#writing pieces

[ace-malarky]

Wounded

In the wake of a world's destruction, the Erinty are unleashed. Some of them are nicer than others? Theoretically?

Soise is of the world Osseorye, which had the Charm Witches and is the first one to be destroyed. She's not particularly charming, tho.

~~

 The world died. It crumbled to pieces in the wake of many a mistake, and out of its death – and many of its people, though some escaped into the Mist – was new life created.

 They were not the first of their kind – not the first world to be ripped apart, though the first to be crushed to rubble so completely – but even so. To be torn into shreds, for each of those shreds to become aware, screaming. Their siblings scattered, linked, still alone.

 One of them blew into existence at the foot of a shattered cliff, amongst the broken bones and sharp jagged rocks. Its arrival displaced a cloud of dust that coated the air and obscured the sky.

 The creature was flat on its back, black fur and black claws and black eyes. As the dust cleared, the creature solidified. It gained mass, definition. Long limbs, narrow body. A cruel, foxy face. Thickening fur that became a long mane, turning purple in a slow wave.

 Its ears twitched as it got to its feet, eyes whirling and settling into a dull silver.

 There was a split in its side, slowly sealing, that leaked silver ichor into its fur.

 The creature hissed and placed a paw over it as if to push it all back in.

 Its siblings shared the pain, then faded. The link between them disappeared to the thinnest thread, invisible and taught. The pain doubled when it was the creature alone. It folded over itself and cursed in a language that should never be uttered by a mortal voice.

 Fire ripped through its throat and the creature cursed again, fighting back against the impulse. It would not be mortal. It was a shred of a dead world and it survived. It would survive.

 It threw back its head and howled. The sound reverberated off the rocks around it, climbing the cliff.

 At the top of the cliff a light flared and cast about. The creature focused on it and waited.

 It didn’t like waiting. Its side slowly healed, the ichor congealing, the pain subsiding to a low, irritating throb.

 The creature kept its eyes on the light – a warning or a beacon, a lighthouse or the candle in the window – and walked between the spires towards it.

 It crunched skeletons beneath its feet, uncaring. Its mane brushed the ground with every step, swaying from side to side. Its claws – tipped purple to match the highlights in its mane – gleamed with thick ichor.

 It climbed the cliff in bounds, with the ease of one long accomplished.

 The light was a torch, stuck in the ground at the edge of the cliff. Beyond it was a short path and a further campsite around a fire with three tents. One figure that the creature could see, with their back to the fire and the cliff.

 The creature stepped forward to the edge of the firelight, standing between two of the tents. It tilted its head, considering. Then it raised its foot and deliberately brought it down on a stray twig, breaking it.

 The figure spun about, a spear in her hand. “Don’t take another step,” she said, levelling the spear at the creature.

 The creature flicked its ears as it considered her words. “Another step?” it asked, shifting its foot from the twig. “But how else–”

 “You’re hurt,” the guard interrupted, gaze dropping to the creature’s side where the ichor was still clumped. She didn’t put down her spear, but she relaxed her stance. “Will you allow me to help?”

 “It is nothing,” replied the creature. “An insignificance compared to losing so much of myself.”

 The guard blinked. “I can’t say I understand that, but if we can help–”

 “I require no help,” the creature hissed, baring too sharp teeth.

 “No,” agreed the guard, “but if you would like anyway.”

 The creature snorted. “Tell me which world we are, then.”

 “This is Iastralar. Denar is ten days from here.” The guard gestured behind her, down the path. “But stay here for the night, at least.”

 The creature narrowed its eyes. “Why.”

 “Because you have been injured and you are alone.” She shrugged.

 “What is in it for you?”

 “Call it altruism.” The guard lowered her spear. “What can I call you?”

 The creature frowned. “I have never – Soise,” it said. “My name will be Soise.”

 “Come here and sit down, Soise, and let me look at your side.”

 “It has sealed itself,” Soise replied, making no move.

 “Then we should clean the blood away from it, because I can’t imagine that is comfortable.”

 The ichor wasn’t stiff in Soise’s fur; it crumbled at a touch, but was otherwise a second skin.

 “And what would you do with it then?”

 “What would I–” The woman laughed, gently. “I just mean to help you. No ulterior motives. You have been wounded and I can do something for it. Something small, but–” She broke off. Something like suspicion entered her eyes. She gripped her spear tighter. “How did you come up behind me? Where did you come from?”

 Soise dusted off her claws and shifted her stance. Something about her settled into place with an almost audible click. “I climbed up from the pit,” she said, “but I don’t think that is all that you’re asking, is it?” Soise bared her teeth in an approximation of a grin.

 “What are you?”

 “We are called Erinty.” Soise stepped around the fire.

 The guard stepped to mimic her, keeping the fire between them.

 “I am a shard of a shattered world, pulled into this one, and you point a spear at me?”

 “There are many dangerous things out here.”

 “And I am the most dangerous, little mortal.” Soise’s voice turned silky. “But you were kind at first, and so I thank you for that introduction to your kind.”

 “And now?”

 “And now you are scared and holding a weapon. And I, as you say, am injured.” Soise pressed her claws to her side; ichor oozed out. Not completely sealed, then. “May we never meet again.”

 “What do you intend to do?”

 “Whatever I wish. Is that not what every creature aspires to?”

 “If you turn on us, I will hunt you.”

 “I can hardly turn on someone who rescinded their help.” Soise tilts her head. “But if I remember, perhaps. You did offer to help.”

 “You were wounded.”

 “I am an Erinty.”

 “The two are not exclusive.”

 Soise dipped her head again. “Good hunting. Do not let your prey escape.”

 “And if I hear of you–”

 “You could not hope to injure me, let alone hunt.” Soise laughed, the sound a harsh bark. “Keep your sights lowered.”

 “May we never meet again, then.” She lowered her spear.

 Soise loped into the darkness and let it encompass her whole.

#Soise Korresan #Erinty #Mist Worlds #Writing Pieces

[simply-starryeyed]

i am surrounded. by pieces of art that make me feel understood, by songs and books and quotes, but none of it is ever quite right. because no matter how many songs i listen to or how many times i listen to them or how many books i read or how many times i read them or who i read them with or who i try to explain it to, i don't quite feel understood by someone. i am surrounded. by people, and while it feels like they cannot let me go it has never felt like i am what they are looking for.

sometimes, i wonder how many friends i would have if they had never had any romantic interest in me. or how many i'd have if they currently didn't. i could open my phone and scroll through my contacts and try to figure out a number but i'm not sure i want to know. i wonder how many of my romantic entanglements have ended up how any of them expected to or if i was what they expected after they got to know me and i wonder if every single one of my relationships is doomed to fail because i have yet to meet a person that sees me for who i am instead of some manic pixie dream girl they have imagined in their head

i am a concept in their mind and i will never live up to that concept even if i tried but i can't try because that's not who i am and it never was. as cliche as it sounds i guess they like who i appear to be and thus who they think i am but they have no interest in getting to know me past that. they find me poetic but they also find me a nightmare because they will never know how to handle me. i am too much for them and sometimes i think for everyone. but as long as i only present behaviours that fit into their idea in their head then everything will be okay but as soon as i say or do something that doesn't fit that narrative then we're arguing and i am in the wrong and their demands must be appeased otherwise that's it. i am to sit still and look pretty and be pretty and help them with everything and be good at helping them with everything and if i bring anything deeper up about myself then it's awkward silences or condolences and they're searching for how to exit the conversation.

i think, sometimes, about what would happen if i called them out on it, if i only allowed myself to be around people that weren't in love with a fabricated idea of me but i always come back to the same conclusion and that is that sparse few would want to know me. i could look through the contacts on my phone i could look through my messages history i could look back and see who has actually given a fuck about how i've been doing anytime recently but i think that would make me very lonely.

so in the daytime i let everyone pretend and i pretend with them that they care about something other than this fabricated image of who i am, and then when night comes i kindly decline those who want something more than a conversation because they never actually want a conversation it will always turn to something more, so i kindly decline them or i don't open the messages but always message them back in the morning and say i fell asleep and i'm so sorry and how are you

and thus tonight and every night i stare at my ceiling, alone because if i weren't alone then there'd be the expectation of something, whether it be sex or romance or just something other than me and them laying there together having a conversation about unimportant things and our passions and dreams and hopes and how we feel about each other in a wholly nonsexual sense. every night i stare at my ceiling because i always end up alone at night unless something else is going on and by something else i mean if someone thinks that they might get sex out of me.

i sigh and i unlock my phone and open my contacts and look through my messages and i scroll and i scroll and i scroll to the bottom of my contact history and at the end i am left with maybe one person who has never displayed romantic nor sexual interest in me and that might possibly care to know me in a way that is not shallow and i set my phone down and i sigh and i stare at my ceiling some more because i know that they will never reach out and they will certainly never reach out in the way that i want them to

i am endlessly waiting for someone to see me as more than their romanticised version of me, as more than someone who'd be perfect if i were just a little nicer and a little quieter and a little less troublesome and had just a few less issues and if they ignore all of that and pretend it doesn't exist then it'll go away and I'll be their happy ever after. i am endlessly waiting for someone to see me as something other than their manic pixie dream girl because i can't fix them and i'm certainly not fixed myself and for once i'd like to be known deeper than surface-level known. i am endlessly waiting for someone to make me feel as understood as art does, and i am endlessly waiting for someone to make me feel understood in an entirely non-romantic non-sexual sense and i am endlessly waiting for someone to want to stand by me in a wholly platonic sense and i am endlessly waiting for someone to make me feel understood because they don't want anything more from me than my friendship. i am endlessly waiting for someone to want to know me for me and i am endlessly waiting for someone to want to know me for no other reason than that.

#creative writing #writing #writers on tumblr #writerblr #artists on tumblr #art #writing pieces #poetry #asexual feels #aromantic things #aroace #narrative piece #asexual things #music has got me in a mood #i'm v happy in my relationship but i think if i wasn't with her then #feeling used feeling unknown i guess #lonely too #writing piece #writeblr #writers

[emustockings]

Beasts--ancient, armoured--scattered the lamplight, settled beneath trucks, swept past shopfronts. Last night, I dreamt my soul was a sturgeon, a thing of barbels, scutes. I dreamt that prehistory skulks in our lungs. That it left me. Or I left myself--swam over fields and highways, crested in rivers luminous, waterways of tarmac, metal, of blinding fluorescent light.

~

(....)

Skirting a tiered table of pencils and starfish erasers, I entered the SOUTHERN COMPANY RIVER SCOUT exhibit. Contemporary river tanks intrigue me--how they might be the closest experience we have to seeing the aquarium in its nineteenth-century form. To imagine a single room, tanks murky, sediment eddying to the movements of barbels, bream, pike. GANGWAY, ROPE BRIDGE, ENTER AT YOUR PERIL. Mock signposts jutted from resin rock. I ducked beneath netting and plastic algae, blinked as the tank light shifted--blue to moss green. Children jostled in a game of tag, sprinted between the tanks, screamed as they thumped the interactive screens. A boy ran flat into my stomach, looked up somewhat stunned, barrelled on. I wandered alongside carp, garpike--teeth-packed truncheons of fish. At the sign STURGEON, I stopped, peered at crests and whiskers gliding between rocks. A sturgeon inched, snout hesitant, toward the glass. Another shifted at the rear of the tank. I turned back to the sign: First found in the Upper Cretaceous, some 146 million years ago, sturgeon have undergone such little morphological change that they are considered living fossils. Two children ran past, one trying to pelt the other with a seal Beanie. The sturgeon twitched, retreated.

~

What is this part of me that does not recognise my body, that somehow feels detached from my physicality of this life? Maybe it is what some centuries have called a “mind,” what contemporary clinicians refer to as “dysphoria.” I spent my academic life collapsing dichotomies of mind and body, body and world. And yet, whilst those beliefs still stand, I cannot escape a sense of separation, cannot negate a form of division--prehistoric, tectonic--that grinds through who I am. I have always felt as if my body moves itself--possesses its own will, character, its own thoughts. I experience my body as other, but also as another. Slightly animal, otherworldly almost, a pulse and breath not my own. For many years, I never believed in an afterlife. Yet, the longer I lived at disjoint from my own body, the more I turned to theology--its language and imagery--as a way to find rough peace within these limbs. If we do live many lives, if we really can occupy body after body--this helped me reconcile to life in a body I do not recognise. My relationship to my body feels custodial, guided by archaic movement. As if, I--soul or spirit--must look after it, as if, in turn, this body will carry, will show and teach and guide me: how to reconcile all the elements of myself, how to hold them, play of light over hands. I’ve come to realize it’s a slightly strange way to live, to lead one’s life as if there are two of you. And yet, I do. People often ask if I feel male or female, where I lie on a gender spectrum, whereas, in truth, I just feel like a soul in a strange craft.

~

Mind, dysphoria: I dislike these concepts, too clinical, too sterile. They smell of bleach. But a soul--something ancient that speaks--this I can nurture. Prehistory, a living fossil--perhaps we all carry a sturgeon that slips from us in sleep.

from Voice of the Fish by Lars Horn, which is, in a slow burn way, becoming one of my favorite books

#writing pieces #essays #books #booklr #trans tag kapow

[cryptixotic]

Be real with me. You're sitting in a bar and a 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔞 with a massive sword rams into the door. Do you or do you not laugh

#one piece #dracule mihawk #one piece live action #i wasn't planning on posting this but a good old shitpost is always enjoyable in a while #can you believe i've been writing with a fountain pen my whole life yet i am the most mediocre calligrapher to bless this earth ?

[wadingsteps]

Truth, like the manna, cannot be hoarded, refrigerated, or dried. It is a gift of the present and a grace of relation.

— from On the Mystery: Discerning Divinity in Process by Catherine Keller

#currently reading #theology #religion #writing pieces

[kookoofufu]

I love Oda but man is INSANE for not making the timeskip more relevant to the straw hats outside of power ups

Brook: Literally a rockstar??? There should have been a running gag where people ask Brook for his autograph at every island they visit! It would be so funny if some villains were starstruck fans trying to keep it together during a fight!

Sanji: It would have been great if the newkama recipes came up more than once. There could have been a gag where Sanji stops in the middle of a battle to literally cook a power up for the crew. Imagine this man dicing onions in Onigashima, force-feeding Zoro a stew during his fight with King

Robin: She worked under Dragon for two years, met Sabo and Koala and maybe Ivankov, she probably knows the Army's entire plan to take down the gov and yet it never comes up! Does she know about Kuma? Nika? The five elders? Does she secretly communicate with the Rev Army????

Zoro: I love the idea of Perona teaching Zoro about fashion. It wouldn't have plot relevance but imagine him busting out some fashion tips out of nowhere every so often.

I'd love to hear more ideas, the missed opportunities here haunt me.

Edit: link to ongoing collection of headcanons since some people only see the first four ideas

#one piece #straw hat pirates #sanji #nico robin #roronoa zoro #op meta #post timeskip #soul king brook #op spoilers #write up

[ayatou]

the strawhats & their dreams

#one piece #one piece live action #opla #opla spoilers #luffy #zoro #nami #ussop #sanji #one piece netflix #netflixedit #daily netflix #mycreations #whoever in the writing team decided to feature the kid characters #may both sides of your pillow be cool tonight #they make me feel Insane

[hhhhunty]

How funny that she never considered that.

#one piece #boa hancock #monkey d luffy #i really disagree with how oda writes her #i think she likes him in the way a little girl crushes on the first boy to ge nice to her #simply because she thinks that's how it must work #she did not have the time nor was she safe enough as a child to feel those things #this was the first ever man other than rayleigh to not view her as an object #so she thinks she *must* love him #these have been my long-winded hancock thoughts #thank you

[girlfictions]

Hiba Abu Nada, from I Grant You Refuge (trans. Huda Fakhreddine)

Hiba Abu Nada was a novelist, poet, and educator. She wrote this poem on Oct. 10th, 2023. She died a martyr, killed in her home in south Gaza by an Israeli raid on Oct. 20th, 2023. She was 32 years old.

#urge you all to read this piece in full #this verse - to write it amidst so much death and destruction - leaves me speechless #palestine #words #quotes #poetry #typography #free palestine #palestinian literature

[wardingshout]

Zelda goes mushroom girl

#tloz #a link to the past #zelda #link #my art #I was happy with that first one but for some reason decided it still needed a companion piece so I spent way too long on that second one... #I don't think there was any time during the progress where I was happy with it but hfduhdfu at least I got to Attempt drawing moss hell yea #I also at some point sat in Pyu's art stream and said I enjoy drawing legs As I was being murdered by the infamously impossibe (imo) squat. #it's ok I had fun !! but I need to learn how to let doodles be doodles or I'll never finish stuff at this rate dfsuhfd #if everything in my tloz tag looks like it was drawn by different people uuuh 2023 was art crisis year ngl...... #I'm falling back into my old ways rn though #anyway I think about these two a lot I think they're both stone faced and awkward ppl in different ways but they try rly hard to be friends #like I like to think it starts out so incredibly awkward and a bit sad bc they keep stepping over each other's toes accidentally the harder #they try but idk they find comfy middle ground idk in my brain they have a very interesting friendship I wanna get around to drawing it #in a proper way that might make sense.... #if I don't write 200 tags I will die maybe it's bc I grew up on dA or smth #and yes I know how to find 1 (one) type of mushroom /I/ am not mushroom girl unfortunately smh

[zosanbrainrot]

part 2 of Zoro in WCI

01 02

I tried to write something to sum up my thoughts on this, but then it got longer and longer and tbh I'm itching to write a fic set in this AU djjdkf I think I could develop on their inner feelings more than in the comic form

Before posting the first part I didn't realize people had such strong opinions on how this would play out lmaooo

imo, of course Zoro wants to fight Sanji, not with actual intent to harm (they threaten each other on the daily, come on), but because that's how they are together, how they communicate. He respects Luffy's decisions and their goal here, which is to learn what's really going on with Sanji, but he's gonna be pissy about it all he wants. They both have so many intense and conflicted feelings about this and neither has any idea how to resolve them. So they fight.

ofc yall are free to headcanon this interaction any other way you want <333

#hope you can hear the moment Sanji's heart shatters #you're walking the painful path you chose and then even this stupid marimo instead of playing your usual game of threats and violence #instead of making this easier for you he pierces right through your heart with the tiniest confession #I never hated you #but even if he didn't use to #he sure as hell despises every inch of you now #he must he has to #but this is what you chose #it is what you deserve #ANGST #PAIN #wci zoro au #obvi if I were to write it wouldnt write first person this just got out of hand #i love angst can you tell #zosan #i love keeping them in the 'what if maybe no he would never' hell #roronoa “i love you but I will take these feelings with me to the grave” zoro #blackleg “I need you to hate me because I simply don't deserve to be loved” sanji #rorona zoro #black leg sanji #sanji #zoro #my art #whole cake arc #whole cake island #one piece #one piece fanart

[ace-malarky]

Revenge

In which Phorg (local grung bardbarian) muses on home and the life it's had, and all its friends go "Wow you're a better person than us" because it's true

I still have not played any of these lads in an actual dnd setting but by god I love them all

~~

Phorg is sitting by the small pond in the grounds, rain pattering on the canvas awning that’s stretched over the decking. It has its feet in the pond, the water soothing away the dust and the aches of the road.

Thunder rumbles in the distance; Phorg taps its fingers against the decking in an answering rhythm and feels something settle in its soul, finally coming back to rest.

It’s home.

Phorg blinks, stilled by that thought. This hadn’t been home before. Home had always been the swamp, even after it had run away (been thrown out, whispers the voice that sounds like Karo, old and bitter), but something had changed.

It felt right.

Talons click against the wood behind Phorg, a concession from Karo, who tries hard not to sneak up behind anyone anymore.

They’d learnt not to after startling Chant too many times, her magic still volatile and destructive after years of neglect.

The aarakocra crouches just at the edge of Phorg’s vision, under the awning. “So,” they say, not removing their hood. “You came back.”

Phorg nods. There had been a moment, when the job had been done, that it thought it might... leave. It would have known the way; they weren’t so very far at all.

But the feeling had passed, with no need for Phorg to confront anyone that might have known it in the past.

And then it had come home.

“Good. Tosh would have missed you.” Karo is crouched so still they could be a statue. Their head is canted away, sharp gaze sweeping across the gardens.

Phorg hums an acknowledgement as the thunder rumbles again, just as distant.

“And your – old people,” Karo says carefully, as if the thought disgusts them. “Did you have to acknowledge them?”

“Did not go near enough.”

“Would it have helped?”

Phorg shrugs. “Help you?”

Karo huffs. “That is – different.”

Phorg croaks out some laughter. Karo relaxes their stance, almost dropping to a seated position on the planking.

“Don’t want revenge,” Phorg says. “Not like Chant.”

“Not like me.” Karo pats at the wood and then tilts forward to kneel, their wings flapping twice to counterbalance. “No. You’re better than all of us.”

Phorg frowns. “Tosh.”

“Tosh is a child. She doesn’t understand revenge.” There’s a fond undertone in Karo’s voice, though they’d never admit it.

“Razz.”

“Well-” Karo stops. “No, you’re right there. Razz wouldn’t take revenge, even though he really should.”

“Not everything solved with it.”

“I’d swear by it,” Chant says, swinging in from one side, landing heavily on the planks. She’s damp but not drenched, so she can’t have been outside for long.

“Because it served you so well,” Karo replies dryly, tense in a way that said she’d startled them and they hated that.

Chant shrugs. “It cleared out a den of evil, too. Although I did have to share.” She drops to sitting, reaching out to hit a gloved hand against Phorg’s back. “Took the high road though, did you?”

“No chance to choose,” Phorg replies.

“You would have, though. You’re good like that.”

Phorg frowns again. “Both of you say that.”

“Well, then, it must be true,” Chant says, and laughs at Karo’s horrified expression.

“Much as it pains me to admit it.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep pretending to hate me.”

“Who said anything about pretending?”

Phorg only half listens to their playful bickering behind it. It had never thought much about revenge, not even in the early days after leaving (being forced out for not fitting in right).

Maybe it should have. Would that have made those early days easier?

“Well,” Chant says, in response to something, “it would have been good in the moment. I think you would have regretted it before long.”

Phorg lets out a croak, looking around.

“Oh - sorry, was that like a rhetorical question? I can never get the hang of those.” Chant smiles. “But speaking as the only one of us who has successfully wreaked revenge, I don’t think it would help you. It’s better to – fill that with something else. Like...” Chant trails off, scratching at one of her horns as she thinks.

“Music,” Karo suggests. “That’s what they threw you out for, wasn’t it?”

“Left,” Phorg says, born of old impulse to defend its old traditions. “Not thrown. Wrong caste, so... stagnant. Hard to change.”

“That feels very...” Chant frowns as she thinks. “Splitting hairs.”

Phorg shakes its head. “Made my choice.”

Chant and Karo share a glance that Phorg doesn’t attempt to interpret.

“But yes,” Phorg says, allowing them that, “music. It is what I would fill the space with.”

Karo nods.

“I think it’s very sweet,” Chant says, falling backwards onto the decking. She braces her head on her hands to take the weight off her horns. “Gives me hope and all that.” She laughs. “Welcome home, Phorg.”

Karo clicks their beak in agreement.

“If you ever feel the need, though.” Chant reaches out with her boot to nudge at it. “We’d help. You know that, right?”

Phorg hums, letting everything lapse back into silence. Letting the rain fill out the space between them.

It was home. Its family was here now; the settlement it had come from left behind.

It didn’t need to destroy them to have its revenge, that would only help to prove their point about what Phorg was good for.

Phorg’s revenge came in doing what it loved, what it came out here to do.

… But maybe it would keep Chant’s offer in mind for another day.

#writing pieces #phorg #dnd #karo #chant

[simply-starryeyed]

is it because it’s september. is that what this is. is that why i’ve been feeling this way. listless, i think, is the word.

this time two years ago… it was the worst time of my life. a real rock-bottom, a real how-do-i-go-on moment. and how did i go on? i couldn’t tell you. i don’t remember.

#tw loss #trauma tw #tw trauma mention #tw trauma #tw implied trauma #vague suicidal thoughts #tw suicidal ideation #not stated but. #poems #poetry #drabble #creative writing #writblr #writing practice #writing pieces #mental health

[emustockings]

"some of the words are yours and some of the words are mine in the same way that we have both held all the letters of the alphabet in each our mouths and never come to the same conclusion"

-- from Alphabet Soup by Jillian Christmas

#poetry #writing pieces #currently reading

[songtwo]

it's already been said but it's crazy how female artists in the 90s wanted nothing to do w the feminist label and yet the message they sent through their music was actually empowering due to its rawness and authenticity while nowadays everyone tries too hard to be a feminist and an ally and they just come off as fake and bland bc it's all this sugarcoated liberal white feminism #girlboss barbie 2023 and the worst part is ppl actually buy into that but get scared when they see anything sinead oconnor did

#Ppl thinking the man by Taylor swift is a radical piece of feminist writing...... grow up #kinda related but not quite . everyone used to look so different and unique while now they all have the same face and style

[wadingsteps]

" “Many black women,” according to womanist theologian Delores Williams, “have testified that ‘God helped them make a way out of no way.’” For there is no way there already, prepaved. This is all too evident to anyone in a crisis, where prior assurances seem to flee; where we feel abandoned even by the God we thought we knew. And for peoples living in the perpetual crisis inflicted on them by collective injustice, consciousness of this desert wandering is acute. For Moses, responsible for a huge and frightened population in the wilderness: no way! For Hagar, expelled from her fickle surrogate family and lost in the desert with her son: no way. Indeed, “like Hagar and Ishmael when they were finally freed from the house of bondage, African American ex-slaves were faced with making a way out of no way.”

Those who know suffering come closer to a truth about the creation: the future is open, alarmingly or promisingly. The way is not laid out in advance. Creation itself is in process. Our own way forward has not yet been charted. There may be no trail before us at all. Sometimes one can only move forward in faith: that is, in courage and confidence, not in a delusional certainty.

Process is ongoing. Amidst trials and tribulations, life is going on. Exoduses happen. But, like Moses, you can not make it to the promised land. That possibility didn’t paralyze him.

“Hope,” says the theologian Karl Bath, laying to rest any facile faith in end-time or immortality, comes “in the act of taking the next step.” His theology was born amidst the catastrophic struggles of Europe during the period of the World Wars. Barth witnessed the failure of German Christianity, liberal and conservative, to avert the horrors of Nazism, or even, but for the small Confessing Movement, to protest it. He denounced “religion” for its compromises with secular modernity and the death machines. For Barth “faith” is opposed to the theological arrogance… that underlies this unholy alliance.

He insisted instead that all theology is “on the way”: theologia viatorum. Any theology on the mystery will resonate. The way is not straight nor the utterance smooth. Theology does not seize—the German for “grasp”—God as its object and the truth as its property. And that different angles of our varied contexts infinitely complicate our inescapably finite and fragmented capacities.

In the many decades since Barth, theology has been winding through radically altered spiritual landscapes. Feminist and liberation theologies have made more explicit the complex ways context forms and deforms faith. (Indeed, they would note Barth’s own systematic blindness to his patriarchal context.) Context signifies the interplay within a historical geography of all the social, ethnic-racial, sexual patterns that shape our perspective but are often masked by the more conscious beliefs. And in theology context is truly with text: the way, for instance, Christians, Jews, or Muslims interpret their scriptures will be influenced by the complex interplay of contextual factors—rendered ever more confusing if the interpretative input is ignored.

The clay of our merely human perspectives is mixed of these contextual elements. The context touches content, and content reciprocally affects context. For good and ill. From the interaction comes change. Because we are beings in relation we are always becoming. Change is inevitable but not necessarily for the better: process in interpretation, as in life, may or may not mean progress.

[…] And so we embark on the path of a theology in process, a process whose ends are many and open, a way no less purposeful than that which moves toward some fixed goal. The ends of this way do not yet exist: it is truly viatorum. The ends are more open than Barth could have recognized. They signify possibilities, not actualities. Theology is not ever identical with faith or with belief—but, rather, motivated by faith, it takes all our beliefs into the evolving perspective of its interactive process. "

— from On The Mystery: Discerning Divinity In Process by Catherine Keller

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