#though i think maybe the human brain is more apt to these tasks than i give it credit for

[durn4h]

I imagine that talented musicians must think of chords as distinct from the collection of notes that make them up, because when improvising I can't imagine it's possible to have much fluidity/speed if you're mentally constructing every chord as you play them, but it's equally impressive to me that these people know their instruments so well that they can instantly produce the shape of every chord they can imagine.

[bigkyloenergy]

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

CHAPTER II.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

Nothing could make up for Kylo, the Viper — whoever he was -- making you cum then leaving you stranded once again. At least, that was what you told yourself when you’d collected the coin from the bed, the pile he’d always left, the pay and extra that could afford him another three weeks there. 

You swore under your breath, cursed the Viper who left your thighs warm with need, unable to tie your bodice without the memory of his assertive hands, demanding to see every part of you.

But those words caught in your mouth the moment you turned, running directly into his chest.

   “What are you doing here?”

  “Uh — what? I mean, no — I’m... was closing up your room,” you explained quickly. You could feel his gaze burning through you.  “Thought you had um — checked out for the night.” 

  “That isn’t your job.” 

It was the truth. Your duties weren’t supposed to go past the care of the horses (which you refused to give up), and the front for customer service. The tidying of the inn was left to Myra, the innkeep had hired her the moment she gained the budget for her. Not that they wouldn’t mind making you pick up an extra task. But this task-- the motivation was all your own. 

  “So why are you in here?” 

You finally met his gaze, the connection wrapping you in a warmth so deep it burned fear into your consciousness. He heard you, he was trying to pull it out of you. You could have swore he didn’t blink the entire time he was staring at you.

The black surrounding his face brought out his eyes in a way that was deadly, framing them, charming you until there was nothing left in your brain but the galactic orgasm you’d experienced weeks (what felt like years with him in your presence) prior. He wanted you to forget. That gaze dropped to your neck, where your pulse would be, before he reached up and wrapped his hand around the entirety of your throat. 

Then the innkeep was making her way in the door, and Kylo was hesitantly dropping his hold. But he never took his eyes from you. It made you feel so supernaturally bare. 

  “Oh. Sorry, sir — I’d thought you’d gone by now,” the woman said, though she was shooting daggers at you. Like it was your fault he’d stayed.

Was it? 

  “Hm.”

  “Did she say something? I can have Myra take care of you, if you ne—” 

  “I don’t.” 

And with that, he turned, and your breath was released from your chest. He ducked under the door, and Miss Betty lurched forward to snatch your arm. “Have you any idea who that is, what he is, you daft thing?”

 Squinting your eyes, you leered at her, “What does it matter?” The room was fuzzy from yet another adrenaline-spiking meeting with the Viper. You looked after the doorway, then back to the woman, tearing your arm away from her, “He pays enough coin to keep us afloat. You should be thanking me.”

  “He’s a Witcher.  A mutant. A monster who slays monsters. Stay away from him. I can’t afford for you to lose your innards.” 

If only she knew. 

But you only stared, her words licking a cold up your body. And you believed her, like she had just given you a piece of the puzzle that was the Viper. Taking your hand, she picked every piece of gold from your grip, holding it for a moment too long, “You stay away from him. You hear me?” You just nodded, allowing her to collect what belonged to her before you went back to the bar. Where you belonged.

You took in the entirety of the inn, hoping you’d see him on your way downstairs, the only customer being the cook, Ruek, leaning over your spot yielding a mug heavy with ale. 

Going behind the counter, you found a rag and made yourself busy, wiping glasses that didn’t need to be cleaned. You felt his eyes on you.

  “What?”

  “Nothin’, just… the Witcher came out, then my mother came after you… then you after her, now your cheeks are all flush and I’m just curious is all.”

  “There you all go with that word again. What is that? I just thought they were sorcerers like any other. Bounty hunters. Inspiration for bards.” Your eyes rolled, rag squeezing in your hand the same way it did the night he’d made home in your subconscious. 

Ruek clicked his tongue, “Might as well break your ignorance if you’re going to be changing his sheets. That man… if you even want to call him that, is Toussaint’s greatest curse..” 

What you knew about the cook in the Pheasantry wasn’t much, but you did know that he had traveled inns upon inns just to cook for different breeds of people. His eyes were wise with stories, knowledged wrinkles framing his kind smile, you trusted him more than most of the folks that you worked with. Not that Beauclair was a bad city.. 

  “Curse? You’re starting to sound like your mother.” 

  “I’m sorry. I’m just surprised you don’t know any of this. You look …” He searched your eyes, before sighing, “am I just scaring you?”

  “No, I want to know. Your mom was trying to do that, for my own good probably,” you scrunched your nose, knowing she'd never try to purposely scare you. She looked out for you to the best of her capability, a mother to most who ended up employed here, “I mean, you said I should know. So just tell me.” 

  “Okay. You know about the monsters in the waters, right? The sailor special— drowners.” Ruek laughed at his own joke.

  “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard about those, yeah. That’s why you don’t go into them alone, especially at night. But they’re no real threat.” Ugly blue humanoids that looked like overgrown fish, their teeth sharp enough to shred skin..

  “You’re not wrong, but I’m not talking about those kind of monsters. That’s my point. Normal Witchers were made to save us from those creatures, protect our villages, keep us safe from impending doom. The only reason those monsters aren’t a threat is because of them.”

  “So they’re .. guards against the supernatural?” You asked, trying to understand why you should be afraid of a man whose targets weren’t human.

  “To put it lightly. Those are the stories you hear. They do it for coin, usually, contracts are pinned calling to them for help to save a child or survey a forest… all of them come from different schools, not sure why, but as boys they were all either sold off, given as rewards or to put it bluntly: taken. I’ve heard some of them don’t even know their real name, had to name themselves because Witchers aren’t exactly… you know, warm. You following along?” 

You nodded, his eyes an image in your head, luring you just as they did every time you were in front of him. Ridding you of any other focus. “Different schools? Like there’s more than one kind of Witcher?” 

  “Sure, I’m not… really sure how many, or even if any stand. After they get initiated, if that’s what you want to call it. They go through erm.. Trials? Mutations of the bodies, to make them more apt for being able to go against these beasts. Some of them don’t make it, most of them didn’t. In fact, that Viper is probably twice — fuck, maybe even three times my age.” 

  “Wait, what?” 

  “Yeah. Mutations do a helluva lot of things to their genetics, including life span. Their senses are heightened to a way we as humans wouldn’t even be able to describe. Wouldn’t call them mages, but they can wield magic with their hands. They’re called something…” 

  “Signs.” Miss Betty answered as she trailed down the stairs, making you jerk from Ruek’s gaze. But she just continued on, as if she hadn’t added to your conversation. 

He nodded, “Yeah. Specific magics for their fighting needs. Anyway. The necklace they have, the medallion — all of them wear it, represents the school they’re from. Pretty sure it has to do with their freaky senses too. But that one, he’s called the Viper because that is the school that taught him. And… well, they were destroyed years ago. For not submitting to the new government. Even others Witchers say to this day, they don’t even know where it was located. Many think of him as an assassin because it isn’t part of the Witcher morale to take contracts on humans, even lesser threats of beasts… but a Viper takes the deal no matter whose head it is.”

  “No more.” Betty interrupted, taking the glass from in front of you to break what felt like a trance, “she can listen to the drunkards and bards to hear the rest of it. You’re off for the day, consider it a mental break.” 

The inkeep grinned, almost as a farewell, leaving you to give Ruek an apologetic shrug. Not that you didn’t want to listen, but it almost seemed like he was trying to scare you.

Nonetheless, you were off, your mind running through what you’d just been told. Taking the bag that hung over your shoulder, you decided to go back to your house first to change. You’d already taken a bath last night, after you’d touched yourself enough to make your wrist numb. You whimpered his name in the confines of your washroom, tested it on your tongue, hoped that you would get a glimpse of him the next day. 

But all you had gotten was the interaction this morning and your rushing thoughts. Honestly, you didn’t even know that he had come back. It had been another three weeks since he’d touched you in the stables, maybe a few days more… not that you were counting. 

Have you been fantasizing about some otherworldly being? Was he even human? You couldn’t verify that yourself, and his fingers had been inside of you. The only thing you’d seen of his face wasn’t exactly humane. Yet, the Viper didn’t scare you. You were curious, ready to set gasoline to the flame licking inside of you. 

Another bath. That was what you needed.You’d change from your bright work gown, put on some trousers. You wished Ruek’s story had scared you, prepared you for another three weeks without seeing Kylo, another three weeks imagining your fingers were his own. 

But it didn’t. 

Your hand wrapped around your own throat, sighing gently before it began to trail into the water.

———

A basket was tucked low in your elbow as you made your way through the market, deciding against curling up in your bed for the rest of the evening. You knew exactly what would come of that. 

The best of goods were being offered by merchants that beckoned you over, colors decorating their tents, the scent of fresh bread in the air. Children ran past you to chase one another in a game you were sure you played when you were younger. 

Your hair dried at your shoulders, cheeks still flush from the scorching water you’d made in a futile attempt to shed the inn’s recent events. 

  “Ma’am! Fresh fish, finest in all of Toussaint!” 

You turned, looking to the merchandise, scales reflecting off of the coral buildings. 

“A pound for half the price!” 

You gave a tight smile, but continued on — until you ran so hard into someone that your feet lost all memory of balance. They caught you at your arms, stabilizing you as if you weighed close to nothing. 

  “The idea of following someone is to not let them notice you.” The voice caught in your ears like a starving venus plant, unknowingly holding onto his forearms. 

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you.” You took a step back, dropping your hands, the Viper still wide in your gaze. 

He had been tucking something into his bag, quick to have it blend back into the mass of black. The sun still kissed the sky, enough to see him in a different light — one that could be argued for a better view than the horizon. His armor consumed the rays, shining an iridescence off of it that you didn’t even know black could make. By the time you made it back to his gaze, you noticed him taking your body in as if it were one of the things being offered at the market. The mask carved barely above his nose, you identified a scar just over his left eye.  

He seemed to suck in a long breath, and you wouldn’t have noticed if it didn’t somehow make him larger. 

You wanted to make conversation, but his gaze was already bored, and you were desperately scrambling to gain his attention, “If I were to follow you, it wouldn’t be in a market.”

He quirked an eyebrow, as if to give you permission to go on. You plucked a green apple from your basket, rolling it between your fingers, “I would do it somewhere where I’d find you alone, maybe even follow you to your camp and wait there until you found me.” Teeth broke into the fruit, and you spread your lips on it, suckling the juices as they dripped down your chin. You brought your hand up to scoop it back into your mouth, keeping eye contact as if you were on trial.

  “Come.” 

  “What?”

Again, he didn’t answer. It was growing to be a pattern between you. He simply mirrored your stare for a pinch of a moment before he turned on his heel. You scurried behind him like a starved pup. 

As Kylo passed through the crowd, he didn’t bother to shift out of anyone’s way — they did it for him. He glided between bodies, never letting anyone dare to brush against him while he stomped with determined direction. 

You followed him until you were tucked in an alley, but he didn’t give you a moment to question him before your front was pressed against warm brick, hips secured to the wall by his own. You gasped at the hard outline through his leather pants, nails digging into the grates in the wall. The back of your mind begged you to remember the things you were just told, but the fingers that snaked over the nape of your neck and into your hair coaxed those thoughts away. 

He yanked it back, forcing you to lean against his chest as he pushed himself into your behind. Your body immediately responded to him, heart thumping in your ears like a war drum with the anticipation of feeling him again. In any way he would give you. 

A dam broke, your blood was replaced with molten lava, the only thing to keep you from focusing too much on your already shuddering breath was the hand that came down on your ass. Hard. 

 You yelped, hips edging into the alley, but there was no escape. This only drove the Witcher on, palm, punishing the same tender spot he had just gifted you. 

  “Shit!” 

You gasped, the warmth becoming more noticeable in the root of your most sensitive bits. 

  “You walk around like this and expect me not to take you?” 

A frustrated huff met your confusion, his palm flat against your belly, arm wrapped over your front to grab the inside of your thighs, kneading them in appreciation. His target wasn’t particular, enjoying the way you felt. 

His fingers hooked into your waistband, catching your panties in the process as he tugged them down your legs. A growl followed, one that ricocheted through the narrow space he had commandeered. You whimpered in response, blood rushing to the tips of your ears when you felt him crouch behind you.  

Leaning your chest into the rock, you spread your legs as much as your trousers at your ankles would allow, and then you felt teeth sink into your cheek, free hand collecting the pillowy curves of your behind. Your eyes rolled, his leathered digits squeezing marks into your waist as he pulled you into his mouth.

And that was when it hit you.

His mask was off. Kylo’s mouth was on you. 

Another moan. At first you thought it was him — you didn’t recognize it, but your mouth was gaping with proof that the foreign noise had just fled your chest. And this only enabled him. 

First, it was his nose. Spreading your folds open and using it as a doorway for his tongue to explore, angling through them until he found the nub, swirling the agile muscle against it. 

You so badly wanted to tug his hood down, wrap your fingers in the raven locks that that you’d glimpsed, but you had nothing but the wall for security, the roughness of the stone. And the Viper’s godly mouth luring you further into his will. 

One hand stayed on your cheek, massaging and spreading it while his head ducked between your legs to send you into a pleasure frenzy. 

  “Yesyesyes, fuck — right there.” 

He opened his jaw further to suck your swollen pussy into his mouth, your juices saturating his chin while he tamed you. 

An impatient nip scathed your skin, only for him to begin to move his head in a way that you knew no other ordinary man could replicate. 

Ghosting a hand up your spine, the Viper took a heavy grasp of the back of your neck, forcing you forward. Your forehead met the grainy siding, you twisted in an attempt to move your face away from it. In such quick movement the harsh stone dragged along your temple, scraping your skin, the hiss of pain melting into a cocktail of affirmations. 

For the second time, something clicked.

I want to hear it the next time I make you cum. 

The memory alone had you jerking down into his merciless mouth, the Viper growling in return, sending vibrations against your sensitive cunt. He stretched you open, your jaw clenching while two unforgiving fingers entered you.

Your feet were nearly lifting off of the ground from the force of his devoir. 

The savory noises coming from you were just as easy as your breath, you couldn’t open your eyes at that point, your lids too heavy with carnal gratification. 

No longer did you care who the Viper was, but what his name was when it would pass your lips. 

Curving to the part that would absolutely demolish you, the Witcher took care in carving you out to remind you of his demand, with the same fingers he had made promises of death with. You gave it to him, your jaw slacking as incoherent encouragement for him to continue while he sucked your pulsing clit into his mouth, plunging into you so hard your body jiggled with his movements. 

  “Kylo!” 

The shriek vibrated your skull, body jerking with the restraints of his large grip while you melted in his mouth. He took a few more lazy slurps, finishing you off before he left you to pull up your pants, and for a fleeting moment you wondered if you could overpower a mutant that everyone spun tales about.

By the time you caught another glimpse of him, his muzzle was secured back. He looked at you from under half-lidded eyes, as if he hadn’t just planted another seed for your damnation. 

  “I thought you were leaving,” you blurted as he exited the temporary hideaway.

He quirked his head slightly, still statequsue as he considered you. “I am.” 

[mirrerover]

Shipyard Stars

Spock’s bedroom on Earth would be called spacious by almost everyone’s standards. His parents allocated him almost the entire third level in the building -adequate room to meditate, study, and exercise- upon their arrival one year ago. His father out of practical reasons, his mother for reasons Spock believes might be partially grounded in emotions. Perhaps guilt for uprooting his life on Vulcan. Or out of an impulse to cosset him as human mothers are prone to. Both unnecessary.

The space is minimal and open, per Vulcan tradition, but never seems as small as it does with James Tiberius Kirk at the centre of it. With Jim comes a presence that seems to large to be contained by his adolescent body. Jim is a bright blaze of fire and gold, feelings boldly crackling in the air around him in a way that would be considered shameful on Spock’s home planet. But there’s never shame in the kaleidoscope of Jim’ many human emotions. Only anger.

Spock observes Jim from his mat on the floor. He had been meditating when interrupted by Jim climbing in through the window to unapologetically rummage through his drawers. Jim has taken to keeping many of his things at Spock’s place where they cannot be confiscated by his mother or teachers. A safe place as Spock’s parents haven’t entered his room or gone through his possessions without his explicit permission since he was four.

“May I enquire to the reason for your presence?”

Jim turns over one of his data pads in his hand before depositing it back where he found it.

“They’re sending her up soon.”

After a year on Earth, Spock has become very familiar with how humans will eschew clear and concise language in favour of a mixture of verbal and nonverbal cues. Jim in particular will start every conversation somewhere in the middle, brain ten steps ahead of his words, confident Spock will catch up to him. This time it’s easy. The newest addition to the fleet has been nearly all that Jim has spoken of these last few months.

“The final stages of assembly will require the ship to be in orbit.”

Jim’s bright blue eyes lock with Spock’s briefly before he returns to his task of depositing and retrieving his belongings in Spock’s space at will.

“It’ll be impossible to get to her up there.”

Spock knows this to be the truth. But he has also learned that for however loud and brash Vulcans and humans alike might consider Jim to be, the things Jim does not say or do can be just as telling.

“You do not possess access clearance to it on Earth either.”

Jim sighs and rolls his eyes towards the heavens, indicating that he finds Spock particularly obtuse at this moment. The gesture used to irk Spock. Maybe it still would if he wasn’t trained from a young age in controlling such a feeling because –despite Jim possessing a remarkable mind compared to his human peers— Spock has been at the top of his classes for his entire life, even back on Vulcan where his genetic heritage was thought to put him at a disadvantage. And these days he’s more aware of Jim’s tendency to manipulate others into action by appealing to their baser instincts. Like pride.

“Y’know, I’ve found that a lot of the times it’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

There’s a tremor in Spock’s eyebrow that has started to plague him ever since his family moved to Iowa.

“You are choosing short term gratification over long-term gains. Your freedom gets reduced every time you break the rules people set for you.” Jim seems completely preoccupied with packing his bag while Spock considers this a notion worth his attention. “Some might call that short-sightedness.”

The tool Spock gifted Jim for his birthday, a scanner of Vulcan technology that had made Jim come alight upon receiving it, is shoved into the bottom of his bag.

“She would never let me.”

Spock has little doubt that Admiral Winona Kirk would not grant access to two members of the public to roam around on what was going to be Starfleet’s most technological advanced ship in the fleet. Regardless of one of them being her youngest son. Or the other the son of one of their most important foreign diplomats.

Still.

“You should address your query through the proper channels.”

“What’s the point of proper channels if they’re not gonna listen anyway? All that’ll accomplish is tipping them off.” Jim zips the bag closed with unnecessary force and smiles a smile that Spock isn’t sure could be qualified as a smile at all. A sharp and cutting thing showing teeth but no happiness. “Wouldn’t be the same anyway. There’s a difference with having to make do with what people give you and just going out there and capturing it.”

Spock has noticed a growing fascination on Jim’s part with stealing, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, that he firmly resolves to curb in the future.

“I agree,” Spock says, eyes firmly locked with Jim’s. “Things freely given and things taken by force cannot be considered the same.”

Silence can be even louder than words when wielded by James Tiberius Kirk. He lets his gaze wander pointedly across Spock’s room and the sophisticated educational tools provided within it. Material possessions that Spock doesn’t share with anyone but Jim.

“Some are given more than others.”

Jealousy. An emotion even humans strive to repress. But Spock knows that it doesn’t drive Jim as much as it controls many other humans he has encountered. Fairness. Injustice. Those are the primary motivators of Jim’s anger even at his relatively young age.

“Yes,” Spock acknowledges. “We are not born equal.”

There’s a pause to Jim, as if he’s deciding whether he will allow Spock's acknowledgement of his world view to kill the momentum of his growing anger. Within their time together, Spock has become apt at sensing and steering Jim’s moods in a way no one else in Jim’s life has. And Jim, possessing great skill at picking people’s motivations apart himself, seems to constantly swing between joy at being known by Spock and fearful rebellion at being so completely seen by another person.

Vulnerability. Jim hardly ever shows it like he does now, body still and voice soft: “What if this is my only chance? To be on a ship like her?”

Fear. Spock has discovered that in Jim fear and anger run close at times. Sometimes Jim chooses anger because he prefers it over the cold touch of fear. Fear at not living up to his parents, fear of never leaving Iowa, fear of never exploring the stars. His dreams slowly suffocating between the endless oppressive stretches of corn until they die.  

“You’ll serve aboard many star ships when you join Starfleet,” Spock says decisively. Like there is no doubt Jim will join the ranks of Earth’s primary space branch. And Spock doesn’t have any doubts. Jim has many qualities that humans admire in one another. Qualities that would even garner respect from non-humans. From Vulcans.

Spock speaks the words as he speaks all his words. Because he thinks they deserve to be heard. And even though Jim is heading towards the exit, shoulders squared like he’s already willing his soft-spoken question into a soon forgotten memory, Spock has little doubt his answer is being heard. Spock finds his own words throw back into his face by Jim in the most inopportune of moments.

“So,” Jim says, caught in the doorway like a frozen storm, “you comin’?”

Within hours of first meeting him Spock had discovered that in Jim’s world there were clear sides. His mother, verbally abusive stepfather, and other figures of authority on one side. And Jim, fierce and alone, abandoned by his older brother, on the other. But since the start Spock had recognized the falsehood of this lone wolf narrative Jim had spun for himself. Their peers are drawn to Jim; they rally behind him in his school rebellions, captivated by his charisma, and cheer him on in his revolts. The day Jim realises the full scope of his magnetism would surely prove to be… interesting.  

Also, there is Spock. Where Jim goes, Spock follows, despite his human mother’s reservation and his Vulcan father’s disapproval. Spock’s presence to curtail some of Jim’s most reckless impulses could only prove to be beneficial. It is the logical choice.

So Spock rises from the bed and smooths down the creases in his robes. “I shall accompany you.”

~

A siren starts to blare in the distance.

“You think that’s for us?”

They’d ventured deeper into the belly of Starfleet’s future flagship than Spock had anticipated beforehand. Jim had been prepared, as Spock had known he would be, circumventing the security with his mother’s cloned Starfleet credentials. The Vulcan technology Spock had gifted Jim in the past played a key role in this deception and had immediately forced Spock to re-examine the tools deemed save to bestow upon Jim’s moral creativity and technical aptitude.

Spock tilts his head to the left in consideration. “Our breaking and entering would seem the most likely explanation for setting off the alarms to a secured facility.”

“Yeah,” Jim agrees, seemingly in awe of the flashing red lights and ear-piercing shrill of the alarm bouncing off the walls in increasing urgency.

Then Jim does something so illogical it stuns. He laughs, deep and boisterous, shaking his frame with tremors as if his body can’t contain the wealth of mirth he’s feeling. A display of emotion so blatant it would be considered indecent back home. Unseen. Spock can feel heat rising to his cheeks.

“We should run,” Jim says when he catches his breath, pupils blown wide in excitement.

“It would be futile. The activated security measures would take too long for us to circumvent. The chance of achieving a successful escape is negligible.”

Another pearl of laughter rips from Jim’s throat. The sound tugging at a counterpart hidden somewhere deep inside that Spock keeps carefully locked behind years of rigid mental training.  

“They’ll never take us alive.”

A nonsensical statement as Starfleet would never use deadly force on two adolescent children but Spock knows Jim is alluding to something else he can’t grasp the meaning of yet. Jim’s mother tongue is full of allegories and again Spock curses the language’s lack of precision and layered meanings. But Spock is yet to find a puzzle he can’t solve if he fully applies himself and he doesn’t see how a single teenage human boy could be any different.

Then Jim runs, a flash of gold down a corridor.

And Spock runs after.

~

@anarchisticandy @blueberrymafia, I finished a 1500 word Spirk drabble I started for you guys 2 years ago. XD 

Inspired by one of our fav fics Magpie by @waldorph

[rebelheartsmustbefree]

I will survive....

*Now that I knew the exact depth of this situation, I knew that keeping calm and staying in control was of the utmost importance. Thanks to daddy dearest and him finally explaining things to me to the fullest, I was all clued in and ready to take on the world so to speak. I had all the power, I could do so much good with my life, make a true difference and change this world for the better. It was the only real choice I had. I had to focus all my energy into good things and not get caught up on the the destruction I could unleash if I wasn’t careful. Pops told me to do my best to just blend in, live a normal life and keep the apocalypse underwraps. No pressure. Though it felt like the whole weight of this world rested on my shoulders and there was nothing I could do about it. This was my fate. This was the reason why my birth brought out the murderous side from the Garrison. They were ready to do the unthinkable to ensure the safety of mankind, to preserve the world as it is and save it from the potential carnage that I was fully capable of inflicting.

For once in my life, a little over two-hundred years of it, they were finally letting me have control. Trusting me to make my own choices and align my own fate. Whatever that may be. Step one was to get back and sort out my mother’s home again. So nice of folks to board it up while they fucked with my brain. Something else I just had to let roll off my back or else I may cause some sort of catastrophe. Earthquake, tornado, volcanic eruption. Who knows. My Father wasn’t sure what exactly would come first or could possibly happen all at once. He just knew that it was highly important that I found my calm and focused on that. Which is why I was heading back to my mother’s home. It was time to pull the pieces of my life back together again. I had spent too much time being lead off track that I had to take some time and regain myself once again.

The last time I really felt happy was with my mom. It was time to go home.

And so I did. The first order of business was to open up all the windows again after being nailed shut for months. It was amazing what some fresh air could do to a place. Worked miracles if you asked me. The crisp night air blew in like a promise of the cool nights to come. Those night’s would always be one of my favorites. It was something that I would always fault the humans for, taking for granted something so perfect, even in all its simplicity. I loved every moment of the fall. Just as my mother had when she was alive. It was one of the first things she and I spoke of when we finally met face to face. Part of me will always hate my Father for keeping her a secret from me. If I had gotten to know her sooner, gotten to be with her and be influenced by her humanity...perhaps things could have been different? Maybe I would have stayed the non-powered up angel, maintained my chill for awhile longer. Or would it have made any difference at all? Something I guess I’ll never know.

Once I had gotten my mother’s place all back to normal again, it felt like home. Well as much as home was going to feel like here alone with my thoughts and what ifs. There was nothing I could really do to remedy that so I had to do my best to move forward instead of always looking back. I didn’t have the power to change what had already happened but the future was in my grasp and I surely would do everything in my power to make the best of it. Step one was to find something to fill my time with, to keep my mind busy on a task so that I didn’t go stir crazy in this house. I locked up the house and headed over to the bar, now that Saint Vincent was dead, it was closed and without an owner. This was exactly what I needed. I fished for the door keys and unlocked the bar, the stale smell of cigarette smoke and beer greeted me. I flipped on all the lights, the warm glow of neon above the bar shined like a beacon of hope in an otherwise hole of despair. I went ahead and locked up the door behind me, setting off with the task of cleaning up this place so I could reopen it back for business. If all goes well I can have this place in tip-top shape by this time tomorrow and let the customers back in.

I certainly had my work cut out for me.

And work I did. It took all night to clean this place up. Dust was gone, the old cherry top of the bar had it’s shine back, windows opened to clear out the putrid stench of the past to make room for the present. I could still see him here around this bar, behind it on that night I walked in and he offered me a job. I had no idea that I had just willingly walked into his trap. What a fool I was, I had no clue what would become of me, that road I had taken that lead me right back here again. Only this time I was in full control of what came next. This was my life and there was nothing in my way now. Father had promised me that they would indeed stop with their meddling as long as I kept my cool and just try to live the most normal life that I could. That was precisely what I planned to do, this bar was going to be my saving grace. I had such a good feeling about this. I would keep my ass out of trouble, keep away from relationships because heaven knows my dick causes too many problems when it starts doing the thinking.

I better stock up on Kleenex and lotion.

By the next evening I was ready for the reopening of this bar. I knew most the faces that frequented this establishment, I knew their drinks, I knew all the routines. It was a cake walk. The night was going along swimmingly until someone asked me what happened to dear old Vince. It kind of stopped me in my tracks and made my blood run cold. But after a deep breath and a forced smile I gave my best lie. The word around town was that Vince was a liar, and he broke my heart when he unexpectedly up and left me one day. Which really was all true in a way. He had lied. He did break my heart. And he did leave. Only I let them think he left town. Not that he kinda...left this world and descended into hell for all his sins. But I digress… Barring that one little hiccup, the night was a huge success and the people of Halo Indiana seemed pleased to see me back behind that bar. They even asked me to reprise my role as karaoke master extraordinaire. Which I happily obliged.

No one could make a fool of themselves better than me. So after freshening up everyones drinks, I got behind the mic and belted out my best Gloria Gaynor. Not my pick for sure but a request from the ladies who knew best of my heartache. They clapped and hollered out with glee as I proclaimed how I know that I, I will survive. And what an apt lyric on a night like this. When I knew that things now would truly only get better from this moment on. What more could I want?

This was only the beginning of my second act and they were already calling for an Encore*

#TBC

[ellymackay]

Are You a Lucid Dreamer?

Are You a Lucid Dreamer? is available on https://www.ellymackay.com

I’m fascinated by dreams. I know I’m not alone in this. As a sleep expert, I’m constantly being asked about dreams. People want to know what their dreams mean (I’m often as stumped as everyone else about the strangeness of dreams). People want to know what purpose dreams serve (scientists who study dreams are still searching for an answer to that very big question).

I’m especially fascinated by a particular type of dream: lucid dreams.  In lucid dreams, the dreamer is aware of the fact that he or she is dreaming. During lucid dreams, dreamers often can even manipulate or control their dream as it’s happening.

Dreams have preoccupied humans for as long as we’ve been dreaming. And we’ve always been interested in how to control our dreams, to use them for creativity and insight. Thinkers and discoverers from Aristotle to Edison to Einstein have tried to harness the power of dreams to take advantage of this free-flowing, no-boundaries form of consciousness. That interest continues today, as we explore new ways to intentionally cultivate lucid dreams.

Let’s take a look at some of the latest science on lucid dreaming—what it is, why it happens, and how we might be able to train ourselves to become lucid dreamers and take greater control of our dream worlds.

What’s it like to have a lucid dream?

Have you ever been in the midst of a dream and found yourself thinking about the fact that you’re dreaming? Maybe you’ve had a moment of self-aware laughter at the oddity of a dream, or been able to temper your fear of a frightening dream episode because your mind grasps that what you’re experiencing isn’t “real.” Have you ever been able to control the circumstances or the action of your dream—as though you were the director of your dream “movie” and not only an actor in it?

Self-awareness of dreaming and the ability to control dreams are two central characteristics of the experience of lucid dreaming. They don’t always occur together, however. People who experience lucid dreams may have self-awareness within their dreams, but not the ability to control dream content. And the lucidity of our dreams can be fleeting—that’s to say, bursts of self-awareness within dreams may be very brief.

If you’ve never had a lucid dream, it can be tricky to imagine what this is all like. Think for a moment about what “regular” dreaming is like. During non-lucid dreams, we experience dream experiences as though they’re actually happening to us. It’s only after we awaken and recall our dream—even if that recall lasts for only a moment before we lose our dream memory—that we gain an awareness of having been dreaming.

The difference between this commonplace, non-lucid type of dream and a lucid dream is the ability to reflect on what’s happening in our minds as it is happening. That self-awareness of our thoughts is what’s known as metacognition. It’s generally understood that metacognition—an active ability of the human mind while awake-all but disappears during sleep. Lucid dreaming appears to be an exception.

In lucid dreams, at least two states of consciousness—a wake-like, metacognitive state and a dreaming state–appear to be mixed together. In this extraordinary mixed state of consciousness, we can both experience our dream and see ourselves dreaming—and maybe even control those dreams as they unfold.

Why do we have lucid dreams?

Not all of us do dream with lucidity. It appears to be pretty common for people to experience a lucid dream at some point in their lives. Research suggests that more than half of us may have at least one lucid dream during our lifetimes. But regular lucid dreaming is much more rare than that. And there appear to be a very small number of people who not only experience lucid dreams regularly, but also can exert some control within those dreams.

Scientific studies have shown that our brains behave differently during lucid dreams than in other states of sleep and dreaming.  Research has found lucid dreamers displayed��significantly higher brain wave frequencies than non-lucid dreamers.

Lucid dreamers also appear to have increased activity in regions of the brain’s prefrontal cortex, areas of the brain that are typically inactive during sleep. These parts of the brain are deeply involved with conscious awareness, a sense of self, as well as language and memory. Recently, for the first time, scientific study documented that the brain activity of lucid dreams shares several characteristics with the waking state of metacognition.

It’s not clear why some people have lucid dreams, while others do not, or why some people experience lucid dreams quite often, while most of us may only have this experience a handful of times in a lifetime.

But there are some interesting clues about what may distinguish lucid dreamers from non-lucid dreamers. Some research indicates that certain personality traits and cognitive styles may be linked to lucid dreams. Imagination and creativity have both been associated with more frequent lucid dreaming. Introspection, and a tendency to rely more heavily on internal thoughts (rather than external information) have also been linked to lucid dreams. Research shows that people who can effectively split their attention between different tasks, or points of focus, may be more apt to have lucid dreams. There’s also some indication that people who experience nightmares more often may be more prone to lucid dreams.

And some research suggests that stronger overall dream recall—a greater ability to remember all types of dreams after waking—may be linked to a greater capacity for lucid dreaming.

Recently, studies have shown lucid dreaming is more common in people with narcolepsy. In narcolepsy, brain activity is atypical, and some of the neural activity that promotes wakefulness and suppresses sleep are altered. This results in poor sleep control, intense and persistent daytime sleepiness, difficulty sleeping at night, and dream-like hallucinations. People with narcolepsy tend also to have more nightmares and better dream recall than people without the disorder.

Some fascinating recent research conducted by scientists in the United Kingdom has also linked lucid dreaming to sleep paralysis, another striking sleep experience. Sleep paralysis occurs when we wake from sleep unable to move or to speak. Both sleep paralysis and lucid dreaming appear to be related to transitions in and out of REM sleep. During REM sleep, the body is largely paralyzed (a condition known as REM atonia). And REM sleep is a sleep stage characterized by vivid, active dreaming.

This research showed an association between the frequency of sleep paralysis and the frequency of lucid dreaming. It also highlighted some important differences between the two sleep phenomena. Sleep paralysis was connected to higher stress and to lower sleep quality. That’s not surprising to me, given how upsetting and scary episodes of sleep paralysis can be. On the other hand, lucid dreaming appeared to be a much more positive sleep experience. In this study, lucid dreaming was not associated with stress or reduced sleep quality. It was linked to more positive waking daydreaming experiences, and to more vivid waking imagination.

Can we induce lucid dreaming?

This a big question, for dreamers and scientists alike. How can we encourage lucid dreaming?

You might be asking: why would people want to encourage lucid dreaming? We don’t know the fundamental purpose of dreaming. But dreams have long been thought to be vehicles for emotional processing, problem solving, idea exploring and creativity. Since ancient times, dreams have been thought to be a forum for both healing and discovery related to our waking lives. In our modern age, rigorous scientific study has given us data to support all of these long-held thoughts about the usefulness of dreams.

Scientists, sleep experts and therapists (including me!) are interested in the specific potential of lucid dreams a therapeutic tool. Working intentionally with lucid dreams can be effective in reducing the intensity, frequency and emotional disruption of nightmares. In a lucid dream setting the dreamer has the capacity to push back against negative and disturbing dream narratives, emotional content and events. In a real sense, the dreamer may be able to re-script a cream to create more positive, empowering, calming outcomes. That makes lucid dreaming potentially useful in a range of psychological situations, including the treatment of waking-life phobias and traumas, issues with mood, and in relationships.

Lucid dreams have also long been sought as a way to enhance creativity—and that continues to be true today. People are understandably curious about how to mine their dream worlds to unlock creative powers, as well as to enhance other cognitive skills. And let’s face it: it’s pretty thrilling and cool to contemplate being able to control our dreams, and bring about self-awareness and self-reflection within them. The experience alone is enticing and desirable for many people.

Ways to promote lucid dreams

There are a number of techniques and tools being explored by scientists as ways to increase lucid dreaming. Studies show that the drug galantamine, which is used to treat dementia, may be effective in increasing the frequency of lucid dreams. Galantamine works to stop the breakdown of acetylcholine, a brain chemical that is an important facilitator of reflective thinking, reasoning, and memory. Acetylcholine also is involved the the regulation of REM sleep. Research is also exploring how sensory and environmental cues might be used to stimulate lucid dreams.

If you’re interested in cultivating your own lucid dreaming abilities, there are some techniques you can try on your own.

Reality testing. This simple technique involves checking in with your surroundings throughout your waking day. As you observe your waking environment, ask yourself: am I awake or am I dreaming? This practice may spur the mind to ask this question inside your dreaming consciousness.

Wake back to bed, or WBTB. Using WBTB, a person sleeps for 5-6 hours, then deliberately wakes for a period of time—as little as 10 minutes, or up to an hour—before going back to sleep. The idea here is to send yourself immediately into REM sleep (which occurs most abundantly in the final third of the night), where most, if not all, lucid dreaming occurs. (One note: don’t use WBTB if it shortens your sleep amounts or leaves you feeling tired and shortchanged on rest. Lucid dreaming isn’t worth actually losing sleep over!)

Mnemonic induction of lucid dreams, or MILD. This is one of the best studied lucid dream techniques. It uses intention to stimulate self-awareness in dreams. Before going to sleep, say to yourself: “The next time I’m dreaming, I will remember I am dreaming.” You can also use MILD with specific dream recollections. Take a moment to recall a dream you had recently, and think specifically about an oddity or anomaly in that dream. (Maybe street signs were in a strange language, or the furniture in your living room was all rearranged.) Visualize yourself returning to that dream and recognizing that anomaly, while also saying to yourself the same intention from above.

A 2017 study investigated these techniques and found that using all three together was effective in stimulating lucid dreaming.

Enhance dream recall. Strengthening your ability to remember your dreams is one way to potentially develop your ability for lucid dreaming. Keeping a dream journal is one way to increase dream recall. Keep the journal at your bedside. As soon as you wake, write down everything you remember about your dream. There’s also some pretty interesting recent research showing that Vitamin B6 can help enhance our memories of dreams.

Scientists at Australia’s University of Adelaide found that taking a high-dose (240mg) of vitamin B6 supplements before going to bed for five consecutive days led to greater dream recall. You can increase your vitamin B6 intake by eating whole grain cereals, legumes, fruits (such as banana and avocado), vegetables (such as spinach and potato), milk, cheese, eggs, red meat, liver, and fish.

Meditate. Meditation is a practice of mindful awareness, of attention to the present moment. Practicing meditation during your waking day will help you develop your capacity for awareness of where your mind is in the moment. That skill may translate into the dream world, increasing your ability for self-awareness—aka lucidity—in your dreams. A 2015 study found that meditation and mindfulness were connected to more frequent lucid dreaming. Other research shows meditation has benefits for dreaming as a whole. Mindfulness practices have been shown to reduce negative and disturbing content in dreams. And as I’ve written about before, mindfulness practices, including meditation, can help you sleep better overall.

Let me know your experiences with lucid dreaming, and any questions you have about our dreaming lives! I’ll continue to talk about lucid dreams as we learn more about this extraordinary form of dreaming. Until then, here’s a link to all of my articles about dreaming.

Sweet Dreams,

Michael J. Breus, PhD, DABSM

The Sleep Doctor

www.thesleepdoctor.com

  The post Are You a Lucid Dreamer? appeared first on Your Guide to Better Sleep.

from Your Guide to Better Sleep https://thesleepdoctor.com/2019/02/26/are-you-a-lucid-dreamer/

from Elly Mackay - Feed https://www.ellymackay.com/2019/02/26/are-you-a-lucid-dreamer/

[lostpensioner]

My Feet and The Space/Time Continuum.

I have long been of the opinion that this vast universe in which we live pivots around the central point of my feet.  I know that since Einstein’s day we have come to see everything in the universe as being in motion relative to other moving objects, and that  we now believe that there are no fixed points.  But from early childhood I have been struck by the overwhelming evidence to suggest that my feet are, in fact, the centre of the universe.

 I have never, at any age, been considered a tall person. I like to think of myself as being of average dimensions, both vertically and horizontally.  And I have never had particularly large feet.  One would imagine then that the chances of any object in this mind-blowingly huge universe hitting my feet randomly would be miniscule.  I’m no mathematician.  But if you consider the smallness of my feet in comparison to the immensity of the universe you would be inclined to bet on the likelihood that if something out there is going to accidentally hit off something it must be infinitely unlikely that the something they hit will be at the end of my legs.

 Ask yourself this: Have you ever actually seen a piece of space debris fall to Earth?  I doubt it. Or do you know anyone who as ever witnessed such an event?  Again, I suspect you haven’t.  And yet, scientists tell us every day that stuff is constantly falling from the heavens. Fortunately, it seems to favour oceans and deserts as a landing place.  We seldom hear stories of people being wiped out by a piece of an old space station hurtling through space.  And who do you know who has been struck by a meteor?  I presume that scientists would argue that such events are extremely rare because of the immensity of space and the relative insignificance of any one human being located within it.

 However, it would amaze you to know that, throughout my life, from childhood to the present day, my feet have been under constant attack from stray objects, particularly from other people’s feet.  I became very aware of this problem in my teens although, in hindsight, the problem started much earlier.  My parents seemed to be incapable of walking through a room without tripping over my feet.  This was often a quite painful experience for me.  Yet those who tripped over my feet always reacted as if they were the innocent victims of my malicious pedal extremities.

 After they would regain their balance (they seldom actually fell) they would turn and give me a look of intense annoyance.  They never took personal responsibility for the injury to their dignity caused by the embarrassing trips.  Their looks, and often their words, would accuse my feet of having been in the wrong place.  It was the position of my feet in the space/time continuum which was the problem, not their carelessness.  “Tidy yourself up”, I was often admonished.  “Why did you have to leave your feet there?”   The unfairness of these remarks always irked me, although for years I struggled to fully identify the faulty logic on which they were based. But then one day, in my sixteenth year, I suddenly saw how nonsensical these accusations were.  

 It was my father who tripped over me.  He was on his way to do one of those very important things that fathers do, and therefore couldn’t spare the attention necessary to navigate his way safely through our spacious living room.  As usual, he managed to plough straight into my feet.  “For God’s sake!” he roared.  “Can you not be more careful where you leave your feet?”  So instant was my grasp of the unfairness of this remark, that I immediately burst out even more loudly than my father: “What do you mean?  My feet are down there at the bottom of my legs, exactly where they’ve been for more than a decade and a half.  I can’t think of a less surprising place to find my feet!”

 There then followed an astonished silence.  I don’t know who was more amazed, my father or me.  I’m not normally given to sudden outbursts. I’m more of a sulker than a sudden-outburster.  My father, then, had no precedent against which to bench-mark this aberrant behaviour. For my part, I had trouble recognising the expression on his face, unwonted as it was.  With the benefit of hindsight I would guess that it was Dad’s attempt at flabbergasted mixed with nonplussed with just a soupcon of annoyance thrown in for good measure.  Normally he favoured the milder end of the facial expression spectrum.  The nearest he ever got to looking annoyed was when he tripped over something with toes attached to it.  Otherwise he had his facial muscles permanently  set to a default mode of quiet optimism.

 As I’ve said, I was quite dumbstruck myself.  I am not, in my deepest nature, a bland person.  I am a sensitive soul, one who experiences emotions very intensely.  And I tend to paint my inner world using  quite a dark palette.  I’m basically quite moody, angst ridden, even gloomy.  But not many people know that.  In order to survive in an exceptionally cheerful family I’ve had to learn to curb the expression of my true emotional nature.  So as not to have to endure my Pollyanna parents and siblings trying to cajole me into a blissful state with exhortations to cheer up, or being told that it might never happen, I’ve learnt to act the part of a happy-go-lucky, devil-may-care sort of eejit.  I’d been acting this role for so long now that I was genuinely surprised to hear my true self screaming out loud about the injustice of my feet being scapegoated.

 I looked in my Father’s eyes.  He, with great difficulty, returned my gaze.  I’m not a big fan of the whole eye-contact lark.  I worry that if I direct the windows of my soul for more than a fraction of a moment towards the windows into another, more cheerful, soul, I might manage to draw all the joy, all the hope, all the innocence out of that trusting, open, kindly spirit.  And, at the same time, I might allow that other soul a glimpse into the stygian gloom of my rank inner life.  But sure anyway, I found myself exchanging a reasonably long glance with my father.  After the initial flabbergast-based expression cocktail had faded from his face, I could see that he was seriously thinking about having a go at talking. His mouth was starting to move in silent preparation for the task of  forming a few apt words.  But the words, apt or otherwise, were slow to form.  At first I thought that maybe they had encountered some sort of neural traffic jam en route from his brain to his gob.  But I gradually came to the conclusion that the words hadn’t even headed off on their journey yet.  There seemed to have been a shortage of lexical volunteers.  There weren’t loads of competing words, phrases or sentences shouting out “Please pick me!” inside in the Da’s brain.  I don’t even think the concepts which the words could symbolise had formed in his mind yet.  He was at a loss.  The mouth stopped moving.  Then it closed.  His eyes found an expression of defeat which they could both agree on and decided to stick with that for the time being.

 This was all new to me.  I’d never had this effect on my Father, or anyone else for that matter, before. This was not an enjoyable precedent. By carelessly allowing a few angry words to burst out from the depths of my petty little soul I had caused pain and indecision in the heart and mind of a good man.  I reviewed my options as quickly as I could:

 Option one:  I could apologise.  Admit that I was in the wrong (even though, strictly speaking, I wasn’t.  I had just carelessly jumped gallantly, if overzealously, to the aid of a pair of innocent, much-maligned feet.  If it had been a woman instead of a pair of feet I had stood up for people would applaud me.)

 Option two:  I could stand by the principle I so heartily championed, but express regret for the tone in which I had expressed said principle.  Backtrack on the rudeness while sticking fundamentally to my guns.

 Option three.  I could ramp up the level of emotion to a point where I began to scare my father. He would begin to fear for my mental state and try to mollify me.  He would say whatever it took to talk me back into a more reasonable state of mind, thus saving me the unmanly embarrassment of having to back down.

 In the end I opted for none of the above. Instead I looked down at my feet, then back up to the Da’s eyes, then back to the feet.  The message I was trying to convey was something like this:

 “I put it to you, members of the jury, that these feet, the left and indeed the right, are in fact innocent.  The charges are that they maliciously, and with intent did set out to impede the progress across the spacious plane that is the living room floor of a decent man of the father class whose journey had been embarked upon for no other purpose than the furtherance of the wellbeing and contentment of those with whom he shares an abode.  And that, further, the afore-mentioned feet did seek to avoid blame for their crime by enlisting the aid of a young man whose moral judgement is as yet not fully formed.”

 And so on, and so on. I won’t bore you with the details of the ensuing rounds of examination, counter-examination and legal argument. Suffice it to say that, even now, fifty odd years later, the jury is still out.

[thatgirlinthephilippines]

Playing Nice

    Sports….uhhhhhhhhhhgggggggggggg. Am I right? I don’t get it. I know that’s a pretty generic statement, but it’s my reality, and it is insane how much people don’t understand or accept that conceit. It’s something that baffles and confuses sports fans to the point of indignant anger. “But its America’s pass time!” “ This only happens every four years!!!” “It’s the super mega championship sports extravaganza festival to which you are contractual obligated to care about!!!!!!!!!!!!! USA. USA. USA. USA.” Barf. My lifelong lacking of national pride aside, I think for most sports fans what’s frustrating is that there’s no real reason why I’m not interested. Some people look at a ball and see a world of possibilities, I see potential embarrassment and exertion. Put a professional display of athleticism in front of me and I will watch diligently, for a few moments. Inevitably though, I will drift away to distant thoughts, occasionally being snapped back by the inordinate amount of screaming and jovial movement of the crowd around me. It’s just how my brain works. I can’t focus on humanities various interactions with a ball.

     This lack of obsession was not loss on my father, who, for all intensive purposes, is an American Football fanatic. His team: The San Francisco 49ers. His god: Joe Montana. Highly despised traitor and disgrace to the game of football: Jerry Rice. Offense: moving to the ever despised and vile rival The Oakland Raiders. I was raised with the simple truth that we were a Niners family and with that came certain expectations. Game day is sacred, burgundy and gold is the greatest color combination known to man, and The Oakland Raiders and all of their fans are horrible people. (I suspect this last credo is a little racial tinged, but I’ll save that gem of social commentary for another post.) Regularly, my birthday was postponed so that we did not have to disrupt playoff season, and one special year I got a birthday / Superbowl party. Every 8 year old girls wildest dreams come true! If you think that’s sad, you should have seen the collective toddler scale tantrum thrown when is was revealed my cousin’s engagement party, planned months in advance, would be on the same day as a playoff game, determined essentially the day before.

     It may seem insane, and it one hundred percent is, but that’s just the way things are in our family. This is also incredibly mild compared to some. If you want to understand real fanaticism look to football (AKA soccer, and yes I am going to be the pretentious American that uses the name literally the entire rest of the world uses.) Being in Chile for the world cup was a next level sporting experience. I grew up going to games, and despite my short attention span for ball maneuvering, there is something very fun about the fury of a game day crowd. I have seen people cheer, scream, fight, and even riot over their team, but I have never experienced the level of emotional investment that Chile showed me during the World Cup. After a win, the streets were filled with songs and insanity, but after a loss I was shocked to find grown men listlessly wandering the streets straight up sobbing. The only time I had ever seen that level of emotion over a game was the last time the Niners lost The Superbowl and I honestly thought I would see my dad cry for the first time in my entire life. It didn’t help that he had installed 7 new TVs for the event and had to witness the crushing defeat from every possible angle.

     I am usually pretty good at comforting people in pain, but I honestly have no idea how to console someone distraught over their team not getting a ball past a line more times than their competitors. It’s just not in my wheel house. Weirdly, this is a pretty large disadvantage, as many humans seem to be of the opposite end of the empathy spectrum when it comes to strategic ball movement. It’s particularly crushing when, as a teacher, I am expected to engage with my students athletically. As you can tell, I don’t like watching sports, but I fucking hate playing almost all of them. I enjoy two sports, swimming and yoga. One of those is not a sport, and both of them involve me alone, cut off from the world, and zero balls. So, when my coworkers came to me and said we were going to put on a two day sports tournament you can imagine my full on ass clenching terror. This is essentially my worst nightmare. For two days I would have to summon the strength to endure HOURS of people bouncing, tossing, and smacking balls for points. Insert epic eye roll. I am a professional however, and I endeavored to complete this task with respect and gratitude.

     So, now that we’ve made it this far, I feel I should talk about the inherent sexism of sports. YAY! The fact is there’s little respect for female athletes and certainly none on par with the reverence men receive. Professional sports industries were created for and are dominated by men. There is not a single women’s professional sports league that comes even close to the level of fame and respect that any male league receives. Its shitty, and sexist, and not really a reason I hate sports, but it certainly doesn’t incline me to give them a little slack. Everyone else might be inclined to let this slide with a slight shrug and a what can we do about it attitude, but to me they’re all buying into the same patriarchal bullshit we’re always fed. I joke a lot about balls and fanaticism, but I need to point out that this is a real sticking point for me. This is the lens through which I view the world and it’s very hard for me to ignore that view just to let go and have fun.

     It was with all of this swirling in the back of my mind, and after nearly a full day of sports overload, that I sat down to watch the girl’s basketball tournament. Or, I should say, the one and only girls basket ball game we were going to get because the boys took too long. So, all the girls teams were combined into two that would face off for the revered title of champion. (smile and nod at the totally logical lack for respect for female athletes.) So ok, Basketball! Woooo. With the basket, and the ball, and dribbling and …free throwing? I have no idea how this game works, but I didn’t know how American football worked for the first ten years of my life and I still managed to enjoy going to games. How hard could this be?

     Very. Fucking. Hard. See, basketball is not really considered a girl’s sport here. It’s very popular but primarily as a pass time for boys. They take it very seriously, and are very good at it. Girls, on the other hand, rarely ever play, and that was the case for every single one of our female learners on the court, save one. A tomboy. Or trans man as we would say in the states. She (preferred pronoun) was amazing. ( I assume, she was amazing because she is male presenting and her outward masculinity gave her access to the boys club and thus the court. Fascinating, but this post is about me and my unyielding judgement of the world. So, I’ll  leave my conjectures on trans culture for another day.) One awesome athlete, however, does not distract from the spectacle of a bunch of girls trying their best, but inevitably being really bad at basketball.

     While the boys were playing there was a seriousness in the room, and apt attention was payed to every play. Once the girls took the court, however, the room was filled with waves hyena like cackles and insult tossing. To be clear, majority of the players were absolutely terrible at basketball, and I understand how that can be funny. I was left with this nagging feeling though that it wasn’t just that the girls didn’t know how to pass a ball well, or dribble properly. Rather, I felt that the sight of females on a court was such an absurdity that it could never be taken seriously. I know I am probably projecting a lot of my world view on all of this, but I guess that’s my trigger. I know that the boys were laughed at for every one of their sports blunders, and while that should ease my tension I think it only adds to it. Why is failure so funny? Why do we need to acknowledge that failure so intensely, and with mockery? And knowing that girls are never really afforded the opportunity, let alone encouraged to play basketball, why do we find it acceptable to mock their every blunder with such gusto? It’s maddening to me and it left me so angry I was ready to grab the ball and punt it out of the gym, despite years of blunders and embarrassment that proved I would never be able to complete such a task. So, I seethed. For 20 minutes I just tried to let it go, and I think that’s the hardest part of working in another culture. Letting it the fuck go. On a daily basis I have to tell myself, “Not my culture, not my call.” It’s so difficult sometimes to set aside what you truly believe are injustices and accept the world your in not as flawed and broken, but different and evolving.  

    At around minute 15, my fist were clenched in fury and I was moments away from grabbing the mic and making a teenage movie level declarative speech about inclusiveness and accepting one another, but with more screaming. Despite my rage lens though, I came to realize that while they never get to play elsewhere, and they may not be as revered as the boys for their efforts, my school was giving these girls an opportunity to throw a ball at a hoop. Also, this was a qualifying game and the winners would move on to throw that ball at another hoop, in a district tournament. That there were two trans students on the court and no one questioned or mocked their involvement and cheered just as loudly for their achievements as the rest. Most importantly, maybe I was being a bit of a judgy bitch. Everyone around me was having a blast and captain downer over here, sitting alone carefully outlining her verbal assault, was probably overreacting. Or maybe I’m right and the world sucks and people are terrible. It’s a toss up really.

[tomaschronosart]

I can remember writing a story about a cackle of hyenas whom were mindlessly roaming The Unending Desert, from memory I had depicted them as these anthropomorphic creatures – nearly human enough to recall. I was in Mrs. Dyer's class, so grade 6. I remember how calm and confident I felt doing this particular task, it seemed like I knew how to flow and tap into some source from the get go.The feeling of calm comfortability was very rare for me. Mrs. Dyer played the entire class a song and requested we create a narrative based on our initial thoughts, feelings and reactions to the song. As a kid with a bed time, I mostly just passed out from exhaustion, instead of actually going to sleep… I would lie awake every night, wired, manic and fearful. I began writing stories in my head early on in an attempt to soothe and channel my chronic anxieties.. I had constructed the usual traumatized-child-fantasy-universe – a safe place where I could manifest the perception of control. I never minded sleeplessness, as it created an apt environment for cognitive free-running, I adjusted. My fantastical bedtime stories were vanilla, from memory.. drug cartels, mercenary adventures in the jungle, sci-fi opera journeys and sometimes just a regular old adventure where me and mine would acquire some kind of drug or person or thing. For a long time, I had an obsession with unearthing new control techniques to quench the thirst of my firmly embedded insomnia - I had stock-standard/methodical/repetitive stories that would take 2-3 ours to ‘create n complete’. If there was a satisfying and coherent beginning, middle and an end to te story, I could sleep. Nights were always hardest and darkest for me – I have no idea how old I was when my sleep hygiene began deteriorating. And though, sleeplessness was uncomfortable and I was never keen on being tired – After doing the reading recovery program, I could finally read, so I was quick to pick up the –read-in-bed- habit. I began hearing other peoples stories, a welcome change. if I was feeling particularly flowy, I’d organize one of my card collections. I would try to master some new drawing technique... but I could sit behind a computer for 18-24 hours straight and ride the wave playing some puzzle or anything else repetitive enough to numb my mind. I remember how icy cold I’d get during winter - how blue my hands would become after hours of sitting stationary at my desk.. I would leave my window open throughout the night to keep the computer cool, it lagged if it overheated. I used to think that if I didn’t pay any attention to the cold, I would not feel the cold. Before I was 10, I had not come across any one thing that transfixed me. I had not yet become addicted to anything yet, I think? – that is until Puzzle Pirates!!! Shit, when that fucker came into the picture.. well, I no longer gave a shit about anything but Puzzle pirates. I could not cope with the disconnection, exile and the incessant bullying I copped from my peers. The frustrated messes waiting for me at home were suckin down durries, grog and sugar as hungrily as the machines cha-chinning for their money at the pub. I still am heeding these calls I am too tired to remember. I am still sweeping the dust away from these things I cant forget. At times, I miss the calm comfortability of not needing drugs; I miss the warmth that seeped away whilst roaming the waking world; I miss my Lunar lover, who would speak to me in dreams/ through dreams i could See through, cast away, be at ease. I hold on Tightly- still, To whatever vice’ll’suffice. seeming to soothe and appease the beast / my early coping strategies of hermitage and avoidance, protect me from momentum Games and story telling and art replication – I wanted to draw cartoon characters, as I was exposed to their stories more than my own peoples. I can still remember the countless hours, days and weeks of social isolation and voiceless anxiety. Sugar – one of the quickest ways to soothe my boiling baby brain. I keep thinking of the root of this addiction as a loss or lack of social belonging , or maybe I am lamenting another warped perception of my self .. I remember that I was so emotive and empathic and open but also unregulated, neglected and full of painful confusion. I forget that I still am. I felt so damn old all the time. I remember the sunshine splattering through the windows, onto the dashboard of mums old Ford Laser. We were doing one of our usual trips to Warrandyte for her housekeeping job with then Heffernans. I remember looking out over the balcony at the rear of their place, taking in the kilometers of bush and possibility. I black out their olympic size swimming pool - i nearly drowned in it a few times. While I was peering out across the sky,I was fretting over forgetting how I came to be standing there. I did not understand how I forgot- I remembered the sunshine On my face, So I knew, I had gotten there, though I could not remember how. I wanted to be a boy. I was a boy. I became a girl, as expected. , football was a medium, a bridge for the repressed masculinity – I didn't like to exercise, I did not want to be made of aware of my breathing, bleeding bio sac. my body was unimportant and sickly and tired and stressed and depressed, chronically– I reflect now and see how maladaptive a depressive I am. Always, wanting to escape the confines of the very thing I want to inhabit and realize? //// ah!!! the system that creates its own dependence, to substantiate its usage of the finite well, shall never recognize its own self-destructive carelessness. For having ignored the infinite well, the system, as it stands, shall fall. And that well that never runs dry? Well, I always forget about it. I use everything I have ever touched// to coin a collection of concepts Only I can comprehend. But, this is making it easier. I can see a bit clearer now. I can ease into the next step, less weary than before. But why? The further away I wander, the more susceptible I am to rot. In time, these things will return … and of my soul? My soul shall ache and pupate once more, Forlorn, I remember///! how I forgot – to start, To stop. And who's justifications am I leaning towards now? My deep dwelling fears and my leering observations are erratic, Unsustainable, Confusing. THE MAD ARM OF THE Y – an obstruction arises along the path creating the crossroads of forever, Two new paths, the same old path. I am alone, finally – at peace. At ease, with my failures, for now. No mirror I stumble upon can stave off my stare, Why should they? to see through what I can only see when I Stop, start and Refresh is my responsibility. I am so sorry, that I show A me that thinks it can have something It is not worthy of. Give me nothing and give me everything - I have been in all of the wrong places. I know I think wrong, and that I have made it too hard on myself. I know these revelations have been a long time coming but- I sat there and I remembered, It is to me and to me alone that I must consort with. I seek council amongst my memories and I find shelter in my solitude. These flickering unrealities I thought were gone - Pls, just hold onto the everlasting, Try, bust through space and time and just- Breathe. My desire for my true end has faded, I see life again, manifest. The 10,000 directions in front of me, the Myriad forever, the calf of endless suffering howls my name so doggardly. And change and change and change And grow and grow and grow, And that's all u r doing and that's all U can do. individualism is not the thing That u share with me, nor I with u. I remembered just now, that Id like to talk with u and, Share space. How I miss fixing shit with you. How u and me, we used to sit in the park and heal our aching thoughts- Work'd be done and the day was forever- and the thoughts would come, and go. And I miss it cause it kept me closer to my people – for when I speak amongst my kin, I am Home and full hearted – But I lost all my chill, I lost all my capitol, frankly. Then - it snow balled, as it always does. I feel I have been too sad to be a friend, too fucked to really feel love, I fear I am to scattered to comprehend my responsibilities And I’m too damn lonely to ask for help. And so what? Now what? Just keepin up with the fuckin fog is hard enough, I know I just gotta slow down and risk a bit of pain and ease into warmth and trust that its true. My silence has done me a disservice. My love for u, eternally/ Evergrateful / be am me, For all is as it could be. Chained to nought but my fears, Lovingly I say to u, from the mouth of Beth Ditto, “If everything u do has a hole in it, then everything u do has a hold on me, I been here before I should be used to this, But I can't take it no more, I can't take it no more, no oooo, Ooooooooo ooooooo ooooo,” (And to me I always sing:) “Yr mangled hrt, yr bitter love that's hangin onto memories, Ur lettin go of everything that ussed to be, U build me up to let Me down…” And from the channels of me, I wonder, what am I releasing? Capitulating with comrades, A sparrow new found – tiny and fragile, Like glass, Rock hard and clear/ transparent but, still. It is shattered Spraying and sputtering nuggets of raw energy. Crack and singe, whatever mind of mine is waning by the wayside. Moments of forever, Of the eternal calm of belonging- Jan Cadman’s Kyneton property, We’s just yabbies in the dam. / I think I can see, I wanna chill, like when I was there. As conceited as I can be- some people I never need to feel again. Thin ice, let me drown. My neck is under deep, it's me and me alone that keeps quiet. I've been drowning, again, like always. I just got sick from telling people.. Only I can save me, I forgot, I forgot.