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dallonm-archive · 3 years

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LIFE CYCLE OF MASSIVE STARS | A CAMP NANO 2021 (RE)-INTRO

CONTENT WARNINGS: death of a parent, classism, anti-autistic ableism, mental illness, trauma, light adult content (nothing explicit)

Genre: literary fiction, contemporary, new adult, ?????, who knows :)

POV: third person present, split POV

Setting: Sheffield, UK. 2020 but i am simply pretending there is no pandemic

Camp Nano Goal: 15,000

Deals With: parental trauma, death, sexuality + gender identity, anti-autistic ableism, classism, complicated family dynamics, the “help i’m in my last year of university and i don’t know what i’m fucking doing or who i am” mood, chloe talks shit about the uk + uk gov for ~80k words straight

The Vibes: rainy days, empty streets at night, libraries at 3am, house parties you shouldn’t be at, misty mornings, highlighter stains, cheap alcohol, city skylines, countryside views, going to big tesco/aldi just to feel something :(

Summary: Thomas’ father died over summer and he doesn’t know how to tell his housemates. Instead, he hides in the IC library or the Botanical Gardens or West Street clubs and decides that he is a blank canvas, and that his trauma can stay with his family in Rotterdam. (it’s not that easy)

Kristen likes to pretend that Uni will last forever. He likes to pretend a lot of things: that nobody will look at him differently when they learn he’s autistic, that people will understand his relationship with gender, that his family isn’t hiding secrets from him about his mother. (it’s not that easy)

Junie thought coming out would come with all the answers. But she only has new questions: what does “lesbian” mean for her? Who is she beyond that? How does she find her place in amongst people who experience the world so differently to her? (it’s not that easy)

Literal Logline: girl help i am still attached to OCs i made in 2013-2016

So if you’ve been following me a while (I say as my blog is only seven months old), you may remember a little wip I introduced here named Patchwork, a new adult novel that dealt with the messy experience that is trying to figure out what it means to be an adult when you’re plunged into the fast-paced adult world of university. That story has always been very close to my heart but it was difficult to progress on because:

I was working on it whilst going through ~the worst time of my life at university~. My second year was already awful before the pandemic started, and the pandemic just made it worse, and since this story is so inherently connected to my own experiences at university I couldn’t work on it whilst dealing with all of that. I’m currently taking the year off until things calm down and I think it’s the perfect chance to sit back and reflect on those experiences, and I think writing this novel would help

I simply was not ready for it! Drafting Revelations, Revelations has really refreshed my perception on novels because it’s taught me that I suit slow-paced, plot-light, discovery written novels the best and the original plan for this novel was way too plot heavy because I thought that’s what I had to do. But it’s not!

But! Whilst this novel and myself needed a lot of growth before I could think about drafting it, I’m at a point where I do feel ready to return to it. I think drafting Revelations, Revelations especially has given me the confidence I needed because I! Really tried to hard to give a heavy plot to this novel initially and I’ve since realised that I work best with slower novels that are really just a snapshot of people’s lives and their emotional growth. I also am at a point where, whilst I know not being there is the best thing right now, I miss University so so so much and I miss pre-pandemic University like I miss lecture halls and cafes and house parties and library all nighters so much it’s unreal!! This novel is practically a love letter to the year I lost as well as calling out the absolutely awful way the UK government has treated University students both before and during this pandemic. I was actually originally going to set this in the pandemic, because I think there are so many conversations that need to be had about the handling of it in this country but I also don’t think I am Ready for that (and I really just want my characters to be able to go outside lol). I think Camp Nano is the perfect kickstart to actually work on this novel because I now know just need to start writing rather than worry about ~plot~ - my plan is to just pants the fuck out of 15000 words and see where the story goes! I probably won’t return to it until I finish drafting Revelations, Revelations, but I appreciate the chance to get a head start + a little break from RR that I think will be needed by April

The biggest and most important change going into this however is: all three protagonists are autistic! I see a lot of posts about how to write autistic characters on here, but I think I’ve only seen one or two stories that actually had an autistic protagonist (if you have a contemporary and/or literary wip with one please please tag me in it! I really want more autistic rep and I want autistic rep from non autistic people too) and, as an autistic, I decided that I Will Simply Create It. All three characters have their own unique relationship with their autism and I am super excited to have a story that can explicitly navigate that whilst it’s not all the story is about, it is an important element as it shapes how our narrators see the world. And whilst there is anti-autistic sentiment they have to deal with, it’s not at the centre of their narratives or autistic stories. They are just autistic and existing and that’s not always easy but it’s ultimately what makes them who they are and they wouldn’t change it for the world. Being autistic is a wonderful thing! I love being autistic! I also would love to talk more about autistic rep on here (unfortunately relevant thanks to a certain movie): my biggest frustration is that it is SO clear that mainstream autistic rep is not actually for us. It perpetuates harmful ideas and only serves as inspiration porn for neurotypicals. They frame our condition on how it impacts others and don’t consult us or let us tell our own stories and pretend we’re all cis white verbal boys with bad social skills. I am only one autistic person, and I cannot write for everyone in the community (please make sure you are listening to and supporting all sorts of autistic people!), but I hope that telling a story influenced by my own will not only help myself but others - and maybe help out any of you that aren’t autistic and are looking to write autistic rep.

The main characters haven’t changed much, but a little re-intro :)

Thomas

studies psychology

bisexual disaster

panic attack! in the library cafe

wannabe plant dad (one of them is named monty :) will monty survive?)

looks like he’d invite you to watch pulp fiction in his dorm but he’s probably never seen it and his favourite movie is probably like. ratatouille

taking italian classes to cope

Junie

studies psychology

16 year old chloe made a pretty girl oc and was like hope this doesn’t awaken anything in me and here we are

bakes to cope

the BEST fashion

lets go on an adventure :) -screams in the forest-

she’s done your birth chart and she is NOT happy

Kristen

studies english and music

the way i literally can’t let go of this bastard and it’s been 8 years

former emo kid who never really got over it

BEST party playlists

often found in the kitchen at 4am making cinnamon rolls

unsupervised access to the internet as a child

i have no taglist for this, but like with NaNoWriMo, i’ll likely do a dedicated taglist for Camp Nano updates and we’ll see where it goes from there! As I said I likely will take a long break from this story after April until I finish drafting Revelations, Revelations, so the taglist will just be for Camp Nano, but I’m excited to spend a month getting to know it and sharing that with y’all so if you’d like to me on a taglist for this, let me know! <3

#i promise my next novel wont be third person present split pov but it is <3 so good <3 #wip intro #amwriting #writeblr #atlastracking #LCOMS #once again i am making a post at 5am and i am also autistic so ignore typos pls <3

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gracereadstoomanybooks · 3 years

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answering questions I’ve been asked on TikTok✨

QUESTION: how did you get into reading?

So, when I was in middle school (many moons ago) we had this thing called AR Testing. Basically, you read a book and take a test on it—the questions were things that happened in the book, it was really simple. If you got a good grade, you got points. The more points you earned, the more eligible you were for the reading party at the end of each semester. Me, being the nerd I am, got top of my class because I went through 8th grade level books like it was nothing. The librarian at my school brought me books from the high school to read since everything was easy for me, and alas, my addiction began. And now that I have adult money, it’s a true addiction. Also, telling my father “I’m bored” and his response being, “go read a book or something” so thanks dad.

QUESTION: what’s one book you ALWAYS recommend to people?

This one is tough because I’ve read THOUSANDS of books, but if I had to choose one, it would probably be Confess by Colleen Hoover. I fell in love with her work in high school when I first read Ugly Love, but Confess is the type of book that pulls at your heart strings, y’all. It has everything people love: humor, sexual tension, drama, love. GO BUY THE DAMN BOOK. Or honestly any book by Colleen Hoover—she’s a fucking amazing author.

QUESTION: outside of making TikToks, what do you do for a living?

I currently work at a restaurant and hate every second of it. If anyone tells you to become a server, DONT. It’s not worth the hassle, I promise you. Sure, you can make decent money but the amount of rude customers and shitty tips you receive each shift is very disheartening. If you really need a job, do anything BUT work in the food industry.

QUESTION: what’s your wattpad story about?

First question: which one? I have about 30 drafts sitting there waiting to be posted. But, I’m going to assume you’re talking about the Harry Styles fan fiction I’ve been working on for the past 4 years and haven’t had the courage to post. I’ll tell you a little about it: Elaine Aldridge is forced into a betrothal to a man she’s never met & loathes. She goes to his court and realizes things aren’t what they truly seem. And the guard her future husband sticks on her??? None other than Mr. Harry Styles. Add in some magic & deaths and you’ve got my story— The First Prince. (Honestly, that’s an extremely shitty description so if you wanna check it out go to my wattpad account)

QUESTION: how old are you?

Ahem. . . twenty-one.

QUESTION: what is your dream career?

Being a published author and having people rave about my books. That’s all. Or, an editor for a publishing company. Imagine reading all day and being paid for it🤩

QUESTION: what was your least favorite read of 2020?

I already KNOW I’m gonna get shit for this but....... the wicked king. YALL I LITERALLY COULDNT GET THROUGH IT IM SO SORRY, I STILL HAVENT FINISHED IT

QUESTION: current favorite author?

Sarah. J. Maas. I don’t know what it is about her writing style, but it’s addicting. Throne of Glass is hands down the best series I’ve ever read. A Court of Thorns and Roses is the first book I’ve EVER reread. Her stories truly suck you in and hold onto you—you get lost so easily in her writing and it’s like once you’re done with a series, nothing will compare. Or, at least that’s how I felt after finishing Kingdom of Ash. Honorable mentions: Jennifer L. Armentrout, Penelope Douglas, L.J Shen, Elle Kennedy and Kennedy Fox.

QUESTION: any recommendations/tips to give to a new reader?

I’ve always given this advice to people who want to get into reading: find what you like and start with that. If you like romance, I’ve got a list for you to choose from. Mystery? Another list. Sci-fi? I GOT YOU. Fantasy? Yes! Sports fiction? It might take me a second but I’ll find you a book. Nonfiction? I’m zero help in that category, honestly. The point of the matter is that you’re never going to enjoy a book if you aren’t interested in the underlying topics.

QUESTION: do you ever find yourself comparing your life to fictional life?

Yes. All the time. I daydream about being apart of the Inner Circle and living in Terrasen with Aelin and Rowan. I think about what it would be like to have real powers and a mate. It drives my boyfriend crazy—but he loves me anyway.

QUESTION: what are your most anticipated books of 2021?

Here’s a list:

A Court of Silver Flames by Sarah J. Maas

The Crown of Gilded Bones by Jennifer L. Armentrout

Gods and Monsters by Shelby Mahurin

Crescent City 2 (Untitled) by Sarah J. Maas

A Vow So Bold and Deadly by Brigid Kemmerer (I just ordered this one & it arrives tomorrow)

Blessed Monsters by Emily A. Duncan

QUESTION: why did you start a Tumblr?

Honestly, I used to love tumblr when I was in grade school (way too young to be on here then but what else is new). I like having an extra space to get my questions and comments out without having to compress it into a 60 second video for TikTok to see. Tumblr is a good place to blog & post things like this.

QUESTION: what’s your favorite song right now?

I’ve listened to Carry You by Novo Amor every day for the past two months and I cry each time.

QUESTION: why write Harry Styles fan fiction?

Simple: I love Harry Styles. I’ve been a fan of him and One Direction since they were on X FACTOR. Read that again. X. Factor. I used to watch their performances on YouTube before WMYB even came out. Of course, I love all of the 1D boys but I was always a Harry gal. And I look up to him in a way—I’ve read things about people wishing they knew him personally and honestly? I would never want to meet him. I like the version of him I’ve cooked up in my brain over the past 10 years. I like the symbiotic relationship I have with his music. Fine Line is a ✨masterpiece✨. HS1 is a ✨work of art✨.

now, some topics I’ve been asked way too many times and want to finally get to:

QUESTION: political views?

the saying “anyone but trump” has been in my brain for the past four years. No, I’m not a republican. No, I’m not a democrat. I like to think of myself as a progressive (ahem, liberal) Did I vote for a democratic candidate? Yes, and I’d do it again and again until the US isn’t one of the worst countries—I’m sorry, businesses— to be apart of. I wanted Bernie but got Biden, and I’m alright with that. And my girl Kamala🥳

QUESTION: how did you feel about the BLM protests?

I went to multiple BLM protests and donated a lot of funds to BLM & other organizations. It’s 2021, people... stop being fucking RACIST. And don’t be afraid to call racist people out! Black Lives Matter, even if no one is posting about it anymore.

QUESTION: thoughts on abortion?

your body your choice, queen! not my uterus, not my problem.

QUESTION: there was a comment on an old video of yours talking about r*pe, why did you delete the comment?

I made a video when I first started my account on TikTok about reading in public and feeling “turned on” by it. Go watch it if you don’t know what I’m talking about. BUT, some ignorant male decided to comment and say “this is how girls get r*ped”. Whew. So. I deleted the comment because ....

I am a victim of sexual assault. Along with a lot of other women. 1 in 5 women have been victims of sexual assault. Talking about being r*ped isn’t funny.

No one else needed to see his comment. I reported it immediately and his account was shut down.

I never got justice for what happened to me, and the fact that some random male—who had never even met me or seen me before my video showed up on his FYP—had the nerve to comment that? Unacceptable.

this question isn’t as controversial but

QUESTION: what’s the best way to get out of a toxic relationship?

okay, let me just start off by saying that the people around you who love and support you are going to be your backbone. Leaving a toxic situation is hard, and every situation is different, but my best piece of advice to offer you is don’t be afraid to ask for help. Your loved ones are going to be there for you when you need them, even if you don’t believe they will. If you explain what’s happening, someone you know and love will drop whatever it is their doing to make sure you get out safely. good luck my babes.

now, back to our regularly scheduled program:

QUESTION: any tips on making tiktoks?

Literally none. I post what I think is funny and relatable and if anyone agrees, I’m satisfied. Even if it’s one view, it’s good enough for me. So I guess my one tip is to not base your life off of an app and followers.

QUESTION: favorite Harry Styles fanfic?

DONT MAKE ME CHOOSE. Duplicity is up there, along with Stall 1&2, and Kiwi. After? Absolutely not.

QUESTION: favorite WEBTOON?

y’all already KNOW. LORE OLYMPUS BY USEDBANDAID. Rachel is a genius and I have reread the series a million times. Hades is my soulmate and Apollo can rot in the fiery pits of the Underworld. also, if we’re talking about other webcomics, reading Walk on Water on mangadex...🤫

QUESTION: favorite movie?

Howls Moving Castle. I will be getting my “a heart is a heavy burden” tattoo very very soon.

QUESTION: I read your Elain theory on tumblr, can you explain a little more?

I thought I was pretty straightforward but I’ll say it again: she is always the “good” one and it’s too suspicious. SJM has already given one Archeron sister a happy ending, Nesta’s is obviously inevitable, but Elain? She has too many options for a happy ending. Lucien, who is her “mate”. Azriel, who is intrigued by her slightly. Her human guy—I don’t remember his name—who is disgusted that she’s not human anymore. Or, alone, planting flowers all day. BUT! My point is that she’s not truly happy. She was forced into the Cauldron just like Nesta. She was ripped away from the life she loved so dearly and didn’t want to give up. The man she was going to marry now hates her guts because she’s a High Fae. She has the perfect set up for a villain plot line and I’m all here for it.

well, that’s all I feel like doing tonight. hope you enjoyed my little q&a! be kind, and talk to you later! byeeee!

#a court of silver flames #acotar #harry styles #one direction #sarah j maas #throne of glass #wattpad #tiktok #elain archeron #howls moving castle #lore olympus #q&a time #walk on water #persephone #lore olympus hades

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eloarei · 3 years

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A little rambling: on grief; and grieving a dog, a cat, an unborn child, and pieces of me that got hurt along the way.

2300 words under the cut.

It’s a very gloomy day today. I don’t usually mind; I like rain. But on a bad day, or a bad week, it only seems to insulate me in my own dark thoughts. That’s what today seems to be. I’ll work on fixing it later-- getting some exercise, sunlight if the clouds clear, making some tea. Should’ve done that already, but I forgot. Ate half a banana, at least.

As I’ve complained about a few times lately, I’ve just not been doing especially well. When and why did it all start? It’s hard to say, but this ‘unwellness’ spell seems most potent starting April 11th (my anniversary, unfortunately, which is why I can remember it), when I came down with a gruesome stomach bug. Really haven’t been feeling right since. I’m really bad about being sick; it scares me and I handle it badly. I assume that’s part of what has messed me up.

But grief is the other part, I think. Grief, and my being scared and worried that what caused it could strike again at any minute. Look, I’m... 32 now, and I’m sure that most people by this age have experienced profound loss. I’m probably not unusual, and I’m certainly not alone, but I think all the loss I’ve experienced is just piling up on me now, like there wasn’t enough time to process the new fresh ones before newer fresher ones came on, and so now even the old tough scars are aching.

When I was a teenager, my parents died. They were old, and it was health problems. It was not a surprise, but that didn’t make it easier to deal with in freshman year of high school. (What made it easier to deal with? Rabidly cleaning out the fridge and watching Lord of the Rings tapes the neighbors lent me. That’s all I did for three days after my mom died.) It’s been a long time-- more than half my life ago-- and I do feel like I’m ‘over it’, but sometimes it just wells up, tears from nowhere. Maybe that’s just how grief is.

A certainly had a good decade of my 20′s. I got married at 19, and had a pretty uneventful set of years. That felt normal to me. I do think, though, that the loss of my parents haunted me in that time, quietly. It influenced everything I did; it probably still does, if only because it changed the person I have become. But other than that, things were good, I think. My dog Roxy died two years ago, when I was 30, not long after I got back from seeing my siblings for the first time in ages. She was violently ill, and died right in front of us as we were getting ready to take her to the vet. I think I’ve written about it. In fact, the next day I wrote a depressing fanfic piece, certainly as a coping mechanism. (It made people cry, so, mission accomplished, I guess.) I think that helped a lot. A few months later, my in-laws’ dog died too, while mom-in-law was on vacation, and that was rough as well. I wrote another sad fanfic about death. I really like both of these pieces, because they mean something, and they’re very raw. Furthermore, I’ll always have them, as tokens for Roxy, Ginger, and the little pieces of me they crushed when they died. I don’t know if the exchange is worth it, but it’s what I have.

My grief over Roxy was gentle, as time went on. It didn’t bother me. I think I’d processed it well. I’d written out my feelings. I held her body in numb arms as my husband dug her grave. It was okay.

In early 2020, basically on my 31st birthday (and right as Covid was happening), I found I was pregnant. Long story short, those were the densest two months of my life, where everything seemed to change so quickly. My thoughts and feelings could fill so very many pages; this is not the place I’ll leave them. The point of this particular story is that it didn’t work out. The baby ‘died’ not terribly unlike Roxy had-- violently ill, in front of me, with far too much blood. I passed out three times-- the real start of this current fearful nature, because I cannot overstate how very much I felt like I was going to die. I went to the ER; it was miserable, an ordeal I could say quite a lot about. I won’t, though. I have before, and I likely will again, elsewhere.

This... This grief... I think I still don’t know what to do with it. I don’t think I ever will. Months later, I started writing a fic to deal with my feelings, though it took 90k words and many months before I got to the part where I could really delve into my trauma. And it has helped, I’m sure. I’m really sure. And I care about this fic so much, because like the others it is raw and real and it’s something I’d never have if not for my experience. Again, it may not be a fair trade, but it’s what I have.

I don’t grieve for the baby. It didn’t make it far enough to even have a heartbeat. It doesn’t have a name, a gender. It doesn’t have a grave. We let the hospital take care of it. But I still grieve. I’m sad. Wrecked. I grieve what it could have been. I grieve the hope that was spent and lost on it, a precious resource that will take a long time to grow back, if ever. I grieve over not only my own disappointment, but my husband’s, and my in-laws. They’ve never pressured us to have kids, but they’re in their 60′s now, with no grandchildren. I think they feel... lacking, in a way. I understand. I feel the same (though different). I wanted to give them that. I wanted to have that.

I still....?

I can’t say. I don’t know what I want. The event complicated my already complex emotions. I’m still waiting for them to simplify. Maybe they will, or maybe they won’t.

I was alright for a while. Stressed enough because of Covid and family’s declining health. Then in early April 2021, just a year after the miscarriage, I got badly sick. Gross, but not what most people would call a real issue. But only a year after the miscarriage, when my body betrayed me and I was at its horrid mercy, this felt like too much. Again I felt like I was going to die. A week of near delirious fever and nausea; I’d have handled it badly enough in any other circumstance.

As expected, I got through it. A horrible week, but just a week (or so). And then my dog Tobi died, just days later.

This is it. This is the one I... I’m speechless about. The one I... maybe haven’t processed enough. I was just back from the edge of being badly, violently ill. I didn’t have the energy to write, physically or emotionally. And that just made it worse. I love writing. It’s my outlet (surprising, I’m sure). I wanted to write. I thought I ought to write. I needed to write. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t muster the words. I still... can’t.

Tobi was... my baby. Not literally, of course. I didn’t conflate him with my lost child or anything. Tobi was 14. I’d had him since I graduated high school and got an apartment. Adopting him was one of the first things my husband and I did as an established adult couple, before we were even married. He was there, at my wedding. The photographer took a cute picture of me holding him before the ceremony. He was 11 months old at the time. Still had all his brown spots before they turned tan, then later white. He was there; he was always there. He was my entire adult life. And now I’ve lost him, the pup I had longer than my marriage (though soon we will outlast him). He was the big brother to all my other pets. He practically raised all the cats, and they adored him. (Tobi was a chihuahua, so they might have thought he was just another cat.)

He was a sweet boy, who loved his mom and dad first and foremost. When he was little, he was scared of everyone else. Eventually he warmed up to strangers and friends, and in his old age he mostly liked to nap somewhere on his own. He was silly and playful; he always chased the cats when they wanted to be chased. It was a game they all loved.

The vet... well, we took him in when he started to cough badly. He’d had a cough for a few months, but it wasn’t constant and didn’t seem to be affecting his quality of life much. But that day it was bad, so we took him. (We can’t afford frequent vet visits, so this was clearly desperate.) The vet took him and put him on oxygen. We had to stay in the car because they weren’t open for human guests. Then she came and told us a scan had revealed cancer, marbled through his lungs. He was suffocating. In fact, he wouldn’t likely even make it home, not even the two mile drive. We had to put him down. My husband and I cried like babies. We’d never put an animal down before. Generally speaking, we don’t really ‘believe in it’, if that makes sense. But faced with this situation, we had no choice.

I didn’t see him again. I think that’s the worst part, though it would have been equally bad to see him, I think. And it was all so sudden. He was playing and chasing the cats the day before. Begging for treats of human food. Barking at the Roomba. And then I had to pay hundreds of dollars to say goodbye to him. It felt so unfair. I cried all day. My husband and I, we just went home and laid down and wept.

But I still haven’t written about it, not in the way that I wrote about the others. For all that I wrote here, it doesn’t begin to encompass my deeper feelings on what it means that he is gone, and how I felt to have to make that decision. I have ideas. I think I know what I would write, if I could, but writing... still mostly eludes me. I may try. I probably should.

I take a deep breath. I know I should sum this up and take care of myself, but there’s yet a little more to say.

I think Tobi’s death is a large part of what affects me still, but several weeks ago I had what I could only call a panic attack. In the middle of the night I awoke, my heart beating rapidly, a horrible feeling of dread like certainty that all I could possibly do was die. It took over two days for me to feel mostly normal again, and then I still felt vaguely nauseous for two weeks. Then, just a few days ago, it happened again, but this time before bed. I could feel it rising in me, this indescribable sickness. It took several days ago before I felt normal. And this is where I am now.

Sadly, a little while after the first panic attack, my husband and I failed to save a malnourished feral kitten. It was not a surprise, but yet one more reminder of the fragility of life, and how little I can do to keep death away from those I care about. This poor thing, it was so desperate to live, but nothing we could do could save it. I could have poured all my time into trying, could have scrounged up money to take it to the vet (when I should take my own cats, who all have colds), but I know better. I know... so much of the time, there’s nothing you can do. And now I’m trying to help what might be its siblings, a few cute feral kittens nearby. My favorite seems... a little lethargic, and not very interested in eating the wet food and meat scraps I sometimes bring by. I don’t think there’s anything I can do, if it ends up being sick, if it ends up being malnourished. I can’t bring it inside when it could infect my own cats. I have to care for them first.

But knowing that it could die... it bothers me.

And knowing that I could die. I could die. I’m too aware of that, on top of everything else. I hate doctors, so I never go. (Also I’m poor.) This toothache? Could be a terrible abscess. My brother went to the ER for sepsis from an abscess tooth recently! That’s probably what caused the panic, to be honest. But then... why have I felt so week? Is there a problem with my blood? Am I sicker than I know? Do I have breast cancer? My grandma did, and I know I should get it checked out, but it’s just ONE MORE THING. It’s always like that.

And that’s... how I feel right now. Covered in ‘one more thing’s on rainy days and night-work schedules. Trying to take care of myself but not always knowing what that means. Lacking the inspiration to do the things I know I enjoy, because worry and apathy holds me back from everything.

I’m okay. Really. No day of mine is ever entirely without merit, and I have plans to do most of the things that should keep me healthy. But the day is short when my needs and long, and the day is long when I’m paralyzed by apathy.

So. I’ll just take it a moment at a time. And when I can, I’ll try to keep writing.

#elo talks #long post #personal but ok to interact

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theliterateape · 3 years

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Before You Go All-in on Antifa, Try Becoming Antifra First

by Don Hall

The laughter at my expense was not the kind of guffawing that accompanies a sense of genial ribbing but of Biff Tannen cracking up at the awkward geekiness of George McFly.

"What do you think queer means, Don?"

"I always thought queer meant gay."

Laughter. "No. Queer means refusing to accept the binary in sex."

"Isn't that bisexual?"

Cackles. "No. Bisexual is having a sexual attraction to both biological sexes."

"Who the fuck decided that? Was there a memo sent out?"

The evolution of language is, taken as a long tail concept, natural. When the Miriam Webster Dictionary enters finna (contraction. DIALECT•US, verb. finna: going to; intending to. "I'm finna make a scene") one has to grudgingly accept the fact. It is both the codifying of slang as standard and the pushing the envelope of common dialect. It can get confusing but it is as normal as language itself.

The term fragile is very popular in 2021 but I'm not certain the people who use it as a political label have an understanding of what it means. The redefinition seems to be a synonym for defensive but that isn't even close to the original so it doesn't play. Considering how loaded the term has become politically, I'd suggest we take a look at the pre-DiAngelo meaning and embrace it some before we continue forcing the evolution.

Back to that handy tome of mutual agreement of terms, the dictionary has a few definitions of fragile:"easily broken or damaged", "flimsy or insubstantial; easily destroyed.", and "not strong or sturdy; delicate and vulnerable".

A nine year old boy is enticed to have penetrative sex with his fourteen year old babysitter one afternoon while his little sister watches Joe Namath as "C.C. Ryder" on the television a room away.

This is either molestation or an uncomfortably early rite of passage. The argument can be made that a nine year old cannot give consent but that's not how I remember it. A more fragile person might see this experience as traumatic. He might internalize shame and let the shame fester until he finally explodes like a liter of Diet Coke and a Mento tab. An anti fragile person might see it as no different than playing in the streets when the sewers back up the neighborhood becomes a river in the rain. No stigma, no shame, no harm.

The anti fragile adult is going to have a happier life if not the attention lauded upon a fragile victim of circumstances beyond his control.

I was a latchkey kid.

We lived in an apartment complex on the less than affluent side of town. Mom worked several jobs and the step-dad at the time was a preening, disco-dancing domestic abuser. As such, I found myself out and about without a lot of safety nets in place. I played in a septic ditch just on the outer parameter of the complex. On the other side was an abandoned housing development and I frequently went over there alone to practice my karate (which I thought I was learning from watching David Carradine in Kung Fu, a popular episodic featuring a white man posing as an Asian man who saved people with his peaceful but forceful side kicks). I’d kick holes in the drywall pretending it was comprised of bad guys.

On the north side was, in my mind, a forest but in reality was just a bunch of trees in several abandoned lots. Whenever I ran away from home (a feat that usually lasted until I was tired or hungry) I would go to my forest and “read” the tattered copies of Playboy and Penthouse I had stolen from the aforementioned step-parent.

To the south was a playground for the kids in the complex. A rickety swing set, a teeter-totter, and a broken merry-go-round surrounded by garbage dumpsters. A cursory examination of the dumpsters—a routine activity for a vagabond third grader—revealed a coterie of used hypodermic needles, marijuana roaches, empty liquor bottles and fast food trash.

It’s likely that parents reading this have already crossed themselves or knocked on wood in deference to the fact that their children would never be put in these positions. That their children are safe.

One day, as I had exhausted myself from kicking holes into drywall villains, I headed to the playground. There was no one else around and I decided that I wanted to swing but not on the actual rubber strap. I unhooked the strap from the hefty S-hook it hung from and grabbed it like Tarzan on a vine. I started to swing around in circles holding as tightly as I could to the chain.

Slowly, I began to slide down until the S-hook punctured my white jeans and then into my scrotum. I felt some discomfort and looked down and saw blood on my crotch but I couldn’t disengage. I was hooked, by my ballsack, to the chain. I panicked and did my best to scramble up the chain but the S-hook was firmly in there and the chain just followed me up.

I screamed for help. No help arrived. I struggled and the blood started running down my left pant leg, flowering out like a Rorschach. It seemed I was hanging there for hours but the reality was more likely a few minutes until the hook, now greased with blood, slid out of my nuts and I fell to the dirt.

Leaping up, I dropped trou on the spot to inspect the damage but there was so much blood that I couldn’t see what was actually a small leaking hole. I cried. I squalled. With my pants around my knees, I ran home.

I smashed into the front door screaming bloody murder that my balls were bleeding. My mother, shocked by the sight of her 9-year-old kid, reddened pants around his knees, crotch covered in blood, and in high hysteria (I mean, who make among us wouldn’t be?), laughed out loud. A giggle turned into a laugh transforming to a barking guffaw.

The more dramatic I was about it, the harder she laughed. Out of shock, out of horror, out of knowing how melodramatic her son was prone to be. She giggled as she washed my junk off and saw the tiny hole. She giggled episodically as she put an ice pack on it and tossed me in the car to go to the emergency room. She stopped laughing by the time we reached the hospital and I received two stitches on the underside of my underside.

A more fragile person might grow up with this experience in desperate need to pay someone to listen to his trauma.

"My mother laughed at my bleeding scrotum!" he'd wail as the therapist did her best to stifle her own laughter. He might write a book much later after his antidepressants and struggle session with his mother commenced entitled "Men and The Mothers Who Giggled at Their Nuts" and an article in The Atlantic "Incels and Their Reasons."

An anti fragile person might see this as pretty fucking funny.

In 1992, I was mugged just outside the Granville Redline stop in Chicago. It was around 2:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning. I had just played a gig on the Southside with a big band known as The Outcasts and, still in my tuxedo, decided to walk the block to an all-night diner for some breakfast when three young black men hit me with a two-by-four and then proceeded to kick the shit out of me on the sidewalk.

They stole $14.00 in cash and a check for $200.00 from the gig.

Bruised but not broken, when I told the police that I was mugged by three young black guys and what were the chances I'd get my money back, they laughed. Not like Biff Tannen but more along the lines of Denzel in Training Day to a naive Ethan.

Later, when I met with Gil, the drummer and band leader, to have him cut me another check, Gil muttered as he canceled the first "N****rs are the fucking worst." It would have been cause for some sort of reckoning except that Gil was black.

A fragile mind might find himself going over and over the incident, blaming himself, blaming black men everywhere, blaming the cops.

An anti fragile mind understands that shit happens and you can't dwell too much on it because that means you're spending a lot of time thinking about shit.

The more time one spends dwelling on shit, the worse the place smells. It's like living with five cats. At some point, you have no idea that your apartment stinks like cat asshole but your Tinder date sure does.

Commonsense Media has polled some info out and it seems that the kids are wallowing in catshit.

23% of 14- to 17-year-olds say they "often" came across racist comments on social media in 2020 — nearly double the number in 2018 (12%).

"Sadly, but not surprisingly, the teens and young adults who are most likely to be affected by such content are also most likely to encounter it — or recognize and remember it," says the study, which was done in partnership with Hopelab and the California Health Care Foundation.

Black young people are more likely than whites to see racist comments "often" (34% vs 23%). LGBTQ+ youth are more than twice as likely than non-LGBTQ+ youth to encounter homophobic comments (44% vs 18%). Females are more likely to encounter sexist and body shaming posts than males.

On top of all this feline fecal material, it turns out that both actual mental health issues as well as the frequently self-diagnosed PTSD cases are dramatically on the rise. Where, in my formative years, comparisons of how many push-ups one could do was common, today's kids compare anti-depressant cocktails.

Under almost any definition, this is the behavior of fragility. Fragile like a Fabergé Egg in the back of a pickup truck on a dirt road going 75 miles an hour.

Surrounded by catshit, constantly seeing the injury you're looking for and thus finding it everywhere, always feeling aggrieved and victimized. What the fuck can you do except feel like you need to be bathed in Bactine just to survive life's never-ending abrasions?

First, decide what's more important than your feels.

Most people let their every waking moment be dictated by feelings—both theirs and everyone else's. This is a one-way path to thinner skin, gentler sacks, and a general inability to live in a world outside of an echo chamber that has been hermetically sealed.

Becoming anti fragile is the process of understanding that there are a lot of things more important than your feelings. Romulans are fragile; Vulcans are not. This isn’t to say you shouldn’t have the feels—just don’t let them make your decisions for you. It might feel great to scream at the obnoxious woman at the Walgreen’s counter but it’s smarter to mind your business and buy your condoms and Zagnut bar while shutting the fuck up.

Second, get better at feeling bad and keeping it to yourself.

Just like most people allow their lives to be led by the nose by their feelings, most people think they are somehow important. They aren’t. You aren’t. The way skin thickens up is by taking some hits and learning that there are far worse things than being insulted, micro-aggressed, or shamed publicly. Grow a sack and a sense of proportion.

Finally, as the Stoics go, assume you have something to learn in every interaction rather than you have something to teach. I mean, who the fuck are you? To most people, you aren’t anyone of note so suck on the bitter teat of humility and join the throng, kiddo.

As Jalāl ad-Dīn Mohammad Rūmī once wrote "Yesterday I was clever so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise so I am changing myself."

Be wise because clever people write for McSwenis and those assholes suck.

#fragility

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