““Sickness” as we speak of it today is a capitalist construct, as is its perceived binary opposite, “wellness.” The “well” person is the person well enough to go to work. The “sick” person is the one who can’t. What is so destructive about conceiving of wellness as the default, as the standard mode of existence, is that it invents illness as temporary. When being sick is an abhorrence to the norm, it allows us to conceive of care and support in the same way. Care, in this configuration, is only required sometimes. When sickness is temporary, care is not normal.”
i’m going through some 19th century travel diaries of people traveling from england to australia, and there’s this diary dated 1835, by a woman called eliza taylor. she’s fascinated by flying fish and dolphins, sees seagulls (”they are like pigeons but make a similar noise to ducks”), stargazes “till tea time” with the captain and another woman passenger, describes the boatswain playing the violin very well. these two paragraphs struck me, this one she writes during some party on deck:
Their merriment accorded not with my gloomy reflections both for the past and the future. I am very melancholy this warm weather and often wonder whether in any future years I shall ever have a taste of the joys and scenes of happiness I had in my childhood. My evil genius whispers No.
(what happened to you, eliza? we won’t know. just a glimpse of her sadness in a travelogue is all we’re allowed to see)
and then, on another evening, she sees something that may be bioluminescence, or maybe just starlight:
In a fine blue sea, the foam caused by the vessel at night seems full of stars. The snow white ferment, with the golden sparkles in it is beautiful beyond description. You look over and devour it with your eyes, as you would do much etherial syllabub. Finalmente, the stars issue forth, and the Moon always more lovely the farther you get South, completed the magnificience of the imposing scene.
it’s such a lovely description, so full of wonder.
I just gotta say…I’ve had enough of “empowered” women I miss the genre of like artsy weirdo girls in books marketed at 8 year olds like Olivia the pig or clarice bean just girls that were an outright nuisance but had panache. Where are those
In 2019 we grow from sex positivity to sex responsibility, meaning we:
call out shitty people who are just abusers and using kink/polyamory to mask it and stop supporting them
recognize that sometimes hypersexuality can be a form a self-harm for some people
keep kinks and fetishes in appropriate spaces and not bringing them out into general public spaces and thereby involving people in scenes they aren’t consenting to
understand that some fetishes are inherently unhealthy and some illegal to actually engage in for good reason and ignoring that is irresponsible at best
Should thou or thy belovèd be distinguished by judgement of a physician of the four humours to have become bestruck by that most terrifying of spectres, that which is known in our physical realm only by his unholiest name “Mesothelioma”, thou may be selected by writ of the law to receive financial benefit at the behest of thy king and kingdom. That unholiest of spectres be one of great recherché, and is beckoned by thy brandishing of, or otherwise exposure to, that material which is called salamander fur. Brandishing of salamander fur within the realms of seaborne nobledom, dockyards, mills, warmthcasting, carpentry, or equine husbandry may bear upon thee that spectre. We insist that thou mustn’t lose haste, summon us by use of the code 1-800-99-THE-LAW-2 within this day to assemble a conference of writ at no financial forbearence upon thee and receive print regarding affairs of the related capital. Bearers of that unholiest spectre beckon now! 1-800-99-THE-LAW-2
not to be a dramatic bitch but the iconic emily bronte line ‘i wish i were a girl again, half savage and hardy and free’ hits me in the chest every time and transports me to an undisclosed rural hill in england some time in the 1800s with my hair tangling in the wind as im forced to think about everything i was and everything i’m turning into
Once upon a time, there was a city ruled by three sister princesses. They were much-loved in their kingdom- the eldest with eyes of brightest blue, the middle with lips of sweetest pink, and the youngest with hair of deepest red. They were incredibly close, acting as each other’s friends and confidantes. They were just, and kind, able to balance the people and keep the peace in their land.
For a time, all was well.
And then it wasn’t.
Mother?
Shh.
A neighboring kingdom, jealous of this city’s prosperity and peace, sought to disrupt it. They dragged to its gates hideous war machines, made of magic and steel and human skin. The king, a man of great magical learning and power, demanded the princesses surrender their city to him, and if they did not, he said, he would raze it to the ground.
Mother, I’ve never heard of this story.
Then listen when I tell it to you.
The youngest daughter, when she heard, did up her deep red hair, put on a delicate crown, and clothed herself in a beautiful dress. “I will offer him an alliance,” she told her sisters. “I will give him my hand in marriage for our kingdom’s safety.”
The other sisters wept, understanding the sacrifice that their youngest was making, and held her close until dawn. They saw her off at the castle gates, and watched until she disappeared into the still city.
When the youngest daughter reached the enemy’s camp, she stood tall, and did not show her fear. She spoke kindly to the weary soldiers, curtsied before the cruel sorcerer-king as custom demanded. She was brave, oh, my darling, she was so brave.
And the king spat at her fine words, and spoke the words that drew all the light from out of her, until she went mad with despair. As the sun set on the day, and on the youngest sister, who lay despondent in the middle of the camp, a soldier came upon her, and killed her in a fit of mercy.
But you said that she was brave.
Yes. She was.
When the other sisters heard, the middle sister donned silver armor, borrowed from the guards in the castle, and took up a crossbow. “I go to kill the king,” she said. “I go to avenge our youngest.”
And the eldest held her close, and wept, until she let her go and watched her disappear from sight into the streets.
When the middle sister arrived at the camp, she moved quietly, looking through the tents with eyes and a heart made cold with fury and grief. She reached the king’s tent- asleep, inside was the enemy, and she raised her crossbow to finish the job. And she would have, darling, she would have, had she not seen, hanging from the post of the kings fine bed, her sister’s delicate crown.
The king awoke when she sobbed at the sight of it, and spoke words that caused her to wither and decay where she stood, crumbling to rotted remains inside a suit of armor.
Mother, I don’t like this story.
You must hear it.
The eldest sister heard the news and she did not weep. She drew her courage about her, and set off into the forest to find her and her sister’s mother, who was a powerful witch.
Her mother answered the door and bade her come inside, offering her condolences about her sister’s fates. Once the door had closed, her mother hesitated, then spoke.
“I left you in that castle long ago, and I will give you your answers, and then I will give you your vengeance against the king.”
And so the daughter listened.
Mother, I don’t want to hear this.
Listen, daughter.
Long ago, there had been a queen with great magickal abilities, but she was never able to find a love, so she used those powers to create three daughters.
One, she formed from a bottle of light captured at the sun’s violent surrender to night. It woke last, a child with beautiful red hair, and so it was the youngest.
One, she shaped from a gentle pink anemone, the last in her castle’s courtyard to survive winter’s onslaught. It woke second, a child with curved pink lips, and so it was the middle.
One, she carved from a piece of sapphire the size of her fist, and as she did, she cut her finger with the blade, so it was made with blood, as well. It woke immediately, with bright blue eyes, so it was the eldest.
The sun took her first child home, she told the sapphire-girl. Her body turned to light, and then to nothing, what it always was. The body of her second daughter rotted in the encampment like a flower decayed beyond its lifespan. “All the king can do is turn you back to what you were before,” she told her daughter. “He will turn you back to stone if you are unprotected.”
She gave her daughter a vial full of black liquid. “This will turn your heart forever to sapphire. The king will be unable to change you- but you will never feel again. No blade shall pierce your skin, but no joy or grief will stir within you. You will never be warm, or cold. I offer you not immortality, but a half-life of invincibility.”
The daughter regarded the vial, and uncorked it. She brought it to her lips, but before she drank, she asked her mother, “Why did you leave us?”
And then she swallowed, so she would not care about the response, and she left her mother in her home before she found the answer.
But why did their mother leave them?
Because she knew, daughter, even then, that her eldest child was capable of committing this act, and she was afraid.
The eldest daughter marched to the encampment, and to the kings tent. She was attacked, but nothing drew blood, and so she went forward. The king, upon seeing her, spoke the words that would have crumbled her to so many sapphire shards, but nothing happened.
She pulled out the king’s heart through his armor, and she felt no relief at having killed him.
She felt nothing.
The end.
Mother?
Mother, that can’t be how the story ends.
Mother, that is not how the story ends.
Do you want another ending?
Yes.
Very well, then.
The people saw what their queen had done, and began to fear her. The queen, unable to feel love or even affection, went back to her mother to find a way to make a child that her people would adore, because, without emotion, she saw that that was what they needed.
The child was made of ice over a pond, and her hair was the orange-white color of the fish, still alive in the cold.
And the queen raised her daughter to love the kingdom, to rule well, and to one day overthrow her mother.
men’s loyalty to violence is disturbing. when women want a life free of abuse, assault, threat, & coercion, men’s first suggestion is “learn to fight back. learn to defend yourself”. i don’t want my life to be a fight. i don’t want to “prove myself” through inflicting pain & fear.
i don’t find violence and physical conflict fulfilling or self-actualising.
they’re exhausting & dehumanizing
please be safe tonight. remeber that it is okay to say no, no matter the circumstance& if someone says no..no means no. don’t take drinks from anyone & don’t leave your drink unattended. & please please please don’t drink & drive or get in a car with anyone who has been!
i know for america, AAA is offering a FREE service to get you & your vehicle, if you have one, home from 6pm-6am new’s years eve/new years day! the number is 1-800-222-4357.
i believe uber & lyft are also offering discounted rides with a code! if you can’t find a code, message me & i will do my best to find one for your area!
Physically I’m here, but mentally I’m in a small classroom at a liberal arts college in Vermont maybe in the ‘80s studying Classics and toasting to living forever
werewolf: i’m a werewolf person: ok so when you’re in human form you’re a human, and when you’re in wolf form you’re a wolf though. werewolf: no. i’m a werewolf. human form = werewolf. wolf form = werewolf. always a werewolf. no matter the circumstance or appearance, I AM ALWAYS A WEREWOLF
The “don’t compare people to Hitler or call people nazis, it belittles the history” thing was meant for people who use the word ‘feminazi’ or call abortion ‘the baby holocaust’ or point out that ‘the nazis banned books’ when their favorite video game is cancelled.
When a right wing politician undermines basic human rights, criminalizes protestors and encourages violence against minorities, then yes, you can bring out the nazi comparisons.
@queeranarchism hey, are you Jewish or Rroma? Because if not, this really isn’t your call.
Even if you are Jewish, ask yourself why people will always go straight to nazi comparisons. A genocide that’s still internationally denied, doubted, downplayed? Why is it that people must comodify the suffering of the Jews and Rroma when more apt comparisons exist?
For example, the internment (hint hint) and forced separation of migrant children. Constant Auschwitz comparisons. Why, when America has its own guilty history to compare with? Not only does it recall the internment of Japanese Americans, but the stealing of indigenous children by America isn’t new. Residential schools, forced adoptions, intentional divorcing of these children from their cultures. Is that not a more apt comparison?
I do think some WWII comparisons are reasonable; for example, the rejection of Muslim refugees heavily resembles the rejection of the MS St. Louis, a ship full of Jewish refugees who were sent back to Nazi Europe.
But again, that was in America.
Not only does the immediate leap to nazi and holocaust comparisons comodify the suffering of two groups who are largely not afforded recognition for their plight, it allows America to pretend like it doesn’t have its own vile, racist, fascist history.
