I'm sure you've already answered this but is Machete styled after a silken windhound? He is so very shaped

His breed is fictional, but it closely resembles modern day Ibizan hound. Both Silkens and Ibizans are sighthounds though, so you're not far off.

every time i go through the end of ew and see the cs with zenos in sharlayan i have to stop and imagine his conversation with that customs lady at the docks when she asked what his job was and he would have gone off on one of his typical monologues about living for 'the hunt, the THRIIIIIIIIILL of bahttle the raw pulsing ecstacy of being locked together in combat, teeth at each other's throats, giving in to the huungaahh that can never be sated' etc etc and she would have been like uh huh so you're unemployed hmmm i see

dude. what is up with Edward Twilight. He really tried to establish dominance over Arthur ‘call me Sir until you earn my name’ Bennett, in the craziest, most confusing interaction, where he gloated over being with Mary, but also gave a ‘we saw you across the bar and dug your vibe’ sorta energy in what I can only call an attempted power play? and then he immediately lost the idgaf war so bad to he had to make two frenzy checks.

There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

society of the snow (2023).

on courage and survival.

sax rohmer #1 - the mountain goats | ??? | … - ingmar bergman | ??? | notebooks - tennessee williams

a support group for people with “unconventional” daemons. jeff with his flounder he has to carry everywhere in a huge tank. lois with her poison dart frog everyone is afraid to touch. sam with their elephant that’s the reason they can never go higher than two stories in most buildings.

been watching new vegas

A little continuation of this

------- -------

Sometimes just surviving is already your biggest achievement.

wait i think actually madeline miller's circe is the heir to margaret atwood's penelopiad, unintentionally, in the way it thematizes the impossibility of real solidarity among women.

bc it's such a major part of the penelopiad how penelope creates what she thinks is a real community, a sort of family, with these young women in her household only be to reminded and continue to reinforce that they are slaves over whom she (among others) holds the power of life and death. and penelope ultimately does not or cannot hold a lasting grudge against odysseus on their behalf. she aligns herself, or circumstances force her to align herself, with odysseus instead of with other women whose positions are even more dangerous than hers. the world they live in does not allow solidarity between women across lines of class and enslavement, and penelope is also complicit in maintaining that world and her place in it.

and then the thing i found so frustrating about circe was that at every turn miller forecloses the possibility of real connections between women-- but the thing in this world that prevents that is just, like, jealousy over men. and totally needlessly. the other nymphs are prettier. glaucus loves scylla and not circe. her mom never liked her. hermes doesn't really think she's hot. athena is a rival for odysseus' attention. and the book doesn't do anything with this, it's not due to structural power imbalances or a society built on enslavement or even how patriarchy pits women against each other (circe lives alone on an island outside of society that could be another writer's lesbian separatist utopia!), it's just that circe doesn't like other women and they don't like her. end of story.

much as i don't love what atwood does with helen, it does make sense in the context of the penelopiad! thematically and in terms of characterization. atwood's penelope has internalized this idea of what it means to be a good woman and, willingly or not, she's staked everything on being seen by men as a good woman. it makes sense that she's desperately trying to pull herself up or even just cling to what little she has by dragging other women down. she does to helen what she ultimately does to the maids. she's with and for odysseus, always, not helen, and not the maids. that's the kind of world she lives in, and while she likes to think that she's resisting it with a sort of radical female community, in the end she is its agent. even if she feels bad about it. she's here to tell a story about odysseus, not about the girls he killed.

I didn’t sit here for years tryna stay calm and silent while listening to your bad takes on gale (who grew up oppressed, in poverty and then witnessed his entire district getting wiped out then rightly went to fight in the rebellion because it was his inlg chance of tearing down the system the wanted him and his family dead) being a “terrorist war criminal who is single handedly responsible for killing innocent people including prim and who is the REAL villain of the hunger games” just for y’all to turn and start stanning and defending actual facist dictator and child trafficker Coriolanus Snow because you saw a young hot version of him.

LA SOCIEDAD DE LA NIEVE | SOCIETY OF THE SNOW (2023) dir. J. A. BAYONA

zazie

ahem.

society of the snow (2023).

we've endured, now what?

the waves - virginia woolf | morning in the burned house - margaret atwood | tiny beautiful things - cheryl strayed | the glass essay - anne carson | vive, vive - traci brimhall

i am wide awake thinking about that post canon jb au again when I should be sleeping …!!! such is the nature of the jbrainrot…

Warrior (2019) - 3x01