout
Quiet, restrained, tender! There is a steady heart beating through the fic, even in the aftermath of war that hopes for the future.
Summary:
A romance and a reckoning, in the last year of the War.
#andromeda black#andromeda tonks#rolanda hooch#rodolphus lestrange#godric gryffindor#salazar slytherin#lucretia black#poppy pomphrey#pomona sprout#hprecfest#fic recs#hp fic recs
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House of Unmirth
Dear Caroline:
These days we live in a house of sadness, and feed upon ashes and wormwood, which taste bitter in the mouth.
The House is as a grim fortress of despair, where light dares not linger, and the sun shows not his face. Its walls, high and unyielding, are built not of stone but of the weight of forgotten hopes. Within, time loses its meaning, each hour stretching into an eternity of regret. No laughter ever echoes in these halls, only the soft rustle of resigned footsteps and the hollow silence of souls abandoned by joy. The air is thick with the oppressive weight of isolation, and even the sky above seems to turn its face away, leaving the inhabitants trapped beneath a perpetual twilight of sorrow. Here, dreams are withered things, curled and brittle like autumn leaves caught in a cold wind, and the only escape lies not in the world outside, but in the hollowing of one’s own heart.
And yet...
There is a garden in the house. It is small, untidy, unkempt. It is overgrown with rank weeds, with gorse, and thistle, and bracken, and knotweed, choking the better plants. And yet amidst the verdure grows one lonely, one lovely, one solitary rose.
A rose regained. A rose redeemed.
It seems that ins your words before the judge, one of the things you said that during your time at Alameda, you lost your moral compass. You are way more knowledgeable about yourself that I can ever hope to be, but I feel the wording is a bit misplaced. A virtuous person like yourself can never lose their moral compass, but they can become entangled in wrong and misbegotten paths, like the one that starts Dante's Divine Commedy:
Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita / mi ritrovai per una selva oscura / ché la diritta via era smarrita
And that you did. And it feels all the more tragic, and unfair, because of your fundamentally good nature. I suspect a non-trivial element of your fall stems from it, from what I would call the Hermione, or 'Good Girl' paradox. I feel you have always strived, since childhood, to optimize towards being the perfect person, the most dutiful, the most self-sacrificing, the most obedient and pleasing to the Authorities you recognize, the most agreeable. This, along with a certain naiveté and the weaknesses that love imposes upon us, was weaponized against you, and employed to turn you into a tool of unwholesome ends. It is the stuff of Greek tragedy that people, including good people, can be turned by the whims of fate into suffering unexpected and underserved evil. Such is the fate of mortals, it seems, whether it be in a god-full or in a godless world.
I've been racking my brains trying to find words, any words, that could give you support, consolation and solace, but I fear will never be up to the task, so I've also been thinking on what I could recommend you read in this regard. Stoic philosophy is something I find congenial: the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius is a slim little book I have never tired of going to when I need some rational comfort. Another that is exceedingly good is Boethius's De Consolatione Philosophiae. I don't know if you are acquainted with the latter (this migh sound preposterous, given your wisdom, wide readings and talents, but then again, this is a very humanistic book to read). In a way, Boethius was the last Roman, and he wrote the little booklet while in prison, falsely accused, and soon to be executed. The book is the foundation-stone of much Medieval philosophy, and Ignatius Reilly's nerdy fascination with it gets much jeering in J. Kennedy O'Toole's A Conspiracy of Dunces, but believe me, it is a great book, and one that I am sure will do you good and to read and ponder about.
In a few, short, months, you will have to begin a new, unhappy stage in your path of penance which I really hoped you would never have to walk. But you will not walk it alone, dear Caroline. Your friends and family will be there for you at every step of this via dolorosa, of this earthly Purgatory. Purgatory brings to mind Dante again. Many years ago, I made a little trip to the north of the country, taking advantage of the fact that some close university friends were using an Erasmus grant for a yearly stay in Bologna. One of the things I did was buy myself a profusely annotated Italian version of the Commedia, of which I have so far only finished the Inferno.
In the time to come, I really wish I could be of help to you, and write you letters of support to the House of Unmirth. Then again, I do not know if they would be wanted. Whatever the case may be, I have landed on an at least symbolic way in which I will be able to express my support for you and the desire to carry your burdens. Back again to Dante, I will devote the time of your incarceration as a constraining bound for a reading of the Purgatorio. And following an old Christian custom for Lent, I'll voluntarily deprive myself for as long as your captivity shall last of some important source of happiness and pleasure - which one, I have yet to think about and determine. These may feel like childish gestures, but one takes whatever one can get.
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Fast Fauna Facts #10 - Rhubarb (Rheum rhabarbarum)
Family: Knotweed Family (Polygonaceae)
IUCN Conservation Status: Unassessed
The stems and roots of Rhubarb plants are edible and commonly farmed worldwide for use as ingredients, although their leaves are highly poisonous to humans and are generally discarded or used as compost. Originally from cold, high-altitude regions of China, Siberia and Mongolia, Rhubarb needs periods of both warm and cool weather in order to grow and reproduce normally and can potentially grow to be over 1.5m (4.9ft) tall under ideal conditions. As an adaptation to outcompete shorter plants young Rhubarb plants grow extremely rapidly when access to sunlight is limited, and in parts of their cultivated range (especially northeastern England) farmed Rhubarb plants may be grown in near total darkness to encourage them to get as tall as possible as quickly as possible - this method, known as "forcing", causes the young plants to grow at an extremely rapid rate (potentially getting as much as 2cm/0.8inches taller every 24 hours,) increasing in size so rapidly that they reportedly audibly creak as they grow.
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Image Source: Here
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#fast fauna facts#rhubarb#plant#plants#botany#biology#wildlife#cultivated plants#flowering plant#flowering plants#angiosperm#angiosperms#plant biology
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Buckwheat benefits: 5 healthy tips of Kuttu Ka Atta
Buckwheat healthy benefits
Buckwheat flour, also known as kuttu ka atta in India, has a long cultural history of being connected to a variety of celebrations, including Shivratri, Navaratri, and Janmashtami. A flowering plant in the knotweed family Polygonaceae known as buckwheat or common buckwheat is grown for its grain-like seeds and for use as a cover crop. Many additional species, including the domesticated food…
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#Lifestyle#antioxidants#blood sugar#food#food articles#gluten free#Health#heart health#source of fibre
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I think a good first step is to notice what edibles and natives are already incorporated into landscaping, and just ignored. Here, for example, commercial landscapers plant our native evergreen huckleberry, which has much to recommend it, both as a "landscape" plant and edible: evergreen, easy care, subtle flowers, berries that ripen long after others, native as mentioned so supporting native animal species, tasty, humans and others enjoy the fruits. Yaupon holly isn't native here, but it's still used and is non-invasive while providing caffeine and theobromine(!), evergreen, pleasantly bland looking for fitting right into whatever landscape already exists. People plant rosemary, sage, sweet bay, lavender, etc for aesthetics but they're all very tasty too, obviously. Elderberries are gorgeous, and used all the time. My city planted chestnuts, and a lot of people go and forage for them (more so during bad economic times, but still). Also things that are food crops, but don't look like food crops: sunchokes, a species of daylily, camas, rhubarb, artichokes, cardoon, native strawberries, etc. Asparagus is a really neat looking plant. Scarlet runner beans are beautiful, and attract hummingbirds, while also making beans. Snow peas are also very pretty vines.
For vacant/neglected land, it's great to learn what invasives, weeds, and tough & abundant natives are edible. Giant knotweed, Himalayan blackberries, yarrow, etc fill-in-your-plants-here. Also it's great to go around pulling out invasive species because people will just think you're a really committed environmentalist, and you can harvest other edibles while you're at it. Be doubly sure about the land history though, don't want to unknowingly be picking from a superfund site! And for goodness sake, be sure of your ID! I've seen people mistake Oregon grape (native) for English holly (invasive) before, and you don't want to be that person.
With tubers/roots especially, you need to know the history of your soil and/or get a soil test for heavy metals. There are ways of improving polluted soil, and certain plants/parts of plants have less or no contamination. Cornell has a pdf available for free titled "Soil Contaminants and Best Practices for Healthy Gardens" which has a lot of good information, please do read it if you're gardening or foraging in urban areas.
From experience, landlords often have no clue and don't care if things are grown in pots/incorporated into existing landscaping. A big pot with Swiss chard, lettuce, kale, etc can look pretty aesthetic. Apartment complex often have edible invasives and/or the above mentioned edible and/or native plants- and nobody picks them.
You can also learn to graft, and graft fruit bearing varieties onto existing ornamental varieties- crab apples, pears, cherries, plums, etc.
A lot of people just straight up ignore plants, and a lot of people have no clue what food looks like if it's not in a store or restaurant. Use this to your advantage. I have seen landscapers look at a plant that clearly doesn't belong (invasive spurge laurel, for example, which is neither a surge nor a laurel), or is growing up through another (hazelnut through a rhody), and just completely ignore it, watering, fertilizing, and pruning them just like the rest. The ones most likely to do this are the ones that "prune" everything to be a cube or sphere though, so keep that in mind. What can still produce food when whacked into a cube? A few things. Also, look for the edges and backs, and places where the landscapers let things slide a little because they figure the clients won't ever look there.
Another big thing that gets ignored is that a single fruit tree often provides much more fruit than a small family will reasonably eat, and often a tree was planted literally decades ago and the current residents don't care about it's fruit. I've gotten loads of figs, apples, pears, grapes, etc just by asking- or by offering to make them a fruit crumble from their fruit tree if they let me pick as much as I want. Back alleys get invaded by out of control raspberries, blackberries, walnuts, etc.
@guerrilla gardeners, solarpunks and plantarchists of all stripes we need to make a good guide to growing food stealthy style
i'm talking growing in rental properties without alerting the landlord, growing on vacant/unused land, stuff like that
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Persicaria capitata, the pink-headed persicaria, pinkhead smartweed, pink knotweed, Japanese knotweed, or pink bubble persicaria, is an Asian species of plants in the genus Persicaria within the buckwheat family. It is native to Asia (China, Indian Subcontinent, Indochina).
Order:Caryophyllales
Family:Polygonaceae
Genus:Persicaria
Persicaria capitata has been widely used in China in the treatment of various urologic disorders including urinary calculi and urinary tract infections. The juice of the plant is taken as a treatment for stomach disorders. A paste made from the plant is applied as a poultice on boils, wounds. seed of most, if not all, members of the genus is edible both raw and cooked.
persicaria: Medieval name referring to the likeness of the leaves to a peach tree. capitata: From the Latin capitus ‘head’, with a knob-like head or tip.
47/22 Northcross dr, Auckland NZ
7PJC+M45 Auckland
-36.7183720, 174.7203656
наземные растения цветковые травы
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I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul
Yet another song, flitting across my busy mind, without any clear trace as to where it arose from. Well, that's not true actually- it's a very windy day and the wind is currently blowing loudly as I type this, so I've found the link.
I keep thinking "I must keep track of that" or "that observation feels important, I must put it somewhere to reflect on another day." Yet, where to put it, how to track it and when to reflect? It's absurdly confusing and I don't have a systematic way of doing it. Amazing, too, how many moments occur on any given day that feel important. The truth is that I can't possibly track everything I want or mull over something at a later date...so some of this is a discernment predicament. First discern, then decide, THEN keep track/reflect later etc. I think I'm reflecting on this particular point in order to avoid all the others, which are the actual things I need to be reflecting on. Right now.
My NHS job is weighing on my body and soul. It has been, for such a long time. Only as I take small steps to extricate myself am I becoming more aware of the cost of this burden, the way it robs me of my energy, leaving me little left over to show love to myself, my family, my friends- all the things I actually care about. I feel sad and heavy when I reflect on the zero-sum gameness of life; that if your attention is in one place, it is absent in another. How much has already been lost, swept up the torrent of my fears around self-worth and all during the first years of Ruby's life that I (and she) will never be able to return to.
I watched my mom do this and vowed to not do the same. Yet, here I sit. Ravaged by a feeling that I might die soon, both literally and figuratively. It sounds so dramatic, really. But that doesn't shift the truth of it and truth is where I'm trying to make my peace. When I first saw Ros, I knew work (specifically, the NHS job) was a pernicious forcefield pulling me under and likened it to Japanese knotweed; a weed so forceful and rapacious that seeks to find cracks in structural foundations and push its way through. Full of destruction and growth. I knew in that moment, too, that my mom was somehow woven into this weed. During our subsequent sessions, she appeared like an apparition that slowly gained opacity as I ventured back into those painful memories. At one point, going so far as to banish her with the words of Gollum, "Leave now and never come back." What, or who, was I trying to banish? The belief that you must sacrifice all that you love at the altar of "responsibility" (code for patriarchy and capitalism). Uphold the status quo, at all costs, even your own life. Do what others tell you to, even if you don't value their opinion. The measurement of society is real and you will be judged at every move; your worth determined by your ability to uphold your white, middle-class, monotonous life, devoid of creativity, spontaneity and joy.
This has a quality of a self-fulfilling prophecy. By worrying from such a young age that I would become my mom, I thereby put into motion the machinations to do just that. But...why? How did this come to pass, when it was diametrically opposed to what I was seeking in the first place?
And if I'm repeating the cycle, where does that leave Ruby? I'm modelling something to her, just as my mom did to me. The messages are unpredictable and I can only speculate, but what I do know is that she's viewing her mom going to work at a job that genuinely feels as if it is killing her at times and for what? Because she's "supposed to" do it...according to who? It would be all too easy to cite money at this juncture- the undebatable reality that our world requires money, for everything. It also has to be said that I don't have to go to a job that destroys my life force in order to make money and have in fact being going to various other jobs that provide what I need, without killing me in the process. So why have I hung on? Should I just hand in my notice?
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1, and 4, for your ask game
1) As a witch, somebody caught between two worlds- not fully belonging to either one, what anchors you to the physical world?
sorry ancat dubh beat you to this one!
4) Do you attempt to localize your practice? If so, especially if you’re living on colonized land, has that proven difficult?
I’m going to write a longer more thoughtful response to this tomorrow (I have to get up at the ASS CRACK OF DAWN for work tomorrow). In short yes I do and I have grappled with attempting this on colonized land. Every interaction I have with the land feels tinged with some sense of loss or sadness. Even praying to my white ancestors feels a little invasive at times. While I do believe spirits follow people and that spirit are well everywhere it does feel weird to be calling on European spirits here. Learning native history does help as well as reading native authors. I check to ensure a space hasn’t ever been sacred to a tribe before I call a spirit there. I try to forge relationships with plants that colonizers brought here, whether they naturalized like plantain or became invasive like Japanese knotweed. I also try and foster relationships with plants that may have been used by native people but weren’t necessarily sacred, like maple. Reconnecting a bit with my malecite family was SO helpful, even though I couldn’t connect as much as I would’ve liked. One of my spirits I refer to as “lady of the waters of the world” and she is present in multiple cultures, one of which is/was present here. So that has helped a bit. Sorry for the vague and ramble-y answer! I’ll have a better one for you tomorrow 😅��
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Jumpseed
Known to many as an annoying weed, the jumpseed is common to most of the Eastern part of the United States. Jumpseed goes by many names, but it is in the knotweed family. It blooms small, white flowers in late summer, and easily propagates itself. Jumpseed is edible, but the young leaves are what should be eaten. Due to the larger leaves becoming fibrous and bitter, the plant can be seen as…
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6. You Lied To Me
Anaranë would stomp into the courthall were it not for her ‘escorts’. The city guard had assigned her two minders, as though she would break and run! She’s a pillar of Houdham society! The scandal! In any case, her appeal means she’s on her best behaviour.
Two heads of dark hair push through the crowd calling her name. “Anaranë! Nanë!”
“Yamacho! Almando!” Ana gawps. She hadn’t expected to see her twin brothers here. “What-”
Almando sweeps her into a hug - a tame one, they’re still in public and the guards are watching closely. “Sashiburi! It’s been so long! How’d you enjoy country living for a few months?”
“Ugh. Morning glories, is Misthaven a dump. Proper compost heap,” She rolls her eyes and hugs Yamacho too. “I’ll be ecstatic to come back home. Are Tou-san and Kaa-san here?”
“We’re waiting out here for them, havenae seen them yet. They’ll be here,” Yamacho assures her. A bell rings from inside and the guards start nudging Ana along. “Go get ready, Nanë, we’ll be in shortly!”
One of the einher guards seems to find that funny. All three hoblings glare at her.
The hall was daunting the first time Ana was here for her sentencing, and walking in now, it hasn’t gotten any less so. Ceilings as high as any temple’s, long thin leaded glass windows, glossy marble floor, all suited for a wealthy shipping port. Misthaven could never.
Across the corridor, Her Withery Blightedness herself plunks into the prosecutor's bench. Ana scowls at Sculwater. The hag has a few friends with her, members of the Houdham Gardeners’ Association: Mister Falrax, Miz Elulien, and - Miz Thrushwaite, the turnleaf! Ana thought she was on her side! Ana’s own side of the court is much emptier, but not for long. Her family will be here soon.
The President of the Gardeners’ Association comes in and talks to Sculwater. To scold her, probably; all this nonsense must be a terrific drain on the President’s time, especially with the Winner’s Ceremonies to begin this weekend.
The President smiles at Sculwater. Shakes her hand.
Sits behind her.
Ana has a bad feeling.
The magistrate enters. All rise. Ana’s side is still empty. Her lawyer shuffles a few papers and doesn’t look at Ana.
Where are Yamacho and Almando? Tou-san and Kaa-san?
The gavel hits the podium and Ana jumps. “Wait- not everyone’s here yet, cannae we wait just a minute more?” She hisses to the lawyer. They give her a pitying look. She hates it.
The magistrate reads through the case recap. No family.
Sculwater’s scumbag slugsniffer lawyer stands to recount the ‘horrors’ done to his client. Ana scoffs. The magistrate shushes her!
Her own lawyer stands, details the ‘sentence’ Ana had suffered through thus far, and…commends its efficacy? What the foxglove. “What the foxglove, it isnae effective, I want to come home! That skunk-cabbage knotweed fungus is a liar, I’m innocent-!”
“Miss Papaverde!” The magistrate slams his gavel twice. “Order!”
“She deserved it! She’s targeting me, she’s jealous-”
“Miss Papaverde, I’m trying to keep you out of a gaol sentence!” The lawyer hisses.
“And a bang-up job you’re-”
“Order! For contempt of the court, I sentence the defendant-” The President jogs up to whisper to the judge. A small bag exchanges hands. “Hrmph. Out of deference to the defendant’s position in a respected Houdham guild, I sentence the defendant to indefinite banishment, instead of the prison sentence I would assign anyone else,” the magistrate growls.
What. “What.” Something’s ringing, like a wet finger around a wine glass rim.
Ana’s lawyer sighs and puts away their notes.
The President comes over to say something that Ana can’t hear.
The benches behind her remain empty.
Her escorts walk her to the door - they must do, Ana doesn’t remember how else she’d have gotten there. They push her along, eager to… banish her. From her home. Forever. “Wait…” Please…
Someone shoves through, calling her name again.
“Sorry, Nanë, we tried-”
“Where were you.” It’s not a question.
“Nanë, Tou-san and Kaa-san were here, they just-” “You promised.” Don’t cry don’t cry don’t- you’re in public, don’t-
“I know, but our parents insisted, Nanë! It’d reflect poorly on the comp-”
“You lied to me!” Ana screams.
“You blew up a house, Anaranë!” Yamacho yells back. “What were you thinking? Not of us, clearly!”
“I needed you! How dare-”
“No, how dare you!” Now Almando joins in. “You know we’re trying to set up our own business, Nanë. You remember how tough it is to build a client base! You were our inspiration, and now we’ve got your criminal record to turn investors away!”
Don’t cry don’t cry-
“You’ve shamed the Papaverde name.” Yamacho folds his arms. “Tou-san and Kaa-san have rescinded your right to it.”
...What? The ringing is back.
Almando says something else and storms off. Yamacho tries to put a hand on Ana’s shoulder. She dodges it. He walks away too. Don’t cry don’t cry the tears are hot on her skin don’t cry-
The guards bundle her to a carriage that takes her out through the city gates. Behind her, the fireworks start for the Winner’s Ceremony.
#fantasy law#mild fantasy racism#bribery#corruption#disownment#banishment#febuwhump2024#anaranë#larp#oc#a long one cuz ana never shuts up#even when she should
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Wandering the Wandle - Part 2
Here's me looking at something:
From Beddington we went to the Grove in Carshalton (https://goo.gl/maps/34uxbuULu88kFpNB7) and looked at the ponds there. En route we observed a Lime bike had been thrown into a Lime Green pool which I thought was worth a photo only to be admonished by a local old lady who clearly thought we should be doing something about the aforementioned bike - we pointed out that we weren't the ones who put it there or indeed the council.
Still the ponds are very pretty.
Still the ponds are very pretty.
There was evidence in the park of the mills that made the Wandle famous:
And we saw some nature as well and then we walked along the appropriately named Mill Lane and tried to find the former snuff mill.
From there we looked at the bridge/viaduct of the railway over the Wandle and encountered Wilderness Island(https://goo.gl/maps/YRoMvFNf6jucWktG8) - we had some hijinks pretending to cross the river using a fallen tree in the manner of some brave explorers from something like King Solomon's Mines!
We carried on our adventure up towards Watercress Park (https://goo.gl/maps/u2gWsFxpktiCLCCt7) - where we met a man have a photoshoot on a bridge (his friend was using a long telephoto lens and complicated flash gun setup) - we didn't get a photo just in case they were famous (we didn't recognize them...)
Then up to the corner of Poulter Park (https://goo.gl/maps/u9KuyJo1xvYnNW6t6)
We talked about nature and birds and things and I observed that this would be a great place to spot a kingfisher and then a local fisherwoman appeared out of the reeds to tell us that as well as being an angler she was also a keen bird-spotter and whilst we might see a kingfisher at this spot - it was her opinion that we would have more luck further along the river. She did also mention that the river was unusually high because the local waterworks were releasing water (hopefully treated) into the river. We did notice a certain aroma in the air and commented on it - but she thought this was the smell of tyres (whether it was making or burning it wasn't clear).
We asked if she had had any luck today (which I believe is the correct question to ask fisherfolk) - and she replied with a chubb and two barbells which I thought was rather rude and so we bade her good day and continued on our travels.
Next stop was Watermeads Nature Reserve (https://goo.gl/maps/vDVj8crsfLo1tX3N6) - which was given to the National Trust by one of the National Trust's founders Octavia Hill.
It was rather lovely we saw some Jasmine (shown above) and some Japanese Knotweed (identified with Google Lens but not shown).
This is a rather splendid Plane tree in the Watermeads Nature reserve. The banks were busy with more fishermen.
Here is a rather funky video of a sluice
We crossed the river at Bishopsford Bridge and on the path there was a small family group having an impromptu gathering - the patriarch of the family was as wide as he was tall but they seemed to be having a nice time - two young girls had set up a stall and attempted to sell us some loom bands - two for the price of one, sirs they cried after us - but we had no change with which to batter with.
On towards Ravensbury Park - lots more fishermen here and some ne'er do wells on their bicycles and smoking recreational cigarettes and drinking cheap lager from cans.
We saw another lovely Heron
Then we popped into the Surrey Arms for a swift and revitalizing half of ale (for me) and cider (for Andy) - the bar lady on seeing us gave us a piece of blue kitchen roll to wipe our sweaty brows (because it was a warm day). We sat at the bar with the other regulars and watched Magic FM on the TV (Mmm Bop by Hanson - not the greatest song tbh). Upon starting to walk again we both found that we had started to get a little stiff - I think we where probably about halfway through our walk at this point. My ankle was aching slightly and Andy commented on his back - definitely a gentle comment on our progress on life's path.
Andy here professed his plans to run the London Marathon (if he get it in the ballot) - I think I volunteered to run a half to help him with training if he wanted...
Next stop - Morden Hall Park (https://goo.gl/maps/D682mjtGGm6NKfdQ9)
Suddenly it was busy - loads of kids and families having picnics and enjoying running around in the clear Wandle. It was a warm day - probably around 24C and it had been rather warm all week.
There was a bored looking security guard trying to stop kids from jumping from the bridge into the water.
More Snuff Mills!
More again next time on the thrilling and fast moving action packed instalment of the Wandle Wanderers.
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#MonstrousMay Day 3: Hypnotised
An extract from Chapter 9 of THE DAY WE ATE GRANDAD
“You look nervous,” Jem Foreman observed, and Theo tried not to blush. Nerves were natural, he told himself, and not at all a sign of doubt. It was the thrill of it, being so close to ultimate power, the source of their family’s glory.
Of course, Jem was never nervous. He was as stoic as usual, defying the warmth of the late spring evening with a plain grey golf jacket to hide the ooze seeping through his shirt. They were in the car park of an abandoned warehouse, where Japanese knotweed and nettle patches had fought the concrete and won. The warehouse was one of David Wend’s, but Theo wasn’t sure if he knew his relations had commandeered it.
Uncle David hadn’t used it for a while, probably not since the people trafficking thing. Theo had heard rumours that had ended badly. He wondered why Uncle David was still alive.
Theo shook his head. “I’m fine.”
“You better be.”
“I told you I wouldn’t let you down,” Theo said, trying to keep his voice level, “And I won’t.”
Jem eyed him. “I hope that’s the collective ‘you’, not me personally, because this isn’t about me. And it’s not about us, either. You know that, right?”
Theo wanted to know what the fuck ‘us’ meant if it didn’t mean dinner and a bottle of red wine in front of the television and screwing whenever Jem felt like it. If that wasn’t enough, he’d hoped being part of this greater cause would at least make Jem see he was boyfriend material.
“Of course I do.” Theo licked his lips. “Am I in trouble? For running away yesterday?”
Jem shook his head, giving him a soft smile of reassurance. “No. You’re not in trouble. Her glory has come in handy, though. We’re making use of that in the ritual today.”
He turned and beckoned Theo to follow him.
“Her glory?” Theo picked his way carefully around the potholes and headed to the heavy metal side door.
“Such as it is. Wend-McVeys aren’t exactly prime specimens. But the shrine wants what it wants, and it wants someone’s glory for this ritual. Why cut one of ours off when hers was lying there?”
Theo tried to act nonchalant. “Granny Shaw used to say—”
“With the greatest respect,” Jem said, cutting him off, “If it wasn’t for Olive Shaw, we’d have already Ascended. Neither Beverley Wend nor Olive Shaw had the sense to see Granny Foreman was right. It’s our time. That’s why we’re here. Right, Theo?”
Theo stopped, cheeks burning. He made himself nod.
“Right, Theo?” Jem repeated.
“Yes, Jem,” Theo said.
“Are you ready?”
Beyond Jem was the darkness of the warehouse. It was all very straightforward, nothing to worry about. Theo licked his lips.
“Sure.”
Jem handed him a robe and a mask from just inside the door. Theo slipped them on, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.
The light was steadily fading over the tarmac and concrete beyond the car park fence, the sky bleeding reds and oranges in sickly bands that made him feel empty inside. Sunsets always made him feel weirdly anxious, balanced on the edge of the definite velvet energy of nightfall on one hand and the clear rush of day on the other.
He didn’t like the weak amber of the dying sunlight, refusing to give up for far longer than it should. It was a nothing time, a nowhere time, and Theo hated it.
The warehouse swallowed them in shadow, and it was a relief when the door closed and left him safe in the dark.
The Remnant were gathered, robed and Changed, and Theo allowed his proboscis to slide out of his throat to demonstrate his own glory, such as it was. It unfurled hesitantly, hard slim casing pressing on his tongue, a reedy thing next to all the crustaceous limbs and anemone fronds like udon noodles cased in aspic, the thick octopodid arms and needle-mouthed suckers, the tight, thick coils, strong as snakes, tough as tree roots.
Theo rubbed the back of his neck beneath his hood and nearly knocked it down again, jostled by the press of relatives.
He had managed to hunker down in his pew when the family fled the church, but bruises were starting to form on his sensitive skin, marks of sensible heels and just-in-case umbrellas as his aunts clambered over him to flee their Death God. Theo had fled too, once he’d stopped being trampled.
The jostling reminded him of where the bruises were, and he whimpered, scuttling through the crowd to find somewhere he wouldn’t be elbowed in his tender ribs.
He didn’t know what had happened to Layla, but he prayed to Grandad that she was all right. He’d always liked her.
The shrine was in the middle of the derelict space, containing pieces from the Wend shrine salvaged from Wundorwick and articles from the Foreman shrine used by the last head of the family. With the devouring of Uncle Marcus and Aunty Ida, the family were rudderless, and there had been no time to call another election. The other shrines lay silent and abandoned.
Theo slipped to the front, letting the conversations wash over him.
The body of this shrine was an antique apothecary cabinet that had belonged to Olive Shaw. There was an engorged heart pierced with a large hatpin on the flat top. The drawers were open in a pattern forming a rough spiral, and in each one a strange stone phosphoresced. A ring of candles encircled it, more for the aesthetic, Theo supposed, but also because there was no electricity in the warehouse, and it was getting dark.
His proboscis throbbed with his quickened pulse and flicked involuntarily around before he could retract it.
Jem oozed over to his brothers Gavin and Brandon, laconic Gavin fresh from his latest hike across the Andes with his close-cropped beard and chestnut man-bun perched high on his head, bully-boy Brandon standing to attention like a militarised slab of beef.
The three of them entered the circle of candles, and a hush descended on the gathering.
“Are you ready to see yourselves for what you are?” Gavin asked, taking the lead.
“We are,” Theo said with the others, sucking in his proboscis to speak clearly.
“Are you ready to see what awaits us?”
Theo was less sure of this, but he answered appropriately, and in unison. “We are.”
“Tonight, we open the portal,” Gavin said, and a thrill chased up Theo’s back. There was a hiss of anticipation, and Theo stopped listening.
Gavin was giving it the hard sell, the way Theo tried to sell waistcoats to the guy who came into his shop every Wednesday to buy another tie, but it was the shine in his eyes that held Theo’s attention.
Gavin had never looked twice at Theo, but the few words they’d exchanged over the cold buffet last Yule had been pretty great.
Theo huddled in the safety of his hood and robe, burning with guilt over Jem’s brother, desperate for Gavin to look his way, while wondering if Jem even cared where he was. The more impassioned Gavin got, hood down, candle flames throwing sharp shadows across his strong cheekbones and chiselled jaw, the more Theo throbbed with shame and longing.
It was when he missed a crucial part of the speech that prompted liturgical responses, too tongue-tied to get a word out, that he realised his heart wasn’t in the future of the family the way it ought to be.
He wasn’t ready.
The three Foreman brothers began to chant. Layla’s severed glory was unwrapped by Brandon and placed alongside the heart. The mouth at its tip fastened onto the oversized organ like a leech, the severed end jerking into life.
Theo flinched as Jem cut his arm and oozed over it.
It was always about sacrifice, about pain, about blood.
Doubts prickled in the back of his mind. Would it ever be anything else? When Grandad rose, when his priests swarmed and covered the earth, what would they get at the end? What would be left?
Until then he had imagined a new world order, the kind of hedonistic utopia of legend and myth.
Gavin was waxing lyrical about conservation and eco-spirituality and how they were really saving the planet, how nature would find a balance and the Remnant would be transcendent, Ascended, the true gods ruling over lesser species. That didn’t sit well with Theo.
Jem had always emphasised the physical changes, the attaining of godhood, the power they would wield as their birthright and reward. Now, he wasn’t sure what sort of reward that would be, but he was starting to think the image he had in his head – an image Jem had encouraged – wasn’t quite what would happen.
The ritual began.
Theo hadn’t been part of one like this since his own Changes, drawn into Great-Aunt Beverley’s cellar with his siblings and parents, trying not to cry.
He quivered, wishing he hadn’t pushed his way so close to the shrine, and realising the press of family at his back meant he was stuck there.
The stones glowed; the heart began to pulse.
Reality tore in front of him, a white-hot flash ripped through the air in an arc within the circle of candles. Theo couldn’t catch his breath, air rushing by him in a rollercoaster of spinning fractals while he knew he was standing still.
The light was bright as lightning, and then it was daylight. A blinding sun lighting a wasteland of obsidian and jet, reflecting into the warehouse. Theo stared into the desolation of Grandad’s domain, eyes aching and dry, and saw things that might once have been trees, stunted and fossilised on a headland of rotting fish thrown up in low tide. This was no utopia.
The chanting of the Remnant reminded him he should be chanting too.
Jem was shifting shape in front of his eyes, twisting into something elastic and indescribable, something fluid and solid at the same time, something alien and erotic and wonderful. Theo felt a tug in his own throat and let his proboscis free.
His throat expanded around it as it uncoiled, not the reedy little thing of a few moments ago, but something that the rest of his body burgeoned from like a fruit, his whole sentience and senses bound up in the length of star-grey, rippling power arcing from his mouth. His lips stretched wide, then wider, his teeth sank into his own flesh and his skull cracked and split.
Everything that was Theo was falling away, limbs nothing but stumps, extremities discarded. He was only his glory, his glory was him. He arced through the air, hungry for assimilation.
LET ME THROUGH!
The Voice filled Theo with ecstatic terror. It brought him down from his flight of glory and flung him back to his eighteenth birthday, the day he’d Changed. He remembered the pain, the needle in his neck that pushed through and strangled his vocal chords, the blindfold that itched, the way the cellar floor had become hot black sand…
He shrank back into nothing at the irresistible demand and realised how small he was compared to the Voice, the power in it reverberating through every fibre of his body.
His proboscis withdrew, all its glory illusory.
Theo would have fallen if it weren’t for the family pressing around him, keeping him on his feet.
His doubts crystallised in cold certainty.
He didn’t want to meet the Voice at all.
There was no way to close the portal now that it had opened; or if there was, Theo couldn’t think of one. He couldn’t move, the candles now an impassable ring of brilliant fire that was somehow a solid wall of glittering air. Nothing made any sense. The warehouse was twisting out of shape, and Theo was sure he was upside down.
Then he heard it.
Not the Voice.
Worse.
The rustling of insects, wings beating in sync, a swarm of something terrible, massing over the volcanic crags and filling the alien air. The swarm grew louder, and Theo saw them masking a shape, something that moved in impossible angles, something vast and horrible, coming for them with frightening speed.
Panic seized him. His chest turned to ice.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Someone pushed him, desperate to get closer, and Theo fell into the candles. He bounced back, singed, and knew even if he ran away it wouldn’t help.
Joining an apocalyptic death cult solely for someone he was screwing to finally admit they were together was the worst choice he’d ever made, and it was also going to be his last.
Theo braced himself, a sob of horror escaping his dry mouth, waiting for the swarm.
Something twinkled in the wasteland between the rocks. It grew and glittered, a second portal of light drawing energy from this one.
Theo felt a tug in his head, a strange itch behind his eyes.
He saw a face.
It burst into his head with sudden clarity and it was not a face he had ever seen before, but it had a strange air of familiarity as if it had always been lodged in his brain somewhere.
It was not a human face, but it wore one like a mask.
It had too many dimensions, too many layers, too many sides. It had human features, but even they weren’t right, as if the Face had heard about human eyes and noses and mouths when making its copy, but had never seen them before. The Face defied description, eating away at his attempts to make sense of it, feeding from his confusion.
The Face was the only True Face he would ever see.
Theo prayed to the Face to save him from the swarm, offering his strength and soul to the Face if it would close the portal.
The True Face stared through him, now all that he could see, all that he was aware of. Its not-human eyes glittered darkly, a myriad of others trapped behind them, making up the fractured colours of the irises.
It saw him, saw straight through him, saw him naked and exposed and raw, a grub of slime and quivering terror, and its lips peeled back from too many molars into a wide, stretched smile.
Theo’s strength leached out of him.
Something cracked. He heard it, a sonic boom somewhere in the Outside. The shrine exploded in shards of stone and painted wood. The portal closed.
Theo fell back as the candles were extinguished.
He lifted his head from the blood-splashed concrete.
Jem, Brandon and Gavin Foreman were dead.
He was coated with them.
The warehouse echoed with the Remnant’s moans, mutterings and wails of dismay.
“Did you see that?” Theo hissed, grabbing a cousin’s arm. “The Face! Did you see it?”
But the cousin shook her head. “I don’t – what happened?”
“The Face,” Theo whispered, too stunned to process the fact that bits of his lover were all over the fucking walls. Weirdly, he didn’t care. The Face stuck in his mind, sharp as a cravat stud. “Did anyone see it? Anyone else?”
Only a few looked at him as if they knew what he meant. The others had glazed expressions, as if waking from bad dreams.
“The Face,” Theo whispered, his head buzzing.
He stayed on the floor, coated in blood and scraps of Foreman flesh, as the screaming finally started.
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