#religious utopia

[sunshinies]

🪽HOLYUTOPIC : a xenogender that feels connected to or like it belongs in a holy paradise , such as the garden of eden or mt. olympus ; a gender that feels religious or godly and like it belongs in a holy place.

☁️——— coined by reid and ellie . . . for @lovesse’s coining event day 1 , “ something holy . “

[PT: Holyutopic: a xenogender that feels connected to or like it belongs in a holy paradise, such as the garden of eden or mt. olympus. it is a gender that feels religious or godly and like it belongs in a holy place. END PT.]

[violetteforevernever]

friday @ the chapel/can u believe I grew up like this

[themyscirah]

Reading shit comics kind of sucks but at least I get the satisfaction of proving my own point w this

[ereh-emanresu-tresni]

.

[joy-haver]

How to Have Joy.

You must invent secret languages where the words mean nothing.

You must dance around and make your body move in ways that could never be read as attractive, only beautiful in the way a dog leaping and huffing and biting at a stick is beautiful. The beauty of play.

You must know every tragedy and mourn it fully, and live a life of joy and a life of grief, together, intertwined, weaving, knowing they are always the same whole, and denying nothing,

“How to be silly” must be the book you wrote with your body. People must read and know it from your face and your memory.

You must love the little flowers and the wasps that sting, and bumble around like them in the wind, finding nothing, pollinating nonetheless.

You must cherish your sleeping, and the groggy bedheaded way you speak in the morning, and the childlike habit building of wiggling around while brushing ur teeth.

You must stay silly, but never at the expense of anything. And never must anything come at its expense.

You must take your silliness seriously.

You must fight for a world of joy.

You must not forget that joy is why you fight.

[smallhatlogan]

man all the attempts to comfort artists talking about their worsening mental health brought about by AI generated art with stuff like "just keep pushing through your art is REAL and that's what matters" just kind of ignores the reality of like, people losing their jobs??? like that's why people are despairing more than the philosophical bullshit about what real art is or whatever

[mercurial-cereal]

It Is Illegal To Collect Rainwater in the West Bank — Here’s Why - The Messenger

[schadenfreude-whump]

Cecilio (Tithes for Utopia)

You don't get context for this. It does exist, and will be established. Eventually.

Big thanks to my beta reader, @brutal-nemesis!

CWs: Vomiting, "It" used as a dehumanizing pronoun along with some general dehumanization, religious themes, food.

Characters: Cecilio, Carlow, Cyrus, (Ilma, mentioned)

Cecilio woke up as he did every morning - aching, sickened, and exhausted. Trying to sleep on the thin pile of musty hay that they called his “bed” was a torture in and of itself (but, as always, that was the point, wasn’t it?). Despite being here for… however long he had been here for, he had yet to find an even semi-comfortable way to sleep in his glorified concrete closet. There was no position that didn’t leave him sore or covered in splinters or cold or vulnerable or any mixture of those. 

If there was one thing he had figured out though, it was their pattern, and when the door unlocked and groaned open, he was not surprised to see Carlow. He wore his ever-present warm smile, which would deceive anyone that didn’t know him. The warmth was not directed towards anyone but himself. The coolness of his eyes were for those around him.

In this specific moment, it was for Cecilio.

“I don’t have all day.” He said.

Cecilio sat up at attention, holding back a groan as he did so, trying to hide the soreness in his body. He wouldn’t put it past Carlow to use it against him. 

He limped behind Carlow through the compound, remembering to keep his head lowered, Carlow was the one who would punish him the most severely for not showing deference, after all. He noted that they passed the “special room” meaning whatever Carlow had planned for him today did not require a lot of set up, or maybe it did, but he wanted to hurt him in a new way while he did set it up. The only thing at the end of this hallway was the workshop.

Cecilio was allowed to use the restroom in the back of the workshop, a “privilege” for which he had to thank Carlow excessively for. He tried not to lick his lips too much while he washed his hands. Carlow would know if he drank any water without permission, so his thirst would have to wait.

When he returned, he was directed towards a foam mat in the center of the room, where he obediently sat, wondering what sort of new way to torture him the priests of the compound had cooked up.

“Now,” Carlow said, turning to address him, “close your eyes.”

Cecilio obeyed.

“You are going to keep those closed until I tell you, explicitly, that you are allowed to open them. If I see them open, I will glue them shut. Understand?”

Cecilio nodded.

That seemed enough for Carlow, who, by the sound of it, turned heel and walked over to the workbench directly across from where Cecilio sat. There was a metallic sound, and then something like sawing, and he strained his ears, trying to figure out what it was.

Truly, it could be any number of things. The “special room” was for tortures that needed a dedicated space, like the puzzles and challenges they enjoyed forcing him to do, but it wasn’t the only space they used. There was a reason the workshop had drains on the floor, and anchors for chains and manacles throughout the room. They kept the hammers and batons side-by side in here, and both could be used to hurt him.

The sawing sound abruptly stopped, and Cecilio stiffened as he felt Carlow’s footsteps approaching…

Only to go right past him to throw something in a drawer behind him, rummage, and walk back.

Apparently there was some kind of preparation involved here, but Cecilio had no idea what it was. Was he preparing or modifying one of the tools? Which one? Was he building something?

Keeping his eyes closed and being still was as difficult now as it would be if he were in a cage of starving alligators. His instincts told him that fleeing was the best option here, but this wasn’t a large predator trying to eat him. Worse, in fact, because then he would be killed, but the creatures who inhabited this lair would never let him die so easily. No matter how he begged.

He took a breath, trying to calm his mind, at least a little bit. If he could figure out what Carlow was doing, it might make today a little more bearable. He could mentally prepare for it, as much as one can do such a thing.

There was that ever present sawing noise, one he realized sounded actually closer to filing. Carlow was sharpening something, perhaps? A knife? A saw?

��They say thinking too much causes wrinkles”

He almost jumped up and opened his eyes at that. He was so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed that Carlow was now standing right over him, judging by the sound of his voice and the way Cecilio’s hairs stood on end. He could practically picture his amused face at Cecilio’s reaction.

He felt Carlow’s attention divert from him as a door opened to Cecilio’s left.

“I brought the stuff.” Came a voice, Cyrus, he recognized quickly.

“Thank you.” Carlow said, taking something and setting it down on a table somewhere along the wall in front of Cecilio.

He felt a new presence in front of him, Cyrus was likely crouching down in front of him, their eyes burning his skin as they looked him over.

“It’s kept its eyes closed so far?” They asked, and he could hear the amusement in their voice. Everything was amusing, everything was a joke. The world was a show for them to watch, and Cecilio had found himself playing the part of comedy relief.

Carlow must’ve given some sort of affirmation.

“Good Cici” Cecilio jerked as Cyrus began “petting” his greasy hair.

“Please don’t tell me you’re adopting Ilma’s nickname for it, too.” groaned Carlow, and it seemed like he was talking with his mouth half-full.

“It rolls off the tongue a lot better than ‘sacrifice’, don’t you think?” Cyrus said, “Plus, it’s so cute, it matches it perfectly.”

Carlow gave no verbal response, but took a few steps forward until he was once again right next to Cecilio.

The sound of chewing. Ah, so he was eating. The smell of peanut butter and jelly wafted down, and despite himself, Cecilio’s stomach growled.

“Awww,” Cyrus cooed, “the doggy’s hungry.”

“That’s a given, considering it hasn't eaten since yesterday morning.” Carlow responded before walking away.

“I don’t see the point in feeding it today, it’ll probably throw it all up anyway. I bet Lana it would.”

“Why you ever imagined you could win a bet against Lana is beyond me.” Carlow said, now back at the table from the other side of the room.

Cecilio felt Cyrus’s presence leave his vicinity, and Carlow’s re-enter it.

“There is a bowl of water in front of you,” Carlow said, finally addressing him. As though he hadn’t been discussing him like an interesting lamp for the past few minutes.

“You may drink from it, but you are still not to open your eyes. Understood?” Carlow continued.

Cecilio nodded.

“Good. Drink.”

With that command, Cecilio began lapping, grateful that it was actually water that met his tongue, at this point though, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve stopped if it wasn’t.

Lapping up water was, of course, a terribly inefficient way for a human to drink. As much water as he got in his mouth was flicked off his tongue.

The water bowl was pulled away, and he almost followed it, suppressing a whine. He had only had enough to wet his tongue and dull the headache he didn’t know he had.

He didn’t have too long to mourn though, as a sliver of metal pushed past his lips. He opened his mouth obediently, the grainy taste of dry dog food meeting his tongue when the spoon was pulled away.

“Chew.” came the command, and he did so, though much less enthusiastically than when he had lapped at the water. Admittedly, he thought as he swallowed, it was nice to have something in his stomach again.

A few grueling, sandy bites later and he was allowed to lap at the water bowl again, grateful to wash the taste out of his mouth and the grit from his teeth. 

Once again, though, right before he was satisfied, it was taken away again.

His displeasure was not unnoticed, it seemed.

“Don't worry, buddy, I'm sure it'll taste just as good coming up.” Cyrus said, harshly tousling his hair so hard they pulled out some strands in the process.

Cyrus stayed around chatting idly for a while. Whatever they and Carlow said were lost on Cecilio, as he retreated to his own mind again.

Behind his eyelids, light started to dance, and he genuinely couldn’t tell if it was his own mind creating the image, or if something was happening before him. A thought slipped through his periphery, maybe they had drugged him? To what end, he didn’t know. It was past lunch time, now, Carlow didn't “do” snacks. Whatever he was preparing took all morning, at least. Perhaps he was building a puzzle. Perhaps Cecilo would open his eyes inside a delicately placed structure, where one move could send him to a world of pain. It wouldn't even be the first time. However, Cyrus thought whatever they had planned for him would cause him to throw up, out of pain, or anxiety, he didn't know. That probably meant it was either something he hadn't seen before, or something so horrible that even if he did know it, there was no way to prepare.

The snippets of conversation happening around him gave him no clue, either. They would speak sparingly, about the weather, their tasks, Cecilio’s other torturers, but seemed equally content to do… whatever they were doing in silence. In fact, it had grown much quieter than it had been all morning. Cecilio no longer had any indication of what it was they were doing, aside from a faint smell he could not place, that made his nose wrinkle.

On top of that, Cecilio’s lower body was starting to go numb. Sitting in one position for hours on end, only a thin foam mat between him and the concrete floor, was worsening the aches from this morning. He didn’t dare shift, not when he still didn’t know if there was something waiting to hurt him should he move. His mouth was dry and his head was light. His stomach lurched, coaxed by the smell and the overwhelming silence that bore down on him.

He had just enough time to lean forwards, hands holding him up on the mat, before the meager contents of his stomach barreled back out, burning his mouth on its way. It took all his willpower to keep his eyes squeezed shut as he coughed up the last of the bile.

A beat of silence.

“I’ve just won a bet.” Cyrus said.

“Huh.” was all Carlow said in response, before dropping whatever it was he was doing and approaching Cecilio.

Despite himself, he whined. He knew he’d be punished for this, but it was almost a relief. He’d take anything they could do to him if it meant an end to this horrible waiting.

He felt a rag swipe roughly over his chin before a hand grabbed it, lifting it up.

“Open your eyes for me, Sacrifice.” was Carlow’s command.

He frantically glanced around him, finally hoping to know what they wanted to do to him that would take so long.

There was nothing. Nothing out of the ordinary save for some of the leather whips that Cyrus appeared to be polishing.

He looked back at Carlow, whose face was full of mirth. 

“Sometimes the anticipation of suffering is the worst part of it, don’t you think?” He asked.

He wasn’t… it didn’t… he had been fearing all day for… nothing?

“I was actually just planning on getting some maintenance done here in the workshop all day. See how long you could go… after all, why build this up so far just to give you relief? Lady Omelas would not be very happy with that, now would she?”

Cecilio felt overwhelmed. The bile that stung his nose made his eyes wet.

“But,” Carlow continued, “You did sully that mat, and the floor, and I can’t even have you clean it up, you’d just be in my way. I still have a lot to do, you know. However, I’m sure Cyrus would be delighted to chaperone you for the rest of the day.”

Cyrus’s eyes lit up, and they approached Cecilio eagerly, like a dog given a new chew toy.

“I think that that’s a wonderful idea,” Cyrus said, “especially now that all the knives are nice and sharp.”

[pikslasrce]

my mom is so apolitical it hurtsssssss

[deanmarywinchester]

“There had always been peasant uprisings, uprisings of the underclasses, and crucifixions of radical leaders, long before Jesus' time- but the resurrection, or at least a belief in the story of it and the story of what the apostles did in its wake, seemed to say something different about this history.

Another way of reading that moment in Acts 2 is not that it's describing a community formation to be literally adhered to by all true believers going forward, but that it's highlighting the thought-to-be impossible things that the event of the resurrection radically reframed: these uprisings, which have always happened and will continue to happen, these impossible communities that will form against all odds and always have, which will live out a spirit of abundance and solidarity in a world that swears the law is scarcity and rift, are themselves the eternal and ongoing heirs to the true reality, and they shall live, and live abundantly.

It's hard to explain without sounding like a zealot. Maybe I am a zealot.

What I'm saying is, the resurrection, if thought about this way, served as much as an atonement as it did a reminder: do not believe the lies-do not believe the lies that empire tells about what is possible and what is not.

Do not give way to evil.”

— Adrian Shirk, Heaven is a Place on Earth; Searching for an American Utopia

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

I am begging people to be normal about religions and cultures they're not part of

Telling us not to wear a scarf is oppression you fucking fools let us wear whatever we want

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

something that strikes me about pw's 'gray' is just how. religious it is. it's very religious. religion plays such a subtle, omnipresent role in it. because of course it does.

[mnemo-sick]

💞- Any Ships? Who's your current fav? 🍳- Character that you would go to Brunch with

for the tf ask!

omg my first ask aaaa!!!!

💞- Any Ships? Who's your current fav?

okay. well. first of all, I am a cdrw enjoyer. they are both assholes and I truly love them for it. idr who, but someone was talking recently about the cdrw dynamic - the mnemosurgeon and the archivist. forgetting vs. remembering. and how chromedome learns to hold on (to rewind, and also love in general) and rewind learns how to let go (of dominus ambus) and the succinct phrasing of that parallel I think struck me to my core.

I also think simpatico is cool. this one is simpler for me, I just like all iterations of percy and also happened to like brainstorm upon meeting him, and their dynamic being so classic and fun was just. the best of all worlds clicking together. the classic scientist ship: stoic scientist and zany inventor. (aside - but I'm also a mbti nerd and I saw somewhere typing perceptor as an INTJ and brainstorm as an ENTP, and their archetypes fit so perfectly it almost seems designed that way. this quote specifically: <<BS: got any theories, perceptor? P: one or two. BS: is that all? I've got hundreds. P: then you clearly have a lot of eliminating to do.>> is exactly INTJ (introverted intuition - Ni) vs. ENTP (extroverted intuition - Ne). end aside)

there are more but I must move on.

🍳- Character that you would go to Brunch with

this is such an interesting question. I think I must choose megatron (idw megatron, post joining the lost light specifically). I will explain why.

I, like many, find myself easily swayed by the trap of thinking the "Revolution" is coming soon. of course it's nothing but evangelism: "Rapture" reskinned. but in this mindset, the decepticons are the Good Guys (obviously). tearing down power structures is Good. fighting the system is Good.

but the hard truth might just be - and not to go glaringly political - maybe shattering society would leave it shattered. maybe the frustrating slow crawl toward equity and equality is really the only way to go. and it's hard. and it's slow. but there's real people to help right now, and many would be left behind if society were upended. even if it were for good reasons!

and with all that in mind, I want so bad to sit down with megatron and just. pick his brain. poke at his memories. his motivations, his regrets, what he learned, what he would change. yeah.

[fuiru]

A 44 year old man goes to a K-Pop Concert

I promised you a report on the K-pop concert that I, a 44-year-old accountant, went to a couple of weeks ago with my wife and daughter in Toronto. So here it is.

The band we saw were Ateez. They're my daughter's favourite band and my wife's second favourite. I know most of my mutuals are similarly aged like me and may not be familiar with them so let me give you a brief primer on Ateez.

Imagine the most attractive eight men you can think of, just unfathomably beautiful specimens of aesthetic perfection, and make them sing songs that somehow combine the subjects of 'dancing like nobody is watching' with 'we live in a dystopian hellscape that we must all work together to overthrow'. Give them an ongoing music video story lore that literally nobody - not even the band themselves - understand, so that online discussion of their visual motifs looks more like the fevered rantings of a conspiracy theorist, complete with speculation about alternate realities and time being a Moebius strip. There is also a giant sand timer, for some reason.

That's Ateez. That's what you need to know.

Now, K-pop concerts are very different to the gigs I've been going to for the last 28 (!) years. There's no support act, for a start. Also the band perform for like, three hours, with breaks for costume changes and interpretive dance. Furthermore, hanging above everything is the constant looming threat of mandatory military service.

So this being my first such concert, I wasn't sure what to expect. What happened was difficult to explain, but I will try as I am already six paragraphs into this write-up and I'm too invested to stop now. Here goes:

In his Wicked + Divine comics series, Kieron Gillen places modern pop icons as deities, feeding upon and gaining strength from the worship of their fans at the altar of musical performance. I thought I understood that metaphor. I thought I understood it AS a metaphor. I was wrong, because that night Ateez WERE Gods with a capital G and we were their worshippers, a crowd emanating adoration (in the religious and non-religious senses), bestowing strength upon them and gaining their strength in return.

If that sounds weird, it probably is. But as pointed out above, I have lived over four decades and never yet experienced anything like the overwhelming passion of that crowd, the utter abandon with which they conveyed their love for the band.

"But Fuiru, what of the actual music?" you ask. Thinking back, there was a moment in one of their songs - I can't remember which - where I watched the stage, and the people around me, taking it in, and I thought, "Man, I just love Music". But that doesn't answer your question, sorry.

Ateez's music is bloody great. As a tiresome indie/rock/metal kid I'm resisting the urge to add the usual tiresome indie/rock/metal caveat of "...for pop music" because honestly that does it a disservice. They have some genuinely amazing songs. Halazia is an absolute fucking masterpiece that descends into furious hardcore breakbeat. Bouncy is a big, brash racket that somehow is also a perfect pop song. Utopia, Wonderland, and Guerrilla are similarly superb. The obligatory boy band slow number is represented by Dancing Like Butterfly Wings which will make you cry because you will forever associate it with your twelve year old daughter being pointed to and waved at by her favourite Ateez member (Seonghwa) because of her Seonghwa-branded lightstick.

That might just be me, though.

So in summary: being a 44 year old dad at his first K-pop concert rules and you should endeavour to partake in the experience if the opportunity arises.

Finally, for any Atiny reading this: my bias would be San or Seonghwa but my wife and daughter said they were taken so it’s Mingi. My concert outfit (designed and created by my offspring) reflects this.

[eye-in-hand]

Something more pseudo-communists on this site need to start understanding is that while the theory may go on and on about killing the rich and creating a classless society, that has never been the case in practice and it never will be.

The revolution in Russia targeted the Tsar, targeted the upper class, killed (though often just put them under house arrest) the rich - sure. But then what happened? It was justified to kill anyone who didn't support the revolution as degeneracy. The Jews are ruining our utopia because they're behind capitalism. The Queers are ruining our utopia because they're destroying the family unit. The ex-serfs are ruining our utopia because they're stuck in the Russian Empire in belief.

When a movement begins with violence, it will always continue in violence. The violence will always be justified, and will always find a new target - because the intention is violence.

Cambodia targeted the Khmer who were 'too western'. Russia targeted the marginalized. China targets religious minority ethnic groups. Among others, just examples.

When Russia's revolution began killing the rich the rich just moved to France and returned later, after millions of poor people died from starvation, militant governmental policies and war. Rich people can afford to survive your rEvOLuTiOn. Poor people can not and will not by the millions.

The real target is NEVER the "Rich" and ALWAYS the people "in the way", who more often than not, are marginalized.

You can NOT be for marginalized communities and continue evangelizing communism. The economy is built on exploitation, whether it's run by the working party (Which lmfao it usually actually isn't, in reality), or the upper class.

[joy-haver]

When you are a utopian, you do everything you can to build the world you imagine. You try as hard as you can, and you fail, and you fail again. But knowing it is possible, you do not doubt that you can get there, you only doubt your methodology. And so, with each failure you seek learning. You abandon shame of failure because it gets in the way of understanding. You abandon the despair of impossibility because it shades out the joy that guides you. Each day you learn the acceptance of what cannot be changed, and you subsume it into the material conditions from which change can grow. Each day you find what can be changed, and you set to planing each moment of daily action, each motion of the foot or hand, towards the utopian goal. The utopian knows that the destination is important, a shining light. They also know that they will never reach it. The utopian knows that it is the continued approach that is relevant, the path itself. That to walk along it is to maintain it, and that it must be a road we make for others as we go.