Amar baccha! My children, listen, for I have a story to share with you.
In the beginning there was the Kund, the deep wellspring from where the first Ohm of the Universe flowed. Soon other sounds and utterances flowed through, forming brooks of syllables, joined into streams of words, joined into rivers of sentences, joined into seas of stories, joined into oceans of truth.
And each sound and syllable and word, each sentence and story and truth, each little drop carried with it the Power of Creation and Destruction, the Power of Language: together like the ebbs and flows of tidal waves, like drought and floods, like sunshine and rain.
Creation comes from Destruction comes from Creation.
And this Power, the Power of Language, this exists for all those who speak, listen, write, read. For all those that carry Language in their heads and in their hearts. For it is Language that is your birthright and it is Language that is your responsibility.
And Language is not to be restricted, to be hoarded as though it is some precious and rare gold or silver. No, Language is to be shared by all, for it is everyone’s birthright, and everyone’s responsibility, to partake in the ebbs and flows of Creation and Destruction.
You are not the Master of Language, much like you are not the Master of Water or Air. You, all of you, are in Service to Language, much like you are in Service to Water or Air - Powers that create you, Powers that sustain you, Powers that destroy you.
There are some of you that will be entrusted to ensure the safety, sanctity, sanctuary of Language. You will be known as the Compassionate Ones, the Shafiqs, caretakers and custodians of Language and all those that wield it. It is your responsibility to care for the hearts and heads of those you serve, to ensure that their needs and desires are met, that they remain safe and protected and well. It is your responsibility to ensure that Language is shared freely, that Language is served for the greater good, that all hold access to Language and that your Language does not die before it is time.
And oh how its time will threaten to come! For there will be forces that claim to be Masters of Earth and Fire, claim their right to ravage your lands and control your people with ever-changing boundaries and restrictions. Forces that claim to be Masters of Water and Air and destroy all which you build in symbiosis to create that which dominates. Forces that claim to be Masters of Language, their own Language, while denigrating yours as lesser-than, impure, powerless.
And then there will be forces of your own. You claiming responsibility as privilege and using your custodianship as cruelty. You forgetting your own birthright and believing those that say your power can only be accessed by a select few through specific means foreign to you. You letting go of your Language, that which gives you Life, and forgetting all the syllables and stories and truths that it carries.
Destruction comes from Creation comes from Destruction.
The Power will still manifest, still create and destroy, even without your wielding of Language, even without those who speak and listen and write and read. It is Power that has existed before there was Humanity and will exist after there is Humanity, for it is Power that has created the Universe and will destroy the Universe.
Learn to approach Language with respect and responsibility, and you will gain strength, fortitude, prosperity, livelihood. But treat Language as though it is something you can control, restrict, deny, destroy, and you will find that it will control, restrict, deny, and destroy you.
And if you ever find that you are close to the brink of no return, return to the Waters: the oceans, the seas, the rivers, the streams, the brooks. Return to the wellspring, to the Kund, and call out for a new Ohm.
Remember this, baccha, for forgetting is the first step to Destruction without Creation.
[[source:Belinda Meggit So thepostmodernpottercompendium is hosting this really interesting series on the origins of magic which is now becoming an interesting story in progress. I have been meaning to write this story for a long time, ever since I found this picture in researching the bede, or gypsy boat people of Bangladesh:she’s one of them. I knew she was the face of thedainee that mysteriously guides the Bideshis as soon as I saw her picture, and now I want to write her story. The line about the kund and the first ohm is from a piece by Minal Hajratwala, about being a kinky queer femme Indian woman. In the piece she plays a lot with language and draws the connection between “cunt” and “kund” - as in “kundalini”. The name of the piece escapes me right now but it was performed in this year’s Yoni Ki Baat in SF.]]
The idea of Newt Pulsifer’s unironic anti device curse being passed down through the family is just something that I’d like to read.
The combo of Newt’s curse and anathema being an environmentally aware anti-governmental witch would make their kids like these Huge leaders in the movement to get back to the earth and work along with nature. Oh gosh now I really gotta think about this because the would would be even more tech advanced for their kids and they would just go along frying everything.
I was thinking it came about from Adultery Pulsifer downwards in parallel with the rise of the Devices, but your line of thought is cool too!
So, no one really notices it until the Industrial Revolution.
Richard Pulsifer had a run of bad luck with employment through the cotton industry. Machines would seize or jam for no apparent reason. He knew that the future lay in this automation of labour, so he kept trying to overcome this bizarre affect right up until his death. He was crushed by a loom.
John Pulsifer, scarred by his father’s demise, abhorred the textile industry and took the small settlement offered by the mill owner to purchase a farm. He worked hard and turned a profit from the land, keeping his young wife and widow mother comfortable. He kept things simple right up until his son, Joseph Pulsifer, suggested investing in a traction engine to ease the work load. John was getting older and finding that the work was starting to take its toll. They bought a shiny Burrell engine with the intent to lease it to neighbouring farms for a bit of extra income. It never worked.
By the time that Joseph took over the farm, it was clear that they couldn’t compete with the increased efficiency and productivity of their neighbours. Machinery refused to work on the Pulsifer land. He sold the farm and moved his family south, hoping for opportunities in the cities. Having been accustomed to horses, he made a fine living as a hackney cab driver.
When his son, another John, came of age, he expanded his business to two carriages and three horses. This good fortune wasn’t to last much longer, as the introduction of electric cabs heralded a new age for transportation.
Ever possessed by that Pulsifer need to embrace new technology, John Pulsifer learned all he could about the electric motor in preparation for investing in one. Three days after he signed the paperwork, the first internal combustion powered cab took to the road. Undeterred, John ran his electric cab around London, frequently breaking down and losing his customers to passing cabs of both horse and combustion power.
Daniel Pulsifer was largely unaffected by the family curse, except for the time it saved his life. In a trench along the western front, tired and miserable, he saw a grenade bounce at his feet. In a panic, he stamped on it as one might a spider or mouse, and the internal mechanism seized completely. He survived the war and married his sweetheart back home.
Stanley Pulsifer was a postman. Exempt from military service, he avoided the worst of the second world war. He was content with life and enjoyed his route. It wasn’t until he got too slow on his feet that he was moved to a position in the sorting office. The mail sorting machine was installed just six months before his retirement but it didn’t work property until after he’d left. Until the day it was replaced, people swore that it had a mind of its own.
Andrew Pulsifer joined the navy at 16. He was almost immediately discharged from the navy and asked, very politely, to never step foot on a British vessel again. Every year or so, a black car would pull up to his house, take him to a dockyard, and deposit him alongside a ship with the instruction to “fix it”. He wouldn’t comprehend the implications of his actions until the end of the cold war, but they paid him very well to do very little.
Charles Pulsifer was tragically killed whilst trying to program his VCR. He left a widow and a young son.
“I must mention here that however swanky the hotel, people can’t help looking at HBC. Young and old smile and nudge each other.
And if HBC notices, she smiles back. HBC, I realise, must be one of the most recognisable people in the world. Later, on a street shoot with HBC, in Camden, everyone – and I mean everyone – recognises her and is thrilled to see her.
People grin and she grins back. Blokes whoop from vans and she whoops back. One bloke yells, ‘Wey-hey,’ at the top of his voice and HBC shouts, ‘Wey-hey,’ back at the top of hers. It’s like being on a sleepover with an exciting, fun-loving new best friend who’s not scared of her parents.”
ok. NOW that i remembered, i wanna share one of my favorite sans headcanons ever, which is that if papyrus got interested in engineering through puzzles SANS did because (back when he wasn’t, jknow. depressed) he used to spend most of his time building ridiculously elaborate and colossally stupid rube goldberg machines that could prank people all the way across the underground. he would spend days and nights on them. they were his pride and joy. their repurposing for practical use basically got him his job at the royal labs.
gaster: I HAVE REVIEWED YOUR PROJECT FOR THE CORE’S COOLING SYSTEM. NEEDLESS TO SAY I AM INTRIGUED. ACCORDING TO YOUR CALCULATIONS IT WOULD COVER MOST OF SNOWDIN’S FOUNDING GROUNDS AND PART OF WATERFALL’S DEEPER CAVE SYSTEM AS WELL. NOT TO MENTION OF COURSE THE MECHANICS OF THE CONTRAPTION ITSELF. I CONFESS, I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND THE PURPOSE OF THE RUBBER DUCK, BUT YOU WERE… VERY, VERY ADAMANT ABOUT ITS IMPORTANCE, SO I WILL NOT QUESTION IT FURTHER. HOWEVER. THERE IS A PROBLEM. YOUR CREATION, IT SEEMS IT WOULD ONLY COVER THE HARVESTING PROCESS. HOW DO YOU INTEND TO BRING THE ICE ALL THE WAY TO HOTLAND.
sans: ice wolf
gaster: I BEG YOUR PARDON?
sans: yeah just put a guy on the riverbank to throw the ice blocks in the right direction. they’re gonna get there eventually
literally no way in hell this hasn’t already been made before butihavent seen one so. well. feel free to use this as a reaction image as you see fit
[ID: Art of Martin edited over a meme. The meme background shows ocean waves, and Martin stands within fog. He is a fat pale man with white hair tipped with pink. Above him is text in caps and impact font that just says “Man.” End ID]
i did this for a secret santa with other artist friends but here i am sharing it!
i feel a bit weird about albedo but i can’t draw him? you don’t know how many times i’ve tried to draw him in the last year and i just can’t what wrong with this man why won’t you let me draw you
