January 23, 2016

It’s a word that reads the same even if you flip it over, until you stare at it for too long and it starts to look weird, look foreign, look unreal whether it’s read left to right or otherwise that you have to check online a few seconds later just to make sure your spelling’s right and the word actually exists in this reality.

It’s electric lines running parallel each other, left and right along the same highway you’ve traversed the past four years—weekly once that slowly ebbed into months, then semesters, then rare holidays—and you’re only acknowledging as you lie in the backseat of a friend’s car with a Best Coast song playing in the background, quiet and familiar but new.

It’s watching Michael Jackson doing the moonwalk, clicking random videos on YouTube that soothe your clogged up mind and take the more pressing matters at hand into the back of your head so as to help you find the first problem to focus on, remembering how Dad used to sing you MJ hits during long waits in lines.

It’s a telephone number that you’ve got memorized from day one, and realized would still call the same institution, the same line, the same person, if you ever decided on a whim to dial the digits the other way around into a pay phone because you don’t own a landline at home.

It’s taking your shirt off like Mom told you based from superstitions, and turning it inside out like you don’t give a shit, and damn right you shouldn’t when you’re at a crossroads and you don’t know where to go because you’re lost.

You don’t really care that the word is tattarrattat,and that it’s a word you got off the internet that’s a more complex (and frankly idiotic) onomatopoeia that apparently exists in Ulysseswritten by James Joyce.

You don’t really care that the lines are running out as you approach the South Luzon Expressway on your way to the only place you ever considered home, and that Meralco’s probably got underground ones or some other way to keep the power running in these grasslands.

You don’t really care that it’s the middle of the night and you’re blasting Billie Jean and it slowly segues into Thriller even though it’s the middle of May and the neighbors are probably asleep, and then into Man in the Mirror, the words, Could it be really me, pretending that they’re not alone? ringing in your ears and sticking to the center of your corkboard brain even as you decide to just give up and go the fuck to sleep.

You don’t really care that you’ve only got the last two digits—and they’re the first ones, too, ironically—left to punch in to call your Aunt Grace, in her office in the rundown hospital she works in, with an apology eight years late clutching at your tonsils that you have to choke down with some mucus and tears because it’s eight years late and you’re sorry you broke her locket, the only thing she has left of your grandfather, but pride’s a bitch and so are you, so you’re going to have to grit your teeth some more and punch in the second to the last number before you put the earpiece back on and walk away (because you live three blocks away from the nearest phone booth and you walked all the way here half-drunk and thinking you could finally do it, but no).

You don’t really care that this shirt is a secondhand band shirt, a gift from your favorite friend and drummer, and that the logo’s printed in vinyl that makes it thicker and hotter so wearing it outside in makes the print stick to your stomach with sweat, because you really cannot do anything else and you have nowhere to go—for now at least.

(You don’t even care that this is a metaphorical crossroads, and that the path to be made is a mental one, a decision that will take you places or one that you will bear hatred for your entire life, because it’s Mom’s advice andshe’s never wrongandthis is Degs’ shirtandyou’ve always looked up to him.

You fall asleep on the couch like that, warmer and better than you have the past week, with a friend in mind and a handwritten home note in your hand.)

I let my silence outgrow the noise. I wear my best smile, mystic but surreal. Every word I utter is the sentence I swallowed back. I feel like the fog on a winter night. I am untouchable. I only exist in theory.

If I cannot find a seat in the room, is this event not made for such a guest? Do you make your own room, do you sit on the floor, do you steal someone else’s seat or do you quietly leave the room?

I haven’t had a lot to say lately. I found fresh air outside the packed room. I am not really sure what happened in there. Sometimes I peek through the window and my breath fogged up the glass. I tried wiping the steam off the glass but gave up halfway and started doodling pictures with my finger instead. 

Once in a while someone will look back at me through the clear parts of the window my finger has touched. Quickly they realize they are looking at my message backwards and retreat back into crowd. 

Sometimes passersby see me writing and my messages the right way. But they are all too busy with their own things and hurried on. “Cheers”, they say. They turn the corner and I never see them again. I wonder where they are off to.

I am not sure why I am standing here at the window. Fascinated by the hustle and bustle. When I look around and across the street I see others doodling on their windows, but they are all busy writing their own message, back towards me.

I’d hop on a bus and now I am on the inside of a window. Everyone seems to be walking so slowly. I find comfort knowing I am going somewhere. It usually end with me falling asleep on the bus and got woken up by the driver. 

if a flower bloomed in a dark room, would you trust it?

kendrick lamar

When you walk on unsteady ground, you can’t look up.

It’s impossible. If you take your eyes, if you take your focus, off the next step in front of you, you might slip. It only takes a split second or one wrong movement and you’ll be in trouble. So you keep your head down, steady your breathing and push on. 

You adjust when you overbalance and try to catch yourself before you fall off. And if you do fall off, you get back up and carry on again. The ground might be unsteady, or narrow, or slippery, or a million other things but you won’t let any of that hold you back. 

Even when you have to slow your place to an almost crawl. Even when it takes you a while to get back up again after a fall. Even when it feels like you don’t make any progress at all. You still keep going. It’s something in your heart calling out for you to just push forward. 

At some point, you’ll make it out of the rough patch, you’ll suddenly find the ground under your feet steady and secure again. Joy or relief with find you. You might start sprinting forward, marvelling that it’s easy now. Or maybe the ground is still rough and difficult, but you’ve learned how to navigate it. Every little adjustment of your body is a learned behaviour. Maybe you’ll master the rocky ground. 

Either way, when there comes a time when you can pause. Not from a fall but standing tall and secure, I urge you to look backwards. It’s something that can be so easy to forget about when you’re so focused on keeping your footing or pushing forward. The past is in the past after all. You moved on. It might feel like there’s nothing for you there anymore.

Perhaps there isn’t, but the path you paved will lay behind you. The distance you traversed, however hard and difficult, will be there for you to see. Every little step forward might have felt gruelling and hard and like you were stuck in the same place. I promise you’re not. You’ve moved, probably further than you realised. 

Behind you lays the path you forged and fought through and in that moment of security, you can remind yourself why you keep moving, even when it’s hard. Let the moment become a memory of what you’re capable of. You’ll come across rough terrain again. It’s inevitable, but you’re stronger now. Wiser too. 

One step at a time will eventually be a great distance travelled. Keep moving.

forest-sprites:

animanightmate:

forest-sprites:

forest-sprites:

Orpheus and Eurydice

There are some very Orpheus and Eurydice themes in the narrative of Ed and Stede that do indeed make me feel many things. For the record, I’m using one specific take on the myth here (specifically notthe one in Symposium), but as is standard for myths, there are many different opinions on the nuances- this is merely one of them.

First and foremost, we need death. Stede endures this in a more literal sense- legally, he is now dead. An act of devotion, perhaps, as he seeks to cultivate a fresh start with his love. Equally, however, Ed himself undergoes a death. Not only does he gift Stede a disordered burial at sea, but he invokes one for himself, too. In episode ten, he lets the red silk representing his heart sail steadfast across the ocean. Anyone who’s familiar with the ending of Orpheus’ life will know that upon his death, his head and dutiful lyre were sent floating down the Hebrus River, straight out to sea. While Ed is alive both literally and legally, he sacrificed his heart- washed to the ocean much like Orpheus himself.

Next up, we travel to the crux of the myth. The quintessential theme of mournful love. The deep and burning sort, the kind that drives you to the underworld in an attempt to rectify what was so tragically lost. In OFMD we need to backtrack to episode nine, to Edward and his act of grace declaration; a show of all he’d lose, all he would risk, to keep his love safe. He accepts the journey, perils and all! Stede mirrors this in episode ten by not simply closing the door on his past, but by going so far as killing himself off, playing with death, in order to truly live life alongside his love. Much like Orpheus, this poignantly speaks to the boundaries that need to be crossed- both that metaphorical death and journey, but also the literal treck he’ll be undertaking as he pursues his lost love.

Orpheus finds himself underground because of this simple, grief-driven hope that death cannot be final- it must be negotiable. He brings his lyre, performing a most dismal tune, and the gods presiding over the Underworld are so utterly moved by his performance that a glimmer of hope is provided. Go on then, find Eurydice, but here is your caveat: have trust, have faith, know that she is there and do not allow your eyes to wander. It’s the backbone of all relationships epitomized to the highest stakes. You need to trust in yourself that your partner will be there, to have that faith that when you make it to the Overworld, they’ll be right behind you.

For Ed and Stede, this is episode nine. Edward returns from the Underworld, preparing for a new life- for them to enter the Overworld together- but his love is not there. This doesn’t follow the myth’s narrative to a T- but it does bring us back to the idea of trust and faith- both in your partner and moreso, in yourself. It’s the nagging fear that this is too good to be true- that the excitement can snap back to grave reality in a heartbeat. Both Edward and Orpheus turn around with buoyant hope, and in doing so, they are instead faced with their worst fear.

(One possible reading of the myth could be that in season two, Stede will be making his journey to the Underworld, seeking out his lost love. All the while, Ed has already made his trip downstairs, lost his love, and had his heart utterly grief-stricken in the process. There are so many ways to slice up this myth, but the themes are wonderfully applicable!)

AND IN ADDITION,

If we are going to view the symbolism of Orpheus’ lyre as comparable to Edward’s red silk, then we find ourselves with a very interesting concept indeed. A myth regarding Orpheus’ death also comes to explain the constellation Lyra. Following his death, Orpheus’ head and harp eventually came to rest on a beach- the waves having carried them ashore. Here, his remains were found and through various passing-alongs, ended up in the hands of the gods. As many important objects often are, it was placed in the sky to create the constellation Lyra- symbolic of Orpheus and his ceaseless, joyous music.

If we take that, and we say that Ed’s silk is his lyre, then we come to the conclusion that this item will wash up ashore, be found with reverence, and placed with pride in the sky; much like a flag that one may fly from a ship.

So, in that context, are the Maenads represented by Izzy who, in wanting Ed to engage with life rather than (celibate) mourning, kills him, sending head and lyre (red silk) floating downstream? He very much wanted to stop the music of his collaboration with the crew/ channeling of Stede.

Absolutely, you put it perfectly by describing it as ‘stopping the music’!

Keep reading

If we’re really going to dig into this metaphor (because you’re right - this is intensely fun), may I also present for your consideration: Badminton as the snake. Both of the brothers are catalytic/ pivotal events, arguably, their behaviour governed by their essential nature, but cruel in the context of a bright, sunlit wedding. (Although I now really want to write something about characters who reject their early training and those who embrace it in the show.)

forest-sprites:

forest-sprites:

Orpheus and Eurydice

There are some very Orpheus and Eurydice themes in the narrative of Ed and Stede that do indeed make me feel many things. For the record, I’m using one specific take on the myth here (specifically notthe one in Symposium), but as is standard for myths, there are many different opinions on the nuances- this is merely one of them.

First and foremost, we need death. Stede endures this in a more literal sense- legally, he is now dead. An act of devotion, perhaps, as he seeks to cultivate a fresh start with his love. Equally, however, Ed himself undergoes a death. Not only does he gift Stede a disordered burial at sea, but he invokes one for himself, too. In episode ten, he lets the red silk representing his heart sail steadfast across the ocean. Anyone who’s familiar with the ending of Orpheus’ life will know that upon his death, his head and dutiful lyre were sent floating down the Hebrus River, straight out to sea. While Ed is alive both literally and legally, he sacrificed his heart- washed to the ocean much like Orpheus himself.

Next up, we travel to the crux of the myth. The quintessential theme of mournful love. The deep and burning sort, the kind that drives you to the underworld in an attempt to rectify what was so tragically lost. In OFMD we need to backtrack to episode nine, to Edward and his act of grace declaration; a show of all he’d lose, all he would risk, to keep his love safe. He accepts the journey, perils and all! Stede mirrors this in episode ten by not simply closing the door on his past, but by going so far as killing himself off, playing with death, in order to truly live life alongside his love. Much like Orpheus, this poignantly speaks to the boundaries that need to be crossed- both that metaphorical death and journey, but also the literal treck he’ll be undertaking as he pursues his lost love.

Orpheus finds himself underground because of this simple, grief-driven hope that death cannot be final- it must be negotiable. He brings his lyre, performing a most dismal tune, and the gods presiding over the Underworld are so utterly moved by his performance that a glimmer of hope is provided. Go on then, find Eurydice, but here is your caveat: have trust, have faith, know that she is there and do not allow your eyes to wander. It’s the backbone of all relationships epitomized to the highest stakes. You need to trust in yourself that your partner will be there, to have that faith that when you make it to the Overworld, they’ll be right behind you.

For Ed and Stede, this is episode nine. Edward returns from the Underworld, preparing for a new life- for them to enter the Overworld together- but his love is not there. This doesn’t follow the myth’s narrative to a T- but it does bring us back to the idea of trust and faith- both in your partner and moreso, in yourself. It’s the nagging fear that this is too good to be true- that the excitement can snap back to grave reality in a heartbeat. Both Edward and Orpheus turn around with buoyant hope, and in doing so, they are instead faced with their worst fear.

(One possible reading of the myth could be that in season two, Stede will be making his journey to the Underworld, seeking out his lost love. All the while, Ed has already made his trip downstairs, lost his love, and had his heart utterly grief-stricken in the process. There are so many ways to slice up this myth, but the themes are wonderfully applicable!)

AND IN ADDITION,

If we are going to view the symbolism of Orpheus’ lyre as comparable to Edward’s red silk, then we find ourselves with a very interesting concept indeed. A myth regarding Orpheus’ death also comes to explain the constellation Lyra. Following his death, Orpheus’ head and harp eventually came to rest on a beach- the waves having carried them ashore. Here, his remains were found and through various passing-alongs, ended up in the hands of the gods. As many important objects often are, it was placed in the sky to create the constellation Lyra- symbolic of Orpheus and his ceaseless, joyous music.

If we take that, and we say that Ed’s silk is his lyre, then we come to the conclusion that this item will wash up ashore, be found with reverence, and placed with pride in the sky; much like a flag that one may fly from a ship.

So, in that context, are the Maenads represented by Izzy who, in wanting Ed to engage with life rather than (celibate) mourning, kills him, sending head and lyre (red silk) floating downstream? He very much wanted to stop the music of his collaboration with the crew/ channeling of Stede.

particularj:

bisexualpositivity:

queerism1969:

[CC: (a tweet by Jude Doyle)

When I came out, I told my mom that “if ‘woman’ is New York and 'man’ is California, I’m somewhere in Arizona.” She’s been telling her church friends this & blowing their minds. There are a bunch of church ladies in Ohio who think of gender as a spectrum now and it’s my fault

end caption.]

AOAB

(Assigned Ohio at Birth)

• [Image ID: An Illustrated poster of a table with a blueprint of a bridge; a map with a bridge highlighted; a plastic red can of gasoline; and a box of matches with several matches strewn across the table. There is an envelope and a letter reading “We’ll burn the bridge when we get there.” The oil stains the paper and blueprint. A corner of the blueprint is singed and the blueprint has handwriting of a left pointing and text reading ‘gas here’ and ‘light here’ around the bridge. /End Id]

Visual (Mixed) Metaphor Poster

“A MARCH in the ranks hard-prest, and the road unknown;
A route through a heavy wood, with muffled steps in the darkness;
Our army foil’d with loss severe, and the sullen remnant retreating;
Till after midnight glimmer upon us, the lights of a dim-lighted
building;
We come to an open space in the woods, and halt by the dim-lighted
building;
‘Tis a large old church at the crossing roads–'tis now an impromptu
hospital;
–Entering but for a minute, I see a sight beyond all the pictures
and poems ever made:
Shadows of deepest, deepest black, just lit by moving candles and
lamps,
And by one great pitchy torch, stationary, with wild red flame, and
clouds of smoke;
By these, crowds, groups of forms, vaguely I see, on the floor, some
in the pews laid down; 10
At my feet more distinctly, a soldier, a mere lad, in danger of
bleeding to death, (he is shot in the abdomen;)
I staunch the blood temporarily, (the youngster’s face is white as a
lily;)
Then before I depart I sweep my eyes o'er the scene, fain to absorb
it all;
Faces, varieties, postures beyond description, most in obscurity,
some of them dead;
Surgeons operating, attendants holding lights, the smell of ether,
the odor of blood;
The crowd, O the crowd of the bloody forms of soldiers–the yard
outside also fill’d;
Some on the bare ground, some on planks or stretchers, some in the
death-spasm sweating;
An occasional scream or cry, the doctor’s shouted orders or calls;
The glisten of the little steel instruments catching the glint of the
torches;
These I resume as I chant–I see again the forms, I smell the
odor; 20
Then hear outside the orders given, Fall in, my men, Fall in;
But first I bend to the dying lad–his eyes open–a half-smile gives
he me;
Then the eyes close, calmly close, and I speed forth to the darkness,
Resuming, marching, ever in darkness marching, on in the ranks,
The unknown road still marching.”

*We do not own this image

defectivegembrain:

defectivegembrain:

creative writing’s just like yeah sure i can deal with my issues i just need to cover them in several layers of metaphors first

touch depression? with my bare hands? no hang on *invents a character* this will be my gloves

| An Aesthetic Imagery Collection |

A ghost whispering in the sirens and fog

.

A blinking red light a hundred feet above the empty tracks that seem to lead to nowhere

.

Silver leaves glinting in the deserted 1:00 a.m. moonlight

.

Jogging on the black pavement under the grungy yellow street lamps

.

Frantic dragging of nails against skin to numb the lack of anything

.

The escape to a road that travels only to the past that is yet to come

.

Headphones that can’t be felt, as they are one with the night air and cold comfort of tears

.

A terror born with the grainy pink sun rising over the cooled rooftops

.

A voice multiplying with each echo of memory in my head

.

A memory of the future come to haunt the heart

.

Blinking away liquid failure and biting away from the cheeks, leaving only a frame of stripped bone, truth, and remembrance

.

A symphony of nights

.

The aesthetic of a bleeding life spent with oneself and the voices of hopes fading with the calm nothingness of unbroken silence

.

A cool reassurance sliding over agitation and eyelids flickering in time to a glow on an orange windowsill

.

Smoke lingering on wool, breezing past the senses as innocent adrenaline swirls up with embers and stars. Like the flames and shadows, we will never grow old.

.

~Reigh Lynne

“You’ve made enough pasta to feed a small army” Mum says, shaking her head before leaving the kitchen. She assumes it’s a figure of speech, but if only she’d look out the window to see the army queuing. They are so hungry. War is terrible.

“During World War Two, we bought sealed plastic packets of white, uncoloured margarine, with a tiny, intense pellet of yellow colouring perched like a topa just inside the clear skin of the bag. We would leave the margarine out for a while to soften, and then we would pinch the little pellet to break it inside the bag, releasing the rich yellowness into the soft pale mass of margarine. Then taking it carefully between our fingers, we would knead it gently back and forth, over and over, until the colour had spread throughout the whole pound bag of margarine, thoroughly colouring it.

I find the erotic such a kernel within myself. When released from its intense and constrained pellet, it flows through and colours my life with a kind of energy that heightens and sensitizes and strengthens all my experience.”

Audre Lorde, Uses of the Erotic

love,love,love,love

Time is a very precious resource

A precious, man-made, imagined resource

But what’s different about the time i spend with you

Is that it no longer belongs to me

My time with you melts into our time together

And from the depths of my naïve soul, i give, with that time, a certain amount of love

What’s different about the time i spend with you is that it is time i am giving to someone else, not me

Love im giving to someone else, not me

And that makes it so much more special than what it was before when i had it to myself

But it goes

And i fear how little will be left of me

When you do too

Visualize Value

Wilkinson & Rivera “Anxious Chair”

Gizem Vural

Hysteranthous

One flower left amid the green of newgrown leaves. It almost seems out of place, this pristine star, showpiece of the magnolia. I bought it when I was in love, or maybe because — I was smitten, that’s for sure — and now, years later there’s a lesson to be taught: 

The beatitude of the flowers in bloom I so easily mistook as the prime of this life, proves to be merely its prelude. The green, I now see, in these humbly unfolding leaves; destined to breathe, has nothing to do with eyes being caught, star-struck. Nor with the initial excitement of allurement; the many thrills of buttoning seduction. It has nothing to do with the awe of interstellar travel, imagined, and experienced by simple virtue of perceiving. 

These humbly green leaves depict the days of roots deepening; of growth, development, and branches strengthening; of proof and reassurance, that it is here that life thrives, and is nurtured. These are days depicting all that makes sure this life remains. 

I think about a love that stays. 

We bloom too, and so, spectacularly, before the emergence of the humbly green leaves. It seems, we favour flowers over roots, and all too ignorantly. So often already blowing with the wind without giving a chance to the following spring. The flowers must last forever. A preposterous concept. I look at the one flower left; the flower I do cherish, as it withers. Then, I shiver.

Plastic. What a gruelling ideal.

—
25-4-2022, M.A. Tempels ©

diariesofaclosetsubmissive:

scarletsrealmagic:

He’s sleeping now, my dominant. Even though he’s my leader, even though he’s my king, there are times when I see his frailty, his humanness. The weight of the world is on his shoulders now. It is wearing on him. It is wearing him down.

When I look to him to for guidance, for structure, for discipline, it doesn’t absolve me of what he needs from me. If he is my king, then I am his queen, and that means that I am a strong shoulder beside him. It means that he can lean, without loss of grace or face, when he needs to. No one else sees his emptiness, his unsureness of his next step. It is what he entrusts me me with.

I am his sword at his side. While he sleeps, I watch the world. When he falters, I set him back on the path. There is no weakness in him, not ever. But there is need. What would he be without it? I shudder to think of the man who does not need his woman, who walks alone every day.

Although there is at times a paternalistic feeling to our marriage, he is not my father, and I am not his child. The world is too big for that, too hard. We are each other’s strength. 

The thing about the discipline–I love the way that submitting to him makes him stalwart again. By bending to his will, when I cry out and cling to the blankets, I feel him grow back into majesty. He remembers what it is to impose his desires upon me, and by extension, to his own life.

And then to the world.

And then back to me.

The king. The queen. The kingdom. The mystery of submission. The ancient story of dominance.

So, very well written!

I think this made my heart stop for a moment.

When I was a pre-teen, my father (who I have a good relationship with, for anyone wondering if I have “daddy issues”) had a surgery and my mom had to work. It must have been summer break because I was home with him for a few days while he recovered and my mom was out. It was my first glimpse into the world of rated-R movies since my dad was so high on painkillers that he’d forgotten I was only eleven or twelve and my parents had a strict rule about inappropriate content for children. It was also the first time I ever saw my father as anything but a pillar of strength. Seeing him hurting, unable to get off the couch without my help, shattered all the illusions I had of my father as being this infallible, invulnerable giant.

Sir is not my father. Sometimes, he’s my Daddy, when we’re in the mood, and like @scarletsrealmagic said, sometimes there is a paternalistic feeling to our relationship. I’m reminded, though, that like the strength a small child had to be for her real father, when the weight of our life, our relationship, our battles and our loves, fall heavy on Sir’s shoulders, I have to be beneath him to help him carry the burden.

They could be mythologers now: they’d never had monsters, but now the world was all chimeras, each metaphor a splicing. The city’s a heart, I said, and in that a heart and a city were sutured into a third thing, a heartish city, and cities are heart-stained, and hearts are city-stained too.

China Miéville, Embassytown