#she also has this weird feminine mysticism thing going on about how women and nature good men and science bad

[teeniepaws]

Hey genuinely wondering what you meant when you said that Vandana Shiva has "blood on her hands"

You might remember the pictures going around on tumblr a little while ago when the president's palace in Sri Lanka was stormed by angry citizens.

You know

Now part of what caused all this unrest was caused by a famine that struck the country, effecting both the economy as well as, you know, people's ability to eat. Now this famine did not spring up out of nowhere, nor was it a natural crisis. This was caused by the country embracing and changing 100% of it's farms to organic. See, organic farming is nice and all but between having a much smaller yield, it's also much more susceptible to pests and disease. It's why it's generally a bad idea to have literally every farm in your country using methods that are over a hundred years old.

See, the president was a big big fan of Vandana Shiva, drank in every word she said, and it was quite literally due to her advice that he banned all chemical fertilizers in the country, leading to a famine by the end of the year. Now I'm not a biologist nor am I in any agricultural-based science field. Neither is Vandana Shiva! She does have a PHD, but it is not in nuclear physics or whatever other science field she has lied about. It's in philosophy. Now I won't say that disqualifies her from speaking on the matter of farming, but her being listened OVER experts in the field is what is concerning.

I'm not even focusing on the various other lies she peddles, like calling golden rice a myth, claiming GMOs are filled with nonspecific "toxins", lying about Indian farmers committing suicide thanks to bi-cotton, as well as just comparing a detractor of hers to a rape apologist. She peddles anti-GMO conspiracy theories with little to no proof as if they're gospel.

As well as all of the above, back in 1999 when a cyclone left millions of people in India in crisis the US sent aid in the form of a corn/soy meal mix. Now, I need to make myself clear, I do absolutely believe that the united states has, and does use humanitarian aid as a way of extending imperialism. This is not in question. However people were dying, they desperately needed food and they had been given food, in my mind their need in that moment outweighs my moral objections to the predatory nature of foreign aid in the US. Vandana Shiva thought otherwise, fearmongering over the genetically modified nature of the crops used.

"The U.S. has been using the Orissa victims as guinea pigs for GM products"

In a time of desperate need she called the Indian government to not accept food people would die without, not because of the soft power it would lend the US over her country, but because GM crops scary.

If an anti-vaxxer spreads lies and it causes someone to die from an illness that could have been prevented, that is blood on their hands. They may be ignorant or lying willfully, but neither really matters, that death is directly linked to the fear and lies they helped propagate.

I don't know if Vandana believes her own BS, and I don't care. Her critiques on capitalism are actually pretty good and when she argues about GMOs from that angle she actually makes some very valid points. However that is mixed in with countless lies, her own ego stroking, her inability to ever be corrected, and the simple fact that she is willing to let people die for her values.

[littleeyesofpallas]

I think in my hurry to get through the one core rant without getting distracted, I didn't actually outline the Hero's Journey's whole proposed psych model in the first place. I don't want to get too into each of the 17 steps, but the idea of the process it reflects is this:

A boy on the cusp of adulthood must leave the comfort of parental protection/provision, whether he wants to or not. He must seek out the "magic" of an older mentor who has seen and mastered the unknown, and through that mentor they learn an entry level skill that will allow them to navigate the world of adults; but this is not "mastery" and it is not "understanding" it is only the bare bones functionality of mimicry. Understanding comes later. This happens, often, while still in the comfort of the "home" realm, where the dangers of the unknown aren't in play yet. Then they leave for real and confront the shock of an unfamiliar world, of autonomy, and responsibility; for the first time in their life, if something goes wrong, no one is there to help them.

Campbell himself posits this next step can go a few different ways. His standard format suggests the Belly of the Whale, the descent into the darkness of not knowing happens at the threshold itself, comes first. That upon confronting the unfamiliar new reality of adulthood the immediate reaction is to be overwhelmed, and only after addressing that immense pressure and aimlessness does the boy get to proceed out into the world at large with the understanding that out here, he can actually die.

But the alternative to this is that the boy goes from the crossing of the threshold directly into the Road of Trials, putting at his his magic aide's skills to use, and learning new ones, until that momentum of that growth and learning plateaus, and then THAT is the moment in which the hero is consumed unto the Belly of the Whale, not when he first confronts a reality that is beyond him, but when he first realizes that it's beyond him; when the arrogance and ignorance of youth gives way to humility. Here he has been facing danger and challenge but only now does he confront the inevitability of death; he cannot keep conquering the unknown forever.

I prefer the Belly-second format, because unlike the Belly-first form's processing of the idea that he can die, this is the fact that he will die; and then what legacy does he leave behind? And this directly motivates his shifting attention toward...

The Goddess Reconciliation is my problematic fav of this whole thing... Campbell and Jung believed deeply in this old fashioned notion of Anima and Animus, that there was some nearly mystical bioessentiallist quality of explicitly segregated Male and Female psyche, and a lot of that doesn't scan great these days. BUT! Of note is that their fixation on this duality came largely out of the idea that the two, being innately separate and at odds, needed to be balanced for a healthy mind to exist. In the psychospiritual spiritual approach to myth this means the Goddess is in fact a man's inner feminine aspect that need to be appeased and made peace with. And that's actually pretty cool, weird inner-cosmological premise to that aside.

But in regards to the myth as guidance, this is also the step in the journey that I just call Respect Women. Because that's what's being taught. This is the moment that the young boy/young man, until recently high on his own power and accomplishments, and his ongoing conquest of the unknown is confronted by a woman of great power. She resides in a realm above him, and for the first time in his quest he cannot conquer his way through this. He MUST speak with, negotiate, and empathize with this woman and her needs in order to win her favor and approval, and sometimes very literally hand in marriage.

This power she holds over him is often pretty literally the ability to have children, tying back into the newfound need to secure legacy that I mentioned in Belly of the Whale. But it can also be inheritance of fortune, positions of power and rulership, etc... in the realms of mythological and fairytale narratives. But it also reflects the internal idea of the joining of Anima and Animus, in that this marriage in one way or another, material or not, must bring him peace of mind.

Then there's the Woman as Temptress phase, which is woefully underused. Granted it can come across as a bit sexist and cliche in many narratives, and it's easy to see how that doesn't feel "essential" to most Hero Journeys, but I think this is incredibly important. Again, I prefer the Belly-second model in which the hero's conquests naturally lead to arrogance (he's on a winning streak, and he is still just a kid doing all this for the first time; he's never known defeat, so how does he even know when to slow his roll?) and this is a repeat of that; he's learned to please one woman, why not use his tried and true method of learning new skills and putting them to use to please more women? And so his loyalty to his Goddess must be tested in order to teach him moving forward.

This is the trope about Prince Charming being a playboy because his only trait is seducing women, not being good to them --see: Utena's Touga, or Into The Wood's Prince brothers. This is where a man learns not to be a fuckboi.

And then the confrontation with The Father. The legendary big Vader moment. But it's not always a violent confrontation, and it's not always innately negative; at times it can even be a somber affair. A boy must learn to stop idolizing his father, and make peace with the truth that his father is just a man, full of flaws like any other. And by reconciling his father as infallible patriarch and the hero's own process of growth, a boy must learn that to succeed in life he must be more than his father is/was. And this tends to become a violent or literal physical conflict when the father in question is both still alive, and the very literal authority that must be overcome in the name of progress. The patriarch has established a system of order that he sees as preserving the safety and security of the world of the known, and he will protect that system even as it begins to fall apart. And as a man, not longer a boy, but a peer to his father the hero has to show the father that he is no longer the unquestioned arbiter and effectively take his place.

In this the boy becomes man, hero attains some kind of enlightenment, sees some deep truth to the world and now knows with some clarity what is best for the world. An arrogant assertion to be sure, but internal to the journey at hand it makes enough sense... Because with this understanding the Hero also discovers or distills the mysteries of this wild realm of the unknown into The Ultimate Boon: a tool or a symbol of the skills learned, that can be replicated or utilized even without the hero's personal level of understanding. And this thing must be delivered back to the mundane so that the next generation of children can use it to expand their realm of the known further into what had before been unknown; each subsequent generation of hero expanding the collective knowledge and understanding of the community as a whole.

And Hero must also often learn selflessness. This kind of comes into play more often when there isn't the innate establishment of a desire to foster a legacy that will out last him. In this case the Hero needs to be talked into going home, because the alternative is that he continues to dwell in this state of perfection. But if he lives out his life like this, he will die as just a singular man rather than the Hero of a people. This in turn motivate the Rescue in which someone has to break into his little bubble of personal accomplishment to bring him back. Yet again his ego must be tested, and he must be humbled.

And then he goes back home, he's a Master of Two Worlds, the known and unknown alike, and he delivers The Boon to the common people so their lives can be made better by it. He earns the Freedom to Live and melds back into a mundane civilian life, as a productive member of his society, as a father, and eventually as a new hero's Magical Aide and old wizened mentor.

Shit.. I let this get away from me and shifted my whole rhetoric halfway in... >:/ My point wasn't to outline the mythic structure but the psychological one. So let me try to just summarize briefly now:

A boy needs to leave the comfort of home. He has to learn many new skills, starting with being taught by a teacher. He has to learn his limitations, finality and fatality. To secure a legacy he seeks a wife; to get a wife he must respect women; to keep a wife he must not be a fukboi. He must be a better father than his was. He must learn to want to give back to his community, and then return with knowledge and/or resources to better said community. He assumes a mundane life, he has kids who will grow up as he did; he'll be their father to overcome, and their mentor to learn from in time.

↑This is the Hero's Journey that Campbell became so fixated on, and that George Lucas maybe kind of oversold and muddled with film savvy, but that the original Star Wars still managed to embody and launch into the public consciousness. This is the Hero's Journey I wish more people would talk about and engage with, rather than the color-by-numbers nonsense that it's been reduced to.

[thoughtsfromaclutteredbrain]

Hope [Handon Fanfiction]

SUMMARY: "He knows her.

It's a gut feeling, an illogical thought that passes through his brain the second their eyes interlock. She looks surprised, or even shocked, but also pained, as if she may recognize him too, but he's never been good at reading people.

It's those eyes, he can't help but think. Bright blue and striking, full of chaos and calm and love and pain and so many other juxtapositions that he can't even count them all. All he knows is that her features look sad and fragile and vulnerable and all his brain can say is that he knows her..." 

[Landon trying to remember Hope, then remembering her, and then finding his way back to her, all told through Ladon's POV, all canon compliant]

WORD COUNT: 4,364 words

Now available on AO3! Enjoy!

[Feedback is welcome. Hate will be blocked. Thank you!]

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He remembers her when he dreams.

On the edges of his mind; a vision so distant and blurry that he couldn't distinguish if it was a memory or a figment of his imagination. He wakes up feeling empty, like he's left a piece of himself back in his subconscious, trapped there and unable to escape when he opens his eyes. 

She came in snapshots. 

A laugh, echoing so far away in his that he could barely hear it, but that makes his heart race. 

Soft blue irises, too blurry to distinguish, but clear enough for him to see the pain in them. 

A voice calling his name, with so much passion and love in the syllables, in a way he has never heard before, in a way that was so familiar yet foreign that it drives him mad.

The gentle curve of lips, upturned in a smirk, amused by something he can never remember.

When he wakes up, he can feel the images haunting him, etched into his brain but impossible for him to figure out. While he sleeps, the images feel like home, but when he's awake, it feels like solving a puzzle with the wrong pieces. He can get the pieces to fit, but they never make the correct picture.

He feels like it's slowing driving him mad. 

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He remembers her when he dies.

When he stands on the pier, he can't help but wonder why. Why he does this so often, almost like a ritual he's created with himself.  Rafael would hate him if he knew, but he was thankful that this wasn't part of the paths he knew him to travel. In his wolf form, he stuck closer to the trees, hidden under the cover of leaves and night.

He tells himself he does it to silence his thoughts. To get a reprieve from pretending that he was the great savior who destroyed Malivore, from the frustration of not being able to fix Rafael yet, from the loneliness that settled into his gut, making him feel emptier than ever before. 

But if he's honest with himself, he knew he was doing it because of her. 

When he dies, she's clearer. As he jumps off the pier into the dark water, she came in visions.

He hears her voice. Not just his name, but sentences. The voice was just far enough away for him to not be able to make out the words, just far away enough that it's out of reach, that it drives him crazy.

He sees her smile. Not just a smirk, but a full, genuine smile. 

He sees her eyes light up, full of happiness and love and beauty. 

He sees a shaky hand brush hair behind her ear, 

But when he dies, he feels her, too.

He feels the heat of a soft hand cupping his face. He feels the coolness of rings around the fingers, pressing lightly into the skin of his cheeks. He feels her gentle touch grazing over his skin, making him ache for more. 

He feels the ghost of those soft lips pressing against his own. Carefully, cautiously, electrically.

As his consciousness starts to drift away from him, more comes. He smells her scent, soft and feminine and so painfully familiar that he swears he could recognize it if only he had a little more time.

As he sinks deeper, with the weight of the cinder block tied around his waist pulling him down and down, he feels the pressure of the rope replaced. Instead of the tight and unrelenting feeling of rope, he feels her arms wrapping around him, strongly but lovingly. Desperately, as if she's scared he's going to disappear if she dares to let go.

But it's not him that disappears. It's her. 

When he rises from the ashes, flames dancing on the surface of the water, he can't help but wish for a second that he could die again, if only to spend a little more time with the visions. 

But she stays trapped in his mind, stays submerged below the dark water, and he remains unable to figure out why these visions feel like the closest thing he's ever felt to belonging. 

Maybe he's going crazy from stress. Maybe she's nothing. Or maybe she's the key to everything.

He's not sure, but he's sure that he will die again, whether it was by way of werewolf, vampire, witch, monster or even his own hand. But he was okay with it, if only to get another glimpse of her.

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He remembers her the moment he sees her. 

He's alone with his thoughts, which is his least favorite type of lonely. He's had his headphones in, trying to use his music to drown out all the chaos in his mind about Josie and their date and the way she was acting and the fact that he felt even more alone now than ever. 

It was only when the embers started to fall that he looks up. 

He thought he was the only one out in the park at this hour. He hadn't seen anyone else around, and surely no other phoenix's were out rising from the ashes in the middle of Mystic Falls. But as he sat there, embers started to float around him, igniting the sky with tiny flames. It was odd, yes, but he was used to odd. Odd had quickly become his new normal since he stepped through the doors of the Salvatore school. 

He feels himself stand up and turn around, his body moving on its own accord, and it's then that he sees her.

She's staring back at him, not at all concerned by the flames falling down all around her. Her hair falls over her shoulders, messily framing her face. Her expression is unreadable, full of too many conflicting emotions for him to even try to decipher them

But he knows her.

It's a gut feeling, an illogical thought that passes through his brain the second their eyes interlock. She looks surprised, or even shocked, but also pained, as if she may recognize him too, but he's never been good at reading people.

It's those eyes, he can't help but think. Bright blue and striking, full of chaos and calm and love and pain and so many other juxtapositions that he can't even count them all. All he knows is that her features look sad and fragile and vulnerable and all his brain can say is that he knows her.

God, she looks so familiar that it hurts him. Maybe she just has one of those faces, or maybe she's what he's been looking for his entire life. He can't tell. All that he knows is that he can't find the strength to look away.

She's the first to break eye contact, walking away quickly with her head down, not looking back,, and the moment is over way too quickly. 

And Landon is left figuring out why it feels like a piece of him was just ripped out of his chest when she leaves.

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He remembers her, instinctively, when he sees her again later that night.

He's on a walk, the pale light of the streetlights illuminating his way in the dark. He's coming from the Mystic Grill when he spots her. 

Or, her hair rather, cascading over her shoulders in long ribbons. She's crouched over, her elbows on her knees as she leans down to reach her bag, laying on the grass next to her. She's facing away from him, not allowing him to see her face, but he knows it's her. He can feel it. He can feel her presence calling out to him.

She's unaware he's there, that much he can tell, but seeing her stops him dead in his tracks. He feet are rooted to the ground, unable to move until he finally decides to call out to her.

"Hey," he starts, unable to think of anything else, and mentally kicking himself for not thinking of anything better. He doesn't know why he cares so much.

She sits up straight, turning to face him, greeting him with the same expression as last time, a look full of so many different emotions bleeding into each other. Shock and surprise are prevalent in her wide eyes, and he's pretty sure he sees recognition there as well.

If only he could figure out why he knows her. Why she feels so important. Why that look makes his heart crack in his chest, ever so slightly.

"Hey," she replies weakly. The word hangs in the air between them.

"We saw each other earlier," he states. He can't help but feel like this is insane, that he feels so drawn to this girl that his feet are moving without his intent, bringing him closer and closer to her. And he can't help but fear that he's wrong, that she's not the girl he thinks she is, even though he can feel in his bones that she is. "Right?"

She nods slowly, her mouth still open ever so slightly in shock. After a second, she composes herself, nodding quickly and making a face.

"Yeah," she confirms as she tears her eyes away from his for a second. When her eyes meet his again, Landon can't help but feel that her expression is softer. More vulnerable. 

"Um," she starts, and he hears the shakiness in the syllable. "I was just out on a walk to clear my head."

"Rough night?"

She seems thrown by the question for a moment, but answers before he has a chance to backtrack. 

"Yeah actually," she replies.

"Uh..." She seems to wonder if she should elaborate, making a face before she shrugs and simply states, "Relationship trouble."

Landon nods once, looking down at his shoes as he mutters, almost to himself. "Must be contagious." 

He didn't mean to say the words out loud, but he looks up at her when he does, a smile naturally forming on his face, and it's weird how comfortable this conversation feels. He's never made friends easily, especially not with beautiful mystery women. He can't explain the ease he feels around her, the magnetism she seems to have.

"Why? You too?" She asks, and normally he wouldn't open up to a stranger, but he finds himself answering anyway.

"Yeah."

By this point, he's already approached the stone bench she's sitting at, his feet having carried him towards her of their own accord as he talks with her. He sits down next to her, and he feels an overwhelming urge to sit closer than he does. 

"I met this really amazing girl, but all of a sudden, everything's super complicated."

"Huh," is all she says to that. 

Sitting closer to her, he can feel his memory stirring. He knows her. He just can't figure out why. It's as if his subconscious is refusing to let his brain in on the mystery of who is she?

When he looks back at her, her gaze has dropped from his. She looks sad when she does that, he notes, and lost in her thoughts. The sight gives him deja vu so hard that his head spins. 

"You?" He asks, and once again, she seems caught off guard by the question.

"Oh, uh..." She begins, bringing her gaze to his and away again as she shakes her head once quickly, tearing herself out of her thoughts, if only for a moment. He can't help but notice how in her head she seems to be, carefully thinking through every word she says before she says it.

And he can't help but notice the pain in her eyes, pain that seems to amplify whenever her gaze locks on his for too long. 

She chuckles, but there's no humor in the sound. It sounds so familiar, he thinks.

"Old story, I guess." She rolls her eyes as she says it, as if she thinks the whole thing is stupid. "Fell for a guy who doesn't even know I exist."

She smiles as she says the last part, but Landon has been through enough trauma in his life to know a fake smile when he sees one, and the facade she wears can't hide the tremble in her voice, anyway.

"Huh," he says, and as he keeps watching her, the mask drops instantly. Her face scrunches up, and she makes a motion as if to say what can you do? But he can see her lost in her thoughts again, the voices in her head too loud to allow her to hide her emotions. 

"That's classic," he tells her, not knowing what else to say that won't add to her evident heartbreak. He can't help but briefly think that the guy she's talking about would be lucky to be loved by her, but the thought is gone as soon as it crosses his mind.

She smiles again as she nods once, and he thinks it may actually be real this time as she lets out a small "yeah." But her eyes fall to her hands, and the sadness returns. He feels an unexplainable instinct to hug her, to bring her close and try to comfort her, and if he could only keep her talking, maybe he could figure out why it feels like he's known her his entire life, and why he feels the urge to open up to her, as if she had cast a truth spell like one he would learn at the Salvatore School. 

He can't explain it. He wants to be able to explain it. He wants to know her. But he doesn't. The feelings of closeness and familiarity does nothing to change the fact that she's still a stranger, even if his gut is telling at him to rethink it. 

"She is really great," he says instead, giving into the urge to share about himself to her. She nods slowly, like she's processing the information, like she knows what he means. He finds himself lost in his thoughts this time as he speaks, remembering why he was out for a walk in the first place, to try to sort through the mess in his head about his situation with Josie. 

"I just feel like... i want it to be perfect. And I want to be the perfect boyfriend, and shes trying to be the perfect girlfriend." He shifts his focus back to her, and she makes a face as if to show him that she's listening, or to make it look like she is. He continues anyway. 

"And it was really effortless, but now it feels... Off. I don't know." 

The softness returns to her eyes, like his words are making her feel vulnerable. He doesn't know why.

"Sorry," he mumbles, not quite knowing what he's apologizing for. For throwing all of his problems onto her, or for saying something that could cause the emotions swirling around in her eyes. Or for not being able to figure out why those eyes look so familiar. 

He looks away, looking at the milkshake in his hands instead of at her and her sad eyes that seem to break his heart. He mentally kicks himself for telling her all those things. 

"No," she tells him, seeming to understand the awkwardness he's starting to feel about opening up in that way. Landon can't figure out how she seems to be able to read him so well.

"You know, um," she continues. "A very smart boy once taught me that sometimes, you have to be brave enough to be imperfect with people."

He nods slowly, taking in her words, and seeing the way that her eyes start to fill with tears as she speaks. She smiles though, and this time it's a genuine one, a real smile that lights up all her features for the briefest of seconds. Even her tear filled eyes seem to get brighter when she smiles. 

"Even if it's scary,"  she adds, and he can't help but feels like she's reading his mind.

"Yeah," he laughs out, shaking his head at himself. It was good advice for someone he barely knew, advice that she should probably try to take to heart. The thought still terrified him, though. He blew out air and rubbed at his eyes as he lets his mind wonder about how being imperfect with Josie Saltzman would feel. 

"Of course, you're gonna have to take your own advice, and tell that boy of yours that you exist."

The words come out on instinct, coming straight from his heart without giving his brain a second to process it. He usually wouldn't be giving a stranger advice, and especially not in such a forward way, but he usually wouldn't be opening up to one, either. And ashes didn't usually rain down from the sky, and he usually didn't have a girlfriend he wanted to impress, and he usually didn't even order this milkshake. The whole night was unusual. 

And he didn't usually feel such a sense of complete peace around anybody, let alone a stranger.

I know her, his brain screams at him.

When he looks back at her, he sees a tear slide down her face. It hurts him, he feels it in his chest, as if her tears were laced with acid. It hurts to see her like that. His follows it down her face. 

Her eyes widen a bit when she realizes, and she brings her hand up to wipe it away quickly, looking away from him as she does that, not letting him see any of her emotions. It's crazy how she can be so unreadable, yet so open at the same time. It makes his head spin.

"Oh," she says. She laughs again, but it's devoid of humor. When she turns, her hair is covering her face more than before. She shrugs her shoulder, hiding her face behind the curtain of hair and her jean jacket. "I don't know about that." She can't hide her sniffle, trying her best to keep any other tears contained. 

They fall into silence, and despite him wanting to stay there forever, Landon knows he has to make it back to the Salvatore School before curfew. He wasn't planning on getting on the new headmaster's bad side so soon. 

"I hope your night gets better," he tells her, and he truly means it. Whoever she is, she doesn't deserve the heartache she's feeling. 

She nods once, muttering out a "thanks" and giving him a quick smile. 

He can't help but feel like something's missing. He's suddenly aware of the milkshake in his hands. He still doesn't even know why he ordered it in the first place. It's not much, but it'll have to do.

"This'll help," he states, dropping the milkshake onto the bench between them. "Peanut butter blast, whipped cream on the bottom. It's probably all melted by now."

"Oh." She reaches out slowly, carefully grabbing the cup and tilting it so she can see it as he stands up. Even as he turns away from her, he feels the urge to keep talking.

And so he does.

"I don't even know why I ordered it," he says. "I didn't have any of it. I didn't want a milkshake. It just seemed..."

He doesn't know how to end that thought, still mildly confused. So he doesn't, shrugging softly at her instead. She gives a sad smile and shrugs back, seeming to understand something in the silence he doesn't even understand himself. 

He starts to walk away, but not before making sure to tell her "thanks for listening." She gives him a face back, one that he can't tell if it's positive or not. 

If it's negative, he doesn't want to know. So he walks away instead, and he can't explain why it feels like he's walking away from something important. 

Or someone important. 

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He remembers her as soon as she steps off the bus. 

She looks different in the daylight, without the streetlights illuminating her blue eyes. 

She looks younger, he thinks, with her hair in the braids instead of falling around her shoulders. And there's a feeling in his gut, seeing her in the black and red Timberwolf uniform; a feeling like she doesn't belong in it. 

Her eyes lock onto his instantly, and her gaze traps him in place. He can't do anything but stare back at her, his mind frantically searching through his every thought trying to make sense of her. Her stare has him paralyzed in a way he's never felt before, captivated so completely that there's nothing he can do but be completely at the mercy of her beautiful sad eyes. 

It's both thrilling and terrifying.

Josie snaps him out of it. Her voice cuts through his head easily, centering him and bringing him back down to reality. 

"Do you know that girl?"

He doesn't know how to answer. No, wants to leave his lips. The simple answer. The true answer. But every cell in his body responds with a yes, so loud that he almost feels like he's shaking.

"Not really," he says, a happy medium between his brain and his body. "Just, uh, we shared a milkshake once."

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He remembers her, again and again; the sight of her feeling new and entirely familiar every time.

He remembers her when he feels Josie's jealousy, and sees how her presence is bringing out the worst parts of her. 

When he finds out she's both a werewolf and a witch. He knows that's something he should be more freaked out about; it's not that he's not freaked out about it, but it feels way more normal than it should. 

When he realizes Rafael has feelings for her, and he feels the strongest, most unexplained sense of deja vu he's ever had in his life

He remembers her when he rises from Lizzie stabbing him, fresh off his death and with her face right in front of him. He can finally connect the mystery girl from his dreams and deaths as her, but still can't place how or why he was getting visions of her if he hadn't met her until just a couple weeks ago. He asks her, but all she tells him is for him to get back return to Josie.

And then it finally happens.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers her. Really, truly, with every fiber of his being. 

He remembers serving her milkshakes at the Mystic Grill. Dancing in the nighttime. Kissing her for the first time in the cell. He remembers singing to her in her room. He remembers making out with her in the motel. He remembers loving her, and the feeling that she gave him every time he was in her presence. A feeling that he's decided must be what home feels like. 

But most of all, he remembers her sacrificing herself. He remembers her killing him, knowing that he would never let her throw herself into the Malivore pit if he was alive to try to stop her. He remembers waking up alone, and feeling a indescribable feeling of loneliness ever since.

He can't help but be mad at her. It's an instinct, and a feeling so strong, he feels like it might consume him. Not only at the fact that she had sacrificed herself and left him alone, but at the fact that she had been back and hadn't come to find him. Come back to find anyone. He thought she was past the lone wolf mentality., but he should've known she was more stubborn than that,

He can't find it in himself to speak to her about it after initially confronting her. The whole situation is hard, messy and unbelievably complicated, not only with the fact that she had disappeared, but that he had started dating Josie while she was away. He knows in his mind that there was no malicious intent behind it; it can't be considered cheating if he didn't know Hope existed, but he can't escape the guilt that seems to be running through his veins. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

He remembers his love for her. 

Once the anger dissipates and his brain is working normally again, that's the only conclusion he can come to. He's loved her since the moment he laid his eyes on her. Since the moment he spoke to her. And impossibly, he loved her when he didn't even know she existed. 

When she was just a vision, a flash of features in his mind. When she was just the faintest, distant memory in the deepest recesses of his mind.  When all that he had was the empty blackness of death, his love for her remained. He loved her even when he was dead, and with that realization, he knew that love was the only emotion he would be able to feel for her as long as he was alive, or dead. 

As long and he exists, so does his love for her. 

And so he comes back to the school when Lizzie asks him to, even if that means having to break Josie's heart, and he feels his heart break a little too, because this just doesn't feel fair to her, to him, to anyone. She doesn't deserve the heartbreak, he knows that, but he also knows that she doesn't deserve to be lied to, and any second he spent trying to pretend that his feelings for Hope were gone would've just been a second where he was lying to one of the best girls he had ever meant. 

He's terrified when he goes to meet Hope, because that's what happens when he confronts things. He may have phoenix resurrection powers that gave him a newfound confidence in battles, but it does nothing to help him work up his nerve for confronting his feelings. And worse, he just really doesn't wanna lose Hope. He can't lose her, not after he just got her back.

So when everything is resolved, and he sees that sunshine smile under the Christmas lights, and he kisses her lips under the mistletoe, Landon can't help but think that if he ever does actually die, the feeling of Heaven would surely pale in comparison to the feeling of kissing Hope Mikaelson. 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *     *      *     *     *     *     *     *

I really can't believe there's not more Handon fanfic around, so I had to contribute to the cause. I've been watching Legacies since ep 1, but I really have fallen head over heels in love with Handon this season. I think they've entered my Holy Trinity of ships with Karamel and Malex now, and I'm not hating it at all.  Hello! This has been sitting in my drafts for so long, so I thought I'd finally finish it and have it be my first fic back. I’m so sorry I haven’t written in so long. There’s more info in the AO3 notes as to why if you care to know.  Anyway,  I love Handon so much, and I had so much fun writing this fic. 

[Feedback is welcome. Hate will be blocked. Thank you!]

[kadobeclothing]

After Ulrika Jonsson’s furious letter to her breasts, five Sun writers pen notes to their own boobs – The Sun

THESE writers have something to get off their chest. After Ulrika Jonsson penned a furious letter to her breasts, five Sun writers want to share their thoughts on their bosom. 9 ‘Seriously, t*ts. You get on my t*ts’, said Ulrika JonssonCredit: Rex FeaturesUlrika, 52, took to Instagram last week to complain about the fluctuating size and shape of her assets. She told how she had a breast reduction in 2009, to flatter her shape,  but the menopause had caused them to inflate. And having unexpectedly lost weight recently, she has watched her bosom shrink and lose “volume”. The mum-of-four ended her blistering rant: “Seriously, t*ts. You get on my t*ts.” Here, Page 3 girls Rhian Sugden and Peta Todd, and writers Bella Battle, Samantha Brick, and Luce Brett reveal what their breasts have meant to them over the years. 9 The Sun’s story on Ulrika’s rant at to her boobs’While you’ve still got it, flaunt it’ Rhian Sugden says: Hey Girls,  You’ve had many names over the years, chosen by boyfriends, instagrammers and Page 3 fanatics, but to me you will always be the Girls. I am forever grateful for the opportunities you have given me in my life – you have opened up more doors for me than any man ever has. 9 I love the fact that you are a pair of show-offs. No matter how much I try to cover you up, you always, somehow, manage to let the world know you existMy glorious boobs, thanks for being such troupers and going with the flow when I decided I wanted to flash you to the general public. Twelve years and counting you’ve done me proud, Girls. What with your late arrival into my life I felt the need to show those bullies, who called me flat-chested, that good things come to those who wait. I love the fact that you are a pair of show-offs. No matter how much I try to cover you up, you always, somehow, manage to let the world know you exist. I’m sorry for threatening to slice you off to a smaller cup size but your endless fluctuations can be quite stressful at times. Some days you make it difficult for me to run up the stairs, and my dance moves are no longer my own – you certainly know how to steal my thunder. 9 I am forever grateful for the opportunities you have given me in my life – you have opened up more doors for me than any man ever has.But I just want to say thanks for always being the front of house and shaping my clothes nicely. Most of all, thanks for giving me the opportunity to forge a career where I have been able to earn a living and become one of the longest-standing Page 3 girls. Without you this would have been impossible. I’m forever grateful for your existence and my femininity exudes because of you. I promise to be more supportive in our ups and downs, and I dread the day that gravity takes over and you have to stare at the ground. Until then – while you’ve still got it, flaunt it. Love, Rhian Sugden ‘Girls, you were my suit of armour’ Peta Todd says: Ahhhh boobs, My dear old not-quite-as-gravity-defying-as-you-once-were boobs. For almost a decade you paid my wages and became a suit of armour, protecting me from the judgments of who I was because of my Page 3 job. 9 I have both loved and loathed ‘the girls’ over the years but I am not them and they are not me.Credit: Alison Webster – The SunI found it easier to brush off the stereotype when people made assumptions about the type of person that was behind the bra. At school, I knew I was the same person I was before puberty hit but now I needed bigger shirts that fitted properly. When you developed almost overnight, it prompted girls at school to snipe that I “stuffed my bra” and boys to suddenly care what I had to say. I found it confusing that the size of my crop top could change how people thought of me. I quickly learned it was about them, not me or my bra size, and I couldn’t let it affect how I viewed my body. Do I sometimes wish you were smaller so I could wear nice tops and pretty bras? Yup. Or at least lighter so I didn’t get huge dips in my shoulders from their weight? For sure. 9 I found it confusing that the size of my crop top could change how people thought of meCredit: Stewart Williams – The SunI certainly do wish society didn’t define our intelligence or worth by a cup size. But when I think of you, my boobs now, I don’t think of the magazine covers or the dirty looks from girls thinking I had them “on display” on purpose, when I had actually tried to hide them. I think of my babies tucked in, close to my heart as they took their first breath. I can feel a clammy hand of a restless toddler inside my top for comfort and them shouting out “boooobies” when I’m getting dressed. I have both loved and loathed “the girls” over the years but I am not them and they are not me. But together our story certainly hasn’t been boring. Love Peta Todd ‘Your small size pleases me greatly’ Samantha Brick says: Hey Girls! I am celebrating my 49th birthday next month and I want to say thank you for getting me this far. When I admire you in the mirror, you please me greatly. You haven’t headed south. You don’t droop. You haven’t a single stretch mark. You certainly haven’t given me any back pain, either. Granted your 34B size swells a bit just before my period, but if anything, I like you even more then. 9 When I admire you in the mirror, you please me greatlyI know I wasn’t always happy with you and for that I am sorry. In my late teens, when I was stuck with a tiny cleavage, I was dead frustrated. Back then Samantha Fox had glorious D cups. That’s why I toyed with the idea of tinkering with your size. In my 20s I wanted Baywatch-sized boobs, but thank God I didn’t get them. The ease with which we were booked to go under the knife put me off for starters. That’s why, in my 30s, I visited another – more sensible – surgeon, who advised me to pop bags filled with rice into each cup of the bra size I thought I wanted. When I did, I was horrified – I was Dolly  Parton-esque. That was 15 years ago. Since then I’ve been very happy to say “I’ve got small boobs”. Small boobs are Mother Nature’s best kept secret. You look perfectly perky braless in a vest top, string bikini or boob tube. That’s why I bloody love you girls. Love Samantha Brick ‘Even when I dieted you’d stick around’ Luce Brett says: You two, You exceeded expectations (and regular sizes) from the start. You were easy to hate, wobbling, heavy as others wore pretty crop tops. You always upstaged me, entered rooms first and restricted my choice of wedding dress. 9 You gave me a view I’ll never forget – a little head, feeding, my sons bobbing and snugglingI resented it when people stared or spoke to you, not to my face. When strangers gawped – or worse – groped you I wanted to shout, “This is my body, not a fashion choice. They aren’t who I am”. But life went on. I accepted that even when I dieted you just stuck around, belligerently buxom. You shone when my babies came. Midwives helped you to feed. Pumps increased supply. And soon you were my resilient “lucky t*ts”, the good news after a long and gruelling delivery. You gave me a view I’ll never forget – a little head, feeding, my sons bobbing and snuggling. Sagging, and still needing some support, you emerged a monument to the ups and downs of womanhood. Like me, a little broken, stretch-marked from ambition and hard work but still hanging on. In mid-life you are a reminder, too. We all know too many who have lost a boob – had them removed, cut up, rebuilt. We’ve seen too many women in that medical nightmare after a cell went rogue.You had another lesson for me last year, when we lost a friend. Whatever shape or size you are, you are at least still here. And I am grateful, very grateful, for that. Love Luce Brett MYSTIC MEG January 31: When you meet a friend for coffee your new love should be there too SO RAD Cleaning fans hail tip of using your radiator to make your house smell fresh MAGIC CARPET B&M’s selling fluffy rugs for £2 and they come in Mrs Hinch’s favourite grey TESC-NO Furious mum demands Tesco remove their ‘weird’ Valentine’s Day card for kids SEX ED Love Island sex positions lowdown – the Mermaid, Candle, Butter Churner and Turtle CROWNING GLORY Kate Middleton can borrow Queen’s jewels after ‘befriending Angela Kelly’  ‘You’re actually a pair of riotous smashers’ Bella Battle says: Dear Funbags, Oh how I hated you when I was young. Longing to be girlish and slight, I prayed for a neat handful so I wouldn’t need a bra in summer. Instead, you bounded on the scene like two ungainly terriers squabbling over a squeaky toy. Poring over magazine articles on “his biggest physical turn-offs”, I was convinced you were all wrong. Boobs that were “right” resembled plump little peaches with a tiny cherry on top. You were like a very drunk version of that. 9 My friends may mourn the perky boobs of their youth but I secretly, guiltily, welcome them to my clubCredit: Olivia West – The SunYou wobbled too much, you couldn’t be bothered to stand to attention, and (your worst sin) you played merry hell with the nipple-to-breast ratio. I quite liked that you were big but I was otherwise deeply ashamed of you. Years later, I see what a waste of energy all that misery was –  you’re actually a pair of riotous smashers. I give less of a toss about perfection the older I get. So where once I wanted a refund, now I’m pretty chuffed with you. You make me feel powerful and sexy. I know what clothes flatter you and men seem to love you. Even better, I love you. Of course, it helps that gravity and children have levelled the playing field around me. My friends may mourn the perky boobs of their youth but I secretly, guiltily, welcome them to my club. I’ve also seen women I love wrestle with breast cancer, forced to rebuild the jigsaw of their femininity after mastectomies. So I know how lucky I am to have you. I buy lingerie that flatters and hugs, rather than tortures you. I recently weighed you on some kitchen scales at a party. I intend to cherish every single second you remain perched higher than my navel. Yours gratefully Bella Battle Ulrika Jonsson ‘goes back 30 years’ as she does the weather on GMB  Source link

source https://www.kadobeclothing.store/after-ulrika-jonssons-furious-letter-to-her-breasts-five-sun-writers-pen-notes-to-their-own-boobs-the-sun/

[pussymagicuniverse]

Raising the Witchlings, Raising the Weirdos

Whenever my mother comes up, I refer to her as a fairytale villain.

That’s making light of the situation, but I don’t always want to go into details – and now is no exception. Imagine Cinderella. Imagine Rapunzel. But imagine it’s the 1990s and the young girl isn’t a princess at all, but some random, mildly mystical teenager living in a village in Ohio, whose mother is a witch, but one who simply cannot bring herself to love her daughter over a man who abuses them both.

It’s like the film The Craft was made for me. Only I didn’t really turn out to be Nancy Downs – a teenage girl who IS a witch but whose mother also can’t bring herself to choose her daughter over a man who abuses them both, so the daughter takes matters into her own hands – in the end. A missed opportunity, maybe, but I made my own way.

However, The Craft was – not just for me, but for so many other young women, and has continued to be for new young people over the decades, for reasons as individual as the stars in the sky – relatable. But what I want to say today is about my own parenting, how my mother and pop culture have quite unintentionally joined forces to give me the gift of the weirdo, the witch, in place of the princess. In the film, the high school coven travel out to a more open space for their ritual, and as they alight the bus driver repeats the refrain we’ve all heard, in one way or another, always part of a modern cautionary tale, ingrained in rape culture, ‘You girls watch out for those weirdos,’ to which Nancy replies ‘We are the weirdos, mister’. It has become, dare I say, iconic. St Nancy of the Weird Girls, of the Baby Witches, of the Hurt and Angry and Misunderstood. Among other things.

I have five children – three teenage sons, a two year old daughter, and a nine month old daughter. I generally do my best to raise them all the same, because gender is a social construct and so on – my lads express their feelings, are comfortable with themselves (as much as any teenager can be), and at least one identifies as queer. They boys do their own thing, they’re smart, but when it comes to witchcraft, they’re either enormously sceptical, or asking if I will do spells to bring in enough money to buy everyone a gaming laptop (the answer is: no, no I will not, I’m not that kind of witch). But my girls, as tiny as they are, seem to be in tune with everything. And most of all, the power they have inside themselves is so natural, extremely strong, but graceful, beautiful. Partly it is Scorpio Mars power – my girls both have this placement, one in the 12th house and the other in the 8th. I have been blessed with two natural witchlings.

It’s the sort of thing that has traditionally caused the mothers, the stepmothers, the evil older women – in fairytales and in the everyday lives of too many of us – to squash their daughters, to eat children, to send girls out into the forest and ask that only their heart returns in a magical locked box. However, in Terry Pratchett’s Wintersmith, another useful bit of advice for witchlings comes up to counter that, in the form of Granny Weatherwax wisdom:

“A witch ought never to be frightened in the darkest forest, Granny Weatherwax had once told her, because she should be sure in her soul that the most terrifying thing in the forest was her.”

(For those who don’t know, Granny Weatherwax is a practical, no-nonsense, but extremely powerful witch in the Discworld universe. If her advice is good enough for young Tiffany Aching, it’s good enough for my daughters. Hell, it’s even good enough for me. We can all learn a thing or two from Granny Weatherwax.)

My mother did not teach me to be the scariest thing in the forest. My mother did not teach me that being a weirdo was not just ok, but really useful in keeping even weirder ones away. My mother taught me to keep quiet, to do what everyone else says, to be useful even if that means getting hurt. She raised me like a Cinderella. But when I was even smaller, before she broke me down, I was like my children: full of personality and power – but she stripped me of that and allowed someone else to do the same. (When this happens, we can find it and reclaim it ourselves, which is something I’ll talk about another time, also involving mantra-like film quotes. Nothing wrong with incorporating a bit of pop culture into your spiritual and magical life!)

But my daughters. I look at them: Saoirse, whose name means ‘freedom’, stomping around with her huge curly hair, counting everything in sight and naming colours like incantations, already able to read the word ‘witch’ on sight; Bonnie, named after a famous and fierce pirate, greeting each new human being she meets with love in her big bright eyes, laughing at the world, raging when necessary – and I’m happy to be guiding them in this life. They are kind-hearted girls, but I know that even if they want to be princesses, even if they decide never to do a spell or ritual themselves, they will always be the weirdos, and the witches. They will always be the most terrifying beings they know.

Born in Southern Ohio, but settled in the UK since 1999, Kate is a writer, witch, editor and mother of five. She is the author of several poetry pamphlets, and the founding editor of four web journals and a micropress. Her witchcraft is a blend of her great-grandmother's Appalachian ways and the Anglo-Celtic craft of the country she now calls home – though she incorporates tarot, astrology, and her ancestors, plus music, film, books, and many other things into her practice. Her spiritual life is best described as queer Christopagan with emphasis on the feminine and the natural world. She believes magic is everywhere. Find Kate on twitter and IG - @mskateybelle - and at her website.