#short form poetry I GUESS

[catsconflictscopicsandchamomile]

Deangirling! At The Laundromat

sitting on the floor of a laundromat on Route 66

on not enough sleep and too much stress

watching my army jackets spin around in the dryer. no thoughts in my head but i really want microwave chicken nuggets

[aeoliantectrix]

Maybe it's just because I'm high

But I think my backyard at dusk is the most beautiful place on earth.

I live in a red state.

Down south home town yes ma'am no sir and honey sweet baby did you eat come get a plate I'll feed you.

There's lots of bad things, sure. Racism and poverty and that particular brand of christian who seems to think the phrase "I'll pray for you" absolves them of any responsibility to be a decent human being.

But in my backyard I'm safe from all that.

In my backyard I get the good parts of this place.

I get tasty food I cooked from somebody gramma's recipe, friends who come over just to check in, neighbors who brought me fresh banana bread as a housewarming gift thirty minutes after I first arrived when moving to the neighborhood, before I'd even unpacked my suitcase from the drive over.

I get the wild loveliness of nature unchecked and unfettered by anything humans have tried, full of wildlife and plantlife and just life in general. The tadpoles in the little creek in summer and the birds on my mom's birdfeeder and the wisteria we planted on a trellis that immediately took over half the yard and fence instead.

I get sitting in my hammock tonight, in summer, listening to the insects scream at each other, watching the little lacy scraps of sky I can see between the branches above me slowly blush and fade from pink to lavender to navy as the fan whirrs me a lullaby and the stars start to wink on.

I've never been anywhere more beautiful

And maybe it's because I'm high but it feels like the inspiration for poetry.

[zvdvdlvr]

Window to the Soul ✰ Silco x Reader

✰. Kind of a character study of Silco? (I guess I shouldn’t say that because I don’t know exactly what a character study is. I just wanted to finally use some of the obscure words on my Notes app.) BOTTOM LINE: straight up waxing poetry about Silco and his eyes and facial expression because I love him your honor!!!

✰. WC: .8k (830words). credits to @strangergraphics for the BEAUTIFUL divider. I love how simple + elegant it is :))

The saying ‘eyes are the window into the soul’- in your opinion- was one of the most truthful statements ever made. At least in regards to Silco.

His beautiful, sharp face paired with his glinting emerald eye and the shocking bright orange in the other eye had you entranced the first time you saw him. He had seen you the very moment you’d looked up- and, surprisingly- Silco had felt a similar jolt in his chest. It was from that moment Silco decided he would be indefatigable in his scheme to earn your heart.

The dance he pulled you into was nothing short of breathtaking: with elegant dips, mesmerizing swirls and twirls, and intoxicating hand placement. But it wasn’t the dance itself you dreamed about during the following nights- it was his eyes.

Silco had held your gaze the entire night, his eyes a perfect blend of vivid green and burning coal of orange. For having only just met, he looked at you like he knew something about you not even you knew. You committed to memory the moment he dipped you for the first time and how his eyebrows relaxed and his pupils widened in his eyes.

He was just as disarming the next time you saw him, those beautiful eyes set between his aquiline nose landing on you once again.

When he took you on a date for the first time, Silco had worn his signature crimson color. It was absolutely stunning and you made sure your accessories matches the color you knew he would wear. He had taken you to a quaint restaurant in Piltover and followed dinner up with the option to stroll along the city street in the crepuscular light or visit the nearby aquarium.

You picked the slow stroll through town, choosing to continue the flowing conversation as much as you would have loved to shower Silco in facts about marine life. Though you took joy in absorbing the sight of all kinds of undulating jellyfish you were more keen on the idea of getting entranced by Silco’s eyes for the numerous time.

Bedroom eyes were a new addition to your list of ways Silco had looked at you. Crude, uncouth, electrifying. Although it was embarrassing to admit, you’d been able to cum just by Silco’s words and eyes. It wasn’t as though he was unaware of your. . . attraction towards him (it was impossible to hide, so sorry to inform you) because he knew the affect he had on you. He didn’t fully understand why you were so attracted to him- his gaze, his face, his soul- but you were. And he knew.

Silco used that to his advantage, consciously communicating with his eyes to you. One such case is the night you were kidnapped. Or rather, when Silco found you and was negotiating with the asinine kidnapper. The only reason he hadn’t immediately commanded his snipers to shoot him was because there was a gun pressed to your temple.

You hadn’t looked away from him when he walked into the warehouse. He captured attention and turned heads with his svelte and dangerous form, but seeing him saunter into the building had pushed oxygen into your lungs and scattered away the fear gripping your body like darkness fled from a flame. He was there. To save you.

The are you hurt, darling? was shown with a barely visible quirking of an eyebrow. When you raised both brows and tilted your chin down in a short nod you saw him relax.

When Silco had you in a tight embrace the very night, he was only mildly surprised at your answer to his statement/question sentance. “Many in your position would have been shaking and crying and begging to go,” he had murmured detachedly. You knew he was blaming himself: Silco being unnecessarily cruel to himself for an unnecessary reason. “Why weren’t you?”

“Your eyes,” you replied, raking your fingers through his hair the way you knew Silco liked. “I can tell how you feel when I look at your eyes, and. . . It’s stupid, but,” you paused to sigh and mentally prepare yourself for the cringe that was to spout from your mouth. “I feel like I know what you’re feeling whenever I look at you.“

Silco’s eyes locked onto yours, eyebrows knitted endearingly. “That’s not stupid.”

You smile. “You’re so expressive, Sil. I see it here,” you trail a fingertip along his brow bone and lightly circle his parted lips. “Here, too.” You stop your finger extremely close to the edge of Silco’s outer eye. “Your eye twitches if you’re mad or stressed enough.”

Silco pulls your hand down and laces his fingers with yours after your coos soften the anger he still held against himself. “You can read me like a book.”

“People don’t say ‘eyes are the window into the soul’ for nothing, my love,” you say sweetly, letting Silco press himself into you and let his tired eyes close.

[pearlymel]

hiii can i request a love and deepspace fic for our sleepy baby xavier? >w< the prompt is this : reader gets a tattoo of xavier’s sword (like the design on his latest outfit’s cape) all the way down their spine/back ! reader shows it to him and the rest is up to your imagination! a mix of sfw and smut/suggestive would be nice here but it’s up to you and what you’re comfy with :3 thank uuuu 💗

Synopsis: Xavier is in awe of your new tattoo.

Warnings: contains extremely suggestive comments, not completely sfw. Also gn!reader. It's short.

Notes: nonnie the minute i saw this, i immediately imagined backsho—

But i wanted to keep it tame for now </3.

You had to wait a week. A whole week to show Xavier the tattoo. Mainly because you don't entirely trust yourself of what will happen the second his sees it.

"Art?" He repeats your words, currently trying to guess the surprise you prepared for him.

Xavier tilts his head, a curious hum leaving his lips. That was a pretty broad hint. It could mean a whole lot of things. Paintings? Sketches? Poetry? Photography? And then there was the question of whose art...

He sighs, "Can't you give me another hint?"

"Nah, keep guessing."

Xavier let out a frustrated huff, gently tugging on your hand, "Give me one more hint, or I'll... I'll..." He paused, trying to think of a threat that wouldn't come off as playful. "...I'll tickle you."

You try so hard not to laugh right now, your lips pursing together before you exhale from your nose. "You're cute."

Upon seeing his defeated form, you stand in front of him then you turn around so your back was facing him, then you pull your shirt above your head to take it off, and to reveal the tattoo of his sword from the top running down all the way down to your spine.

Xavier's throat instantly dried up, his mind going completely blank at the sight. He hadn't expected this... His eyes widened, drinking in the sight of the tattoo on your back. He had never seen something so beautiful.

"I—you—" he stuttered out, completely stunned. His face grew hotter as he moved forward, gently running his fingers down the sword etched into your skin, "When did you get this...?"

It tickles, how his fingertips ran smoothly down your back. "About a week ago." You try telling him while clearing your throat.

You glance at him over your shoulder, trying to see his expression. He looked almost possessed as took in the art before him, it did make him feel possessive.

"Do you—"

"I love it." He quickly cuts you off, both of his hands running down on your sides until they grabbed a hold of your hips, and you gasp when he suddenly pulls you down on his lap.

You feel soft lips begin to press on your skin, tracing the inky imprint while his hands wandered to your thighs and chest. Touching, rubbing, caressing, he can't get his hands off you.

"I'm in love with you," the sudden declaration fills you with warmth, "Am i allowed to bend you over?" The innocent tone of his next question makes it hard to detect that he suggested such a filthy thing.

You were at a lost for words, "hold on now—" his hand that toyed with your chest left it's place to push your back down to bend you down a bit while he leaned back on his seat, just so he can get a better view of how beautiful you were just for him.

He calls your name, almost impatiently this time, "can i cum on your back too?"

Just how much more will he have to torture you with his suggestions?

You gasp when he starts grinding his painfully hard erection against your ass, hands firmly on your hips while he kept pulling you as close as possible.

"please.." he whispers, panting softly even as he has his head thrown back, already drunk from his imaginations alone.

[gurorori]

when i get presented with such beauty i m at a loss of words... T_T this was so. Everything from beginnin 2 end... like actually i have no words when im faced with This Kind of art....

yannow i shoulda checked his stuff out sooner when i saw ya mention him first. wanna recommend more perhaps? ill read it over mai.. early dinner :3c i will also look 4 the original of this cause well.. (undusts our french skills)

My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn! At a turn in the path a foul carcass On a gravel strewn bed,

Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant way Its belly, swollen with gases.

The sun shone down upon that putrescence, As if to roast it to a turn, And to give back a hundredfold to great Nature The elements she had combined;

And the sky was watching that superb cadaver Blossom like a flower. So frightful was the stench that you believed You’d faint away upon the grass.

The blow-flies were buzzing round that putrid belly, From which came forth black battalions Of maggots, which oozed out like a heavy liquid All along those living tatters.

All this was descending and rising like a wave, Or poured out with a crackling sound; One would have said the body, swollen with a vague breath, Lived by multiplication.

And this world gave forth singular music, Like running water or the wind, Or the grain that winnowers with a rhythmic motion Shake in their winnowing baskets.

The forms disappeared and were no more than a dream, A sketch that slowly falls Upon the forgotten canvas, that the artist Completes from memory alone.

Crouched behind the boulders, an anxious dog Watched us with angry eye, Waiting for the moment to take back from the carcass The morsel he had left.

— And yet you will be like this corruption, Like this horrible infection, Star of my eyes, sunlight of my being, You, my angel and my passion!

Yes! thus will you be, queen of the Graces, After the last sacraments, When you go beneath grass and luxuriant flowers, To molder among the bones of the dead.

Then, O my beauty! say to the worms who will Devour you with kisses, That I have kept the form and the divine essence Of my decomposed love!

—Charles Baudelaire, A Carcass

[daydreaming-jessi]

“There’ve been many souls that have come and gone from the flock, some are just more memorable than others.”

Decided to doodle some cultists I’ve come up for in fics, had in my actual game, or a cool idea i came up with on the spot. Oh and Sozo and Webber are here too :D This is by no means the entirety of the cult, and there may be future followers that stand out too, but for now enjoy these guys. Feel free to ask about them I guess lmao

I will be putting down my written notes under a cut since they’re so small and scribbly ^^;

Brother Tyr, head priest, he/him: The Lamb's 3rd closest. Very stressed despite doing his job for 200 years. Tries and fails to be a peacekeeper in the cult. Tyr and Nari argue a lot.

Brother Narinder, head mortician, he/him: Don't piss him off. The Lamb's spouse. Best source of info on the crowns and outside world. Can do any job around the temple and will. When the Lamb isn't around.

Sister Merbre, temple organizer, she/her: Helob loves her. The main reason the temple runs when Lamb is gone. Has a surprising realist view. Everyone loves her. Romantic at heart.

Yeon, general worker, she/her: Has to let loose in demon form or else. Together with Julno. Friends with Narinder. Seeking absolution from her past crimes. 'Encouraged' Narinder to court Lamb.

Tyna, assistant mortician, they/them: Cult's head goth. Runs the slam poetry night. Also does piercings and tats.

Nanaon, retired missionary, she/her: One of the Lamb's most faithful. Insists she's not that old and can still work. One of the few mortals to earn the respect of both Deaths.

Firyn, farmer, he/him: A worker. Great with people and plants. Born after the fall of the Old Faith. Leshy's companion. Doesn't know the horrors yet. People tend to underestimate him.

Pura, general worker, she/they: Likes Firyn. Likes to manipulate things to her benefit. Doesn't like Leshy. Doesn't realize what being an ex-bishop means. Genuinely respects the Lamb.

Almer, refinery worker, he/him: Shamura's friend. Easy going. Wants a big family. A good confidant. Gives great hugs.

Grayden, silk sorter, they/them: Shamura's friend. Quiet but a beautiful singer. A shy pushover, but will snap.

Julno, farmer, he/him: Came with the 'coward' trait. Still scared of the Lamb, and Yeon's 'bestie' Narinder. Together with Yeon. Doesn't know her murderous urges.

Poppy, she/her: Best friends with Webber, youngest of the cult. Brave and tenacious Webber, he/them: Best friends with Poppy, youngest of the cult. Gentle and curious.

Dr. Sozonius, researcher, he/him: Amnesiac. Lamb is helping him find home. Extremely well educated about biology. Does not like the spider stalking him, or the mushroom.

Keeper, record keeper, she/him: Face is always obscured. Hates the Dark. Doesn't talk about his past. Has a strange locket that ticks. Always smells of salt.

Joobre, refinery worker/tailor, he/them: Loves working with silk. Has tea with Berith. Likes gold jewelry.

Thorty, bartender, he/him: Fights with Nari a lot. Short temper. Best with the drunks.

Bregrear, smith, he/him: Quiet. Knows his way around weapons. Old hat at this point. Hopes to retire in peace.

Harbre, smith apprentice/missionary, any pronouns: Hot tempered. Looks up to Bregrear. Married to Bathin, chases off suitors neither of them like. Longs to master their craft. Protective.

Anar, miner/lumberjack, he/him: Distrusting. Hard worker. Doesn't exactly trust the Lamb, but willing to give the cult a shot. Starts fights.

Fun-Gui, researcher assistant, they/them: Weirdly obsessed with Sozo. Self proclaims as his assistant. Other mushroomos don't like them. Always goopy and dripping.

Hajal, traitor, she/her: Left the cult. Status unknown.

[jellybean181]

Meeting you / Vessel x Reader

Summary: Vessel notices you in the crowd at one of the bands concerts/worships.

Notes: This is my first time writing anything I apologize if it’s garbage lol. I hope to make this a multi-part story if it’s good.

Part 2

FLUFF

-————————————————————————-

“Oh my god, this concert is going to be so fun!”

Sophie and y/n crowded to the left side of the stage with the rest of anticipated fans.

You were nervous about public crowds, just finding out about Sleep Token a few months prior and falling in love with their music. Sophie wanted to attend there concert as soon as you felt comfortable enough.

Falling into the mystery of there identities and the poetry of there music set you into world wind of love and appreciation for the band.

“Sophie, do you think I really should of worn this white dress? I feel like I’m sticking out like a sore thumb.”

“Girl, you look beautiful! Don’t even fret.”

As the fans started cheering for Sleep Token as they came on stage to perform. You start to fiddle with the back of your dress to make sure your ass isn’t hanging out.

“Just relax, that dress is not super short it fits you perfectly.”

“Thank you, just nervous.” You smile shyly

You sway your hips with the music and start to enjoy the show.

Vessel start’s performing a few songs glancing your way a few times. What throws you off a bit is that you think he is staring at you a little longer then you think is normal but you brush it off.

Before he performs his next song he goes off stage a bit to one of the security guards to talk to them.

“What do you think is going on?” Sophie glanced at you with a confused look. “I’m not sure, but I hope everything is okay.” You respond concerned.

Vessel comes back on stage and starts performing your favourite song “Aqua Regia”. But then you notice a big security guy walking towards you and Sophie and you instantly start to get nervous.

You cross your arms around yourself to make yourself feel smaller as you make contact with the security guard.

“Vessel wants to see you backstage.”

“Me?!” Your eyes get bigger as you place your hand on your chest to indicate if you even heard him correctly and was in fact talking about you.

“Yes you, and your friend.” The security guard held his firm look while glancing at Sophie.

You look up to see Vessel performing, casually performing Aqua Regia and jumping around.

“Okay, I guess so” you say with a bit more shakiness in your voice then you would of liked.

As you and Sophie moved through the crowd with the security guard, you couldn’t help but look up to Vessel like you would be able to see the motive on his face through his mask. But all you could see is him staring back at you as he performed.

“You. Wait here.” The security guard stops and looks at Sophie.

“She can’t come with me?”

“I can’t go with her?”

“Vessel instructed me to only take you to meet him in his dressing room.”

Sophie and I glanced at each other like we could somehow telepathically have a conversation about this crazy and confusing experience.

“She will go.”

Your eyes bugged out again as your neck whipped back at your best friend in disbelief.

“Sophie! No! Are you freaking kidding me..!” You practically whisper yelled at her.

“Just go, it will be okay. I will be right here.” She said with a big shit eating grin.

“Miss, are you coming?”

You followed the security guard with the shuffling of your feet and the help of a little push from Sophie. Everything felt like you were living a dream, like this couldn’t possibly be happening.

As we reached the door, he opened it and ushered you inside to sit on the couch that was in the middle of the room with a coffee table.

“Make yourself comfortable, he will be in shortly”

He shut the door behind you and all you could hear was the rest of your favourite song finishing up as the band concluded the concert.

What felt like a lifetime and your heart beating a rapid pace, slight shiver to your form. You heard footsteps reach the door outside and the turn of the door handle. You thought you were holding your breath for a lifetime but was only a couple seconds of the door handle turning.

“Hello Sweetheart” Vessel smiles under his mask, showing off his pearly white teeth and hard muscle exterior.

“Hi.” You say shyly looking up at him like a deer in headlights.

[tsukimefuku]

It takes one to know one

You and Higuruma decided to make a promise to each other.

Tags: Jujutsu Kaisen, Higuruma x f!reader, this is extreme fluff with the tiniest hint of angst, just for sauce.

Song: Head over feet - Alanis Morissette

WC: 800

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU", a sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a Nanami x f!reader x Higuruma fanfic I'll eventually write (eventually). To see the ever-growing list of one-shots, please visit my masterlist :)

Disclaimer: these stories are NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this story fits in the timeline, please check the masterlist mentioned above.

You've already won me over in spite of me

And don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet

And don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are

I couldn't help it

It's all your fault

You are the bearer of unconditional things

You held your breath and the door for me

Thanks for your patience

— Head over feet, Alanis Morissette

"I have noticed something." You said, as you had your forearms over the balcony, watching the calm street. You were both outside, enjoying the last few hours of sunlight, as the sun set behind a wall of buildings.

"What?" Higuruma asked, as he sat on the only chair there was in the balcony of your apartment. He closed the book he was reading, and put it aside.

"You got me to confess I had feelings for you," as you looked at him, he was watching the sky, with a sly smirk on his face, "but you never actually told me how you felt."

His smirk was gone, and he stared at you, confused. "Huh?"

"All you said was that you were happy you weren't barking up the wrong tree. Aside from the 'poetry' of it," you huffed an almost chuckle, "that doesn't say much, Hiromi."

He slid his fingers over his hair for a moment, and seemed to be pondering on something, as he looked at you. You proceeded.

"You actually took very calculated steps just to get my 'confession', and you revealed absolutely nothing about yourself."

He sighed, and lifted his hands, in admission of his defeat. "You caught me."

You chuckled and leaned against the opposing wall, to look at him. "Why did you do that?"

He was silent for a few seconds. "I guess I was worried you'd push me away if I told you how I felt."

You sighed, and scratched your head. "I mean, your fears were warranted. But we've been dating for a while, and you still haven't said how you feel. It's odd, that's all."

"I guess... I might still me afraid you will flee at any given moment."

"Hey, I know I'm avoidant, but come on, give me some credit!" You complained, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm in this with you."

"I know. But you still have feelings for him, don't you?" Higuruma inquired, leaned against the wall on his side of the balcony. It caught you by surprise.

"... I do." You admitted, starting to worry where this conversation was heading. Is he going to hold this over my head? You thought about him wanting to ask for some time, or breaking up, and oh come on not now, just when I began to feel happy aga-

"It's okay" he said, noticing your entire body had become stiff, and your brows knit together in a pained frown. "What I mean to say is that you still have feelings for someone that you actively decided not to pursue, and hasn't told me why. I'm not asking you to, but from that I can deduct that you had some kind of fallout, and are still feeling hurt, or vulnerable."

He read you like an open book. Your softening gaze confirmed his suspicion.

"About that, Hiromi, I..." The words began to tangle themselves in your throat, forming a ball, hard to spit out.

"I don't mean to pressure you about that in any way. Talk to me if and when you're ready. No one can promise to have feelings for one single person their entire lives, that's not how feelings work," Higuruma said, "but we can promise each other something else."

You stayed silent, and waited for him to speak.

"We can promise to always tell each other the truth, even if it hurts."

You sighed, gazing at him, and nodded. "I promise that I'll always tell you the truth, even if it hurts."

He smiled at you. "I promise you the same."

"Now, about your feelings...", you began, "why don't you tell me how you feel about me?"

"I believe you already have plenty on your plate. I don't want to..." He said, looking at his feet. He didn't mean to occupy you with his feelings, was what transpired.

"I want you to." You told him, as he looked up at you. "You just promised me. Always the truth."

He chuckled, caught on the web he had made himself. "Okay, then."

Higuruma got up and stepped towards you, pulling you by your waist to press against him. Your bodies, already familiar with one another, still quivered with the closeness and warmth. You put your hands behind his neck, feeling your face prickle red, as he gazed at you, eyes soft and loving.

"I am wholeheartedly in love with you." The sorcerer pressed his forehead against yours, and kept looking at you. Your heart throbbed and whirled content, and you could've wept of joy at this very moment. "And how are you currently feeling about me?"

You stuttered for a moment. "I am sincerely falling in love with you."

He chuckled, and nuzzled his beautiful hooked nose against yours. "Always a step back."

"What can I say?" You responded, while giggling. "You know me."

"I do. That's why we're here." He replied, kissing you. It felt like the sweetest golden honey had touched your tongue after you survived swallowing coals and bitterness for so long.

Please, don't ever leave.

[illwynd]

Utgard-Loki's Tale

I finally got to perform this thing tonight, so I guess it has reached its final form.

This poem is inspired by the traditional Icelandic rhyming poem Lokrur. My adaptation uses a bastard Kalevala metre (trochaic tetrameter), with various features of both Finnish poetry (repetition and alliteration) and Icelandic poetry (alliteration and abundant use of kennings and other wordplay), and I developed it specifically for spoken performance, in accordance with the way the story would originally have been passed along. There's some really geeky shit in here.

Also my thanks to @obligate-rebel who gave me a thumbs-up on an earlier iteration of it :D

...

By men I am called Utgard-Loki

Outlands’ trickster, apt in magecraft,

Skilled in spells and in shape-shifting

One who worked his tricks on wanderers

One who wickedly deceived them

When to his threshold gods came calling

You see, all Thor and Loki knew about me was that I throw all the best parties—what else is there to do when you live way out in the Outlands?—but everyone in attendance has to be the best there is at whatever it is they do, so these two gods... they thought they’d crash my party, cause some trouble, start some fights, show me who’s boss in my own house, and I had to figure out a way to get them to head on home without actually starting a war, because, y'know, that would tend to put a crimp on the party scene. So do you want to know how I managed that trick?

Surely you have heard them tell it?

Heard the tale as they recite it

Heard about Thjalfi, swiftest,

Tricked in foot-race versus Hugi

Passed by one who treads so lightly

Or the contest of the mighty

Rymr, he who calls the thunder,

Put his lips upon the vessel

‘Pon the cup all full and frothy

Froth as white as salty sea-foam

And the thirsty draughts he drew then

Drained the horn—of but a mouthful!

So it seemed by liquid’s level

Sore was he, Midgard’s protector

Falling short in simple trial

Surely you have heard them tell it

Heard the tale as they recite it

Heard how Loki, sly and clever

Set his hunger versus Logi

Chowing down along the trencher

Met the two with crumbs between them

Drawing even, feasts devoured

Loki patting bulging belly

Smirking with his smile ‘broidered

Met they then—but skinny Logi

Ravenous as wolf in winter

He had eaten all the meat…

And all the bones… and all the trencher!

Thus was Laufey’s heir defeated!

And you must have heard them tell it

Heard the tale as they recount it

How the grim one’s son continued

Put him forth another challenge

Boasting of his strength of body

Strength indeed of all his sinews

I set before him then the mouser

Tomcat’s father, hearth’s wee tiger

Purring on the floor before him

That he should test his might upon it

Asa-Thor bent low to grasp it

Bent to wrap his grip around it

Struggling with grunts of effort

Grunting as he tried to lift it

But one paw he barely shifted!

One paw raised above the tiles!

Purring still the feline bore it

As Baldr’s brother failed to heft it!

Fury gripped lord of Bilskirnir

And in his anger bade another

Challenger be brought before him

Said I then I thought my mother

In her youth a wrestler had been

But in her dotage still might suit him

Wroth was he with red beard bristling

Stomping on the mat before him

As Elli hobbled to her corner

But soon she did contrive to hold him

Hold him fast with arms around him

Arms like bands of stubborn iron

Till his knee did bend beneath him

Shamed was Grimnir’s lauded kinsman

Beaten so by woman wizened!

Tell me those are not the stories

More or less as you have heard them

But one voice has not been cited

One has not been heard to tell it

That is me. And if you’ll heed

I’ll tell the legend as I lived it

And each contest I’ve recounted

—true it is that I deceived them

Wanderers of Aesir kindred

But look at it from my perspective

Behold for but the briefest moment

Consider how I first had found them

Sheltering in fingers’ caverns

Cowering within the leather

Where the last night I had left it—

I swear I did not mean to wound them

Or to frighten with my snoring

I was merely heedless taken

Heedless of their headstrong journey

Thus I met them in the morning

Waking to their faces frowning

Trying to be most disarming

Not to give them cause for worry

Then they asked ME where the pathway

To the hall of Utgard-Loki!

I saw it full, the very future

Of which I’d had no foretelling

For they queried after speaking

‘Mongst themselves of doom impending

Doom that they would deal that monster

Dwelling in those halls unknowing

Well!

I endeavored to dissuade them

Placing in their path obstructions

Surely less than cruel misfortunes

Set before them my conditions

If they’d travel with my guidance

They would travel by my schedule

I would call the halts and respites

I would carry all provisions

Thus I handed them frustration

Goaded them to resignation

Alas the doggedness of gods

Was not within my calculations

So, if they’d not be dissuaded

Then ‘twas I must scheme before them

How to meet their whim for action

Without inviting my destruction

Thus I pointed them to pathway

To the door of Utgard-Loki

Once apart I shed illusion

Readied all in preparation

Waited till they came a-hailing

Thunder roaring at my doorway

And ‘twas I that granted entry

Though they did not recognize me

As they came to show their mettle

Prove their might in any challenge

Fain was I to meet their boasting

With my own skill in devising

Thus I placed the end of vessel

From which Odin’s son drank freely

Down upon the dolphin’s doorstep

Thirst could never be so mighty!

Not to drain the fishes’ highway

In this way I meant to thwart him

Meant to tactfully confound him

Meant to make him long for Asgard

Not to linger ‘neath these timbers

Then, said I to ember’s elder,

Let me place on you deception

Garb yourself in Aesir aspect

Shape the hungry tongue within you

Solid where your spark did flicker

That Laufey’s son so sly and able

Might not swiftly recognize you

As he sits down at the table

Thus I spake to Munin’s brother

Of the planned dissimilation:

Wrap yourself in men’s attire

From the ash-wood make your raiment

Lace your boots of supple leather

Then set foot upon the pavement

There to meet Toothgnasher’s wounder

There to race against him striving

Round the path of mead’s lacuna

Thus alike I worked enchantments

On the great snake Midgardsormr

On that serpent world-encircling

One that Thor once snared while sailing

Scales reshaped to furry shoulders

Still he hissed alike I tell you

That one trait you might have noted

Naught else of his essence showing

And then came the last contender

Gracious guest of all the prudent,

Spoils of the years’ survivor

By her leave I did conceal her

Veiled her hair in moonlight’s metal

Bent her back like twisted tree-limb

So Harbard’s son would be no wiser

When she set her hold upon him

In the aftermath of trials

Egos soothed with ale aplenty

I revealed to them my secret

That they would not feel too cheated 

Nor would they feel too affronted

All I wished was their forbearance

Parting then as friendly rivals

So they would crave not for vengeance

For Jotuns have our share of talents

Our own place on World-Tree’s branches

Spells apart from gallows’ knowing

More are we than Aesir’s foemen

There my tale is near completed

But if my tongue’s allowed to waggle 

Somewhat more of gods and giants

And the bitter blood between us

Just a few words I will venture

Fury, I have surely felt it

Anger aching for requital

For accounts all to be settled

Quenched with blood the battle’s metal

But I’ve seen no better ending

Not for bards and not for swordsmen

Than to sit by fire flaming

Telling tales with close companions

Ale in hand and sated, cravings

And all the stars above bright-blazing.

[areyougonnabe]

could you explain marie nelson to me... i know that he's tragic and also a misogynist and that's kind of all

well you've got the basics but let's get into the details [cracks knuckles]

edward william nelson was the shore party's biologist, counterpart of lillie who stayed on the ship. like lillie he had been educated at cambridge, however unlike lillie who barely scraped a degree in the end, nelson dropped out lol. he went to work at the plymouth marine biological association, which is where he was when he was hired by wilson (presumably via cambridge connections) for the expedition.

he wasn't as rich as cherry or oates but he came from a landed gentry background, his maternal grandfather was a major landowner in the shetlands in scotland and was, if you believe this random page on the internet, descended directly from King James V of scotland... and his dad was a big deal microscope guy.

anyway by the time nelson was on the expedition his initial nickname was "The Immaculate One" because he was (at first) always wearing a clean collar, and then at some point he became almost universally known as "Marie," short for "Marie Ducas" or "du Car" which nobody ever bothers to explain.

sometimes he was also known as "Antonio" or "Brontë" (that last being a reference to Lord Nelson) and griff often called him "Marie du Car Bronte Antonio Nelson" or another combination of multiple names.

silas wrote in his diary that he "had a taste for gin and bridge" and lots of people remarked on how he wouldn't get out of bed in a timely fashion and was always late to breakfast.

he was kind of seen as dissolute in general or a bit of a slacker. kathleen scott remarked at one point that he "spends all his time on shore being a man about town, which makes him look exceedingly tired" but really i think that was just how his face naturally looked.....

his job at Cape Evans was overseeing his Biological Hole (that's what he's doing in the pic up top) and identifying new antarctic species, taking temperatures, and measuring currents. he had a telephone wire run out to the little igloo he built on the sea ice, and often had company in the form of griff or cherry or whoever wanted to help him keep the ice open and unfrozen at the hole.

he did plenty of science, but that kind of fades into the background in the diaries because most people if they're talking about him at all are mainly giving a running commentary on how much he liked to argue.

his main axe to grind was women's rights... griff seemed to take great joy in calling him a "miserable, cynical reactionary" and goading him into arguments which sometimes descended into pitched physical battle.

from griff's diary, may 30 1911:

Marie Deb & I had a frightful cag in our boudoir about Women’s Suffrage. He is engaged & declares if his wife wanted to exercise her vote (even if she gets one) he will lock her up!

november 3 1911:

We have great cags at meals now. Simpson Deb & I are progressives & Liberals. Nelson is a thorough Reactionary Conservative especially re women & vote & education. However as he said he wished he were a woman (with £500 a year income) we guessed he was abnormal!

nelson probably did the least sledging out of anyone during the first year, not going on a single long-haul trip (even simpson went out on a short spring journey). he mostly just hung out at his igloo i guess? and got really into calculating navigation for fun. also apparently he was the best at chess in the whole hut.

he stayed on for the second year, and did go out sledging on the Search Journey:

there is some great stuff about his midnight poetry and weird moon obsession during the second winter in @worstjourney's very good post here.

i'll also add that it was pretty harsh on everyone else to have Maximum Marie Exposure with no tempering force of griff to allay it.

nelson did contribute heavily to the much-reduced and mildly pathetic Volume IV of the South Polar Times, which featured griff's offcuts from the prior year, deb's illustrations, and poems from nelson including a parody of walt whitman about billiards:

This is the song of billiards:- The tight stretched cloth of green, the serried arches, The cue - faking the cue, the protests from the players, The pyramid, the British Pluck, the Chinese fluke, The click of striking balls, the rattle in the ditch, the grin of joy.

most of the expedition scientists went home on steamers from NZ, but both nelson and lillie stayed on the terra nova as she took the long way round cape horn, in order to do more trawls and marine science.

nelson also took a job as second mate—it was definitely unusual for a scientists with zero navy/sailing experience (except the voyage down) to suddenly become an officer of the watch, but pennell trusted him, and seemingly that trust was not misplaced, as pennell wrote in his diary about how well he took to the job, and to atkinson about how he was by "far & away the most brainy person in the ship."

he got married to the woman he had been engaged to, violet thomas, after returning from the expedition. their only child, a daughter, was born in 1915, but by then he was serving in the royal naval division at gallipoli and then france. his war story is straight up wild and i recommend reading from ice floes to battlefields by anne strathie if you want aaalll the deets. but basically he saw a lot of action, served alongside rupert brooke (among other notables) and came out the other side relatively unharmed... physically.........

after the war he went back to the plymouth marine lab, and was supposed to be working on expedition results, but didn't do much of that.

in 1921 he left his family in plymouth to take a job in scotland working in a lab for the fishing industry, and in 1923 his wife successfully sued for "restitution of conjugal rights" which basically means the court ordered him to return to her....

but that did not end the way she wanted 🙃

shit was sad... he was found with poison injected directly into his leg.

i think there must have been a specific legal reason why the death was declared an accident—maybe something to do with receipt of military pension for the widow? but it obviously was very much on purpose. for whatever reason the thought of having to live with his wife again was so intolerable to him that death was preferable.

so thus ends the Ballad Of Marie Nelson.... here is what deb had to say about him and lillie in 1927, writing to JJ Kinsey:

You heard of Marie Nelson's tragic end no doubt, but I'm inclined to think it was as well. Poor old Lillie is in less happy circumstances, the last I heard of him was that he was never likely to get out of Bedlam, a rather ghastly end up to poor old "Ooze's" brilliant promise.

but much like lillie, nelson's end can't be blamed on his experience in the antarctic as it seems he was relatively content there. occam's razor dictates that A) he clearly had Problems before and B) wartime trauma made those problems worse.

the tragic sequel to this tragic story is the fact that his daughter, barbara, was 93 when she went on a cruise to antarctica to visit Cape Evans and see her father's laboratory... but she died of a fall while on the ship during a storm before they had even gotten there :(

[ad-ciu]

Hello! I hope the following question makes sense and doesn't cause too much head-scratching:

Are the currently publicly-available translations of medieval Irish texts a decent enough approximation of the "cadence" and style of the originals? Such that if I were to write a story to the rhythm of those, it could reasonably be said to be "right"? Would I have written something "like" the TBC, or Tochmarc Emire or whatever--or would I just be writing in the cadence that a late 19th/early 20th century translator thought they ought to have?

(The context is that a friend of mine is writing essentially a mech anime in epic verse with heavy inspiration from middle English Arthurian literature, a project I enjoy hugely. I've occasionally harboured ambitions of doing something similar for the Ulster cycle but always get stuck on where on the scale of medieval to modern language-style to even begin)

& I guess the other part of that is, is it even possible to be "authentic" in English, when you're not writing in a version of the language of the Irish texts? (I'm aware of fun things like that "Tattooine Cycle" article, but that's presenting itself as a translated manuscript, so using the style of older translations makes sense there)

Oh, what a fascinating question!

It depends I suppose on what you take 'cadence' to mean. If you mean the actual rhythm of speaking these stories aloud, unfortunately all modern editions and translations of medieval Irish texts will broadly fail to capture this with any degree of accuracy due to a lack of punctuation in the original medieval texts. Punctuation is something we impose as editors to try to make the material clearer, but if our choices of where sentences start, stop, where commas go, what should and should not be a run on sentence, all of those are modern impositions on the texts.

However, this is also just sort of normal, because modern punctuation styles are commonly imposed on earlier texts in the editing / translating department. So, my gut instinct is that this isn't what you mean.

If, by cadence you mean something more like 'how these stories were read', not considering punctuation, unfortunately that's also entirely unknown. As it so happens, I was just yesterday considering how the character Cuscraid the Stammerer does not stammer in any of his dialogue in the texts, which makes me wonder if this was intended to be something someone reading these tales aloud would incorporate or not. Similarly, if certain lines are intended to be delivered or interpreted as sarcastic or not is not left to us.

However, this is also a problem with written English, where tone, inflection, other important elements of communication are not actually encoded in standard text which requires some slight innovations like emojis or the idea of '/s'.

So, I'm guessing you might mean something along the lines of the basic style of the text? Like, if you have over-extended descriptions, heavy use of epithets, long-sub tales, poetic interjections, and the basic vibes of the sentences? If that is the case, then the early translators were doing, broadly speaking, a rather reasonable job. There are some which are just absolute garbage (essentially any that are trying to translate poetry into poetry, something they lacked the knowledge of medieval Irish metrics to do properly, but those are -extremely rare-), but broadly speaking you'll be fine to draw inspiration from those.

The big warning I'll give you, however, is how stories are written is changing a lot in the medieval Irish period. For instance, if you read the 8th-10th century text Longes mac nUislenn and compare it to the 15th(?) century text Oidheadh Cloinne hUisneach, which is ultimately the same story but being told with different words, you'll see massive differences.

Broadly speaking, the earlier a text is the more clipped and short it will be. With the super-early material seeming almost more like a point-form summary of a tale. The later into the tradition a tale is, the longer, more exaggerated, and detailed tales become. Some of the late Early Modern Ulster Cycle tales for instance will have multiple pages discussing what clothes people are wearing. Similarly, the later a text becomes the more obsessed they seem to be with incorporating elements of earlier tales, but we should note that this may be an illusion. We do not know if our earliest texts are doing this because they could be borrowing heavily from lost materials.

So, what I would suggest is that you pick a specific time period you want to emulate, read a few texts from then to model your story off of (if you have issues, just drop me a message or whatever, let me know the period you want and I can give you texts, or you can give me a text you like and I can give you other contemporary ones).

The broader question of it you can be 'authentic' to these stories in English is... more complex. If I was being extremely academic and pedantic I would say 'absolutely not, every translation itself is a re-imagining of a text'. But, even if you were somehow able to write an entire story in Old Irish with perfect fluency, it still wouldn't be perfectly authentic because you aren't living in 8th century Ireland, so you'll be understanding things differently. And, that's fine. If I am not being extremely academic and pedantic, I'd say 'You can be as good as it matters, if you do a bit of legwork and consideration of things'.

EDIT: I should actually give examples of what I'm talking about. Here are three different versions of Tochmarc Emire, the Old Irish version (fragmentary), the Middle Irish version, and the Early Modern Irish version (called Foglaim Con Culainn, only interested in the later half of the tale).

If you read those, you'll see super clearly how storytelling is changing in these periods.

I hope that helps! And if you need any further assistance, please do not hesitate to toss a rock at me!

[daringdaisy]

Rocky Rickaby? Nah more like Rocky Ricky

I had to make a short story for Spanish class near the end of the year. I decided to partner up with a friend, and she asked me about that cat I liked. I'm confused so I ask if she means Rocky. She says yes and that we should write a story based off him(I ended up writing most of it). Please enjoy this obnoxiously silly story that follows a bootleg Rocky

Once upon a time, there was a cat named Rocky, a violin playing traveler. Everywhere Rocky went, he tried to enlighten people with his beautiful melodies, but no one took him seriously. He was born to be a violinist, but was forced to be a cat.

One night, while he was sadly playing his violin on a bridge, he began to cry, and it fell into the river. Suddenly, a bubble formed and began to float towards Rocky. Surprised, he started to back away, but the bubble was coming straight towards him. Suddenly, the bubble burst into a thousand pieces and formed a beautiful queen (a female cat). However, this she wasn't just any queen, she had crystal-like fairy wings and a white ballgown that looked like it was made of silk daisy petals. She had divine golden fur covered in black and brown spots. She looked to Rocky and said,

"I will grant you three wishes."

Rocky was surprised that he had never heard such an offer. The fairy continued:

“But no wishing for more wishes, you cannot wish for more lives and you cannot change your physical form.”

Rocky nodded and contemplated for a few seconds. Finally, Rocky meowed and made his first wish. The fairy nodded and raised his wand.

"If you wish to speak, then speak you will."

A beam of flashes shot Rocky and he fell onto the cold, metal bridge.

"OW!"

Rocky's paw covered his mouth. He just said his first word. Before he could thank the fairy, she was nowhere to be seen. He runs to the bar and sneaks in through the open window. He walks up the stairs to the empty stage.

When he comes out on stage there is a mix of gasps and cheers. The sounds of glass bottles crashing against tables before an awkward silence fills the room. Rocky picked up his violin and began to play one of his original tunes. However, before he got very far, the bartender came up on stage and grabbed him by the back of his neck.

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can't play here?” the bartender questioned. What he didn't expect was to hear an enthusiastic, booming voice.

"Well, sir, if you would allow me to give you my rhythmic tunes for everyone’s entertainment tonight, I would change that feeble mind of yours," Rocky announced with a toothy grin.

The next thing he knows, he is thrown out the window and scurried under a cardboard box.

"Well, I'm not too surprised, but my heart is still full of disappointment," Rocky mutters, "I guess I'll have to try my luck again tomorrow." And with that, he slowly falls asleep.

A couple of nights later, Rocky returned to the bridge. He is enthusiastically reciting some poetry under the full moon with his new gift to a sweet melody from his violin.

“Old River! That seems far too austere a name for something made of mirth and rage. O-roiling red blood river vei…” "It's good to see you again, Rocky!" The fairy suddenly clapped her hands with joy.

“AH-” Rocky jumped, he was barely able to keep his balance on the railing. He takes a second to catch his breath before shakily responds, "Pleasure is all mi…"

The fairy interrupts abruptly and asks, "Have you thought about your second wish?"

Rocky announced confidently, "I wish I had some clothes."

“Can I do whatever I want?” The fairy questions

He shrugs, "I'm not particularly picky about this, but at least make it classy."

A glitter ball hit him and he was wearing a blue suit, an orange suit, a daisy in his breast pocket, and dress shoes. Before he could thank the fairy, she was gone.

Rocky runs to the bar once more and sneaks through the window again. He makes sure the waiter is out of sight and secretly goes on stage. The bar goes silent as they hear Rocky start playing. They don't laugh at him or wonder why he's there, they just listen. Rocky, pleasantly surprised, puts his heart and soul into his first real performance.

The final note is played and Rocky looks out at the crowd with a confident smile, despite his nervousness. The bar roars with cheers and applause, a first for Rocky. Rocky bows, soaking up the attention he's been craving for so long.

After that performance, he was allowed to live in the bar on the condition that he played his majestic music every night. Rocky enjoyed it at first, but quickly realized that he wouldn't be able to share his music with everyone if he just played at the bar only.

He decides to go to the old bridge to think about his next course of action. While he was deep in thought, the fairy sat next to him: "So, what is your last wish?" Rocky turns to her with a smile: “My last wish is to enlighten the whole world with my music!”

[spade-riddles]

Spade… I think something is afoot with this Amazon book, but not in the way everyone else thinks.

When you go to the Amazon page for the “Tortured Poets” - Willow Bowery book (published on Feb 22nd, or the 53rd day of the year — 🎁 anon), there is this description:

The 🎁 anon used the same language of what “this is” and what “this is not” in the clues. So we know what this book is NOT… it’s not the manuscript. It’s not an album or a department. It’s shared musings between an author and their audience. Got it.

Here’s where it gets interesting. While on the page for the “Tortured Poet” book, there was a sponsored ad for another poetry book: “This is a sign.” by Anon. This popped up right below the other book, as an ad, not in the “you might also like” section (so not based on search algorithm, but is a paid ad by the anon author).

Remember on February 20th (2 ✌🏼days before this Willow Bowery book was published to Amazon) when TaylorNation posted the pic of old Taylor from her Funeral in Anti-Hero with the caption “if we won the lotto, we wouldn’t tell anyone. But there would be signs.”

And everyone was all like… wtf? Seemed totally out of the blue.

(🎁 anon mentions PUBLISH and says something about looking above/for the ones the came before it)

Here is the description for This Is a Sign - Anon (published to Amazon on Dec. 20, 2023).

Book overview

“For those of us who are looking for a sign that everything will be okay, this is it.

This is a sign. is a stream of consciousness in the form of poetry and prose collected from journals and phone notes written by anon in “the pond” of her twenties, typed on a 1980s Smith Corona Typewriter, and arranged into this collection. It explores themes of home, heartache, heartbreak, and healing.”

At the Tribeca Film Festival Q&A, Taylor reveals that Typewriter in the All Too Well Short Film was an Easter Egg — it was the instrument by which the protagonist, Her, would go on to write her book.

The specific typewriter in the ATW short film was a Smith-Corona, sold under the Sears Cutlass brand.

In the author description on Amazon, it says:

“seeking to soothe souls through poetry and prose”

and provides a link to this website: anonpoetryandprose.com

So naturally, I followed the link and it takes you to a very basic webpage with a notice of the book launch, a link back to the Amazon page, and a banner that scrolls “This is a sign. -This is a sign” continuously.

The sidebar menu has only 2 options: Contact (“send me a sign”) by email, and “Postcards from Poet” for $20 with the following description: Randomly chosen poems from This is a sign. handwritten by me on a locally-sourced vintage postcard and sent to you from wherever I am ✨

Sounds like this mysterious Anon is quite the jetsetter, traveling around the world and sending postcards.

If the Willow Bowery “Tortured Poet” book is a callback to this community, and specifically to the 🎃 anon riddles, then I surmise that, with the bizzaro TN “there will be signs” ig post and the ATW short film typewriter Easter egg… perhaps our mystery author is TS herself, and this book of poetry (I’m guessing written while she recorded at Long Pond at age 29), Is a message to “us” who need reassurances that everything will be okay.

Anyway, long story short I ordered the book. And I think I might get a postcard when she starts her tour again… and see where it’s sent from.

[joanofarcs-stigmata]

A church that doesn't provoke any crises, a gospel that doesn't unsettle, a word of God that doesn't get under anyone’s skin, a word of God that doesn't touch the real sin of the society in which it is being proclaimed — ​what gospel is that? - Saint Oscar Romero

If you are uncomfortable with me rbing a post of yours/me interacting/etc, PLEASE let me know!! I will happily delete the post and block, no questions asked or hard feelings. I'm not here to preach or evangelize, and certainly not shame anyone. God bless

Previously Read:

The New Big Book of Christian Mysticism: An Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality - Carl McColman

Both in-depth and easy for beginners to understand. Breaks down what a mystic is, focusing on silence and radical love, then how to incorporate these into your prayer life. Multiple forms of prayer are offered, but the main focus is on Godly silence and contemplative prayer. Very long, but not dense, an easy read. ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

The Divine Feminine: The Biblical Imagery of God as Female - Virginia Ramey Mollenkott

Extremely short. Very easy read, not dense at all, but very focused on personal interpretation instead of 'facts'. Still very interesting in for developing personal ideas about God. But SO bioessentalist, even for discussing historical femaleness. Better reads out there on the same topic. ⭐️⭐️1/2

Jesus through Medieval Eyes: Beholding Christ with the Artists, Mystics, and Theologians of the Middle Ages - Grace Hamman

The chapters on Jesus as a Judge, Lover, and Mother were fascinating; unfortunately, the rest fell flat. The writings were too casual, and the arguments largely vibes based. While it was clearly researched, at the end of the day it felt more centered for teens than adult readers even when the subject matter was clearly intended for older, mature audiences. ⭐️⭐️⭐️

Reading:

Diary of Saint Maria Faustina Kowalska: Divine Mercy in My Soul - Maria Faustyna Kowalska

—

This space is pro science, celebrates queerness, supports anti racist theology and BLM, does not tolerate antisemitism or islamophobia. Women are more than a submissive rib of Adam. Evangelizing promotes colonization and bigotry under the guise of saving souls. It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven

Hello! Name’s Joan-Anthony, though Emil and Sebastian is fine as well. Raised Episcopal/Catholic, left the church, now just trying to figure myself out. This is a place to explore my feelings I guess. He/Him or Rot/Rots please. I'm named for Joan of Arc and St. Anthony. I think weird things about God. I see Christ’s humanity as more important than his divinity. Hell isn’t real, original sin isn’t real, confession isn’t a requirement, we are called to be revolutionary in our love, not to convert or damn others. There will be no ‘no true scottsman’ here. Christianity hurts, Christianity kills, and if you were hurt by the church you have every right to be angry and move away from it. I myself have no love for the establishment of the church.

Here you can expect bits and pieces of my life that I'm scared to post elsewhere, liberation theology, Christian mysticism, iconography, poetry, and spiritual ramblings.

[tayloralisonswift]

i saw your post from like 15 minutes ago and i wanted to ask, are you comfortable with people online asking about your experiences with bipolar/mental health in general? usually i'm too afraid to ask about sensitive subjects, but i guess if i ask then it's totally your choice whether or not to answer

and if you're comfortable, what is your current experience like? what info would you tell someone who wants to be a better friend to you?

rooting for you and sending love always <3

hi love! this is a VERY long post, apologies in advance and thank you for asking.

you said it perfectly, because yes i am comfortable answering questions (part of my post last night was encouraging it), but also if i'm ever not comfortable with a question i can choose not to answer. if asked kindly/in good faith, i don't see anything wrong with a person asking. it means a lot that someone cares enough to ask!

disclaimer: this is my experience with my bipolar. other people will have other experiences, and you can ask them!

so i have this fun form of bipolar called "rapid cycling", and i am currently cycling faster than my psychiatrist is used to seeing (i got a good grade in bipolar, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.) rapid cycling involves undulating between states (you've got mania, depression, stasis/stability, and mixed states - which are what they sound like, a mixture of depressive and manic symptoms.) because i'm currently in the midst of med changes that won't take effect for at least another month, my mood disorder is pretty much on its own to fend for itself, and like i said, it's cycling quickly right now. usually, like in the past two years, i'll cycle like a month or two depressed, a week or two days stable, three to four weeks manic, repeat. right now it's like, three days of mania one week of depression three days of mania, repeat. this is very hard to manage because i have to try and take care of myself with very little preparation for dips or highs.

for me, depressive episodes look like physical exhaustion (i take multiple naps throughout the day and need to go back to bed within an hour or two of being awake), ruminating about self loathing, and i get this fog where like, it's hard to smile. and even if in my head i'm smiling it's hard to get it to happen on my face. (like the other night, my mom was doing silly dances to try to and make me smile and i just. couldn't do it for a solid 20 minutes.) when i'm very low, this happens on steroids and it's hard to move my body even as i'm yelling at it to in my head. i usually just lay on the floor most of those days.

my manic episodes look like spendingspendingspending. i won't give the amount, but when i told my new psychiatrist about the most i've ever spent in one week, she said, "that's mania if i've ever heard of it". (i got another good grade in having bipolar, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve!) mania also involves lots of fast movement. my body has to be moving at all times. even more so, my mouth has to be moving at all times. i talk very, very quickly, and very, very extensively. my family members have to warn me that i'm talking so fast they don't understand what i'm saying. but my thoughts are going at the speed of light so i gotta relay them that quickly. mania looks like lots of risky and self destructive behaviors - excessive drinking, smoking, risky sex - all of those can be mania. a manic episode is not just one 'bad' or impulsive decision, and it's not happy. i also decide i'm going to do a bunch of big huge things in a short amount of time - if i ever say "ok i'm FINALLY writing a poetry book and i'm doing it this week" honestly i'm manic.

a mixed episode is the most dangerous, and it's the one doctors are most concerned about, because you have the energy and motivation to do something and you have the depressive thoughts that tell you to do something bad. this is where ideation thrives. it's very scary to be in that.

and i want to emphasize that, for me at least, i can often figure out when i'm in one of these episodes. it takes work but most of us are self aware enough to recognize it. that doesn't make an episode less powerful, but we aren't infants who don't understand our disorder.

i think the most important thing you can do for a friend with bipolar is ask them about their experience and listen. everyone is different - this is just my experience, and really the only thing you'll find that sums up all of our experiences is the DSM5 (and even that can be lacking in nuance) - and everyone needs different things. right now, the depressive moments are much stronger than the other ones, and things like reassurance and reminders that people care really help me (like this ask!) when i'm manic, a loving "slow down" does help me.

i know this was super long but like i said last night, no one ever asks. so i really appreciate you asking and giving me the space to answer. <3 <3 <3 <3

[oliverreedmasterass]

Synopsis: The members of Greta Van Fleet agree to do an interview with the Human Napkin himself, Nardwuar, and find themselves ridiculously unprepared for his interview style.

Words: 2k

Warnings: language, some sexual innuendos (kinda?), mentions of stalking, the void™️

Notes: Shoutout to @skywaydrifter for the amazing fic idea, and sending me down a wild Nardwuar binge-fest

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Nardwuar theme plays with the animated intro video. The shot opens to show NARDWUAR standing in front of an impressive display of vinyl records, next to JOSH KISZKA. 

NARDWUAR: How are you?

Nardwuar shoves his microphone into Josh’s face. Josh flinches back a bit, but then leans into the microphone.

JOSH: Absolutely groovy. 

NARDWUAR: Tell me who you are. 

JOSH: That’s a bit of a loaded question. I’m a dreamer, a mere mortal, a man with a dream…

NARDWUAR: Your name. 

JOSH: Oh. Josh Kiszka. Frontman for the group, Greta Van Fleet. 

Josh curtsies to the camera.

NARDWUAR: Welcome to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. And right off the bat, I have a gift for ya.   

JOSH puts a hand over his heart and looks at the camera in shock.

JOSH: Now I feel bad, I didn’t bring you anything. 

NARDWUAR (continued): I’ve got this 1966 album, All About Miriam. 

JOSH: (taking the album and cradling it in his arms) Oh my goodness.

NARDWUAR: I heard that you’re a fan. 

JOSH: Miriam Makeba? Oh yeah, she’s one of my favorites. My parents had a few of her albums that they would play all the time when I was younger. She’s got such a rich voice, I can only dream of sounding like that. 

NARDWUAR: But you do have a pretty distinct voice that I’m sure a lot of people are jealous of. How did you find that sound? 

JOSH: I started screaming and then I guess I kind of found my way, eventually. (chuckles) No, but actually, my vocal coach, Ron, I call him “The Master” because he genuinely saved my vocal cords. I wouldn’t be where I am today without him. 

NARDWUAR: How do you do it? Is it special vocal warmups? Some kind of mystery technique? 

JOSH: Well, you see, if I told you, I’d have to kill you. 

NARDWUAR: I’ve got another gift for you here, Josh. 

JOSH: Oh god, now I feel super bad. 

NARDWUAR: Costumes are a big part of your stage presence. Here, I’ve got a piece that might look familiar to you. 

Nardwuar holds out Josh’s infamous golden pants, and Josh reluctantly takes them.

JOSH: Oh boy, I forgot how shiny and see through these were. 

NARDWUAR: You wore these in the sweltering sun on the iHeart Radio festival stage in Las Vegas, Nevada on Saturday, September 22, 2018, didn’t you? 

JOSH: I’m not sure if these are the exact pair…

NARDWUAR: They are. 

JOSH: Huh? Did you dig them out of the dumpster or something? 

NARDWUAR: Now, Josh, can you tell me about Sean Reyes?

Josh looks at Nardwuar with intense skepticism.

JAKE: (offscreen) What the fuck? 

JOSH: Now how do you know about Sean Reyes? 

NARDWUAR: It’s Josh Kiszka trivia!

Josh squints at Nardwuar, uncertain.

JOSH: Sean Reyes was my third grade teacher. 

NARDWUAR: And he was the one who encouraged you to write poetry, right? 

JOSH: Yes…..

NARDWUAR: Like haikus? 

JOSH: Mr. Reyes would play a lot of folk stuff for us, like John Denver, Joni Mitchell, all the classics, and he could tell I really dug it. He pulled me aside after class, showed me some of his favorite lyrics, and explained how it was a form of poetry. I took that to heart and spent a lot of time outside of class writing poems after that.

NARDWUAR: Were they any good? 

JOSH: Well, some lines ended up in our songs, so you tell me. 

NARDWUAR: Well, I heard your twin brother behind the camera just now. Let’s bring him out here. Come here, Jake! 

JAKE joins Josh’s side in front of the camera, looking nervous. He’s wringing his hands, avoiding eye contact with Nardwuar.

NARDWUAR: Hello, Jake. 

JAKE: (short) Hi. 

NARDWUAR: I have a gift for you. 

JAKE: Uh, okay. 

NARDWUAR: It’s a poster from H.O.R.D.E. Festival at Deer Creek Music Center in Noblesville, Indiana featuring big names like Blues Traveler, The Black Crowes, and Taj Mahal from 1995. Something important happened at this festival, right? 

Jake pales.

JAKE: Uh. Uh. 

Josh is staring pretty hard at Nardwuar.

JAKE: (to Josh) There’s no way he knows about that. How could he know about that? 

Nardwuar sneaks the microphone closer into Jake’s mouth. 

NARDWUAR: Well? 

JAKE: Okay, uh, they might kill me for admitting this on camera, but my parents are pretty sure that’s where Josh and I were conceived. 

NARDWUAR: Do you like Taj Mahal? 

Jake struggles to rebound from that 180. 

JAKE: Um (beat) yeah. I’d list him as a big influence. 

NARDWUAR: And another gift for Jake Kiszka! 

JAKE: (whispering to Josh) This guy freaks me out. 

NARDWUAR: Here you go! 

Nardwuar tosses Jake a ziploc bag containing something brown. Jake’s reflexes get the better of him and he grabs the bag out of the air, and then blankly studies what’s in his hands. 

JAKE: What the actual fuck. 

NARDWUAR: Tell me what you’re holding there! 

JAKE: Hair. It’s my hair. 

JOSH: What??

JAKE: I’m not even joking. This is what they chopped off, like, last year before our second leg of the Dreams in Gold Tour. 

JOSH: (growing defensive of his brother) Where did you get that from?

NARDWUAR: What was the reason for the big chop? 

JAKE: I could have sworn my hairdresser said she was going to donate that. 

NARDWUAR: Oh, she did. 

JAKE: I’m sorry, what? 

SAM bounds into the scene in front of the camera, looking energetic. 

SAM: This is fun! Do me now! 

NARDWUAR: Sam Kiszka! Alright, Jake. Thanks and doot doola doot doo…

JAKE: Huh? 

NARDWUAR: (finishing for Jake) Doo doo! (turns to Sam) I have a question for you. 

Sam is hopping from foot to foot and clapping his hands with glee while Jake confusedly wanders off camera.

SAM: Fire away! 

NARDWUAR: Your aunt works at State Farm in Chicago. 

DANNY: (offscreen) That’s not a question. 

JOSH: How could you possibly know that? 

NARDWUAR: Have you ever had to file a claim with her? 

SAM: Well, actually one time…

JOSH: Ssh! Don’t tell him anything. 

NARDWUAR: (entirely unbothered) I have a gift you might like, Sam! 

SAM: Oh my god! You guys aren’t gonna believe this. It’s my birth certificate! 

JOSH: What kind of interviewer are you?? 

NARDWUAR: I’m just a fan, guys, just a fan. I love your music! 

Sam’s phone rings. 

SAM: Whoops, sorry. I know this is unprofessional but, one sec. I gotta take this. 

Instead of going off camera to answer the phone in private like a normal person, Sam answers the phone and puts it on speaker. 

SAM (continued): Y’ello? 

KAREN: (obviously shaken) Sam? 

SAM: Hey Mom, what’s up? 

KAREN: Are you boys alright? 

Josh grabs the phone from Sam. 

JOSH: Mom? What’s going on? 

KAREN: Someone broke into our house while your dad and I were on our trip. We’re worried it might have been a stalker since they took a lot of your possessions and some important documents. 

JOSH: Oh my god, are you okay? 

KAREN: Fine, just a bit shaken up. But, I’m so sorry, they stole Sammy’s birth certificate. 

Sam calls into the phone over Josh’s shoulder.

SAM: Don’t worry about it, Mom! I just got it gifted back to me! 

Josh hands Sam his phone and rushes away. 

JOSH: (screaming offscreen) RICHARD! WE NEED BACKUP!

KAREN: I’m gonna have to call my sister to file a claim. They broke a crazy amount of our windows. Like, way more than they needed to. What a headache.

DANNY: (to Nardwuar) You have a lot of explaining to do. 

NARDWUAR: I’ve got a gift for you, Daniel! 

Nardwuar pulls out a pack of old Beatles cards. 

DANNY: I don’t want it. 

NARDWUAR: It’s a pack of 1964 Beatles collector’s cards, in mint condition! 

DANNY: Wait, I do want it. 

Danny takes the cards from Nardwuar and looks at them with delight. 

NARDWUAR: You’re a big fan of the Beatles, right? 

DANNY: Oh yeah, I always have been.

JAKE: You’re not seriously continuing this interview. 

DANNY: (while opening and flipping through the pack of cards) I mean, this is a pretty cool gift. 

JAKE: (evidently at his wit’s end) This guy 100% broke into my family’s house, and he for sure did the same to your parents. 

NARDWUAR: Would you say there was a specific Beatles album that most inspired you? 

DANNY: Definitely Rubber Soul. I loved hearing them try folk. 

Jake throws up his hands in exasperation. 

DANNY: Norwegian Wood genuinely changed my life. 

NARDWUAR: In what way? 

JAKE: Nope, we’re not doing this anymore. 

Jake thrusts his finger up into Nardwuar’s face. 

JAKE (continued): What else did you take from us, you son of a bitch? 

NARDWUAR: Does it count as “taking” if I give it back to you? 

JAKE: Yes! 

NARDWUAR: I’d beg to differ. 

DANNY: (looking through his cards) Woah! I’ve never seen this photo of Ringo Starr before! 

Josh comes rushing back to the scene with their bodyguard and pal, RICHARD. 

RICHARD: (scanning around on full alert) Where is he? 

JOSH: (shrill, pointing at Nardwuar) There! 

Nardwuar simply grins at Richard. 

NARDWUAR: Can you tell me about Grubbyknot? 

Richard is obviously thrown off, and he lets down his guard. 

RICHARD: Huh? Grubbyknot? That was my metal band in high school. But we only played like two shows. One was in my parent’s garage. 

JOSH: Don’t let him get into your head, Richard! You’re our big guns, we can’t lose you! 

SAM: Do you have another gift for me, Nardwuar? 

Nardwuar stares at Sam, entirely expressionless. 

NARDWUAR: No, I don’t. Doot doola doot doo…

SAM: Doo-doo? 

Upon Sam’s words, he vanishes into thin air. Jake is so terrified, he falls to the ground and cowers on the floor. 

JAKE: Jesus Christ! 

NARDWUAR: I usually like to speak with only 1-2 people at a time on camera. It’s getting a little bit too crowded for me right now. 

Nardwuar looks at Danny, whose attention is finally away from his cards, and is gawking at the empty space where Sam was just standing. 

NARDWUAR: (continued, making eye contact with Danny) Doot doola doot doo…

Danny stares back at Nardwuar in horror, his mouth sealed shut. Nardwuar sings the little tune again, holding his microphone up to Danny to finish it. 

JAKE: (cutting in) Doo doo! (beat) Fuck! 

Jake disappears. 

JOSH: (explaining to Richard and Danny) He has this condition where he can’t handle hearing an unfinished tune. Poor guy has a curse.

NARDWUAR: Just one more to go. 

Nardwuar focuses his attention back to Danny. 

DANNY: Where did you send them? 

NARDWUAR: To another place. 

DANNY: Super helpful, thanks. 

NARDWUAR: Don’t mention it. 

DANNY: Are they still alive? 

NARDWUAR: I can’t see why not. I’m a fan! I wouldn’t hurt you guys. 

Danny sighs. 

DANNY: Okay. Send me away so I can do some damage control. 

RICHARD: No! 

NARDWUAR: Doot doola doot doo…

DANNY: (unenthused, clapping his hands on the beat) Doo doo.

Danny is gone. 

RICHARD: My boss is gonna kill me. 

JOSH: I’m pretty sure I’m your boss. 

Richard widens his eyes and holds his hands up in a defensive position, backing slowly away from Josh. 

JOSH (continued): Oh, come on. I’m not gonna hurt you, Richard. 

RICHARD: You did dump an entire bag of flour over my head that one time. And kicked that giant chocolate bar in my hands. And swung a folding chair at me backstage. 

JOSH: All tiny, insignificant hiccups.

NARDWUAR: Josh, you’re gonna love this next thing that I’ve got for you. 

JOSH: Please, no. 

Nardwuar hands Josh a Scooby Doo plushie. 

NARDWUAR: Tell me what that is. 

Josh studies the stuffed animal, trying to discern how it has any relevance to him. 

JOSH: Scooby Doo? 

NARDUWAR: What was that second word?

JOSH: Doo?

NARDWUAR: Wait. Say it again? (under his breath) Doot doola doot doo…

JOSH: Doo? 

Nardwuar taps on his ear, signaling that he didn’t hear Josh. Josh huffs and rolls his eyes. 

JOSH (continued, enunciating maybe a little bit too much): Doo! 

Josh disappears. 

NARDWUAR: Well, this has been fun. Keep on rockin’ in the free world and doot doola doot doo…

It’s silent around him since there’s no one there to finish his jingle. Nardwuar continues to grin wider and wider until he’s nearing uncomfortably close to uncanny valley. 

The scene shifts to a confusing plane seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. A pattern reminiscent of Nardwuar’s red and green plaid Tammy cap stretches from the floor to the sky. Josh and Richard appear in the mysterious space, Josh screaming with terror. 

JAKE: Hey. 

DANNY: Nice of you to join us. 

It takes a while for Josh to collect himself but, when he does, he notices Jake and Danny standing in front of him. 

JOSH: Where’s Sammy? 

DANNY: He went to take a piss. 

RICHARD: Hey, wait, I didn’t say the doo doo thing. Why am I here? 

Josh shrugs. 

JOSH: We must be a package deal or something. 

RICHARD: That’s wildly unfair. 

SAM: (off in the distance) Woah, I had a lot more in my bladder than I thought. I wouldn’t come over here if I were you, guys. I can cross “building a manmade lake” off my bucket list.

JAKE: God, I need to get out of here. 

DANNY: And how are we gonna do that, Jake? 

Jake has no clue. He’s frankly dumbfounded. 

The scene jumps back to Nardwuar, still in front of the records. He seems unaware that the camera is still rolling. 

NARDWUAR: (to someone offscreen) Yeah, yeah. They should be gone for good. Yup. The plaid void, where I sent Dave Rowntree. We should be good to steal their identities now. God knows we’ve done enough research. 

Back in the plaid void. 

DANNY: Holy shit, is that Dave Rowntree?

RICHARD: The guy from Blur? 

DAVE ROWNTREE: CURSE YE FOUL BEAST, NARDWUAR! 

Fin.  

Note: The names/facts listed in the interview within this fic are all entirely fictitious. I'm not about to start leaking private and personal information about the guys.