#they don't have FEELINGS

[i-am-countess-olivia]

Shortly after midnight on the 13th March, 1842, HMS Erebus and HMS Terror collided just north of the Antarctic Circle.

I wrote something in memory of that night, and of the two bomb vessels who are forever inextricably linked. Below the cut and on AO3.

THE MEANS

If I could speak to the men who come down each summer to prod at what remains of me I would ask but one question:

Erebus. Have you seen her? Have you seen my girl?

I have no means for such an address.

Here I sit, cold and broken. It is nothing new but for the duration of my stay. I was wrecked off the Portuguese coast back in 28. Trapped in ice at Repulse Bay in 36, I was pressed and squeezed until I toppled. George Back barely got me home, his hands trembling at my helm. He never sailed again. Meanwhile I, rested and refitted, was soon ready for sea.

But why am I telling you this, my girl? You know all about those years before we met. Sat side by side in our many harbours, I bored you with my tales until your masts groaned.

"Terror, not that icy yarn again.”

I only wanted to remind you: we are imminently fixable things. But you knew that, Erebus, didn't you, after our midnight kiss among the bergs?

Do you recall the day we sailed together for the first time, from Chatham for the farthest south? Cheering crowds to see us off, freshly woven sails, the black iron plate gleaming at our fores. New captains on our quarterdecks — we compared them like ladies do rings.

“What’s your one called?”

“James. Handsome. Yours?”

“Francis. Quiet.”

We listened to the nervous rap of their boot soles against our boards, the quick drum of their tiny warm hearts as they saw us off.

Soon you were dashing ahead. “Keep up,” you cried, laughing.

"Wait," I huffed. "Wait for me."

I was always behind. I wanted to beg Francis to chase you down, to feel the spit and foam of your wake splash against my bow.

I had no means to ask. It is the men who speak to us. They talk with tug and round and tack and heave. Go this way. Go that way. All we can do is pass the message back from the wind and sea. Yes. No. Maybe, if you tack hard, if you add more sail.

We are vessels, after all. We convey.

At times, Francis spoke to me in human words. Or perhaps he prayed.

And now here I sit, where he left me to sink.

Season after season shadows of men’s boats would pass over my resting place, mere thirteen fathoms deep. Light coruscating above, then fading as the ice set in. Then, ten summers ago, men came diving down like curious fish. I understood — understand — nothing of their delicate probings. They extract boots, toothbrushes, plates from my broken decks. What do you want? What are you looking for? Raise me up. Even if you must haul me, take me back to her.

Are you looking for them? They’re not here. They left me. He left me, and took Erebus instead.

Waiting, waiting. Do you recall, my girl, our midnight kiss among the bergs? Of course you do.

"Get off me," you howled as the breakers threw me up, almost over you, and our rigging tangled, became one. "My bowsprit, Terror, are you mad?"

I could do nothing, tossed about like a toy boat in a child's hand.

Then I got free and Francis had me storm ahead, to give you some small chance in the narrow channel made from soaring walls of ice. You vanished from my sight.

We rounded to and waited. In the dark, he and I together, burning our blue light. The enormity of Francis' fear strained against my beams. Terror, terror. As large as me.

His poor little heart. How he prayed. How we both did.

Your own light emerged. All well, all safe. James sailed you out, backwards, through the narrow path.

Afterwards, I thought you might sulk at me. Or complain about your disheveled state. But all you could prattle about, as we pushed our way north towards Cape Horn, was James.

"Oh Terror. You should have seen him. So brave. So indefatigable."

I sailed behind you, silent. You were in love. You weren't the only one.

At Cape Louis, we were emptied of our weary crews. On shore, it was Francis you watched: his eyes, his hand on James.

"Do you suppose he—" you began.

I watched you instead: battered and beautiful, a wounded black swan in the calm, shimmering bay.

"I don't know," I said. But I did, I did.

What James was to him, you were to me. I could have told you then, in that warm and sparkling harbour. I had the means. And yet.

Less than two years after coming home we were off again, together. With Francis and without James.

"I don't like my new one," you griped like a disappointed child at Christmas. "All he does is talk and eat."

I didn't know what to say. By then, I couldn't conceive being without you.

This time we went north, to my old ground of exertion. I trailed you wearily up to Baffin Bay, knowing what that labyrinth held in store for us. At least I thought I did.

Then came 47. How you suffered in the ice, a lady being too tightly laced into her corset. Though I ached the same, I sought to comfort you: we'll wait it out, Erebus. We've been here before, in this frozen press.

You'll see, we need only wait.

Months went by. You grew quiet. In the eternal night of winter, under the canopy they enclosed you in, I could hear you weep for James’ steady heart and hands.

Inside me, curled up in his berth, Francis wept for him too.

Daylight came again. In our bellies, one by one, tiny warm heart were going out. You said it was the only time you ever felt like a mother to them. Our hulls their only warmth and comfort.

When Francis had the last of them march out — oh, but here I must confess, Erebus. I was happy. No more death. Just us two, alone, trading tales.

So happy I was I failed to tell you that the icy corset had at last broken my ribs. Leads opened up some months later and I felt the shivering sensation of water trickling in.

When Francis came back, or what was left of him, he saw — and set his eyes on you.

We howled and begged.

Francis, are you mad?

Don't leave her. She will sink.

Don't take her. She's not yours to take.

What did he hear? Groan and croak, rope and timber, nothing more.

Perhaps he got you home. Perhaps he left you to sit in a dry dock in Portsmouth, half repaired and bored senseless, whilst he removed to the country to drink tea with James for the rest of their long days.

Well, here it is. I know not what else to say to you, my girl. Summer is coming to an end. The curious fish have gone away with their china and their toothbrushes, the ice will close over me again soon.

No matter. I'll sleep here for a little longer. I'll dream of you laughing:

"That time in the south, Terror. Do you recall? You froze over so quickly fish stuck to your hull. They scraped them off and fed them to the cat."

I'll dream and I'll wait. Perhaps by next summer, if I keep talking to myself, I will have found a way to ask.

END

----

Location of the wrecks of HMS Terror and HMS Erebus, Terror Bay and Wilmot and Crampton Bay respectively.

[kenapiece-main]

Can you believe I'm having to make this meme even after successfully finishing up taxes and applying to job

[inkskinned]

it's extremely critical that you see the photo of the perp walk for luigi mangione as being propaganda. i've seen so many people wave it off and instead fawn over his looks. and trust me, i know it ended up being kind of pathetic and weird - but please don't brush it off as a "modelling opportunity" for him. it's a fucking terrifying message the police are sending.

i want to make a few comparisons here, in case you're not from the US or familiar with why the perp walk thing is something to pay attention to. just to set the groundwork for why this is a purposeful, unusual, and cruel act by the nyc police - for why this is not a common occurrence and for why that matters.

the prosecution alleges the show of force is due to the charge of "terrorism." for comparison, in june 2015, tsarnaev was found guilty for the boston marathon bombing, which killed 3 people and injured hundreds. his actions are considered to be an act of domestic terrorism. i have spent the last hour looking through google for pictures of similar to mangione's perp walk - and so far, i have found zero. i also just do not personally remember a moment like that, despite living in boston at the time.

they allege that luigi is a stone-cold killer who carried out a longterm plan, making him particularly dangerous. again for comparison: in nyc, recently cory martin was found guilty of the killing of brandy odom. the murder was planned and premeditated to steal insurance money. and yet no staged perp walk. why didn't her life matter enough for a "show of force"?

but mangione gets paraded by a veritable army of police officers as if he is a rabid animal. for a single citizen who allegedly killed one other single citizen, the "largest perp walk ever" occurs.

so what is the "strong message" that the mayor and the police were trying to send here? the mayor speaks as if mangione is already convicted of terrorism. there is a very thin number of people who feel threatened by the CEO's death. none of us felt like mangione needs to be under massive armed guard.

the message is that you shouldn't resist. they are trying to "make an example" of him - that if you behave badly and kill a single rich person, you'll be treated as if you killed hundreds of people. you will be treated worse than a man who was found guilty of terrorism. you will be considered guilty without trial. the message is that the rich are a protected class, and you cannot touch them without massive punishment. they are trying to prevent a revolution by showing dominance and force against you.

the message is that the police are a puppet of the wealthy and that the law is not equally applied across class disparity. it is "some are more equal than others." it is "one life is more precious than another."

the show of force wasn't for luigi. it was for us. it was a warning. they are trying to remind us who is really in control.

[lylahammar]

the one perk he can't earn

[dirtytransmasc]

the men and boys are innocent too.

we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.

I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.

I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.

I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.

I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.

the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.

[beebfreeb]

[ace-and-ranty]

I gotta say, one of the greatest achievements of my 20s was that I learned (mostly) to differentiate between:

"I truly do not want to go" and

"I'm just feeling the Demand Avoidance, and I will like it once I get there."

[blondie-drawings]

mama a Body behind you 😰 // pt1/pt2/pt3

[heritageposts]

The Eurovision song contest is facing intense scrunity and accusations of discrimination after it rebuked Swedish-Palestinian pop star Eric Saade for wearing a Palestinian scarf in the opening act of the semi-finals. Saade, whose father is of Palestinian origin, kicked off the first semi-final of the Eurovision Song Contest in Malmo, Sweden on Tuesday evening with a keffiyeh, a traditional Palestinian and Arab male headdress, wrapped around his wrist. [...] In response, the organisers of the contest, European Broadcasting Union (EBU) released a statement saying it "regretted" that Saade wore the scarf. "The Eurovision Song Contest is a live TV show. All performers are made aware of the rules of the contest, and we regret that Eric Saade chose to compromise the non-political nature of the event," it said. [...] Eurovision later posted clips of the performances of the other two opening acts on its social media pages, but did not share Saade’s, prompting social media users to share the performance on their personal pages to show support for the artist.

Waving Palestinian flags, wearing traditional Palestinian garments, or if we're being honest, just being Palestinian, is now officially "too political" for Eurovision.

Literally, all Saade did was wear a keffiyeh around his wrist—while being Palestinian—and that was enough to get a statement from the EBU, and have his opening performance scrubbed from Youtube.

If you're not already boycotting Eurovision this year, then what the fuck is wrong with you?

Below are two statements from Saade. The first one, giving his reason for participating, was posted a few days ago, and the other was in response to the EBU accusing him of 'compromising the non-political nature' of the Genocide Song Contest:

Reminder again to BOYCOTT EUROVISION 🇵🇸

[olailamajnoon]

Bruce, who has a problem expressing emotions because he was teased for them in school as the "crazy Wayne kid"

Bruce, who used to clutch Alfred at night and wet himself due to his nightmares.

Bruce, who got flashbacks till his mid-twenties everytime he walked down an alley.

Bruce, who would hug a weeping Dick Grayson and stay with him until the night terrors were over, humming a soft lullaby that Bruce's mother sang for him

Bruce, who hardened his mouth and his life to keep the anger in check after Jason, because he knew if he didn't every criminal would pay.

Bruce, who sees Damian chopping up shrubbery and thinks "I was far worse as a child inside, it's a good thing he's letting it out"

Bruce, who can't walk by a homeless child in the street without calling his special Wayne Foundation liaison (who he keeps on speed dial) and asking her to find "one more spot"

Bruce, who sees Selina petting kittens and robbing the rich and thinks "if I could have had a life with her, that would have been nice"

Bruce, who looks at Cass' x-rays and sees her knit bones and swears to god he will break the bones of whoever's responsible for her upbringing

Bruce, who gives Tim projects that he himself can do faster because he sees attention-starved Tim trying to please him

Bruce, who looks at Clark smiling and thinks of what he can buy for his birthday to make him smile just like that.

Bruce to his parents in their graves after not being able to catch a criminal: I'm sorry. I've failed you. I'll try harder.

People who don't know Bruce: why is that man so unfeeling.

Bad DC writers: idk just that way i guess

[i-dont-watch-movies-or-tv]

I feel like the age of having a "burner email" is gone. Out of curiosity,

[illusioncanthurtme--art]

Physically? I am sitting in my bedroom. Mentally? Spiritually? I AM DEAD ON THE FLOOR!!!!! THESE TWO HAVE KILLED ME!!!!

(Another drawing! This was originally attempt #1 at drawing stan, and then fiddleford just showed up. Kinda feels like them five minutes after the above acting like nothing happened though, so it works sdjkgkjfshj)

[wanderingibon]

anya deserved so much better

[daydreamerwonderkid]

Post patrol family game night goes awry ...

Meme reference under cut

[uncanny-tranny]

I think so many people are so deeply alienated from themselves that they have no clue how to exercise their free will and autonomy. For some, this alienation runs so deep that they are afraid of their own autonomy and humanity. It is completely understandable why one would have those feelings, but it can be worrisome.

I want to help others who feel this way, so here are small things I have done to exercise my free will:

Add "guilty pleasure" songs to playlists and actually listen to them (I have a ton of late 1990s-early 2000s music I listen to now proudly that I never listened to in the past out of shame)

Getting the décor item, bath set, bed spread, ect. in the patterns you like, even if it's "childish" (I got a dinosaur-themed wastebasket from the kids' décor section and I adore it)

Taking a new route to get to a place you go to often

Eat dessert first

Celebrate well, and often

Collect things that are "odd" or don't seem like an "acceptable" thing to collect (somebody on my "for you" page collects dandelion crayola crayons and it was so cool!!!!!!)

Incorporate one new piece in an outfit you wear frequently (e.g., a new chain, a necklace, ribbons, bracelets, ect.). Challenge yourself to add onto the outfits if you feel up for it.

Sing along to songs without worrying that you sound "good" or your intonation is completely accurate

Read a book from a genre you weren't allowed to read as a kid (comics, thrillers, mysteries, anything!)

Walk without having a specific destination or goal

Pick up a new craft without expecting yourself to master it or to ever be "good" enough. Get your hands messy.

I don't want to shame anybody for not feeling as though they have free will or that they are exempt from exercising it. However, I wanted to give ideas so that you might read this list and find your own ways to express your intrinsic autonomy and will. You deserve to be a person, to feel alive, not just living. That is what our lives are for.