#so you never interact with my transplanted soil

[norsesuggestions]

Your average swedish garden soil: so bad not even the most stubborn swedish 18th century farmer would attempt to grow crops there

So i was reading up on gardening outdoors in sweden, and found an amusing popular science article that explained that the absolute majority of swedish homes are built on the land that literal swedish 18th century farmers deemed impossible to grow crops on.

(This is no considence, sweden has very little land that can grow crops. Therefore it has been avoided at all cost to place houses on land that could grow crops. Even farmers would do this when they placed their homes.)

Anyway, the article therefore dryly points out that trying to grow some carrots in your average swedish villa garden, can therefore be almost impossible if one just plant them in the existing soil.

It had this little helpful diagram in how to transplant better soil, and then make that soil be able to support crops for many years to come

(This was a diagram over year one. The potatoes are there as a part of making the soil be able to next year support other crops. But one can also eat the potatoes, as the article writer points out haha)

Link to article

[michaelmilligan]

Here we go! For the Holiday Advent Calendar Event by the lovely @starrynightdeancas and @drgarth - here is my addition for the prompt(s) for December 1st:

Decorate the tree // Tree Topper // “Deck the halls”

As soon as midnight had hit, Adam had turned on a Christmas playlist – on his phone while wearing headphones, because 'we don't want our neighbours to hate us, babe'. Truthfully, Michael didn't care much about the neighbours, but Adam was fond of positive social interactions with other humans, even if they only involved greeting one another in the hallway. And Mrs. Jennings from apartment 3c had provided Adam with cookies just a few days before, so Michael would make sure to keep up good relations with her, at least.

They had already procured a fir the day before, having used Michael's archangelic powers to transplant it from a forest into a bed of soil he had created in their living room. After the holidays, the tree would be returned to its proper place. This, they had decided, was the most ecological way of celebrating Christmas – of course, for regular humans the task would have been immensely complicated, even neigh impossible. But for Michael, it had required but a fraction of his grace and a few calculations regarding the amount of soil needed and the size of the tree in proportion to their living room.

Currently, Adam and Michael were busy decorating the fir, so that it would become a proper Christmas tree as defined by local custom. This year, that involved bright red and gold baubles and a collection of straw figurines being hung from it, as well as a string of lights that Michael had unravelled. He had to admit, that had not been as easy as he had expected when Adam had asked for his help. The entanglement had been rather severe.

(keep reading under the cut)

Michael had observed Adam decorating a Christmas tree many times in their centuries in the cage, and had even assisted him several times. Though none of the trees had been real – all just illusions made by Michael like the rest of the surroundings they had spent most of their time in – the experiences had prepared Michael well for this day. One after the other, he hung the baubles on one side of the tree while Adam was responsible for the other side. After over a thousand years of knowing each other, they worked together efficiently and peacefully – something that Michael could otherwise only say about his sibling Raphael. Not that Michael had ever decorated a Christmas tree with them, nor with anyone else besides Adam.

In any case, Adam appeared to appreciate Michael's help hanging the ornaments, if the bright smile on his face was any indication. Never once did he berate Michael about a placement. Not that he had ever done this previously, even when Michael had been inexperienced at decorating. By now, Michael knew to choose each placement carefully, calculating the distance of each bauble to its peers. This was easy – the straw figurines, differing from each other in size and shape, were a little trickier, but Michael managed.

He was doing good. And as always, the shared activity with Adam was pleasing.

The last step of the decoration process was to choose and place the so-called tree topper. In the cage, Adam had always asked for a star atop the Christmas tree, though its exact shape and material had varied over the years. This time, however, Adam had bought both a star and an angel tree topper. He weighed them in his hands thoughtfully.

“Are you sure you would enjoy an angel atop the tree?” Michael asked, not for the first time since Adam had first spotted them in the store. “Most angels you met have not been kind to you.”

In response, Adam smiled in a mixture of amusement and fondness. “Yeah, but some have been pretty great.”

Michael considered this, thinking of their days spent 'renovating' Heaven. “You did get along rather well with Gabriel.”

“Babe,” Adam said with slight exasperation as he put the star-shaped tree topper back into its box, “you do know that I mean you, right?”

Michael had not known this. It was a surprising, but gratifying revelation. “Would the angel tree topper be a stand-in for me, then?” Michael contemplated. “It does not look like me.”

While the tree topper had wings, it was also human-shaped, a far cry from Michael's True Form. And neither did it resemble the visage he used to interact with Adam (and sometimes, other people), which was a reproduction of a human he had once observed in what had, back then, been called Persia.

“Yeah... They didn't have black-haired ones. Or ones with fifty billion eyes.” Adam held up the tree topper, a figure with long blond hair, a halo and a white flowing robe. “It looks like people generally imagine angels, I think.”

“Then their imagination is greatly lacking.”

“Yeah, well. Most people never meet an angel, so cut them some slack. But you're right, it doesn't look like you at all. Though it does look a little like me if I let my hair grow out and put on a nightgown.”

Michael regarded the figurine, then Adam. “No. Your hair is more of a golden colour than this yellow.”

“Golden hair, huh?” Adam grinned, then suddenly started singing: “Flower gleam and glow, let your powers shine-”

“Adam, that is not a Christmas song,” Michael berated him. “It is not seasonally appropriate.”

Adam laughed. “Yeah, and it doesn't make my hair glow either, huh. Maybe we should sing it every time you use your powers, then at least there'd be some glowing going on.”

“That would be highly inconvenient.”

“Maybe.” Adam smiled, then went up on his tiptoes to place the angel figurine on the Christmas tree. “There. Now it's complete.”

Michael regarded the fir. Indeed, it was now a traditional Christmas tree.

Adam looked at the tree in content, then wrapped his arms around Michael's torso, leaning in to kiss him. “Our first Christmas season on Earth has now officially begun. So, since we can't get drunk from it anyway, how about we start celebrating with some eggno-”

There was a shriek, and then a crash as a golden bauble and a black ball of fur simultaneously hit the ground. Under more shrieking, the kitten evacuated the crash site and started clawing its way up Michael's leg.

“Bastet!” Adam called, and for a moment Michael thought that he would punish the kitten for knocking a bauble off the tree. But instead, Adam just crouched down next to where the animal was clinging to Michael's pants, and said: “You okay, sweetie?”

“They appear to be unharmed,” Michael informed him after using his grace to check their health.

Bastet meowed pitifully as Adam plucked them off of Michael.

“How did you even get on the tree, kitty?” Adam asked, holding them to his chest. “Babe, can you put the bauble back? Or is it broken?”

Michael picked it up off the ground. It was slightly dented, but he corrected that quickly. “It is whole,” he informed Adam, before putting it back into its proper place on the tree.

“Did you wanna help decorate the tree? Or did you just see a shiny thing and wanted it?” Adam asked. It took Michael a moment to realize that he was talking to Bastet – he had the strange habit to address the cat as if it understood human speech. “Did it scare you when it fell off? Poor kitty.”

“Perhaps I should set up a barrier to protect the tree,” Michael mused, already considering the runes he would need to keep away Bastet, but not Adam or himself.

“Hey, if they wanna play with the tree, that is their Go- uh, their given right as a cat. Right, sweetie? Yeah, you got free will, just like the rest of us.” Adam petted the kitten and they snuggled up against his chest and hand.

Michael sighed. While he was all about free will these days, that included ensuring that some fates did not come to pass. Perhaps he could sneak in a protective rune or two while Adam wasn't looking.

If not, they might need to decorate the tree all over again.

On second thought... Maybe that wasn't so bad a fate, after all.

[arcticdementor]

One can divide antiracism into three waves. First Wave Antiracism battled slavery and segregation. Second Wave Antiracism, in the 1970s and 1980s, battled racist attitudes and taught America that being racist was a flaw. Third Wave Antiracism, becoming mainstream in the 2010s, teaches that racism is baked into the structure of society, so whites’ “complicity” in living within it constitutes racism itself, while for black people, grappling with the racism surrounding them is the totality of experience and must condition exquisite sensitivity toward them, including a suspension of standards of achievement and conduct.

…

I suspect that deep down, most know that none of this catechism makes any sense. Less obvious is that it was not even composed with logic in mind. The self-contradiction of these tenets is crucial, in revealing that Third Wave Antiracism is not a philosophy but a religion.

The revelation of racism is, itself and alone, the point, the intention, of this curriculum. As such, the fact that if you think a little, the tenets cancel one another out, is considered trivial. That they serve their true purpose of revealing people as bigots is paramount—sacrosanct, as it were. Third Wave Antiracism’s needlepoint homily par excellence is the following:

Battling power relations and their discriminatory effects must be the central focus of all human endeavor, be it intellectual, moral, civic or artistic. Those who resist this focus, or even evidence insufficient adherence to it, must be sharply condemned, deprived of influence, and ostracized.

Third Wave Antiracism is losing innocent people jobs. It is coloring, detouring and sometimes strangling academic inquiry. It forces us to render a great deal of our public discussion of urgent issues in doubletalk any 10-year-old can see through. It forces us to start teaching our actual 10-year-olds, in order to hold them off from spoiling the show in that way, to believe in sophistry in the name of enlightenment. On that, Third Wave Antiracism guru Ibram X. Kendi has written a book on how to raise antiracist children called Antiracist Baby. You couldn’t imagine it better: Are we in a Christopher Guest movie? This and so much else is a sign that Third Wave Antiracism forces us to pretend that performance art is politics. It forces us to spend endless amounts of time listening to nonsense presented as wisdom, and pretend to like it.

…

Many will see me as traitorous in writing this as a black person. They will not understand that I see myself as serving my race by writing it. One of the grimmest tragedies of how this perversion of sociopolitics makes us think (or, not think) is that it will bar more than a few black readers from understanding that I am calling for them to be treated with true dignity. However, they and everyone else should also realize: I know quite well that white readers will be more likely to hear out views like this when written by a black person, and consider it nothing less than my duty as a black person to write it.

A white version of this would be blithely dismissed as racist. I will be dismissed instead as self-hating by a certain crowd. But frankly, they won’t really mean it, and anyone who gets through my new book on this subject, which I am now publishing in serial, will see that whatever traits I harbor, hating myself or being ashamed of being black is not one of them. And we shall move on. As in, to realizing that what I am documenting matters, and matters deeply. Namely, that America’s sense of what it is to be intellectual, moral, or artistic; what it is to educate a child; what it is to foster justice; what is to express oneself properly; what it is to be a nation—all is being refounded upon a religion.

This is directly antithetical to the very foundations of the American experiment. Religion has no place in the classroom, in the halls of ivy, in our codes of ethics, or in deciding how we express ourselves, and almost all of us spontaneously understand that and see any misunderstanding of the premise as backward. Yet since about 2015, a peculiar contingent has been slowly headlocking us into making an exception, supposing that this new religion is so incontestably good, so gorgeously surpassing millennia of brilliant philosophers’ attempts to identify the ultimate morality, that we can only bow down in humble acquiescence.

But a new religion in the guise of world progress is not an advance; it is a detour. It is not altruism; it is self-help. It is not sunlight; it is fungus. It’s time it became ordinary to call it for what it is and stop cowering before it, letting it make people so much less than they—black and everything else—could be.

…

However, there is nothing correct about the essence of American thought and culture being transplanted into the soil of a religious faith. Some will go as far as to own up to it being a religion, and wonder why we can’t just accept it as our new national creed. The problem is that on matters of societal procedure and priorities, the adherents of this religion—true to the very nature of religion—cannot be reasoned with. They are, in this, medievals with lattes.

We need not wonder what the basic objections will be: Third Wave Antiracism isn’t really a religion; I am oversimplifying; I shouldn’t write this without being a theologian; it is a religion but it’s a good one; and so on. I will get all of that out of the way as we go on, and then offer some genuine solutions. But first, what this is not.

…

My interest is not “How do we get through to these people?” We cannot, at least not enough of them to matter. The question is “How can we can live graciously among them?” We seek change in the world, but for the duration will have to do so while encountering bearers of a gospel, itching to smoke out heretics, and ready on a moment’s notice to tar us as moral perverts.

One more thing: We need a crisper label for the problematic folk. I will not title them “Social Justice Warriors.” That, and other labels such as “the Woke Mob” are unsuitably dismissive. One of the key insights I hope to get across is that most of these people are not zealots. They are your neighbor, your friend, possibly even your offspring. They are friendly school principals, people who work quietly in publishing, lawyer pals. Heavy readers, good cooks, musicians. It’s just that sadly, what they become, solely on this narrow but impactful range of issues, is inquisitors.

I considered titling them The Inquisitors. But that, too, is mean. I’m not interested in mean; I want to get these people off the bottom of our shoes so we can actually move ahead. Whoops—that was mean. But I intended it as an accurate metaphor—this ideology impedes moving ahead.

The author and essayist Joseph Bottum has found the proper term, and I will adopt it here: We will term these people The Elect. They do think of themselves as bearers of a wisdom, granted them for any number of reasons—a gift for empathy, life experience, maybe even intelligence. But they see themselves as having been chosen, as it were, by one or some of these factors, as understanding something most do not.

“The Elect” is also good in implying a certain smugness, which is sadly accurate as a depiction. Of course, most of them will resist the charge. But its sitting in the air, in its irony, may also encourage them to resist the definition, which over time may condition at least some of them to temper the excesses of the philosophy, just as after the 1980s many started disidentifying from being “too PC.”

…

But there is a difference between being antiracist and being antiracist in a religious way. Following the religion means to pillory people for what, as recently as 10 years ago, would have been thought of as petty torts or even as nothing at all; to espouse policies that hurt black people as long as supporting them makes you seem aware that racism exists; to pretend that America never makes any real progress on racism; and to almost hope that it doesn’t because this would deprive you of a sense of purpose.

Elect ideology affects people in degrees. There are especially abusive Elect ideologues. Some are comfortable ripping into people in person; more restrict the nastiness to social media. Other Elect do not go in for being mean, but are still comfortable with the imperatives, have founded their sociopolitical perspectives firmly upon them, and are hard-pressed to feel comfortable interacting socially with people in disagreement. They allow the openly abusive Elect to operate freely, seeing their conduct as a perhaps necessary unpleasantness in the goal of general enlightenment.

I do not wish to imply that The Elect are all of the especially abusive type; the vast majority are not. The problem is the degree to which the perspective has come to influence so many less argumentative but equally devout people, whose increasing numbers and buzzwords have the effect of silencing those who see Elect philosophy as flawed but aren’t up for being mauled.

The Elect are, in all of their diversity, sucking all the air out of the room. It must stop.

[bloodfcst-a]

@enshijou​ asked: ' i fear that if i touched the earth, it would crumble to dust in my hands. for it is so sad and enticingly beautiful at the same time, as if it is tremors within a daydream. '

❝ But silly, you’re touching it already. Come here. ❞

It’s entertaining, having Ryoji come and visit her home. She’s never been to his, nor has she asked to. Many things about the boy are mysterious, and she figured for one to be as secretive as he is, it can be one of two things: he is naturally private, or he is guarded and suspicious of giving his trust. If she assumes the latter, then the answer is simple-- she will relinquish some of her own shields and allow him inside. It is obvious that he is so interested in forming attachments; and while many he does hold, most of them feel superficial. Perhaps this is why he keeps them at arm’s length, and it is she who holds the honor of having him visit tonight.

There is a chaperone, a housekeeper who details the record of this friendship to her father. Not that either of them would ever be so crude, inappropriate, improper. Ryoji is, of all things, polite and poised. There is nothing to suspect by watching him, than one’s self, for to see him so disciplined is to reflect on what you yourself lack. And maybe that’s why the housekeeper is always to the side, limits their interactions with him. Whereas Yufi is always so intrigued, wishes to get even closer as to further explore this phenomenon like a woman possessed for answers. Is this how scientists feel on the brink of discovery? Is this the excitement of archaeologists as they unearth artifacts? To see such truth and purity and innocence in every action, his hesitation being an unsolved fear, a mystery of which she has determined to unearth alongside its host in due time.

❝ You won’t break it, I promise. Blooming plants are strong. And sometimes, you have to transplant them, give them the proper space to grow. The pot they grew in is not the pot they’re meant to stay in forever. We can give them more. We can watch them sprout into the best forms they can be. Now, hold it... just like that. I’ll dig the hole, and you put it in. You’ve got it. Don’t be so afraid. I know you, Ryoji. Trust in me if you can’t trust in you. ❞

And Yufi scoops out the soil with hand-spade, makes it slightly bigger than the patch of soil and root and plant that Ryoji holds in his slender hands. He said if she asked, he would do anything-- and so she takes him up on that, if but to confront himself and his own insecurities. He is so strong, can’t he see that? He shines so brightly, brighter than the scarf that drapes his shoulders or the ring adorning his finger.

❝ Mhm, right there... and then pat the soil on it... ah, perfect! Look, Ryoji, keep your eyes open! You did it! ❞

[artdjgblog]

Innerview: ​Sonya Baughman​ / Review Magazine​

July 2008

Image: DJG's "Live & Let Die" Record by Paul McCartney & Wings

Note: Interview for a magazine feature.​

01) Where did you grow up and where do you live now? My young cloth diapers treaded a lot of dirt, dead animal and doggy acres in the North Central stick regions of Missouri, Mid-West, USA. Currently, adult plastic diapers drag and sag me in mid-town Kansas City, MO. The first six years had me bucking bales, falling off hay wagons, piercing my cheek on a hay bale stinger, assisting with the old cow stuck in the mud, designing elaborate tunnels and forts from tomato cages, watching “The Muppets” and “Star Wars” a lot, hearing scary stories of Leopard Man, posing for many pictures with dead and live animals, rocking out in cowboy boots to “Live & Let Die” on my Papa Smurf guitar, and crying at night to my raccoon wallpaper…among many other early formative brain tattoos. Act Two had many dry summers and the bank repossessing the farm and moving us to the home and acres where my Dad grew up. The new place had a blacktop in front of it and a gravel lane with a bridge/creek. The blacktop was a reservoir for leaving behind summertime shoe and bike impressions and for popping tar bubbles in the blistering heat. I also was of age to really explore and build many forts and treehouses in the ditches, barns and woods. Also, I started to go hunting and spend time in the fields with my Dad. We never had a shortage of animals and pets too. A lot of spare time was also spent in the sandbox or in the bedroom designing and building things based on what I saw and experienced. There was also a massive in-take of drawing and pop-culture from comics, books, music, television and movies. There wasn’t much of a cap on what my siblings and I could devour. Oh, and loads of sugary sweets and cereals. Go thr​ough the yearly motions and I end up at Southwest Missouri State University in Springfield, MO. There I got some very formal education and incredible interaction with students and design professors from the great making thing ways of Eastern Europe and Russia. I pretty much maxed out my art and design class card and was even making a ton of design work on the side for musicians. I then received a higher calling to drop out of school and make my guts out in Kansas City, MO which is where I’ve flopped around now for the past seven years. 02) Talk a little about your artistic background. Are you self-taught, did you go to college for art (if so, where)? My background is painted with loads of pop-culture from the 1980s and ’90s mixed in with the soil of farm life. I also designed and built many elaborate tree houses and forts up until the age of eighteen and spent most any spare minute in the sandbox or locked in my room drawing, reading, studying, video game playing, movie watching and just playing in general. I’ve never understood people’s ability to get bored or to not use the creation within them to ooze life out. I’ve enjoyed drawing comics, sports mascots and WWII battle scenes with my Dad at a young age that involved aircraft carriers, tanks and flags of those involved in conflict. My older brother would also draw a lot with me. He was better though. My younger sister and brother were pretty solid too. We have no idea where our creativity came from other than a great uncle, maybe? Also in my youth I would make giant collages out of magazine clippings and lots of mix tapes of Dr. Demento’s bizarre radio program and recorded and memorized many a variety of cartoon episodes and cool shows like Pee​-w​ee’s Playhouse. I’ve also been a constant collector all my life. Back in the day I was all about the whole spectrum of toys, comics, ball cards, cereal boxes and loads of other junk…even kept dead animal parts under my bed. In the fifth grade I won a county wide logo contest for a skating and bowling fun center and it was the first time I realized disappointment with design as my logo was butchered by those higher-up. In middle-school up until my junior year of high school I studied more comics, logos, sports architecture and wanted desperately to design new-vintage baseball stadiums until the realization of my poor math skills hit like a ton of collapsed buildings. I even won a Kansas City Royals baseball essay contest. Getting made fun of daily in high school stunk, but it really fueled my work ethic, dreams and caused me to lock up in my bedroom at night. Though, I still wish I would have worked harder in my youth. I still really enjoy working hard and being alone to this day. In the summer of 1996 I was selected to attend the first ever Missouri Fine Arts Academy and learned that I had more to offer with my insides and got a chance to interact with more likeminded minds. I came back to my senior year of high school with notebooks of typographic graffiti designs and a whole new language of what I thought was the art world. There was also a new art teacher at my school and he was serious and seriously cool and recognized that I had something to offer. I also came back to my senior year with more confidence in expressing myself and decided to dive into the world of graphic design for my post-high school studies. I had no idea what I was going to really do with it, but I knew I just wanted to use my gift of making stuff for the rest of my life. And graphic design somehow promised a bit more security in money than going the fine art route. Though, I’ve now managed to merge the two and to still not make any money. My high school scores had me at number 12 out of 24 in my class and I scraped the bottom of the test barrels to get me into college. Southwest Missouri State University in Springfield, MO said I could come and so I did. They were the only institution I applied for and I had liked it from my three week stay at Fine Arts Academy the previous year. College was great, but I could tell quickly that I wasn’t a top art pup like I was in my small school way back down the line. I was with the bigger dogs now. I struggled with drawing classes because I realized that I wasn’t as good as I had been told I was for the previous eighteen years. That was a set-back and I still wish to this day I would have worked harder at drawing. But, mostly I have trouble drawing in a cramped room with a ton of people breathing down my neck and at certain times of the day. The introduction and foundation art classes were more my calling and I could take the stuff home and work alone and all night. Most of my friends complained because they couldn’t wait until sophomore year when we would be on the computer for design. I didn’t really understand what I was getting into with graphic design. In fact, one day I exclaimed to my friends that I was taking the graphic design route that didn’t use computers and was entirely hands-on. They thought I was pretty insane for saying that and pretty much called me a fool. It’s kind of funny now though. I was so naïve at 18 and 19 to what the formal graphic design world was and I think I still am ten years later. Back when I was more bushy-tailed, I just wanted to make things and cut stuff out and not chain up to a computer…and I guess I’m still bushy-tailed, though I have a computer and use it mostly as a tool. When I finally did get placed in front of a computer, it was a struggle and I just couldn’t get into it and past the screen barrier. It almost stopped me from majoring in graphic design. But, we weren’t on the computer all the time as we were taught to conceptualize and to think and to be hands-on too. But, we needed to know the computer too. I just couldn’t get along with the computer for the longest time. Of course, the computer whiz kids just couldn’t wait for the next semester that involved a wordy world called typography. Which, naively enough I thought was about the art of map making. I liked maps, so I was excited too. But, I soon found out it was a whole new world that would poison the ABCs in me forever…good and bad. At least in type class we were still taught to think and do things by hand before messing with computer fonts. That first year or two of official design school was just terrible for me as I felt I wasn’t really “getting” it and didn’t think I would be happy as a graphic designer. I was just fulfilling project requirements and with zero heart or much care. It wasn’t until I haphazardly signed up to duel major in illustration that things started to make music inside of me. I began to really pour myself out and realize that I could approach things in a similar light as to when I was a child and be happy. Illustration saved me and I found my voice with it and my classmates and instructors started noticing. The energy there was great and everybody fed off of each other and helped each other see in new light(s). I also began to understand the valuable importance of the experience of my schooling as the instructors not only had a unique style of teaching, but they also had interesting backgrounds and culture from Eastern Europe and Russia. I could mildly relate to them as I was a transplant from the foreign farm world of North Missouri. After many design trips to studios I began to feel a very empty feeling with the profession I had chosen to represent my working life. It was not what I wanted to do with a “career”, or my time. I didn’t wish to work in a factory of fried monitor goo-lash. I wanted to just make stuff and at my own pace and pleasure. I was also very protective of my work and wanted parental rights and not for it to belong to another man’s name or dream. My love for music started to fuse with design and I began to start making many things on the side for musicians, which spread to other types of word-of-mouth work for me. An eye-popping lecture by modern rock poster designer Art Chantry sealed my personal deal for wanting to do my own thing. Shortly after that I decided I needed to change many gears in my life and secretly drop out of school following my final design class in the fall of 2001 and live with a band (and some) in a big old dilapidated orange house behind the original Lamar’s Donuts in Kansas City, MO. While some senior students had trouble looking for one real world client to work with for their final projects, I had close to 10 off the top of my head and whole bunch of future blank pages to fill. 03) During the time you have been making art have you always been drawn to this type of graphic expression? Did you “find” a style or did a style find you? I’d say a bit of both. I’ve never really gone for a set “style”. I’m sure that I’ve got one that has become recognizable to my thumb prints. Honestly, I never really think too hard about what I’m making or the why or how of the making until I have to answer questions like this. Then I start to over-think things. Also, whenever I’m told that I’m a good collagist or good at hand type or so-and-so rendering, then that is the only time I really make an effort to switch gears. I have boiled the majority of my output to be relational to the immediacy of my moods, thoughts, tickles, inclination and whatevers. Though, sometimes life can get in the way and I’ll have to slide down a small sliver of time and energy depletion, like I am with trying to get this writing out on time! But, I’m a big fan of cranking stuff out no matter what. Life is pretty darn short to sit on my hands. It seems that style can be a bit of a drag for some people and/or a hole. I’ve always been more in-tune to the folks who just follow what their gut, heart, hands and eyes speak instead of creating a set template. Some people never stray too far from that and only a few can truly get away with it. Edward Gorey is perhaps one of the few who could really make it work for me. I would certainly love to draw and think as well as he did, but I might be quite miserable doing the same thing over and over even if I was able to do it for a living. I think that a lot of people get confused and think they need to have a style and either invent one or pick other people’s noses instead of sniffing what they’ve been wearing all their life. Style to me is a lot like decorating or something. Though, at the same time that decoration might marriage perfectly to what somebody thinks they need. I don’t know though. Sometimes I think it’s funny when we as people think we need something to look or feel a certain way that’s already been communicated or visualized. I think that sometimes we are too caught up in what’s done before instead of thinking for ourselves. I’m guilty too. What’s really confusing to me, on a personal level, is when I get a request like, “We like all your work so make whatever you want!” and then the client ends up being really disappointed because it wasn’t in their “style” and then it’s awkward. Style is just an odd thing to me. But, most things are. I try to just trust my gutty heart and just make. 04) Do you see your work as communicating your identity or as helping to communicate the identity and message of others? … or both? I see it as me communicating what I’ve gathered from being on the Earth for 29 ½ years and spreading that manure the best I can. It’s a heaping helping to tell the story of others by telling my story. Most of my work fits into fine art and design, at least I’m always told that. I’m not really sure. Of late I’ve been pushing into more of the fine art bin. But, I’m not a big fan of labeling things and I would like to do many things with this thing I do. With design, one does have a role to play with helping somebody else tell their story, and at times, sell their story. There is also a responsibility to the venue the product is in or where it will eventually end up, whether a fine package on a shelf or a poster in the gutter. I feel it can be easy for a designer to lose perspective of the role playing. With leaving behind an identity…well, I like the idea of a paper trail, time-line and bruising thumb prints on this life. However, I don’t necessarily have the intent to say “Hey, look at me.” I am just another human, and one who happens to make things. If the work speaks or inspires (probably frightens and confuses on occasion), then that means a lot to me, especially in these fast-paced and flashy “everyone’s a designer-decorator” times with millions of images and advertisements everywhere. I think it’s great to recognize and at times celebrate gifts and achievement. But, I feel there needs to be a healthy balance. It can be a dangerous thing to play with at times. Some artists I feel become the work of art themselves and end up playing God with the gift and this saddens me as it usually ruins them in the long run. 05) Is there anything about your geographic location that has given you a unique perspective on design and the art you create? Certainly, growing up country might have my visions at a stranger advantage, and a howling merge to that with the city life now. You might see a lot of wonderfully strange things on the streets of the city due to the amount of activity by varieties of people and culture. But, only in small town Missouri do the deer pile up outside the meat locker and blood runs next door to the Baptist church as the high school band splash-marches through it. Growing up it was easy to take my lifestyle for granted. I enjoyed it immensely, but when I was 15 to 18 I wanted to get out a bit more. I was hungry to explore, and not just the many acres we lived on. I wanted the rest of the world. I became a little disgruntled with growing up country and I think that there is a certain stereotype placed upon people anywhere they are, but country folk get it pretty bad. I definitely ate from both sides of the fence, but also didn’t want to be hung up in it for a living. As I grow older I appreciate my roots a lot more and celebrate them and am very thankful. I enjoy going back home. And some day I’d like to move outside of the city to a small plot of land with a making things shack out back. But, my family home isn’t too far down the road for a getaway weekend visit to sit with the stars, coyote yips and fish. 06) What do you consider influences on your art? (this can be other artists, music, philosophy, nature – anything. this question is not just limited to “I’m a big fan of Banksy”) First thing, I believe in the compiling of all days in life to influence an artist’s output (horse apples or clean streets). Our walks tell a lot about who we are in the present prints. I feel that one would be lying to me if what they created was not in their full vision. But, I too think that we all wear and share influences as witnesses to what we’ve seen and where we’ve been. We all help shape each other. I’ve rattled off my early influences of popular culture. I think I’m more in-tune with my child’s self now than I was then as I sit alone and make things and pull from all my days. It’s also easy to feel that I was really moving and discovering more back then with naïve, childlike faith that I’m trying to get back now. I have some good days though and mostly when I’m not thinking too much. I’m still a fan of absorbing lots of things and from many angles. Of course I have my artistic influences. One of my big influences as a child was my Grandma Gibson. She is from the old school of the country and a very hands-on person with making many things like clothing, dead animal backpacks, blankets, pillows, fridge magnets and game board pieces. I still have a lot of the things from those years. I think a lot of my approach to making things came from her. My “professional” art world as a kid had an outside knowledge from trips to museums and PBS specials, though I felt a little detached from that world and still kind of do. My heroes were at the movies because they were more immediate to me, guys like Jim Henson, Stan Winston, Dr. Indiana Jones, Rambo and Han Solo. But, it was Henson’s world that opened me up to the first idea of an artist’s legacy, vision and spirit and glimpse of another world. Something big-time ached in my decade old gut the day I found out he passed away. Musically speaking I was very much a child of my Mom’s Beatles records, “oldies” music and a ton of television theme songs, novelty sing-alongs and old church songs. I still put a lot through my ears now and my biggest influences in music in my older years are Bruce Springsteen, Jeff Buckley, Elliott Smith and Bob Dylan. Also, I am still a big fan of tons of picture books and just anything really. I just know that I’ve never had bare space on the walls and shelves of my home and head. Oh, and wherever I am I’m usually distracted by the stuff on the ground. I’m a big collector of found notes, writings, scribbles, addresses, children’s drawings and good-bad-silly-stupid-smart designs. I like to collect ‘em all. I’ve also collected stamps since I was 10. I’m a big nerd. Here’s a listing of some names in the art and design canon who have made things that either attracted, influenced or moved me in some ways (in no particular order): Saul Steinberg, Seymour Chwast and Push Pin, Lester Beall, Edward Gorey, Ray Johnson, Art Chantry, Henryk Tomaszewski, Vaughn Olver and V23, Raymond Pettibon, Paul Klee, Stanley Donwood, Stefan Sagmeister, Cy Twombly, Saul Bass, Ivan Chermayeff, Ralph Steadman, Robert Rauschenberg, Jean Michel-Basquiat…most anybody who has something to say and develops a bad back carving out their paper trail. Movies are also a giant influence on my work and I study them almost daily. Some of the filmmakers who capture a certain craft of unique spirit that I enjoy include P.T. Anderson, Wes Anderson, Michel Gondry and the Coen Brothers. Folk Art is another big mind-blow and one of my favorite areas to study and get ticked by the of-the-moment heart, purity and passion. I love the idea of somebody just up and making something for the heck of it and not for art’s or ego’s sake. That’s the childlike thing I miss the most. The makers and shakers that move me the most from the folk art movement are Henry Darger, Bill Traylor and Robert E. Smith. And sometimes I get more out of the work on display in county and state fairs by everyday arts and crafters than so-called “professional” art and design work. 07) What is your perspective on the place of poster art here in the Midwest (or KC specifically) as it interacts with the rest of the art community and how the poster art coming out of this community may be perceived on a more national level? I’m curious about this because of the recognition Kansas City artists in general have been receiving lately on a national and international scale and how the art world tends to waffle between interest and disinterest in artists in this region. The music scene here is very interesting to me and a lot of times I think that it is just like 20 people all making it happen. Though, there is a lot of talent, diversity and genre-bending for a small town like this. There are a lot of groups making a mark here and down the highways, same with the people making stuff for them. Though, I get a little strange sometimes because I sometimes feel that the small scene mixed with the internet’s social networks and fewer record stores (oh, and most of my posters take up a whole bulletin board!) makes the poster almost secondary information and so-so decoration. In the same thought though, most of the stuff I see on the internet passes by me in a two-second window like that of highway advertising. Though, some do stick out to me because I’m always on the look to get tickled. And I don’t feel the art of the printed piece will die any time soon. Anyway, the scene just works here in Kansas City somehow and everybody takes care of and appreciates each other’s roles and contributions. I’ve had some great response to what I’m slapping up, but at the same time I think that a lot of people don’t get it. What’s not to get, it’s not too special? But, that’s fine with me. I’m not sure where I am in the scene. Maybe more-so in the “seen” department with my meager budgeted work hanging above a stool in the blurry-eyed late hours. I still think that toilets are one the best places for information gathering. Poster art in general in the last ten years alone has received a great breath of fresh air. Many of the makers are respected within a small collective, and have also been breaking through to represent on a national level of design aesthetic, as well as a well-rounded view of the printed timeline to life and culture. It’s also something that anybody can do and a lot of bands still just make their own stuff, which I’m cool and whatever with it. Everybody has their own style, agenda and empty pockets. But, the personal computer has saturated the landscape with a lot of “samey”. Then again, if it works, it works. In the end if it gets people interested and enthused, then what is there for a bum like me to complain about? And sometimes I really get a kick out of unskilled design stuff(s). I try to stay out of design politics for the most part. There is more to life than design dogma. Though, there is design all around us as we interact with it in every way from the tip-top of a tree to a paper scrap for this article. I enjoy the simple act of creation and inspiration that comes from something that seems like nothing, yet has always been a “something” growing and building and will continue to grow if the viewer lets it do so. You just have to add the proper mix of ingredients, I guess. And I guess my brain isn’t one to formerly function on the full realization to what it’s thinking. So, I’m babbling right now. I do know that something I’ve always enjoyed about the concert poster is the relatively short life span it has and how that can be used to the advantage. I just want to encourage people out there, designers/artists, non designers/artists or even church secretaries, to really push things and work harder. I don’t really care if everyone isn’t versed in design and art. In general I just encourage more to experiment with poster art, find your voice(s) and find new ways to spread the good word. Even if it’s not for a concert or an event, just make something and get it out there. Throw your junk off the overpasses if need be. 08) How has your work been received within the arts community here (and also in other geographic regions if you have been branching out)? For seven years now I’ve somehow managed to remain fairly anonymous and at the same time have sparkled a bit of attention…maybe just a glittering. Life and day job dwindle my hours to where it’s hard to even pay attention on my own stuff sometimes, so I don’t get out much here in the city. Though, I guess it is easier to keep up with things on the internet, papers and here-say. I think Kansas City is making her own dent right now with a wide variety of things going on in the arts landscape. The town is kind of booming and bustling right now. Being that we’re a small town, it’s easy for a small fish to get more wet feet. Though, I’ve never put my whole foot into anything. I just do my thing. Some days I’m not really sure what that thing is, but I do it despite my muck. When I first started on my design quest, like when anyone tackles something head-on, I was head-over-heels and not sleeping much. I was also living with bands and interacting more and actually going to shows several times a week. I don’t know how I did it without exhausting my ticker, but for some reason it all worked. I started to garner a little bit of buzz here that seemed to spread quick outside the state and international borders. Many people contact me from all over and slap my stuff alongside some of my design favorites in magazines and books. It’s a hoot. People are always interested in my story and creations. It’s all still really odd and blushing to me in some light that the little things I make are reaching a selective audience on a much grander scale. Anyway, I’ve certainly learned now that sleep is important and that it’s better for me to work smarter, not harder. Though, that’s not entirely the truth as I still work pretty darn hard and I believe in it greatly. Still, I’ve struggled with my own brand of discontent since I fell from a slide and blacked-out at the age of five. It’s something that I’m working and wrangling with. But, with any kind of actual work you’ve studied, worked hard with and duct taped up the switch with 24-7, you learn to just not think and rather DO and the moves become mechanical. I just have to put to use different types of oil to keep from rusting. It all becomes a fluid thing, or something constantly coming down on me in the grocery aisle, tree leave holes and side walk crack scribbles. It can be challenging when life stuff gets in the way, but I shouldn’t see it as getting in the way. I easily get confused, but then I realize that the things I experience and see and do (good-bad) all go into my design pot mixed with my past and then I just have to do the upchucking as I move forward and I tend to feel better. Recently I’ve definitely stepped back on my massive production of concert posters and I’m sure that many people reading this will think, “Geesh, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen this idiot’s work?” Not only has my life changed in some ways, but I also had to give myself permission to take a time out and to learn to say no to some things. A break was needed before burnout and bitter rotted my worms in the apple, among other things. I had a year of little activity and practiced sitting on my nest. I still made a bunch of stuff, but a lot just for me. I’ve also been involved in various group art shows around the country, design books and special art projects with friends spread about. Another thing I did, and still do, is just to see what other avenues I’d like to take my one man show. I’m learning to use the internet for the medium that it is too. Anyway, I’ve always got some stew samples back burning, but my biggest competition is myself…on top of time, energy and money. Mostly myself, as I’ve always been extremely hard on myself. Though, I’ve been told I make it look easy. I’ve never been good at math, so you go figure. I get exhausted from trying to figure this out. 09) Is artwork your main profession and, if not, are you intending to make it so? It’s really flattering and kind of sad when every spring I get more and more inquiries from freshly plucked and talented college students about a possible internship or job with DJG Design. In general, due to what most think to be a large and varied output of work, people who don’t know what I’m about think that there is a D, a J and a G making things. It always excites me to be contacted by enthused students and other design people (any walks of life, really) who saw something or connected to my work and got a spark. It makes me rosey, but it also keeps me a little down as I don’t make enough money to do this full-time. But, it all keeps me at my little basement bay working on my bad back and poor eye sight, keeps me (under)grounded in some ways. I’ve always worked full-time jobs and have been married now for three years. So, certain responsibilities come with walking hand-in-hand with another. For now I just spin the day job blues and try to stay content and disciplined, burning the fuel before and after work. But, age is setting in a bit and I’m getting antsy. I also grow tired easier. Good things do come out of day jobs, good design work does too. For the first four or five years I was a janitor and groundskeeper. So, loads of perks came from great finds, discards, dumpster dives and lots of free food and more time to read and study and draw. Heck, I even designed a few posters between clock punches. Currently my position has me staring at a computer doing data entry. The health care, artificial air and hours are great and I can walk out my back door and be there in seven minutes. But, it can be difficult to know that I’m sitting and squandering something back home. I do take it with me everywhere upstairs, and I do a bit of networking during the day time, but there is still that itch to make things full-time and not have a full plate of non-stop. It’s all hard to balance. But, making things is the only thing that I’m told that I’m somewhat good at. Well, other than eating junk food, watching movies, being confused and petting my four kitty cats. I am fast approaching thirty and the visual of time stacking is more evident than ever. Each space between second hand clicks is another scratch of tiny pine box to me. I am slowly checking off my list of “Before 30 Goals”, but I’m usually several cars back and sometimes it’s a pileup. Life takes a different course too. But, I have caught back a hold of a torch of some sort. I am constantly tacking up side boards to the wagon. After eight years of looking at Gigposters.com, I finally have ALL of my poster work up on there. It’s a great way to generate exposure and get my work out some more. I also have my new website up and an extensive volume of imagery on my Flickr.com account. It can be a bit odd to put one’s self out there in such a reservoir fashion, but I do like the idea of the timeline and personal file cabinet. And if my house burns down, it’s all digitized and makes it easier on my friends when they have to move me. So, day jobs…they are both blah and bling in my mind. My sling shots just point back at me on certain days. Sometimes they change direction with every sentence. At least I’m now under a thousand dollars on my student loans. I don’t make a thousand dollars in most years on design. 10) Tell me a story – have you had any strange poster requests? A project where you just about lost it? A poster that succeeded beyond expectations or failed in a way that took you totally by surprise? A project-situation-chaos that always sticks out when I’m asked a question like this happened to me back in June of 2002. It’s not a poster, but it’s pretty whacky and ended up being one of the best things that I think I’ll ever make. It was a special run of 250 homemade CD packages for the band Elevator Division. I’ve had many projects that demand more production time than my little brain imagines, but this one was the worst. Actually, the finished piece is a lot tamer than my initial idea. Though, the final image’s concept married to what the band was communicating on the disc inside is way better. The following true story I’ve released for a previous interview, I just tweaked a few glitches… The idea came at the night I started printing. Well, actually it was spray paint. I had an image made for a month or more and then changed it at the last stroke of inspiration. It married the themes for the album “Whatever Makes You Happy” perfectly. With reflections of war and relationships in the songs, I made an image of a hand shooting off its index finger like a missile. It was the idea of shooting off one’s options and making decisions. It was aggressive, inviting, serious and humorous all in one. It was not only fitting for the band/music but also to the national/world agenda and climate. I went to war that night with many cans of spray paint and the idiot mind to do two-hundred and fifty all in one massive sweep, and in my basement, which is something I will never do again because I could have died. I will probably also never be involved with another package like this again (take that back, I have been). Anyway, each one was hand-cut from cardboard and handmade stencil sprayed and rubber stamped. Inserts were cut, folded and glued. At the last mist of red spray a crack of thunder shook the massive turn-of-the-century home and I bolted from the basement and out the front door to a down poor fit for Noah himself. I was like a much less cool version of Dr. Frankenstein though. I leapt off the front porch and slid head first down the embankment and into the street turned river current. But, like a taxidermy nightmare, I was born again. The drug dealing squatters across the street were on their front step perch per usual summer evening, looking at the fire in my eyes and the red paint streaming from ears, nose and mouth. It was a high much higher than that of chemical substance. Well, maybe a three pack of design, life and paint fumes. 11) What is it about the poster as an art form that you feel is unique among other art forms? What purpose does it serve in your mind that can’t be served by another type of visual art? I’ve hinted at this in a previous question. I like the idea of the poster’s life-span being short, relative to the date and time…event, whatever. But, if it connects in the right way, and it can be different for everyone as art-design-whatever, is all relative to the viewer, I think that even a concert poster’s impact can last a long time. Since my first year in Kansas City I’ve had people find me out and say that they had a bedroom wall filled up ​with​ my work. It really moved me that something so simple (and sometimes stupid) that I squeezed out caused somebody else to be moved enough to hang it above their dreams at night. It means a lot to me when others get something out of something I’ve made. I know from child to adult, I myself have gotten something out of the stuff I’ve collected and tacked to my walls. It’s odd, yet a really nice feeling to know I’m somehow contributing to a landscape in some way. Making things is an act that I’ve always needed to do and has helped me get the best out of many days. I’ve always had difficulty with contributing in many forms of communication and on some days it’s terribl​y​ hard even just to be out and about. Making things has served as my calling with communication. It’s nice to know it can help others too in whatever way. -djg

[loyalflutist]

History Repeats Itself (Rem x Deuce, slight Machina x Ace)

Rating: Teen and Up Audience Archive Warning: N/A Words: 4,183 Summary:  After hundreds of years from the great war in Fodlan, a new era of peace has arrived. However, history repeats itself to an extent when it comes to relationships. Machina and Rem find themselves thrust into Garreg Mach Monastery as transferred students from Suzaku Peristylium in Orience, facing their teachers who they learn are from an all-too-familiar background.

A/N: Eh.... Forgot to upload this up here. Still working on my Edeleth stuff, so for now, enjoy another Rem x Deuce OS! Wanted to pull in the concepts from Fire Emblem: Three Houses and use it with this pairing. Might plan out a longer series with a genuine crossover of these two series.... but I digress. 

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Garreg Mach Monastery is known for its peculiar history. Hundreds of years have passed since the time of the Great War between the three nations in Fodlan. The Adrestian Empire, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance squared off in a vicious conflict that spans roughly five years. Legends of an Ashen Demon and an Adrestian emperor, their actions left marks upon the land. The results? A new era of peace.

However, history is known to repeat itself.

The existence of Crests still exists to this day with discriminations and olden lifestyles rule over the population. Those Who Slither in the Dark are still present, their experimentations and foul play disrupt the country. Civilian unrest rumbles society as political corruption began to unveil itself to the public.

It was never about the pen beating the sword. It was those who wield the sword that decides who would wield the pen.

“Rem? Are you okay?”

Rem Tokimiya blinked. She found Machina Kunagiri staring at her, his concern bubbling right above the surface. The two students were spotted inside the carriage. Having hailed from a respective part of Orience, the Dominion of Rubrum, their travel long and arduous since the early morning, it was no surprise that her childhood friend acts this way. No… Perhaps he asked not about their exhaustive state. She moistened her lip and glanced through the glassed window. Pine trees sprinkled with shades of darkness by the sunset’s orange rays crawled by as the horses continued their throttles. Not far from their destination, the famous monastery stood miles away, its huge structure both inviting and intimidating.

“…I’m okay.”

Dressed in the new school uniform provided by the monastery weeks ahead, the student unconsciously rubbed the back of her hand.

“I’m really okay.”

“Rem…”

Machina extended his hand but stopped halfway. He stiffened his lips. The young boy slowly retracted from Rem and felt an additional weight plop on his shoulders. Machina could not bear to look at his friend’s eyes. Then, under his breath, he whispered,

“I’m sorry.”

After all, he could do nothing but watch the horrors that befell upon her when they were young. The war between the Milites Empire and Dominion of Rubrum wasn’t enough. Those Who Slither in the Dark had strong ties with the Empire’s leaders. How the two managed to interact and align their ideals was a mystery. Not that it mattered to the male student. His jawlines were outlined, Machina gazing through the opposite window.

He witnessed the horrors of their parents dying by the soldiers’ hands. What he did not forget was the horror of watching his friend undergo experimentations to implant a Crest into her body. Cruel experimentation devised to test the hypothesis of a person not only not from nobility, but from another country altogether and their adaptation with the Crests was given the green light by the two communities. Those Who Slither in the Dark wish to rise their power in another country. The Milites Empire hopes to use this to their advantage for the current warring state.

Machina and Rem were two of the many unfortunate souls, and they were the sole survivors of the non-consensual surgeries.

Recounting those days always caused a shudder to run down his spine. He dryly swallowed, his elbow now rested on the carriage’s door, and pressed his chin against his palm. Occasionally, Machina would glance over at Rem. His friend still sat upright, the black magus drumming her fingertips along the uniformed skirt. A cough ripped through her tranquil state. Machina nearly bolted up from his seat as the female covered her mouth, a violent fit shaking her entire figure.

“R-Rem!”

She shook her head in the midst of her hacking. It went away after a few seconds, but not without consequences. Rem leaned back against her seat, breaths fast, the smeared blood present from the corner of her opened lips. Machina immediately took out his navy handkerchief and offered it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Stern tonality trickled in his words with hopes of some honesty from Rem. Rem simply nodded after wiping. He chewed his lip, retrieving the soiled cloth, his stares becoming dagger-like.

“Why are you still—”

He stopped himself. Then, his eyes softened and felt tears welt from them. Machina glanced away with a silent grimace. When he spoke no more, the female softly called out to him.

“Machina?”

No response. Rem didn’t push him to speak. A moment of observation told her plenty about his reactions. She stifled a long exhale and reverted her gaze elsewhere.

‘ He’s beating himself up again… ‘

And there was nothing she could do to stop him. (The last time she did, he unintentionally hurt her in the process.) Machina had crawled back to their past once again. Back to the time when they were held prisoners by the two organizations. Outcries and screams echoed in the back of his skull. The knives that plunged into his friend’s arms without anesthetics, the blood transplants, the forceful insertion of a Crest into her chest cavity… Rem was always the one to save him, and she always did. Even now she’s hiding the side effects from the surgeries to alleviate his guilty conscious. The handkerchief trembled in time within his whitened grip. The rest of their rides were basked in utter silence.

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Two hours ticked by and nightfall switched with daylight. Stars shone in the clear sky, the flames from lamps flickered in-sync, and the lack of students notified their abnormal arrival. Despite the lonesome arrival, they were greeted by a Gatekeeper. The young man saluted to the two students, his eyes brimming with excitement.

“Greetings, Rem and Machina! I hope your trip from Orience went well.”

“It was,” Rem clasped both of her hands, her smile shining to the security guard. “It was worth the trip.”

“Excellent. I was afraid the both of you would never come since it has gotten late.”

“Don’t be silly,” Machina motioned. “No matter the time of the day, we’ll come here.”

“Aren’t you both in good spirit,” the older male chuckled. “Now that you’re both here, I’m happy to inform that your assignment to a house has been finalized too by Lady Flayn.”

Machina crossed his arms and faintly hummed.

Garreg Mach Monastery’s Officers Academy was known well for providing resources and a community for students from all three nations in Fodlan. As the two were foreigners, they would be placed by random chance into the three houses. Their alliance would lie in whatever nation they belonged to. Even though Fodlan was known well for its unification, the three countries were still divided based on their ideologies and people. It was literally the same situation as Orience minus the current conflict it undergoes. The only difference is the lack of a unified academy from Orience, the academies all under a nation’s flag.

The Gatekeeper looked at Machina.

“Machina, you have been assigned to the Blue Lions House.”

“Huh… I guess we’re both—”

“Rem, you have been assigned to the Black Eagles House.”

“Wait, what!?”

The male student felt his posture falter. Ever since they were young, they were inseparable. After the incidence with their past traumas, Machina and Rem stuck closer to each other, always as a pair… Though this was more so from the male’s dependency. He straightened his back and coughed audibly into his fist.

“You’re telling me that we’ll be separated?”

“I… I suppose so.”

“But why?!”

“Please, don’t ask me!” the older male wildly pushed his hands outward, beads of sweat flying out of his head. “This is all under the discretion of Lady Flayn!”

“I demand that one of us transfer to the other house!”

“You can try talking to her, but… I don’t think she’ll change her mind.”

“I’ll try!” Machina glanced over at the flabbergasted Rem… though flabbergasted for reasons other than class placement. He huffed. “I will speak to the archbishop. I will be back soon!”

And off he goes… with a cloud of smoke too behind his heels! It was almost comical had it not been for the circumstance that prompted his dash. Both the adult and student stared in awe after Machina. They exchanged looks. Then, a forced grin bore on their faces. Words would never be able to describe their feelings about this.

“I suggest you visit your classroom,” the Gatekeeper said. “Knowing that Lady Flayn wouldn’t make any immediate plans, you might as well familiarize yourself. I also believe the professor is still in the classroom.”

Rem tilted her head. “At this time?”

He nodded.

“Yes… her name is Deuce. She’s a new professor here at the monastery.”

“She is?”

“Indeed. It’s her first time teaching, but I’ve heard many good things from the other professors,” the Gatekeeper cupped his chin. “If I recall… she’s from Orience too like the other professor.”

An imaginary exclamation point popped over Rem’s head.

‘ Someone from Rubrum?! ‘

Learning of this new fact urged the student to visit the lecture hall; a quick thanks and farewell were given before leaving. Of course, a bit of time passed as Rem found herself losing track of her place in the large academy. Vague directions on top of the dark environment hardly posed clarity. (There was an incident with crashing into a wall, but that hardly warrants an explanation.) The student, fortunately, found the premise… with a little help from a white hooting companion.

Rem popped her head into the empty classroom. Well— Somewhat empty. There was a petite brunette standing in front of the lecture hall. The young girl, dressed in a familiar dark uniform from Suzaku Peristylium and vermillion cape, drew a couple of arrows and notes on the blackboard. Light taps and scratches emitted from the chalky utensil with occasional pauses. She didn’t seem to notice the brown-haired newcomer.

‘ She’s wearing the peristylium uniform… ‘ Rem mentally shook her head. ‘ She can’t be the professor he spoke about. She's too young. ‘

Perhaps there were a couple of students that came from Rubrum this academic term. It was worth noting that some students from all four nations had transferred out of the country for various reasons. Most of them were for a political movement. Some were due to familial circumstances. Others were a little more on the enigmatic side. In Rem’s and Machina’s case, they were transferred for a multitude of reasons. Could this be the same for this young girl?

“Hello?” The brunette’s hand froze and glanced over her shoulder. Seeing as how she didn’t move from her position, Rem decided to approach the girl. “I’m looking for the professor. Do you know where she is?”

“That’s me.”

The speaker's tone was so soft, she could have mistaken it for a whisper. Rem blinked.

“I… I didn’t quite catch what you just said.”

“I’m the professor.”

“…”

When greeted with silence, the brunette sighed. She placed the chalk onto the nearby desk and properly looked at the student.

“My name is Deuce. I’m the professor for the Black Eagles House,” the professor finally cracked a smile. “I’ve been expecting you. Though I must say, I’m a little surprised to know there are more students arriving from Rubrum. It might be a small world after all.”

“You’re so young to be a teacher.”

Rem, after much silence, blurted with unintentional disregard for the instructor’s comments. There was a pregnant pause. Eventually, Deuce lightly scratched her flushed cheeks in response, her eyes briefly shifted elsewhere.

“People say that all the time to me.”

“You must be very smart.”

“I don’t think so,” the youngster now giggled and frantically waved her hand. “The archbishop must have seen my talent in music and pitied me… or maybe it’s because I’m not from Fodlan…”

“Um, you studied in Suzaku Peristylium, right?”

“Yes, until last year when I transferred here with some of my classmates.”

Rem clasped her hands behind her back, leaning forward. Due to their proximity, Deuce found herself unconsciously examining the girl’s face. Those long eyelashes, those pair of curious eyes that twinkled with optimism, those soft lips— Heat burst into Deuce’s head. It took a great effort to resist the temptation to hide. The teacher placed a hand over her chest, her heart rapidly thumping. Just what is this feeling that tugs at her heartstrings?

‘ Mother never told me about this. Am I sick? ‘

Unlike the brunette, Rem was not oblivious to the source of her reaction. She giggled. How innocent of her teacher. It would be best she holds back the teasing and gets back to their original topic.

“What class were you from?”

It appears that it had snapped Deuce back to reality. The pink tinges lightened as the ex-cadet lowered her hand.

“Class Zero.”

“Class Zero…?! It’s no wonder why you were chosen to be a teacher!”

“Is it? I didn’t know it was that important.”

Rem immediately grabbed ahold of the girl’s arms and gently shook her.

“How could you not know? Class Zero was always known as a legend… No one has ever spoken about being from that class!”

“That’s not what Mother said…”

“Mother?”

“It’s a long story. I might have to tell you about sometime tomorrow.”

Their exchanges were brief as nightfall hardly allowed much time to spare. However, the two girls instantly clicked. Could it be from their shared homeland? Or could it be due to their age? Whatever it was, what Rem could attest to is the comfort she finds in her new professor… even if she is a little younger than expected.

Deuce was left in the classroom to complete her preparation for tomorrow’s lesson. Although Machina came running towards her with tears flowing down his cheeks about the inability to transfer later on that night, Rem secretly thanked Flayn for keeping them in their respective houses. It never hurts to have a breather from her overprotective friend. Besides, after getting to meet Deuce, she wouldn’t want to transfer to another house.

-----

The next day came quicker than ever for Machina and Rem after settling in. It was a whole new setting to experience. Students had flourished the monastery’s grounds. Some of the guards and warriors that patrol the premise seem to be from the same class as Deuce.

“It’s nice to find some folks like us!” Nine playfully slugged Machina’s shoulder. “Ya know, we gotta stick together, yo!”

“Nine, could you please leave the students alone?” Queen adjusted her glasses with a stack of files at hand. “We have to deliver these to Seteth.”

“Oi, why do I have to go with you anyway?”

“I hope you understand we have to report our results to Lady Flayn.”

“Ugh… of course… Well, hope ya’ll have fun with your new class.”

Though they arrived a month into the school year, the students were approachable and welcoming to the newcomers.

It turns out… Deuce might be one of the best professors out there. Young as she may be, her intelligence, coupled with the battle knowledge gained from her time in Orience and Fodlan, made her a valuable faculty. Many students, though older than her, generally find her loving and humble to an extent.

“I thought she would be clueless,” one of the students whispered over to Rem’s direction. “Turns out, she’s not all bark. Kinda scary.”

Scary? Rem didn’t think so. Throughout the days that came to pass, she had not seen the young girl raise her voice at her students. Exceptions were made when they were out on the practical field trips, but they were from protecting her students rather than to belittle them. Still… despite her gentle demeanor, the status of being one of the youngest professors teaching at Garreg Mach Monastery shook the students to their core. Deuce was an abnormality alongside her classmates from Class Zero.

As for Machina… turns out, he’s got a young teacher too by the name of Ace. His professor has a similar background as Deuce, albeit slightly different from the way he handled his classroom. He wasn’t as soft nor much of an introvert as his comrade. Ace was known to be calm and collected, but his emotions ran deeper than his reasoning. This caused Machina and Ace to butt heads at times despite their associations. Still, Machina has a newfound respect for the blonde. Ace was never one to mislead his new student in the right direction.

Days soon turned to weeks, and weeks soon turned to months… Varying seasons flew by at a steady pace. Rem and Machina were able to make new friends. They’ve become acquainted with members from Class Zero. They were able to get closer to their professors. Teatime was exchanged, their past traumas unraveled to the prestigious instructors. Rem could never forget the response she got Deuce after explaining her reason for being in the Officers Academy.

“I was hoping to find a way to live with the Crest inside of my body. I don’t know how much longer I have left to live, but I came here to find out how. It would be better to find a way to stop my coughing fit too.”

“Rem…” the brunette grabbed ahold of her hands, squeezed them, her voice having dipped into a broken whisper. “I promise, I will find a way. I promise from the bottom of my heart.”

The same could be said for Machina and Ace. Ace was surprised to hear that the young male struggled to cope with his PTSD. Someone like Ace and Deuce, who were vigorously trained as child soldiers for Arecia Al-Rashia, never understood the disorder. This was a first for the card wielder.

“I couldn’t protect her!” Machina hollered and weakly shoved Ace. “They should’ve chosen me first! Why!? Why did they choose her!? Why did they spare me!? WHY!?”

“Machina…”

It would be a lie to say Ace didn’t tear up. He had to embrace Machina with hopes of keeping the student from having an irreversible meltdown.

Both teachers were there for their students, especially for Rem and Machina. It felt as though they had strengthened their bonds. The connection they had for one another was as deep as it could get.

For Machina, his bonds grew even stronger with Ace after spending time caring for a baby chocobo with his teacher, their lifestyles slowly formatted to that of parental care for the creature.

“Us? Like parents? You could say that,” Ace said without much thought. “I think Machina would fit the mom role well.”

“Aceeeee—! What are you trying to imply here!?”

Rem finds it amusing to see her childhood friend, who was always so clingy to her, let loose… especially at the cost of his embarrassed features. His red face was a comedic sight to see. Yet from a mile away, one could tell that Machina didn’t mind the implications. Machina did confess during their time at the monastery about his romantic interest towards his young instructor.

What about Rem and Deuce? It was also clear as day that Rem was crushing hard on Deuce… Very hard, in fact. Machina felt bad watching his childhood friend struggle with an oblivious professor like Deuce. Whenever they were out on a date, Deuce had always seen it as if they were friends. Regardless, their relationship became clearer in the following month. It was a bit more dramatic than what the two males had.

“Rem, look out!”

“!”

A flash of white beam was shot at the cadet’s direction. Rem, her bloodied daggers having been pulled out of a bandit’s body, found herself as its target. At least, until Deuce slammed against Rem with her shoulder. The rough shove caused the injured student down onto the ground. An “oof” slipped out of her cracked lips as she slammed face-first onto the wet greenery.

“ARGH!”

Rem snapped her head up, the bruises beginning to form from her cheek, her eyes widen at the unfolding scenario. Deuce’s silver flute had been tossed to the side. The teacher curled into a fetal position, her hands impressing themselves onto her chest. One of the faculty, Queen, rushed to her aid.

“She’s been burnt!”

The self-proclaimed secretary cast Heal as another student tried to flop their professor onto her back. Deuce’s facial features were twisted, the pain all-too prominent. Hearing her whimper surged forth newfound energy into the sickly student. Rem got up onto her two feet. The red daggers were readjusted, the female immediately kicked forward to the assaulter.

It was all a blur. Rem’s vision was completely red. She was not one to fall under the spell of vengeance nor unnecessary violence, but something had snapped in her the moment her professor succumbed to the attack. A battle cry erupted from her throat, the daggers slashing at the enemy in a flurry. What should’ve been a simple mission from Lady Flayn to defend a village from bandits turned into a bloody mess.

Crimson stained her school’s uniform, the magma-red blood splattered onto her exposed skin. The tips of her blade sunk into the tough bandit’s armors. No steel could prevent the magically infused weapon from piercing into its thick layer. Rem tore the weapon away as she lost breath. Then, she fell to her knees, her vision beginning to narrow.

‘ No, no! Not right now! ‘

Rem stabbed her daggers into the soft earth. She lowered her head, her eyes squinted, and blood beginning to drip from her chin. A coughing fit shook her entire achy figure. The Crest was taking a toll on her frail body. It provided her strength on the battlefield, making her a one-man army, but at what cost?

‘ Deuce… Deuce! ‘

The young student struggled back to her feet. She slowly dragged herself towards the fallen bard. Deuce, who acted as support for their battles, was unconscious. Queen shot a glance at the wounded student.

“Deuce is fine if you’re wondering,” she mumbled. “The laser didn’t break through her muscles. Some luck she has…”

Seven from nearby immediately caught the wobbly student. Arm over her shoulders, the tall soldier directed another Class Zero member, Trey, to cast a healing spell onto Rem. Though Rem managed to keep herself awake throughout the rest of the day, Deuce wasn’t that fortunate. The student had mostly healed from her bruises and lacerations in the aftermath. The same could be said for her teacher. However, the professor was in a coma for a week.

“Oh, Deuce…”

Completely dropping the formalities, Rem sat by her side on the seventh day, her hands clasped together into prayer. She watched the same scene happen over and over. Chest rising and falling at even intervals. Occasional twitches from her fingers and brows. The silence that hung in the air between the two girls. Rem lowered her head and wept tearlessly.

“When will you wake up?”

If anything…

“How could I tell you how much I love you?”

As expected, there was no reply.

Time ticked by until the sun began to set. Machina and Ace came by, their visits brief and acting as a reminder to return to the dormitory. Rem had gotten up from her seat. However, compared to the previous times where she would say her farewells and leave the premise, she found herself hovering over the brunette’s face.

“…”

It was the heat of the moment. Rem didn’t think twice about her actions, letting her instincts run freely. She closed her eyes and planted a kiss on her professor’s lips. Those luscious, soft lips were as delicate at Deuce was. Guilt settled into Rem’s stomach once she retracted. Heat overwhelmed her head as she bit the bottom of her lip. Kissing her professor was already overstepping her boundary… How could she do that?! She didn’t even properly proclaim her love to Deuce!

Right when she was about to pull away, Deuce reached up to caress Rem’s cheeks. Then, as if on cue, the brunette returned a kiss of her own.

“!!!”

She couldn’t even call out to her teacher’s name. Rather— She was thunderstruck! Rem opened her mouth and closed it like a fish gasping for water. Deuce, on the other hand, could not resist a weak giggle from her end.

“Why are you acting that way, Rem?”

“I—I… I-I mean! You’re… You’re awake!”

“Rem…”

“I’m so happy! I didn’t know what to do if you haven’t awakened—”

“Rem.”

“Yes?!”

Deuce eventually reached up to pat the flustered girl’s head. With a smile of her own, the professor whispered,

“I love you too.”

Turns out, Deuce finally sorted out her feelings during her comatose period. A week in a dream-like state gave her plenty of time to straighten her thoughts out. As she soothed the crying student, the ex-cadet thought back to the times of history from Fodlan. This situation eerily reminded her of a certain couple found in legends... A flashback of Byleth Eisner and Edelgard von Hresvelg transparently overlapped the two girls. Not all of history was to be repeated, but in this case, the blooming relationship of a teacher and a student from special circumstances began anew.

[cracklook1-blog]

Why I Eat Tapeworms & Whipworms Every Two Weeks: The Fascinating World Of Helminthic Therapy.

For the past four months, every two weeks, I have been wandering over to my refrigerator, fetching out for myself a shotglass-sized vial of pig whipworms from Thailand, and swallowing the entire vial. But I don’t stop there. Two weeks later, I drip a tiny pipette down my throat of rat tapeworms, harvested by a laboratory in the UK.

Why the hell would I be inoculating myself with what are widely considered to be vicious little parasites? It all started when I was visiting with a fellow health enthusiast, who informed me that he had been exploring the world of something called “helminthic therapy”, that both he and his brother had been swallowing these kind of worms every 10-14 days, that his usually problematic gut had “never felt better” and that he planned on continuing to eat tapeworms and whipworms for the rest of his life. I was intrigued.

And thus I proceeded to take a deep dive into the wonderful world of helminthic therapy.

How Helminthic Therapy Works

The modern, underground health interest in whipworms and tapeworms appears to have been sparked by a December 2012 Men’s Health Magazine article entitled “The Frenemy Within: The New (Ancient) Cure for Immune Disorders”, in which the author describes the story of a 45-year-old muscular 200-pound blacksmith named Tom Bear from Massachusetts, who from childhood suffered the effects of hundreds of allergies from green beans to peanuts to pollen, but completely cured his hampered immune system by intentionally infecting himself with eight tapeworm larvae.

I then found several articles published in peer-reviewed literature, including “Worms and germs lead to better immune function“, “Reconstituting the depleted biome to prevent immune disorders” and “Human helminth therapy to treat inflammatory disorders- where do we stand?” along with this fascinating New York Times article on the Hygiene Hypothesis, that backed up the efficacy of this so-called “helminthic therapy” for not only immune system modulation, but also prevention of diseases like prostate cancer, arthritis, and Parkinsons.

In the late 1980’s, medical researchers in the US and Europe developed a popular theory entitled “The Hygiene Hypothesis” which helped to explain why people living in developed countries seem to have a high prevalence of allergic disorders and immune system issues. Essentially, the Hygiene Hypothesis states that the human immune system is dependent upon exposure to a variety of organisms, in particular “old friends” (AKA parasitic helminths such as tapeworms, whipworms and hookworms), for proper development and functioning. The reason for this is believed to be that we co-evolved with these micro-organisms, which – until the advent of an ultra-clean, indoor-dwelling, industrialized society – have almost always been present in our bodies, and are in modern days present in the guts of many outdoor-dwelling hunter gatherer tribes. The recent and relatively rapid removal of these organisms from our bodies by modern medicine is now believed by many physicians and scientists to be a major factor in the malfunction of many people’s immune systems.

In a nutshell, helminths are parasitic worms. There are many different species of helminths – most of which have gotten a bad rap because people tend to acquire helminths via contact with contaminated food, water or soil, and because colonization with these helminths seem to be most common in children living in tropical areas with poor sanitation. However, this same helminthic inoculation has emerged as one possible explanation for the low incidence of autoimmune diseases in less developed countries, along with the significant and sustained increases in autoimmune diseases in industrialized countries. As a consequence some seemingly beneficial helminth have found their way in the world of gut and immune system therapy back to the human gut, intentionally, for the avoidance of immune-related disorders and as a form of nature’s most powerful probiotic for issues including Crohn’s disease, ulcerative colitis, (IBD), multiple sclerosis, type 1 diabetes, asthma, rheumatoid arthritis and many others.

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Which Tapeworms & Whipworms I Use

So in a form of culinary self-immersive journalism, I got my hands on some helminths and began dosing. I ordered my first batch of helminths – HDC (Hymenolepis diminuta cysticercoids) – from Biome Restoration Ltd. in London.

Hymenolepis diminuta, which sounds far more attractive than describing what they actually are in layman’s terms (rat tapeworms) are one of the most widely studied organisms that colonizes the guts of vertebrates, and benefits include elimination of autoimmune diseases and near instant healing of gut issues such as Crohn’s disease. It causes little or no adverse symptoms in its usual primary hosts (common rodents such as laboratory rats and pet hamsters),and colonization of humans is rare but generally without any adverse symptoms, even in developing countries where the organism is very common.

The HDCs from London are raised in grain beetles called Tenebrio molitor, which are normally found in the human food supply as a harmless contaminant in a wide variety of grains. These grain beetles, in turn, subsist strictly on materials prepared for human consumption (in the case of the London lab, oatmeal). So all potential contaminants accompanying the cultivation and isolation of HDCs from grain beetles are derived from a common product (oatmeal) already consumed by humans in post-industrial culture. In stark contrast, other helminths currently in use (including those approved by the US Food and Drug Administration for clinical trials) are isolated from the actual feces of humans, rodents or pigs prior to use.

Gross. I’ll stick with the oatmeal version, thank you very much.

I then ordered the pig whipworm Trichuris suis (TS) from Tanawisa Company in Thailand. Under controlled conditions, at least some helminth species, such as TS, seem to interact with humans in highly complex and apparently beneficial ways, modulating the immune system in preliminary studies while positively impacting inflammatory bowel and other autoimmune diseases. For example, TS dosing has been shown to produce significant and long lasting improvements in Crohn’s disease, probably by modulating parts of the immune system responsible for producing gut inflammation (known as Th1-type inflammation). FDA has even granted TS the status of Investigational New Drug, allowing clinical trials in humans, and currently, a clinical trial is underway to assess the possibility of TS therapy in autism treatment.

Summary

So what have I personally noticed since beginning my experimentation with helminthic therapy nearly four months ago?

Thus far, in the past four months, not only have I had zero side effects, including the dreaded itchy asshole or tiny baby worms in my poop, but I’ve actually felt far more gut comfort, particularly while exercising in hot weather, which is a notorious trigger for leaky gut and GI issues in most athletes. Not only that, but considering that the effect seem to be somewhat similar to a fecal microbiota transplant (FMT), also known as shoving someone else’s poop up your backside or swallowing poop from a donor in the form of a poop pill, the worms seem slightly (albeit only ever so slightly) less stomach-turning.

Of course, if you decide to try this immune-boosting and gut-healing strategy out personally, proceed at your own risk. I am not a doctor and this is not to be taken, interpreted or construed as medical advice. Please talk with a licensed medical professional about this. These are just my own personal thoughts and not a prescription or a diagnosis or any form of health care whatsoever.

Do you have questions, thoughts or feedback for me about helminthic therapy? Leave your comments below and I will reply!

Ask Ben a Podcast Question

Source: https://bengreenfieldfitness.com/article/why-i-eat-tapeworms-whipworms-every-two-weeks-the-fascinating-world-of-helminthic-therapy/

[twilightsunclan-fr]

It took Ophrys too long a time to figure out what was going on. And when he did, he was absolutely mortified.

Ophrys hadn’t thought too much of it at first.

It was just a flower.

Really, he knew better, should know better. His garden was almost an extension of himself. His flora his best friends and greatest confidantes. And they weren’t above giving him subtle or as the case may be, not so subtle hints.

Usually Ophrys picked up his garden’s hints immediately. But he was being intentionally obtuse with himself this time. It was just hard to reconcile that the dragon he went to for seasonal relief was also the dragon that he was slowly and surely falling in love with.

He didn’t realize how deeply in denial he was until Praefloro pointed it out.

“Ophrys, darling,” Her lazy drawling accent sat heavy in the warm summer air. “What are these little blue flowers you’ve planted everywhere?” He sat back and blinked, startled. For once Ophrys hadn’t notice the small blue buds popping up in all different sections of his garden. Not until it was blatantly brought to his attention.

“Not that I mind them, of course.” Prae was trying to be delicate. “There’s just so many in places I do not think they really...well, belong.” Ophrys shivered. Because she was right. He could only remember planting the one sprig, but now that he was scenting the air and feeling the dirt under his claws, he could tell.

That one little sprig had turned into multitudes. Not enough to choke out all his other plants, of course not. But here and there, everywhere really, was one or two bunches of the flower. Their scent was a steady gentle thing, not overwhelming and if Ophrys wasn’t paying attention he’d never notice it under all the other overlying scents. His dug his claws a little deeper in the dirt, feeling the shape of the flowers’ delicate roots, twisting their way through the ground.

Why? Why? Why?

He called to the flowers, in the language of the plants. One that didn’t require a voice or sight but took both.

Out in the garden, Prea drew her wings close to her body as all the blue lilies bent toward Ophrys.

The answer they gave him was a memory. Buried deep in their reaching roots.

“Well this one’s kind of pretty, I guess.” The deep voice embedded in the floral memory intones. The image of giant black claws delicately holding the small spring of blue and white flowers waiting for transplant. “The blue matches my mantle, don’t you think?”

Ophrys hadn’t responded to that, but he’d wanted to. He’d wanted to sign out, to write out, to scratch it in the tilled soil of his garden, that yes, it did match Ivory’s mantle. And it matched the faint blue glow of his horns, the shimmer of it on his wings. Yes, it matched him and that was why Ophrys had picked it to plant in his garden. Even if he didn’t want to admit it.

Especially if he didn’t want to admit it.

Devotion.

The lilies sang back at Ophrys, while he reeled from the implications of the lily’s view of that interaction.

Devotion.

Devotion unto death.

Ophrys pulled his claws out of the soil, feeling the burn of a blush under the scales of his face. He felt like his head was full of water and if he walked too quickly it’d spill over everywhere. So listing from side to side, he stumbled over to Prae’s side. And thumped down onto the ground next to her, hiding his face in mortification.

She was kind enough not to laugh at him and draped a wing over his side for him to pretend to shelter under.

“Hard ain’t it, honey?” Prae mused. “Fallin’ in love is both the hardest and easiest thing in this world to do.”

Ophrys believed her, and furthermore, could certainly agree with her.

[driveaugust1-blog]

Why I Eat Tapeworms & Whipworms Every Two Weeks: The Fascinating World Of Helminthic Therapy.

For the past four months, every two weeks, I have been wandering over to my refrigerator, fetching out for myself a shotglass-sized vial of pig whipworms from Thailand, and swallowing the entire vial. But I don’t stop there. Two weeks later, I drip a tiny pipette down my throat of rat tapeworms, harvested by a laboratory in the UK.

Why the hell would I be inoculating myself with what are widely considered to be vicious little parasites? It all started when I was visiting with a fellow health enthusiast, who informed me that he had been exploring the world of something called “helminthic therapy”, that both he and his brother had been swallowing these kind of worms every 10-14 days, that his usually problematic gut had “never felt better” and that he planned on continuing to eat tapeworms and whipworms for the rest of his life. I was intrigued.

And thus I proceeded to take a deep dive into the wonderful world of helminthic therapy.

How Helminthic Therapy Works

The modern, underground health interest in whipworms and tapeworms appears to have been sparked by a December 2012 Men’s Health Magazine article entitled “The Frenemy Within: The New (Ancient) Cure for Immune Disorders”, in which the author describes the story of a 45-year-old muscular 200-pound blacksmith named Tom Bear from Massachusetts, who from childhood suffered the effects of hundreds of allergies from green beans to peanuts to pollen, but completely cured his hampered immune system by intentionally infecting himself with eight tapeworm larvae.

I then found several articles published in peer-reviewed literature, including “Worms and germs lead to better immune function“, “Reconstituting the depleted biome to prevent immune disorders” and “Human helminth therapy to treat inflammatory disorders- where do we stand?” along with this fascinating New York Times article on the Hygiene Hypothesis, that backed up the efficacy of this so-called “helminthic therapy” for not only immune system modulation, but also prevention of diseases like prostate cancer, arthritis, and Parkinsons.

In the late 1980’s, medical researchers in the US and Europe developed a popular theory entitled “The Hygiene Hypothesis” which helped to explain why people living in developed countries seem to have a high prevalence of allergic disorders and immune system issues. Essentially, the Hygiene Hypothesis states that the human immune system is dependent upon exposure to a variety of organisms, in particular “old friends” (AKA parasitic helminths such as tapeworms, whipworms and hookworms), for proper development and functioning. The reason for this is believed to be that we co-evolved with these micro-organisms, which – until the advent of an ultra-clean, indoor-dwelling, industrialized society – have almost always been present in our bodies, and are in modern days present in the guts of many outdoor-dwelling hunter gatherer tribes. The recent and relatively rapid removal of these organisms from our bodies by modern medicine is now believed by many physicians and scientists to be a major factor in the malfunction of many people’s immune systems.

In a nutshell, helminths are parasitic worms. There are many different species of helminths – most of which have gotten a bad rap because people tend to acquire helminths via contact with contaminated food, water or soil, and because colonization with these helminths seem to be most common in children living in tropical areas with poor sanitation. However, this same helminthic inoculation has emerged as one possible explanation for the low incidence of autoimmune diseases in less developed countries, along with the significant and sustained increases in autoimmune diseases in industrialized countries. As a consequence some seemingly beneficial helminth have found their way in the world of gut and immune system therapy back to the human gut, intentionally, for the avoidance of immune-related disorders and as a form of nature’s most powerful probiotic for issues including Crohn’s disease, ulcerative colitis, (IBD), multiple sclerosis, type 1 diabetes, asthma, rheumatoid arthritis and many others.

Get The Low Carb Athlete - 100% Free!Eliminate fatigue and unlock the secrets of low-carb success. 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Which Tapeworms & Whipworms I Use

So in a form of culinary self-immersive journalism, I got my hands on some helminths and began dosing. I ordered my first batch of helminths – HDC (Hymenolepis diminuta cysticercoids) – from Biome Restoration Ltd. in London.

Hymenolepis diminuta, which sounds far more attractive than describing what they actually are in layman’s terms (rat tapeworms) are one of the most widely studied organisms that colonizes the guts of vertebrates, and benefits include elimination of autoimmune diseases and near instant healing of gut issues such as Crohn’s disease. It causes little or no adverse symptoms in its usual primary hosts (common rodents such as laboratory rats and pet hamsters),and colonization of humans is rare but generally without any adverse symptoms, even in developing countries where the organism is very common.

The HDCs from London are raised in grain beetles called Tenebrio molitor, which are normally found in the human food supply as a harmless contaminant in a wide variety of grains. These grain beetles, in turn, subsist strictly on materials prepared for human consumption (in the case of the London lab, oatmeal). So all potential contaminants accompanying the cultivation and isolation of HDCs from grain beetles are derived from a common product (oatmeal) already consumed by humans in post-industrial culture. In stark contrast, other helminths currently in use (including those approved by the US Food and Drug Administration for clinical trials) are isolated from the actual feces of humans, rodents or pigs prior to use.

Gross. I’ll stick with the oatmeal version, thank you very much.

I then ordered the pig whipworm Trichuris suis (TS) from Tanawisa Company in Thailand. Under controlled conditions, at least some helminth species, such as TS, seem to interact with humans in highly complex and apparently beneficial ways, modulating the immune system in preliminary studies while positively impacting inflammatory bowel and other autoimmune diseases. For example, TS dosing has been shown to produce significant and long lasting improvements in Crohn’s disease, probably by modulating parts of the immune system responsible for producing gut inflammation (known as Th1-type inflammation). FDA has even granted TS the status of Investigational New Drug, allowing clinical trials in humans, and currently, a clinical trial is underway to assess the possibility of TS therapy in autism treatment.

Summary

So what have I personally noticed since beginning my experimentation with helminthic therapy nearly four months ago?

Thus far, in the past four months, not only have I had zero side effects, including the dreaded itchy asshole or tiny baby worms in my poop, but I’ve actually felt far more gut comfort, particularly while exercising in hot weather, which is a notorious trigger for leaky gut and GI issues in most athletes. Not only that, but considering that the effect seem to be somewhat similar to a fecal microbiota transplant (FMT), also known as shoving someone else’s poop up your backside or swallowing poop from a donor in the form of a poop pill, the worms seem slightly (albeit only ever so slightly) less stomach-turning.

Of course, if you decide to try this immune-boosting and gut-healing strategy out personally, proceed at your own risk. I am not a doctor and this is not to be taken, interpreted or construed as medical advice. Please talk with a licensed medical professional about this. These are just my own personal thoughts and not a prescription or a diagnosis or any form of health care whatsoever.

Do you have questions, thoughts or feedback for me about helminthic therapy? Leave your comments below and I will reply!

Ask Ben a Podcast Question

Source: https://bengreenfieldfitness.com/article/why-i-eat-tapeworms-whipworms-every-two-weeks-the-fascinating-world-of-helminthic-therapy/

[darkenedrosepetals]

With You I’m Home

Chapter Five

Ezekiel couldn’t breathe. Each breath took considerable effort and hurt like hell as he gazed at Benjamin’s sheet covered body. Anguish racked through his body, squeezed at his throat. There was so much blood. It still dripped on the floor as they all stood in Carol’s living room.

No one dare utter a word. There was just the sickening ‘drip’ ‘drip’ and the occasional shaky breath.

Ezekiel stiffly turned to gaze at Carol who stood solemnly.

“I’m sorry for coming to you,” he apologized. “We had no choice.”

The words came from his mouth, but he didn’t recognize his own voice. All he could recognize was the painful scream of his adopted son and a gunshot replaying in his head. Like a tape stuck on rewind.

Ezekiel vaguely registered that Morgan left. All he could do was stand still and stare at the aged wall. It wasn’t until one his men touched his shoulder, beckoning for them to leave and take Benjamin’s body back to the kingdom. Everything happened in slow motion and by night fall, he was left numb, and nearly on autopilot

The next morning, he watched in resentment as the gardeners prepared to burn the plants of the royal garden. He loaded the single melon that was the partial cause of Benjamin’s death, and climbed into the truck. The entire ride he cursed the blasted treaty with the Saviors. Thoughts of revenge echoed in his mind and hummed in his veins.  There were no words of wisdom that came to his mind. No words that he could offer his men who were grieving over their fallen comrade.

Then as if the day couldn’t get any worse, he witnessed Morgan strangle one of his most faithful soldiers to death. It was a relay of the previous day just with a different person.

Morgan climbed off Richard and stood to his full height, with scratches on his face from the struggle. Slowly, he explained his reasoning for murdering the man. “He-He did this?” Ezekiel stuttered. The truth pierced deep to his bones and made him wish that Morgan hadn’t killed Richard. He wanted that honor for himself. To learn that Benjamin had to die in a twisted plan made his blood boil. It pushed him further over the edge.

It was too much. ---

Sometime after Morgan’s startling visit, Carol found the strength to truly pack her belongs. It was time to stand and stop running. She gathered her weapons, arming herself for the short journey back to the Kingdom. It was different from her earlier visit. This time, she felt a different kind of fire in her blood. An awakening of sorts.

Inside the Kingdom walls, she could smell and see smoke, and for a moment her stomach dropped until she approached the entrance of the royal garden. The source of smoke was coming from multiple barrels. She was surprised to find the garden was now just plots of dirt.

At one of the garden beds, Ezekiel and Henry worked on a new transplant in the place of turned soil. Even from where she stood, she could see the weight of everything that happened resting on Ezekiel’s shoulders. She approached, not hesitant unlike before. Ezekiel’s voice was flat when he said her name. It was expected but still strange.

“I’m sorry.” Carol whispered. Ezekiel’s sad eyes searched her face. “I thank you.” Caroled struggled with her words, not wanting to further upset the grieving man. She was surprised that her voice was firm as it was. "I’m gonna be here now. We have to get ready. We have to fight.

“We do.” Ezekiel agreed. “But not today.” He silently invited her to follow him to the next garden bed where Henry worked. Carol dropped her bag and joined them in their task. Feeling the dirt between her fingers, was oddly comforting. It kept her mind off the raging thoughts that echoed in her mind. Despite not moving at a hurried pace, all the transplants from wheelbarrow were planted into the ground. The sun had begun to set, signaling for Henry to return inside to clean up and get ready for dinner.

Carol stayed behind, gazing at the kneeling man before her. It was a sight to behold, now that she could freely look at him. The last rays of sun-bathed Ezekiel’s skin, while a light dusting of dirt covering his forearms.

Ezekiel rouse to his full height, patted away the excess dirt and offered his hand. “Thank you Carol.”

Carol accepted his hand, standing easily to her feet. Somehow, she knew he wasn’t only thanking her for help in the garden. But instead of questioning it she replied. “You’re Welcome. Your Majesty.”

----

Later that evening… Carol hadn't meant to intrude on Ezekiel's storytelling to Henry. She couldn't bring herself to leave now that she was present. Ezekiel's deep voice had dropped to a bit of an whisper, as he recited what she realized was a poem.  "A light went out of my life...  Shadows were everywhere. Daylight eventually came The brightness was never the same. Sleep on my loved one Peace is yours.” Carol hadn’t known Benjamin personally. Every interaction between them, she cold was toward him. She was so consumed with own her imposed exiled that she forgot that at the end of the day, he was just a boy that hadn’t quite reached manhood. Trying to prove himself and to the world that he was capable and that he was ready. “Your life’s work is done. All who knew you can only say Well Done. Some stars shine so brightly They are never dull Their light shines on all our lives Just as yours had done..” Ezekiel finished the poem with a shaky breath. Henry had drifted asleep, still hiccupping from crying so much. He left dimmed the lamp, and joined Carol in the hallway. “He doesn’t like traditional bed time stories,” Ezekiel shut the door behind him.  Carol only nodded. She felt out of place now that she was no longer just standing and listening. It was the first time they were truly alone since she came back that day. She hadn't wanted to treat Ezekiel like he was broken glass but was mindful that he was under a lot of pressure. Losing Benjamin, the weight of staying strong for the people and preparing for the impending war to come.  "Are you comfortable in your room?" Ezekiel asked suddenly. "Is there anything that you need?" Carol shook her head. Even now he was worrying about someone other than himself. "No, I'm alright."  Ezekiel cleared his throat. "I know it's late...but," he trailed off. "I don't want to be alone right now." The man standing her before was no longer the kingdom leader but a man full of grief. His jaw was set, and there were unshed tears in his eyes. Waiting to fall.  "Yes,'" Carol replied.  Ezekiel smiled weakly. He turned and headed down the corridor to what she assumed was his own private quarters. She followed, mindful to pay attention so when the time came, she would know how to get back to her own room.  By the time Ezekiel shut door behind them, she pulled him into a hug. She knew that it was forward and probably not what he expected. But she knew from experience, a shoulder to cry on was beneficial. She relaxed when she felt his arms wrap around her middle and pull her closer. She could feel the slight tremble of his body against hers.  "Let it out. I've got you," Carol smoothed a hand under his dreads to touch his neck. And that's when she felt the first of many tears hot against her skin. The shaking of his shoulders prompted her to tighten her hold on around him. They remained like that for some time, just holding one another.  Carol drew gentle circles with her thumb against Ezekiel's neck, almost in tune with their breathing. She did it was an afterthought, not really paying attention to the reaction it garnered. She wondered when was the last time someone held him like this? Not taking comfort but giving it. "I shouldn't have pushed Benjamin..." Ezekiel mumbled against her neck. "Should have accepted that he wasn't ready. Yet I still allowed him to go with us to trade with those damn Saviors." Carol knew these were the thoughts that plagued his mind. It was easier to place the blame on oneself, and never accept that the situation was out of your control.  "And Richard..." Ezekiel added. "How could I have been so stupid to ignore the man's spiraling behavior? The signs were there but I chose to ignore them." "You did what you thought was best," Carol answered. "You couldn't have known the day would turn out the way it did." "The whole reason the truce was in place was to protect the people. Instead it brought war to our doorstep."  Carol shook her head. "No, war was on your doorstep the moment you first encountered the Saviors." "Still, my misstep in judgment cost both Benjamin and his father's life." Ezekiel insisted.  Carol gently placed her hands on either side of his face. Her thumbs swiped at the remnant of tears. She whispered as if sharing a secret. "You have to live on. It hurts I know but you can't stop now. Henry and everyone else in the Kingdom need you at your strongest." Ezekiel swallowed hard. "You speak from experience." 

Thoughts of Sophia, and those who she had come care about and lost along the way flashed in her mind's eye. "I do. It is how I survived all this time." Ezekiel, closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, then exhaled and repeated. "I am glad you came back." Carol didn't miss the way Ezekiel’s arms tightened just a bit around her waist. "Me too."

 A/N: Thanks for reading!

Poem used in this chapter was written by Elizabeth Postle