#that's the objective fact. not subjective.

[methed-up-marxist]

Interested parties explain the culture industry in technological terms. It is alleged that because millions participate in it, certain reproduction processes are necessary that inevitably require identical needs in innumerable places to be satisfied with identical goods. The technical contrast between the few production centers and the large number of widely dispersed consumption points is said to demand organisation and planning by management. Furthermore, it is claimed that standards were based in the first place on consumers’ needs, and for that reason were accepted with so little resistance. The result is the circle of manipulation and retroactive need in which the unity of the system grows ever stronger. No mention is made of the fact that the basis on which technology acquires power over society is the power of those whose economic hold over society is greatest. A technological rationale is the rationale of domination itself. It is the coercive nature of society alienated from itself. Automobiles, bombs, and movies keep the whole thing together until their leveling element shows its strength in the very wrong which it furthered. It has made the technology of the culture industry no more than the achievement of standardisation and mass production, sacrificing whatever involved a distinction between the logic of the work and that of the social system.

This is the result not of a law of movement in technology as such but of its function in today’s economy. The need which might resist central control has already been suppressed by the control of the individual consciousness. The step from the telephone to the radio has clearly distinguished the roles. The former still allowed the subscriber to play the role of subject, and was liberal. The latter is democratic: it turns all participants into listeners and authoritatively subjects them to broadcast programs which are all exactly the same. No machinery of rejoinder has been devised, and private broadcasters are denied any freedom. They are confined to the apocryphal field of the “amateur,” and also have to accept organisation from above.

But any trace of spontaneity from the public in official broadcasting is controlled and absorbed by talent scouts, studio competitions and official programs of every kind selected by professionals. Talented performers belong to the industry long before it displays them; otherwise they would not be so eager to fit in. The attitude of the public, which ostensibly and actually favours the system of the culture industry, is a part of the system and not an excuse for it. If one branch of art follows the same formula as one with a very different medium and content; if the dramatic intrigue of broadcast soap operas becomes no more than useful material for showing how to master technical problems at both ends of the scale of musical experience – real jazz or a cheap imitation; or if a movement from a Beethoven symphony is crudely “adapted” for a film sound-track in the same way as a Tolstoy novel is garbled in a film script: then the claim that this is done to satisfy the spontaneous wishes of the public is no more than hot air.

We are closer to the facts if we explain these phenomena as inherent in the technical and personnel apparatus which, down to its last cog, itself forms part of the economic mechanism of selection. In addition there is the agreement – or at least the determination – of all executive authorities not to produce or sanction anything that in any way differs from their own rules, their own ideas about consumers, or above all themselves.

In our age the objective social tendency is incarnate in the hidden subjective purposes of company directors, the foremost among whom are in the most powerful sectors of industry – steel, petroleum, electricity, and chemicals. Culture monopolies are weak and dependent in comparison. They cannot afford to neglect their appeasement of the real holders of power if their sphere of activity in mass society (a sphere producing a specific type of commodity which anyhow is still too closely bound up with easy-going liberalism and Jewish intellectuals) is not to undergo a series of purges. The dependence of the most powerful broadcasting company on the electrical industry, or of the motion picture industry on the banks, is characteristic of the whole sphere, whose individual branches are themselves economically interwoven. All are in such close contact that the extreme concentration of mental forces allows demarcation lines between different firms and technical branches to be ignored.

The ruthless unity in the culture industry is evidence of what will happen in politics. Marked differentiations such as those of A and B films, or of stories in magazines in different price ranges, depend not so much on subject matter as on classifying, organising, and labelling consumers. Something is provided for all so that none may escape; the distinctions are emphasised and extended. The public is catered for with a hierarchical range of mass-produced products of varying quality, thus advancing the rule of complete quantification. Everybody must behave (as if spontaneously) in accordance with his previously determined and indexed level, and choose the category of mass product turned out for his type. Consumers appear as statistics on research organisation charts, and are divided by income groups into red, green, and blue areas; the technique is that used for any type of propaganda.

How formalised the procedure is can be seen when the mechanically differentiated products prove to be all alike in the end. That the difference between the Chrysler range and General Motors products is basically illusory strikes every child with a keen interest in varieties. What connoisseurs discuss as good or bad points serve only to perpetuate the semblance of competition and range of choice. The same applies to the Warner Brothers and Metro Goldwyn Mayer productions. But even the differences between the more expensive and cheaper models put out by the same firm steadily diminish: for automobiles, there are such differences as the number of cylinders, cubic capacity, details of patented gadgets; and for films there are the number of stars, the extravagant use of technology, labor, and equipment, and the introduction of the latest psychological formulas. The universal criterion of merit is the amount of “conspicuous production,” of blatant cash investment. The varying budgets in the culture industry do not bear the slightest relation to factual values, to the meaning of the products themselves.

Even the technical media are relentlessly forced into uniformity. Television aims at a synthesis of radio and film, and is held up only because the interested parties have not yet reached agreement, but its consequences will be quite enormous and promise to intensify the impoverishment of aesthetic matter so drastically, that by tomorrow the thinly veiled identity of all industrial culture products can come triumphantly out into the open, derisively fulfilling the Wagnerian dream of the Gesamtkunstwerk – the fusion of all the arts in one work.

The alliance of word, image, and music is all the more perfect than in Tristan because the sensuous elements which all approvingly reflect the surface of social reality are in principle embodied in the same technical process, the unity of which becomes its distinctive content. This process integrates all the elements of the production, from the novel (shaped with an eye to the film) to the last sound effect. It is the triumph of invested capital, whose title as absolute master is etched deep into the hearts of the dispossessed in the employment line; it is the meaningful content of every film, whatever plot the production team may have selected.

The man with leisure has to accept what the culture manufacturers offer him. Kant’s formalism still expected a contribution from the individual, who was thought to relate the varied experiences of the senses to fundamental concepts; but industry robs the individual of his function. Its prime service to the customer is to do his schematising for him.

Kant said that there was a secret mechanism in the soul which prepared direct intuitions in such a way that they could be fitted into the system of pure reason. But today that secret has been deciphered. While the mechanism is to all appearances planned by those who serve up the data of experience, that is, by the culture industry, it is in fact forced upon the latter by the power of society, which remains irrational, however we may try to rationalise it; and this inescapable force is processed by commercial agencies so that they give an artificial impression of being in command.

There is nothing left for the consumer to classify. Producers have done it for him. Art for the masses has destroyed the dream but still conforms to the tenets of that dreaming idealism which critical idealism baulked at. Everything derives from consciousness: for Malebranche and Berkeley, from the consciousness of God; in mass art, from the consciousness of the production team. Not only are the hit songs, stars, and soap operas cyclically recurrent and rigidly invariable types, but the specific content of the entertainment itself is derived from them and only appears to change. The details are interchangeable. The short interval sequence which was effective in a hit song, the hero’s momentary fall from grace (which he accepts as good sport), the rough treatment which the beloved gets from the male star, the latter’s rugged defiance of the spoilt heiress, are, like all the other details, ready-made clichés to be slotted in anywhere; they never do anything more than fulfil the purpose allotted them in the overall plan. Their whole raison d’être is to confirm it by being its constituent parts. As soon as the film begins, it is quite clear how it will end, and who will be rewarded, punished, or forgotten. In light music, once the trained ear has heard the first notes of the hit song, it can guess what is coming and feel flattered when it does come. The average length of the short story has to be rigidly adhered to. Even gags, effects, and jokes are calculated like the setting in which they are placed. They are the responsibility of special experts and their narrow range makes it easy for them to be apportioned in the office.

The development of the culture industry has led to the predominance of the effect, the obvious touch, and the technical detail over the work itself – which once expressed an idea, but was liquidated together with the idea. When the detail won its freedom, it became rebellious and, in the period from Romanticism to Expressionism, asserted itself as free expression, as a vehicle of protest against the organisation. In music the single harmonic effect obliterated the awareness of form as a whole; in painting the individual colour was stressed at the expense of pictorial composition; and in the novel psychology became more important than structure. The totality of the culture industry has put an end to this.

Though concerned exclusively with effects, it crushes their insubordination and makes them subserve the formula, which replaces the work. The same fate is inflicted on whole and parts alike. The whole inevitably bears no relation to the details – just like the career of a successful man into which everything is made to fit as an illustration or a proof, whereas it is nothing more than the sum of all those idiotic events. The so-called dominant idea is like a file which ensures order but not coherence. The whole and the parts are alike; there is no antithesis and no connection. Their prearranged harmony is a mockery of what had to be striven after in the great bourgeois works of art. In Germany the graveyard stillness of the dictatorship already hung over the gayest films of the democratic era.

[atalana]

also on the subject of hades 2, this time its decorations

has everyone noticed the fact that mel can unlock both the old bulletin board for her tent, and the poster of than that used to be in the records room?

and additional question, is anyone else insanely curious how she got her hands on those??

the bulletin board especially, given that it was already in the lounge where chronos has been dumping the rest of the decorations he took down

like i really only have two theories

1) they got dropped in the styx at some point during chronos' cleanup, and managed to float all the way to erebus

2) in her very brief ransacking of the palace to get mel and hypnos out, hecate decided these were extremely high priority objects to steal

[kirfluffbon]

on the subject of robobot racism...

what gets me is when people get mad at the fandom, or the majority, for disliking meta.susie because "it's not the most famous ship" or "it goes against fandom norms"

That Is Not The Problem Here. people dislike meta.susie because it is shipping the colonized with the colonizer. it is shipping someone who viewed the other as a product. and I'm not saying it's abusive because susie is downright evil and has no emotions and meta knight is helpless. I'm saying it's uncomfortable because of what kinds of implications it has.

sorry for the long text. you can keep this in the inbox if you want

That’s exactly it. It’s the fact that romance between the colonizer and the colonized is such a deeply unfortunate trope with a lengthy and troubled history. The ways in which she exoticizes him and treats him as equivalent to an object is part and parcel of this.

[wafflesrisa]

On the supposed breaching of a previous agreement

After so much misinformation has been debunked, the one item I’ve seen repeated again and again is that there was a prior agreement which Carlos supposedly broke - but Charles gave no actual information about what the agreement was.

Surely the logical conclusion to draw is that we simply don’t know what the agreement was, and so we cannot cast shade on either Charles nor Carlos off the back of the statement. We simply do not know.

Specifically, while we do know Charles subjectively thought an agreement was broken, we do not have any ability to evaluate whether that conclusion is objectively true. Indeed, we don’t even know whether Charles, when making that statement, even had all the facts to hand (given he is not privy to Carlos’ radio messages and debriefing had not yet happened).

In this context the statement from Charles cannot be taken as objective truth. At most, it is a clear indication he was feeling subjectively frustrated.

The response I’ve seen from all over social media seems to be “let’s take Charles’s word for it that trust was breached, even if we don’t know what the agreement was”.

We have no facts. We have no information. We cannot draw conclusions as to what the agreement was, and therefore we cannot know if Carlos actually breached it.

Until (if ever) we have more information, Charles’ comment can only be taken as evidencing his frustration, and no more.

[definitivelydrivel]

As someone with very very very bad but effectively treated OCD, this. All of this. Though for me, it's more, because pragmatism is the name of the game for me, because morality is subjective enough that the inherent doubt used to eat me alive until I found a new way to look at things.

I used to have this terrible perfectionistic OCD dread about a vague sense that there's some ethereal impossible perfect way of being and doing that I'm always falling short of. It ate my mind and tore apart my life for years till I finally took off the values judgement punishment goggles and started thinking about things more objectively.

And it's funny. Once I stopped trying to moralize every little thought and deed, I started looking at my actions based on a combination of intent and cause and effect. Focus on actions and consequences instead, things got so much better. I wasn't wasting all my time hating myself instead of putting in work to do better.

And that is the thing. Feeling bad because you're obligated to feel bad is useless as penance. It doesn't fix anything, doesn't help anyone, and it actively hurts you. Others too, sometimes.

If feeling bad does fuckall to help improve your outcomes and actions, then fuck it. It's a useless pointless waste of time. If you insist on performing penance then seek absolution in action. Take steps towards habits and actions that align with your values and produce meaningful outcomes instead of torturing yourself needlessly.

Cuz guess what? Torturing yourself needlessly, wallowing in your emotions makes you more of a burden, but the people who love you are already putting up with that. Feeling bad for burdening them doesn't help. So if you feel bad then stop focusing on ot, stop drowning in those bad feelings. Try to accept yourself and your situation and focus on what you can do to do better.

Trying to do better while throwing all your energy into feeling bad is like trying to drive while stomping on the brake. You're just fucking up your car, dude.

I think the bit about thinking about who you want to be is good but for me that means living based on my values. I know what I want and what's important to me. I know my priorities and how I want to treat people, so I try to think about whether my actions and decisions fit my values, because being kind and understanding is one of my most important values and frankly, living up to that is tough but I am always happier living up to my values. There's a satisfaction in it that you just can't get by hounding yourself over every little failing of flaw.

We're human. Flaws come with the territory. Please, if you're stuck in a punitive mindset, please try to make peace with the fact that perfection is impossible, some people will always be shit and we can't fix that. Focus on moving yourself forward instead of tearing yourself and everyone around you down.

It's not a green light to let people hurt you but ffs give yourself and others some empathy.

Every single day people on tumblr say "what if the shit moral OCD tells you was true and living by it was the only way to be a real progressive"

[jellyskink]

Just another Manic Muesday (Sorry I couldn't think of a better title lol.)

"Alright Dr. Pines, I'm pleased to report that your lab results for your bloodwork have finally been logged and updated to our medical system since the last we saw each other."

"H-huh? Oh! I'm certainly glad to hear that Dr. Oleander! Forgive me, I'm afraid my mind was wandering just now."

Sunshine shown through the windows of the medical doctor's office, bathing parts of the room with it's comforting warm rays. Outside, leaves of different colors and types scattered in the breeze with an air of playfullness to them. It was truly a lovely autumn day.

At least... it was as lovely as it could get lately. When it wasn't the occasional inanimate object coming to life to either cause mischief, panic, harm, or all of the above, the slowly randomizing weather definitely made it trickier to enjoy nature. 

Quite literally the other day it was a record-breaking freezing winter, followed the day after by a sweltering summer so hot that not only could you fry an egg on the sidewalk, but you could fry the chicken that laid it as well if you wanted to.

"That's quite alright, I just wanted to let you know that we did find some rather... interesting results."

"What kind of results? A-anything my Muse should be concerned over? I must inform him if there's anything that would cause him to worry over me!"

"Er, it's nothing as dire as that I assure you. I moreso wanted to let you know that in comparison to your first blood test, there's improvement to your overall health! I'm really proud of you that you're making progress."

"O-oh um thanks I suppose? I don't believe it's because of my choices truthfully. If it wasn't for my Muse's instance and kindness about my health I don't believe I could've done it on my own!"

"Dr. Pines I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit, only those who want help can accept it as they always say..."

"No, no! I'm serious! I'm truly thankful he's been stern that I see Stanley on a regular basis!

 I'm quite forgetful with taking care to see him regularly. Stanley's always worried about me, it pains me to see him filled with grief whenever I'm unable to talk to him for a bit due to my Muse and I's busy schedule.

Without him I'm sure my health and relationship with my Brother would be absolutely horrible!"

"..."

"Dr. Oleander? Is something the matter? You aren't speaking to me as much as you usually do."

"Forgive me Dr. Pines, I'm just a bit conflicted right now. I've just got a lot on my mind as well. On a similar subject, I do want to apologize for overstepping my boundaries with talking to you about your relationship with Mr.Cipher."

"..."

"I-it's fine. I know you didn't mean to be so crude on purpose. My Muse and I's relationship is often a subject to many due to it's complex and sublime love."

"Yes I believe you're right... Forgive me Doctor, I have a tendency to involve myself too much in my work."

"You d-don't need to apologize for that! It's a quality my Muse approves of you for! He wouldn't let just anyone treat any medical problems I have, the fact you have his trust is a sign you're great at what you do Doctor Oleander."

"... I appreciate your reassurance, though it still isn't very professional of me to be so casual with my speech with you about my troubles with my confidence as a medical practitioner."

"I don't mind! I swear!! I-I think you're a lot like the plant you share your surname with."

"I'm sorry?"

"Y-you know, Oleander? Also known as Rosebay? It's a perennial shrub and tree known and loved for it's vitality, resilience, and beauty. 

My Muse likes the fact every part of it is poisonous, it's definitely a kicker that's certain!

Personally I love the fact that certain species of caterpillars use the plant as both a food source and a way to defend themselves against predators! 

In particular, there's a species of moths known as the Oleander Hawk Moth, that does this! It's a very interesting and rare kind of Moth to see! I personally consider it to be one of my favorites!"

"Haha! Is that so? W-well thank you Doctor for that compliment and the accompanying fact."

"..."

"Ick are you two nerds just about done being boring together?"

"O-oh! Mr. Cipher! My apologies! We were just about done with Dr. Pine's appointment. It's my fault for taking longer than usual with his appointment..."

"You know Doco? Normally I'd be furious buuut this does mean Sixer finally has a buddy to talk about his more boring nerd things with! 

Congrats! You've redeemed yourself from me needing to find Sixer a new doctor!

This is definitely a blessing in disguise for me as you humans say! Now, be a doll and tell Sixer to hurry on home now? We've got places to be and mayhem to cause!"

"Of course Mr.Cipher. I'll be sure to do that right away."

"Oh and Doco before I forget, just know that I'll be keeping a closer eye on the time in the future. Fordsy's on a pretty tight schedule you know! I'd hate to have to CUT into both you and him over not keeping track of time. 

Although that would mean I'd have the chance to change things up when my pet needs a reminder that he needs to behave... And I would have the chance to really see how your meatsacks work without needing to worry about needing to harm a hair on Sixer's head... 

Whoops did I say that out loud? Haha! My bad! Anyways, pleasure talking with you Doco! Byee!!"

"Ugghh..."

"Dr.Pines! Er, I'm sorry to have to cut this conversation short, but Mr.Cipher has requested I let you know that you've been out for a while and must return back to him as quickly as you can."

*Gasp* "O-Oh no! Please forgive me my Muse! I didn't mean to forget to watch the time! I'll be home soon!! ThankyouforyourtimeDr.OleanderbutIsimplymustbegoing!!"

"Dr.Pines, I'll have your meds refilled and ready by hopefully the end of today!!"

*Sigh* "I really need to think about changing professions..."

(Just as soon as she says this, Mcgucket falls out of a tree very ungracefully, scampering after Ford. 

"???"

"What the-? Okayyy and now cowboy hillbillies are just falling out of trees now. Why am I surprised?? 

I'm going home early today, I deserve it. It's too early for this. I can't wait to just go back to bed and hug Calamari soon..."

(I hope you likes my attempt at some fanfiction! I wasn't sure if I should write it like a book or like a visual novel. The font stuff is probably really wonky because I typed this all around 1am and on my phone so my apologies for that lol.

I'm glad you liked my idea at trying to write some fanfiction about your au's Ford and Irene. Or would it be friendfiction in this case?? Anyways, I think I like the platonic route too. Maybe if Ford and Irene were to be a ship it'd be a friends to lovers thing or something? Idk. I was thinking about writing a more Irene and Calamari focused sequal to this, but I'm not sure if I should? Idk lmaoo.)

THIS ANON WROTE A REALLY CUTE FRIENDSHIPPING FIC OF FORD AND OLEANDER looklooklook it's so cuuuuuute 💕

[tinylilvalery]

Y'all really not getting that Ken moved to start cutting Sh/v out because she literally couldn't have an objective business discussion and instead just wanted to be shady and shit in every interaction (eg the plane where Ken and Rom where trying to prepare for Lukas,,, which she shoulda been preparing alongside them instead of sidelining herself after just being obstructive) because her ego was bruised that her Fairyland idea where her and her brothers are COO together isn't a reality due to the fact that 1. The board wouldn't have gone for it cos the idea of a 3 sibling COO is fr a fairytale. Ken and Rom where correct in saying this and they know the board more intimately then Sh/v. 2. She has no experience at Waystar unlike Ken and Rom who have been a part of the company for years, Ken WAY more intimately so.

Her ego is literally so fragile and bruised rn and has sm internalised misogyny that she fell for Lukas' "You're not like other girls, you're a cool girl 🙃 You're like your dad :)" and is now sided with him cos she CANNOT bear the fact that her dad named Ken as his Successor, not pinky, not daddy's princess.

Like,,, what are you not getting. You want her to have a win? It's not at Waystar that she'll have it. She was leagues ahead in season 1 of where she is now, since she'd actually worked for herself and built her own career instead of just acting entitled and like she should be handed Waystar on a silver platter despite having no experience. Rom and Ken have been a part of Waystar for YEARS. Ken was literally trained by his dad to take over. His initials are fuckn KLR for Killer. He is the eldest between Rom and Sh/v (I don't mention Con here cos he's never frothed for Waystar like the others have). His father wrote for him to take over Waystar and then underlined it.

If you want a win for Sh/v then root for her to achieve that outside of Waystar instead of acting like she deserves to be CEO at Waystar for whatever outlandish purely emotional based reason.

[lannistertwinz]

You can easily find similar moments where Cersei underestimates other potential "candidates". For most of the first three books, Cersei sees Sansa as naive and easy to manipulate, which likely explains her initial reluctance to break the betrothal to Joffrey. Something that is further supported by the fact that the draft chapters of A Feast for Crows don’t even include Maggy's prophecy, making it hard to believe Cersei viewed Sansa as a real threat during that time.

And if we're talking about getting hit with something over the head, Daenerys is right there:

"One last thing, Your Grace," said Aurane Waters, in an apologetic tone. "I hesitate to take up the council's time with trifles, but there has been some queer talk heard along the docks of late. Sailors from the east. They speak of dragons . . ." ". . . and manticores, no doubt, and bearded snarks?" Cersei chuckled.  "Come back to me when you hear talk of dwarfs, my lord." 

- Cersei IV, A Feast For Crows

He gave her an apologetic smile and told her of a puppet show that had recently become popular amongst the city’s smallfolk; a puppet show wherein the kingdom of the beasts was ruled by a pride of haughty lions. “The puppet lions grow greedy and arrogant as this treasonous tale proceeds, until they begin to devour their own subjects. When the noble stag makes objection, the lions devour him as well, and roar that it is their right as the mightiest of beasts.” “And is that the end of it?” Cersei asked, amused. Looked at in the right light, it could be seen as a salutary lesson. “No, Your Grace. At the end a dragon hatches from an egg and devours all of the lions.”

- Cersei V, A Feast For Crows

Many people want the YMBQ to be Brienne because of themes of “inner beauty,” and we all recognize that the one thing Brienne could realistically take from Cersei is Jaime. But what does anchoring this part of Cersei's story around Jaime truly achieve? Not only does this perpetuate the outdated Madonna-whore trope, where women are framed as virtuous or corrupt through a dispute over a man, but it also feels redundant. Jaime and Cersei are already separated, he has effectively left her, and there are still two books to go.

Daenerys' arc, on the other hand, has been increasingly “in conversation” with the major themes of Cersei's storyline for the past two books. In particular, Cersei’s driving frustration: her inability to independently claim power for herself (something that is very prevalent in her treatment of Tommen). While Cersei remains trapped in a system where her authority is tied to the men in her life, Daenerys breaks free of such constraints, rising as a queen in her own right. And she achieved this by being a genuinely caring leader, prioritizing the well-being of her people, rather than being egocentric and consumed by a desperate need for self-validation like Cersei. And that is simply the more compelling story to tell.

Let’s leave these “humiliation through romantic rejection” endings — that you hardly ever see be given to male villains or antiheroes — in the past, and give female characters narratives with a little more substance.

anyway i do understand the gripes with “taking everything that you hold dear” with brienne or whatever and how does that encompass her children & power as clearly there’s more to what cers holds dear than jaime (and even what he represents and the tool he functions as) but the “more beautiful” part of the prophecy being literal is so fucking stupid to me fr like lmao not the women hotness scaling being taken at face value like it just works thematically better that it is about internal beauty and the ugly woman with the astonishing beautiful eyes and soul is the candidate

[gcballet]

Doctor Who as tweets/textposts pt.4

<- | DW | ->

[marciaillust]

mom come pick me up people related to my personal posts too much

[philosophybits]

There are no facts, only interpretations.

Friedrich Nietzsche, Notebooks (1886-1887)

[loosethreadsofyoursoul]

btw there never has been, nor will there ever be, a ship as sacred as wolfstar

[tj-crochets]

So my little brother and I are not allowed to be on the same team for family game night when we play games like Taboo, because most of the time we share a brain cell and the rest of the family has decided it's an unfair advantage. Today, I was trying to remember the word hummus but completely blanked, so what I said was: "Cabbage. No, hermitage" And my brother guessed "Brussels sprouts?" "No, it's a brown goo" I said, but my brother heard "it's a round goo" "Hummus!" he said "that explains the green from cabbage" "It was hummus, but hummus isn't green????" "Oh I was thinking of guacamole" So like. Even when he and I are thinking of totally different things we can still come up with the same word lol

[ectonurites]

i looooove getting yelled at for trying to explain the answer to a question i was literally asked.

[feroluce]

When Al Haitham dreams, it's in shades of sandy blonde and red, metallic gold and feather-blue. His nightmares are colored much the same.

Kaveh leisurely strolls ahead of him, shoes leaving deep treads in the soft desert sand. He keeps a careful distance, arms length, and in return Al Haitham keeps an eye on him, the other man's back dead center in his sights.

He curses the sand in his boots and the long line of footprints he steps into, already the exact shape of the soles of his shoes.

They aren't lost. Al Haitham knows where they are. They've been here before. They are still here.

Kaveh doesn't watch their feet. His head is constantly tipped back with his eyes on the stars and their constellations (of which Al Haitham only knows two, Vultur Volans and Paradisaea). He'll walk right into a cactus like that. Al Haitham yells ahead for him to watch where he's going.

Kaveh reaches up to touch the side of his head in a strange motion, but otherwise there's no acknowledgement. They press on into the dark of night.

Something squelches beneath Al Haitham's boot.

It stops him short, pulls his attention like a magnet and as much as he wants to, he can't ignore it. He doesn't want to lose any more ground. But something won't let him move on. Al Haitham watches as red seeps into the golden sand, spills beyond the border of his bootprint until he slides his foot aside.

It's an ear.

It's a human ear, and there's a heavy earring attached, metallic gold, gems red and green, a familiar shape, a familiar shade-

Al Haitham opens his mouth to yell. Chokes. Swallows the lump in his throat as he quickly restarts his pace. Tries again.

"Hey!"

Another squelch under a hurried footstep. He doesn't stop to look. Al Haitham is pretty sure he knows what it is.

"Kaveh, hey!"

The path becomes littered, little slices and small pieces, fingertips and knuckles, Kaveh's arms once held casually behind his back now strewn along the sands. Every time Al Haitham extends his hand to him, reality warps and bends like the twisted image in a broken mirror, lines mismatched and edges jagged. Kaveh flits just beyond his grasp, fleeting fae, no longer able to hear him or to reach out to him. Al Haitham can only grit his teeth and follow.

His right foot marches forward. His left follows. His right again. His left suddenly doesn't follow, and Al Haitham is thrown off balance and pitches forward, swinging his arms outward to land on his palms and keep his face off the ground, because he's been in the desert enough times to know what a foot suddenly being stuck can mean.

Quicksand.

Al Haitham curses and swears in just about every language he knows as he tries to spread his weight as evenly as possible, stay afloat at the top of it because if he sinks, he knows he'll be done for, and shit, Kaveh.

His neck cranes uncomfortably in his search, Kaveh had only been a few feet in front of him, he can't be sunk much further, and he's in the desert much more often than Al Haitham anyway, he'll be familiar with what to do-

Kaveh stands in front of him, empty sleeves fluttering loose. Still just out of his grasp, still watching the stars. The quicksand is already up to his calves.

"Say, Al Haitham..." It's the first he's spoken this whole time. His voice resonates somewhere deeply nostalgic in Al Haitham's chest, produces a ripple that momentarily stuns his heart.

Kaveh is sinking.

Al Haitham stretches out on his belly as far as he's able, it's quickly up to his knees, Kaveh isn't even trying to redistribute his weight or pull himself out, it's at his thighs, Al Haitham sucks in a breath and yells for him, his hips, yells louder, his waist, Al Haitham's trembling fingertips can almost reach, his chest, Kaveh drops level with him, quicksand about his neck like a noose.

Kaveh's head tips back, back, impossibly far back, until it hangs, angle awkward, and he's looking right past Al Haitham with his tired smile and gouged, blinded sockets full of starlight.

"Do you believe in karma?"

The quicksand swallows him entirely and Al Haitham dives, shoves his arms deep and pushes off with the one foot he'd had left on safe ground, because he can't, he can't, it's not the same without Kaveh, not anymore, he needs him, no one else keeps him sharp, no one else challenges him like Kaveh, if he can just grab him, if he can just pull him back up-

Al Haitham thrashes, against the sands, against gravity, against the hardwood of his bedroom floor. Clumsily scrubs the back of his hand across his face to rub the grit of quicksand and sleep out of his eyes.

Sometimes he thinks he preferred it when the Akasha was still harvesting his dreams.

He pops his head out from under his weighted blanket and lays where he'd fallen out of bed for a moment, blinking blearily against the lamplight shining from his desk in the corner. Deep breaths. His consciousness shifts along the blurred line of nightmare and reality, crosses over the slow transition into wakeful awareness.

He's home, Kaveh is home. It's dark out. The house is dead silent.

He's just going to go check, he tells himself as he peels himself out of his sweat-soaked shirt and roots around for a replacement. He's already losing memories of his nightmare, the details spilling away from him like wet ink, but he knows he needs to see Kaveh. It'll feel better to do something, anything, than try to go straight back to sleep.

He's quiet when he slips out of his bedroom door, because they both keep late hours but their bedrooms are right next to each other, and Al Haitham will never hear the end of it if he wakes his roommate up.

Lights off, door shut. Nothing conclusive. He moves out to the main room.

Kaveh sits on one of those ridiculous sofas he'd ordered three of for some reason, back to him as he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. A mostly-empty wine bottle stands tall on the table, next to the cobbled-together remains of an architectural model that's been picked and fussed over for four days straight now.

"Kaveh? What are you doing?"

This earns him an exaggerated startle, but Kaveh doesn't turn to look at him, preoccupied with whatever new sketch or blueprint he probably has in his hands. "Ohhh, nothing," he slurs cheerfully. "Just working. Just thinking."

Kaveh has always been the world's chattiest drinker. Al Haitham waits for the rest of it.

"Say, I think...I think I asked you this years ago, back then, but you never answered me." Al Haitham feels all the blood drain from his face in ominous familiarity, drip cold down the length of his spine. Kaveh sinks into the couch until he can tip his head over the back of it, looking up at him with a tired smile and exhausted eyes.

"Do you believe in karma?"

[cologona]

No amount of Bruce torturing himself is ever going to be enough for Jason because Jason doesn’t want Bruce miserable! He doesn’t want Bruce to break for him! The conventional wisdom that says the dead would wish for their loved ones to find closure and live life holds true for him too!! No demonstration or example of Bruce’s pain is ever going to be enough for Jason, because that isn’t the crux of his issue!

Yes he wants to be loved, yes he wants to know he matters, but he did not come back just to collect a debt of pain.

And the difficult thing is that his problem lies at the intersection between Bruce’s role as his father, a heroic symbol, and Jason’s general. Only talking about it in terms of Bruce vs Batman is… it muddles the subject a bit.