SET SIX - ROUND ONE - MATCH THREE
"Electric Fan (Feel it Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate" (1997 - John Boskovich) / "Untitled" (Portrait of Ross in L.A.)" (1991 - Félix González-Torres)
ELECTRIC FAN (FEEL IT MOTHERFUCKERS): it makes me literally insane that’s all that’s left of him and he made sure it would stay remembered, something something the last trace of a breath immortalized the only way it could be. Feel it, motherfuckers. (courfeyracs-swordcane) (also submitted by callixton and weeweewhirlwind)
UNTITLED (PORTRAIT OF ROSS IN L.A.): It fucks me up SO MUCH. The artist's partner was named Ross, and died of AIDS in the same year this was created. The ideal weight is roughly the average of an adult man. The allegory there... people taking the candy, decreasing the weight, the same way people took away from Ross and every other victim of the AIDS crisis by refusing to help, to do anything at all. Except this has an "endless supply" of candy. People can take and take and it keeps coming back. They can't get rid of us forever. We will prevail and we will rebuild and I WILL be fucked up about this forever (ceaseless-rambler)
("Electric Fan (Feel It Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate" is an electric fan encased in plexiglass with vinyl faux etching and a plexiglass base with casters by gay American artist John Boskovich--Stephen Earanbino's partner. It was the last item left in Stephen Earabino's estate after his death by AIDS and measures 56 7/8 x 22 3/4 x 12 1/2 in. (144.5 x 57.8 x 31.8 cm). It is held by The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles.
"Untitled (Portrait of Ross in LA)" is a modern art installation consisting of wrapped candies (constantly removed and replaced) by gay Cuban-American artist Félix González-Torres after the death of his partner, Ross, by AIDS. The weight is equivalent to a healthy human male - approximately 175 lbs (79kg). It is located at the Art Institute of Chicago, Chicago.)
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Half of this fic is just me looking for more excuses to put in all the cool women that the show wrote out
Still working on the next chapter for the GOT rewrite from hell, but I had to write a little about how the fuck menstruation works in Westeros (other than "oh you can get married now!" which I refuse to believe is the norm) and also to introduce the Sphinx:
The next morning, Shireen woke up to find blood on her shift and a sharp sort of twist in her stomach, as though she'd swallowed a molten pin. The blood came out easily enough, with frantic scrubbing in the basin, but the pain grew over the course of the morning.
"It's your flowering," said Maester Alleras briskly, when she went to him in a tightly-controlled panic. "How old are you?"
"Fourteen," said Shireen, realizing the date. Her nameday had passed two weeks ago.
"And what do you know of flowering?" he asked, smiling slightly at her blush. "Forgive me, but Northerners have queer ideas of teaching their children about these matters. I do not wish to presume your level of education."
"I know it can last for a week or more," Shireen said, thinking of Mother's cycles, how she would confine herself to her rooms to endure the pain in solitude and prayer. "It's very painful and disgusting, but it allows me to bear my future husband's children and therefore is a gift from the gods."
"Hmm. Well, that is what you were taught, at least," grunted the maester. He got up from his desk, rummaging through the cupboard behind him. He was a tall, skinny young man with the deep brown skin and tightly-coiled hair of a Summer Islander, and shared their fondness for brightly-colored nails: they seemed to dance along the shelves until he plucked out a jar and presented it to her with a flourish. "This will help with the pain, and stop the bleeding after this cycle. People of the North use it a great deal."
"Is it moon tea?" Shireen asked, taking it gingerly and wondering at Maester Alleras's use of the term Northerners, which sounded different from People of the North. Perhaps in the Summer Isles, everyone on Westeros was a Northerner. "Why do they use it so much here?"
"It is," he confirmed, "and as for why..." He shrugged. "I've only just arrived in Winterfell, you understand, and as you may have guessed—" this said with another smile— "I was born elsewhere. But from what I've gathered, they must be careful when they have children. The North can only feed so many."
Shireen thought of Fire & Blood, which Father had read to her as a child. The Winter Wolves had been a company of Northerners, who had answered Lord Cregan's call to fulfill the Pact of Ice and Fire with Rhaenyra Targaryen. They'd been greybeards who had knowingly marched to their deaths, for such was the custom of the North back then: at the start of each winter, the old men of each keep and castle and holdfast would choose amongst themselves who would go out into the snows. Some would return home in the spring, having endured the cold or escaped it to find their fortunes in southron lands; most would not.
"Put a thimbleful of this into whatever tea you like best," Maester Alleras continued, gesturing at the jar, his fingernails catching the light as it streamed into the rookery. "Once a day, and come back when you need more."
"Shouldn't I ask—" Shireen bit her lip.
But the maester caught her meaning; his eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't you ask your parents? Yes, I suppose you should. But they should be here to be asked, and they should have told you the truth."
"What's the truth?" Shireen asked, instead of admitting that Mother and Father had never told her anything about it. She couldn't imagine either of them even mentioning the subject. All her information had come from books, or from Mother's complaints.
"The truth is that if a cycle is painful and lasts for a week or more, that is the sign of an illness, not the will of a god. The truth is that you may well find it disgusting, but it is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame to you or anyone else." He glared, though it did not seem directed at her. "And as for 'bearing your future husband's children,' the truth is that they are your children, just as much as his — indeed more so, unless he carries them about for the first nine months after their birth. But you will not be a woman grown for at least another two years, and any man who wishes you to bear children until at least that time is unworthy of your hand or your love." He sat back down, his half-dozen maester's links chiming musically. "Now run along, little princess."
Lady Sansa was just outside the door, with her brother beside her. "See, I told you she smelled funny," Rickon said triumphantly.
Shireen scowled at him. "Shut up." It was kind of him, she supposed, to have worked out that something was wrong and to wait for her outside the maester's chambers. But Rickon Stark was the sort of friend who was difficult to be grateful for.
"Yes, please do, Rickon," Lady Sansa said, pressing a businesslike kiss on the crown of Rickon's head before turning him round by the shoulders and pushing him down the corridor. Rickon protested, but went all the same, and Lady Sansa turned back to Shireen. "Moon tea?" she asked, nodding at the jar.
Shireen resisted the impulse to hide it somehow. It is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame. "Yes, my lady," she said.
"Come along, then," said Lady Sansa. "I have some excellent tea from the Arbor. How does that sound?"
"Could I have a hot water-skin, too?" Shireen asked, as Lady Sansa looped her arm through hers.
"Of course. And the lemon trees in the greenhouse have given up their first fruits — we'll have lemon cakes for lunch instead of venison." She smiled and Shireen thought that even if Sansa Stark never took another husband or had children of her own, she was still all the mother that the North ever would need.
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excerpting
Domestic Diplomacy II is turning out to be even more "splickedy gratuitously gets caught in the weeds of xenosociology and alien language barriers, the fic sequel" and tbh I'm not mad about it
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“Oh, your moirail!” says Jade, and bounces upright, ignoring John’s wary little soft human cautionary hiss. To your vague surprise, she’s apparently learned enough not to do the human holding-out-a-hand gesture they usually do when they’re introduced; she clasps her hands in front of her, nonexistent claws politely folded in, and ducks her head briefly forward and to one side, careful not to jab at him with her nonexistent horns.
It's a pretty passable greeting—for a social equal, which is its own bizarre issue, considering he’s a highblood. But relatively non-offensive, for a human, and fortunately for her she’s picked a highblood who isn’t likely to give a shit. Gamzee laughs out loud and gives his own lazy-ass version of a greeting back, a vague twist of his wrists and dip of his head, condescending to use an equal’s greeting back at her. When he says “Gamzee Makara,” there’s a hint of a threatening buzz to it, a testing you should know to respect me warning—you could have told him she’d show absolutely no sign of hearing it, which is exactly what happens.
“I’m Jade Harley! I meet you,” Jade says, a carefully neutral statement-of-fact greeting—not fawning or hostile. You don’t know if humans are out here just learning neutral address no matter what, or if this human particularly just doesn’t give a shit that your moirail’s a fuck-off mutant-huge highblood with horns that scrape the ceiling of the block—by the expectant way she looks up at Gamzee afterward, she wouldn’t give much of a shit either way. Out of all of the humans, Jade Harley might actually win the prize for giving the least shits, no matter what Rose and Dave like to pretend.
“Yeah, I meet you too, motherfucker,” says Gamzee, looking incredibly amused, and glances down at you. “She’s a rude-ass little motherfuckin’ toothful, huh? I like her.”
“Of course you do,” you say, pained. “Don’t take it personally, alright? You’re not a highblood here, they don’t get highbloods.”
“Oh, best friend,” says Gamzee, and kisses your nugbone again, embarrassingly. “I’m a highblood wherever the fuck I go. It’s cool though. Squishy-ass little motherfuckers won’t get any grief from me.”
“<Motherfucker>,” Jade repeats behind you, and switches back to English, in the bright, wide verbal tone you’re starting to learn means ‘smiling and happy’, weird interstitial ‘vowel’ breath-sounds further back in the throat through pulled-back mouth-corners. “Hmm, <motherfucker>… Oh, neat! Is that dialect? It sounds like, ahh, what’s that other word. Kk—kkkht— Uh, dammit. You guys need to learn how to use vowels— It sounds like <;brother>.”
“It is like,” you say, surprised despite yourself. “<Brother> is a troll, and <motherfucker> you put it all spots you want. It’s a thing, it’s a troll, it’s a, tss, a doing-things word, it’s a name. It’s bad, it’s good. Any spot you want. And he does want, for all those, all the time.”
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