#and yet a fundamental part of each movement

[katblu42]

Symphony

Been thinking about this one a bit over the last few days, so I thought I'd give it a bit of a re-run.

It's just a bit of fluffy, music-related Earth and Sky.

Scott tore his eyes away from the unread emails, stretched his arms above his head, let out a long breath and turned the chair away from the desk to face Virgil at the piano.

“I like this one.  What’s it called?”

“It doesn’t really have a name.”

“I’ve heard you play it before, though.  Did you write it?”

There was the slightest hint of hesitation in Virgil’s response, although the music never wavered.

“I guess you could say that.  I haven’t ever really thought about notating it.”

“Aren’t you concerned you might forget it?”

A wry smile crept across the musician’s features, but he said nothing. 

“You should write it down.  And come up with a name for it.”

Virgil tilted his head a little by way of considering the notion, then asked “Why do you like it?  What does it make you think of?”

Scott stood, stretching more muscles, letting the music carry his thoughts away from TI paperwork as his gaze drifted upwards.

“Well, I like the way the melody climbs and swirls.  It kind of reminds me of flying.  And there’s a feeling of constant motion, fast, easy – sort of free.”  He closed his eyes for a moment before returning his gaze to his brother.  “In some ways it kinda reminds me of Dad.”

Virgil’s response began with the quirk of an eyebrow and the hint of a smile.

“Funny you should say that . . .”

“Why?  Is it about Dad?”

Virgil finished the last phrase, letting the final chord hang in the air before taking a slow breath and looking up at his big brother.

“No.  It’s you.”

“Me?”  Sapphire eyes widened with surprise bordering on shock, and his forehead creased in puzzlement.  “You wrote a song about me?”

Virgil looked back at the piano. 

“Not exactly.  It’s more like . . .” His gaze drifted upward.  “It’s hard to explain.  It’s sort of how I hear your presence, or your essence or something . . . I don’t know.”  His voice trailed off into mumbles and a shrug.

Scott was left speechless, staring at his brother’s awkward uncertainty, as the significance of his own interpretation of the music and what it represented really hit home.  It took him a moment, and he had to work to bring moisture back into his mouth before he finally found his voice again.

“Do . . .  do you have something like this for all of us?”

Virgil felt the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks, and he didn’t look up from the piano.

“Uh, yeah.  I sort of do.”  His hands drifted back to the keys and a new piece of music began, one with a complimentary theme to Scott’s.  It was in the same key, had the same tempo, and still embodied that sense of soaring movement, but this one felt somehow bigger, more far-reaching – almost heroic.

Scott let out a gasp.  “Is that . . .?  This one is . . . It’s Dad, isn’t it?”

Virgil gave a single nod.

“It fits with yours.  Like the second theme in a sonata-allegro.”  Virgil glanced over at his brother, taking in the blank look at the musical term.  “That’s the usual form for the opening movement of a symphony.”  His eyes drifted closed as he played, and he sighed.  “I can hear them both in counterpoint, but I can’t play both at the same time and do them justice.  I’d need an orchestra for that.”

Dumbfounded at this revelation, Scott could only marvel at his brother’s musicality.  Here he was listening to these amazing musical creations that rendered larger than life, full-colour images in his mind, and Virgil was complaining that what he could do with the piano alone was not enough.  He didn’t think he could even imagine what this music must sound like inside Virgil’s head.

The music came to a stop and Virgil turned again to look up at Scott.

“The variations on these two themes would encompass something like what I hear for Grandma and Kayo, a little of Brains, some of Grandpa . . .” he turned away again, “then everything would come back to you and Dad.”

For a moment silence hung between them.  Virgil’s fingers flexed, as though the music within him was searching for a way out as they reached once again for the piano keys.  A new piece of music began.  This one slower, gentler, quieter in terms of movement if not exactly in terms of volume.  Scott felt this one was more thoughtful and emotional.  It brought to mind light and colour and had a sense of space, but it also somehow felt warm.

“Mom?” The smallest possible upward inflection made it a question, which was answered with another nod and the soft smile that made his little brother look so much like her.

The melody moved and changed, built, swelled, adding a complexity in the musical patterns reminiscent of a conversation, an exchanging of information.  The lightness now sparked imagery of stars. The feeling of space changed from that of a breeze in an open field to the vastness beyond Earth’s atmosphere. The gentleness was now reinforced with a sense of almost hidden strength – Scott thought that might’ve come from a stronger bass line, but he wasn’t sure.

“Is this . . . John?”

Virgil’s smile brightened.  “You’re good at this.”

“No, the music speaks for itself.  You’re the one painting these images of our family with notes and chords.”

The smile faltered as Virgil held the last chord, then he let his shoulders sink a little.  Scott silently cursed himself for bringing back that awkward self-consciousness in his brilliant brother, but before he could say anything Virgil spoke again.

“I guess they would be the second movement if this were a symphony.”  There was a brief pause, then he straightened back into his playing posture.  “No prizes for guessing who the third movement is.”

This piece of music was a jaunty, up-beat number that seemed designed to make people move – to dance, to tap their feet or clap along.  It definitely felt like a dance of some sort, and it contained hints of sea shanties, or maybe a sailor’s hornpipe.  It was the musical equivalent of laughter, sunshine, pure happiness, and it had a lilt that moved like the sea.

“Gordon!” Scott exclaimed with a laugh.

The comparatively brief third movement came to its conclusion, but Virgil barely paused before beginning what Scott guessed to be the fourth.

“And that leaves . . .” Virgil spoke softly as he began the final theme.

This one was in march tempo, strong, bright, driving forward with a sense of heroic purpose, and bringing back some of that swirling, soaring movement from earlier.  Scott could pick out hints of his own theme, and a faster version of parts of John’s, but the piece definitely had its own identity. There was a sense of urgency to it, as though the melody was trying to push the tempo into moving faster.

“Wow.  Alan would love this,” Scott found himself thinking aloud.

Virgil stopped playing after the end of the next phrase.

“There would be more.  If this was a symphony, I mean.  The fourth movement would bring in some more of the other main themes, tie everything together, finish with a bit of fanfare.”  Virgil was once again looking up at Scott, a mixture of curiosity and self-consciousness etched into his features.  “You really think Alan would like it?”

“Virgil,” Scott answered with a sigh and a shake of his head as he took the few strides over towards the piano stool, “it’s amazing.  All of it.  The whole symphony.”

Virgil gave a shrug and his brow creased a little.

“There’s a lot more to it in my mind.  Only so much can be translated through the piano.”

“Then orchestrate it.”

A sigh, a shake of the head and a hint of a smile was the only response.  Scott firmly planted a hand on his brother’s shoulder and piercing blue eyes locked gaze with warm brown ones.

“I mean it, Virgil.  Write your symphony.  Give it the life it deserves.”

Scott could see the struggle to find the right words as Virgil’s eyes struggled to hold with his.

“I . . . It’s not mine, Scott, it’s . . .” Virgil lost the battle to keep looking at the determined pride in his big brother’s blue eyes.  His gaze lowered and he focused on his hands.  “I mean . . . it’s all of you.  It’s not music I’ve created, it’s the music that you are.”  Then, almost too quiet to hear, “At least to me.”

“So, you don’t want to share it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You said this symphony isn’t yours.  I think you’re wrong.  It’s very much yours.  Something that you maybe want to hang onto, keeping it all for yourself.  And that’s okay.”  Scott shifted his grip, pulling his brother close.  “After all, this is family – The Tracy Family Symphony.  And if I’m the only one who ever gets to hear even this glimpse of what you carry in your heart, then I consider myself privileged.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds fandom #thunderbirds fanfiction #virgil tracy #scott tracy #fic reblog #i think he should orchestrate it #and share it with the world #and i think there should be a companion piece that's all Virgil #that maybe is built on something that's barely noticeable #and yet a fundamental part of each movement #like a heartbeat

[actual-changeling]

No Nightingales

or: the one time they are actually on the same page

Welcome back to Alex's unhinged meta corner—we once again find ourselves in the final fifteen because I am far from done with them.

I already dove deep into the potential meaning of that phrase, you can find the meta post here, but regardless of what it stands for, the important part of today's post is their mutual recognition of it.

During their entire argument, they are on two different levels of understanding, and while Crowley is somewhat aware of that, Aziraphale very much isn't. But then, right at the end, Crowley invokes the nightingales, and suddenly they find themselves on the same plane of communication.

Let's start from the beginning. Well, not the beginning beginning, but rather the beginning of the end of their conversation.

Aziraphale is visibly upset, there's a strong undercurrent of genuine anger within the hurt, and he reverts back to an almost petulant expression when he tells Crowley "there's nothing more to say".

The movement he is doing with his mouth—maybe biting his cheeks from the looks of it—is the same one as at the end of their very first argument of the season. In the back of the bookshop with Jimbriel being the centre of their discussion, he eventually tells Crowley "but if you won't, you won't". When he sits down and throws his little temper tantrum, it's the same expression of 'I am kicking you out, go leave'.

In episode 1, Crowley does indeed leave, although we all know he comes back later that evening, but not this time. He knows Aziraphale, he knows exactly why he is doing what he is doing, why he is saying what he is saying, and while it broke his heart, it also means he is out of patience and energy.

For six thousand years, he has been trying to get Aziraphale to understand—and he simply refused to do the work necessary for that, preferring to stay in his cognitive dissonance framework of the world.

They are as done as they can be in that moment, and yet Crowley stays and tries one more thing: No nightingales.

"Listen, do you hear that?" is not a question Aziraphale expected, which is quite obvious in his annoyed reaction.

(side note: If someone I love were to talk to me the way Aziraphale responds to Crowley here I'd slap them and walk out. The absolute disrespect in his tone is appalling and Crowley deserves a reward for putting up with it.)

"I don't hear anything," and he isn't getting it just yet, still angry and petulant, still upset.

But then that changes. "That's the point. No nightingales," and Crowley is looking at him like it means something, begging him to listen, to understand—and Aziraphale DOES.

Look at the change in his expression, all that angry annoyance is gone and replaced by a sad dawning of understanding. If you compare this expression with his earlier one, the shift is as obvious as a blinking neon sign on a dark road.

Whatever the exact meaning of 'no nightingales' is, it is unambiguous and a fundamental part of how they communicate about their relationship with each other. Aziraphale has his oh moment, he is forced to confront the entire argument they just had and what it lead them to, what it destroyed.

That is what Crowley tells him, what hits Aziraphale hard enough to completely push him off-balance, to make him sad and visibly hurt instead of angry and upset. Michael 'microexpressions' Sheen strikes again.

Focus on the look in his eyes, the small, almost imperceptible shift, the shame that appears, and the tears it brings. He averts his gaze at first and then raises it back to Crowley because he understands now, he finally realised what Crowley has been trying to tell him the entire time.

No nightingales. It means we're done, we're over. It means I cannot come with you, I have to leave and safe myself. It means I love you, I know you love me, but it isn't enough.

It means we could have been us—but not anymore. Crowley sees him understand, and THAT is why he calls him an idiot; it's not about him returning to heaven or any of the other shit he said. It is about Aziraphale not listening to Crowley, of being so caught up in his bullshit he did not understand the simple message he was being told.

"You idiot. We could have been us."

I love you I love you I love you but now we are ruined and I blame you. If you had listened we could have been happy together, but look at where we ended up instead.

Aziraphale is still staring at him, but once those words leave Crowley's mouth, the tears begin to rise. Lips pressed together to keep himself from crying, the little wobble disturbing them, the pure, distilled pain etching itself into his face.

Shame. Guilt. Anger. Blaming Crowley, blaming himself. Aziraphale is confused, forced to make decisions without getting the space to breathe, to think, and he fell back into the easiest option—be a good angel and do what heaven says.

A part of him KNOWS all of that. It knows what he just did, what he ruined, how much they ended up hurting each other. So the tears come, and when he can no longer keep himself from crying, he turns away.

Crowley understandably combusts at that because really? Really? You dare to turn away from me after all this? I ripped myself open in front of you, and when I FINALLY manage to make you understand you turn your back on me?

He is desperate and hurt, heartbroken beyond repair, and there are six millennia of hopeless love spilling over—so he kisses him.

Hear me, listen to me, understand, I love you I love you I love you, I am losing you, I don't want to lose you, we're done. I know this won't change anything. I know what you will tell me, but I need to try. I need to make sure you know how much I love you.

I need you to understand what you are leaving behind.

There is no secret conversation happening, there's no trick, otherwise this moment of realisation would not exist.

But it does. It is right there for everyone to see.

After everything, this was probably the most painful moment for me, because you see him get it. You see him process, you see him understand, you can practically taste the chaos unfolding in his mind.

Aziraphale understands, but it is too late, and so he finishes what he started and leaves anyway.

#alex talks good omens #good omens #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #good omens season 2 #go2 #aziracrow #crowley x aziraphale #ineffable divorce #the final fifteen #good omens meta #no nightingales

[dailyadventureprompts]

Tableskills: Creating Dread

I've often had a lot of problems telling scary stories at my table, whether it be in d&d or other horror focused games. I personally don't get scared easily, especially around "traditionally horrifying" things so it's hard for me to recreate that experience in others. Likewise, you can't just port horror movie iconography into tabletop and expect it to evoke genuine fear: I've already spoken of being bored out of my mind during the zombie apocalypse, and my few trips into ravenloft have all been filled with similar levels of limp and derivative grimdark.

It took me a long time (and a lot of video essays about films I'd never watched) to realize that in terms of an experience fear is a lot like a joke, in that it requires multiple steps of setup and payoff. Dread is that setup, it's the rising tension in a scene that makes the revelation worth it, the slow and literal rising of a rollercoaster before the drop. It's way easier to inspire dread in your party than it is to scare them apropos of nothing, which has the added flexibility of letting you choose just the right time to deliver the frights.

TLDR: You start with one of the basic human fears (guide to that below) to emotionally prime your players and introduce it to your party in a initially non-threataning manor. Then you introduce a more severe version of it in a way that has stakes but is not overwhelmingly scary just yet. You wait until they're neck deep in this second scenario before throwing in some kind of twist that forces them to confront their discomfort head on.

More advice (and spoilers for The Magnus Archives) below the cut.

Before we go any farther it's vitally important that you learn your party's limits and triggers before a game begins. A lot of ttrpg content can be downright horrifying without even trying to be, so it's critical you know how everyone in your party is going to react to something before you go into it. Whether or not you're running an actual horror game or just wanting to add some tension to an otherwise heroic romp, you and your group need to be on the same page about this, and discuss safety systems from session 0 onwards.

The Fundamental Fears: It may seem a bit basic but one of the greatest tools to help me understand different aspects of horror was the taxonomy invented by Jonathan Sims of The Magnus Archives podcast. He breaks down fear into different thematic and emotional through lines, each given a snappy name and iconography that's so memorable that I often joke it's the queer-horror version of pokemon types or hogwarts houses. If we start with a basic understanding of WHY people find things scary we learn just what dials we need turn in order to build dread in our players.

Implementation: Each of these examples is like a colour we can paint a scene or encounter with, flavouring it just so to tickle a particular, primal part of our party's brains. You don't have to do much, just something along the lines of "the upcoming cave tunnel is getting a little too close for comfort" or "the all-too thin walkway creaks under your weight ", or "what you don't see is the movement at the edge of the room". Once the seed is planted your party's' minds will do most of the work: humans are social, pattern seeking creatures, and the hint of danger to one member of the group will lay the groundwork of fear in all the rest.

The trick here is not to over commit, which is the mistake most ttrpgs make with horror: actually showing the monster, putting the party into a dangerous situation, that’s the finisher, the  punchline of the joke. It’s also a release valve on all the pressure you’ve been hard at work building.

There’s nothing all that scary about fighting a level-appropriate number of skeletons, but forcing your party to creep through a series of dark, cobweb infested catacombs with the THREAT of being attacked by undead? That’s going to have them climbing the walls.

Let narration and bad dice rolls be your main tools here, driving home the discomfort, the risk, the looming threat.

Surprise: Now that you’ve got your party marinating in dread, what you want to do to really scare them is to throw a curve ball. Go back to that list and find another fear which either compliments or contrasts the original one you set up, and have it lurking juuuust out of reach ready to pop up at a moment of perfect tension like a jack in the box. The party is climbing down a slick interior of an underdark cavern, bottom nowhere in sight? They expect to to fall, but what they couldn't possibly expect is for a giant arm to reach out of the darkness and pull one of them down. Have the party figured out that there's a shapeshifter that's infiltrated the rebel meeting and is killing their allies? They suspect suspicion and lies but what they don't expect is for the rebel base to suddenly be on FIRE forcing them to run.

My expert advice is to lightly tease this second threat LONG before you introduce the initial scare. Your players will think you're a genius for doing what amounts to a little extra work, and curse themselves for not paying more attention.

Restraint: Less is more when it comes to scares, as if you do this trick too often your players are going to be inured to it. Try to do it maybe once an adventure, or dungeon level. Scares hit so much harder when the party isn't expecting them. If you're specifically playing in a "horror" game, it's a good idea to introduce a few false scares, or make multiple encounters part of the same bait and switch scare tactic: If we're going into the filthy gross sewer with mould and rot and rats and the like, you'll get more punch if the final challenge isn't corruption based, but is instead some new threat that we could have never prepared for.

Art

#tableskills #horror #spooky #halloween #the magnus archives #dm tip #dm advice #dm tips

[kybelles]

so after a recent conversation with my friends we’ve come to a realization: fandom loves Slave Rights Advocate laurent trope. whether it be an arranged marriage au, a time travel au, an auguste lives au or any kind of setting where slavery is still in motion; it’s always laurent who opens damen’s eyes to the horrors of slavery and insists they can’t be with each other until slavery is abolished, that slavery is a deal breaker on whether they can be together or not. now i certainly don’t want to sound like i’m policing anybody’s creative choices but it’s become such a common trope in the fandom that it is baffling at this point because. here’s the thing. slavery isn’t one of laurent’s battles. at all.

allow me to explain further before i make people angry. it’s clear laurent is against the fundamental premise of slavery and finds it inhumane. but through the series (counting out taofc where he and damen are trying to build an empire together), he doesn’t actively fight or challenge the system or slavery. i don’t even think this is a hot take when you remember that he;

i. didn’t protect the akielon slaves in arles until damen begged him to and sold them to torveld for personal gain (which was the best course of action he could take under the circumstances but as i said, he wasn’t above using them)

ii. referred to damen as his slave constantly in both a technical and romantic sense

iii. got turned on by playing master and slave and master and pet

iv. used isander as a way to get back at damen: was fed by isander in the feast, stroked him, allowed him to kiss his feet and boots etc.

in fact here are plenty of instances where it’s clear laurent enjoyed the type of power he had over damen:

and here’s the only part where i can remember damen and laurent discussing slavery after damen’s identity is revealed and they have the possibility of a future together. as you can see, laurent’s attitude towards it is pretty neutral. he doesn’t approve, but it’s clear he’s not a passionate champion of the anti slavery movement.

let me make it clear that none of this is a criticism towards laurent. it’s important to remember that capri started as a slavekink fic (in pacat’s own words) and though it evolved, by the final draft she still kept some of those elements: like making the first night between lamen a romantic, sacred, precious thing between them; laurent telling damen he’s his slave by feeding him as a slave would, damen calling himself laurent’s slave as a sign of submission/love/romance before their first kiss, laurent saying damen is still his slave before sleeping with him… the narrative still eroticizes slavery to some extent and uses it as a vehicle of romance.

the thing is, laurent finding enjoyment in these practices is not the problem. when the fandom loves to pretend like laurent would be so disgusted by the idea of slavery (even though the text repeatedly shows he’s not) , that he; a perfect civilized blonde veretian angel would come to akielos and educate those barbarians about how horrible slavery is and damen would only open his eyes to the truth through laurent’s guidance, that’s when my issues start. because, like i said, this was never laurent’s battle and it pretty much reads like laurent is some sort of white savior, someone who comes to damen’s country to “fix” the problems of akielos without understanding their history, needs, or the region’s current state of affairs.

another very important thing to underline is that the whole slavery ordeal in the series was damen’s character arc, not laurent’s. he’s the actual slave in the scenario, and as much as laurent doesn’t like slavery, damen didn’t come to the conclusion that it was bad because of laurent’s preachings. it leaves a bad taste in the mouth that damen was the one who actually experienced slavery and faced countless humiliations in vere and yet people still insist on making laurent educate damen about why it’s wrong, even though he himself has never experienced slavery in his life. (one might argue in aus where damen was never sent to vere as a slave he wouldn’t come to the same realizations but that still doesn’t mean laurent would have a passionate agenda regarding slaves. at best i believe he would demand damen to stop sleeping with his slaves as they are monogamous.)

choosing laurent as The One who firmly stands against slavery is bad from a narrative pov too. making this specifically about laurent makes no sense because it's got nothing to do with him. it's not his country! he doesn't care about akielos the way damen does. everything about it thematically relates back to damen; who exists as a metaphor for akielos - any insult or injury done to him is an insult to akielos. he embodies it’s values and it’s people, and by becoming a slave he’s reflecting the current slave state of akielos, and through finding liberation for himself he’s also finding liberation for akielos. it’s a powerful symbolism for how akielos is changed and freed directly BECAUSE of his own personal liberation. laurent has nothing more than an intellectual interest in anti-slavery and he only ever begins to care about akielos because he cares for damen. but damen was raised with it and experienced it and cares very deeply about it. it’s his country! it's his story!

tldr; through the series, it was damen’s journey to experience what it was like to be a slave, to see the true horrors of this practice and decide he doesn’t want to rule his country that way anymore. so taking his agency and giving it laurent, someone who was neutral at best about slavery, feels incredibly insensitive and wrong.

#💬 #meta #? #captive prince #like what is with this obsession on making laurent the perfect activist who’s always on top of current events #and damen the dumb ignorant jock who’s clueless about life #why is this such a common theme :) #also a reminder that i’m not targeting anyone specificaly!! this is a common trope and i just wanted to rant #shout out to my amazing girlies for helping me write this post ily angels

[floatingcatacombs]

Go Nagai was insane for this one

12 Days of Aniblogging 2023, Day 8

I like to always have manga of dubious quality on tap for when I’m having trouble sleeping. Ideally, reading a few chapters will distract me, but I won’t want to stay up late shotgunning volumes. Devilman Lady was the ideal manga for this, and this is maybe the last time anyone will ever describe Devilman Lady as "ideal".

An extremely brief introduction is in order. If Osamu Tezuka is the godfather of manga, then Go Nagai is manga’s weird horny uncle. He’s arguably just as influential, the two of them just moved in different circles, each reifying entire genres. Nagai is more or less responsible for magical girls, super robot, and ecchi, and also spent a lot of time in the sphere of supernatural and post-apocalyptic manga. These are fundamentally genres of extremity and ridiculousness, and Nagai dials every one of his works up to 11 by the end, one way or another. Devilman is probably his most famous work over here, and it’s a stone-cold classic for a reason. Nagai has kept revisiting it over the years, with side stories, alternate universes, manga cameos, and even entirely new series that function as stealth sequels such as Violence Jack. But his most notable attempt is Devilman Lady, which is far more than a simple gender-swap of the original.

Devilman Lady is about swimming deep in filth. It’s easily the most disgust-provoking manga I’ve read, with pretty much every content warning under the sun applicable. This is a truly rotten and conspiratorial world that Nagai is depicting. Societal decay manifests in countless forms, including rape, child abuse, homophobia, militarism, and hatred towards immigrants. Anything that could be potentially understood as fanservice is placed right next to or directly within the atrocities at hand, and it's genuinely unclear how much Nagai intended that as commentary. His intentions throughout this whole manga are a bit of an enigma, but what's clear that he is firing on all cylinders.

This is an extremely zeitgeisty 90’s work, with intelligent design debates, the mapping of the human genome, new age paranoia, religious zealotry, and anxiety over pollution all playing out on the pages. Where it breaks from many of its contemporaries is a decisive rejection of the end of history. This is the kind of thing you write when you’re still reeling from the subway sarin gas attacks and your country's role in the Gulf War and subsequent militarization. It’s the perfect manga for capturing a time period when ten to twenty percent of Japan’s population were estimated to have belonged to a new religious movement.

The punchline to all of this is that he doesn’t know how to draw women.

By the back half of Devilman Lady, Nagai’s depictions of hellscapes and grotesque monsters reach near-Berserk levels of detail and technical competency. And yet his female protagonists are still drawn in a drastically simpler 70's style, only now with giant spheres grafted to their chests. Either humans and the infernal are two completely different skillsets, or this was a deliberate artistic decision, and both are difficult to swallow. Either way, we just have to accept the juxtapositions.

one of my favorite pages to show people devoid of context

The finale is just nuts. Go Nagai makes textual the homoeroticism and gender deviance of the original Devilman manga, as the world burns in both nuclear warfare and demonic hellfire. The story starts accelerating at an unfathomable pace, the most inscrutable double mobius reacharound yaoiyuri occurs, and the universe resets once or twice. It makes the endings of Jojo Part 6 and 7 look tame by comparison. There is no way to parse this like a normal manga with a plot and narrative. It is raw id.

This has been a year where I’ve tried to deliberately broaden my comfort zone by engaging with more potentially upsetting works if I think they'll have something interesting to say. This was like jumping into the deep end. Devilman Lady may very well be Go Nagai’s magnum opus. It’s not nearly as tight as the original manga, but it’s a glorious mess, just as radical to its own time as Devilman must have been in the 70s. It made for spectacular insomnia reading. And there’s no way in hell I can ever recommend it.

At age 19, Nagai went through a bout of diarrhea so bad that he convinced himself it was colon cancer, and that he was at death's door. He vowed to leave something behind for the world to remember him by, and began laboring away on manga. And for the last 60 years of his career, he’s written and drawn with the fervor of a man who’s about to shit himself to death. Maybe that’s the real secret.

#12 days of anime #devilman #devilman lady

[midnightanxietytm]

He takes his whiskey neat

A/N: Look, I think i was possessed while writing this one /j. It was like 1 am and I was procrastination on college work, I dunno what happened but this is the ungodly spawn of my imagination mixed with sleep deprivation, caffeine and stress. Enjoy and don't question it too much

Contents: Ford Pines x reader, pinning (lots of pining), I pictured reader in their late 40s to early 50s so there is an age gap but nothing extreme. There's some plot in those holes. uhhh lots of tension and no payoff because im pretty sure I passed out before I got to that part.

Word count: 996

There’s this look on his eyes now that you can’t quite figure out.

Ever since Stanford Pines came back from the portal, ever since weirdmageddon and the end of that fateful summer, something about him fundamentally changed. There’s contempt, relief, sure, but there's more to it, something that he keeps deep in that rattling metal-protected brain of his.

And god forbid sometimes you just want to pick him apart entirely, figure out every detail, note it down, absorb it, maybe then his mere presence won’t entice you, mess you, so goddamn much.

It culminates, as all events are bound to do, right before that year’s summer vacation, you blame the heat. 

Soos and Melody took a vacation for themselves, entrusting the shack back to Stan’s less than trustworthy hands, just like old times. Ford slips back into the basement so easily you almost follow him; your mind briefly longing for that nostalgia of being freshly out of college, when you and Ford were easily impressed by the oddness of the world.

You were a prodigy; a good ten years younger than him yet still doing your masters while he did his doctorate, and in the same area with similar themes! Back then, you two were just bright-eyed yet very tired academics… Then Gravity Falls presented itself on a silver platter, and Bill followed through.

You were there, on the day of the portal, or at least, almost there, going back for the thousandth time, expecting no answer to your knocks at the door as usual, only to be met with the fallout of something far worse than refusal.

And then he was back, less jittery, less paranoid and less sleep deprived than he was before at least. But there was that thing in his eyes, that inherent distrust, detachment…? You struggled to find the words and if there’s one thing that you as a scientist can’t deal with is a question that goes unresearched.

So it began; your “research” depended on experiment and to experiment, you firstly decided to get close to your unwilling subject. And you go down the rabbit hole.

You find him in the basement, of course. He’s drawing on loose sheets of paper, some of the discarded pieces lay on the floor, and the cd player by his side is playing just loud enough to muffle your footsteps as you approach him by his right side. “Updating the journal?” You ask, nonchalantly, as if you hadn't obsessively turned each page of his journals before, as if your own handwriting wasn’t squeezed in the first ones before his old muse took all the space left.

Ford just hums, raising his chin slightly, but not his eyes, just to acknowledge the question. “Not really, just trying to get some proportion practice. Looking back, some of my work on the first journal was… Not the best.” 

A chuckle leaves your mouth; “If you say so…” You hum, picking up one of the filled out pages that were pushed aside in the table and pretending to look it over as he places his pen down and looks up at you.

“Any advice?” He asks, and once again you pretend to be paying attention to anything but him and his every movement.

“Not really… I think you’re good.” You place the paper back at the table, leaning against it. “Thought you’d be going through your abstract phase by now, honestly.” And you smirk down at him.

He leans back, crossing his arms; “I fear I’m too logical to have an abstract phase, even my craziest dreams have math and science behind them.” And you both laugh, and your curiosity itches more and more every millisecond.

The next words that leave your mouth were planned and inwardly rehearsed, but they come out natural as a summer breeze. “Every tortured artist has an abstract phase, get on with the times, sixer!” It comes out as a joke, it's a test. And suddenly you’re too nervous to stay there, staring at him and waiting for a rebuttal. You push yourself off the table and zipline to one of the bookshelves, reaching towards the back of it, you pull the ‘eureka whiskey’ and the two cups.

He just watches you for a second, then accepts the cup as you pour him one, then one for yourself. 

And it’s truly the eureka whiskey, because goddamn you just found something in those eyes. 

He takes a sip; “Yeah I guess those portal days would do for some good surrealist pieces at least.”

“I can’t even imagine.” You say.

He smirks, lips inches from his cup. “You can’t…” He takes a sip. “That’s the point of surrealist.” You want his brain under a microscope, you want his breath mixing with yours, you want to never see him again, you want to wake up near him every day.

The curse of science is that in the endeavor to figure out the world, the scientist often loses sight of themselves. 

The witty remarks, the planned lines, the psychological strategies, all fly out of you head and you lean back against his desk. He’s leaned further back now and his chair is turned diagonally towards you and he watches with a smile and those eyes. “What did you see?” It’s almost a whisper, because you think he might actually tell you, and that scares you more than anything.

“Too much…” He swallows, sighs, takes a swing of whiskey and rests the empty cup on the desk. “It was very chaotic, honestly that’s all I want to say…” You sigh, pushing yourself up to sit at his desk, and his head tilts as he watches you. 

“I’m glad you’re back.” You settle, even though it doesn’t even come near to all the things you want to express. He smiles, and his eyes travel down, landing on your hands, holding your barely touched whiskey glass. You follow his gaze, and chuckle. “I’m more of a whine person.”

“I know…”

#midnight writes #taking requests #ford pines #ford x reader #ford pines x reader #grunkle ford #swooning over stans #fanfic writing #gravity falls #mutual pining #title inspired hozier's song #you know which one #too sweet #the author regrets nothing #hozier reference #asks open

[haggishlyhagging]

Radical feminism remained the hegemonic tendency within the women's liberation movement until 1973 when cultural feminism began to cohere and challenge its dominance. After 1975, a year of internecine conflicts between radical and cultural feminists, cultural feminism eclipsed radical feminism as the dominant tendency within the women's liberation movement, and, as a consequence, liberal feminism became the recognized voice of the women's movement.

As the preceding chapters have shown, there were prefigurings of cultural feminism within radical feminism, especially by 1970. This nascent cultural feminism, which was sometimes termed ‘female cultural nationalism’ by its critics, was assailed by radical and left feminists alike. For instance, in the December 1970 issue of Everywoman, Ann Fury warned feminists against "retreating into a female culture":

“Like other oppressed [sic], we have our customs and language. But this culture, designed to create the illusion of autonomy, merely indicates fear. Withdraw into it and we take our slavery with us. . . . Furthermore when we retreat into our culture we cover our political tracks with moralism. We say our culture is somehow "better" than male culture. And we trace this supposed superiority to our innate nature, for if we attributed it to our powerlessness, we would have to agree to its dissolution the moment we seize control. . . . When we obtain power, we will take on the characteristics of the powerful. . . . We are not the Chosen people.”

Similarly, in a May 1970 article on the women's liberation movement in Britain, Juliet Mitchell and Rosalind Delmar contended:

“Re-valuations of feminine attributes accept the results of an exploitative situation by endorsing its concepts. The effects of oppression do not become the manifestations of liberation by changing values, or, for that matter, by changing oneself—but only by challenging the social structure that gives rise to those values in the first place.”

And in April 1970, the Bay Area paper It Ain't Me, Babe carried an editorial urging feminists to create a culture which would foster resistance rather than serve as a sanctuary from patriarchy:

“It is extremely oppressive for us to function in a culture where ideas are male oriented and definitions are male controlled. . . .Yet the creation of a woman's culture must in no way be separated from the political struggles of women for liberation. . . . Our culture cannot be the carving of an enclave in which we can bear the status quo more easily—rather it must crystallize the dreams that will strengthen our rebellion.”

But these warnings had little effect as the movement seemed to drift almost ineluctably toward cultural feminism. Cultural feminism seemed a solution to the movement's impasse—both its schisms and its lack of direction. Whereas parts of the radical feminist movement had become paralyzed by political purism, or what Robin Morgan called "failure vanguardism," cultural feminists promised that constructive changes could be achieved. To cultural feminists, alternative women's institutions represented, in Morgan's words, "concrete moves towards self determination and power" for women. Equally important, cultural feminism with its insistence upon women's essential sameness to each other and their fundamental difference from men seemed to many a way to unify a movement that by 1973 was highly schismatic. In fact, cultural feminism succeeded in large measure because it promised an end to the gay-straight split. Cultural feminism modified lesbian-feminism so that male values rather than men were vilified and female bonding rather than lesbianism was valorized, thus making it acceptable to heterosexual feminists.

Of course, by 1973 the women's movement was also facing a formidable backlash—one which may have been orchestrated by the male-dominated New Right, but was hardly lacking in female support. It is probably not coincidental that cultural feminism emerged at a time of backlash. Even if women's political, economic, and social gains were reversed, cultural feminism held out the possibility that women could build a culture, a space, uncontaminated by patriarchy. Morgan described women's art and spirituality as "the lifeblood for our survival" and maintained that “resilient cultures have kept oppressed groups alive even when economic analyses and revolutionary strategy fizzled.” There may even have been the hope that by invoking commonly held assumptions about women and men, anti-feminist women might experience a change of heart and join their ranks. The shift toward cultural feminism also suggests that feminists themselves were not immune to the growing conservatism of the period. Certainly, cultural feminism's demonization of the left seemed largely rooted in a rejection of the '60s radicalism out of which radical feminism evolved.

-Alice Echols, Daring to Be Bad: Radical Feminism in America: 1967-75

#Alice Echols #feminist history #radical feminism #cultural feminism #liberal feminism #womens history #second wave feminism

[positively-bi]

It ain't over til the bisexual speaks...

The March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Equal Rights and Liberation took place on the 25th of April 1993 in Washington, D.C. An estimated 80,000 to over 1 million people attended.

The 1993 March was the first March on Washington to include bisexuals in the title. Out of 18 chosen speakers, only one was bisexual: Lani Ka'ahumanu.

Afterwards, she wrote an article for bisexual magazine Anything That Moves about her experience entitled "How I Spent My Two Week Vacation Being a Token Bisexual", which can be read on her website here.

The webpage also contains a transcript of the speech she made at the event, which has been copied below the cut:

Aloha, my name is Lani Ka’ahumanu, and it ain’t over til the bisexual speaks...

I am a token, and a symbol. Today there is no difference. I am the token out bisexual asked to speak, and I am a symbol of how powerful the bisexual pride movement is and how far we have come.

I came here in 1979 for the March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights.

I returned in 1987 for the March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights.

I stand here today on the stage of the 1993 March on Washington for Lesbian, Gay and Bisexual Equal Rights and Liberation.

In 1987 I wrote an article on bisexuality for the Civil Disobedience Handbook titled, “Are we visible yet?”

Bisexual activists organized on the local, regional and national levels to make this March a reality.

Are bisexuals visible yet? Are bisexuals organized yet? Are bisexuals accountable yet?

You bet your sweet ass we are!

Bisexuals are here, and we’re queer.

Bisexual pride speaks to the truth of behavior and identity.

No simple either/or divisions fluid – ambiguous – subversive bisexual pride challenges both the heterosexual and the homosexual assumption.

Society is based on the denial of diversity, on the denial of complexity.

Like multiculturalism, mixed heritage and bi-racial relationships, both the bisexual and transgender movements expose and politicize the middle ground.

Each show there is no separation, that each and everyone of us is part of a fluid social, sexual and gender dynamic.

Each signals a change, a fundamental change in the way our society is organized.

Remember today.

Remember we are family, and like a large extended family, we don’t always agree, don’t always see eye to eye.

However, as a family under attack we must recognize the importance of what each and every one of us brings to our movement.

There is strength in our numbers and diversity. We are every race, class, culture, age, ability, religion, gender identity and sexual orientation.

Our visibility is a sign of revolt.

Recognition of bisexual orientation and transgender issues presents a challenge to assumptions not previously explored within the politics of gay liberation.

What will it take for the gayristocracy to realize that bisexual, lesbian, transgender, and gay people are in this together, and together we can and will move the agenda forward.

But this will not happen until public recognition of our common issues is made, and a sincere effort to confront biphobia and transphobia is made by the established gay and lesbian leadership in this country.

The broader movement for our civil rights and liberation is being held back.

Who gains when we ostracize whole parts of our family? Who gains from exclusionary politics?

Certainly not us...

Being treated as if I am less oppressed than thou is not only insulting, it feeds right in to the hands of the right wing fundamentalists who see all of us as queer.

What is the difficulty in seeing how my struggle as a mixed race bisexual woman of color is intimately related to the bigger struggle for lesbian and gay rights the rights of people of color and the rights of all women?

What is the problem?

This is not a competition.

I will not play by rules that pit me against any oppressed group.

Has the gayristocracy bought so far in to the either/or structure, invested so much in being the opposite of heterosexual that they cannot remove themselves that they can’t imagine being free of the whole oppressive heterosexist system that keeps us all down?

Bisexual, gay, lesbian, and transgender people who are out of the closet, who are not passing for anything other than who and what we are all have our necks and our lives on the line.

All our visibility is a sign of revolt.

Bisexuals are here to challenge the bigots who have denied lesbian, gay and bisexual people basic civil rights in Colorado.

Yes, Amendment 2 includes bisexual orientation.

Yes, the religious right recognizes bisexuals as a threat to “so called” family values.

Bisexuals are here to protest the military ban against lesbians, gays and bisexuals.

Yes, the Department of Defense defines bisexuals separately as a reason to be dishonorably discharged.

And yes, out bisexuals are not allowed to be foster or adoptive parents,

And yes, we lose our jobs, our children, get beaten and killed for loving women and for loving men.

Bisexuals are queer, just as queer as queer can be.

Each of us here today represents many people who could not make the trip.

Our civil rights and liberation movement has reached critical mass.

Remember today.

Remember that we are more powerful than all the hate, ignorance and violence directed at us.

Remember what a profound difference our visibility makes upon the world in which we live.

The momentum of this day can carry us well into the 21st century if we come out where ever and when ever we can.

Remember assimilation is a lie. It is spiritual erasure.

I want to challenge those lesbian and gay leaders who have come out to me privately over the years as bisexual to take the next step, come out now.

What is the sexual liberation movement about if not about the freedom to love whom we choose?

I want to encourage bisexuals in the lesbian, gay and heterosexual communities to come out now.

Remember there is nothing wrong with love. Defend the freedom to express it.

Our visibility is a sign of revolt. We cannot be stopped. We are everywhere. We are bisexual, lesbian, gay and transgender people.

We will not rest until we are all free;

We will not rest until our basic human rights are protected under federal law;

We will not rest until our relationships and families are not just tolerated but recognized, respected and valued;

We will not rest until we have a national health care system; We will not rest until there are cures for AIDS and cancer.

We deserve nothing less. Remember we have every right to be in the world exactly as we are.

Celebrate that simply and fiercely.

I love you.

Mahalo and aloha.

#bi history #queer history #lgbt history #lgbt+ history #lani ka'ahumanu #1993 march on washington #bi rights #queer rights #lgbt rights #lgbt+ rights #bi #bisexual #bisexuality #bi pride #bisexual pride #pride #lgbt #lgbt+ #lgbtq #lgbt pride #lgbt+ pride #lgbtq pride #queer #queer pride #bisexual history

[tipsheda]

My favorite games that I played in 2023 (and some thoughts)

Just want to give credit and love to all of the programmers, artists, voice actors, writers, playtesters, etc. who worked so hard to make these lovingly crafted video games for us to enjoy. I hope more unions will be able to pop up around the industry in the future, so that so many people don't have to unneedingly lose their jobs to appease shareholders.

Played MyHouse.wad on stream. I love a game that has so many layers to uncover. It was a blast to play through. Definitely my favorite experience of the year. Go into it as blind as you can. GZDoom is quite easy to setup. I should also mention this is my first time playing Doom II.

Played Resident Evil 4 (the original) for the first time this year. It still holds up and is now one of my favorite games. I enjoyed the tank controls. It felt good to get better at the movement and aiming system.

Picked up Tears of the Kingdom on launch day with some good friends and we all played together at the same time for a whole weekend. Then we just kept playing and sharing insights with each other for a whole couple months after. Great memories. I didn't even like Breath of the Wild as much as others, but this game added just the right elements to make me fall in love. Exploring the sky and depths was the best part of the game. Also, a fantastic ending. Would recommend at least finishing the main quests.

I think I've posted this multiple times, but here it is again. Street Fighter 6 got me into fighting games. World Tour mode hooked me as a non-fighting game player and taught me everything I needed to know for SF6 as well as a lot of fighting game fundamentals, which I can apply to other games. I've also been greatly enjoying watching all of the tournaments all over the world. Knowing how a game works and seeing masters at it battle it out is good fun.

I played a little Armored Core IV after I, like many others, did some research into From Software's other games. Wasn't hugely into it, but that didn't stop me from trying VI when it released and I'm glad I did. It's a fantastic blend of Souls-like mechanics with fast mech action. It lacked most of the exploration aspect of FromSoft's other games that I love, but it made up for it with fun as hell bosses, huge environments, and an enticing story.

Haven't finished Alan Wake II yet, so I can't say anything definitive, but it's a horror game with great presentation/editing and pacing. I didn't enjoy Control as much as I would have liked because of all the combat, but there's a lot less in this game, so I'm happy.

Played the two Far games this year for the first time. They work really well together. Would definitely recommend playing both together. I have a huge soft spot in my heart for games where you control a large vehicle freely from the inside. These have that and a ton of great atmosphere and environments.

I also haven't finished Lies of P, but so far, echoing what many others have said, it's just like playing a real FromSoft game with everything that entails. Only mark against it for me is that the level design feels a touch too linear compared to other Souls games. But maybe I'm just salty because I want more games like the first half of Dark Souls 1.

Also, a shout out to Beat Saber and the great mapping community around that game. I went to physical therapy this year and mostly fixed and strengthened my shoulders, so I was able to start playing Beat Saber regularly again and it's just so fun.

Thanks for reading. Hope everyone has some happy holidays, a great 2024, and a very merry Ceasefire in Gaza.

Honorable mentions:

Hollow Knight (2017)

Babbdi (2022)

Mars First Logistics

#video games #gaming #goty 2023

[neonseperatedau]

25k Celebration - Short Story

NEON Short Fluff Fic: “Eavesdropping”

Hey guys, to celebrate my fic NEON – A Separated Sibling AU reaching 25k hits, I wrote a short fluff story that puts you in the shoes of the rat-man himself and shows you how he has been feeling about the newest addition to the fam. You don’t need much pre-knowledge to enjoy this story. Basically, this plays after the events of ‘Shadows of Evil’ (or chapter 20 of my fic) and sees a Leo who grew up with Draxum losing his odachi, learning about the Hamato clan and slowly adapting to his new life in the lair. (Thank you to my twin @leonrose55 for suggesting this prompt! This wouldn’t exist without you!) A million thanks to everyone who has been supporting this fic, you guys are the best, and I hope you enjoy this respite! ;)

For every parent comes the day when they must admit to themselves after they believed to know everything about their children that this simply wasn’t true anymore. Ever since my three sons started to act and think and say things, I couldn’t anticipate I had to accept that they were on their road to becoming their own independent…well…turtle mutants. I found it curious that for the newcomer to our lair, it was quite the opposite. From the beginning, I had no idea what to make of Leonardo, and each action he took only unsettled me more. I was never completely at ease when he was around, anticipating him to be a mere extension of one of Baron Draxum’s plots when all he in fact did was eat and nap and sometimes crack some worryingly violent jokes. Routine can change many things. As we started our training so he could learn how to wield two katanas, Hamato style, I had plenty of time to not only study his movements but also his subtle reactions. What face did he make when he had been close to winning? How would he react when he was exhausted and continued the workout anyway? I didn’t unlearn his patterns like with my sons, I learned them from its fundaments, and I got the sense I was far off from knowing even the basics. And all of this I noticed because, on this particular day, his focus had been off, and I was quite taken aback by myself because I could immediately tell. I swiped him off his feet, swords clanking to the ground. “Shit, not again,” Leo grumbled, getting up and grabbing for his weapons. The way he complained non-stop yet never actually stopped with his training reminded me so much of myself. (Admittedly, I hadn’t been the best of students.) “Your stance is off,” I pointed at his left foot, “and are you aware that you’re holding one sword with its backside up?” The turtle blinked and stared down at his hands. “Oh,” he mumbled and quickly corrected himself. I sighed. Some days simply be like this. “How about we do something different for today’s training?” I suggested and Leo’s eyes widened behind his black bandana. “No, it’s fine, we can keep going,” he insisted. Sheesh, I thought Purple could be ambitious about his projects at times. This one was on a whole other level. It was like failing wasn’t supposed to be part of his dictionary. “I’m not saying we will stop training. We are only changing up the pace…Have you seen my amazing Lou Jitsu adventures where I use dual sword fighting? Jell-O Jell-O Rush 1, 2, and 3?” I puffed up my chest. Leo blinked at me with an unchanged expression. “Uuuuh, no?” Stroking my whiskers I made my way to the tv room. “I know you have your reservation about how efficient it is to learn from the source materials, but I assure you these are worth your time! I also think Raph never finished his pack of wasabi peanuts yesterday and it’s lying around here somewhere.” I anticipated him to complain, at least try a counteroffer, or make a snarky comment about my acting career. All of those things had happened before… That’s probably why I needed a moment to process that Leo immediately picked up one of the big cushions, snatched the snack packs I mentioned, and settled down in front of the projector. Were the therapy sessions with Orange showing their effect? Or did Donatello do some brain-altering experiments on him? (I wouldn’t put it above him to mess with our ‘guest’ like that.) He noticed I kept standing at the entrance of the room and threw a glance back at me stating: “Hey, I learned my lesson about human movies and how they can teach you cool moves to fuck shit up a while back, I ain’t complaining.” I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that and since that was usually the case with Leo, I shrugged and accepted this as a rare instance where the fates seemed to have pity on me. “Plus,” he threw two brightly green-coated peanuts into his mouth, “stolen snacks taste the best.” The almost childish-mischievous gleam in his eyes oddly enough made him look more like his age and so I couldn’t bring myself to chide him for such comments. There were too many other moments where he visibly locked up and the iron-clad harshness in his demeanor made me believe that he had seen and experienced things, a teenager shouldn’t have. I made my way to my precious chair that had just the right dent from years of sitting in the same spot and selected the first installment of the ‘Jell-O Jell-O’ saga.   For the first half an hour or so, Leo was looking at the screen and it couldn’t have been more obvious that he wasn’t focusing on what was going on in front of him. But once my previous incredible human Self picked up the swords and hacked through the multi-colored jelly, Leo got transfixed to the projector. He took in those combat movements like a cake sponge that was soaked in cocoa. (Memo to myself: stock up on sponge cake) By the time we had moved on to the second part, the turtle was hooked just like the other three would be invested in their favorite Lou Jitsu moving picture. (I loved their debates on what movie they preferred and why especially before I revealed my identity.) “The way Lou Jitsu used the swords like a twirling staff,” Leo mused out loud, “that’s brilliant! So effective against backstabbers! I hate backstabbing except if it’s done by myself.” Yeah, sometimes I just plain-out worry about this kid… “That’s a technique from Yagyu Shinkage-ryu. A style that focuses on disarming your opponent and getting the upper hand, rather than killing them,” I explained and surprised myself by remembering the official name. Seemed like some things my grandpa taught me stuck with me even after all these years. “Huh, never heard of it. Doesn’t sound very useful…in the movie, it looked really strong though,” Leo popped the last peanuts into his mouth before adding: “Can you show me some more of it in the next training session?” This was, without a doubt, the first time he had ever directly asked me a favor. I needed a heartbeat or two during which I said nothing, and he apparently also realized what he had done. He hectically crumpled up the empty pack and went on without any pause between the words: “I mean, it’s whatever. You don’t have to do that.” I couldn’t help but return with a smug smile, “I’m not sure if you’re ready for such advanced techniques, still! Let’s see what we can do.” “Fuck, I shouldn’t have asked,” Leo grumbled drawing his legs closer to his torso, “just start the next movie already.” “Sure,” I snickered. I must admit that as we had filmed this final part of the epic Jell-O saga we had run out of ideas for the plot and so I wasn’t even offended when I heard low reverberating snores and saw Leo leaning against the leg of my couch, mouth half-open and drooling in his sleep. “Do you intend to watch the rest of the movie from beyond the door, dear son?” I called out and my fine hearing made out familiar steps approaching me from behind. “Sorry,” Raph apologized in a hushed voice, “I was looking for the snacks that I left here yesterday and then I saw you both talking, and I didn’t want to intrude and then I…” I waved my hand at him to signal that it was all good. “We tried something else for training,” I explained, and with a glance to the ground to my right I added, “he seemed a bit out of it. Did anything happen recently?” The big turtle shrugged even if his eyes had a very slight nervous twitch. He had developed that habit after I had told them all about the Hamato, which made me wonder if that had really been such a good idea. “He is more focused,” Raph began, occasionally pausing between words, “in a good way, I think. Since he lost his odachi he’s forced to stay at the lair much more. Because…no portals.” Even if he wasn’t the most eloquent of the bunch, which was Purple no doubt, he was often on point. “Oh,” Red appeared to remember something else and told me: “We talked about going out for pizza for April’s birthday tomorrow. He wanted to come with us but commented on how he didn’t understand human birthday traditions and after we explained a few things to him, I guess, he wanted to say something else about that and then didn’t. Left to train with you before we could ask him. Maybe he wanted to comment on how yokai birthdays worked?” “Perhaps,” I mused, “even during my years in the hidden city, I never learned much about their cultures. I assume he knows a lot more than I do.” In the background, a giant Jell-O monster exploded on screen. The special effects budget had been tight for this production, so looking back at it was a bit jarring. “Did you hear that?” I questioned my oldest, “how he asked me to show him more of that fighting style? I’ve never seen him interested in anything except for what Mikey cooks for dinner.” Raph cocked his head a bit and returned, “yeah, well, he keeps catching us off-guard whenever he listens to anything we say. Wish it would be the other way around, though.” The credits rolled, and we both regarded the red-eared slider. His bandana slipped off on one side a bit and slightly covered his eye. It was quite a silly sight to behold. I wondered, not for the first nor for the last time, how things would have been if I would have left with four instead of three small turtles that fateful day. How differently he would have turned out if he would have grown up amongst those who had been mutated along with him? Would he have then no scars and know fewer cuss words? Maybe he wouldn’t always carry several hidden blades around with him because he feared he would be ambushed and killed. And maybe he would have more time to grow up. Imagining such a different reality, I mourned for the loss of something that had never existed. A special kind of melancholy was reserved for those who tend to dwell on the ‘what-ifs’. “What do we do with him? Should we leave him here?” Raph asked and tore me away from the thoughts that I had slowly sunk into like quicksand.   “I wanted to watch a show at 10, it’s the semi-final of the Great British Bake Off.” I wasn’t keen on missing that and I wasn’t sure Leo would appreciate waking up to see humans baking cakes in the most stressful ways possible. “I think if he keeps leaning against your chair like that, he will wake up with a stiff neck and then he will curse a lot more and there are words I don’t want Mikey to know about yet,” Red considered, showing so naturally concern for his younger siblings, it made my heart brimming with pride. “How about you try to carry him to his room?” I offered. “I guess Raph could do that,” he said slowly, walking around to bend down and scoop him up. Awkwardly he extended his arms and readjusted his position before he got one arm under Leo’s knees and kept his back upright with the other. That whole scene reminded me of when Raph attempted to approach the various cats that would sometimes sneak into the lair. For some reason, they didn’t like the snapping turtle. Leo kept snoring and I followed both out and to the troublemaker’s room. We dimmed the lights and once the big guy had settled the smaller turtle into his bed, I put his blanket over him with deliberate and ever-so-careful motions. “Wow, he’s really out of it,” Raph whispered to me as I moved a step backward. “Guess it shows that he’s making an effort, to train and go on your missions and be a part of our little group. Not that he would ever admit it,” I returned. “Nope, never,” Red grinned. We sneaked out of the room, and I wished my oldest son a good night. Returning to my tv room, I hummed a pop song from my youth to myself and thought about my worries that we couldn’t read Leo at all. Based on my conversation with Raph, it seemed like we could tell what was going on with our newcomer quite well already.

---

…Eight…Nine…Ten. I opened my eyes as their footsteps grew more distant. I dared to breathe deeply and unevenly and drew my blanket up. What the hell just happened??? I had dozed off during the last movie and when I woke up, I heard Raph and Splinter talking. And not only that. Their topic of the day had been el yo. It felt like awful timing to be like: ‘Hey I’m awake now. No, I have no idea you guys been chatting.’ I was sure they would have believed I had faked it from the beginning. But still, I wouldn’t have expected things to escalate, and for Raph to pick me up and carry me to bed. I almost blew it at this point. Feeling all the blood in my body rush to my head I flopped around to lie on my belly and press my face into my pillow. Gotta be honest with you guys. I had seen my opportunity to catch them red-handed. I’m mean things like talking shit about me, complaining about me, or admitting to eating my secret cookie stash. (SOMEONE seemed to know about it, whomever that fucker was.) Instead, they only said nice things. What a bunch of weirdos. Perhaps they were testing me? Seeing how long I could keep up the act? I turned my head to the right to get some air since my pillow was slowly suffocating me. From my toes up to my nose, everything was kinda tingly and the corners of my mouth moved up without me actively wanting to. This had been a great birthday, after all. Their talk about April’s celebration coming up made me unsure of what to expect of such a day. At my old place, this date merely meant I would get a yearly examination of my vitals and another entry in my experiment file. On the surface, it sounded like such a hassle to organize and execute and ‘something you should look forward to.’ That last point was Mikey’s words, not mine. After what happened today, I think I knew what he meant. Birthdays, even if nobody knew about them, could be days where you get to just sit down and watch action movies and get to steal snacks and didn’t even have to walk and sleep as much as you like. I could get used to this. Feeling my smile expanding and with Splinter’s and Raph’s words resounding in my head, I huddled deeper into my soft bed.

#neon separated siblings AU #separated siblings au #rottmnt au #rottmnt separated siblings au #leon separated au #neon leon #rottmnt fic #tw cursing #celebrating 25k #rottmnt #rise of the tmnt #splinter #raph #splinter pov #leo pov

[viadescioism]

The Yamasa Ona, The Divines of Viadescioism:

The divines, known as the Yamasa Ona in Viadescioism, exist not beyond but within our world. They are present in everything, embodying the sacred and the mundane as facets of their essence. The Yamasa Ona, comprising both greater and lesser divines, are infinite in number. The ten greater Yamasa Ona and the countless lesser ones are archetypal personifications of nature and existence's specific aspects. Nature refers to the world's inherent characteristics, while existence encompasses all that has any form of being.

Each aspect of nature and existence is divine, but for better understanding, we categorize them into distinct divine forms. The Yamasa Ona are not fixed entities; they are immutable forms, perpetually shifting in our perception. They transcend concrete form and gender, embodying a fluidity that changes in form and intensity from one emanation to another. They are not confined to any specific identity, as they embody both everything and nothing simultaneously.

Any entity or construct can achieve its own divinity and be recognized as a Yamasa. Belief in the Yamasa Ona is not a prerequisite for their influence; they exist as spiritual, mental, and physical forces all at once. Their divinity is present in everything connected to their aspects, flowing through us like a river, manifesting in parts of our being and the actions we take. The Yamasa are an intrinsic part of existence, as fundamental as the concept of roundness, and will continue to exist as long as existence itself persists.

The Main Yamasa Ona include:

Oxakna, The Yamasa of Existence: Oxakna embodies the very essence of being, the foundation upon which all else is built.

Damakna, The Yamasa of Creation: Damakna represents the force of creation, the genesis of ideas, forms, and realities.

Dasakna, The Yamasa of Destruction: Dasakna symbolizes the necessary end of things, the dissolution that paves the way for new beginnings.

Madaqa, The Yamasa of Spirit: Madaqa personifies the ethereal realm of spirit, the unseen yet deeply felt part of our existence.

Ladaqa, The Yamasa Of Mind: Ladaqa is the embodiment of thought, intellect, and consciousness, governing the mental processes.

Sadaqa, The Yamasa of Body: Sadaqa represents the physical aspect, the tangible, corporeal existence of beings.

Ukna, The Yamasa of Fire: Ukna symbolizes transformation and energy, like the dynamic and consuming nature of fire.

Nakna, The Yamasa of Air: Nakna embodies the unseen but vital force of air, representing breath, life, and movement.

Shakna, The Yamasa of Water: Shakna captures the fluid, adaptive, and life-giving qualities of water.

Dakna, The Yamasa of Earth: Dakna represents stability, growth, and the nurturing aspects of the earth.

Together, these divines form a complex tapestry of existence, each playing a crucial role in the grand scheme of the cosmos.

#witchblr #religion #occultism #spirituality #Viadescioism

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

43: One night before the Emperor's Murder

Are we back to present-time, current-timeline yet?

Ninth skull - with a grin, the Ninth scrubbed out, and Gideon's sunglasses. Cleaved in two.

There was a blur of faces, of movement. Harrow found that she was not shocked, after all. She was consumed. She was the kindling for the arson taking place in her heart, her brain dry wadding for the flames, her soul so much incandescent gas. She could not do this. She absolutely and fundamentally could not do this. “Harrow?” said someone close by—someone familiar; her vision swam. “If I forget you, let my right hand be forgotten,” her mouth was saying. “Add more also, if aught but death part me and thee.” And, unsteadily: “Griddle.”

Griddle!!!!

Is she remembering?

If so - why is Magnus there???

Is this another splintered timeline????

Harrow was too amazed by her body’s expanding capacity for despair. It was as though her feeling doubled even as she looked at it, unfolding, like falling down an endless flight of stairs. She dug her hands into the mattress and she cried for Gideon Nav.

Oh baby. Oh baby Harrow. Oh Harrow.

Is she remembering?

and felt the grief that had multiplied into a universe.

Hello????

-oh - we seem to be in the timeline from Gideon the Ninth - somehow -

Is Harrow dreaming? Is she in the River? How is she talking to Abigail?

“You died,” said Harrowhark. “Septimus killed you. The Lyctor masquerading as Septimus.” “Yes,” said the Fifth adept. “It was unpleasant. Look, I hate to ask, but did you—get her? None of us are sure.” “Nav and I drove a sword through her breastbone,” said Harrow, and swallowed against a wad of saliva burning in her throat.

That doesn't quite answer the question. You thought you killed her - but.

The cold did not worry Harrow until, as habit, she tried to warm her core from within, and found that she could not. She was somehow not a Lyctor here. Pushing her blood cells around made her feel that old, hungry pang for thanergy that she had not felt for the better part of a year.

She must be in the River, then.

“Reverend Daughter,” she said, “I’ve been accused of many things, but this is the first time I’ve been assumed to be a delusion.” “But you are—” “A ghost,” said the woman smilingly. “A revenant, more precisely.”

She must be in the River, then.

It was easier to answer questions mechanically. “In the first days. I knew she would be absorbed. I understood that I would inadvertently destroy her soul—the process was already underway. But it hadn’t finished. I had time. I decided to remove my ability to so incorporate her … by removing my ability to comprehend her.”

... this was Harrow... trying to save Gideon's soul??

“I think we are talking over each other,” said the Fifth adept, rubbing her mittened hands together. “I’m not asking about the preserved soul that made you a Lyctor, Reverend Daughter … though that’s also filled in some of the pieces. Harrowhark, I am referring to the invasive soul.”

Harrow being haunted. Another soul???

“This is my creation.” “Yes. You set the parameters,” said Abigail. “We realized through process of elimination, as we each recalled ourselves in the end. You didn’t. Ortus was convinced it was your creation from the start—I’m sorry that I disbelieved him.” That was for later mental delectation. “I made a bubble in the River, just like Sextus did. But unconsciously, shoddily…”

Oh.... that's.... Okay wow.

“This isn’t a picture you’re drawing, Harrow,” said Pent. “It’s a play you’re directing. You set up a stage in the River, you pulled in ghosts as your actors, and you enforced certain rules to keep your cast on-script. But now another director is trying to hijack the play, and the struggle for control backstage is leaking over into the action out front. You’re being ousted.”

It makes sense, then, why the Sixth had to die so early in this version, as well as Coronabeth, and Judith Deuteros. Ianthe was never much of a feature in this at all either.

So the soul haunting Harrow - is - the Sleeper?

“Leave your body to your body, Reverend Daughter,” said Abigail, rising shakily to stand, her teeth chattering. “If you were dead on the other side, we’d all be gone by now. If you die in here, your soul is gone forever. Right now, in this moment, you are alive—let us ensure that if your body survives, you will remain at the helm.” Harrow fought to be heard over the screams of the wind. “But I was stabbed through the stomach! What’s happening out there?”

What indeed???

Well, finally, some answers! Some goddamn answers!!

More questions as I've been promised, but finally some goddamn answers!!!!!

Her soul remembers Gideon - so there is hope yet -

I wonder if Gideon is the sleeper, haunting Harrow out of spite? Or someone else entirely, but who???

I need a minute.

#harrow the ninth #harrow the ninth liveblog #htn liveblog #tlt liveblog #htn spoilers #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb

[pamphletstoinspire]

Meditations of St. Padre Pio – Part 3

Padre Pio was at the height of his priestly apostolate with multitudes of pilgrims visiting him, for his Mass, to confess to him, and to ask him for prayers and counsel. He was a master of souls; he directed everyone with penetrating words full of deep meaning. His series of "Meditations" was the first complete text of Padre Pio's thoughts. These texts consists of Padre Pio's meditations upon the fundamental dogmas of the Catholic faith. The Immaculate Conception and the Incarnation of Jesus. He then relives Jesus' agony in the garden of olives. Next he reflects on the human condition, and on our need to turn to God in the passing of our days. These are not conventional texts; they are reflections derived from the contemplation of the absolute Truth. “Mary Immaculate” is a more theological text. The others are more human and simple.

Padre Pio, in the first years of his residence in San Giovanni Rotondo (1918 – 1920), when he was freer from the care of souls, wrote a few meditations for his novices and his spiritual daughters of the Franciscan Third Order. They were the text of his lectures or instructions that he gave weekly as their Spiritual Director. After that, between the years 1925 – 1928, Padre Pio compiled other meditations. Fr. Agostino of San Marco in Lamis affirms it in his "Diary:" The Provincial, Fr. Bernardo of Alpicella, once suggested to Padre Pio to “compile a few meditations for the principal feasts of the year for our seminarians.” When Padre Pio was shown the possibility of publishing these meditations, he said: "I have written these things for myself." But, when it was explained to him that "they would do a lot of good to our souls" he smilingly said: "if it is as you say, bonum est diffu sivum sui (good, by its nature, is destined to be spread).

Meditation - New Year's Day

J. M. J. – D. F. C. Note: The initials J. M. J. – D. F. C. Stands for Jesus, Mary, Joseph – Dominic, Francis, Catherine

Let us begin today, brothers, to do good, for we have done nothing up to the present. At the beginning of this New Year, let us make our own these words which in his humility our Seraphic Father St. Francis of Assisi applied to himself. It is indeed true that we have done nothing up to the present, or if we have done something it is very little. The years have come and gone and we have not asked ourselves how we have spent them, if there was anything to be rectified in our actions, nothing to be added or to be taken away. We have been living thoughtlessly, regardless of the fact that the eternal Judge will ask us one day for an account of our actions and how we have spent our time. Yet we shall have to give a very strict account of every minute, of every movement of grace, of each holy inspiration, of each chance we had to do good. Even the slightest transgression of God's holy law will be taken into consideration. Wretched creature's that we are, shall we not find ourselves saying in fear and trembling before God's justice: O mountains, fall down upon me; O earth, open and swallow me up, for I tremble in the presence of the Most High?

Then if God should pronounce this sentence: Depart, you faithless servant into everlasting fire, all will be over for us forever, or rather there will begin for us a period without end, of most atrocious sufferings and incomprehensible agony. We would then want to recall even a single minute from the past in order to make reparation, to expiate our sins. We would be happy to remain for centuries and centuries in that dreadful prison if only it were granted to us in the end to come back to this world and make better use of our time.

But once our final hour has struck, once our heart ceases to beat all will be over for us and we shall no longer be able to either to acquire merit or to lose it. Exactly as death finds us we shall have to appear before Christ, our Judge. Our cries of supplication, our tears, our desire to repent, which while we were still on earth would have appealed to the heart of God and with the aid of the sacraments might have made us saints instead of sinners will then be of no avail. The hour of mercy is past and the hour of justice has begun.

A single word, or rather two words will sum up our eternal future: Never, never! Forever, forever! Never, never again will you be able to enjoy the delightful vision of God. Never again will you have as your friends the Most Holy Virgin Mary and all the saints. Never again will you have by your side that protecting angel to whose constant loving reminders you were deaf and rebellious during life. Never again will you be united with those dear ones whom you loved on earth but whose holy life you hadn't the strength to imitate. Never again will you receive the grace to see Jesus resplendent with glory coming towards you to show you the shining wounds in his sacred hands and feet and in his adorable side, from which all his divine blood flowed in order to redeem you. You trampled on it when you had it in your possession and might have availed of it for yourself and for many sinners like you. Now you plead an appeal for one drop of that blood, but this will not be granted to you either today or ever again. Forever you will be in the company of the damned. Your eyes will look with terror on the most dreadful sights. Your ears will hear the most inconceivable and horrifying blasphemies, all your senses will be tormented in an indescribable manner. Your soul, unable to see and enjoy God, its infinite good, will in its dreadful suffering curse itself and its God and this will continue for ever and ever.

O God of my soul, what a sad fate awaits me if I do not decide to change my way of life and to set great store by the time you grant me in your goodness. He who has time must not wait for time; let us not put off till tomorrow what we can do today. The road to hell is paved with good intentions and moreover, who can tell if we shall still be alive tomorrow? Let us listen to the voice of conscience, to the voice of the royal Prophet: O that today you would listen to his voice. Harden not your hearts. Let us rise up and set great store by time, for every fleeting moment is in our power. Let us not try to interpose time between one instant and the next for it is not in our power to do so. By divine grace we are at the dawn of a new year and only God knows if we shall see the end of this year. We must use every moment of it to make amends for the past, to make resolutions for the future and side-by-side with good resolutions must go holy works. Oh, yes, let us do this, so that when we have obtained eternal happiness for ourselves we may delight the most tender Heart of Jesus and stimulate our brothers to do good. Encouraged by our example, they too will walk in the way of justice and love.

Fully convinced that we are telling the truth let us say to ourselves: My soul, begin today to do good, for up to the present you have done nothing. Let us act in such a way as to move in God's presence. Let us frequently repeat to ourselves: God sees me, and in the act of seeing me he also judges me. Let us make sure that he never sees in us anything but good. Let us be forearmed against the world and against our passions which will try like ferocious beasts to deprive us of eternal bliss, and in our weakness let us not lack confidence in the divine assistance. God, whom we have resolved to see and keep constantly before us, is always ready to come to our aid. Invariably faithful to his promises and seeing how resolutely we are fighting, he will send his angels to sustain us in our trial. The palm of glory is reserved for those only who have fought valiantly to the end. Let us therefore begin our holy combat this year. God will assist us and will crown us with eternal victory.

Thanks be to God!

#padre pio

[catcas22]

Unalloyed Part 2

Part two is up! Thank you to everyone who engaged with Part One, it makes it all worth it. I'll have part three up as soon as I can. Will contain canon-typical violence and enough blood to float a small battleship.

Radagon’s Rings of Light

One of the incantations of the Golden Order fundamentalists. A gift of gratitude to the young Miquella from his father, Radagon.

And yet, the young Miquella abandoned fundamentalism, for it could do nothing to treat Malenia's accursed rot. This was the beginning of unalloyed gold.

            Millicent raised her sword. The shadow memories rose in an all-encompassing choir, baying for Mohg’s blood.

            Behind her, she could hear Miquella strain against his bonds. “Mohg, please don’t hurt her. She doesn’t have anything to do with you!”

            “Doesn’t she? Surely you see the resemblance.” Mohg laughed, low and gravely. “Tell me, trespasser, has Malenia finally succumbed to her own plague? Surely she must be dead, if the Haligtree can only send a child to face me.”

            He expected her to be afraid. He expected her to cower while he dragged out this ordeal.

            Millicent leaped from the dais, shamshir held high.

            The trident came up, met her blade with a clash that reverberated through her bones. She landed in a crouch, rolled clear. The trident shattered the paving stones where she’d stood a heartbeat before.

            His movements were wild, clumsy. Mohg only had to land one blow to end the fight, but he hadn’t touched her yet.

            With a roar, he lashed out with the butt of the trident. She leaped, rolled, sprang up too close for him to use his longer weapon effectively. Her blade tore through layers of cloth and struck flesh.

            They surged past each other, Mohg bleeding from the thigh. He whirled around in a swirl of wings and robes, teeth bared. The trident thrust heavenward.

            “Tres!”

            No time to think, no time to breathe. She launched herself at the omen, flowing into the familiar movements of the Waterfowl Dance.

            Claws lashed out, barely catching the hem of her cloak, not enough to stop her. The first blow carved deep into his forearm. Then she felt the heat against her back.

            Turning, she caught the briefest glimpse of the rent his claws had opened in the air, then the claw marks erupted in bloodflame.

            The blast ripped the breath from her lungs. She had only a moment to register that her feet had left the ground, then she struck the stone floor, shoulder first. Pain consumed her left side, the burns far worse than the phantom pain from her prosthetic arm.

            “Duo!”

            Get up, get up!

            She braced with her metallic forearm, struggled to get her legs under her. The dais loomed ahead, a waterfall of viscous blood still oozing down the steps. Miquella had broken one of his hands free, and now scratched feverishly at the floor, face set in a mask of desperate concentration.

            A shadow blotted out the polluted starlight. Millicent flung herself sideways, somehow managing to keep her grip on her sword. Mohg came down like a falling star, the impact tearing a crater in the stone floor. The gale of his wings snapped at her cloak.

            She tossed her blade from her right hand to her left, switched to a backhanded grip, lashed out as she rolled clear.

            A second laceration crossed his leg, a hand’s-breadth below the first. He was feeling it now, visibly limping as he straightened. Mohg threw back his head and laughed. The trident lashed out, but not at her.

            “Unus!”

            Bloodflame swathed the temple, flaring up from the crater, kindling on Millicent’s cloak and hair, eating up the oxygen in the air and scorching her throat with each breath. Mohg raised his trident once more, and she saw her chance.

            The trident fell like an executioner’s axe, bloodflame erupting in its wake. This time she didn’t dodge. She leaped through the flames, kicking off of the shaft as the trident struck the ground.

            For one precious moment, Mohg was bent low, overextended before he could pull his weapon free. In midair she drew her blade back with both hands and struck, aiming for the space between his neck and shoulder.

            Her sword bit through horn and hide and flesh.

            Their eyes locked, a split-second frozen in time. Mohg sneered through the pain, bloodred eyes glittering triumphantly.

            He backhanded her to the ground, shamshir ripping free of his neck as she fell. For a few heartbeats neither moved, Millicent laid out on the paving stones, pain lancing up and down her back, and Mohg clutching the side of his bleeding neck.

            Not deep enough.

            The blood pouring between his fingers came in a steady stream, not the rhythmic spurts that would indicate a blow to his vitals. She planted the point of her sword on the ground and levered her aching body back to its feet.

            Mohg took an unsteady step back, blood frothing from his lips. Millicent advanced, shamshir held aloft with leaden arms. Once more, the Lord of Blood raised his trident. The sky swirled crimson, the air turning thick and blazing hot.

            “Nihil!”

            The torrent of blood struck her like a solid wall, each drop a hot coal against her skin.

            “Nihil!”

            The deluge drove her to her knees. Nowhere to dodge, nowhere to move, the world had turned to blood. She coughed and hacked, adding her own blood to the downpour.

            “Nihil!”

            Dimly, she became aware that she could breathe again. Bit by bit, the world remerged from the bloody fog. Millicent registered the pain of her wounds, the taste of blood, the stone floor against her cheek, the heavy footfalls coming ever closer.

            The prongs of the trident pressed against her ribs, biting into cloth and skin and dragging her across the blood-slick stones like a fish on a gaff-hook. Her sword rang against the floor as she trailed it along behind her, numb fingers locked around the hilt.

            With a flick of his wrist, Mohg tossed her onto the steps of the dais. Fresh agony exploded along her spine. Miquella still scratched desperately at the floor with his free hand, tears cutting twin tracks down his bloody face.

            Mohg’s foot crashed down onto her chest. One of his talons pierced her collar, drawing a thin trickle of blood. The point of the trident pried her metal fingers open and sent her sword skating across the stone stair.

            “Now, little trespasser, I will have answers.” The trident swung back into view, hovering above her face. “Who sent you to steal Miquella away from me?”

            His weight bore down on her ribs, crushing the breath from her body. Something popped. Her vision swam black and red.

            “Well? Do you hail from the Haligtree? The Roundtable Hold? Has Malenia stooped to sending her children to fight her battles?” Mohg chuckled wetly, blood streaming between his teeth. “I always thought that Miquella would be the one to take after Mother, but perhaps not.”

            The shamshir lay close, barely a hand’s-breadth beyond her fingertips. She strained to reach, more out of spite than hope.

            “You wish to continue?” The trident lowered, the longest tine resting delicately on her cheekbone. “I wonder, do you fight blind as well as your mother?”

            “I’ll do what you want!” Mohg’s head snapped up, his attention fully on Miquella. “Let her go, I’ll--”

            “Do you take me for a fool?” Mohg snarled, raising his trident to point at Miquella. “You’ll play at cooperation while she runs back to the Haligtree to raise an army. I think not!”

            Now or never. Millicent clenched her metal hand into a fist and swung it at the tendon at the back of Mohg’s ankle like a hammer. He buckled, the weight on her chest letting up only just barely.

            One more desperate lunge, and a single finger made contact with the pommel of her sword. Mohg howled and raised the trident high above his head.

            A triple ring of golden light sliced through the air, tearing a gash in Mohg’s flank and punching through his left wing. The smell of burnt feathers broke through the overpowering stench of blood.

            Miquella’s hand remained outstretched, the Golden Order seal on his palm glowing in tandem with the lattice he’d scratched across the floor.

            The rings reversed course. Mohg twisted out of the way, releasing Millicent as he did so. Air rushed back into her lungs, her fist closed around the hilt of her shamshir. Miquella went limp as the blood whips tightened like constricting serpents. The golden light shattered and dissolved.

            She took the sword in both hands, hacking without any thought of skill or strategy. The trident parried the first blow, the second carved his bad leg. Mohg stumbled, fell to one knee. He raised his head, bloody foam falling from his lips, one wing hanging limp and scorched.

            Glassy red eyes stared straight through her. “I can see it...”

            Millicent buried her sword between his eyes, the curved belly of the blade splitting his brow.

            “Millicent!”

            She turned back towards the dais. Her sword remained lodged in the dead omen’s face. She lacked the strength to pull it free.

            Miquella painfully dragged himself upright, the blood whips reverted to their liquid state. As the edges of her vision turned black, she saw him lurch toward her, the golden seal glowing once more.

            I’m bleeding. I can’t let him touch me. I can’t...

            Her knees buckled. Thin arms caught her, lowering her down before she could hit the paving stones. Golden light glimmered at the edge of her awareness, then she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer.

            Please don’t, I don’t want to hurt you.

            Long, cool fingers cradled her head, tenderly wiping the blood away from her face. “You’re alright, just hold on, I’ve got you...”

            Millicent tried to force the words out, desperate to warn him of the Rot. She could only manage a low groan before panic and pain and consciousness were all lost to blissful darkness.

#elden ring #fanfic #unalloyed fic #miquella the unalloyed #elden ring mohg #elden ring millicent #mothman miquella #hurt/comfort

[girl4music]

Energy is both ever-present and ever-changing.

It is both permanent and fluctuating.

It is both stable and fluid.

Contradictory? Energy is contradictory because energy is never a specific solid thing. It’s a force. It’s immaterial. It’s something you cannot perceive of but interact and engage with always. Constantly. Forever.

It’s energy. Energy is never created, never destroyed. Energy never stays still and yet we perceive it as if it does because we slow it down ourselves. That’s how powerful our minds actually are. How complex it is to exist, to engage, to interact, to experience. To be. And our minds do all of that naturally, instinctually, easily.

We not only generate the information that we perceive and experience, we also edit it in real time. And we turn what is a split-second event/moment/experience into a memory. Into something that has passed but can still be engaged with through the filter thought and emotion. That’s all mental. Every single bit of it.

But reality itself - regardless what it looks, sounds, feels like - is fleeting. It is already something new as nature is nothing but the process of transformation.

Moving - always in movement. Always transforming.

Always in a state and position of there and not there at the same time. Simultaneously 0 and 1 together.

We naturally gravitate towards nature ourselves as human beings because we’re meant to move with it because we are no different to it. We ARE nature too.

We’re not supposed to stay static. A permanence. A “thing” specific from any other “thing” and have a unique identification of from it. We think that we do but that’s because we’re so used to having a dual perspective. It’s the first perspective we ever have when we’re born. To have an “I” and then an “other”, completely ignoring the fact we couldn’t have either without both there at the time working in tandem like a machine. Clockwork. The functionality of the cogs. That’s what we are because that’s what we do. But we forget that we couldn’t do any of it without each other.

As energy and nature we are as a unit of being. One. We put what we experience as “reality” here with us because the whole point is to experience it as real. We have a dual perspective immediately as soon as we’re born because we’re fundamentally not dual. It would be impossible to experience anything if we really were because energy and nature doesn’t ever work alone - separately. There’s always the force and the yield. And nothing ever is or gets done without both interacting.

That’s what “reality” is. It’s interaction and motion. Action and reaction. Cause and effect. There is always an experience of something because there is always a process of change. Ever-present change. Existence is not ever still. It can’t be or it won’t be. It couldn’t be.

But as soon as you place an identification on any part of it that you focus on and zero in on - then it is being. Then it suddenly exists. Because you’ve conceived it.

This processing. This generating. This conceiving. It’s all natural. It’s so natural that we never notice we do it. Our natural state is of what everything else is - nature itself - but we possess a unique trait or skill that gives us dual perspective. Consciousness. Self-awareness. Self-enquiry. And as the theoretical physicist David Chalmers puts it - the hard problem is not figuring out what consciousness is or how any human being can possess consciousness. It is why are we conscious?

But if you ask me - not that you would - the answer is actually very simple. We are because we have to be. I say it’s that nothing would ever exist if we were not conscious. For me consciousness is a fundamental constant of reality. Of having a real experience. It’s a component that is so crucial to the computation of 0+1 that no equation would ever add up without it. You could spend an eternity trying to work it out from the outside looking in, but you’ll never reach a conclusion without the inside looking out. So let’s change the perspective. Not necessarily get rid of the paradigm but rearrange it somewhat. Try something new with it.

Consciousness is as fundamental as energy and nature. Not just in physics, but in every science. You simply cannot “science” without it, so why even try?

If you asked a reductionary classical and conventional physicist to even entertain the thought of combining the metaphysical with the mathematical, they would laugh at you. They would tell you that you’re insane. So it’s not that they can’t do it. It’s that they don’t want to do it because they’re so afraid of the truth. David Chalmers appears to be the only theoretical physicist and philosopher that will ask these questions where the metaphysics does have to be talked about. So, therefore, he is the only one worth my attention.

You know, being a neuroscientist really does sound incredibly exciting. But the restrictions man… the limited perceptions and understandings of the mind… it would drive me crazy to be in a field of science that’s so interesting but is ultimately boxed in lies. To study the brain and its infinite complex capabilities,… just to ignore the fact it is literally rendering itself along with everything else in its energetic field…

I couldn’t be apart of something so close-minded that’s meant to expand awareness of the Universe and that naturally, instinctually, easily does by default. Talking about the contradictions in the world - that’s a big one. I could not be apart of neuroscience because I’d be constantly questioning and challenging the intentions and purposes of studying the mind. I’d say things that were so far removed from the objective of the job that I know I would be fired on the spot for it. Even something as simple as “the mind isn’t in the brain, - the mind is omnipresent. It is everywhere.” Even that is too much for the current neuroscience because it’s too metaphysical. Too esoteric for it. No, I don’t belong in neuroscience. Nor even physics. In fact I don’t belong in any science. I’ll be interested in it, absolutely. But my views are just too unconventional and no scientist except this brave man would listen.

I’ve had a theory of everything for practically my whole life. I’ve been building on it more and more as I aged. But it’s too fucking OUT THERE to be heard. Even though it’s logical and based entirely on the information and evidence - both empirical and not - that we have already as well some strong predications from my claircognizance. It is ultimately very sound if one even dares to attempt to entertain metaphysics. Because until you can - it will always sound insane because unknown information is insane. People are afraid of what they don’t or can’t know. Well, I’ve never had the luxury of being able to deny what I shouldn’t know because my mind has never worked that way. I’ve always known shit I shouldn’t or couldn’t possibly know. I’ve always been aware but not of how or why. And it did always drive me crazy until I embraced it. Until I finally fucking accepted that yes, I am psychic. I do possess an expanded awareness than most people. Extra-sensory perceptive abilities very few people do. Abilities that have saved my life more times than I can count. That have led me down a path I couldn’t have possibly seen without it. That have always guided me. Eventually I had to accept that the shit that made me crazy was the same shit that made me able to be me. That only by getting lost could I ever be found again. That’s what a “spiritual awakening” is. A reckoning. And even someone like me - Miss INTP, that needs logic and facts and rationality - was metaphysical and therefore had to accept that the metaphysical exists. Because how the fuck can you deny your own being? I couldn’t deny any of that exists when it was who I am. I am metaphysical. I am spiritual. I am divine. I am multidimensional. There’s no way I can deny it when it’s literally my life every single waking second of it.

So yeah, consciousness is fundamental to me. The subjective is all I have. “Reality” cannot be without it. I don’t think Chalmers is “on to something”. I think he is fucking SPOT ON and people need to listen to him. And not just him. Robert Lanza. Alan Watts. Sadhguru. Spinoza. And even Albert Einstein to a degree as well. We’re all ultimately saying the same thing. Just differently. Majorly differently. Using different terms and definitions, metaphors and frames of reference.

But we are all ultimately saying the exact same thing.

That we have had it all very wrong to begin with. Classical physics. Newtonian physics. Darwinism.

We’ve got it all wrong as a collective consciousness.

And because we’re ultimately stuck for answers in science currently…. We have to do what scares us.

We have to start involving consciousness and talking about metaphysics seriously. It’s a philosophy of physics. A whole new paradigm of getting to the truth of how it all works. Nature. Energy. Us. Everything.

We’re at a standstill. Yes, we’re making discoveries and progress in everything else but the fundamental problem - the umbrella of the whole thing - is ?????.

We don’t know. Except we do - we just can’t face it.

We have to make consciousness a fundamental constant. As fundamental as gravity and electromagnetics. the strong and weak nuclear forces. We have to because we’re getting nowhere without it.

They’re afraid. They’re all fucking afraid. Cowards.

The only one that doesn’t seem to be is Chalmers.

#closer to truth #david chalmers #is consciousness fundamental? #the hard problem #consciousness #philosophy of physics #nature #energy #existence #dualism #neuroscience #Youtube

[haggishlyhagging]

“Although the oppression of women is universal, feminist consciousness is not. While I am not sure that I could demonstrate the necessity of its appearance in this time and place and not in another, I believe it is possible to identify two features of current social reality which, if not sufficient, are at least necessary conditions for the emergence of feminist consciousness. These features constitute, in addition, much of the content of this consciousness. I refer, first, to the existence of what Marxists call ‘contradictions’ in our society and, second, to the presence, due to these same contradictions, of concrete circumstances which would permit a significant alteration in the status of women.

In Marxist theory, the stage is set for social change when existing forms of social interaction—property relations as well as values, attitudes, and beliefs—come into conflict with new social relations which are generated by changes in the mode of production:

At a certain stage of their development, the material forces of production in society come in conflict with the existing relations of production or—what is but a legal expression for the same thing—with the property relations within which they had been at work before. From forms of development of the forces of production these relations turn into their fetters. Then comes the period of social revolution.

Social conflict regularly takes an ideological form, so much so that conflicts which are fundamentally economic in origin may appear to be struggles between ideas, as, for instance, between competing conceptions of the nature of legitimate political authority or of woman's proper sphere. To date, no one has offered a comprehensive analysis of those changes in the socioeconomic stricture of contemporary American society which have made possible the emergence of feminist consciousness. This task is made doubly difficult by the fact that these changes constitute no completed process, no convenient object for dispassionate historical investigation, but are part of the fluid set of circumstances in which each of us must find our way from one day to another and whose ultimate direction is as yet unclear. In spite of this, several features of current social reality cannot escape notice.

First, if we add to the Marxist notion of ‘modes of production’ the idea of ‘modes of (biological) reproduction,’ then it is evident that the development of cheap and efficient types of contraception has been instrumental in changing both the concrete choices women are able to make and the prevailing conceptions about woman's function and destiny. Second, the rapid growth of service industries has had much to do with the steady rise in the percentage of women in the work force, since the post-World War II low in the early fifties. While poor women and women of color have often had to work for wages, middle-class women were largely restricted to the roles of wife, mother, and home maker; this restriction, together with the rationales that justify it, is clearly out of phase with the entry of millions of such women into the market economy. The growth and spread of a technology to ease the burden of housekeeping, a technology which is itself the result of a need on the part of late capitalism for ‘innovations’ in production, serves further to undermine traditional conceptions about woman's place. During part of the period of the most rapid rise in the percentage of women in the work force, to cite still another ‘contradiction,’ there appeared an anomalous and particularly virulent form of the ‘feminine mystique,’ which, together with its companion, the ideal of ‘togetherness,’ had the effect, among other things, of insuring that the family would remain an efficient vehicle of consumption. What triggered feminist consciousness most immediately, no doubt, were the civil rights movement and the peace and student movements of the sixties; while they had other aims as well, the later movements may also be read as expressions of protest against the growing bureaucratization, depersonalization, and inhumanity of late capitalist society. Women often found themselves forced to take subordinate positions within these movements; it did not take long for them to see the contradiction between the oppression these movements were fighting in the larger society and their own continuing oppression in the life of these movements themselves.”

-Sandra Lee Bartky, Femininity and Domination: Studies in the Phenomenology of Oppression

#Sandra lee bartky #feminist history #amerika #marxist theory #female oppression #womens history