#speaking to myself as they existed fifteen years ago

[mockturtletale]

babe, you're autistic!!!!!!!!!!!!

Most of the time I feel way younger than I actually am. When kids mistake me for being their age, like 16 or 17, it doesn’t seem weird to me. I act like a toddler sometimes. Glittery things keep me occupied for hours. My favorite film is the Spongebob Squarepants movie. I usually have more fun hanging with the 5 year old I babysit than my stupid drama-llama friends.

But then I have these moments where I feel about 200 years old. Like just now. Reading stupid entries people make about stupid scene drama, or ridiculous internet shit. How can people be so ….. immature?

Maybe I’m not childish, so much as just satisfied with the simple things.

[prettyplumpkitty]

I have this issue in my life and I have nowhere else to really present it.

It’s the longest story in the world but I will try to be concise.

My brother in law & his wife are a wreck.

They are both mentally ill; him physically ill as well with an autoimmune thing. They have two kids, both autistic, one non verbal. So a lot on their plate. They are also fifteen & ten years younger than me, respectively.

They live 4 miles from us in a 250K+ home that my mother in law bought for them and helps pays to maintain. She is also semi-retired and spends any time not working at her health care job cleaning their house & taking care of their kids so my brother in law can do…nothing.

He has no real hobbies other than video games and no other interests. He is bitter about “living at home” again and refuses to go into town, lest someone he knew from the past “see” him. His wife is the breadwinner and their interpersonal relationship can be very toxic at times.

Suffice it to say, they are just very unhappy. My brother in law looks up to mister, his 9 years older brother, especially since they lost their dad almost a decade ago. But there has become a very negative, horrible bias against us where these two think our lives are super easy & have been.

Brother in law is currently not speaking to mister and ignoring messages and attempts to communicate. He will, however, continue to text & talk to our 14 year old son. This is not the first time this has happened at all. Brother in law will get it in his head that we’ve slighted him by not coming to visit him at his house enough (he won’t step foot in our house) and that everyone hates him and thinks he’s a loser (which is kinda true cause he acts this way…self fulfilling prophecy).

What’s recently come out is that brother in law and his wife are mad jealous.

Which in a way I understand because I know how my life presents on paper so to speak. I am excellent at curating a beautiful existence on Facebook & Instagram which is the only way those two look in on us. I am so good at it, I’ve made a position for myself at work with my skills and no college degree.

But more than anything, it’s that mister and I chose to have a positive attitude about the difficulties & struggles we’ve encountered in this life.

THAT’S what makes things look “easy” for us.

But it really hasn’t been and I’m growing very resentful for these very much younger folks thinking everything has been peachy keen when I was parenting a child while they were still fucking babies themselves. There are parts to my life they know NOTHING about and mister’s too.

We have gotten to the point where we are ready to cut all ties because it is too toxic and they always target us when things are going especially rough for them or my brother in law is in some bipolar mood. However, my mother in law LIVES with us so it is very hard to avoid the topic. It is all very drama-inducing and I hate drama.

So, any advice? Not sure what I’m asking specifically but I had to get some off my chest. It just sucks knowing people are super jealous of you AND think you’ve taken easy street when it’s not at all the case. Mister doesn’t let other people have that kind of authority over his own narrative but I am always plagued by feeling, is there truth to this? when someone is upset with me.

[the-man-with-many-faces]

Hey, the internet is an interesting place, isn't it? The epitome of the good, the bad and the ugly.

Whats up! I'm Surya!

(This is an OC ask blog. Surya's 15 and a sumeru character, 5 star, and a pyro vision)

(Now for the backstory of how I created him. I'm a decently prominent user on hoyolab with 300+ followers (idk how) and somehow became a huge part of this online friend group that made a lot of genshin ocs and ship content and I love them so so much)

(so naturally I created a ship child of my own. Surya's the adopted son of Layla and Nilou (a rarepair I enjoy shipping) and I created a backstory and voicelines for him and everything)

(a lot of things are still in development and I encourage any and all interactions! But there are some guidlines)

(1. don't be toxic

2. Any ships are allowed but if something makes me uncomfortable (like I said Surya's fifteen (and I am a minor) so I won't respond to anything NSFW and anything that makes me uncomfortable in general)

3. May not respond to DMs.

AND THATS ALL

SILLINESS IS ENCOURAGED :)

Now for the voicelines!

Hello - Well, if it isn’t the all powerful nomad himself! I’m Surya, the adoptive son of the genius Rtawahist student Layla and Nilou, the greatest dancer of all of Teyvat! I’m not one for brute violence, but if you need someone for acting tips and psychological warfare, I’m your guy! 

More about Surya (Part 1): You want to know my secret to acting? Heh, many people had asked me that exact same thing before… of course I haven’t told them anything. They’d use my context against me. But I’d have no problem telling you, travelers - Why? Because you’d have no use for it, of course. Even with as much as I trust you, I have suspicions that you would use anything you could to get what you wanted. I don’t even mean it as a bad thing. In fact, I rather admire you for it…

About Surya - Part II-

Heh, you’re not going to stop pestering me about this are you? Fine, fine. I’ll quit stalling. The reason I’m so good in acting is that the people who act a role are always told to know a character. When they play their part they always seem so related to a character. Their mothers, fathers, siblings, best friend, lover… but never the characters themselves. As an analogy, obviously. They convey the personality of a character fairly well so that it’s easier for the audience to distinguish between the characters and what makes them significant in the plot. These actors even understand the character’s lives, their struggle, their relationships… but its not enough. It’s NEVER enough. You need to BE the characters. No… no… EVEN THATS NOT ENOUGH! You need to become the very god who would have created and controlled every aspect of the character as if he existed in this very world! Heh, must''ve sounded a little off my rocker there, but no true artist has a right state of mind. I was always rather interested in psycology as a child, before I even got into acting. Even the slightest twitch of a muscle can speak volumes of a person, traveller.

More about Surya 3: Studies - Guhhh, I wish I took something OTHER than Spantamad for the Akademiya. There’s just so much to memorize! And I HATE HATE HATE memorizing! Maybe I should just get a split nocturnal personality myself that would do all my homework for me. But seriously, if I didn’t convince former grand sage Professor Cyrus to tutor me, I’d have been kicked out YEARS ago.

Chat: Lore and legends - Mythology is interesting, but it’s not my thing. Why bother or ponder something that may or may not be real? I mean, I can understand why people care and enjoy it, but it’s a pointless concept to me. It doesn’t even affect us and our lives!

Chat: Good and evil - How many people have you met on your travels so far at this point traveler? About hundreds? Vision bearers like us must’ve been the ones who’ve made an impact (a genshin impact) the most on you. Out of curiosity, have you ever met someone with absolutely pure intentions, or intentions for purely satirical joy? Heh, of course few of the only people with pure intentions were my parents. I do love them so. 

I’ve heard you had multiple encounters with the Fatui? Must’ve met a few of the Harbingers yourself with all the trouble you’ve caused, heh. Do you think they do the things they do out of purely evil purposes? Il Dottore? Okay, that’s fair enough, you’ve got me there.

Chat: Knowledge and wisdom - According to what I’ve studied in the Akademiya, the definition of knowledge is the fact or condition of knowing something with familiarity gained through experience or association. But our beloved lesser lord Kusanali is known as the archon of knowledge and wisdom. She was locked away when the Akademiya was corrupted by the former sages for a long time, wasn’t she? And got most of the wisdom she knows today by taking all of the dreams of the citizens of Sumeru. If so, if she hasn’t experienced things herself firsthand. So, can we really call her the archon of knowledge? I’m probably looking into this too much, amn’t I? Phew, sorry.

When it rains: Ahhh, the rain feels nice on my skin! I almost wanna burst into song and dance!

When thunder strikes: Agh! That sounds like a gunshot!….oh thank god. It's just thunder.

When it snows: It's pretty cold…hope my fingers don’t freeze and break off my hand.

When the sun is out: Whew, now it’s pretty hot! 

In the desert: The sun..is so hot….I’m gonna melt into a puddle in my shoes…AAAHHHH SCARABS!

Good morning: Do you have any sweets by any chance? I need some sugar to fully wake up now.

Good afternoon: The perfect time for multiple cups of Chai! And maybe psych people out just for fun, hehe.

Good night: Have a good rest, traveler. I’m just going to stay up a bit to study if you don’t mind.

About Surya: Psychology - Psychology is something I got into when I noticed amma’s nocturnal personality when I was a lot younger. Oh, sorry! I meant to say Layla, didn’t mean to confuse you there. I was curious about why she acted that way, was it out of free will or was it a mental disorder of some sort? Not that it was a bad thing, it was the only reason she managed to even complete some of her assignments in the first place! It’s something I apply to real life and my acting almost everyday. How do I do it? Tag along and maybe I can teach you.

About Surya: Morality (unlocked after Caeleste solem et lunam - Act 1) - Sigh, look traveler, I’m….aware the things I’ve done in the past were far from pardonable. But even then, you still helped me at my lowest point. Sometimes I get so into acting like someone else that I completely forget who I am and who I’m supposed to be. Hopefully my journey to find myself will help me realize who I really am.

About us: Mutual relations - Hey, um, about my moms….take care of them for me, alright? They’re definitely the strongest people I know, but I can’t help but worry for them, haha. 

About us: Unwinding - Genius Invocation time, haha! Who knows, maybe you’ll actually beat me! I do enjoy moments like these, where we don’t need to think about anything else other than the cards in our hands! 

Have I ever played against the General Mahamatra? I feel like he’d get too competitive and ruin the purpose of the game for me. And I’m…pretty sure he hates me.

About the vision - My pyro vision really adds that little ‘razzle dazzle’ to my performances! I kinda wish I got an electro one instead, but I’m not complaining! I’m not complaining.

Something to share - Y’know, the only reason why Professor Cyrus is tutoring me now is because I promised to analyze his rival Zaha Hadi’s cropping style for tomatoes! So he could get one up on her, hehe. It’s a little strange, but I desperately need the help.

About Layla - She along with Nilou had taken me in when I was just a baby! She was still studying in the Akademiya back then, so it was hard for her to balance all the work, but they somehow managed! And ‘other Layla’ is as much of a parental figure as normal Layla is, but they are definitely different in styles of….everything. Between her and Nilou, she’s the more logical one. I’ve got some math skills from her too! I don’t understand why she needs to work so hard, she’s one of the smartest people I know. Hahhh, such is the Akademiya. Making sure evry single cell in your body has knowledge.

About Nilou - Nilou was the more empathetic parent. I could talk to her about just anything in the world, and even if she doesn’t agree with me, she always tries her best to understand my point of view. People don’t usually realize how hard it could be to represent something that wasn’t connected to knowledge in the nation of wisdom, but she has managed to make a name for herself despite oppression from the Akademiya when it was corrupted. I hope I will be able to make her proud once I make a name for myself.

About Cyno - He…he isn’t here is he?! He kinda hates me. And by kinda, I mean REALLY hates me. The former General Mahamatra huh? He’s the person I have the hardest time figuring out. What gave him the determination to execute his idea of justice? Who says that it's even right? Granted, there really is no right or wrong, but you know what I mean, traveler. And the biggest question of all, how are he and the head forest ranger even as close as they are? It’s rather unlikely if you ask me. And I lied. The biggest question of all is why he tells those horrendous jokes of his?! If they’re told with the intention of making people feel more at ease around him, it's obviously not working. 

I told him my opinion personally at one point, and he forced me to sit down to listen to five of his best jokes. The man is terrifying, I’ll give him that.

About Wanderer - Wanderer? Who the hell is he….hat guy? Oh, Hat guy! The weird Inazuma exchange student! He’s in the Vahumuna darshan. He keeps to himself a lot, other than with that Akademiya errand boy he always eats lunch with. When I asked him about where in Inazuma he’s from, he got really defensive and told me to back off. Seems like he doesn’t want to talk about home. Homesickness, or wanting to get away from past memories there? 

About Tighnari - Hm, there’s nothing really strange about him. He’s mostly normal, and definitely one of the better research scientists I’ve seen. Definitely more ethical, as far as I’m concerned. Got quite the sharp tongue however, that’s certain. That’s gonna get him in a lot of trouble one day……what do you mean I better not let Cyno hear me say this?

Surya’s hobbies - I don’t even need to answer that question, do i? Acting and TCG!

Surya’s troubles - I’ve been told by many, MANY people that I’m way too honest. And a lot of people fear me about how much I observe people and how I know a lot of their secrets just by looking at them. I don’t exactly have many friends…but I don’t really need them. …..I’m glad you’re comfortable enough to hang around me though, traveler.

Favorite food - Do you wanna know a secret traveler? The best biryani….is from WEDDINGS. I’ve more than often found myself sneaking into other people’s weddings just for the biryani. Have I gotten caught? What do you think?

Least favorite food - I ABSOLUTELY DESPISE anything with alcohol. How do people even enjoy that stuff?! It’s bitter and gross. What do you mean wine can be sweet?! You’re lying!

Receiving a gift: 1 - Ah, I see you come bearing gifts!

Receiving a gift: 2 - Hmmm, not bad. I can work with this!

Receiving a gift: 3 - …….don’t take this personally but this is the most **** ***** **** ******* I’ve ever seen.

Birthday - TRAVELER! I heard it was your BIRTHDAY!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOUUUUUUU..I’m kidding I’m not gonna sing, for now at least. May your birthday be full of good food, fun times with friends and happy memories! Here, I made a card for you! It’s nothing much…but I worked really hard on it! I heard you were still looking for your sibling. I’ve been inquiring about them when I’m not too busy. I do hope you end up finding them one day.

Feelings about ascension: Intro - Yeah! We’ve got the power!

Feelings about ascension: Building up - C’mon, no point stopping now!

Feelings about ascension: Climax - We’re almost there! It’s nearly showtime!

Feelings about ascension: Conclusion - You knew this was coming for a long time….I JUST WANNA BE PART OF YOUR SYMPHONYYYY.

Damn thats a lot

and last but not least

ART!!

THIS IS BY @punchesyou literally picasso reincarnated go follow her RN

I made this on picsrew (he looks 5 :( )

Ugly ahhh drawing by me :(

and that's it!

I'll be posting voicelines everyday cause I know y'all might not have time to read them all

love ya pookies! <3 )

[igotsnothing]

Beginning/Previous/Next 🐯🥭🐠🌅🪷

Beautiful lot build by @pandorasims4

Musical reference: 🎧

Happy New Year, friends! A new year, a new obsession story! I keep finding myself playing in Tomarang all the time: it's beautiful and I love it, and this story has been in the works (writing, setting up) pretty much since the day after the expansion dropped. It owes its existence to not just my enjoyment of Tomarang, but because a conversation with a friend got me thinking: my friend claimed that writing stories about how a couple meets and gets together is far more entertaining than writing stories about that same couple once they are together. I disagree! This is my formal protest! 😊

Transcript:

Lee: So…Thoughts? Henry: Can we even afford this place? It’s huge! Lee: Believe it or not, it’s half the price of our one-bedroom in San Sequoia. Henry: Are you sure? I won’t have to sell my body to the night to support my cute husband through medical school?

Lee: No, because your cute husband is also your smart husband and got a full scholarship. Henry: Then, can you hire me for my salacious services anyway?… Lee: Henry. Focus. Auntie Mei will be here with the keys any minute. If you don’t like it, I’ll tell her we’re ready to see the next place. Henry: What do you think? Do you like it?

Lee: I do. I like it a lot. It reminds me of my grandparents’ house. Lots of happy memories. Henry: Was that in the countryside? Lee: Yeah. The house is no longer there, but I’d love to take you to visit the village sometime.

Mei: Hi, boys! Lee: Hi, Auntie! Mei: I’m sorry I’m a bit late! I was with a client over in Koh Sahpa and traffic on the bridge was so slow!

Henry: Hi Mei! I haven’t seen you since the wedding! Mei: So nice to see you too! You had an easy trip? Henry: Not too bad! Mei: And is Lee taking good care of you? You eating enough? Lee: Oh my god, Auntie. It hasn’t even been five minutes…

Mei: This place is perfect. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to uni for you. And Henry, you can take the 71 bus to work; only two or three stops! Lee: This place…the tiles on the floor. High ceilings. Big windows… Flowers everywhere…It all reminds me so much of Grandma’s house.

Mei: I thought so too, sweetie. Your uncle suggested I show you an apartment on Segara Drive, but I knew you’d like this much more. It’s old-fashioned: no fancy gym, pool, or central air. It’s not in a flashy spot…But it’s real Tomarani living, in an authentic neighborhood, near our family. Besides, the owner is VERY motivated to sell !

Lee: Uh-oh…What’s the story behind that? Mei: Nothing bad! This is where Gugi Nguyen would secretly rendezvous with Anita Tran, away from the paparazzi. Lee: Who are they? Mei: Famous soap opera actors! They got married and don’t need this house anymore. Henry: Babe! That’s just like our story, minus the celebrity stuff! Lee: Pfff!

[Voices coming from downstairs, speaking excitedly in Tomarani.]

Henry: This is really happening. We’re here! Just a few days ago we were in San Sequoia… Now? This is going to be home. And this view? This could be our view. Every day. Wow!

[plaguethewaters]

little superhero au thingie!! except the superhero part is super duper nonexistent and this chapter is litterally just cbeeduo proposal. Enjoy!

---

"You've gotta forgive me, because I'm about to get really sappy here."

Ranboo says, and Tubbo thinks it's awfully ironic. It's night, brilliant stars shining over them - the only true advantage of no public lighting at all - they're on the roof, sitting on the thickest blanket they own and huddling together for whatever warmth they can find, the few remnants of their picnic laid abandoned to the side. They've been out all evening, eating sweets and heart shaped sandwiches, because Ranboo had always been a little extra. He thinks, we've gotten past the sappiness threshold a whole lot ago, and also, there's no way whatever you've got to say could be worse than this romance novel ass- situation.

His hand is taken into Ranboo's, who starts rubbing at his knuckles with his thumb. He does that often, when he's nervous - but also, Tubbo muses, he's nervous about pretty much every single aspect of his life, so this isn't anything new. Then he starts talking, with a way too big, almost suspicious smile on his face, his voice low.

"You know I don't- I don't think I've ever been as happy as I am now. I didn't know this kind of happy even existed, I think, not until you two came into my life." His gaze is soft and, as previously anticipated, unworldly sappy. "You've made me truly content with my life in entirely new ways, and continue to do so every single day. I can't really imagine my future without you in it."

"You're making this sound like a marriage proposal, bossman." Tubbo giggles, just to lighten the mood. Mostly because he's right, and he does not know if he could survive the weight of a love so, so fucking ginormous, settled on his shoulder's like the world's heavier and softer mountain, not without a little comedic relief.

"I mean..." Ranboo kisses his hand, doing a so-and-so gesture with his free one, "Kind of?"

The mountain doesn't move, and Tubbo's suffocating. This is not how he imagined he would die.

"I-uh. sorry?" he manages to shutter, while his mind helpfully supplies him with a series of his possible obituaries. "Young man dies of Too Much Emotion.". or "Romantic relationship actually a trap, Villain dies because Boyfriend loves him too much." (Boyfriend? Fiancè????? What the absolute hell.)

"I mean, i mean not now, obviously that's- that would be a little too much to dump on you so soon." Ranboo laughs, clearly as nervous as he looks. "Just, like, I've prepared a whole speech, goddammit, let me say it properly."

Tubbo sees the light. His heart is definitely going to explode.

"Okay I've, I've started this a little wrong. Because I said, right, I said, I can't imagine my life without you, but it's more like, like, I couldn't have imagined my life without you. I would've never even tried. I don't think I realized I could imagine a life for myself outside- outside of hero work. I either died at fifteen - or, or seventeen, or twenty, or whatever limit I decided to give myself that year - or got an eternity of work, no escape at all. Then, then you, and Tommy, and suddenly I'm dreaming of white picket fences and wedding bells and large breed dogs and- did you know I was a writer? When I was little, I used to have notebooks over notebooks full of short horror stories, and then I stopped because with housework and normal work and trying not to starve I never had the time - you've made me want to write again. You made me realize I could dream, and follow those dreams and succeed."

The speech comes out rushed, all too many words confined in all too little space, too little time. He sounds like he's afraid if he doesn't speak soon enough, someone is going to come and steal his voice, leaving his feelings forever entrapped.

His gaze shifts, and now he's staring directly into Tubbo's eyes. The intensity is overwhelming, oppressive, painful. His eyes bore into Tubbo's skull with the force of a drill, carving a hole from his eye socket to the center of his brain, then making a little cave in it and resting in it's center.

"I don't- marriage right now would not be a good idea, I don't think, but? Maybe, in the future... Will you marry me?"

Their stares break, and the parasite removes itself from Tubbo's poor, poor brain. Then he's playing with Tubbo's fingers, looking blushy and shy to the side - because of course he's nervous now, after completely destroying him, leaving unable to think anything but an infinite sting of I love yous and wondering how on earth he got this lucky and fuck. Tubbo would die a thousand times over if it got him to look this pretty again.

What the hell was he supposed to say now? He isn't, and has never really been good with words, not when actions and punches have always done the job just as well - how could he speak now, having been hit in the face with a confession like that? With the, the- he would call it the burden, he guesses, but that's just entirely the wrong word - the responsibility, the knowledge he's the reason Ranboo was able to grow and get through all of that, given to him like it is no big deal. He would've never thought of that. In fact, he was worried he'd been doing way too little support wise, lacking the knowledge and emotional maturity needed to properly help someone like that.

Like even now, after the whole speech, he still isn't all that convinced. All he ever did was love Ranboo - which isn't news, and would continue not to be news as far as he's concerned. He loves him, will love him even if he somewhat disagrees with the confession, because how could he be possibly worth so much in Ranboo's eyes, who deserves so much more than he could possibly give, and he loves him so much - but he does not know how to say any of that.

So, he just kisses him.

And again, and again, trying to push into his lips anything that cannot fit into his mouth and failing still, but nobody's to say he doesn't fucking try. When he stops, it's because his traitorous body runs out of air to breathe, but he still keeps as close as possible, resting his forehead on Ranboo's. If he has to stop to breathe, they'll fucking share the breaths too.

----

Ranboo has learned, by now, that Tubbo kisses like he's fighting.

Mostly by way of focus and determination: he kisses with the same kind of concentration one might have when operating a sniper rifle - or, much more topically, when defusing a tickling bomb. There's no second in which he's idle, any rest clearly ruled by strict necessity rather than any want or will. When he does retreat, surrendering finally to the need of air, he doesn't part neither far nor long, touching their foreheads together or breathing in his neck, his hands mapping all available territory to make way for later exploration.

Ranboo has seen him battle, has fought him directly in the past, and he finds no difference between the crushing adrenaline of a missed punch, of wrestling for a loaded gun, of running towards a lit fuse - and whatever he is feeling right now.

A hand finds its way to his thigh, squeezing the soft flesh, and the little air he'd managed to keep in his poor lungs gets knocked out of him. Maybe they are in battle, actually. Maybe killing him is Tubbo's way of saying no.

Because - and he's said this already, but his brain is too scrambled to pay attention to something as utterly unimportant as repetition (anything less important than this). Because he's used to Tubbo, to the way he seems to equate love and war, to the almost violence of his affections but this feels... different, somehow. Somewhat. He's not focused enough to register what's actually changed.

Maybe it's the way his mind had already been lost in the anxiety of the moment, before his little speech, and the suspense for an answer now; or maybe it's just the thick layer of tears evenly coating each of their faces.

Which, by the way, does not help to ease his worries at all, to be entirely honest. Not that - don't get him wrong, it's not that the kissing isn't nice (heavenly, wonderful, amazing, showstopping and a plethora of other words that do not even come close) but it doesn't really enlighten him as to what Tubbo's answer is going to be. Is this a "Yes of course I'm going to marry you" type of kiss or more, like, "No how dare you ask that I'm kissing you just so you shut up" deal?

(Now, a normal person, in a hypothetical fictional audience, would probably butt in right about now with, let's say, a text to speech device of some sort. And they would say, with all the confidence of anonymity, they'd say: "Ranboo, this is a really stupid dilemma. Why would he ever choose to reject with a kiss? Nobody does that ever." And they would probably be right! But the hand is still on his thigh, and another hand is rubbing slow circles into his waist, and the kiss is still happening, so forgive him if his reasonings aren't all that rational right about now.)

He manages to detach himself eventually - not easily, not even particularly willingly - for the few moments absolutely necessary to regain a couple braincells and learn how to use his own mouth again.

"Uh- U, I, Is this-" Not to use it well, mind you, but he isn't going to complain. he'll take what he can get and deal with it. "Uhu-"

"What was that, bossman?" Tubbo giggles, voice still raspy from the assault to his lips, and Ranboo finds it somewhat insulting; loquacity is an absurd standard to hold for the guy currently being lobotomized.

"Wh- was that, uh" Tubbo's hand is slowly rubbing at his cheek in what was probably meant to be encouragement, but only manages to scramble his brains even more. "Was that a yes?

"No."

His stomach plummets.

He knows, logically, that he should not have expected anything. They've been dating for not even a year, and this was sprung on Tubbo so suddenly, and everyone always say to never ask if you aren't sure your partner will say yes but Ranboo will never be sure of anything in his life (at least not how he was sure this would've worked) and he needed to ask like, physically. And at the end of the day it's not like this is gonna mean anything for their relationship, because ring or not he knows Tubbo loves him (maybe, hopefully, because he cannot begin to imagine the contrary, it would tear him apart), but he had dared to hope-

"No," Tubbo continues, "I've just started making out with you, because that is how normal people reject proposals in real life." He's smiling, still caressing his cheek, and Ranboo wants to die a little less. He pointedly ignored the disembodied voice of the fictional audience member reminding him how they were right. (Just because you were doesn't mean you gotta act mean about it. Meanie.)

He groans, quite loudly, so that all of his horrible pain is heard, and hides his shameful face in the warm crook of Tubbo's neck.

"Never start a sentence like that ever again, for the love of god."

Tubbo laughs, bright and loud. "Oh, you poor baby", he croons, mockingly. Ranboo is being made fun of, but the guy doing it is exceptionally beautiful and also his fiance now, so all the haters are quite obviously just jealous.

"You're right though," Tubbo continues, "I wasn't quite finished answering."

Whatever smart, flirty and witty reply Ranboo could have given him gets swallowed by a chocking sound, as the push of lips and the warmth of hands pull him onto yet another battlefield.

---

"You know what would be really, really funny actually?" Tubbo asks, after everything is done. He's basically sitting in Ranboo's lap now, only one lonely knee left hanging on the blanket. They cuddle together tighter, mostly because they want to, but also because it got so cold on that roof once the sun went down and now it feels far below freezing.

"Hmmmm..." he rumbles, a content rumble (NOT. a purr. shut up.) so loud it almost hides his voice. "No, what would?"

"If we just pretended to be married already." Tubbo sits up a little bit.

"Just like. Hear me out."

"I'm hearing, I'm hearing."

"Okay, for one - we've got like, another full year before we would be able to actually get married and you and I both know I've got zero patience to wait that long. And we're like, super wanted criminals, so nobody would want to marry us even if we were legal, right?"

"Absolutely correct."

"And also. Think of the Bitches faces when we get into battle against them and we have wedding bands on, calling each other 'husband' and shit"

A pause.

"Oh, oh my god" They both start laughing at the same time, falling back into the blankets in a mountain of little giggles. The thought is, as expected, absolutely hilarious, and with the added giddiness of being able to be husbands, of loving each other that much - it doesn't look like they'll be stopping anytime soon.

The moon is high in the sky, the cold is still frigid, and their laughs are loud enough for several noise complaints. Tonight, they hug each other and go to bed. Tomorrow, chaos would begin for real.

[vid-writes]

A Soulless Man Cares (Ch. 15)

As always this story is for adults only

I watched the video the next afternoon as I sat in Shudmos' office and ate lunch. The pants and shirt given to me to wear were easy to relax in. They refused to provide me with my phone and limited my internet access to any account Shudmos personally used. It felt like the way I grew up a bit, but watching the video, I knew I wouldn't want to know what people were saying. Not yet.

This time, as I listened to Shudmos reveal Kari's ancestors' crimes, the reality of them finally sank in.

"The original people who landed here one fateful night over fifteen millennia ago and named themselves the Torvalur family are not who they claim to be. They, just like myself, come from another far-off world. A world where beings you could only dream of until today exist." Shudmos' dual voice still filled the office despite coming through speakers on a computer. He spent a bit of time talking about the creatures of the world he was from, and then he dropped the whole truth.

"Back in my home world, the Szakatan ancestors were responsible for the pure annihilation of several races of magic users. And it wasn't just simple wars and executions. Those who wielded light and darkness magic or were even suspected of doing so were hunted like animals at a wholesale slaughterhouse. Their corpses would be strung up along main roads, crucified in their families' front yards, and even nailed to castle dining hall walls." In the video, I puked, and Shudmos stopped speaking. Something I hadn't noticed at the moment surfaces now. Worry is clear to see on his face.

"We can stop if you need to," you can barely hear Shudmos whisper to me as he rubs my back. His other hand hauled my hair out of my way as I continued to puke my guts out.

"I'm okay, so please don't edit that out. The people watching need to know I just found out," I replied in the video. Shudmos pulls out a cloth square from the suit jacket he had been wearing and offers it to me. You can visibly see my body shaking as I clean my mouth. The video cuts around the part where he summoned his assistant for water for me and then continues.

"After the subsequent genocide of two races of magic users, these ursine shifters Nephilim fled to another world. While fleeing, they left behind supporters of their ideals in charge of the world they changed," Shudmos continued. "They hoped to escape their crimes and find a new world to rule over while its inhabitants were ignorant of their actions. And it worked for nearly fifteen thousand years, but they weren't counting on me to have followed them. You see, this vessel I occupy was born soulless the day I arrived alongside the Szakatan ancestors. I took it up as my body and lay in wait. Every so often, I would try to surmount a following to take them down, but they always stayed two steps ahead. Thanks to the technological era and a well-placed spy, I managed to get five steps ahead of them." The white glow around his body in the video was incredibly hard to look away from.

A knock on the door startled me before Peninnah opened it.

"Lord Shudmos has requested you in his chambers," she said.

"Alright, I'm coming." I tossed my remaining sandwich in the trashcan, which was free of my vomit, and followed her.

"Peninnah informed me that you wished to speak with me," I said as I pushed the doors open to Shudmos' chambers. The god himself stopped midstride with a phone to his ear and held up a finger to me.

"Well, tell them they can speak with their daughter when I have deemed she's not going to give away vital information about our compound," he growled at the person on the other end. My heart pounded in my chest as he resumed pacing his sitting area.

"If they incite violence, much more gruesome violence will greet them in return. They can speak to Flora when I'm ready." He jammed his finger into the screen to end the call and whirled towards me. "Your family will be the death of themselves," he seethed.

"Yeah, probably," I muttered and shrugged.

"I wanted to let you know your chambers are ready, and I even got a few dresses for you to wear if you're more comfortable in them," he explained. My heart settled in my chest at his kind gesture.

"Thank you," I smiled. "Can you show me which room is mine?"

The door to my room was down the hallway and around the corner from Shudmos' chambers, the very first room after them. It wasn't the grand royal chambers I was used to, but it was cozy. A large bed, a standing wardrobe, and a shelf full of books occupied most of the room's space. The only door in the room that didn't lead out led to a washroom with a large shower. In the wardrobe hung five dresses, all in shades of black, five simple black shirts hung next to the dresses, and on the little shelf at the top sat five pairs of stretchy pants.

"If you need anything feminine like underclothes or menstrual products, I can have someone buy those fresh for you at the store tomorrow when they go on their usual run. Just make a list and give it to me," Shudmos said, breaking my silent admiration of the room.

"Thank you again. This room is nice, and since you got me a washroom of my own, I promise to only bother you for your tub on bad days or every Saturday." I smiled at Shudmos. He smiled back at me.

"I'll leave you alone to get settled in then." He studied my face briefly before leaving my new room and closing the door behind him.

I kicked off the slippers I wore and tossed myself onto the bed. It was softer than the one at home. Since there was nothing to do and no one to bother me, I decided to nap. After pulling the curtains closed over the single window in my room and turning off the ceiling fan light, I curled up underneath the thick duvet and fell asleep.

"Flora," a voice drifted into the inky blackness of my sleep. I rolled over and tucked the blanket over my head.

"Five more minutes," I grumbled.

"Come on, there's something I want to show you," the warm and soft voice drifted into my half-asleep ears again.

I groaned and pulled the blanket off of my face. The darkness of the room was interrupted as someone turned on the light. Shudmos stood in my room with his back against my door.

"Freaky," I muttered as I rubbed sleep from my eyes.

"Well, I promise what I want to show you is completely normal," he countered with a smirk, and it was then that I noticed he was still speaking in the warm voice.

"Only if you explain the differences between Shudmos and the vessel," I said as I slid out of bed and into my slippers.

"For one, we go by the same name," Shudmos started as he led me from my room. "For two, when we speak in the warm voice, it's more or less just the vessel in control. Shudmos is still present and aware, but I also experience the world and make choices."

"That raised far more questions than it answered."

He chuckled as he continued to lead me down hallways and up staircases.

"It'll make sense one day," he finally said as he pushed open a door at the top of the staircase we were on. "Now, before I show you this, you have to promise not to run away."

"Why would I do that?" I asked.

"Because we are going outside. I heard from someone that there is an amazing meteor shower tonight, and I wanted you to see what that looked like in a place with no light pollution," Shudmos explained.

"And you claim to be soulless," I teased. "In all seriousness, I promise not to run away."

He pushed the door open the rest of the way, and darkness filled the space. Just beyond that darkness, I could see a sea of stars.

A gasp of awe left my throat as I stepped outside and could see nothing but stars for kilometers and kilometers. It seemed like we were in the middle of a farm field that looked harvested recently. I looked around to find the compound, only to see nothing more than the door behind us that we left through.

"Where is the compound?" I asked Shudmos.

"Mostly underground," he replied.

"But there are windows in several rooms, even one in mine," I gaped at him.

"Like I said, mostly underground," he reiterated. "Now gape at the stars."

Rolling my eyes, I turned my gaze back upwards just as several shooting stars tore across the sky, filling it with even more light as they raced by. As those faded into the distance, the sky seemed to explode with them. Dozens, maybe hundreds more, started to fill the sky. They all blazed by in quick arcs across the sky, some long and some short. Many of them even refracted the colors the others produced and danced through the rainbow as they hurtled by.

Pure awe and wonder filled my soul. A sound to my right caught my attention, and I turned to see Shudmos had gotten closer to me. And the noise I had heard was the sound of him taking a picture of me.

"What was that about?" I asked as I watched more stars race across the sky.

"I wanted you to always be able to remember this moment. The people who serve me are trying to preserve this, and yes, I used them to get my way, but I'm not going to betray them now. Especially when things will get much worse before they ever get better," Shudmos explained.As the last of the stars trailed across the sky in an attempt to catch up with the others, I understood what was to come.

"Before all of this went sideways, I was starting to train in combat," I started, and Shudmos turned to me with his eyebrows raised again. "I would like to continue that here. So far, I'm not particularly skilled with anything yet, but I am beyond the basics."

He smirked at me.

"We will gladly oversee your training, little flower," he cooed with both voices.

I shuddered.

"Don't you have a revolution to run? Why not pawn me off on one of your soldiers and make them do it?" His smirk grew darker.

"Because even though none of them would make a move without your consent, I don't trust them not to cause any 'accidents' for which I might have to kill them," he stated.

"So instead, I'm going to get my ass handed to me by an all-powerful god?" I shook my head and laughed.

"But once you get to a point where I'm no longer handing you your ass, you will be capable of defeating anyone in battle," he purred, still speaking with both voices.

"That is-,"

"Freaky, I know," he interrupted me. "I know many people who would disagree. Several women find it sexy when I use both voices." He grinned, showing off his shark teeth.

Again, I shuddered.

"Let's head back inside and eat dinner in my chambers, and perhaps you can tell me some things you don't find so freaky," he said.

In his chambers, I lounged on the fainting couch at the end of his bed while we waited for the food. Shudmos was currently showering, and the sound of the running water was hypnotic. Hypnotic enough that when he stepped out of his bathroom wearing only a towel slung low around his waist, it didn't register. Spaced out, I stared at the wall adjacent to the bathroom door. Unfortunately for me, that wall also contained his massive wardrobe.

When he stepped into my line of sight, pure muscle filled my view. The suits he preferred to wear hid this build well. His back flexed and rolled as he opened the wardrobe, and once again, I found myself hypnotized, this time by Shudmos.

"I can feel you staring at me, mortal," he purred in the cold tone.

"Not my fault those suits hide such a blessing from the world." I snatched up the nearest pillow and covered my face as soon as I realized what I said. "Please suffocate me to death with this pillow."

Shudmos laughed that full, real laugh.

I felt electricity spark up my spine.

These emotions would not happen. I would not allow myself to fall for a fucking god.

"No one said you had to stop looking." I threw the pillow at him, which he caught mid-air.

"Gross," I said.

"You're such a fucking liar," he countered. My head snapped in his direction, which was a mistake because he wore only boxers.

Shudmos stepped into the sweats he was holding and smirked. "Stunned into silence, huh," he teased.

And now, wait a minute? He never teased. Was he?

I studied his face and noticed his eyes glowed a little bit. His smirk grew into a smile, and he winked at me.

"You are gross," I said.

"Yet you still find me attractive," he tossed back. I growled and turned to find another pillow. The nearest one was at the head of Shudmos' bed. I dove for it.

The god had the same idea because we collided mid-air and crashed into the bed in a tangled-up heap. I couldn't tell where he ended, and I began.

There was a knock on the outermost doors to Shudmos' chambers, and we both tried to jump up, only to fall over each other and crash to the floor. The noise we made seemed to cause concern because two seconds later, Peninnah appeared in the doorway to the bed chamber.

"Is everything alright?" She looked around and saw us in a heap on the floor. Though, as luck would have it, this heap involved Shudmos halfway on top of me with his hands on either side of my head and my legs wrapped around his from trying to stand while in the earlier heap. "Oh my, I didn't mean to interrupt; I just heard a crashing sound and got worried about Flora. Please forgive the intrusion, my lord."

Peninnah bowed and hurried back to the other doors.

"Peninnah, wait," Shudmos called as he finally pushed off the floor. He stepped over me and followed after his assistant. "Thank you for checking on us, and you didn't interrupt anything. There's no need for apologies; you were doing your job."

I couldn't hear Peninnah's reply, but she wheeled in the food cart a few seconds later. I would have moved from the floor, but I was still planning on getting revenge on the god for teasing and now embarrassing me.

Once Peninnah left the room and Shudmos returned, I pushed up from the floor. Before he was in the room, I ran at him and jumped onto his back.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting my revenge," I said.

"Oh really? And what exactly does this revenge entail," his dual voice was back. I was starting to like it, and I hated him for that. "Because it seems like all you're doing right now is feeling my muscles."

My face heated, and I smacked the god in the head. Actually smacked him.

Before I could even think of regretting my action, Shudmos had me clinging to his front instead. His eyes glowed more, and those shark teeth were on full display.

"Don't tease me," I said.

"So it's fine when you do it?" he asked.

"Yeah, because I'm not also being a flirt," I answered. Shudmos moved again with such speed that my breath caught in my throat. My back was pressed against the wall adjacent to his bed when we stopped again.

"You," Shudmos started and leaned his head closer to mine. His hot breath fanned my neck. "You are such a fucking liar."

Lightning shot up my spine again, and I couldn't suppress the shudder of my body that followed. His breath got closer as Shudmos whispered in my ear, "You will never be capable of lying to me."

My hands clung to his upper arms as I forced them to stay put and not test if his hair was as soft as it looked.

"No matter how you try, no matter how you train, you will never be able to lie to me," he whispered again, and I could feel his lips touch my ear with every word.

My fingers acted on their own and raked through his hair, which was softer than it looked. He tensed and then relaxed. My fingers ran through his hair again, and this time Shudmos reacted. Shudmos pulled his head back and pressed his lips to mine. A soft groan escaped my lips as I tangled my fingers in his hair. As his lips moved against mine, I snapped to my senses.

Gently, I pushed Shudmos away from me and shook my head. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Yet you want to," he said as he stepped back and set me on my feet.

"I do, but right now, I can't. There's still too much going on, and neither of us trusts each other. We shouldn't build our trust on a foundation of sex." I ran my hands over my hair to smooth it back down.

"That's the truest thing you've said all night," was all he said.

Once he served us dinner, Shudmos started the conversation again. He asked me a bunch of random but average questions. What was my favorite color? How many siblings did I have? How had Clarissa and I discovered her secret? What kind of stories did my mom or nanny read to me growing up?

In turn, he allowed me to ask questions as well.

"Do you often allow your wings to come out?" Shudmos stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth.

"Not often, but I do allow them out, usually during training or in my room," he replied. That made sense considering they were such a private part of himself.

"Yesterday, you said you were far from holy, yet you are half-angel," I mused.

"That does not make me holy, little flower." He pushed his empty plate away from him on the table tucked into one of the corners of his bed chamber. "Do you have any other questions?"

"Just one. Were you hoping I would stay?" Shudmos seemed caught off guard by this question.

"Honestly, somewhere on the inside, I was hoping you'd consider it. I know it means abandoning everything and everyone you've ever known, but it's been a while since I've had any real companionship. Everyone here has me on a pedestal, not you. You don't treat me like some revered creature you aren't worthy of being casual with. Don't get me wrong, everyone here are good people, but none of them could be considered my friend," he explained.

My heart was hammering in my chest again. I wanted to kiss Shudmos again. Instead, I faked a yawn.

"You should probably head to bed. Shall I walk you to your room?"

"I would like that," I nodded.

We walked a few meters down the hall and around the corner to my room. The hallway containing my room was a dead end after my room. There wasn't even another hallway in the other direction. Shudmos just wanted more time with me.

"I hope you do come to know the people here and make friends with them," Shudmos said as I leaned my back against my door.

"I hope I do as well," I smiled at him.

"You want me to kiss you again despite your earlier truth, don't you?" he asked in his warm voice.

There was no point in lying to Shudmos, so I stretched on my toes, cupped his cheek in my hand, and hauled his mouth to mine. After a few seconds, I pulled back and opened my door behind me.

"Goodnight Shudmos. Don't wake me up again by slipping into my room unannounced," I teased as I walked into my room backward.

"Goodnight, Flora," he said as he watched me. His eyes remained on mine as I closed the door.

Not falling for a fucking god was going to be impossible.

Buy one here

[kaoarika]

My ideal to reorganize my 15 year old blog would be tools that Tumblr is never going to provide, lmao.

An update to Mass Post Editor (I think new xkit had smth better than this? or xkit rewritten?, but I admittedly haven't put either extensions in Firefox :/), that reorganizes the grid as how archive looks nowadays because long image posts have always been a mess that ruins the grid, and the way they look as same size squares in archive helps me BETTER. Also, something about going to specific tagged posts. To specific type of posts (image, written, links, video, etc... LIKE THE ARCHIVE DOES)

Actual looking at my OWN tagged private posts. I THOUGHT I was doing something neat while marking down old "private" posts with "private" tags. But, they technically "do not exist" as tagged posts if I look at them on the mobile blog view thing... unless you search the terms contained in the post itself, btw. So, I need to do smth much more neat ideas (or much more specific) in regards to that, lmao.

Changing main blogs -> side blogs, viceversa or smth...? I know there's some logistics there that haven't been simply done (I think this has been on the average tumblr user wishlist for support/dev team for a LONG TIME) due to old noodley coding, maybe? to let you do so, especially with older URL blogs, and so. I had this weird idea of reblogging old posts for an archive blog thing and deleting them from main, but, honestly it's a task I don't want to do (especially due to the QUANTITY of stuff I have here for FIFTEEN YEARS). Like... I'm real with you, I wish I could move to a new blog because, as I always have been complaining in the past few years, my main blog is messy, has glitches that come from the old early 2010s Tumblr days, smth about "rebranding myself",etc. I know ppl sometimes do a side blog and it becomes their "main" so to speak, while their "old main" is an archive... and I'm attached to main, and I also control my other sideblogs from this account and, UGHHHH. I cannot do that. I don't want to start from zero and such. If I made that decision, 10 years ago, that would have been better moment, lmao. Now? I can't. I simply can't, I feel.

[true-blue-sonic]

I always figured that Silver got decoupled from time after the mess that was 06. If Sonic and Blaze remember the events to some extent, why wouldn't it have effects on everyone else? Everyone else that was there at the end was from the present, and since Silver shows up later I think it makes sense that slotting him into the revised timeline didn't work perfectly.

That also makes sense. It is rather strange that Silver appears in Rivals again, despite the fact that he, for all intents and purposes, should have been fully wiped from time after Solaris' flame got blown out. The history of the world is so different from that point onwards without the release of Iblis, it's highly unlikely that Silver got born again normally. For me, it thus does make sense that there is some kind of force at play that ensured he existed again in Rivals with exactly the same appearance and powers... but as for what that is and how it works, I have no clue. And we don't know anything about what his life in the future has been like: if he got born to parents and grew up into a fourteen-year-old, or if he just popped out of nowhere as said fourteen-year-old with no history to speak of, or any other possible scenario here. Since he and Eggman Nega seem to know each other, he must have existed in the new future for at least a little while, is the one thing I feel we can conclude with any certainty.

Then again, I doubt that Sega really put a lot of thought into Silver's impossible existence; Sonic '06's plot is already a massive paradox-riddled chaos to begin with, so the fact that Silver still exists after the whole course of history got changed is hardly even the biggest issue there, lol. Nor do I think Sega will really dive into it much sometime in the future, since there is simply no reason for them to do so. All this stuff happened more than fifteen years ago, and Silver's alleged role as the third main male hedgehog (because they named him Silver partly to ensure future games with his name would be near Sonic's) very quickly got shot down with how hated '06 and he were. Right now with the state of the franchise and the lack of (strong) focus on any character who isn't the main four plus Shadow and Eggman and maybe Metal Sonic, I doubt that Sega will ever suddenly begin giving all sorts of backstory information for Silver of all characters. He's not exactly the most popular character to be giving that attention to, I think. Regarding Silver's existence in Rivals and onwards, I myself like to think that Silver somehow got 'reincarnated' by divine intervention, and got born and grew up as the Silver we know (with his appearance, powers, and personality from '06) 'normally' in the future. Maybe that divine intervention took pity on him after everything that happened in '06 and therefore gave him a second shot at life, wherein he could protect the future successfully. But Silver's future, his time travel and its consequences, and his history are shrouded in mystery and confusion, and I figure there might not be any decent and logical clarity about it anytime soon. But then again, time travel always has such issues attached to it since it is paradoxical by nature, haha. And it does allow for many different ways to think about how the Silver from '06 could have ended up in Rivals and onwards!

[7r0773r]

Brief Notes on the Art and Manner of Arranging One's Books by Georges Perec, translated by John Sturrock

But literature is not an activity separated from life. We live in a world of words, of language, of stories. Writing is not the privilege exclusively of the man who sets aside for his century a brief hour of conscientious immortality each evening and lovingly fashions, in the silence of his study, what others will later proclaim, solemnly, to be 'the honour and integrity of our letters'. Literature is indissolubly bound up with life, it is the necessary prolongation, the obvious culmination, the indispensable complement of experience. All experience opens on to literature and all literature on to experience and the path that leads from one to the other, whether it be literary creation or reading, establishes this relationship between the fragmentary and the whole, this passage from the anecdotal to the historical, this interplay between the general and the particular, between what is felt and what is understood, which forms the very tissue of our consciousness. (Robert Antelme or the Truth of Literature, pp. 2-3)

***

To begin with, it all seems simple: I wanted to write, and I've written. By dint of writing, I've become a writer, for myself alone first of all and for a long time, and today for others. In principle, I no longer have any need to justify myself (either in my own eyes or in the eyes of others). I'm a writer, that's an acknowledged fact, a datum, self-evident, a definition. I can write or not write, I can go several weeks or several months without writing, or write ‘well' or write ‘badly’, that alters nothing, it doesn't make my activity as a writer into a parallel of complementary activity. I do nothing else but write (except earn the time to write), I don't know how to do anything else, I haven't wanted to learn anything else... I write in order to live and I live in order to write, and I've come close to imagining that writing and living might merge completely: I would live in the company of dictionaries, deep in some provincial retreat, in the mornings I would go for a walk in the woods, in the afternoons I would blacken a few sheets of paper, in the evenings I would relax perhaps by listening to a bit of music…

It goes without saying that when you start having ideas like these (even if they are only a caricature), it becomes urgent to ask yourself some questions.

I know, roughly speaking, how I became a writer. I don't know precisely why. In order to exist, did I really need to line up words and sentences? In order to exist, was it enough for me to be the author of a few books?

In order to exist, I was waiting for others to designate me, to identify me, to recognize me. But why through writing? I long wanted to be a painter, for the same reasons I presume, but I became a writer. Why writing precisely?

Did I then have something so very particular to say? But what have I said? What is there to say? To say that one is? To say that one writes? To say that one is a writer? A need to communicate what? A need to communicate that one has a need to communicate? That one is in the act of communicating? Writing says that it is there, and nothing more, and here we are back again in that hall of mirrors where the words refer to one another, reflect one another to infinity without ever meeting anything other than their own shadow.

I don't know what, fifteen years ago when I was beginning to write, I expected from writing. But I fancy I'm beginning to understand, at the same time, the fascination that writing exercised — and continues to exercise — over me, and the fissure which that fascination both discloses and conceals.

Writing protects me. I advance beneath the rampart of my words, my sentences, my skilfully linked paragraphs, my astutely programmed chapters. I don't lack ingenuity.

Do I still need protecting? And suppose the shield were to become an iron collar?

One day I shall certainly have to start using words to uncover what is real, to uncover my reality.

Today, no doubt, I can say that that's what my project is like. But I know it will not be fully successful until such time as the Poet has been driven from the city once and for all, such time as we can take up a pickaxe or a spade, a sledge-hammer or a trowel, without laughing, without having the feeling, yet again, that what we are doing is derisory, or a sham, or done to create a stir. It's not so much that we shall have made progress (because it's certainly no longer at that level that things will be measured), it's that our world will at last have begun to be liberated. (The Gnocchi of Autumn or An Answer, pp. 26-29)

***

To question what seems so much a matter of course that we've forgotten its origins. To rediscover something of the astonishment that Jules Verne or his readers may have felt faced with an apparatus capable of reproducing and transporting sounds. For that astonishment existed, along with thousands of others, and it's they which have moulded us.

What we need to question is bricks, concrete, glass, our table manners, our utensils, our tools, the way we spend our time, our rhythms. To question that which seems to have ceased forever to astonish us. We live, true, we breathe, true; we walk, we open doors, we go down staircases, we sit at a table in order to eat, we lie down on a bed in order to sleep. How? Where? When? Why?

Describe your street. Describe another street. Compare.

Make an inventory of your pockets, of your bag. Ask yourself about the provenance, the use, what will become of each of the objects you take out.

Question your tea spoons.

What is there under your wallpaper?

How many movements does it take to dial a phone number? Why?

Why don't you find cigarettes in grocery stores? Why not?

It matters little to me that these questions should be fragmentary, barely indicative of a method, at most of a project. It matters a lot to me that they should seem trivial and futile: that's exactly what makes them just as essential, if not more so, as all the other questions by which we've tried in vain to lay hold on our truth. (Approaches to What?, pp. 32-33)

***

2.1. Ways of arranging books

ordered alphabetically ordered by continent or country ordered by colour ordered by date of acquisition ordered by date of publication ordered by format ordered by genre ordered by major periods of literary history ordered by language ordered by priority for future reading ordered by binding ordered by series

None of these classifications is satisfactory by itself. In practice, every library is ordered starting from a combination of these modes of classification, whose relative weighting, resistance to change, obsolescence and persistence give every library a unique personality.

We should first of all distinguish stable classifications from provisional ones. Stable classifications are those which, in principle, you continue to respect; provisional classifications are those supposed to last only a few days, the time it takes for a book to discover, or rediscover, its definitive place. This may be a book recently acquired and not yet read, or else a book recently read that you don't quite know where to place and which you have promised yourself you will put away on the occasion of a forthcoming 'great arranging', or else a book whose reading has been interrupted and that you don't want to classify before taking it up again and finishing it, or else a book you have used constantly over a given period, or else a book you have taken down to look up a piece of information or a reference and which you haven't yet put back in its place, or else a book that you can't put back in its rightful place because it doesn't belong to you and you've several times promised to give it back, etc.

In my own case, nearly three-quarters of my books have never really been classified. Those that are not arranged in a definitively provisional way are arranged in a provisionally definitive way, as at the OuLipo. Meanwhile, I move them from one room to another, one shelf to another, one pile to another, and may spend three hours looking for a book without finding it but sometimes having the satisfaction of coming upon six or seven others which suit my purpose just as well.

2.2. Books very easy to arrange

The big Jules Vernes in the red binding, very large books, very small ones, Baedekers, rare books or ones presumed to be hardbacks, volumes in the Pléiade collection, the Présence du Futur series, novels published by the Editions de Minuit, collections, journals of which you possess at least three issues, etc.

2.3. Books not too difficult to arrange

Books on the cinema, whether essays on directors, albums of movie stars or shooting scripts, South American novels, ethnology, psychoanalysis, cookery books (see above), directories (next to the phone), German Romantics, books in the Que Sais-je? series (the problem being whether to arrange them all together or with the discipline they deal with), etc.

2.4. Books just about impossible to arrange

The rest: for example, journals of which you possess only a single issue, or else La Campagne de 1812 en Russie by Clausewitz, translated from the German by M. Bégouën, Captain-Commandant in the 31st Dragoons, Passed Staff College, with one map, Paris, Librairie Militaire R. Chapelot et Cie, 1900; or else fascicule 6 of Volume 91 (November 1976) of the Proceedings of the Modern Language Association of America (PMLA) giving the programme for the 666 working sessions of the annual congress of the said Association.

2.5.

Like the librarians of Babel in Borges's story, who are looking for the book that will provide them with the key to all the others, we oscillate between the illusion of perfection and the vertigo of the unattainable. In the name of completeness, we would like to believe that a unique order exists that would enable us to accede to knowledge all in one go; in the name of the unattainable, we would like to think that order and disorder are in fact the same word, denoting pure chance.

It's possible also that both are decoys, a trompe l'oeil intended to disguise the erosion of both books and systems. It is no bad thing in any case that between the two our bookshelves should serve from time to time as joggers of the memory, as cat-rests and as lumber-rooms. (Brief Notes on the Art and Manner of Arranging One's Books, pp. 66-69)

***

P. HOW I CLASSIFY

My problem with classifications is that they don't last; hardly have I finished putting things into an order before that order is obsolete. Like everyone else, I presume, I am sometimes seized by a mania for arranging things. The sheer number of the things needing to be arranged and the near-impossibility of distributing them according to any truly satisfactory criteria mean that I never finally manage it, that the arrangements I end up with are temporary and vague, and hardly any more effective than the original anarchy.

The outcome of all this leads to truly strange categories. A folder full of miscellaneous papers, for example, on which is written "To be classified"; or a drawer labelled 'Urgent 1' with nothing in it (in the drawer 'Urgent 2' there are a few old photographs, in 'Urgent 3' some new exercise books). In short, I muddle along.

F. BORGES AND THE CHINESE

'(a) belonging to the Emperor, (b) embalmed, (c) domesticated, (d) sucking pigs, (e) sirens, (f) fabulous, (g) dogs running free, (h) included in the present classification, (i) which gesticulate like madmen. (j) innumerable, (k) drawn with a very fine camel-hair brush, (l) etcetera, (m) which have just broken the pitcher, (n) which look from a distance like flies.'

Michel Foucault has hugely popularized this 'classification' of animals which Borges in Other Inquisitions attributes to a certain Chinese encyclopedia that one Doctor Franz Kuhn may have held in his hands. The abundance of intermediaries and Borges's well-known love of an ambiguous erudition permit one to wonder whether this rather too perfectly astonishing miscellaneity is not first and foremost an effect of art. An almost equally mind-boggling enumeration might be extracted simply enough from government documents that could hardly be more official:

(a) animals on which bets are laid, (b) animals the hunting of which is banned between 1 April and 15 September, (c) stranded whales, (d) animals whose entry within the national frontiers is subject to quarantine, (e) animals held in joint ownership, (f) stuffed animals, (g) etcetera (this etc. is not at all surprising in itself; it's only where it comes in the list that makes it seem odd), (h) animals liable to transmit leprosy, (i) guide-dogs for the blind, (j) animals in receipt of significant legacies, (k) animals able to be transported in the cabin, (l) stray dogs without collars, (m) donkeys, (n) mares assumed to be with foal. ('Think/Classify', pp. 84-86)

***

K. SOME APHORISMS

Marcel Benabou of the OuLiPo has thought up a machine for manufacturing aphorisms. It consists of two parts, a grammar and a vocabulary.

The grammar lists a certain number of formulas commonly used in a majority of aphorisms. For example: A is the shortest route from B to C. A is the continuation of B by other means. A little A carries us away from B, a lot brings us closer. Little As make big Bs. A wouldn't be A if it wasn't B. Happiness is in A not B. A is a malady for which B is the cure. Etc.

The vocabulary lists pairs of words (or trios, or quartets) which may be false synonyms (sentiment/ sensation, knowledge/science), antonyms (life/death, form/content, remember/forget), words that are phonetically close (belief/relief, love/leave), words grouped together by usage (crime/punishment, hammer/sickle, science/life). Etc.

The injection of the vocabulary into the grammar produces ad lib a near-infinite number of aphorisms, each one of them bearing more meaning than the last. Whence a computer program, devised by Paul Braffort, which can turn out on demand a good dozen within a few seconds:

Remembering is a malady for which forgetting is the cure

Remembering wouldn't be remembering if it weren't forgetting

What comes by remembering goes by forgetting

Small forgettings make big rememberings

Remembering adds to our pains, forgetting to our pleasures

Remembering delivers us from forgetting, but who will deliver us from remembering?

Happiness is in forgetting, not in remembering

Happiness is in remembering, not in forgetting

A little forgetting carries us away from remembering, a lot brings us closer

Forgetting unites men, remembering divides them

Remembering deceives us more often than forgetting

Etc.

Where is the thinking here? In the formula? In the vocabulary? In the operation that marries them? ('Think/Classify', pp. 93-94)

[theunboundwriter]

A Silent Story -by the unbound writer.

            I have an insatiable desire to be heard. I often find myself wishing for people to want to hear the thoughts that linger on my tongue, the words that are caught in my throat. I want to be asked questions, I want to share my opinions, I want to tell the stories that exist only in my heart. 

            When I finally have an audience, however, I find that I have nothing to say. 

            My mind is racing, far faster than my heart could ever beat. My chest is filled with memories and hopes and desires that are trying to burst through my ribcage, to spill out into the world. Every moment of every day, words are clawing at my throat, begging for me to just speak!

            I glance into the eyes of my peers. Expectant. Waiting for me to join the conversation. Waiting for me to speak. Waiting perpetually. My lips are locked together. The stories in my head vanish without a trace and my heart pounds deep within my chest. I am silent and I don’t understand why. 

            I was an attention-seeking child. Fifteen years ago, as a kindergartener, I had my first solo in the school’s PTO program. Every year since, until the age of ten, I made sure to reserve a role in the spotlight for myself. I felt heard when I was on stage. All eyes in the room were on me, forced to listen to the things I had to say. I basked in the attention.

            I think the change occurred when I went to middle school. None of the classmates that I had known for the past five years had joined me. I was isolated. Thrown into a sea of eleven- and twelve-year-old’s that I had never met. It was hard to make friends when they all already had their groups. I was just another empty face in the crowd. The words began to build up in my throat, but I refused to allow them release. Something in me was afraid of them being heard. Afraid that somehow my thoughts would isolate me even more. 

            I began to wear a mask. The words that poured from my lips were no longer my own. I only said what I thought my peers wanted to hear, altering the stories and thoughts in my head to match theirs. Maybe I thought it was safer that way. I wouldn’t have to struggle to fit in if I was just like everyone else. 

            But the words people heard from me did not come from my heart. They were more like a pacemaker, in a sense. They were nothing more than sounds that I had convinced myself were keeping me afloat in the sea of people. They kept my heart beating long enough for me to pour the thoughts that were entirely mine onto a piece of paper so that they could be heard in silence. 

            If they were not spoken aloud, then perhaps I could avoid the fear that grasped at my throat. Perhaps I could still be heard and find someone who will listen, all without me risking the friends that I have worked so hard to keep. They were thoughts that never had to be uttered aloud, kept safe from the hearts of my peers. If I were to express myself through my writing, rather than just speaking them into existence, some kind of buffer is created. Maybe I can convince readers that these thoughts are from my mind—not my heart—and they are solely dramatized for entertainment. To say them aloud, however, I could never make such a claim about the words that escaped from my throat. 

            Writing became my way of being heard. A way for me to distance myself from the thoughts and desires that live in my heart. It allows them a place to reside, a place that relieves me from the aches of all these pent-up stories. 

            I don’t understand my fear of being heard, especially when I long for it so badly. It puts me in the center of a dark sea, opposing waves crashing into me in relentless repetition. The contrast is unrealistic. Unbeneficial. Sometimes I think I’m drowning. 

            The worst part is, I have the life preserver. It’s in my hands. All I have to do is put that orange and white ring around myself so that I’ll stay afloat. But something is stopping me. Something I don’t understand. A deep-rooted fear that seemed to form from nothing has such a strong hold on me that I refuse to use the life preserver and save myself. 

            I sit in silence. A choice that doesn’t feel like a choice. My writing says the things I can’t bring myself to say, but I’m still nervous about finally being heard. Readers form opinions and make assumptions that I can’t control. The idea of judgement fills me with a fear that I know I can’t avoid. 

            But there will come a day when I have to realize that I can’t avoid judgement. I can’t continue to live a silent life, because a silent life is hardly a life at all. When asked to share a story, and realizing I don’t have one to share, I was forced into a rude realization. How is it that I’ve lived without having a story to share? Perhaps it’s because I have not lived at all. I’ve sat in silence for so long that I have thrown away much of my life. 

            I have an insatiable desire to be heard, but what do I have to say?

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

[frankiefrankiefrankies]

((More Romulans/Vulcan forbidden lesbian romances ))

Faleen nodded. “I still think it’s likely. Very likely. S’Talon was fifteen years younger than me. He shared everything and always wanted my advice. He never mentioned you by name, but he did mention the daughter of Hvirr tr’Kaethaetreh.”

Verelan opened her mouth but words escaped her. No one mentioned her father by name after his disgrace, and if they could manage it they avoided speaking about him altogether or acted as though he never existed. In a subtle way, Faleen revealed her political alignment.

“You knew my father?”

Faleen took Verelan’s hand and looked her directly in the eye, urging her to listen closely to every word. “Years ago, before he went to Virinat.” She revealed little, a precaution in case they were overheard, but it was enough.

“I’ve heard Virinat is beautiful. I would like to see it for myself one day.” Her answer had to be just as careful.

“That might be possible.” Faleen squeezed Verelan’s hand before she stood. “Jolan tru, Verelan.”

[chiffonfawn]

You Age, Whether You Like It Or Not

September 9th 2023

My birthdays always come off as bittersweet to me. Today is my nineteenth. To put it simply: I don't feel like I've done anything monumental enough to be one year away from my twenties. Nowhere is it written in the stars that you have to have something monumental accomplished by the time you're an adult- it's just a standard that I've set up to inevitably fail to reach. I'm nineteen. I've been breathing and laughing and crying for nineteen years. I am currently sitting on a bench at my favorite park that is located a few blocks away from my house that I find myself at often. Whether it be to meditate, clear my mind, or just walk down to to get in some exercise. Of course, at the moment, I'm here for reflective reasons. I need a minute. I just thought to myself- "I am nineteen years old." Nineteen feels like too much. Reading the number pierces my eyes. How have I managed to live for this long? It is all so confusing. This is the first birthday that has caught me off guard, that has hit me with the harsh reality that time is a green light that never turns red. Cars just speed through it with no destination. There is this bird that has been sitting on the top of the gazebo since I approached the park. That was about twenty-ish minutes ago, and it's still sitting up there. I wonder what it is waiting for. A call? A sign? Maybe something great. I'm waiting for something great too, bird.

Ever since 14 I've spent my birthdays mourning. I've spent them with a bitter taste in my mouth and my middle finger stuck up to where everyone can see it and mock my vulgarity. Out of the 365 (or 366) days that make up a year, my birthday has always been the day that I feel the least loved, like, people always deem your birthday as the day you deserve to be, or are supposed to be, shown the most love, but I've been shown more love on, say a random Thursday in May, than any birthday I've ever had. It's like, everyone knows it's my birthday, but they don't let that thought leave their mind. I'm not important enough for them to speak their wishes, whether genuine or not, into existence.

Back to the mourning, I always mourn the version of myself I leave behind. I mourn the skin I shed although it is a component of my evolution. I can no longer fit into the sweater I once wore for days on end, drenched in my scent and presence. In this case, eighteen year old me. I'm not eighteen anymore. So where did she go? Seventeen year old me? Sixteen year old me?

For the last few years, what I feel is that every birthday I'm introduced to a new version of myself that I'm going to watch grow and live alongside for the next year. I get attached to that girl, I get attached to my new identity. "I'm fifteen, I'm sixteen, I'm seventeen, etc." Then once the clock strikes midnight on September 9th, she's gone and replaced with someone I don't know yet. I'll eventually get used to her, but her predecessor suddenly vanished mid-air. It takes me by surprise although I know it is coming. Once the first of September hits I know I don't have much time.

The person I am today is made up of all the places I have been, all the ages I have been. I am thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, and eighteen year old me bundled up into one lost and confused young woman. I've just matured, grown, added another year under my belt. Who knows how many I have left.

Last night I felt the need to clean my room so eighteen year old me could go out on a clean state. Eighteen was more-so on the calmer side of these years. Let's hope nineteen follows the path of a lack of catastrophe.

I took my first deep breath of the day, staring down at the saturated green grass, it is hugging my right foot. I would lie down in it, but I don't know what's in there plus we have a snake problem in my neighborhood. This is the final year of my teenage girlhood. This is it. All I have known for the last seven years of my life. I'm not ready for my twenties. I've done nothing, as I've mentioned, to where I can consider myself nearing that age. I've barely done anything in my life but observe the world around me. Write about it, cry about it, dream about it. Have I even truly lived? Taken it all in? We're almost halfway through this disastrous decade. My name is still unknown and my ideas inhabit scattered sheets of loose leaf notebook paper.

I wonder what these birds chirping are saying to one another. And these cicadas. What qualifies as monumental in bird life? They have less opportunity than humans, so it shouldn't be too broad of an aspect. That bird is still sitting on top of the gazebo. It might leave when I leave. I'd take that as symbolism. For what exactly? I'm unsure. I typically dissect things and create my own metaphors out of pure delusion. I'll figure something out.

I don't know why this birthday is so startling to me. The hourglass is beginning to speed up. Why does it seem as if the minutes are ticking by faster? I just turned my calendar to September. By the time I even open my mouth it'll be November.

Sitting at this park has always been cathartic. Hardly anyone ever comes here, despite there being two houses and a subdivision within a close walking distance. The only time I ever encountered others frolicking around over here was when I came here to take my prom pictures back in April. It was a father, daughter, and their dog. The guy I went with joked that he could 1v1 the dog in a fight. We don't talk anymore.

If there's anything that has at least curved a slight smile on my face today, it's been my friend, Carlos. He is typically the first person who texts me happy birthday, or acknowledges it. Frankly, I feel like he's the only one who remembers the sole date: 9/9. It isn't hard to remember, I tell people, the month and the date are the same number. They still forget. Maybe it's just because I've always had a knack for remembering dates that it's hard for me to process the fact it's not everyone's strong suit.

Carlos means the world to me. I always wake up on the wrong side of the bed on my birthdays. I turned on my phone, vacant of any birthday wishes, and felt my mouth curve downwards. Then he texted me, like, right then and there, and it felt like the sun was shining right onto my skin- warm, captivating, bright, hopeful. Every time I've been feeling down today, I think about him and I suddenly don't see a problem with getting older as long as he's here with me. He's older than I am, so he honestly has it worse, haha. Just kidding if you see this, Carlos. I love you.

A little yellow butterfly just approached a strand of grass right beside me. It's the shade of yellow like, a sticky note. It's petite, almost moth-like. Butterflies are symbolic of optimism to me, of good fortune. The butterfly perched on the grass for a moment and then fluttered away, observing the nature around itself. Do butterflies have emotions? Are they captivated by nature's beauty? Do they know that they're beautiful? I love butterflies. It's over by the willow trees now.

My wish is that by the time I turn twenty that I will have made some sort of impact on this path I thread, or have something created that I feel is worthwhile. There are things I strive to complete, to see soar. Things I don't know how to set free. Maybe I'll find out. Maybe I'll know in 365 days.

I'll try not to stress about my age. By tomorrow I won't care, but while the spotlight shines on me, while the calendar reads September 9th, it's strenuous and nauseating. While I was getting ready this morning I looked into the mirror and could see the age piling up like dirt on my face. People always tell me I look way younger than I am, and I agree, but today...I just looked so...forlorn, as if I were harvested and hollowed. I didn't recognize myself. It could be a factor of my face being inflamed currently, who knows. I'll probably feel like myself again in a few weeks.

In all honestly, nothing much has changed. I'm still in the same skin, wearing the same clothes I've been wearing, listening to the same music I've been listening to, and still feeling tired. I feel better about myself than I did a year ago. I can look at my body without feeling as insecure. My skin shines in a way I don't think it has...ever. I'm not holding as many grudges, I feel at peace with myself, in a way, not in the way that I feel incomplete and unaccomplished, but like, with my teenage years. I feel at peace with the encounters and incidents I've faced.

Well the clouds will still turn gray and then white again. The earth will still spin around on it's axis. The bird is still sitting on top of the gazebo. We're both just going to keep on living until God calls us home, who knows when. In the meantime, I'll get to experience. I'll get to watch my 5-year old cousin grow and compose new songs on the piano. I'll get to wear new shoes and pick out fruit at the grocery store.

If I did anything monumental this past year, I grew. That's pretty important. Maybe I have just been impacting myself more than others. I want that to change.

Here's to nineteen,

Avery

[meta-with-anne]

Fan Ethnography

In a conversation a few days ago, my best friend, Rose, asked me what should have been a very simple question. “What fandom do you plan to focus on for class?” 

I knew Rose’s answer before they told me, our fandom discussions have been a highlight of my life every few days for going on four years, and I knew that mine—as it seems so many of my answers in life tend to be—was much less concise. “It doesn’t feel right to pick one, but I already know my lens,” I tell them in an Instagram voice note, an on-going “whenever you’re around” conversation that after about a year of use must amount to hundreds of hours worth of discussion, nearly all involving our fandoms and fan culture at large.

Me 'n Rose (Bestie in Fandom)

I have identified as a “fangirl” for as long as I can remember, long enough that I still can’t always bring myself to use the more widely accepted term of “stan”, long enough that although I was officially too young for an account I have vivid memories of 2013-15 tumblr culture, long enough that despite only being twenty-one I have earned the term “fandom elder” entirely on accident. Maybe I was six? When my older sister Abby introduced me to a song called Fearless, only for me to be paying out the nose to see Taylor sing it live fifteen years later on the Eras Tour. I might’ve been eight, when this madman in a bow tie lit up the hospital room where I was getting cancer treatments. I definitely couldn’t have been older than eleven, though, by then I had a tumblr account, a rotating cast of dedicated fandom OC’s, and a t-shirt reading “Booknerd” with the classic Harry Potter-Percy Jackson-Hunger Games “Big Three” logo right beneath. By the time I entered middle school I was a self declared expert on the television shows Doctor Who, Glee, Star Trek, and Criminal Minds, and had read (or rather listened) to the Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, and Lord of the Rings series’ over a hundred times through, etv. There’s not much else to do when you’re a chronically ill child, stuck in bed, alone, and desperate to live without having to leave the hospital. 

Me, at 12, thinking my Eleventh Doctor shirt was hot shit

Although it is arguably the least interesting branch I hit while falling down the tree of intersectionality, as the child of lesbian parents, as an ethnically Jewish person, and as a someone who was born—and has spent my entire life—chronically ill and disabled, my identity as a woman has always been the one that has effected my fandom experience the most. (I must acknowledge here that I can only speak to my experience as one cisgender white woman, and that the experiences of those who are women of color, trans, nonbinary, and/or not attracted to men, are invariably going to be not only much different, but in many ways much more difficult than my own.)

For as long as I can remember, I have navigated the world with a hyperawareness of gender-based violence and discrimination, I think it’s impossible not to do so when growing up in an all-girl family, much less one where both my moms had experienced said violence, and where they both used fandom to cope themselves. If there was a time I did not, it was before the age of ten, when I was a victim of CSA at the hands of the medical system and the men who run it; to this day I can’t listen to the particular Lord of the Rings audiobook I had playing when it happened without bursting in to tears. It is imperative, in my view, to understand my hyperawareness of misogyny, to understand my experience with fandom. I came in to fan communities, and spent much of my formative time in them, in the proliferation of the peak NLog (not like other girls) years.

Who run the world? I mean not my family of girls...but it would be cool if we did

Bombarded with memes, texts posts, and a general atmosphere that the only “correct” way to exist as a girl, and especially a young girl (specifically one who was twelve pretending to be fifteen), was to not be like other girls. I must not be “shrill”, overly argumentative, disdainful of the casual sexism that lurks underneath the surface of many fan spaces, I must not bad-mouth venerated male creators (bad mouthing, of course, including questioning why it is so unreasonable to wish for a television writing team with more than a single woman), I must not overtly enjoy things like makeup, but I must still be effortlessly pretty (preferably with blue “orbs” and a red messy bun), I must not like pink (purple is usually fine though), and I must not actually say I am not like other girls, but must look upon their love of Taylor Swift, Gossip Girl, One Direction, and Twilight with disdain all the same.

This avalanche of expectations, reinforced by my online companions in fandom communities, as well as by my “enemies”, those who sent anonymous messages that I should kill myself for committing the great sin of writing a Doctor Who Jack/Nine/Rose “Makeover” one shot, caused an inordinate amount of cognitive dissonance, and was often deeply isolating. In my “real life” girls who shared my interests in clothes, makeup, sewing, and my nearly decade-long membership in Girl Scouts were not interested in talking about X-Men comics, Star Trek Expanded Universe novels, or the latest episode of Doctor Who. In my online world I could get my head bitten off in an instant simply for saying I thought it was unfair “girly girls” were usually portrayed as vapid and dumb in series like Percy Jackson and Harry Potter, and god forbid you have the audacity to like Molly Hooper on Sherlock or worse, Sansa Stark from Game of Thrones. 

An edit I made circa 2015 of my favorite Sansa Stark quote

Over the years my involvement in fandoms have waxed and waned, I’ve been bullied out of three (including anonymous death and rape threats in two and getting doxxed at the tender age of thirteen over one), Doctor Who, Marvel, and Taylor Swift. All for different reasons, but all really coming down to the idea I like “traditionally feminine” things too much, whether that be “pretty” actors like Matt Smith, “feminist” heroes like Captain Marvel, or “girly” albums like Lover. And yet, I keep coming back, I came back after the Game of Thrones finale (and have two over 100k viewed fanfics on AO3 to show for it), I came back for the thirteenth and fourteenth (no, I will not call him fifteen) Doctors, and have even tentatively poked my head back into the Avatar the Last Airbender and Percy Jackson fandoms with their respective renaissances.

BEHOLD A very dumb photo montage I made at the ripe old age of thirteen of aforementioned pretty actor (I still quote "I was called dumbo as a child" on a regular basis)

It’s easy to ask why I continue to subject myself to the “fandom experience”, and in turn to chalk it up to the chemical processes involved in my ADHD, my desperation for a community I can participate in despite my chronic pain and fatigue, or simply the fact I got involved so young I don’t know how to live without them. I think it’s a lot simpler than that, though, I think it’s because I process the world through writing, and because above else I love to write. Whether it be fan fiction, meta, or original works branching off from the questions the media I love continually invites me to ask, writing is my great passion, and the fandoms and franchises I fall in love with are the ones that spark my motivation to write; whether I’m analyzing Taylor Swift lyrics, breaking down the celebrity culture I’ve watched for over a decade in my original novel, or writing fan-fiction where once in a while I still love a good makeover montage. Fandom introduced me to writing, writing became the way I process the world, and in the circular nature of life, writing is what will always bring me back to fandom.  

That was a long post, thanks for reading, here's the best meme anyone has ever made for me (everyone say thank you Rose)

@theofficeofdocmalone

[stuckonvenus]

Look At Us Now

I DON’T REALLY KNOW RIDLEY ALBRIGHT. But we went to the same high school, shared teachers throughout the years, classes, clubs, etc., etc., and despite being a drug addict — he’s reportedly an excellent guitar player. I’m the lead guitar, of course, because that’s how it was in my old band before my bandmates decided to ditch town after graduation a year ago and didn’t look back. Not that I blame them, I only wish they would’ve brought me along. Anyway, all of this has led me to the doorstep of a guy I hardly know on an entirely different part of town than I’ve come from. All the houses are fenced-in and have security cameras installed, much more higher tech than the ones attached to the mobile homes in the trailer park I’ve been living in since junior year, and their grass is finely cut and treated better than anywhere else I’ve seen in town. How does a dope fiend live so lavishly? I ask myself, before I think, his mother probably doesn’t know. And I'm right about that much, because whenever I approach the door and knock, scraping the bottoms of the same Converse I’ve owned since I was fifteen, she seems surprised someone like me is on their side of the tracks. I ask her if Ridley’s home and she’s hesitant to answer, but eventually relents and says he’s upstairs. I walk through the threshold and breathe in the warm scent of cinnamon and clove emanating from the living room, which is minimally decorated but still looks lived in. So maybe they are real people, and not robots that are simulating human existence. I thank her for letting me in and trot upstairs, following the sound of a distant guitar until I reach a door with a STOP sign mounted on it. It reminds me of the room I share with Gabe, where we’ve decked it out with every warning poster we could find at the thrift store. It’s kind of funny, his older brother has the same design choice on his door, and he’s twenty-five. I guess guys never really do change if they can help it.

I knock on the door twice, but the guitar doesn’t come to a halt. The sound echoes and I can hear a faint voice singing along, albeit off-key, however it’s not excruciating to listen to. I press my ear up against the door and close my eyes. I nod along to the beat he’s playing to. I know the song, I just can’t quite put my finger on from where. Maybe one of Gabe’s dad’s old, abandoned vinyl records that we put on when we want to drown out the rest of the world when we’re doing our homework or talking nonsense at each other. Whenever I snap out of it, I knock louder, and I can hear the screech of the amp and a bit of shuffling before the door is swung open and a lanky kid, still a little more built than me, in a Joy Division shirt and sweatpants stares down at me with deep brown eyes.

“... Can I help you?” Ridley asks. He seems a little twitchy. I wonder if he keeps his dope kits in his room, or if he solely participates outside his perfect dreamhouse. Probably won’t do me any good to ask him that.

So instead, I say, “I’m Ellie Mercer. We used to go to school together. At Thomas Jefferson?” There are two kinds of kids in Richmond — kids that went to Thomas Jefferson like normal people, and kids that went to Open. Despite his reputation in debate club and soccer, I’m really glad I’m not speaking to one of the latter variety. “I was two years under you.”

“Oh,” Ridley says as his brows knit together while he scans my face for any familiarity. When nothing sparks behind his eyes, he still opens his door for me to come in. “Right, yeah. What’s up?”

I look around his bedroom. There’s a full-size bed underneath an open window, a desk pushed into a corner with drawings tacked above it; a lamp looming over a couple journals, pencils of differing utility in a cup, and a suspicious looking lunchbox. There’s also a couple of band posters taped to the muted blue walls, like The Smiths (Morrissey is a fucking asshole, but he makes good music, much like most musicians — not us, though), Slowdive, and Deftones. I think he’s got a decent taste in 80s male manipulator music, which should be a red flag, then I remember I kind of worship David Bowie and even though he’s technically a queer icon, he’s also on the roster of the countless men in the industry who were total pervs.

“I’m in a band,” I tell him and he immediately seems disconnected from everything I’m saying, or am about to say. “It’s not like that. We’re really cool, except, well — our rhythm guitarist dipped and, y’know, we need one of those.”

His eyes dart around his room for a moment before he begins retreating to where his guitar is. I give it a once over; looks like a Fender Strat, which is fine, even if I prefer my Gibson Les Paul. “I don’t really do bands.” he says in return, scratching the back of his neck. A bead of sweat glistens on his temple. Is he sweating out a high or something? I wouldn’t know much about the heavier kind of stuff, I’ve only ever screwed around with weed and coke, if I tried anything more than that Gabe would probably strangle me in my sleep. Not that I’d mind. If anyone was going to murder me, might as well be him.

“Yeah, I get that. But we’re different.” I insist much to his disgruntlement. I don’t care, I’ll stay as long as I need, hold a fucking protest here if I need to. He sounded good. But I can’t make it obvious that we need him more than he needs us, not at first anyway.

“What��s your damage, then?” Ridley wonders, crossing his arms in a condescending fashion that I don’t entirely appreciate.

I clear my throat. “We’re garage rock at the moment,” I answer after a beat passes. He doesn’t seem totally tuned out yet. “Kind of punk? Still figuring that out. It’s me and my best friend, he’s the drummer. Gabe Lahey?” The name seems to snag on something in his brain, because his eyebrows lift and he suddenly looks enlightened. “The quarterback, yeah. He’s really into tacklin’ dudes and smashing drums. Oh, and our bassist, Cisco, but he’s kind of an asshole.”

He hums, and I take that as an initiative to keep talking. “We’re called The Missing,” I continue. “I’m the singer and lead guitar. I brought some of our songs.” I reach into my backpack, fumbling around with its innards before I grasp onto a crumpled piece of paper that I wrote REDROOM on. It’s our oldest song, and currently the only one on any streaming platform. It’s gotten a decent amount of attention on Soundcloud, and a humbling amount on YouTube. I tell Ridley this as his eyes scan over the words and the accompanying chords.

“You wrote this?” Ridley glances up at me. I nod at him affirmatively. “Huh. I guess you’re really into grunge.”

“Kind of,” I reply. “... A lot, yeah. Is it obvious?”

“A lot, yeah,” he mimics me with a snort. I like to think I have enough creative liberty to not copy and paste everything Kurt Cobain ever wrote, but, well, the music bleeds how it bleeds. I’m afraid if I say that to him, though, he’ll mock me even more for it. “It isn’t bad, though.” I perk up whenever he says this. “I dunno if I have time for a band, still. I’m in college and shit.”

I accept the paper whenever he hands it back over to me, carefully shoving it back into my backpack and zipping it up. Gabe will probably ream my ass later for not being more careful, but I have a better memory than he does on my meds so I can just copy it from memory whenever I want. “We’ll be in college in a couple months too. Unless... This goes well.” I motion between us, and he must think I have massive balls or something to already be suggesting he’s a part of the band, as a crackhead and all.

“My girlfriend would be pissed,” he adds. Now it’s my turn to snort and act all cocksure.

“She use your dick and balls as a gear shift or something?” I ask him and he pales a little. It’s satisfying. “If she’s a real one, she’d appreciate that you’re getting out there. And once we blow up she’ll really be impressed.”

Ridley doesn’t seem convinced at first. He eyes me, then my backpack, then the lunchbox on his desk, and whenever I don’t seem to disappear like a figment of his imagination, he realizes he actually has to respond to me. “... I have a sister,” he says after a couple of seconds of silence. “She likes to sing. If she’s in, I’m in.”

I stare at him. Another singer? We don’t have the fucking room for that, I want to say, but then I quickly comprehend that this is a business deal. And he’s been negotiating with people for much longer than I have, at least in a semi-professional setting. Still, should that make me shit my pants or something? I can just say no and figure out an alternate deal to get him to join. Then I think... What’s the harm in sharing the mic? If my dad were still around, he’d probably tell me to loosen up and stop being such a dude about it, because it’s already my band and I’ve had so much of the limited spotlight we’ve been offered. Rather than respond, I move across the room and scribble mine and Gabe’s address on the front of one of his journals in red sharpie, just so he can’t forget, and before I leave I tell him to come by before the end of the week if he’s seriously interested.

•

Wouldn’t you know. He actually shows up. His sister in tow, of course, which doesn’t surprise me but Gabe seems defensive at first from where he’s sat behind the drums. I give him an assuring pat on the shoulder that makes him bristle, and I roll my eyes. He’s so weird about that. Him and Becca have been broken up for three months already and he still doesn’t think I’ve caught onto the fact that Cisco got to him before I did. We’d basically been circling him like vultures for years, and I can’t say I’m totally cool with the fact he won. Not that Gabe’s a prize or anything — but shit, losing to our bassist in any capacity is a blow that lands low. Like, directly on my groin. Metaphorically and physically.

“Can you read sheet music?” I ask her before anything else and she seems caught off guard by the question.

“This is Manon,” Ridley introduces rather than acknowledge my question at first. “She’s only a year above you two. And she likes other kind of music.”

I can’t help but frown at him. “... Well, why’d you bring her here, then? Our music is our music.”

“Just give her the mic, okay? Let me see that,” he reaches a tanned arm out to snatch the sheet music from my hands, analyzing it while I nod to Cisco and he adorns a grin while plugging in the microphone and bringing it front and center.

I turn my head to look at Manon. “What kind of music do you like, then?”

She shuffles in place, her hands fumbling together awkwardly as she avoids eye contact with me. “U-Um, I don’t r-really know how to... D-Describe it.” she stutters out. Oh, fucking great. She can’t even speak correctly and I’m meant to trust her with a mic? Maybe Gabe was right, and that whole family does have a drug empire that they funnel through their kids. “Can I-I just sing?”

A couple seconds later, Cisco passes by me and hands her the mic with a charming smile that I wish I could punch off his face without worrying about the consequences, which would likely detail in me ending up bloodied and bruised. I step aside to where Ridley is, notice he’s taken the liberty of looking through the rest of our music catalogue, and find myself a little relieved in that, at least. Whenever he sees that we’re actually giving her a shot he straightens up and gives her a reassuring smile before handing us the unnamed sheet music. It doesn’t take me long to note that it’s a duet, so I step up to the mic beside her after slinging my guitar over my shoulder.

The intro starts in a flare of drums and guitar, and I begrudgingly nod along to Cisco’s bass before she opens her mouth and begins to sing.

“Baby, you come knockin’ on my front door, same old line you used to use before, and I said, yeah, well what am I supposed to do?” Fleetwood motherfuckin’ Mac. And she doesn’t sound terrible at all, she doesn’t trip up over any of the words. “I didn’t know what I was gettin’ into, so you’ve had a little trouble in town, now you’re draggin’ my demons down.”

I chime in with stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my, stop draggin’ my heart around, and I can see Cisco’s shit-eating grin in my peripheral and become quickly distracted again by the music before I can feel anything about it. I can’t fault him. We sound good together, better than we ever have, actually. I used to think I’d have trouble sharing the spotlight — seemingly that isn’t the case at all.

When the song is over and we all glance up from where we were focused on our instruments, I look to Manon, who seems bashful and reserved again despite mere moments ago flourishing within the electric high that all music gives to true artists. “... That was good,” I tell her.

“T-Thank you,” she bows her head down and focuses on her fumbling hands again.

“So, gang,” Ridley finally speaks up as he walks over, his cadence much friendlier than before as he holds up the sheet music to REDROOM. “I think we’re gonna need to make a couple changes.”

[garudabluffs]

The Defiance of Salman Rushdie

After a near-fatal stabbing—and decades of threats—the novelist speaks about writing as a death-defying act. February 6, 2023

“I’ve always thought that my books are more interesting than my life,” Rushdie says. “The world appears to disagree.”

Published in the print edition of the February 13 & 20, 2023, issue, with the headline “Defiance.”

"Matar had stabbed Rushdie about a dozen times."

Many years ago, he recalled, there were people who seemed to grow tired of his persistent existence. “People didn’t like it. Because I should have died. Now that I’ve almost died, everybody loves me. . . . That was my mistake, back then. Not only did I live but I tried to live well. Bad mistake. Get fifteen stab wounds, much better.”

"Chautauqua has been a going concern since 1874. Franklin Roosevelt delivered his “I hate war” speech there, in 1936. Over the years, Rushdie has occasionally suffered from nightmares, and a couple of nights before the trip he dreamed of someone, “like a gladiator,” attacking him with “a sharp object.” But no midnight portent was going to keep him home. Chautauqua was a wholesome venue, with cookouts, magic shows, and Sunday school. One donor described it to me as “the safest place on earth.”

"As an undergraduate, Rushdie studied history, taking particular interest in the history of India, the United States, and Islam. Along the way, he read about the “Satanic verses,” an episode in which the Prophet Muhammad (“one of the great geniuses of world history,” Rushdie wrote years later) is said to have been deceived by Satan and made a proclamation venerating three goddesses; he soon reversed himself after the Archangel Gabriel revealed this deception, and the verses were expunged from the sacred record. The story raised many questions. The verses about the three goddesses had, it was said, initially been popular in Mecca, so why were they discredited? Was it to do with their subjects being female? Had Muhammad somehow flirted with polytheism, making the “revelation” false and satanic? “I thought, Good story,” Rushdie said. “I found out later how good.” He filed it away for later use."

READ MORE https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2023/02/13/salman-rushdie-recovery-victory-city Listen: Salman Rushdie speaks with David Remnick on The New Yorker Radio Hour

Salman Rushdie on Surviving the Fatwa 02/06/2023

Thirty-four years ago, the Ayatollah Khomeini, the Supreme Leader of Iran, issued a fatwa calling for the assassination of the novelist Salman Rushdie, whose book "The Satanic Verses" Khomeini declared blasphemous. It caused a worldwide uproar. Rushdie lived in hiding in London for a decade before moving to New York, where he began to let his guard down. "I had come to feel that it was a very long time ago and, and that the world moves on," he tells David Remnick. "That's what I had agreed with myself was the case. And then it wasn't." In August of last year, a man named Hadi Matar attacked Rushdie onstage before a public event, stabbing him about a dozen times. Rushdie barely survived. Now, in his first interview since the assassination attempt, Rushdie discusses the long shadow of the fatwa; his recovery from extensive injuries; and his writing. It was "just a piece of fortune, given what happened," that Rushdie had finished work on a new novel, "Victory City," weeks before the attack. The book is being published this week. "I've always thought that my books are more interesting than my life," he remarks. "Unfortunately, the world appears to disagree." David Remnick's Profile of Rushdie appears in the February 13th & 20th issue of The New Yorker.

"His antagonists were not merely offended; they insisted on a right not to be offended. As he told me, “This paradox is part of the story of my life.”

Rushdie went on, “I just thought, There are various ways in which this event can destroy me as an artist.” He could refrain from writing altogether. He could write “revenge books” that would make him a creature of circumstances. Or he could write “scared books,” novels that “shy away from things, because you worry about how people will react to them.” But he didn’t want the fatwa to become a determining event in his literary trajectory: “If somebody arrives from another planet who has never heard of anything that happened to me, and just has the books on the shelf and reads them chronologically, I don’t think that alien would think, Something terrible happened to this writer in 1989. The books go on their own journey. And that was really an act of will.”

LISTEN 54:51 https://www.npr.org/podcasts/458929150/the-new-yorker-radio-hour

From Fatwa to Jihad: The Rushdie Affair and Its Aftermath – July 20, 2010

“It would be absurd to think that a book can cause riots,” Salman Rushdie asserted just months before the publication of his novel The Satanic Verses.

"In February of 1988, the protests spread to Pakistan, where riots broke out, killing five. That same month, Iran’s Ayatollah Khomeini called for Rushdie’s assassination, and for the killing of anyone involved with the book’ s publication."

[copperbadge]

pagemelt on tiktok did a 2-part video on Stealing Harry! how does it feel knowing how deeply important that fic is to so many people?

As many of you know I am a Fandom Old, and never has there been a moment where I felt older than when I was trying to get onto TikTok to see these videos. Oh man I am so old. But what lovely and thoughtful tiktoks those were! Just truly delightful and a lot to consider.

For those of you who are curious and/or very new to tiktok as I am, here are the videos:

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMRMAErfP/

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMRMAt3df/

Hopefully those will load in browser, but I can't make promises. Anyway, I had many thoughts but I'm not really a video guy, so I wrote this here and I'm going to drop a link to Pagemelt and hopefully she will see it!

I have a lot of feelings, most of the time, surrounding Stealing Harry; as odd as it is to say it really was a defining moment in my life, though I didn't see that for many years.

In terms of being influential or meaningful to others, of course I'm extremely proud and touched, and so glad I could offer such positivity. Writers do their craft for a lot of reasons, but I've always wanted to write in order to interact with others -- to touch people or teach people or offer them my opinion, although this wasn't as consciously vocalized when I was younger. To have written something with the impact of Stealing Harry, especially at the age of 24, was a real accomplishment for me, but the kind that is mainly seen looking back -- it's the kind of feeling that comes of years of compilation, for lack of a better word, of conversations with others about the work. At the time it was very popular and that felt extremely good, of course, but I didn't understand why.

In some ways I still don't -- I also have a lot of bafflement when it comes to the story, because why THAT story, at THAT moment, and still today? I've had guesses before -- people love a kidfic, and there's plenty of romance and sex, and much of the fic is a sort of emotional hurt/comfort -- but I do feel as though Pagemelt put her finger on something in that regard which I hadn't fully considered.

Her take on Stealing Harry is extremely cogent and thoughtful, particularly since she's looking back at the fic as a reader and really thinking about the experience. Like, bisexual representation that wasn't stigmatized was really important for her, and I think perhaps both Remus being secure in his love as a gay man and Sirius being truly uncertain about his sexuality as someone who has had romantic/sexual relationships with women and strong feelings for men really spoke to people. Struggling with identity or with knowing your identity but feeling attacked for it, and also wanting that security in identity, I can see how the adult relationships in Stealing Harry could speak to people. I'm so very glad they have.

I also think she were spot-on about her discussion of some of the flaws in the story. It WAS written fifteen years ago and the environment in fandom was different. Certainly I love to write a strong redemption arc, so I would have added more nuance to Snape's had I had the reading of Half Blood Prince beforehand, but I think I still would have written it. That said, she's not wrong that there was a strong shift in fandom attitudes towards Snape based on HBP, though it took a few years after the end of the series, at least in my experience, for that to arrive.

I hadn't really thought about the name issues, with Tonks; she was definitely read as queercoded even at the time she first appeared in canon, but specifically trans-coded readings for Tonks weren't as visible and trans headcanons for characters in general, while I'm sure they existed, weren't vocalized as much, for perhaps self-evident reasons given how much transness was respected (or rather, not respected) in fandom at the time. People not always respecting Tonks' name in Stealing Harry does land differently today. It's something I, to my dismay, wouldn't have consciously thought of if I were writing the story today, the idea that respecting Tonks' chosen name was an important gesture to trans readers, so I appreciate having that pointed out.

Though, I am a little proud that, subconsciously, I did sort that out as a current writer -- I don't know if Pagemelt knows that I'm rewriting the story into an original fiction, but in the original-fiction version Tonks is very much gender-questioning and their name and how the adults can help them through it is a whole entire subplot -- Remus finds out about the shift in names, asks Andromeda about it, draws his own conclusions, and then speaks to a canonically trans character about who should (or if they should) offer to be a sympathetic older queer presence in their life.

So overall, I'm feeling quite proud both of myself and Pagemelt, delighted that Stealing Harry continues to be considered a classic text, and not unsatisfied that people are looking at it critically. As you all know from my original work I don't enjoy being told my works' flaws but I do like knowing them so that I can continue to learn and grow as a writer, and Pagemelt said some things that I think will stick with me as I continue. Plus it has made me want to get back into work on the Ozyverse, the adaptation of Stealing Harry, so once I'm no longer traveling with a bluetooth keyboard and an ancient tablet as my primary mode of communication I will get on that....