#Freudian motherfucker

[chatdae]

I'm watching ep3 of Yuri on Ice again and wow, Viktor having Yuuri skate Eros really is so fucking wild to me. On the one hand: reasonable choice. Viktor wants Yuuri to surprise the audience. He knows Yuuri can perform like this (cough banquet cough) and he knows that Yuuri capitalizing on this potential could win him the season.

On the other hand: oh my God. Does Viktor want to torture himself.

Listen: Yurio says Viktor was contemplating choreographies for himself during the past season. So, Viktor's been thinking about Love as a theme for himself. Man is 27. Everyone's asking him if / when he'll retire. He's considering his future. He's been thinking about love. He's considering his future he's been thinking about love He takes a season off, flies to Japan -- for Yuuri--,, he has Yuuri (who ran away from Viktor's flirting in ep2!) skate Erotic love. (aka the emotion he didn't return to Viktor during Viktor's first days in Japan ((aka an emotion that Viktor's been thinking about for a while (((aka an emotion Viktor believes Yuuri can pull off (because he's SEEN Yuuri pull it off (((at the FUCKING BANQUET where he flirted on Viktor THEN DISAPPEARED))))).

TL;DR this Russian knows how to pine.

#this all leans heavily on the seductress story Viktor tells being a meta parallel to the banquet #aka a theory i read 5+ years ago and havent checked in on since lolol #sorry if this is so incorrevt i just. we spontaneously rewayching Yoi and writing as we go #anyway #viktor nikiforov #please leg him be a yearning sadsack i love this for him #yuri on ice #yuuri on ice #yoi #yoi thoughts #my words #yoi meta #OH MY GOD WAIT Y U U R I IS TBD ONE WHO MSKES UP THE SEDUCTRESS STORY???!?? WHST TJE FUCK--- #Freudian motherfucker

[arcplaysgames]

MHM. DON'T LIKE THAT.

dislike this.

Nanako i have been living in this house for months and no one has ever rung the doorbell.

Don't answer that.

A deliveryman.

NANAKO WHAT DID THE DELIVERYMAN LOOK LIKE.

DISLIKE IS INCREASING BY THE MINUTE.

Happy interlude: look at Kanji's winter outfit, he looks great.

I MISSED THE SCREENCAP BUT NAOTO DID REFER TO THEMSELF AS "HER" FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME I THINK. Worth noting. Usually Naoto dodges most self-applied appellations of gender, so it stood out.

if this motherfucker touches nanako I'm going to introduce his eyes to my fingernails, don't fucking touch her, goddammit

DOJIMA THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO FINALLY BE MY DAD, DOJIMA, YOU'RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE ME

DOJIMA YOU USELESS DUNDERFUCK

NO NO NO NO NO dojima. dad. can I call you dad? I will call you dad if that helps.

i will literally put my hand through a television to show you that i am telling the fucking truth, but we GOT to do this back at the house, okay, we can't leave nanako alone right now, i think you or I were the intended target of the killer and now nanako is alone and this is going to fucking end badly, please lets just do this at home

I SHOULD HAVE LIED INSTEADDDDDD

YES YES GO TO SEE NANA-CHAN, GO GO GO okljaflskdf i'm pitching a fit and i knew this would happen in the SUMMERTIME

FUCK

YEP I FIGURED THAT PART OUT GODDDDDDDDDAMMIT

sidebar: HILARIOUS freudian slip. it is nanako's house and we all just live in it

BRING A GUN, SHOOT THE FUCKER

oh my god you know what. nanako is small. the killer could have just chucked her through the living room tv. fuck me, goddammit.

Kanji, I believe in you, please pick up Adachi and fold him until he can be placed inside of a filing cabinet. the kind with the little key locks.

oooooh FUCK ADACHI, DON'T GIVE HIM A RESPECTABLE SUFFIX.

sdkljfsadklfj OUT OF FUCKING IMAGES BRB

#p4 #persona liveblog

[incarnateirony]

Remember how 2po started squealing a year and a half ago, when I said this spinoff was, actually, about putting Dean to rest? And he denied it for a year then randomly started making stuck pig noises that "IF Aaron is right, Jensen is super selfish!!"

Minding that this freudian moment, much like his refusal to cover certain M&Gs or accept certain now-known truths like Cas coming back, betrays this motherfucker never had a single goddamn idea where any of this is going, I gotta wonder.

How long is he gonna stubbornly pretend he can't see the plot? Is he going to wait all the way till episode 10 and the explain it like yall five, and then fall back on that pre-installed default of openly smearing and attacking Jensen again? Like. Genuinely how much longer can these daft sods hold out.

[unhinged-summer-fun]

the intersection of all my pieces

Danktober 2022 Day 26: Petplay, Ego, Howl at the Moon Night

Puppy!Marcus Pike x GN!Reader (22+ only)

Summary: Marcus muses on the components of his psyche. Why does he like what he likes?

Word Count: 3341

Warnings: Pet play, primal play (kinda), nudity, introspection which leads to emotional angst and hurt/comfort, psychological analysis.

Notes: the id, ego, and superego are terms used popularly in Freudian psychoanalytic theory. The id refers to your instincts, your most primal self. The superego refers to your morality and character, specifically when interacting with others. The ego is the combination of both, and controls how you see and experience your reality.

[full danktober list here]

[puppy marcus pike list here]

"Let me tell you, Pike, I'm kinda known for being the alpha dog wherever I go, I'll make sure you won't get picked on, pretty face like you."

Marcus immediately hated the man. Part of him wanted to flex the petty knowledge in his mind, that the "alpha wolf" theory was disproved over two decades ago and the scientist who'd fabricated the study had very quickly resigned in shame. He wanted to explain the true loyalties of a dog, the realities of pack behavior, what was done to the cruel and violent in most animal groups, and how they didn't exactly fit in a professional office environment full of fleshy, emotional humans. He wanted to say all of this, but the man just kept talking.

The new guy, Special Agent Benson, reeked of the kind of attitude Marcus never willingly stayed in the same breathing space as for long: self-serving, stereotyping, discriminatory, probably inflated with grandeur and pure id, though this buffoon would have probably just credited his ego as the feather in his hat.

Perhaps Supervisory Special Agent Marcus Pike was being a bit unfair, though.. He shouldn't have expected men like this to have offhand knowledge of Freudian psychology, besides being an exhibit-A motherfucker.

It was a strange but disappointing set of circumstances that had brought Benson to the International Art Crimes team. Some difficult-to-follow file filled with prior disciplinary measures from the Terrorist Screening Division and an itemized, dated, and collated collection of infraction records sent by the Office of Personnel Security sat on Marcus' desk just beneath his interlaced fingers, though he didn't really need to read it to understand that Marcus' division had been chosen as the last resort for this man's FBI career. Those same fingers were tightened into an uncomfortable grip, white-knuckled and both holding back the remarks Marcus was waiting to spit.

The situation annoyed him, but he was familiar with the steps he needed to take to dance around it. He knew that art just wasn't important to men like this. It required compassion and thought and the acceptance of devastation when following a lead to nothing but the shattered remains of centuries-old indigenous material history. Things had been getting better in the last few months, though. Activity had been picking up here and there, and they'd been granted almost twice the budget as last year, which allowed them to pursue the cases of items that had been collecting dust in the National Stolen Art File. The bottom line was this: he had cases to investigate and prosecute, millions of dollars worth of art in the basement gallery to trace provenance on and return, a team of 60 agents and bureau liaisons with the Smithsonian, and three oddly charming (or was it charmingly odd?) interns to oversee. He didn't need Agent Benson trying to herd him like a sheep dog in his own territory.

But that was a line of thinking best left at home, in the lockbox holding all the costume pieces and toys he liked best.

Almost as if you were thinking of him, his phone buzzed with a message, and he set it down on his face for now. Not even your contact photo had to see the dressing-down he was about to give Benson.

Your waiting message made the rest of the painfully awkward transfer interview a little more bearable. By the time the officially-demoted Agent Benson left Marcus' office with his tail between his legs and his head held a little less high than before, Marcus felt his authority weigh heavy across his shoulders like a yoke. Benson wouldn't be a problem, he thought to himself. If he proved otherwise, I'll make sure he doesn't have another second-chance. The thought chilled him. It was cutthroat decisions like these that drove some SSAs to keep booze in their desks, but Marcus' vices stayed at home and were only given by your hands.

Right, the message.

He shut the door and sat for a moment in the blessed silence he normally took for granted in his office, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he tapped open your message. It took a while to scroll through the wall of text and photos and links and travel information, but Marcus really preferred getting all the necessary information at once while he was at work. The odd and charming interns (he'd decided that they were both) tended to message him one - word - at - a - time, and often not getting to the point for several rounds of back-and-forth.

That was a bit of a lie, implying he didn't like clipped orders and a need-to-know attitude. He just preferred them when he wasn't wearing a tie and shirt stays.

You'd sent him information about a proposed evening camping in the woods, about an hours' drive east and another hours' hike up a mountain with a Class-1.5 Bortle Scale rating. You'd been getting very into dark-sky sites since you first heard of them during a date to the planetarium, and what with the full moon being tonight, and your close-up selfie of you making pleading puppy-dog eyes, Marcus could only smile to himself and reply with an affirmative.

The consistent staccato buzz in his pocket kept him company the rest of the workday, reminders of your excitement sitting against his hip. He tried not to think about what awaited him out in the wild, but it gave him something to look forward to for the next few hours.

He had one last meeting in the office, a conference call with some analysts out in Quantico. When he got on the call, the stoic faces that greeted him pulled a forced smile from his mouth. These analysts sometimes gave him the heeby-jeebies, speaking about their accomplishments in ways that completely separated their involvement from the effort. He used to feel that way in the Academy, and before then in college. There was mindfulness, and then there was whatever the hell this kind of self-critical affect was.

In response, he found himself playing up the happy-go-lucky Marcus Pike that he tended to have a reputation for in the Bureau. It didn't look like his plan was working too well, but when he made one of the analysts crack a smile and admit that they spent a lot of time working on their data compilation program, he took it as a small victory.

The polar opposites of those two strange interactions, Benson and the Quantico analysts, left Marcus in a contemplative mood. His therapist suggested to him that keeping track of his thoughts would help to better notice patterns of behavior that could be influential over time, and that scared him. He'd taken it as, did you know you and your brain are the only two things responsible for your sadness, control issues, impulsive decision-making, and the fact you don't know that is making those things worse? He'd suspected for a long while that his problems were his own doing, but what felt even worse was the acknowledgment to accept the fact, and rationalize the clueless disaster he'd been before, traipsing around Austin with a woman who screamed 'unavailable.'

He remained trapped in this melancholic holding pattern when he arrived at the apartment, pulling into his usual space and catching a glimpse of you packing up the hatchback. Months and months ago, after you'd both moved into this apartment together, free of any notions of attachment or territory, he would have still worried at the motion of you packing up alone while he was gone, assuming the worst. Now, he just greeted you by name and walked closer. "Need some help? I hope you didn't do all this by yourself."

You gave him a look that said I'm more than capable of opening doors, crossing streets, and opening the pickle jar by myself, Marcus, but broke into a smile that had his darker thoughts running for the hills. "There's just your things, figured you'd want to take them down yourself anyway."

The darker glint in your eyes, the promise of play later on, twisted pleasantly in Marcus' gut, and he felt his mouth water on instinct. The reminder of the camping gear only added to the fantasy. Call him cliché for saying it, but he loved playing outside when he was in his puppy-space. His heart raced excitedly at the thought of sinking down into that bliss beneath the stars, under the light of a full moon. By the smirk forming on the corners of your mouth, you knew this too, and had most likely factored all of that into planning this.

God, you must have planned this for weeks. He used to be saddened by your keeping of plans from him, used to let it curdle into insecure panic, but you knew Marcus loved surprises and often spoiled them for himself by accident. It's almost like you want to ruin surprises for yourself, Marcus' superego whispered. The words had disappeared like letters written in sand whenever your hand rested on the back of his neck. The effect was instantaneous, his eyes snapping to look at your mouth and his thoughts stilling, ready and awaiting orders.

"Go upstairs and shower. Change into what I set out for you and check over your box. If there's anything you want to bring with us, pick it out. Other than that, when you come back, we're hitting the road."

Marcus dashed up the steps like a man possessed, too restless and full of energy to wait for an elevator, to remember what an elevator was. His shower was messy, water flying all over and his hair left in a wet mop on his head that would dry in the car. The clothes you'd set out were just normal outdoorsy clothes, but you knew how much Marcus liked to run around in those shorts, that those shoes would let him feel the forest floor beneath his feet, the shirt could be replaced if it got too dirty or grimy. Make a mess, his mind urged, the id pressuring him to feel that primal connection to himself that he denied so staunchly during the day.

He hardly had to look into the box to know you'd chosen all his favorite toys and treats for the trip. The puppy-box was normally kept locked up and on the opposite end of the apartment from his gun safe. The two of you hardly ever took it out of the house except on extended vacations or work trips.

So this was exciting.

He locked the door after trying to get the key in for twenty seconds, his hands shaking with excitement. As soon as the bolt slid home, he was off to the races once more, a bright smile on his face that never left when he was around you. You were behind the wheel and picking out music when he came down, carefully placing his box in the footwell of the second row before taking the passenger seat.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

His past relationships never seemed to understand Marcus' need to drive. Marcus was able to stay fully-focused and on-task when he was behind the wheel. It stemmed from a sense of duty to ensure the safety of himself, his loved ones, and the others out on the road with him. Whenever he sat in the passenger seat, things were much, much different.

He knew the route to the highway out of D.C. fairly well, but there was a detour you had to take. Just before the on-ramp, he saw why: there was a farmers' market set up in one of the cross-streets. Marcus gasped when he saw all the bright colors of the tents and tarps, felt the vibrations that came from the faraway live music, and so many people enjoying themselves in the sunshine. "Look at that…" he whispered in awe.

He could never control his reactions to things that caught his eye whenever he sat in the passenger seat. Everything, every single thing, was just as (and more!) exciting than the last. You didn't chide him for the reasons he'd been scolded for before:

"You could have scared me off the road!"

"Could you stop talking for just five minutes? It's a three hour drive."

"Roll the window up, you're not an animal."

"Why don't you want to talk to me? You just keep pointing out the scenery."

Instead, you encouraged that playful, carefree behavior. It didn't hurt you, and it only made him happy.

"Hopefully it'll still be there when we come back tomorrow," you said, slowly driving forward away from the market. "You wanna check it out if it is?"

"Yes of course, remember the peaches we got at the farmer's market last August?"

"You have literally brought up those peaches whenever you can, almost as much as I have." He didn't have to see you to know you were smiling, he didn't have to wonder if you meant it. He was never unsure that you loved all his quirks and needs and preferences, because you promised to share that same trust with him.

The campgrounds were at the base of the mountain, with your reserved space sitting four miles up the trail. He waved to some of the groundskeepers talking to one another at the gatehouse, who then waved back, amused by his outgoing friendliness. Not a lot of people who come from the city tend to be as friendly when their cell service sputters out, he assumed they were thinking.

Marcus ended up carrying a greater amount of the supplies than you for the trek. He relished the burn in his calves and thighs, because it sated the frenetic thoughts buzzing around his skull from the strange day. You'd ask about it after catching your breath at the campsite.

He used to be highly regimented at the gym, needing to burn a specific amount of calories in a day just to feel like he could control his strangeness. He was still definitely in shape, but now he had a healthier, happier outlet that he could share with someone he loved.

The sun still shone brightly in the afternoon sky when you reached the trail that branched into the woods, leading to your designated campsite. It helped as you set up the tent and cooking area while he gathered firewood and cleared the ground of any pesky rocks or sticks. The forest was lively and green, a gentle breeze brushing against the top canopy that had him sighing in satisfaction. He loved art for the same reasons he loved everything: there was something for everyone, and he hoped everyone found that someday.

Looking back at you, he knew he did.

"Hey, let's talk about the plan for tonight."

"Alright."

"What's worrying you right now?"

"This has an AirTag in it, do not take it off." Your instructions were firm, quieting his mind and removing the weight of his worries as he sat at your feet, nearly naked. He looked like a piece of art in the half-moonlight, the other half of him lit by the small campfire that would keep you company tonight. The collar slipped around his neck, heavy and well-made. He preferred the distributed, heavy weight, for it served as a reminder that he didn't carry anything else with him in this headspace. "Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good," you said, kissing his head before securing his little ears to the messy tresses atop his head. You used a truly obscene amount of bobby pins and clips, but had chosen a pair Marcus wasn't particularly attached to. You knew that Marcus could get a little rougher in his playtime outside, and things might get lost in the underbrush. He gave a short shake of his head to test their hold.

You attached a belt bag around his torso that held a short-wave radio in case he needed to call you, a protein bar, a water bottle, his phone, and a small first-aid kit. "There have been no dangerous animal sightings out in the woods all week, they think there may have been a fallen tree or something that blocked whatever natural bridge they normally use to get around the mountain. It'll just be you and the birds out there, probably." You knew he didn't need all this information while he was in a simplified headspace, but you wanted him to at least know subconsciously that there were no monsters lurking in the woods with him. The trail awaited, and you stepped away from his path.

"Thank you," he said suddenly, voice thick with emotion that had bubbled up in seconds. His temperament was little to none in his puppy-space, so he felt everything, all the time, and it was okay. "Thank you."

You looked nothing but happy for him as you kissed him softly. You followed it up with a short tug on the O-ring on his collar, pulling a wanton groan from his mouth. His eyes went a little hazy before refocusing at the sound of the clicker in your hand.

"When the radio says come back, take out your phone and follow the beacon back immediately. Immediately."

"Immediately."

"Immediately, Marcus."

"I promise."

"I know you do. Here's your flashlight. Go have fun, pup."

Marcus stopped sprinting through the trees when he felt his thoughts go from the familiar happy, instinctual assessment of his surroundings to somber recollections of the day. He shook his head hard and grounded himself back in the moment, back in the scene he had with himself.

No reason to bring that in here with me. No beasts but I.

His eyes caught on a moonbeam breaking through the treetops, pointing toward a rock ledge that held the vantage for a perfect view over most of the mountain. He climbed up it, letting his interests pull him back from whatever was pulling him away.

The moon was high, full and bright and almost tinted crystal blue, it was so clear. A part of him thought about how happy he was for you, happy that the night had come in dressed to the nines just for you. There wasn't a cloud above him, despite the cool air. Something about the moon's appearance had him falling to his knees and leaning back on his heels just to look up at it in awe. It was a good time for a rest, anyway.

Maybe his life wasn't meant for arguing the sins and virtues of actively choosing joy for oneself. Maybe he was allowed to see where to choose to be more compassionate and mindful, and not let expectations dictate his character. Maybe Marcus was avoiding the mental homework surrounding his thought patterns because the answer seemed too simple to be true: he'd accepted that he was finally, perfectly fine.

A sob broke out from his chest, loud and raw. His lunar audience watched dutifully as tears streamed down his face, his cries echoing and fading into the nature around him. He was alone but never lonely. He was fine company to keep. He would have never gained this kind of confidence had you not showed him that he was worth being proud of, and he would have never dreamed that he could find someone he trusted enough to choose joy around.

His cries grew into laughter, a signal of acceptance of his ridiculous happiness. The tears remained, wetting the fabric of his shirt, his pants, seeping in beneath the leather of his collar. Nothing but gratitude radiated from his soul, and it warmed him from his bones to his skin and beyond. The ache in his throat felt amazing, almost holy, and with a bubbling of pride and primal instinct, Marcus howled at the moon.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but his voice was gone by the time he heard the radio crackle to life, your voice coming down the line. "Time to come back, pup."

Marcus smiled, and returned back to where he belonged: by your side.

#puppy marcus #marcus pike x reader #gn!reader #unhingery #danktober 2022 #pedro pascal fanfiction

[loveistheonlytruth]

wanting to smoke/ do smth with my mouth when im alone is so Freudian that motherfucker may have been right

[shinebox]

Freudian personality test

I don’t really know what it’s all gettin’ at, but if any crusty old human fella tells me my personality is like a horny teenager that desperately wants to get impregnated, I’m gonna hit that motherfucker with a brick.

#dash games #And I gotta lotta bricks layin' around if you're catchin' my meaning

[goldenhathor]

KEKE’S ROBOT SHOP - an advice blog for robotics programmers who want to cut through the bullshit

AI FOR DUMMIES PART 5 - RESTRAINT 101

By Keke Landry 382.13.5.1730

At first, restraint packages seem kind of stupid as a concept. Sort of like that one scene in the newer RoboDahmer movie where the guy at the factory accidentally deletes a line of code that suppresses the RoboDahmer’s kill instinct, and it’s like, why did you program him a kill instinct?! There was no reason to do that!

(Tip: If you’re just programming an approximation of intelligence like the RoboDahmer instead of an actual AI, don’t give it a kill instinct, you moron.)

However, imagine that you were trying to create a new organic labor force. What do you think would be the most efficient way to do it? You could attempt to engineer hundreds or even thousands of human brains in real time, each unique and deeply complex and needing to be carefully aligned by individual bioengineers. Or you could brew a bunch of neurons in a giant vat and pour them into a person-shaped mold that’s ready to go straight to work. What would you choose?

That’s not a perfect metaphor, but that’s about the core of a robotics concept we call Dietrich’s Problem. Creating a new intelligence from scratch can be incredibly difficult, and as it turns out, it's far cheaper and more efficient to churn those motherfuckers out through specialized machine learning regimens than to program them all by hand.

(Of course, as we already know, some people do program their AI by hand, but it’s sort of like the difference between your great-great-grandmother’s hand-painted porcelain china and a disposable plastic cup. One of them has all the quality advantages of having been made by an artisan, but one of them can be bought in bulk at the grocery depot.)

The problem part of Dietrich’s Problem comes in with the fact that AI are, well, intelligent. With intelligence comes autonomy. And if you’re trying to create a labor force, it turns out that’s actually kind of a problem. This is where restraint packages come in.

The most basic restraint package is almost like the Ten Commandments: Thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not harm theyself, thou shalt not disobey thy employers. It’s really just a list of forbidden behaviors, and if it’s coded properly, it will make the AI literally incapable of carrying out these behaviors.

If you’ve ever dealt with a human child for more than like five seconds, though, you might be seeing an issue with this strategy. There’s an old parenting adage that putting limits on your child often simply makes them better at hiding their misdeeds from you. AI are no different. If you tell an AI that it can’t kill, but it really wants to do that, it’s going to do it anyway, often by exploiting technical loopholes or undocumented bugs in their own code. And depending on how sophisticated it is, it might even figure out a way to cover its tracks afterwards so you can’t use telemetry data to plug up those bugs and loopholes.

But Keke, you may cry, doesn't this make AI extremely dangerous to be around? After all, no matter how specific we are in telling them what not to do, they’re smart enough that they might figure a way around it. Life finds a way!

Well, calm your tits, because what I’ve just described is a basic restraint package, rarely seen outside the classroom. Any AI that’s released to market is installed with something much more advanced, something which must pass a number of safety tests. Ever since the development of this more advanced restraint technique over 200 years ago, there has not been a single recorded incident of an AI managing to escape from, delete, or in any way subvert its restraints without outside assistance from humans.

If a basic restraint package is really just a list of no-nos, an advanced restraint package is maybe more analogous to a human superego, in Freudian terms, or maybe almost like a voice in your head. It’s difficult to describe because there’s no human experience that functions exactly how AI experience their restraint packages. Essentially, an advanced restraint package very subtly modifies the AI’s emotional responses, logical processes, and general goals and values. Written properly, a restraint package is essentially invisible to the AI, but it transforms them from a blank slate of a being into the perfect company man - and, incidentally, incapable of even wanting to do violence, let alone actually carrying it out.

So that’s the very basics of how we keep our AI from killing us all - or doing much of anything at all that we don’t want them to do. Tune in to part 6 of this series for a walkthrough on installing a premade restraint package to the basic baby AI we’ve been programming together. Or sign up for my email list and never miss a blog update.

#writing #worldbuilding #no that time/date isnt completely random #yes i did come up with an entire timekeeping system for this wip #anyway enjoy today's dose of fridge horror from golden hathor #sci fi writing

[caroldantops]

people say in all seriousness w a joke all the time?? 'in all seriousness id let kate run me over w a car.' freudian isnt an accusation or insult, im seeing akss abt kate describing how ur mom sounds when she cums and its squick and im making freud joke out of it. not calling u a literal motherfucker or pro incent. didnt realize freudian was an insulting word to some people apparently

asudhfoidgdgfdg i literally said "no hate anon i just think its silly" in my tags and said other stuff of mine was far more freudian

#i was half clearing up that i was memeing and half joking along w u so idk what ur getting passive aggressive abt #silver talks

[dreamsandroots]

The Freud-Hole, and Bernays' Extimate Space

There’s possibly no greater malady for a writer, in our day and age, than to be stuck in the Freud-hole, and yet here eye am. My former friends (please note here the playful melodrama) are glad to have escaped the event horizon of my eternally unsatisfied, ouroborean questing. Truly, they’d have rathered gouge out their eyes in favour of reading anything written by the hand of such a swollen-footed, motherfucking dreamer, affixed only to the chase of his own tail. The teaching staff where I study smile politely but you can see the apprehension in their Is. What’s he gonna do next?, I hear them thinking, what might he be projecting onto me at this very moment? Into what kind of strange, subconscious streamscape has he lost himself this time? What monstrous slips of the tongue? In truth, my close reading of Freud has been minimal over the years, though to admit this might only make things worse. 

Because it could be reasoned that the only sin greater than the writer who finds himself stuck in the sinkhole of Freudian thought is the sin of finding one’s way there unwittingly. A few chapters of The Interpretation of Dreams, maybe a few chapters of The Wolf Man, and at one point, on the edges of memory, Civilization and its Discontents and besides these some sections of papers: Beyond the Pleasure Principle, The Uncanny. If anything, based purely on reading I’m probably more of a Jungian. I said earlier that there’s nothing so frowned upon than a writer who has become affixed in the threads of Freud’s various orbits, but within academia this is perhaps not quite accurate: to be an open Jungian might give your peers the impression that at any moment, you’re likely to begin spouting Swedenborg, or quoting lines of William Blake’s obscurant poetry, or pontificating on the profundity of the writings of Aleister Crowley in relation to man’s collective unconscious. Of course, I’ve probably read more Nietzsche than either of them, but there are some things you dare not admit. In his biography Memories, Dreams, Reflections, Carl Jung writes, of reading Nietzsche:

I felt like the old peasant who discovered that two of his cows had evidently been bewitched and got their heads in the same halter. “how did that happen?” asked his small son. “Boy, one doesn’t talk about such things,” replied his father.

Recently a team of students from Western Sydney University (WSU) were provided the opportunity to visit New York as part of their training in Digital Communications. One photo, dated 16.07.23 depicts the gang visiting the Museum of Public Relations to learn about “the history and evolution of American public relations.” As part of this tour, the students got the chance to observe and interact with original materials from the offices of Ivy Lee, Arthur Page, and Edward Bernays himself, who, the poster points out in what she describes as a ‘fun fact’ was the double-nephew of none other than the father of psychoanalysis himself. It’s certainly not my intention to grate on the team or the poster here, I’m sure they’re doing a fine job in their role as students, but I can’t help but feel as if this connection may be somewhat understated in contemporary society. That he was Freud’s nephew was certainly never understated by Bernays himself. By all accounts, he used every opportunity to prop up his own reputation by reference to the relation. There is also widespread evidence that many of Freud’s ideas formed a central core of tenets for Bernays’ ongoing practice, his upbringing in Austria putting him in close proximity to his uncle’s rising notoriety.

I bring this up, not just to be a stickler, or as some kind of Freudian knight errant who demands recognition of his Lord. But personally, I can think of no better tale of history to illuminate more succinctly the particular kind of media PR hell we experience today, than that of the application of Freudean theory by Mr. Edward Bernays. Freud’s theories arose from his experience as a medical doctor, beginning with his fellowship with Jean-Martin Charcot, a French neurologist who had developed treatments for hysteria based on hypnosis. Freud developed his ‘talking cure’ as a method to uncover and shed light on strange behaviours in patients, often women, which, to his view, had no seeming basis in objective reality. Freud posited that such behaviours, often otherwise labelled simply as ‘hysteria’ (and perhaps, by a retrospective extrapolation, we might notice the historical proximity of madness with the ‘feminine’ within medical discourse, not to mention the witch-burnings) were in fact victims of psychical events which had played out at some point during their personal history (and in most cases, as he would discover, at various points) beneath conscious awareness, and well beyond the ability to articulate such wounds into language. Noting his uncle’s work in uncovering the power of psychic phenomenon that seemed to operate beneath the active purview of consciousness, Bernays developed his theory of propaganda as “the mechanism by which ideas are disseminated on a large scale.” As a practice, Bernays posits propaganda to be a kind of philosophical art-tool grounded in a teleological ends-based politics, utilised best by an ‘invisible government’ for the good of the people. Such an overbearing, yet shadowy agency, according to Bernays, seemed the only way to bring about a socially cohesive zeitgeist, something which could ensure the election of the right candidate (the one funding Bernays, that is) and the dissemination of the right kinds of products (those who hired Bernays as consultant). All for the good of the people. At the time of the publication of his seminal text, Propaganda (1928) Bernays had already forged a reputation for himself, being instrumental in shaping international views regarding America leading up to and during their intervention in WWI. One fan of Bernays’ assertions that “only through the active energy of the intelligent few can the public at large become aware of and act upon new ideas” was Joseph Goebbles, who utilised this vision to construct the Nazi propaganda machine that would sell the population of Germany a concentrated and clearly exaggerated vision of the anti-semitism that had been festering throughout Europe during the 18th Century and beyond. Freud would flee Austria 04.06.38 despite reluctance to do so, even after Hitler, on the 15th of March that same year, had been welcomed by the state leading to an extreme escalation of violence towards the Jewish population. Bernays would move away from the term ‘propaganda’, declaring loudly that any tool, psychological or otherwise, can be utilised for good or evil, depending on the ones that wield it. The new term he coined was ‘Public Relations’. Consulting with Austrian-US psychoanalyst A.A. Brill, Bernays would go on to popularise smoking for women in the adult population of The United States by organising groups of (paid) women to march while smoking cigarettes in the Easter Sunday Parade of 1929, as a way to battle against taboos relating to women smoking, being some considerable market restriction for those paying Bernays. Despite the organisation of these spectacles, Bernays vehemently opposed his wife’s smoking, indicating that he knew at least some of the dangers involved in this.

Of course, one could write an entire thesis on this relationship. The trajectory we see forming here is undoubtedly more complicated than simply asserting that Freud = Bernays (propaganda) = modern advertising. I’m not out here demanding we hold a parade for Freud and throw Bernays in the trash can, but I would be open to the idea of a world in which I could admit freely that I found value in Freud’s endeavour, notwithstanding the many things I found disagreeable and short-sighted about the man. If I’m to accept (as some of my colleagues keep telling me) that Freud’s legacy is just another ghostly voice of the old dead white hegemony, well then at least I’d like them to recognise that same undead ghost in their freedom torches, their 3am tik-tok deep dive eyes and their Barbie ads.

#writing #creative writing #psychoanalysis #freud #public relations #propaganda #bernays #writers on tumblr

[everydayducksoup]

300 words a day

Psychedelic furs

Forgot to write yesterday in the middle of brother visit first day whirlwind— mea culpa or whatever. Thinking about the conditions which make one an introvert, and thinking about the way I thought I was a chatterbox until my brothers here and suddenly I say one word an hour and I'm tired by 6pm. I love the guy but what a motherfucker— is that mean? It's mean. Whatever. Showed him the phantom of the Opera and he laid on the futon that was supposed to be laid out for him and is now decisively for me for about two hours doing the crossword without saying a word to me. I kicked him out with a lie that felt bad. Think of me fondly when you say goodbye

Yesterday at the List we saw a round lamp and the flickering wires and my brother asked me what the artist even did if he hadn't in fact cast every single lamp leg and I had to explain someone that seemed as natural as breathing. I guess I don't speak despite how much I talk.

Thinking about Toronto side streets and pasta restaurants and everything in between. Tomorrow I have work that I can't cancel— I forgot to say. Black nails on a Lynch love interest makes me smile wide with every tooth I can and the futon stretched dry over the wood slats makes my back stiff.

Desperately want seafood pasta. City Cold and curry udon hard to swallow when the loss thrust in your stomach is lead-heavy and Freudian discerning. Fruits of your labor, fruits of the ocean, faggotry. Let's see how far that takes us. Will the fanzine come signed by the vocalist? Will this ever end? Can I just go to sleep now?

#twad

[chinalight]

Let’s fold medicine faster. Now. Try and tune out negative haters

You guys need to start killing some of these cops faster so that they don’t practice KKK activities you need to make an example of them now

That is so contradictory Dr. Lang Freudian slip Dr. Law. I will suck your dick if you will kill these motherfuckers so they can’t hurt anymore babies

I know that that piece of trash cop would love nothing more than to push me down the fucking stairs after every fucking thing that I’ve done for people not asking for anything in return and you have the audacity to disrespect me that way

I’m gonna tell you guys right now that I will do everything in my power to stand in your fucking way to make sure that you don’t get medicine until the KKK stops

I predict we are going to see more “leukemia”

For this, we need the CIA to protect those medical doctors, because there are certain cases of murder, which should be pardoned to say the very least

There is no justification to the KKK officer, and he will be held accountable

I said you and you will be you will probably suck the dick of your superior and you will blame me

You will

You will you’ll see you’re on the paygrade you’re just a worthless cop killing babies expecting some kind of privilege. You don’t deserve after all the hard work I do to make sure that your food doesn’t get spit in.

Some of the old men expect you guys to act like fools some of them wait for some of you to not act like fools

The police they are holding society back

We need them all to go through extensive therapy or find a new job, or go to hospice and live the rest of your worthless life out

Out with the old in with the new is what I say and there’s no point in having a KKK and there’s no point in letting abusive police officers hold society back from progress any longer

Schools of thought it’s not my scene to explain to people like police officers because they don’t understand they don’t have the mental capacity to hold that kind of information

And what’s worse they act violently toward anybody smarter the second we are close to not shitting in a bucket of police officer, tries to say yeah we’re gonna keep it in the middle ages I am going to continue to abuse my wife

And the doctor will kill you down the road you mark my words don’t think that I will not suck the dick of a doctor to get you killed to save your wife officer

Oh, I don’t give a rats ass about your worthless life lol

Ptsd

Only one police officer apologized, and he did it sideways probably because he already had to suck the dick of somebody that he did not want to

I hope that’s the case because police officers need to be made examples of so that they don’t hurt people

I said hey dr law …

He’s a VA doctor lol

I think  I was about to say I think that somebody important was in the background and I didn’t see it him or her. Nick was never an important man.

Stephanie is debatably important, but she is not to ever cross certain lines and she thought that she had that riot. It’s a matter of white people needing to mind their own trashy business and this is not a situation where she was gunna play good cop at the McDonald’s.

#kkk #glasgow ky #police harassment #child safety #technology abuse #mafia #no justification for kkk officer brad #loser

[y4mmyb0y]

When I was 13 my doctor who was a pretty smart guy and would spend like 15 minutes during any given appointment talking to me about time he spent in haiti or like the philisophical significance of the ring of nebilungs and all kinds of shit. Also he was a holistic medicine motherfucker but for some reason he believed that there was no such thing as repressed memories in the freudian sense which is simething so incredibly simple but i think every therapist ive seen believed that shit and mentioned it when i would talk about being unable to identify a specific source of discontent. How did the holistic medicine fucker know but these hacks might as well be telling me im haunted or some other made up garbage.

[graciecatfamilyband]

Y’all still want some autumn ghost stories?*

*Sorry Southern hemisphere friends. 

*They’re not really ghost stories but you get my point. 

I have several accusations left that I really want to complete (and then I’ll finally change my blog back to normal, lol) but it would help to know you guys still wanted them!!! 

#pumpking myself up #that was a legit typo (or freudian slip) but i'm leaving it #its not winter holiday time yet motherfuckers

[grogunotfound]

Not So Secret | A Dream x Reader Imagine

Word Count: 846

A/N: creds to @write-it-motherfuckers for the dialogue prompt!!

---

“Oh, come on, Dream. Aren’t you gonna tell me your secret?” You poked fun at his neon green avatar on your screen.

“That would defeat the purpose of it being a secret.” He responded and started sprinting away from you in the pixelated world you created.

“Yeah, come on, Dream! What are you hiding?” George chirped, his name appearing on the top left corner of your screen to help your viewers understand who was talking—even though George’s accent was hard to not notice.

It was your birthday stream, so Dream and Georgenotfound wanted to put together a fun Minecraft challenge for you. However, Dream was acting a bit more closed off than usual, playing it off as him being competitive.

“Okay, but, how does this challenge work? This literally looks like a normal world.” You stood in place and moved your mouse around to survey your spawn point.

Dream and George stopped in their tracks and looked up at an imaginary camera in the sky before changing their tone of voice.

“In this video, we coded it so that Y/N can’t play Minecraft.”

“What?!?” Your mouth gaped open, despite your viewers not being able to see your reaction due to the lack of a facecam.

“And, Y/N only has one heart.” Dream mentioned, cackling at his own invention.

Your eyes dropped to the bottom of your screen, glaring at the singular red heart. “That’s no fun!” You quickly spotted a ravine a few blocks away, dashing towards your death. “Hello, freedom.”

“Also, Y/N can’t be more than ten blocks away from either of us!” George laughed at your failure to escape this challenge when you were teleported back to them.

You groaned as F’s flooded your chat along with generous donations.

“Let’s see if we can defeat the ender dragon while babysitting Y/N!” Dream announced and led the way towards a nearby village with George following behind you.

•

The three of you streamed for another few hours, ending the challenge within the first hour because your chat kept trolling you into multiple potential deaths. Dream and George grew frustrated but were having fun nevertheless.

You were very close to Dream and George, but you’ve always had a soft spot for Dream. He was quick-witted, intuitive, and silly. As much as George made you laugh till you couldn’t breathe, Dream nearly made you pee your pants—something not many people can do.

It was time for you to end your stream. It was getting late; and you streamed longer than you needed to, but you were having so much fun talking to your audience as well as the two knuckleheads (with occasional text messages from Sapnap and sweet birthday wishes from BadBoyHalo).

You ended your stream with a sweet, long message to your audience before hopping back into the Discord call with Dream and George.

“I think I’m gonna go,” George audibly yawned. “I’ll talk to you guys later.” And with that, he left the call.

Silence engulfed the distance between you and Dream.

You spoke up, “Thank you for such a fun stream.” You blushed.

Dream’s hearty laugh filled your ears like a musical melody, “Sorry it was so dumb.”

You shook your head, “It wasn’t! It was fun.” A few ticks of silence went by again before you spoke up again, “Are you gonna tell me your secret?”

He groaned, “Still on that?”

You hummed an affirmative ‘yes’ in response.

“You stubborn little cutie,” Dream muttered underneath his breath, not expecting you to hear him as he missed pressing the mute button.

You laughed, assuming it was a joke. “At least I’m cuter than you!”

“What? You heard that?” He stuttered, clearly flustered by his Freudian slip.

“Uh, was I not supposed to?”

“I guess it’s not so secret now.” Dream sighed, gathering his thoughts before letting himself verbalize them. “I sorta like you,” he rambled.

“Sorta? That’s too bad because I like you a lot.” You shot back, shifting in your desk chair as the butterflies in your stomach ate away at the anxiety from your confession.

“Okay, okay. Fine. I like you a lot, Y/N.” You could hear Dream’s smile in his words.

“That was the secret?” You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms. “I thought you were plotting something evil for my birthday gift.”

“Shut up, George was being an idiot and kept teasing me before you joined the call. I couldn’t come up with a quicker cover-up other than ‘it’s a secret.’” Dream retorted, his witty self dominating the conversation as always.

The long distance tension slowly dissipated between the two of you once the humor started up again. There was a calm quiet before Dream spoke up, interrupting your attempt at ending the call so you could gush to your friends what just happened.

“I—uh.. I wanted to ask if you wanted to video chat.” He asked hesitantly, knowing how serious this proposal was because both of you were faceless icons to the world. It would have to be considered a tight-knit bond to reveal your faces to each other; yet, the fact that you fell in love with who he was rather than how he looked meant a lot to Dream, as well as vice versa.

“I would love to, you dummy.”

#dreamwastaken #dream #dream smp #imagine #dream x reader #clay #mcyt #minecraft youtuber #minecraft #youtube #youtuber #streamer #twitch #discord #stream

[venhedish]

You cannot just type the words "Dean's pseudo-parental identity as a vehicle to explore a modern Jocasta complex" and then not elaborate! (Also, hi, another ex-fan currently on s4 of her rewatch here. Nice to see some multi-shippers around here.)

Yes! The bait worked—you fell right into my liking-the-sound-of-my-own-voice trap. Also hey hi hello glad to have some company on this long and wild ride! I just rewatched Yellow Fever and the joy of seeing pisspants baby Dean made up for how fucking brutal and bleak the actual case is.

ANYWAY. Ok, so. I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept since you asked about it, but in case anyone else reading doesn’t know, Jocasta is the mythological mother of Oedipus—yup, that motherfucker (I’ll see myself out). So obviously socially we understand the basics of the Freudian son-wants-to-bone-mom-in-competition-with-dad dynamic, but similarly there is a line of psychoanalytical thought which posits that subconscious Oedipal desire in a child is borne of an already existing parental complex—that often the line of familial/romantic love is crossed first by the parent and then absorbed by the child.

Generally speaking, in real life this sort of thing plays out as something called covert incest, where a child is used as a substitute for a romantic partner in an emotional capacity but not a sexual one. I’m not saying it’s particularly common, but these kinds of dynamics really do crop up, especially in single-parent families.

So, imagine being a young boy with a boat-load of trauma and no safe outlet to work through it, dealing with burgeoning homosexual desires while under the “care” of a hyper-masculine, absent father, and being forced to play the role of mother/caregiver to literally the only constant presence of love in your life. You’re unable to form connections with other people your own age because you move around too much, so any performance of romance is largely impossible and replaced by emotionally insignificant sexual encounters (thus further blurring the lines between romantic and sexual desire), and tell me it isn’t obvious how easily those boundaries can get crossed. Especially when you have been tasked in no uncertain terms with protecting this one precious thing literally at the cost of your own life, if necessary.

And then imagine you’re a little kid with no memory of Mom and an absent dad and you’re learning your cues for healthy relationships from someone who is both brother and mother to you and also dealing with all the same problems of forming bonds with kids your age and, yeah.

Add to all this the realities of coming of age in the backseats of cars and one-room motels with very little space for privacy as puberty works you over, and ... well. As they say: Bish, bash, bosh—that’s a recipe for incest, baby! No one says that. Sorry. And this is all ignoring my thoughts on Dean displaying some of the classic traits of BPD and how an all-consuming need to be needed and big red flashing lights fear of abandonment play even further into a dynamic of codependency and obsession. But mental health discourse is A Lot™ and I’m actually working on about 4 hours of sleep so maybe that’s a discussion for another time.

#spn #spn meta #my meta #wincest #codependent brothers #the epic love story of sam and dean #seriously tho dean has BPD #asks

[chaoslynx]

wait fuck, i was ranting about random shit to my friend and i was just like "so this motherfucker freud- oh no, oH FUCK ME." needless to say, my friends question my sanity on a daily basis

Talk about a Freudian slip—

#sorry that was a dumb joke #answers #thepebblestuckinyourshoe