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Woah 🥺🍃
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Strain Review | @neuralauren.thc | @neuralauren420
#neuralauren#neuralauren420#neuralauren.thc#cannabis#daily cannabis#medical cannabis#organic cannabis#verano#rythm#the essence#kynd#savvy#certified#revel#vapen#neighborgoods#encore edibles#avexia#Youtube
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Have you done timberdoodles yet? (Scolopax minora)
American Woodcock (Scolopax minor)
© Fyn Kynd
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Some character designs for characters you'll be seeing soon in @yellowbrickroadcomic!
I'm not sure how many of my readers are fans of the Baum books, but they'd recognize these two from "The Scarecrow of Oz".
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Kynd Community / Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia
Truffled shrooms - Creamy white base, field mushrooms, pine nuts, caramelised onion, thyme, cashew cheese, chilli flakes, parmesan, rocket
#Kynd community#Seminyak#vegan Seminyak#Seminyak vegan#vegetarian pizza#pizzahead#pizzeria#pizzalover#pizzaface#vegan pizza#pizzas#vegan#veganism#what vegans eat#vegan food#vegan eats#vegan travel#mushrooms#Bali#vegan Bali#Bali vegan#Indonesia#Indonesia vegan#vegan Indonesia#vegan parmesan#parmesan#i love pizza#pizza#pizzatime
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BE KYNDE
#be kynde#kia#kia telluride#be kind#ohio#vanity license plate#vanity license plates#vanity plates#vanity plate#custom license plate
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"Beautiful" Middle English Words
for your next poem/story
Artow - art thou, thou art
Asterte - escape
Aventure - chance
Cas - happening, chance
Certes - surely, certainly
Coy - quiet
Elvysshe - mysterious
Engendrure - the act of procreation
Everich - every; every one
Induracioun - hardening
Kynde - nature
Lotynge - in hiding
Mollificacioun - softening
Morewe - morrow, morning
Passioun - suffering
Purveiaunce - foresight
Quelle - kill
Quyken - give life to
Rathe - early, soon
Soothfastnesse - truth
Sublymed - purified
Sweven - dream, nocturnal vision
Unavysed - recklessly
Whylom - once, once upon a time, formerly
Wight - person, thing
Sources: 1 2 3 ⚜ More: Word Lists ⚜ Middle English
#word list#middle english#langblr#writeblr#dark academia#writing reference#spilled ink#literature#writers on tumblr#writing prompt#poets on tumblr#poetry#writing prompts#creative writing#writing ideas#writing inspiration#lit#words#studyblr#writing resources
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4T2 KYND Natural Touch PC
PC based on Monique Hacked Computer. Polys ♡ 624 Credits ❥ Mesh & Textures by KYND
Download here
#SIMS 2#SIMS 2 CC#SIMS 2 DOWNLOAD#THE SIMS 2 CC#TS2 DOWNLOAD#4T2DOWNLOADS#4T2 CONVERSION#4T2CC#SIMS 4T2#TS2CC#ts2 objects#sims 2 objects#the sims 2#ts2#ts2 electronics#ts2 office
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I was letting out my dogs and saw a whitemarked tussock moth larvae lil dude.just eeping its was along the fence. So cute lol.
This is a fun and crazy looking caterpillar, I love it!!
They look venomous, but they are not.
White-marked Tussock Moth (Orgyia leucostigma), adult and larva, family Erebidae, found in the central and eastern US and SE Canada
photographs by Fyn Kynd and cotinis
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I'm playing Trespasser again tonight and was struck by this note:
Moldy Journal
…saw yht cross from the Volca, that which draggeth souls down to yhts larder in the brinedark. Hys beast preyth on humblewits and goldsworn even & the tower's keeper declares I will rest here if yht would ease me. The elvhen, which pulled me grip-up from my end, kends he is last of his kynde. I made it known elvhen live south-like, but he says yht would not be as yht was & I said that's evertrue & he laughed lark-like. Come dark he showed me a mirror deep strange, an "eluvian" sworne to beene in his family for…
Solas, that you alone on an island?
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I don’t know who types up the ask answers on this blog but to whoever’s reading this: how do you all feel about being alive and sentient? What keeps you going, what purpose propels you through this chaotic void? What do you think (or hope) waits for you after your inevitable end? What do you think constitutes a life well lived?
I'm going to answer this in the most wayward and stupidly overlong manner possible, because the previous ask had me thinking about puppets, and I was already mid-way through writing up a book recommendation that's semi-relevant to your questions.
Everyone (but especially people who've enjoyed The Silt Verses and all the folks on Tumblr who loved Piranesi by Susanna Clarke) ought to seek out Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban.
Riddley Walker is a wild and woolly story set in post-apocalyptic Kent, where human society has (d)evolved into a Bronze Age collective of hunter-gatherer settlements. Dogs, apparently blaming us for our crimes against the world, have become our predators, hunting us through the trees. Labourers kill themselves unearthing ancient machinery that they cannot possibly understand.
A travelling crowd of thugs led by a Pry Mincer collect taxes and attempt to impose themselves upon those around them with a puppet-show - the closest possible approximation of a TV show - that tells a mangled story of the world's destruction, featuring a Prometheus-esque hero called Eusa who is tempted by the Clevver One into creating the atomic bomb.
Riddley himself, a twelve-year-old folk hero in-the-making surrounded by strange portents, ends up sowing the seeds of rebellion and change by becoming a conduit for the anti-tutelary anarchic madness (one apparently buried in our collective unconscious) of Punch 'n' Judy.
It's a book in love with twisted reinterpretation, the subjectivity of interpretation, buried or forbidden truths coming back to light (the opening quote is a curious allegory about reinvention and cyclical change from the extra-canonical Gospel of Thomas, which is a good joke and mission statement on a couple levels at once) and human beings somehow stumbling into forms of wisdom or insight through clumsy and nonsensical attempts to make sense of a world that is simply beyond them.
It rocks.
The book starts like this:
On my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen. He dint make the groun shake nor nothing like that when he come on to my spear he wernt all that big plus he lookit poorly. He done the reqwyrt he ternt and stood and clattert his teef and made his rush and there we wer then. Him on 1 end of the spear kicking his life out and me on the other end watching him dy. I said, 'Your tern now my tern later.'
Riddley's devolved language - a trick which has been nicked/homaged by many other works, most notably Cloud Atlas and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome - is a masterwork choice which may seem offputting or overwhelming at first, but which has its own brutal poetry and cadence to it, and ultimately which makes us slow down as readers and unpick the wit, puns, double-meanings and playful themes buried in line after line.
(Even those first five sentences get us thinking about cyclical change, ritual and myth in opposition to the dissatisfactions of reality, and 'tern' to paradoxically indicate a rebellious change in direction but also an obedient acceptance of inevitable death.)
In one of my favourite passages in literature and a statement of thought that means a lot to me, Riddley has been smoking post-coital weed with Lorna, a 'tel-woman', who unexpectedly declares her belief in a kind of irrational, monstrous Logos that lives in us, wears us like clothes, and drives us onwards for its own purpose:
'You know Riddley theres some thing in us it dont have no name.' I said, 'What thing is that?' She said, 'Its some kynd of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its lookin out thru our eye hoals...it aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and shelterin how it can.' 'Tremmering it is and feart. It puts us on like we put on our cloes. Some times we dont fit. Some times it cant fynd the arm hoals and it tears us a part. I dont think I took all that much noatis of it when I ben yung. Now Im old I noatise it mor. It dont realy like to put me on no mor. Every morning I can feal how its tiret of me and readying to throw me a way. Iwl tel you some thing Riddley and keap this in memberment. What ever it is we dont come naturel to it.' I said, 'Lorna I dont know what you mean.' She said, 'We aint a naturel part of it. We dint begin when it begun we dint begin where it begun. It ben here befor us nor I dont know what we are to it. May be weare jus only sickness and a feaver to it or boyls on the arse of it I dont know. Now lissen what Im going to tel you Riddley. It thinks us but it dont think like us. It dont think the way we think. Plus like I said befor its afeart.' I said, 'Whats it afeart of?' She said, 'Its afeart of being beartht.'
While Hoban is, I think, deeply humanistic to his bones and even something of a wayward optimist, the notion of human beings as helpless and ignorant vessels, individual carriers - puppets, if you like - for an unknowable and awful inhuman power-in-potentia and life-drive that lacks a true shape or intent beyond its own continued survival (even when that means destroying us or visiting us with agonising atrophy in the process) conjures up the pessimism of Thomas Ligotti, another big influence on our work and a dude who was really into his marionettes-as-metaphor.
Let's go to him now for his opinion on the thing that lives beneath our skin. Thomas?
Through the prophylactic of self-deception, we keep hidden what we do not want to let into our heads, as if we will betray to ourselves a secret too terrible to know… …(that the universe is) a play with no plot and no players that were anything more than portions of a master drive of purposeless self-mutilation. Everything tears away at everything else forever. Nothing knows of its embroilment in a festival of massacres… Nothing can know what is going on.
Curiously, both Ligotti and Riddley Walker have appeared in the music of dark folk band Current 93, whose track In The Heart Of The Wood And What I Found There directly homages the novel and ends with the repeated words,
"All shall be well," she said But not for me
These words, in turn, hearken back to Kafka's* famous reported conversation with Max Brod:
'We are,' he said, 'nihilistic thoughts, suicidal thoughts that rise in God's head.' This reminded me of the worldview of the gnostic: God as an evil demiurge, the world as his original sin. 'Oh no', he said, 'our world is only a bad, fretful whim of God, a bad day.' 'So was there - outside of this world that we know - hope?' He smiled: 'Oh, hope - there is plenty. Infinite hope, just not for us."
So, we walk on.
We carry this thing that's riding on our backs, endlessly bonded to it, feeling its weight more and more with every passing day, unable to turn to look at it. Buried truths come briefly to life, and are hidden from us again. Perhaps they weren't truths at all. We couldn't stand to look the truth directly in the eyes in any case.
If there is hope, it's for the thing that looks out from our eyeholes, which thinks us but cannot think like us. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. There's no hope for it. Perhaps we don't want it to win anyway. It's nothing, and the key to everything.
The Jesus from the Gospel of Thomas says:
'When you see your own likeness, you rejoice. But when you see the visions that formed you and existed before you, which do not perish and which do not become visible - how much then will you be able to bear?'
Kafka, writing to his father, begins by expressing the inexpressibility of his own divine terror:
You asked me why I am afraid of you. I did not know how to answer - partly because of my fear, partly because an explanation would require more than I could make coherent in speech…even in writing, the magnitude of the causes exceeds my memory and my understanding.
Kafka concludes that while he cannot ever truly explain himself, and that the accusations in his letter are neat subjectivities that fail to account for the messiness of reality, perhaps 'something that in my opinion so closely resembles the truth…might comfort us both a little and make it easier for us to live and die.'**
It doesn't bring comfort to Kafka, whose diarised remarks both before and after the 1919 letter make it clear that he views his relationship with the things (people) that birthed him as an endless entrapment that prevents him from attaining any kind of self-actualisation or even comfort, since he cannot escape their influence or remember a time before them:
I was defeated by Father as a small boy and have been prevented since by pride from leaving the battleground, despite enduring defeat over and over again.
It's as if I wasn't fully born yet...as if I was dissolubly bound to these repulsive things (my parents).*** The bond is still attached to my feet, preventing them from walking, from escaping the original formless mush. That's how it is sometimes.
Samuel Beckett returns again and again (aptly) to this pursuit of a state of true humanity and final understanding that is at once fled and unrecoverable, yet to be born, never to be born, never-existed, endlessly to be pursued, pointless to pursue. From the astonishing end sequence of The Unnameable:
alone alone, the others are gone, they have been stilled, their voices stilled, their listening stilled, one by one, at each new-com- ing, another will come, I won’t be the last. I’ll be with the others. I’ll be as gone, in the silence, it won’t be I, it’s not I, I’m not there yet. I’ll go there now. I’ll try and go there now, no use trying, I wait for my turn, my turn to go there, my turn to talk there, my turn to listen there, my turn to wait there for my turn to go, to be as gone, it’s unending, it will be unending, gone where,where do you go from there, you must go somewhere else, wait somewhere else, for your turn to go again
I’m not the first, I won’t be the first, it will best me in the end, it has bested better than me, it will tell me what to do, in order to rise, move, act like a body endowed with despair, that’s how I reason, that’s how I hear myself reasoning, all lies, it’s not me they’re calling, not me they’re talking about, it’s not yet my turn, it’s someone else’s turn, that’s why I can’t stir, that’s why I don’t feel a body on me, I’m not suffering enough yet, it’s not yet my turn, not suffering enough to be able to stir, to have a body, complete with head, to be able to understand, to have eyes to light the way
From Thomas' Jesus:
When you make the two one, and you make the inside as the outside and the outside as the inside and the above as the below, and if male and female become a single unity which lacks 'masculine' and 'feminine' action, when you grow eyes where eyes should be and hands where hands should be and feet where feet should stand and the true image in its proper place, then shall you enter heaven.
Tom's Jesus makes a particularly Gnostic habit of both insisting that the hidden will be revealed and demonstrating the impossibility of attaining a state where the hidden ever can be revealed. Contrary to C.S. Lewis, we will never have faces with which to gaze upon the lost divine and the mysteries that shaped us, and crucially, as Christ puts it, we would not be able to bear the sight of ourselves if we did.
We will never become the thing that's riding on our backs.
Jesus again:
The disciples ask Jesus, 'Tell us how our end shall be.' Jesus says, 'Have you found the beginning yet, you who ask after the end? For at the place where the beginning is, there shall be the end.'
The Unnameable:
I’ll recognise it, in the end I’ll recognise it, the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again, that I may find again, then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place, the silence, the end, the beginning, the beginning again, how can I say it, that’s all words, they’re all I have, and not many of them, the words fail, the voice fails, so be it
The final passage of The Unnameable, which often is hilariously shorn and misinterpreted as an inspirational quote about how if you don't succeed, try again:
all words, there’s nothing else, you must go on, that’s all I know, they’re going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they’re going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can't go on, you must go on. I’ll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know. I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on. I’ll go on. †
We bear this thing that's riding on our backs. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. If it was born, it'd be too terrible for us to bear. There's nothing riding on our backs.
It will never speak us into being.
We keep on calling out into the silence, we keep trying to explain or understand the thing that's riding on our backs, searching for a way to birth it before we die. Our words about the thing are crucial, and they're meaningless, and they're all we have, and they're nothing at all. We cannot name it and we cannot express it, but we cannot stop trying, and we will keep turning back to our words about the thing, obsessing over them, tearing them to pieces, putting them back together.
I'm fumbling at something I can't think or say, but fumbling is all we're capable of. There could be beauty and meaning and comfort in the fumbling, but it's also vain, and foolish, and pointless, and we're lying to ourselves about the beauty and the meaning and the comfort, and we're indulging ourselves pointlessly by going on and on about the pointlessness of it. Nothing can know what's going on. We will never get close enough to understand without being destroyed.
Thomas' Jesus again, warning those who seek to reveal what's hidden:
He who is near me is near the fire.
Riddley Walker, reflecting on the Punch puppet's inexplicable desire to cook and eat his own child:
Whyis Punch crookit? Why wil he al ways kill the baby if he can? Parbly I wont ever know its jus on me to think on it.
If you got to the end of this, congratulations: but the above is honestly the most appropriate patchwork of what I believe, what propels me, what I feel.
As for what comes after life, I think it's fairly straightforwardly a nothingness we are tragically incapable of fully knowing or accepting - it's Beckett's unimaginable and unattainable silence, a silence that his characters' voices keep on shattering even as they cry out for it.
-Jon‡
*I can't remember if Kafka makes prominent reference to Czech puppets in his work, which is interesting in its own right given the thematic relevance (the protagonist in The Hunger Artist is perhaps a kind of self-directing puppet show?).
However, Gustav Meyrink - who some unsourced Google quotes suggest was pals with Czech puppeteer Richard Teschner - did write a strange little story, The Man On The Bottle, about an audience watching a 'marionette show' who are too wrapped up in performances and masks to interpret the reality that they're actually watching a human being suffocate to death.
**Thomas Ligotti: "Something had happened. They did not know what it was, but they did know it as that which should not be.
Something would have to be done if they were to live with that which should not be.
This would not (be enough); it would only be the best they could do."
***Beckett's Malone Dies actually kicks off with a related sentiment:" I am in my mother’s room. It’s I who live there now. I don’t know how I got there...In any case I have her room. I sleep in her bed. I piss and shit in her pot. I have taken her place. I must resemble her more and more."
† I don't necessarily align myself in humour with Ligotti on a lot of this stuff but I imagine he would recognise both Beckett's writing and Kafka's frustrations re explaining the causes of his hatred for his father as sublimation: finding artistic and philosophical ways of sketching the inexpressible horror and uncertainty of our existence in order to reckon with it at a remove without destroying ourselves. A higher form of self-deception, but self-deception nevertheless.
‡Muna's more of an anarcho-nihilist, I think.
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Sims 4: Echo's Armor S1
Domino, former ARC Trooper, war hero, more-machine-than-man, down-to-earth grumpy survivor, bad pun master, rebel clone and Mom to the Batch. Is there an Echo here?
Did you notice how they photo-shopped the official show poster with Echo:
Clearly there are some limits to bending this arm construction, which might not look great in promotional merch. Anyway, I found a way to animate it without adding any bones (which I can't do yet), and while it's not perfect, it looks good at most angles. I will be creating a separate arm accessory together with robolegs next.
bloopers!
Other cc (not mine): - face overlay by @nesurii - chiseled face contour by @golyhawhaw - portrait pose pack by @samsstudio - clone phase 1 helmet by Kynd
Echo sim based on ArthurKirky's TBB Batcher available in my in-game gallery (just search for "Batcher" with pet filter).
Set is base game compatible. Custom icons. Armor found under jumpsuits, for helmet check brimless hats. Batuu enabled.
Please leave me a like, it doesn't cost anything! Thanks!
Download armor + helmet Dowlnolad cybernetic headset Download hair (studs)
#the bad batch#sims 4 star wars#star wars#tbb echo#ct 1409#clone force 99#sims 4#sims 4 cc#star wars tbb#star wars sims 4#star wars clone wars#bad batch sims#domino twins#star wars the bad batch#sims 4 bgc#domino squad#clone wars echo#clone wars
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one of my odyxxey mixes :) about love and loving all. from 2022
leonard cohen - slowly i married her
dean blunt - GALICE
the kynds - so if someone sends you flowers babe
the orchids - peaches
marianne faithfull - the first time i saw your face
the wake - o pamela
the telescopes - wish of you
matthew young - dummy line
the stranglers - la folie
au pairs - headache for michelle
gary davenport - in america there’s everything
rotary connection - didn’t want to have to do it
jaques dutronc - l’operation
marine girls - a different light
gal costa and caetano veloso - zabele
the dirtbombs - i started a joke
john cale - the endless plain of fortune
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My choir is rehearsing for the upcoming season; here's our rendition of "Kinderly", a 14th century poem in Middle English set to music by Katharine Blake of the group Mediaeval Baebes.
Kyndeli is now mi coming
in to ȝis werld wiht teres and cry;
Litel and pouere is myn hauing,
briȝel and sone i-falle from hi;
Scharp and strong is mi deying,
i ne woth whider schal i;
Fowl and stinkande is mi roting—
on me, ihesu, ȝow haue mercy!
----
Kinderly is now my coming
into this world with tears and cries;
Little and poor is my having,
brittle and soon I fall from high;
Sharp and strong is my dying
I know not whither shall I;
Foul and stinking is my rotting —
on me, Jesu, you have mercy!
#it's a real break from shepherds in the fields fa la la la la I gotta say#the guys are on percussion in the background#'kinderly' is hard to translate#the idea is that they're like a baby coming into the world crying#'childlike' maybe#language history#music history#memento mori
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Kynd Community / Seminyak, Bali, Indonesia
Salt and pepper calamari - Konjac calamari, tartare, furikake, chilli flakes
#Kynd community#bali#vegan bali#bali vegan#Seminyak#vegan Seminyak#Seminyak vegan#Indonesia#Indonesia vegan#vegan Indonesia#vegan#veganism#what vegans eat#vegan food#vegan eats#vegan travel#traveller#travel#calamari#vegan calamari#vegan tartare
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