#roadkill can become part of the circle of life

[priceprime]

Oh vulture take

my sins and make

them sacrifice.

I cannot bear

the thought

Of unmitigated mistakes.

Tear at the flesh

of my flaws, Pick

the bones clean and white.

Take what you must

Whatever can make me

Good enough.

Whatever can make me

Good enough.

[natasha-romanoff-deserved-better]

Title: Origins

Summary:

The cat is vibrating in her lap, and she doesn’t quite know exactly what that means, but she can’t deny it feels nice, and the cat’s face is softening, and even though the cat itself is half frozen, something about the cat’s hazel eyes looking up to her fills a warmth inside her empty chest. "

How Natalia Romanova learned what it meant to be good, with the help of an injured cat in the Siberian woods.

Read here or on Ao3

Trigger warning!!: Okay. Very slight spoilers for this warning, but small mentions of animal cruelty by the red room. I tried to keep it as vague as possible while still getting the point across.

***

It isn’t moving.

It’s tiny - a small grey and white kitten, soaking wet and laying sprawled in the gutter behind the facility.  She’s supposed to be running her cross-country route, but her feet refuse to cooperate with her as she inches forward towards it.

She furrows her brow and crouches over it. Her hand hovers for a second, before coming down to softly touch the animal. She just wants to know if it’s breathing or not. That’s all. But as soon as the warmth of her hand makes contact, the animal startles, before arching up to push itself further against her hand. She jumps at the sudden movement, but resists pulling away. The creature is letting out small, tiny, mewls- a sound that reminds her of last week when guard Kuznetsov had held his lighter against the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist.

The cat pushes itself up on shaking legs and takes several unsteady steps towards her before collapsing in her lap.

“Stupid cat,” She whispers. “I could kill you with only a finger. Can’t you see I’m bad?” But she keeps petting it, doesn’t push it away from her like her instincts and conditioning tell her too. The cat is vibrating in her lap, and she doesn’t quite know exactly what that means, but she can’t deny it feels nice, and the cat’s face is softening, and even though the cat itself is half frozen, something about the cat’s hazel eyes looking up to her fills a warmth inside her empty chest.

She glances around herself, checking in all directions for any of the other girls or teachers. No one is there to witness her display of weakness. They’re too confident in their training techniques, trusting that all the girls were too afraid to ever do something as idiotic as she was currently.

Natalia presses two fingers to the cat’s neck, feeling around for a moment before she’s able to find a weak pulse. She knows absolutely nothing about cats, but even she can tell that the pulse is weaker than it should be. The cat is skinny too- she can feel it’s spine and ribs.

She doesn’t know why she does it. But she gathers the cat up in her arms, cradles it close to her chest as she stumbles through the snow towards the forest surrounding the facility. The woods are dense- no one would find it here.

She shrugs off her windbreaker, tossing it to the ground before gently laying the cat on top. Then she drops to her knees beside it, and shoves her bare hands into the snow, scooping out a handful and tossing it to the side. The coldness burns but she continues, shoveling out a small tunneling hole within the snow.

“This will keep you warm,” She speaks to it, as she picks up her jacket and cat all together and maneuvers it into the hole. She reaches in and wraps the jacket snug around the cat. She accidentally meets its eyes for a split second, before diverting her gaze. She busies herself with collecting nearby twigs and branches, places them over the top of the hole. It’s only once she is satisfied that the hole is decently covered that she turns and begins to sprint back, hoping no one has noticed her absence.

She takes the whipping for losing her jacket in silence, just like the good little soldier she is being trained to be.

...

She should be done with it; she thinks the next morning at breakfast. She gave the cat her jacket. She dug a hole for it to help keep it warm and insulated. She’s already done more than necessary. But she can’t get the image out of her mind.

Keeping a close but discreet eye on the guards and the other girls, she brings the bread roll up to her lips as if about to eat it, and when she is sure no one is watching, shoves it down the collar of her shirt. She doesn’t have any breasts yet to help hide it like the older girls do, so she shoves it down further, near her waist where she can wrap her arms around her torso to hide it by pretending she’s holding her stomach.

She eats the rest of her protein oatmeal, doing her best not to look suspicious, and then fakes an upset stomach towards the end, holding the roll in place until she gets back up to her bed where she shoves it under her mattress.

She isn’t able to focus on her schoolwork. Her teachers are droning on and on about maths, surveillance, survival skills and English lessons. Every bit of it goes in one ear and straight out the other. All she can think about is the damn cat. Did it even survive the night? It was so weak when she found it. Was it warm enough? She knows the hole she dug would help- she and the other girls once had to do it for themselves as part of their outdoor skills class, but she can’t help but worry maybe it wasn’t enough. She knows body heat can only do so much if you’re starving and don’t have energy to produce said heat. Would the cat have even been smart enough to stay inside the hole?

She doesn’t know why she cares so much. It’s just some random animal. She’s never even liked animals all that much - the rabid growling dogs some of the patrolling guards keep have always scared her. But something about the way the cat leaned into her hand, trusted her enough to crawl up into her lap; It felt nice. Nice to be trusted like that, as if she was capable of being anything other than what her teachers tell her she is destined to be.

It’s not until four in the evening that they’re due to begin their running. Natasha lags behind, not wanting the others to be around to see her go off course. She heads straight to the woods, eyes zeroing in on the small pile of twigs. She falls to her knees next to it, begins frantically pulling them away.

The cat is still there, cuddled into her jacket.

She almost cries in relief as she reaches in to pull it out. The cat comes willing, a tiny meow in what she would like to imagine as a greeting.

“Here, I brought you this.” She tugs out the smushed bread roll from her pants waistband. The cat sniffs it before taking a bite. he chews it quickly, then goes in for more. She smiles softly as it eats another piece. It’s tail swishes in contentment.

It makes the hunger in her stomach completely worth it.

She scratches it’s back as he eats. He’s vibrating again, what she now knows is called purring. “Don’t get too comfortable,” She sighs at him. “I would give you a name, but I’m not actually allowed to be here or doing this. Is it okay if I just call you Cat?”

He doesn’t respond, too busy with his bread. But he keeps purring, so she assumes it must be good enough for him.

...

Somehow, it becomes part of her daily routine. Every day at breakfast she sneaks away with her bread roll tucked securely into her clothes. Every day she anxiously waits for 4 o’clock to come around - when she knows she’ll get to see her friend again. The danger of the situation has died out on her now, the adrenaline no longer pumping through her veins each time and instead her heart fluttering excitedly.

She’s getting smaller, and the nurses and teachers are starting to notice. Her leotard no longer clings to her body, her training tanks falling lower than before. She doesn’t mind, it only makes food easier to hide. They question her about it, interrogating her. There are no good answers- if she claims to be sick, she could be killed. If she says she’s been giving food to someone else, she could be killed. So, she pretends to have no idea what they’re talking about. She puts on her confused face, acts shocked when they read out her most recent weight to her. They threaten a feeding tube on her, and she lies when telling them that wouldn’t be necessary.

She doesn’t remember the last time something felt so good. Winning her sparring matches, acing her tests or even the rare praise from her teachers. None of it could compare to how satisfying it felt to feel Cat purr against her. He was getting stronger each day along with every bit of food she brought. Her newfound obsession of nursing this cat back to health well worth the way her own body is slowly starting to deteriorate. For maybe the first time in her life, she was using her skills to help, instead of to hurt. She was creating life, not taking it.

...

Natalia huffs a loose strand of auburn hair out of her face, clearing the obstruction and allowing her to watch her opponent better. They’re both out of breath, circling like two eagles fighting over roadkill. The other girls are lined up against the wall, observing the match.

Klara is good. She’s landed several punches to Natalia already, within the first minute. But she’s getting tired. And while Natalia may not be as strong as Klara, she knows she wins in the endurance category.

Klara breaks the standoff and comes at her again, one hand capturing her wrist while she uses her leg to sweep Natalia’s legs out from underneath. Natalia latches onto her torso on her way down, causing them both to tumble to the ground. Natalia takes advantage of her surprise, and quickly clambers over her body, taking control. She straddles her, sitting her weight on the small of her back to hold her down while she captures her left arm and twists it back, hard.

Klara lets out a small whine. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s enough. Both girls pause in their struggle, glance up at their teacher. He doesn’t say anything, but they know he’s heard it. He’s not happy. He makes eye contact with Natalia, gives her a slight nod.

She knows what she’s supposed to do. Knows the punishment for showing weakness during combat. She tightens her hold around Klara’s wrist.

Klara is holding her breath in anticipation. Anticipation of having a bone snapped, at her hands.

The same hands that had pulled Cat from the gutters. Hands that dug him a safe snow burrow, that caringly pet his fur back into place, that fed him pieces of bread every day.

Her hands were capable of more than just hurting. She was capable of more. She could be good.

“No.” The word tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop it. She releases Klara’s arm, snapping her arms back into her chest and away from her classmate as she shakily stands to her feet, taking a step back to put more distance between them. She doesn’t want to hurt her.

“Natalia.” Their teacher warns. The other girls are watching with wide eyes. She looks at him, shakes her head.

She can see the anger cloud his face as he pushes away from the wall he was leaning on to stomp over to her. She wants to back away from him but stands her ground. He towers over her and seizes her arm.

He doesn’t hesitate. The pop as her wrist dislocates from its joints is heard around the room. She jerks back, causing him to lose his unsuspecting grip before he can fully break her bone. It’s easy enough for him to snatch her back, this time his fists flying down on her back.

She knows the majority of this is just to make an example out of her, but it doesn’t make it any easier as the blood vessels beneath her skin break under his anger.

He tries to switch his grip on her, but her body reacts before her brain catches up. She ducks underneath his arm, feet pounding on the ground as she sprints from the courtyard. They let her go- know that in only her tank and shorts she will have no choice but to return herself before the cold claims her. The fresh bruises covering her body make it hard to move, but she doesn’t stop. She keeps running, muscle memory carrying her to their spot.

Cat is there. She grabs him and pulls him in. It’s not enough- she needs more. Letting Cat down for a second, she takes the bottom of her tattered tank top and yanks it over her head furiously, leaving her torso bare. She gathers up Cat once more, and holds him close to her chest.

“I’m so tired,” She tells him, voice cracking. “I don’t want to be bad.” She slumps onto her side, pulling her knees up and curling into a small ball around Cat. His fur against her bare skin reminds her of velvet blankets. The warmth and weight of Cat in her arms and against her chest are the only things keeping her somewhat grounded.

Cat doesn’t purr, like he so often does when she holds him. Perhaps her sadness is contagious. He stays content in her arms, nuzzling his head into the crock of her neck.

...

The next evening when she goes, Cat is waiting for her.

Next to Cat is a dead mouse. She frowns in disgust at first, but Cat flicks its tail and noses it towards her. It’s a gift, she realizes. Cat brought her something. Something that to Cat, was valuable-  its food and life source. Cat could have eaten the mouse himself. Should have eaten it himself.

Tears threaten to leak from her eyes. She sits down and holds her arms out for Cat. Cat knows the routine now, and hops in the space between her legs.

“Thank you,” She whispers to him. “I love you too.”

She doesn’t actually know what that word means. It’s said a lot in the Disney movies they watch, and sometimes the other girls use it to describe certain material things, but in relation to her as a person, she doesn’t have a clue.

This must be it. Every day that she ventures out here, she is risking her life for this cat. Every bread roll she brings, every minute spent in these woods with this little animal is a risk. And yet here she is.

Words from the adults in her life are ringing in her ears. All the talk about the girls being incapable of love, cold hearted. They were lies, they had to be. There was no other explanation.

...

Natalia laughs as Cat pounces once again, this time nearly succeeding in grabbing the leaves. Three days ago, she’d plucked this branch from a nearby tree, a long twig with a bundle of leaves at the end that had somehow managed to survive the winter. She hadn’t been sure if Cat would be interested, but the fear was unfounded. The past days, she had spent every minute with Cat playing with him, laughing at all his antics. Her favorite move of his was when he would crouch low, stick his butt in the air and wiggle it for several seconds.

“What are you doing?”

Natalia drops the branch in her startle, quickly spinning around to find one of the girls standing there, an eyebrow raised at her.

“N-nothing. I just-” She gestures flippantly towards the cat, as if it wasn’t her only and best friend. “Just found it here. Was just looking at it.”

Annika wrinkles her nose at the cat in disgust. Natalia watches as her eyes slide past the cat, landing on her makeshift jacket bed several feet away and the realization that dawns.

“Do you have a …. Pet?” she spits the word, and Nat is reminded of why she’s always hated Annika. Annika, who never got in any trouble, never disobeyed or got lectured or whipped.

“No,” Natalia snaps, too quickly. “It’s just some random cat.” The lie physically hurts.

Annika stares at her. Natalia can see the disbelief on her face, and knows the ploy is up.

“Please don’t tell anyone. It just needed some help. It’s really no big deal.”

Annika smirks. “Is this the reason you’ve been acting so weird lately? You’ve been putting everyone on edge, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” Natalia isn’t sure what exactly she’s apologizing for. Why she is saying sorry for caring about something.

Annika doesn’t respond, just glances between her and Cat a few more times before shrugging her shoulders and turning away.

“Wait!” Natalia jumps forward, catching her shoulder before she can leave. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

Annika shakes her off with an annoyed “Don’t touch me,” and keeps walking. Natalia reaches for her again, but one of the older girls appears in view. She’s too far to hear them, but close enough to see their struggle.

Natalia has no choice but to let her go.

...

Hands are wrenching her from her bed.

She’s awake in an instant, struggling against them. Memories of the last time one of the guards had taken her from her bed during the night make it hard to breathe through the panic.

The cold hits her and breaks through her initial terror enough for her to realize she is being taken outside. At first, she’s confused- this is not where they usually prefer to take her for this - before realizing there’s only one other thing this could be about.

No.

No no no no no nonononono.

Her panic renews with a fresh vigor. She tries to twist away from Sokolov, but his grip is crushing. Kuznetov is walking next to them, and she doesn’t miss his hand resting on the baton on his hip, ready to strike. They make quick work of carrying her to the edge of the woods.

Madam is there.

In her hands, she is holding Natalia’s dirty jacket. At her shoes, Cat. He isn't moving well, similar to the first time she had found him, and tears leak from her eyes at the thought that they had already done something to him. All the time and effort she had spent rehabilitating and earning his trust, and yet she had failed to protect him when it really mattered.

Sokolov drops her to her feet but keeps a crushing hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place.

“Explain yourself.” Madam’s voice is hard.

“I-” Natalia can barely hear over her heart pounding in her ears. “I couldn’t just let it die.”

“And why not?”

“I don’t understa-”

“You have stolen from us. This jacket was not yours to give away. How much food have you stolen and wasted on this animal?”

“I wasn’t stealing-”

“Do not talk back to me, child.”

She slams her mouth shut.

“Finish this, Natalia.”

It takes a second for the meaning behind Madam’s words to sink in. Natalia takes a step backwards, shaking her head. “No. No, I can’t.”

“I was not asking.”

She keeps shaking her head, has to resist the urge to cover her ears with her hands. “He’s innocent. You can’t make me kill an innocent-”

“I have no interest on its innocence or guilt. I gave you an order.” Madam steps forward and grabs her chin, forcing her face upwards. “You are being trained to obey. It matters not what you think of the orders. You will say what we tell you to say. You will kill who we tell you to kill. Nothing more, nothing less. You are property of the Red Room, Natalia. You are a weapon.”

Sokolov leans over her, his arms coming around to trap her within as he grabs a hold of her hands. He places his pistol in them, but she keeps her hands open, refusing to take hold of it. He shakes her in frustration, hands closing over hers as he forces her fingers to wrap around the handle. She shakes her head and tries to push away, which only succeeds in pressing herself further against Sokolov. He holds her there for several seconds, until her resolve weakens and he’s sure she won’t drop it once released. Kutnetsov is watching from his spot by Madam. The corners of his lips are slightly turned up.

He’s enjoying this.

The gun is heavy in her hands. She clenches her jaw. Grinds her teeth. Inhales. Exhales. Looks at Kuznetsov. At Cat. She closes her eyes. Raises the gun. Pulls the trigger.

Kuznetsov drops, blood pouring from the hole in his forehead. A second gunshot pierces the air, and she collapses just the same. The gun clatters to the snow from her hands as she moves to clutch her right hand, a matching bullet wound.

The searing pain in her hand blinds her momentarily, before a small whine reaches her ears. She blinks back the pain, sees Madam’s hand reaching for Cat.

“Don’t touch him!” She screams. She throws herself forwards, scrambling to position her body over Cat. The snow under them is strained crimson for Kuznetsov’s dead body as well as her own hand. It’s drenching Cat’s fur and smeared all over her. Sokolov’s hand lands on her shoulder. She turns her head and sinks her teeth into his flesh, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. There’s so much blood everywhere it’s threatening to overwhelm her. He rips his hand out of her mouth, delivering a backhand to her before both his hands close around the tops of her arms to tear her off Cat.

The world spins as she is suddenly back upright, but her gaze lands on Madam picking up Cat.

“No!” She screams, trying to lunge forward. Sokolov’s hold almost slips, her skin slippery from the coating of blood, and he grunts in annoyance as he readjusts- reaching down to wrap his arms around her waist and pick her up, holding her captive against him as he trudges back towards the building. “No!” she wails. She kicks her feet back, digging her heels into his body. He doesn’t respond. She reaches back blindly, clawing at his skin. He lets out a string of curses and bends over, keeping her trapped against him. With one hand, he grabs both her wrists and bundles them against her chest, ignoring her yelp of pain as the bullet wound is pressed. Arms contained, he picks her back up again. Continues walking.

She doesn’t stop struggling. “I’ll do it again! I’ll kill you all!” She sobs out, whipping her head back to try and see the scene behind her. “Leave him alone! I’ll kill you!”

As Sokolov takes her further away, carries her further from the only good she has ever known, her screams turn incoherent. A mixture of pleads and threats, and then anguished howls. She helpless to stop this, and the weight of the knowledge comes crashing down on her, pulling her into the depths of unconsciousness.

...

Natalia awakes in the infirmary, which is weird. She hadn’t expected to wake up at all after her show of defiance. She doesn’t struggle against the cuffs chaining her to the bed. She already knows it’s useless.

The presence of Madam is next to her. She can feel her there before she even opens her eyes. She doesn’t want to talk to her, but something about this situation is wrong, and the question nags until she can’t ignore it. She opens her eyes, leveling Madam with a glare.

“Why am I still alive?” She questions. “I killed –”

“Do you feel bad for shooting him?” Madam sits down on the doctor’s stool next to the cot, leaning towards her. It’s a good thing she’s cuffed tightly.

Natalia isn’t sure what game Madam is playing, can’t think of what answer would be considered the correct one to her, so she goes with the truth instead. “No. I’m glad he’s dead.”

Madam smiles. “And that is why, Natalia. A child who can kill without an ounce of guilt is very useful.” Madam leans in closer to her, but she doesn’t look away. She keeps her glare fixed, refusing to let the women intimidate her. “You are no different than any of us now.”

Madam stands up abruptly, giving her a curt nod before turning to the doctor standing in the doorway. “A wipe is needed. Prepare her and then bring her to the machine.”

Natalia jerks up. “What? No. I don’t need to be wiped- it won’t happen again, I promise! I’m fine!” Madam doesn’t even glance in her direction. She moves out the door, leaving her alone with the doctor. She turns her sights on him as he closes in, syringe in hand. She scoots back as far as the cuffs allow, her wrists and shoulders straining with the effort.

She shakes her head. “No…I want to remember him. Please.”

The doctor is silent, just grabs her right arm and shoves the needle into her vein, dispensing the medication. Less than three seconds later, her eyelids are growing heavy.

“Please,” She tries again.

He doesn’t care.

Her vision fades to black.

...

Natalia doesn’t remember how she got the bullet wound in her hand. She flexes her hand, staring at it intently while one of the teachers up front talks more about the importance of the Motherland. It’s been bothering her for a week now, ever since she woke up with a bandaged hand and no memory of being shot.

It feels wrong. She’s used to gaps in her memories, it’s not uncommon here. But there’s some part deep in her brain that nags at her. There’s fading bruises on her back, along with a sore wrist. She had refused to hurt Klara, had been punished for it.

She doesn’t know why she had refused that day, but somehow, it feels like part of the puzzle. So she takes that memory of showing mercy to her classmate, and clings to it as if it was the only thing holding her together.

...

Natalia slashes the knife across her opponent's chest, and he grunts in pain, throwing himself away from where she is laying on the ground. She coughs, ignoring the burn in her chest as she tries to force herself to stand up. She’s lost too much blood to be coordinated, the stab wound in her stomach making things much harder than they should have been.

He comes at her again, is on top of her raising his fist -

There’s a blur of black, and suddenly his weight is gone, knocked to the side as he struggles with the new combatant. He squawks in surprise and pain.

Natalia turns herself onto her stomach, pushing herself up slightly and stretching her arm out, fingertips just barely brushing the barrel of the gun. It’s enough, and she’s able to pull it into her grasp and turn back. She fires the twice, landing two instant kill shots. The struggle stops as his body flops limply to the ground, and she breathes a sigh of relief.

One more KGB agent dead. Another name to cross off her list.

Something steps into her view. She lifts her eyes.

A black cat is standing there, droplets of crimson on his whiskers from where the cat had mauled the agent’s face.

Great, she thinks, now I’m hallucinating.

She stares at the cat. He stares back. His eyes are a shade of Hazel she’s seen before.

This is not the first time their souls have met.

Pain explodes in the back of her head, even though she didn’t hurt her head during her fight. Even if she had, this is a different kind of pain- different than the head injuries she’s had in the past.

A small, cold animal in her lap.

She sucks in a breath at the random image. She doesn’t know where it came from. It hurts.

“I brought you more bread.”

That’s her voice, in her memories. There’s no denying that. She brings her hands up to rub at her eyes, willing the abrupt headache to stop. The cat moves towards her, pushing it’s head against her thigh.

Nuzzling his head into the crock of her arm

“I love you too”

“I want to remember him”

Natalia gags as the flood of memories push past the dam in her head. Both warm and horrifying images flooding her head all at once, of laughing and crying, playing and screaming.

She gags again, the memories too much, and vomits onto the pavement.

She takes a moment to catch her breath, before cringing away from the mess. Now is not the time to dwell on the past. She has a more pressing issue at hand to distract herself with. She forces herself back onto her feet, keeping pressure on the wound in a pathetic attempt to slow the bleeding. She glances at the cat, who is watching her.

“Well. You coming or not?”

He follows her home, circling around her feet. She almost trips over him several times but can’t find it in herself to be annoyed.

She stumbles through the door of her cover apartment, making sure to turn all seven locks back into place once they are both inside. She goes straight to the bathroom, bee lining for the first aid kit.

The cat stays by her side the whole time, even following her the several feet into the kitchen as she goes to find some water. He refuses to leave her side.

“I guess it’s finally time I give you a proper name, huh?”

The cat jumps onto the counter, begins digging around in a paper bag contained a few measly groceries she had bought the day before, searching for food. He somehow finds a stale piece of bread, drags it from the bag. “Geez, you’re like a little goblin now. Is that your name? Лихо? It also means bad luck, you know. Guess that’s fitting considering you keep getting stuck with me.”

She watches him for a moment. Perhaps the English version of the name would be better. It’s stupid, but she can’t bear to name him something in the language of the people who had been so cruel to them.

“Liho.” She cups his face in her hands, brushing her thumbs over the sides of his face. “Your name is Liho. I’m sorry it took me so long.” She presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, fighting back the tears.

He purrs against her.

---------------------------------------------------------

Thanks to @quietlyimplode for encouraging and helping this randomness come about!

[calamityk8]

"My name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain. I am admitting this to you with the full understanding and acknowledgement that what I am doing is absolutely not going to be fully understood; but perhaps in pieces it can reconcile the most fragmented and deranged parts of my psyche, or at least arrange them in a way that will relieve this incessant pressure that always haunts me. Whatever happens, well, at least I have tried to do something to explain this innate and incessant madness, which is more than most get a chance to do.

Okay, here goes.

Belatedly, I suppose, there were neurons misfiring to account for, some chemical mishap that perforce disengaged my social abilities to adapt and be of use to others. Panic and hysteria have ruled the contours of my experience for longer than this busted-up brain can recall. Looking back, well, I can gauge the horrific aspects of it, in the present. Of course hindsight’s a malignancy at this point. I have become this disease; it as all that I am: a sporadically hebetude-induced corollary on the razor’s edge of sanity’s rusty hook. Saying things like this doesn’t help. I know. It’s just hard to judge oneself from the outer limits of perspective’s gush and flow. Trapped in this insidious circle of discontent and maladjustment, I am oozing the sap of life’s lost lust.

I might have a way to put it, so let me.

Having severe systemic and constant depression and simply “being bummed” are two very distinct and different things. One is a disease; the other is just one of the myriad consequences of being alive. If someone has cancer you don’t tell them to, “buck up and get over it.” We don’t admonish a stroke victim to, “stop lying around, and get up and do something with yourself.” Even our advice for sufferers of the common cold is sympathetic, as cough-and-congestion victims aren’t told they are being “weak” or “soft” and should just “be happy because things could be a lot worse.” But, for some inane reason that is preconditioned into us by years of inhumane pseudoscience, diseases of the mind are linked to some weakness or lassitude of the individual, as if that person who is suffering from a disease such as depression or severe anxiety is somehow inept and is to be blamed for their troubles. As if it is within their control to get better by “just trying a bit harder at it.” It’s really a nonsensical viewpoint to take; but, alas, it is one of many such idiotic theories held by the masses.

Here — there is this too: you’ve got to fight this one alone. Other people can help you, but in the end it comes down to you fighting for your life all by your lonesome. This is a difficult thing to internalize, but once you do, in some wary way, a strand of hope will spring from this, as finagled and shoddy with trepidation as it may be. There will be a surge of selfhood guiding you, a reliance on the one person you can always count on: yourself. It is a scary thing, but like most scary things one finds as obstacles on the wayward path of one’s existence, extremely worthwhile to conquer. Just like any other terminal disease, depression kills; suicide is merely its mechanism.

This shouting in my head, it never seems to cease.

I am nervous and concise around others. I only laugh when it’s expected. Being alone has become my only comfort, though it too is getting to be unendurable. To guide me I take some small salvation in the long history of human endeavor to fight through the gnashing teeth of internal strife. According to Lecky’s History of European Morals, ���A melancholy leading to desperation, and known to theologians under the name of ‘acedia,’ was not uncommon in monasteries, and most of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks.” I dream through these trials and tribulations of ancients, attempting to stem the tide of my own demise with less troubling thoughts than the ones I’ve come to own: I am the angular distance of a star below the horizon; the dusty truth of eons of suffering through a terrible weight’s pressing down; sunken and lost; in old, forgotten times what they once called grevoushede. Grevoushede. Acedia. I breathe the words and balance the syllables on my tongue, unable to savor their taste or texture. I am a weightless pin pricked in the skein of an upside-down world I’ll never get close enough to know.

Who could ever fall in love with this raggedy bag of afflictions?

I trek through the ruins of my obsession, draped in sorrow’s mask, leaning on tiny tics and safe places to guide me. The cracking of my toes, one by one. Snapping all of my fingers back and forth. Clicking my tongue on the roof my mouth. Blinking an even number of times with one eye and then an odd number with the other. Popping my ears with my jaw. Smoothing my eyebrows down with my fingertips. An innumerable array of distractions that ease the arrhythmic pulse of thoughts that come but never go, blurring out my sight, and leaving me trembling, all filled-up with static but as empty inside as an ice cream shop in the freezing rain.

Woe is my middle name.

All of these little vacancies in my head surface and fill into the most chronic of all conditions. Possibilities go awry with suspicious and judgmental looks. Maybe I’ll put on some Dolly Parton and fall in love with a bookmark. These are thoughts that calm the deliriousness at it swarms. Exceptional circumstances to bow down to in this glut of terrors, this amassing of torturous routines: the bath mat must be lined up perfectly with the tiles, the showerhead at just the right angle, the curtain stretched just so, and the shower water, the god-damn shower water…always and forever just a touch too hot or too cold. The chores of being me, they never end.

The human senses can somehow even detect whether a television set is off or just on mute without looking. And everyone can tell the difference between boiling and room-temperature water being poured in much the same manner. But it is when these senses go astray, when they slip and frazzle and get pinched, that’s when one comes to know the real intensity of those senses’ powers. A daily trauma that haunts me wherever I go, my brain stuffed with the lint of leftover churning, dizzy and lopsided and playing alive, I ignore the impossibilities of being able to maintain a normal existence for as long as this sapped torpidity allows. The courage I need to muster just to leave my place and walk to get groceries is at most times an insurmountable obstacle, and so I stay in and worry and worry and worry about everything. Every object grows too precious to disturb as I put it on the pedestal of the postponed quenching of my desires. There is nothing I can do or think that will snap this spell of disenchantment that grips me tighter as it deepens this hole I am eternally residing in. Just making it home from the grocery store with a few shopping bags of food sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment in the world. I should be doing other things with my time, I know: concentrating my efforts on more grand pleasures and goals. But these things of consequence, they are not for me. I lose so much more than I gain in these battles. Small, inconsequential, pyrrhic victories are the only ones I’ve known.

Hope is a bestial thing with daggers and fangs; I make up a thousand reasons to not have any of it bombard me as this disease attacks relentlessly. There are honestly times when I cannot even bring myself to lift a finger to scratch an itch. I’ve been prescribed a list of medications too long to register properly in the catacombs of my lingering doubt about the chemical cohesion of my wherewithal: Abilify, clomipramine, Lexapro, bupropion, Celexa, Cymbalta, Lithium, Xanax, Paxil, amitriptyline, Lamictal, and that grand old sturdy classic Prozac. Etcetetra. It seems that I am only etceteras: more and more of less and less. It’s all a wash. It was a messy chorus of boos from the cheap seats as I struggled through side effects and listened to the growing drone of a singularly horrible voice that wasn’t quite my own resounding in my skull: “You’re no good. You’re a lost cause. Stop whining; start winning. You’re no good. You are just no good,” over and over; nauseated at all times; woozy, delirious, insomnia-plagued and diarrhea-bound; garbling my words when forced to speak, fumbling through life like a doped-up zombie with no appetites, every little thing so impossibly far away.

The window washers will not sing for me. The faucets around here all look like dead swans. I sweep. I litter. I am unable to know for sure if anyone else ever feels the way I always do. I am ill with this ravenous beast that pesters and claws at and drapes itself over me, leaving me with the gumption of soon-to-be-roadkill sluggishly slouching across a busy highway. I yawn instead of moan. I burst into tears in the dark of crowded movie theaters just before the feature starts. I am normal. Really. I am sane — maybe even too much so. I do wish I could just go insane, but, sadly, I cannot quite contemplate how to accurately achieve this feat. My brain will not assuage nor relent with its ceaseless cracked and mangled disturbances.

The boring by-rote recitation of symptoms rattled off to every doctor who’d listen. They don’t know who I am, what I’ve suffered through, how I came to be this way that I am; and there’s no device by which I can properly explain it to them. It’s not like they can run a test, take some blood, or do a biopsy, and then figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a hidden thing, deep within the walls of my pain, not on or off any scale they’ve ever invented. I am my own example. There are no answers to any of this. They used to take out parts of people’s brains, thinking it would relieve their suffering. But it just left folks lobotomized to a dull, vegetable state, unable to form words or dress themselves. Perhaps they were happy, though. Perhaps they were thankful for the big, empty space that now occupied what they’d formerly called living. Perhaps there was no person behind those dead eyes left to care. The disease wins yet again, as it always does.

Clinical diagnoses follow me with heavy clomps. “Heavy dysthymia with a robust anxiety level. Somatic cross-cutting, serious signs of high Altman-scale mania, repetitive and troubling thoughts bordering on multiple phobias and generalized panic. Personality Trait Facet Scores high on rigid perfectionism/grandiosity/anhedonia type, though scores lower across board than patient believes. Unusual and abnormal, but not psychotic at all.” As you can see, the weather inside my head is rather frightful, to say the least. I trudge through the murky terrain of my past with great regularity. I am muddy with it, soaked through from the storm of my memories, which are remembering themselves over and over and over again and again and again, until I do not rightly know what has happened or what is happening now. Who am I but this box of disturbing thoughts?

Madness in the family. A quirk in the genes being passed down just like Huntington’s or any other inherited affliction. This one’s just as deep in the bones, though not as noticeable, not as prominent in the makeup of one’s persona. My father was a brazen raver whose depression put the business end of a rifle under his chin to finally wreck its one final havoc on him as pulled the trigger in defeat; his father before him too came to an early funeral, though his disease’s weapons of choice were gasoline and matches, as he lay in immolation by the pumps of an empty gas station in the wee hours of his final night on earth. This dreary thing, it just goes and goes right on down the line. Shelter from it is inconstant at best. It is as if I am in hiding from my inheritance, from my own true self — a hibernation of sorts: falling in and out of a troubled sleep, groggy and drooling through another afternoon, I become obsessed with trifles. I organize the cups and plates on my shelves until they all perfectly line up. I become tempestuous at a single hair being out of place. I talk to myself constantly, mostly demeaning phrases and freshly coined derogatory slurs aimed at myself. I have been parked too long in my heart’s handicap spot. There is very little “me” left here to notice.

So, do not look at me lightly, with deferential judgement or pity’s hidden ire. My sorrows are so much smaller than you’d suppose. My shoes come untied just as much as yours do. I can be as brave and also as craven as most. I eat blackberries and put salted butter on my toast. There are no cures, only temporary stopgaps for relief of symptoms. I am not in control of the way that I feel. I will try. I do try. None of this is less than extremely difficult. I do not need nor crave your sympathy; I just want understanding. Perhaps, even after all this exegesis and other inexplicable explanatory notions are through, this is still too much to ask. In the end, casting aside whatever ideas anyone might get to having about me and my plight, I only return right back to where I began: my name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain."

[quiveringdeer]

Ok but Lester taking in and rehabilitating little orphaned animals who's momma's didn't survive the roadways. Like that happens so often with possums. Where the mom will die but the babies could still be alive and crawl about.

And I feel like Lester has a deep affinity for animals. Like with Jonesy but also with the skulls and bones and stuff in his truck. Like yeah it can come off creepy to some but utilizing every part of the animal and paying homage to it's life and spirit by creating art from it is a +

I still hella question the validity of that whole roadkill pit. Like there is no real legitimate reason I could think of anyone doing that??

At least have it in a more open area so vultures and other decomposers could easily use it as a resource. Ok i'll try to stop applying any logic to fictional horror movies but still!! (i probs wont get off this hill. like someone please explain a purpose other than to just make him do somethin real gross)

all this extra rambling but circling back around to Lester trial and erroring his way through becoming a pretty successful wildlife rehabilitator. And if circumstance coulda been different in life he probs coulda gone into veterinary medicine or park ranger or wildlife rehabilitator as a career.

[thegreenwolf]

Bella Morte

Note: This was first published on No Unsacred Place around 2011-ish, which went defunct a few years ago (RIP–it was a good site). Then it was on Paths Through the Forests, but I split from Patheos a couple of years ago due to philosophical differences with their new ownership. As they have not honored my request to have my writing taken down, and I don’t want to direct more traffic to them, I am slowly reproducing my work from there here. That way if I want to share this post with someone it will come from my site and not theirs. Please help me by sharing this link around–thank you!

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The beauty of the wild is the long gesture of life in time. The beauty of skin and fur and feathers, the beauty of blood, the beauty of bones sinking into grass.

–John Daniel, from The Soul Unearthed

That is the quote I painted on a recent creation of mine, shown in the picture above. My canvas was a piece of rawhide left over from a drum kit. The visual punctuation of the entire piece included an eclectic mix: a rooster feather; a coyote toe bone; a sea urchin spine; and two pieces of deer hide, fur and leather.

I chose the quote deliberately for that piece. There is a certain ambiguity to the words, flowing from one end of the life-death cycle to the other. “Life in time” breathes and pounds its heart, while the “bones sinking into grass” create a vivid image of the core structure of the animal, all the rest borne away, disintegrating into nourishment for the flora. In between, the hides and the blood are left open; they may be alive and running yet, but the blood may also be sluiced upon the ground, and the skin stripped from muscle and tendon and prepared for preservation.

In much of the United States, people have a poor relationship with death, to include that of nonhuman animals. The idea of the “poor, dead animals” (particularly those that aren’t carved up on a dinner plate) is often enough of a shock that no one wants to think, let alone talk, about it. We eat beef and pork, not cow and pig, and very few of us ever eat anything that’s looking back at us; even the shrimp are conveniently decapitated for our culinary comfort. The most common discourse about dead animals seems to come from some animal rights activists who quite often use guilt, shame, and shock to try to convince unsuspecting leather-clad omnivores into changing their ways. When the choices are either silence or stigma, there doesn’t seem to be much room in between for more moderate discussions.

I choose what I perceive as one potential moderate path, tempered with much awareness. For over a decade I have been an artist of animal remains, part aesthetics and part spiritual work. On the one hand, I very much appreciate the lovely curve of bone and the lush texture of deerskin, the intricately veined colors of feathers, and the varied structures of the hairs of all sorts of furs. Beyond animal parts as an artistic medium, though, the core of my work is funereal. From the beginning my art has been about reclaiming these remains from being trophies or status symbols, and a significant portion of my “supplies” is made of old fur and leather coats, reclaimed taxidermy, and the like.(1) I guide these remains to a better “afterlife” with others, as has always been my role with them, and everything I make with animal parts gets a full ritual purification as part of my pagan practice.

Over the years I’ve gotten a wide variety of reactions to my work, from awe to indifference to outright hostility. Thankfully the responses have canted toward the more receptive, whether in person or online. I get the distinct feeling, though, that most people, regardless of their views, are highlighting certain individual facets of the work that, together, I tend to take as a whole.Most of the people who favor my work seem to primarily connect with it on an aesthetic level. They like having something pretty, whether as something to wear, or as a “powerful” ritual tool. They appreciate it as art, which is perfectly fine. At the other end of the spectrum are the occasional activists who come in swinging; they see the death and the remains, to the exclusion of anything else.

On some occasions, though, I will meet people who bring my art home both as art, and as sacred remains. They haven’t glossed over the fact that what they hold was once living, often combining the parts of animals that never would have met in life (such as the cow and the sea urchin in my wall hanging above). But they still see the beauty in those remains, and in the fact of their death. They can appreciate the loveliness of a long-dead deer’s ribcage seated in a field, and the arrangement of those same ribs into a totemic shrine. They know they carry lives in their hands.

I have not lost sight of the living end of the cycle, either. I have always donated a portion of the funds I make from selling my art to nonprofit groups that work to preserve both animals and their habitat, as well as informal donations to friends and acquaintances in need of help with emergency vet bills and the like. I think my partner, S., put it best when he told me that my most powerful alchemy was taking the remains of animals that had often died cruel and inhumane deaths, and turning them into funds to help those creatures still living and the environs that support them.

And I do my best to educate people about the sources of the remains; I maintain a database of international, federal and state laws on possessing and selling animals parts in the US to help them make educated decisions. Nor do I lie about those of my “materials” that are byproducts of the fur industry; I do not claim they’re roadkilled or “natural deaths”, or wild instead of farmed, to try to assuage people’s guilt or to make me look more ethical in their eyes. To do so would be an insult both to the people I speak with, and the animals themselves, never mind my artistic and spiritual work.

This work with the remains is another foundational part of my nature-based path, and as I write in this place over time, you may see me refer to the “skin spirits” as a collective term for the spirits of all the animals whose remains I work with, skin, bone and otherwise. My nature-based paganism is rooted in all of the life-death cycle, and this is how I seek the beauty in that which is all too often ignored, or so symbolized as to be almost entirely removed from the gritty reality.

(1) I have become so known for collecting dead critters in certain circles, in fact, that I have been over time gifted with a number of antiques that were inherited by people who had no idea what to do with them, and so decided I was a good next stop for Grandma’s fur coat, or Uncle Doug’s deer heads.

Did you enjoy this blog post? Consider picking up a copy of my book Skin Spirits: The Spiritual and Magical Use of Animal Parts, or The Tarot of Bones, or my other books (some of which also have dead things in them!) Or you can check out my artwork made with hides, bones and other natural and found items. And I have a forthcoming book about Vulture Culture, the subculture that has formed in recent years around the appreciation of taxidermy and other dead things.

[orbemnews]

Become an Outdoor Scientist If you like looking at trees, and bark, and the pattern of veins in leaves; if you are fascinated by clouds or the spots on a ladybug’s back; if you like to split open rocks and see what’s inside, then you are already an outdoor scientist. The best part is you don’t need any special or fancy equipment, you don’t need to remember a charger, you just need your eyes and the power of observation. Are there one or two sets of paw prints in the snow? Three or four kinds of birds having a conversation in a grove? What kinds of plants are strong enough to push their way through the cracks in the sidewalk? You may not always find the answer, but these are the questions an outdoor scientist asks about the world. As summer approaches, here are five projects and experiments to lead you on your scientific journey into the natural world. Make your own crystal One way crystals form is when magma, or liquid rock, begins to cool. Different kinds and colors of crystals will form depending on factors like the temperature of the liquid and the amount of time it takes to cool. It’s the same process with snowflakes, also known as snow crystals. You can observe crystallization up close if you leave a solution of water and salt out all night at room temperature. The water will evaporate, and the salt will crystallize. 1. Bring water to a boil in a pot (adults can help with this if you’re not allowed to use the stove yourself). 2. Stir in salt, adding until it no longer dissolves. The water should look almost clear with a few grains of salt swirling around (which means you’ve added slightly more salt than the water can absorb). 3. Transfer the solution to a jar. 4. Add a few drops of food coloring if you want to make colored crystals. 5. Tie one end of your string around the middle of your pencil and lower the other end of the string into the jar. The string should be long enough so that it almost touches the bottom of your jar. 6. Balance the pencil across the top of your jar. 7. Crystals should start to form in one or two days. Capture a Paw Print Dogs and humans go way back. Just as we evolved from primates, dogs evolved from wolves. Dogs were the first animals to live with humans. We call this domestication, which describes how a wild animal becomes our furry friendwatching Netflix beside us on the couch. Today, there are over 300 breeds of dogs, but even after thousands of years of evolution, a dog’s paw and a wolf’s paw are still so similar that you can’t really tell them apart. You’ll need: 4 cups plaster of Paris 2 cups cold tap water Instructions: Warning: Never completely submerge your hand or a pet’s paw in plaster of Paris, and remove it quickly while still moist. Plaster of Paris gets hot when it dries and you don’t want to get stuck. 1. Spread out newspaper on your work surface. 2. Place plaster of Paris and water in a plastic container, and use your mixing spoon to stir well until your mixture is the consistency of pancake batter. 3. Pour the mixture into the aluminum cake pan and smooth it with a spatula. Let it rest for an hour to set. 4. Place your dog’s paw (or the paw/ foot of any other animal) onto the mixture and press it down about ½ to ¾ inch — press firmly. Your dog will probably be more cooperative if you set the plaster of Paris container on the table and the dog on your lap. Remove dog’s paw and rinse thoroughly. 5. Allow the plaster of Paris to dry for 24 hours, and you’ll have a life-size keepsake of your pet’s paw. Note: If you don’t have any domestic or outdoor animals, you can always use a human “paw.” Measure a Tree You’ve probably learned that you can figure out the age of a tree by counting its rings, but each ring is really made up of two parts. One entire year is represented by a lighter band of a layer of tissue known as cambium and a thinner, darker band of cambium measured together. The light-colored band shows growth during the warmer, rainier months and good growth conditions. The dark-colored band shows growth during the colder months and difficult conditions. Trees grow outward, meaning that the center of a tree is the oldest part, and the outer rings the newest. The central core, or heartwood, is the strongest wood in the tree even though it’s no longer alive. Because human records of daily weather conditions only go back so far, trees serve as useful tools for scientists studying climate change. Trees often live hundreds of years and can tell us about weather conditions long before humans started keeping track. You’ll need: More information on tree growth can be found in “How Old Is My Tree?” by Lindsay Purcell, which you can find at purduelandscapereport.org. Instructions: 1. Measure the circumference (distance around) of your tree at approximately 4.5 feet from the ground with your cloth tape measure. 2. Use your calculator to divide that number by 3.14 (which is, approximately, Pi). 3. Multiply that number by the “growth factor” of your tree. The “growth factor” is an average estimate of your tree’ species’ growth over time. The International Society of Arboriculture has published a table of growth factor numbers according to tree species that you need to search for on Google or look up in a guide to trees to complete the formula for measuring your tree. 4. The result is the age of your tree. For example: If your silver maple is 20 inches in circumference, and you divide that by 3.14, you get 6.369. Multiply that by the growth factor (3) and get 19.108. That means your tree is approximately 19 years old. Make a Constellation Map The night skies have always been important to humankind, primarily as a navigational tool. Today, stargazing isn’t as easy as it used to be. The main reason is light pollution. When we think of pollution, we tend to focus on water and air pollution because they directly affect what we drink and breathe. But light pollution has long interfered with our ability to see the night skies in cities and suburbs. An exciting citizen science project that you can participate in involves capturing the night sky from where you live and sharing it with people across the globe to track light pollution. To take part, visit the website Globe at Night. You’ll need: Instructions: 1. Measure the circumference of your flashlight’s lens with a drawing compass. Copy the measurement onto cardstock with your pencil. 2. Cut out a few circles for different constellations. These should fit snugly over the lens and inside the lip of the flashlight (if your flashlight doesn’t have a lip, you can use tape to hold it in place.) It is important to leave a tab on the circle a little larger than a pencil eraser to pull your circle out of the flashlight’s rim. 3. Find images of constellations on the internet or in a book about astronomy. 4. Using your pencil, mark dots on your circles that look like your constellation images. 5. Using the points of your scissors, punch holes through the dots. 6. Insert one disc into the top of your flashlight. Turn on the flashlight in a dark room and shine it on a blank wall or ceiling. Enjoy viewing your constellation! Make a Pine Cone Bird Feeder Birds need four basic things: food, water, shelter, and a place to lay their eggs. For most common backyard birds in North America, such as the goldfinch, blue jay, robin, hummingbird, cardinal and sparrow, their diet consists of nuts, seeds, fruit and nectar. Ospreys, large coastal birds, like fish and will plunge into the water to scoop them up. Up the food chain: Herons like frogs, roadrunners like reptiles, hawks will eat other birds, owls like rodents and vultures will eat just about anything, including roadkill. You’ll need: String Pine cone (f you don’t live near pine trees, you can buy a pine cone at a local crafts store) Birdseed (can be purchased at a grocery or pet store) Plate Honey Butter knife (optional) Branch or other place to hang feeder Instructions: 1. Tie a string around a pine cone’s top so you can hang it up later. Pour about an inch of bird seeder on a plate, enough to roll your pine cone in. 3. Drizzle honey over your pine cone. (Do this over the plate to catch any honey that drips off your pine cone.) 4. Once your pine cone is covered in honey, roll it around in birdseed on your plate until it’s covered. You many need to use a butter knife to get into the nooks and crannies. 5. Hang your pine cone from a branch and move a safe distance away to observe the birds that come to dine. From “The Outdoor Scientist” by Temple Grandin, Ph.D., published by Philomel Books, an imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2021 by Temple Grandin. Source link Orbem News #Outdoor #Scientist

[sturdybackbone]

Dancing Circles

@bellamy-adler The school, months after the incident, was still a howling nest of fears, gossip, and rampant idiocy. Some people were suggesting that a new Dark Lord was on the rise. Others whispered, under their breaths, that the Wizarding World would soon be revealed to the Muggle one, and that the greatest war to ever be was on the horizon.  And others, also quite dim, suggested other options. It was Hatsheput Yaweh, a Ravenclaw a year above, who went and told Artur, as they sat and studied for Arithmancy, that it wasn’t some organization or hate group which had mastermined Her death, but that it was something more simple—More banal, even.  A case of a beast seeing another beast, and deciding that the natural order be reinstated. And, as Artur blinked slowly, keeping the incredulity off his face, the girl went ahead, discussing her theory with wild, shining eyes.  The Veela girl was attacked by a werewolf, plain and simple. The marks were all there—And it wasn’t like it was exactly unusual that a werewolf would commit murder in cold blood. That’s what happened. The world was normal, there was no terrorist group on the rise—The Halloween murders were all coincidence. They did occur on Halloween, perhaps the Darkest day of the year, next to Walpurgisnacht and the Winter Solstice.  Artur slowly blinked, and curbed his tongue, lest ‘It wasn’t even a full moon’ would come tumbling out, befouling the air. He knew the look in Hatscheput’s eyes and understood why she was spouting this garbage. Didn’t mean he approved, or even thought it characteristic to the normally cool, intellectual girl but—But he stayed silent, listening to her tale. She reached up to fiddle with the cloth of her Hijab, eyes far away, Arithmancy work long since forgotten. “And—And, Artur, don’t you know? The school has had a werewolf under its nose the whole while.” Artur wants to ask her to which werewolf she’s referring to. “And he’s—Oh sweetheart, he’s been sleeping in the same room as you—It’s Bellamy Adler.”

Truly, Hatsheput’s wit is one for the ages. Hatsheput took one look at his face, deduced that he was shocked and wasn’t merely holding onto a poker face for dear life, and added, “It’s obvious. Everyone has known ever since that incident in Potions last year—Oh, sweetheart, I am sorry.”  Artur nodded, and, managed to excuse himself as quickly as he could without seeming overly rude, hurried out of the library, found a quiet corner, bent at the waist, and laughed. Bellamy, a murderer? Oh my god, was he surrounded by idiots? Oh, clearly, he was, and oh, wasn’t that hilarious in and of itself? Really, how can she have thought he didn’t know already? He only slept in the same room as the bastard, watching him grow paler and more aggressive as the lunar cycle wore on, disappeared for a day, and then gradually grew back into arguable health before, once again, growing sick.  Still though—Artur understood that this was a chance. Everyone’s stress and fears had been mounting—For God’s sake, the calm, collected Hatsheput had become a conspiracy theorist, as if overnight. Most of everyone was either habouring some amount of fear under their breast—Or was outright terrified.  (Artur fit into none of those—He wasn’t exactly like the common witch or wizard, after all.) And so—And so, in such a moment, at such a crossroads in the Magical World—Facets of people came bubbling up to the service. Calm, docile Hufflpuffs could snap at a single word. Self-serving Slytherins suddenly gained empathy. It was wonderful, for someone like Artur, who watched humanity with as much rapt intrigue as one did a master duel.  It’s not like he’s had too many chances to talk to Bellamy since this whole debacle started—And, as something inside of him itched, itched and wanted and needed, he thought about how Bellamy was handling it all. Cooly, and calmly? Or, more likely: Would the stress be making his temper flare up more? Would the quiet, reserved, studious little Slytherin yield to his nature, and become a loutish brute? Hatsheput wasn’t the only one to think Bellamy was the murderer, if she spoke about it now. Perhaps, perhaps, Artur wasn’t the only one who probed at the boy, on the regular.  Artur, came to realize, laughter making his vision faint and chest dully ache, that, perhaps, he could milk some enjoyment of this day yet.  ... After Charms, he had a free period. A free period which most of Slytherin shared, as it was the time slot when Muggle Studies usually occurred. Years it may be past the Dark Lord’s rise, but it didn’t mean that Pureblood ideals hadn’t fully left the popular consciousness, at least, for those ambitious and cunning enough to make it into the House of Snakes.  Bellamy was a predictable soul. If he’s not at the Quiddich pitch, then he’s at the library, and if not in the library, then certainly in the common room. Turns out, Artur didn’t even need to go through the various locations his tender friend could be at, and, instead, found a short distance from the Quiddich pitch, practically bumping into the boy on his way. Artur was wrapped in a Slytherin scarf, a heavy winter robe over his school robes, and his hands were kept snug and warm with green and silver gloves. The very instant he spotted dark, curly hair, Artur made a conscious effort to swallow down his near childish excitement.  What would Bellamy do? What would he say? Would he take the boring route, and ignore Artur, and move on? Or would he be actually worth something, and scream or shout or push or attack or weep and blubber or any other amount of glorious, amusing actions?  Artur slowed his quick, purposeful pace into something more easy, more slower, something approaching the way a neighbourhood cat might sneak upon a crow nibbling at roadkill. Artur’s back straightened. The heavy, purple bags that plagued Artur for the better part of his life weren’t as prominent, what with him getting something that’s approaching a normal sleeping cycle.  Artur’s features lifted when his mouth curled, sharp like glass at the edges. “Bellamy!” He called, voice light, almost friendly, but no—That wasn’t the point of today, now was it?  “How do you do?” He asked, once he was nary a few feet away. His eyes glinted with something that could not be mistaken for what it was: Eagerness to see someone hurt. “I’m wonderful—But I’ve had this pressing question on my chest, for some time now.” Artur bats his eyelashes, looks up at Bellamy, and asks, point-blank. “Did you finally yield to your natural urges, after all this time? It’s quite alright if you had—I’m not judging you. A beast does what a beast does, after all, isn’t that right?” Artur’s eyes shine in the dull winter day, and his smile is absolutely predatory. 

[capecodcurmudgeon-blog]

For many, the mention of ‘cosmetic surgery’ conjures images of vanity.  The never-ending and inevitably fruitless attempt to stave off the years.  Add some here and take it off over there.  But what of the face left smashed and misshapen, burned or blown half off in service to country?

“Plastic” Surgery, the term comes to us from the Greek Plastikos and first used by the 18th century French surgeon Pierre Desault, has been with us longer than you might expect.  Evidence exists of Hindu surgeons performing primitive ‘nose jobs’, as early as BC800-600.  The Renaissance-era surgeon Gaspare Tagliacozzi (1545-1599) developed new methods of reconstruction, using the patient’s own arm skin to replace noses slashed off in swordplay.

Lt. William M. Spreckley of the Sherwood Foresters was Dr. Gillies’ 132nd patient, admitted to the hospital in January 1917 at the age of 33 with a ‘GSW, Nose”. He was discharged 3½ years later.

A hillside battle at a place called Hastings changed the world in 1066 yet, if you were on the next hillside, you may not have heard a thing.  The industrialized warfare of the 19th and 20th century was vastly different, involving entire populations and inflicting unprecedented levels of destruction on the human form.

It is beyond horrifying what modern warfare can do to the human form

It’s been said of the American civil war and is no doubt true of any number of conflicts, that a generation of women had to accustom themselves to new ideas of male ‘beauty’.  The ‘Great War’ of 1914 – ‘18 was particularly egregious when it came to injuries to the face, neck and arms, as millions of soldiers burrowed into 450-mile-long trench lines to escape what German Private Ernst Jünger described as the “Storm of Steel”.

In the Battle of Verdun, German forces used 1,200 guns firing 2.5 million shells supplied by 1,300 ammunition trains to attack their Allied adversary on the First Day, alone.

For every soldier killed in the Great War, two returned home, maimed. Artillery was especially malevolent, with “drumfire” so rapid as to resemble the rat-a-tat-tat of drums, each blast sending thousands of jagged pieces of metal, shrieking through the air.

For many, severe facial disfigurement was a fate worse than amputation.  Worse than death, even.  To have been grievously wounded in service to country and return home to be treated not as a wounded warrior, but as something hideous.

The untold human misery of having been turned into a monster, misshapen and ugly.  For these men, life often became one of ostracism and loneliness.  The painful stares of friends and strangers alike, repelled by such disfiguration, offtimes lead to alcoholism, divorce and suicide.

Manchester Massachusetts sculptor Anna Coleman Ladd moved to France in 1917.  Inspired by the work of British artist Francis Derwent Wood and his “tin noses shop”,  Ladd founded the “Studio for Portrait-Masks” of the Red Cross in Toul, to provide cosmetic prosthetics for men disfigured by the war.

Ladd’s prostheses were uncomfortable to wear, but her services earned her the Légion d’Honneur Croix de Chevalier and the Serbian Order of Saint Sava.

The New Zealand-born otolaryngologist Dr. Harold Gillies was shocked at the human destruction, while working with the French-American dental surgeon Sir August Charles Valadier on new techniques of jaw reconstruction and other maxillofacial procedures.

The interior of the Plastic Theatre at the Queen’s Hospital.  Dr Gillie is seated, on the right

The sterile medical notation “GSW (gunshot wound) Face” does not begin to prepare the mind for a horror more closely resembling a highway roadkill, than the face of a living man.  I left the worst of such images out of this essay.  They’re easy enough to find on-line, if you’re interested in seeing them.  The medical science is fascinating, but the images are hard to look at.

Dr. Gillies watched the renowned French surgeon Hippolyte Morestin, a man known as “The Father of the Mouths” after multiple breakthroughs in oral surgery, remove a tumor and use the patient’s own jaw-skin, to repair the damage.

Joseph Pickard, of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, before and after Dr. Gillies.  H/T Daily Mail

Gillies understood the importance of the work, and spoke with British Chief Surgeon Sir William Arbuthnot Lane.  The conversation lead to a 1,000-bed facial trauma ward at Queen Mary’s Hospital in Sidcup, Kent, opened in June, 1917.

The largest naval battle of the Great War, the Battle of Jutland, unfolded between May 31 and June 1, 1916, involving 250 ships and some 100,000 men.

The Queen Elizabeth-class battleship HMS Warspite took fifteen direct hits from German heavy shells, at one point having no rudder control and helplessly turning in circles.

Petty Office Walter Yeo

Petty Officer Walter Yeo was manning the guns aboard Warspite and received terrible injuries to his face, including the loss of upper and lower eylids, and extensive blast and burn damage to his nose, cheeks and forehead.

When all else failed, there were the facial prosthetics.  The masks.

Yeo was admitted to Queen Mary’s hospital the following August, where he was treated by Dr. Gillies and believed to be the first recipient of a full facial graft taken from another part of his own body.

Dr. Gillies & Co. developed surgical methods in which rib cartilage is first implanted in foreheads, and then swung down to form the foundational structure of a new nose.

At a time before antibiotics, tissue grafts could be as dangerous as the trenches themselves.   “Tubed pedicles” were developed to get around the problem of infection, where living tissue and its blood supply was rolled into tubes and protected by the natural layer of skin.  These tubes of living tissue weren’t pretty to look but were relatively safe from infection.  When the patient was ready, new tissue could be “walked” into place, become whole new facial features.

Dr. Harold Gelf Gillies, the Father of modern plastic surgery, performed more than 11,000 such procedures with his colleagues, on over 5,000 individuals.  Work continued well after the war and through the mid-twenties, developing new and important surgical techniques.

Dr. Gillies received a knighthood for his work in 1930 and, during the inter-war years, trained many other Commonwealth physicians on his surgical methods.  Just in time, for the destruction of the following generation.

If you enjoyed this “Today in History”, please feel free to re-blog, “like” & share on social media, so that others may find and enjoy it as well. Please click the “follow” button on the right, to receive email updates on new articles.  Thank you for your interest, in the history we all share.

May 31, 1916 The Man who Fixed Faces For many, the mention of ‘cosmetic surgery’ conjures images of vanity.  The never-ending and inevitably fruitless attempt to stave off the years. 

[junker-town]

'The Bachelor' finale recap: Pretty sure Nick and Vanessa hate each other and Rachel’s season is already a train wreck

What even HAPPENED last night?!

It’s here. It’s finally here. We made it through an entire season of The Bachelor and have arrived at the finale — a sporting event as important as the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Masters, the U.S. Open, the Kentucky Derby, and the NBA Finals all rolled into one. We are so close (hopefully) to never again having to watch Nick Viall’s “handsome software salesman” face on our TVs every Monday night.

Oh, wait, except that we will see his face. Because this professional Bachelor is going on ABC’s Dancing With The Stars starting next week, since he can no longer be the Bachelor. I mean, he could, but sweet Jesus, it’d be a bad look if he went home without putting a ring on someone’s finger. I’m almost 100 percent sure it’s going to be Vanessa’s. She’s the image rehab he desperately needs: She’s his age, beautiful, and has a Big Heart, as evidenced by her job as a special needs teacher.

ANYWAY, HERE WE GO! BUCKLE UP, BECAUSE THIS SEASON IS ABOUT TO COMMENCE AND WE ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUR WINNER!

We start with Chris “Crest White Strips” Harrison on a live set. He’s having an absolute ball in the spotlight. This dude gets, like, three moments a season to really shine, and the shiniest is the live “After The Final Rose” show that airs post-finale, when he gets to ask the newly betrothed how happy they are to be, well, trothed.

He keeps telling us that “SOMETHING THAT HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE IN BACHELOR HISTORY IS GOING TO OCCUR ON THIS STAGE LATER!”

And I’m like, what could it be? Do they interview the winner about her career aspirations? Do we get to have a meaningful conversation about the construct of reality TV and what we, as a society, expect from women and men in terms of modern day relationship?

I’m not holding my breath.

IT’S OFF TO FINLAND AGAIN, HERE WE GO

We’re still in goddamn Finland. Like, I knew we were gonna be, but then we keep going back to this beautiful, arctic wasteland and I’m like “Oh, my God, we’re really still here.”

You know who else is here? Nick’s entire family. They all flew to the Arctic Circle for this, including his little sister Bella. This 11-year-old has been on TV due to this stupid show so often that I am close to calling child services and being like, “Yo, is it healthy for a kid to grow up thinking you find True Love by going on The Bachelor and getting your heart publicly broken?”

Anyway, Raven shows up and they all start drinking, obviously. She already met his family when they went to his hometown of Waukesha, Wis., so she’s like hey guys, good to see you in Finland (which, to be fair, seems a lot like Wisconsin). Nick’s mom Mary takes a huge swig of wine as she gives Raven some side eye.

“It’s been emotional,” Mary says. “The other times were hard on him, we got to witness that. It wasn’t easy.”

This beautiful lady is turning 58. Happy Bday Mom. #family

A post shared by Nick Viall (@nickviall) on Nov 27, 2016 at 3:42pm PST

I’m like — hey, maybe you should’ve told your son not to become a professional Bachelor. Maybe you should’ve staged an intervention. Maybe this is all your fault, Mom.

Nick’s parents say they like Raven, but you can tell that they’re actually like, eh.

There are dead animal skins hanging on the walls and covering all the furniture. ABC clearly rented out some AirBnB in suburban Finland and the producers were like, “just throw some roadkill on it, it’ll fool everyone into thinking we’re way deeper in the woods than we actually are.”

VANESSA MEETS THE FAM AND NO ONE CAN STOP CRYING

Nick’s family won’t shut up about Nick’s track record of failing on this show, and we’re like we get it, he’s fucked this up before.

Vanessa sticks the landing when she meets his family. She hits a home run. She scores a touchdown. She says all the right things and has Nicks’ mom crying within five minutes. Then she talks to his dad, and they both just start weeping.

This is very informative. It turns out that Nick’s incessant crying throughout the whole season is genetic. Over three seasons of this, the Viall family has now shed more tears on TV more than any other family in America, including the Kardashians, who’ve been on the air for approximately 15,000 seasons.

Nick’s dad is like, “Son, I hope this woman doesn’t leave you high and dry” (I’m paraphrasing, here). Basically: His family is terrified that their son is going to get humiliated again. They want him to be happy, yes, but they probably also don’t want to have to go back to Wisconsin and be like, “Yeah, our son is the worst reality TV star in the history of the genre. Does anyone have any software they need him to sell?”

VANESSA’S FINAL DATE

❄️ ❄️ #thebachelorfinale

A post shared by bachelorabc (@bachelorabc) on Mar 13, 2017 at 6:01pm PDT

Wow, I can’t believe we have to watch them hang out with each other again. Can’t we just find out who wins?

Vanessa and Nick go on a horseback riding date and Nick says, “Give it a little squeeze with your thighs, you know how to do that.” Go Nick. Congrats on the sex.

They ride up to this hut and Santa opens the door. Yeah, that Santa. The Santa. Mr. Claus. Apparently he lives there. Here he is, The Bachelor’s Finnish Santa, coming to murder you in your sleep:

Nightmare fuel.

I’m Jewish, so I really want Vanessa to mess with Santa and be like, "Look, I'm Jewish, and — you're not real." But Vanessa isn’t Jewish, so that wouldn’t be kosher. Also, this isn’t the time for jokes, it’s a time to be earnest and in love.

Santa gives Vanessa a present meant to represent fertility, which isn’t presumptuous at all. Then Vanessa and Nick sit by a fire and drink out of quaint wooden mugs. She doesn’t seem super sold on the whole “getting engaged” thing, because she spends the rest of the date berating Nick and telling him she can’t believe he’s still messing around with another woman.

I’m like: I’m sorry, have you seen this show before? Do you really not know how this works?

“When I’ve been with you I’ve only thought of you,” Nick says, in an attempt to reassure her. I start slow clapping. That is an incredible move. To tell someone that you’re sleeping with other people, but that you don’t think about those other people when you’re sleeping with the person you’re talking to?

Genius. Filed away.

RAVEN’S LAST DATE AND OH MY GOD PUPPIES

Nick and Raven go skating, which is a call-back to their first date at the roller rink. The song “Kiss Me” plays over the montage again, which leads me to believe the producers paid out the ass for the rights to it and they really want to make sure they get their money’s worth.

❄️⛸⛸❄️ #thebachelorfinale

A post shared by bachelorabc (@bachelorabc) on Mar 13, 2017 at 6:10pm PDT

The date is good. So good, in fact, that we know Raven is being set up for heartbreak. She keeps talking about how much she loves Nick and how ready she is to get married (you know some producer was like, hey, if you say this, you’ll be doing the opposite of what the other woman did, so — you should say it).

They’re trying to mess with us — Vanessa has cold feet! Look how happy Raven is! But we, my friends, know better. We know that this is a red herring and that Raven will soon be crying in a limo.

We are not even fooled when Nick brings out three of the cutest damn husky puppies I’ve ever seen in my life. I gasp and start Googling places to adopt dogs in New York City.

PUPPIES.@BachelorABC #TheBachelorFinale http://pic.twitter.com/gjUEn1OgWx

— Good Morning America (@GMA) March 14, 2017

These very good dogs are the best moment of the whole season.

MOMENT OF TRUTH

I have to tell you a secret. I’m, like, pretty sure Vanessa wins. I know this because Liz Plank, who’s a part of our Vox Media Bachelor recap show First Impressions, is from Montreal and her hairdresser lives down the street from Vanessa. And Liz told me that her hairdresser told her that Vanessa won.

Even so, I’m nervous.

Neil Lane, the diamond guy, shows up. Nick has hung out with him so many times over the course of this show that he's probably gonna make him a groomsman if he ever actually gets himself to an altar.

Nick is a mess. He says he identifies more with the woman he’s sending home than the one who wins, because he’s always the dude who gets sent home.

“I just know this sucks,” he says.

RAVEN WALKS THE PLANK

The cruelest thing this show does is make the person about to get dumped tell the person who’s about to dump them that she loves him, one last time. Raven says how ready she is to get married, and she brings up her dad again.

Nick is a mess. He’s crying. Raven starts to realize this is not her Fairytale Ending. The moment the final contestant realizes she’s getting booted is like when fans realized the Warriors or the Falcons really were blowing those leads.

She clams up. Raven is the most stoic loser in Bachelor history. She doesn’t really even cry in the limo. But she does say, through elegant tears, “Is it just that no one can feel that way about me?”

ARGGHHH! NOO, RAVEN! IT’S NOT YOU! IT’S THIS STUPID SHOW! You are going to be just fine. In three months you will have half a million Instagram followers and you’ll be able to have multiple orgasms with multiple different guys. This is for the best. By losing, you, my dear, have won.

HAPPILY EVER AFTER

If this doesn’t work out, Nick is saying, it’d be “a waste of tears, a waste of broken hearts.” He could be a country singer if he ever runs out of reality TV show steam.

Vanessa enters the room, and he tells her he fell in love with her at the second rose ceremony.

“Every moment since then, I’ve been falling more and more in love with you,” he says. “Plenty of times I’ve tried to fight it. I don’t want to fight it any more.”

He swept me off my feet...literally! Love, love, love you! @nickviall ❤️

A post shared by VanessaGrimaldi (@vanessagrimaldi30) on Mar 13, 2017 at 8:41pm PDT

I have to tell you guys something. It’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me. But I’m actually tearing up at the finale of The Bachelor. Vanessa and Nick are both crying, he’s proposing, she’s accepting, and for maybe two nanoseconds this all feels genuine.

Then Nick is like, I got one more question for you: “Will you accept this rose?”

And I immediately snap out of it and return to my natural cynical state. This is cheesy garbage. I give the relationship six months.

AFTER THE FINAL ROSE

We’re back at the live show with Chris “Time to Shine” Harrison, and Nick gets trotted out first. He looks pretty miserable. Then Raven shows up. She’s wearing her best “fuck you” dress — this slinky black silk number — and I’m here for it.

Sorry, wait, one sec, this is completely irrelevant but I just have to show you this picture of Chris Harrison with Santa.

I was trying to think of what major holiday this day reminds me of... but nothing came to mind. #TheBachelor finale is tonight!

A post shared by Chris Harrison (@chrisbharrison) on Mar 13, 2017 at 7:09am PDT

Aren’t you glad you saw that?

Anyway, Raven is very classy and says she does think Nick and Vanessa will get married, though she doesn’t give them a rousing endorsement. Then Chris asks her to go on Bachelor in Paradise this summer, and she accepts, so we have that to look forward to.

VANESSA AND NICK HATE EACH OTHER, I’M PRETTY SURE

Vanessa comes out first, and she spends about 10 minutes telling Chris how hard it’s been to be in a secret relationship and watch Nick make out with other women on TV. They all say this after every season, but Vanessa is really leaning into it. She admits that maybe she should’ve watched the show for a full season before committing to go on it and I’m like “Wait. HOLD THE PHONE, WHAT!? YOU ACTUALLY DIDN’T KNOW HOW THIS WORKS?”

Here is a live look at me watching this right now:

My mind is blown. This explains so much. But also, on an early date, Vanessa told Nick that she watched him on the show for two seasons, which is why she went on to try to date him. So she’s lying somewhere. Either she didn’t watch the show and said she did, or did watch the show and is now saying she didn’t.

But all this pales in comparison to the horrible second hand embarrassment I feel watching Nick and Vanessa try to convince America they love each other.

Chris is like, "Congrats on your engagement!" And they’re essentially like, "Thank you, Chris, we are both completely miserable and realize all of this was a terrible mistake, but we are so locked in now that there’s really nothing we can do about it! Hahahah! Isn’t that just so too bad! Look at us, holding hands! We have our hands on each other’s thighs because we’re just so, so happy! Hahahaha! Oh, my God, please make it all stop.”

One of my roommates comes into the room, looks at the TV, and goes, “This is wack.” Then he leaves.

Vanessa sounds really miserable to be in a relationship with. Everything is about communicating, and speaking her mind. That’s all great, but at a certain point, you want to live rather than talk about living.

Holy shit she said yes!! ❤️❤️❤️❤️. It's been a journey Bachelor National!! @vanessagrimaldi30 I love you!! #thebachelor

A post shared by Nick Viall (@nickviall) on Mar 13, 2017 at 8:07pm PDT

Vanessa and Nick’s celebratory Instagram captions are pretty bland for two people desperately in love. I made merciless fun of Jordan Rodgers after he won last season because he ripped off inspirational posters on Instagram, but at least he leaned into it. Vanessa doesn’t even say “I love you” in her “I won” Instagram. She just wrote “love, love, love you!” Which is what you write when you’re about to break up with someone. The “I” in “I love you” is crucial.

RACHEL’S BACHELORETTE SEASON BEGINS

Rachel shows up. She’s all we have left. If The Apprentice gave us Trump as president, I am hopeful that The Bachelorette might give us Rachel. She's a lawyer and doesn’t appear to be a garbage can of a person the way our current commander-in-chief is. Rachel 2020.

Chris Harrison finally reveals the curveball he’s had up his sleeve this whole time: Rachel’s season is starting right now. He brings out three dudes who will be on her season. She looks pretty shook, but she’s rolling with it. I think it’s mean to spring this on her, but then again, The Bachelor franchise isn’t known for being kind.

The first guy we meet is Demario, who shows up with a ring, which seems like a lot. But he’s handsome and charming.

Then they bring out some white asshole named Blake who goes, “I’m ready to go black, and I’m not going back.”

Oh God, you guys. I’m realizing that the racism — both low-key and probably blatant — on Rachel’s season is going to be out of control. We’ll have all these white dudes with trendy haircuts who think they’re #woke but really aren’t. I’m on my couch with my fleece pulled up over my head and my shoulders up around my ears just thinking about it.

Rachel handles this whole thing with grace. She is too good for us and America doesn’t deserve her. But, boy, am I glad that we get her. I cannot wait to watch her season.

I also have a feeling they pulled this “meet the dudes” gimmick because Nick and Vanessa might break up soon and they wanted to have a fallback news cycle in case the whole thing explodes sooner than they expected.

Anyway. Thanks for coming on this wild ride with me. It’s been a helluva season, Sports Bachelor Nation. Go Pats.

[thegreenwolf]

Note: This was originally posted on my Patheos blog in 2015; Patheos still has not taken down my content even though I have made formal requests for them to do so. So I am copying over some of my posts to my personal blog here, so that I and others can link to them without giving Patheos advertising revenue. ************************

My apologies for the light posting as of late; summer is festival season, which means I’m busy with vending and other activities, and it’s tough to find time and energy to write. However, this particular topic has been rolling around in my head, and I finally found the right words for it.

It all started a few weeks ago when birds–particularly crows–started fledging here in Portland. I began getting questions from people about scrawny, sick-looking birds that had others “dive-bombing” them as they sat on the ground. After seeing a few photos, it was pretty clear that people were seeing fledgling crows which, while ungainly-looking and still unsure of that “flying” thing, were in generally good health. The “dive-bombing” was parent crows feeding them, encouraging them, and otherwise staying close by in case danger threatened. Crows, after all, are highly intelligent and social; they understand what’s at stake during this vulnerable part of a young bird’s life.

I assured these folks that the crows were just fine and, with a little time and practice, would be up and off the ground with the rest. Thankfully no one decided to pick them up and put them into boxes in their garages, unsure what to do next. That’s just one example of how well-meaning humans think they need to interfere with nature’s ways and in the process make things worse. The instances in which human ignorance can be dangerous to human and non-human animals like are numerous; these are the ones that have cropped up on Facebook and elsewhere just in the past week or so:

–Every spring and summer there’s a cavalcade of people who find baby birds on the ground or baby rabbits huddled in the grass. Baby birds do fall out of nests before they’re ready to fledge, and mother rabbits often leave their babies hidden (with varying degrees of success) for hours at a time. What people should be doing is putting the birds back in the nest if they can, or making a new nest by nailing an empty plastic tupper to a tree and putting grass and the bird in it (parent birds will often feed their young even in these unorthodox holdings.) For bunnies, they should leave well enough alone, unless they look obviously ill, injured or otherwise distressed. Putting a circle of flour around them shows whether the mother has come back to check on them (thereby disturbing the flour) or not. Instead, they take possession of these little critters and either try to raise them themselves, or take them to a veterinarian or rescue facility. Even with the best of care, the mortality rate for birds and rabbits is significant, and quite often well-meaning humans sentence these animals to death by not leaving them in the wild. Here’s a good resource on what actually to do when you find baby animals unattended by their parents.

–While we’re on the subject of rabbits, there are enough domestic rabbit owners who don’t understand rabbit behavior and health that someone had to write an article on why rabbit bath videos aren’t actually cute. If you don’t understand how to properly care for an animal, maybe you shouldn’t own one–or should at least do a lot more research on that species’ behavior and unique needs.

—This video of someone feeding wild deer potato chips. Besides the fact that chips aren’t especially good food for anyone, least of all deer, these people are just encouraging the deer to lose their fear of humans. Why is this bad? Let me count the ways! Deer that aren’t afraid of humans are more likely to go wandering into people’s gardens and munch on the vegetables and flowers. They’re also at greater risk of getting hit by cars (bad for everyone involved) and they’re easier targets for hunters (the easier population control doesn’t justify the means.) The more you feed deer, the more the deer are able to reproduce and survive through hard winters that would normally thin their numbers. That means overpopulation leading to greater rates of starvation, disease and other unpleasantries.

—This misinformed person who thinks a picture of a long-dead, probably roadkilled, doe is proof hunters are routinely shooting does out of season. Fawns are born in spring and can be independent as early as two months of age, well before hunting season starts in fall (usually the second half of November). Guys, Bambi was fiction. Yes, there are poachers out there, but they’re the minority and other hunters would like to see them stopped as much as anyone else. For now, an imbalance of apex predators means hunters are one of the main ways to keep deer from becoming even more overpopulated. (Yes, I am in full support of natural, native predator reintroduction.)

—People laughing at this black bear that drank three dozen beers. Never mind that, again, beer isn’t good for a wild animal’s system. Like deer, bears are increasingly encouraged to see humans as a source of food. It’s not just a matter of campers not knowing how to bear-proof their food and drink, either. Many people deliberately feed bears and other wildlife, to include in mighty Yellowstone, because they want the animals to entertain them. They’re not content simply letting them be themselves. Eventually you end up with bears attacking people to get to their food, which all too often ends up with the bear being euthanized.

–Speaking of Yellowstone, there’s been a rash of idiots getting seriously injured while trying to take selfies with bison. (Dishonorable mention to the guy who almost died trying to take a selfie with a rattlesnake. Seriously, I can’t make this shit up.) Despite the fact that it’s illegal to get close to the bison, and despite numerous warnings from park staff, people still somehow think bison are docile cattle, just a part of the scenery. (Cows are dangerous too, by the way.)

—Apparently animal rights activists still think it’s a good idea to release farmed mink into the wild. What they think they’re doing is saving the mink from being skinned alive. (No, skinning animals alive is not a standard accepted practice in the fur industry.) Instead, they’re dooming most of those mink to slow, painful, cruel deaths by starvation or exposure because they come from generations of captive-bred animals. The ones that survive compete with native wildlife and cause many other animals to have slow, painful, cruel deaths by starvation because there’s not enough food to go around. Those mink can screw up ecosystems for decades as invasive species. So much for kindness to animals.

I could go on and on about our inability to treat other animals the way they need to be treated, and our own lack of skills for when we’re outside of a comfortably civilized setting. We learn in school how to determine the hypotenuse of a triangle, go over the Revolutionary War in excruciating detail every year in history class from fourth through twelfth grade, and our biology textbooks are distressingly generalized and sterile. With few exceptions, kids are kept corralled indoors except for recesses on blacktop playgrounds. We learn how to be good little worker ants in an industrial model, but we learn early how to ignore anything that isn’t human-centered. And we spend more time indoors than ever. We’re conditioned to see the outdoors largely as the place we have to traverse in order to get to the next indoor spot.

These people who ask about fledgling crows–if they spent a year studying their local wildlife in detail, watching from a window every day, do you suppose they’d get some sense of the rhythm of non-human nature? Maybe they’d get to watch a mated pair of crows build a nest, raise and feed their young, and then integrate those young into the greater corvid community. Perhaps they’d see a mother rabbit leave and return to her young in their hiding place, or watch deer grow up, lose their spots, and start their own lives well before November.

Our utter lack of nature literacy and our disgraceful self-centeredness is leading us to destroy the entire planet, ourselves included. We need to know these things–we knew them once, but as we stopped living close to the land, we forgot them, ignored them entirely. We need to understand how delicately balanced an ecosystem is, the webs of relationships and balances that formed over thousands of years of fine-tuning and evolution. We need to know how much our actions can screw the entire system up, whether through introducing an invasive species or destroying habitat for one more golf course. We need to have our hands in the soil, watching the creek for the flash of a salamander’s belly, our eyes to the trees for the first sign of autumn’s flush of color. We need a personal relationship with non-human nature that doesn’t end with a perfectly manicured, chemical-treated lawn.

But we don’t all have to know the particulars of climate science or marine biology or organic agriculture to be attuned to our local environment. It all starts with the little things, the individual animals, plants and fungi. What if the proper response to finding baby bunnies was as well-known as when the new season of Orange is the New Black starts? What if we looked forward to the fledging of baby birds as much as the arrival of Memorial Day? What if we knew how to watch the clouds, and were able to predict how long before rain showed up, so we could decide whether or not to water the garden?

We need to return to an ancestral way in which nature is not an Other, but an Us. If we truly love nature, if we consider ourselves friends to the animals, then we need to know nature itself, through books and observations, through science and questioning. We need to know the rest of nature as well as we know ourselves.

We can no longer afford nature ignorance; it is time to embrace nature literacy.

Did you enjoy this post? Please consider picking up a copy of my book Nature Spirituality From the Ground Up, which weaves together natural history and pagan spirituality.