#they even go so far as to say that dyke has only been used for gnc lesbians
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Just saw someone say that femme lesbians can’t reclaim dyke. 😕 Are you kidding me?????
#lesbian#femme lesbian#femmephobia#femme#d slur cw#op#they even go so far as to say that dyke has only been used for gnc lesbians#ignoring the fact that femmes can also be gnc#do you really think that femmes in relationships with other femmes won’t be called dykes just because they are feminine????!!!!!#get a fucking grip
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You Shouldn't Be
Robin gets bullied in this one. I'm sick and tired and I have an early day tomorrow so please forgive me.
Do you have any prompts yourself? Or do you want to dive into what I wrote before? You can read my previous prompts or send me some new ones.
It wasn’t anything new. That didn’t mean it stopped hurting. Some things never stopped hurting. Some things like her mom telling her that her rambling was a flaw. Or her classmates shouting insults she told herself every night. She wasn’t sure how they had figured it out or if they didn’t even now at all. Maybe they just thought this was the worst insult in the world. To Robin it might have been.
So, she did all she could. She kept her head down, avoided confrontation, bit her tongue when she had to, and she had to. She did everything to become as invisible as she could. She did everything, and yet it wasn’t enough. Because those vile words were still thrown her way. She couldn’t walk through the hallway without being confronted with it.
Tommy Hagan was the worst one. He never gave her a second to breath. Jason Carver wasn’t much better. Robin sometimes wondered what they got out of it. Maybe it was overcompensation.
“There’s dyke Buckley!” Jason shouted as Robin exited the building.
Her eyes scanned the parking lot. She knew Steve was somewhere around. He always was. He always parked in front of the school, he always picked her up. She couldn’t see him now.
“What’s going on, Buckley? Are you upset?” One of Jason’s friends was laughing. It made him sound like a broken record.
“Don’t you know you are supposed to look at the people who are talking to you?” Jason stepped closer. Robin stepped away.
“I think they should kick you out of school. I feel bad for all those poor girls that have to get changed in the same room as you. Do you stare at them when they take their bra off, Buckley? Are you a freaking pervert? You are disgusting.”
“I’m not disgusting,” Robin whispered to herself. She wasn’t sure she believed herself.
“You don’t think you’re disgusting, Buckley? You think it’s normal to get off to the image of your friends?”
“I don’t—”
“Oh, fuck off, Jason.”
Robin turned around to see Nancy Wheeler approaching, her bag hanging off her left shoulder. She was wearing a pink skirt, and a light blue blouse and Robin vaguely registered it should look ridiculous, but it didn’t. Nancy looked great. Even despite the scowl on her face. Possibly due to the scowl on her face.
“This isn’t about you, Wheeler.”
“Well, frankly, I think it is. Because me and Robin have gym together. Didn’t you worry about the safety of the girls who shared a locker room with her?”
“What?”
“I have to say I can’t complain. I would much rather share a locker room with Robin than with you and your goons any day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, at least Robin has some decency. Can’t be said from you. How many times have you asked me to fuck you again? And that whilst you have a girlfriend. What does Chrissy think of that?”
“You keep your mouth shut to Chrissy.”
“You leave Robin alone and I’ll consider it.”
Steve rushed forward. Robin wasn’t sure where he had come from. “Jason, back the fuck off.”
Jason’s eyes were still boring a hole in Nancy’s face. Robin could only assume he was debating whether or not she was bluffing. Robin doubted she was. She had never caught Nancy in a bluff before, and she knew Nancy wasn’t a good liar.
“Back off,” Steve shouted, pulling Jason away from them.
“Don’t touch me,” Jason shouted back.
“You better stay the fuck away from my friends, Carver.”
“You’re pathetic, king Steve.” But Jason turned away.
“Are you alright, Robin?” Nancy asked first, placing her left hand on Robin’s arm. It felt far too intimate for a public parking lot.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Steve chimed in.
“Steve’s right,” Nancy agreed. Her hand fell back down.
“It’s alright, guys. I’ll survive.”
Robin walked away in what she hoped was the direction of Steve’s car.
#prompts#ronance#nancy wheeler#robin buckley#steve harrington#my work#stranger things#fanfic#robin x nancy#nancy x robin#ficlet
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Pageboy - Let's Do This Thing
In keeping with my brand of, well, Ellen-posting, since my name is Ellie, I thought I'd continue Ellen-posting by reading a book by someone who used to be named Ellen and doing a review of said book for radblr. I'm going to break it up into chunks so you're not faced with giant posts of me rambling or EP rambling.
I would like to say that I feel like there are very few 30-somethings who should be writing memoirs. I've had a pretty exciting thirty-ish years on the planet and I don't think I'm qualified to write a memoir - not because it wouldn't be full of interesting, beautiful, life-changing, sometimes horrible things but because I'm only thirty-ish. I prefer memoirs by people who've lived a bit longer - but again, this is only my preference. I don't read a lot of memoirs as a whole, I guess.
Anyway.
Ellie's Read and Review of Pageboy (Part One)
Author's Note
EP is "grateful and terrified" because trans people "face increasing physical violence" and "our humanity is regularly 'debated' in the media" (citations not given)
the book would not have been written without the "health care" she received, which seems weird because what she describes in the first paragraph about not being able to write seems like ADHD and instead of taking Adderall and being seen by a therapist she took testosterone and had her breasts surgically removed
quotes Leslie Feinberg who, among other things, was a very serious pronoun enthusiast (as evident by Feinberg's Wikipedia page, no I'm not being sarcastic here, just go read it and tell me I'm not wrong)
I want to be a jackass about the last paragraph of the author's note but even I don't have it in me, because it makes sense and is kind.
Chapter One
EP meets someone named Paula and falls in love with her and they do mushrooms together
She thinks about Paula on her trip through Europe
They go to a gay bar
This line hit far harder than it had any right to:
She kisses Paula and it's marvelous
Chapter Two
The Village Voice writes a shitty article about EP calling her a "dyke" after Juno comes out
which is a name she was called many times growing up in Canada
EP played soccer and once went to a tournament in a town I would visit some twenty-odd years later for very different reasons
this is important because she rooms with a girl she has a crush on
she tries to come out to this girl as bisexual
the girl says "no you're not" and then her friends make fun of EP
I learn that Tim Horton's has bagels, which confuses me but is in fact true
EP's grandmother asks her father what they're going to do if it turns out EP is gay
the lines in this chapter that punched me in the chest:
because fuck yeah I was a fucked up kid who didn't plan to live much beyond age 18, EP, I see you
fame is not what EP thought it might be; she doesn't want to wear a dress to things but somehow they tell her she has to and she isn't allowed to say no (which I get, and is not great, but eventually you need to be able to say no and do what you want)
another magazine in Canada asks if she's gay
Paula from Chapter One is seen with her and it's speculated they're in a relationship; Paula's not out to her family and so things are all very sad and EP feels like she will never be free to be who she is
At this point I am just sad. I came out later in my life (22), and was diagnosed with gender dysphoria much later (33), but at age 12 after a lifetime of wearing dresses and having my hair the way my mother wanted it, I stopped letting that happen. I started to wear what I want. I grew out my hair. I learned about makeup and shaving and for a little bit bought into it and then said "fuck no," which I continue to do to this day because it's bullshit.
Who in EP's life thought it wasn't okay for her to wear pants, and why didn't she or someone else stop them? I've obviously never been a famous actor but as an actor aren't you the person in charge of what happens to your image? Why wasn't her publicist or her agent on her side?
I had a lot of good people in my life who made me believe in a future for myself. Sometimes they had to carry me physically through what was happening to make sure I made it to that future, and I'm here today because those people didn't give up on me. Where were those people in EP's life?
There are things about the EP situation that make me bow in over my ribcage. It's just sad, and seeing paths others take that look like they make sense to everyone but which seem to say something entirely different when looked at upside down... which is a rambling way of saying that it's almost 4 am and someone should have told EP she could have been a happy lesbian who wears pants without having her breasts surgically removed and taking cross-sex hormones.
Anyway, the laundry's done, more later.
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ive been failing miserably at promoting my pkmn irl rp discord server on my actual pkmn irl blogs so. ykw? fuck it. im posting this shit on main.
dont be scared! 80% of the server isn't even active at all! the rules are lax because its small rn and i cannot be assed to be strict ever. yes its pokemon focused but you can do whatever tbh. crossover? self insert? as long as you acknowledge that pokemon exist you can do whatever the fuck you want!
join the trainer connection hole today!
im putting the rules below the cut incase you wanna take a look before you pop in
General rules
No transphobia, homophobia, racism, etc. Fantasy racism is to be limited.
Respect others' boundaries.
Respect the blacklist. Tag your stuff.
Be respectful towards others. In-character issues stay in-character.
When posting other people's art, always credit the artist.
Pluralkit is NOT to be used for RP. Use Tupperbox.
You can say fag, dyke, tranny, etc. IN LIGHTHEARTED CONTEXT ONLY! No racial slurs.
RP rules
Above rules apply.
You can somewhat imply and mention things, but cannot have on-screen sex.
Do not hijack RPs or characters.
Any text rp style is welcome, just make sure it can be easily distinguished when you're narrating vs when a character is speaking.
Keep in mind Pokemon battle mechanics if battling is brought up.
Canon characters and duplicate canon characters are welcome, just make sure people can tell the dupes apart, and if you want to make a dupe, make sure the person who already has the character is okay with it.
OCs are welcome.
Fallers from other medias are welcome.
OCs that are fallers are welcome.
This is a Pokemon centered RP. Don't stray too far, but have fun with it.
People will have different canons and headcanons. Take this into account and don't force others to adhere to yours.
No godmodding. Don't have characters immediately state what's going on just because you know OOC.
Putting a bio for your character in character-info is not required, but encouraged.
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Thank you so much for your BPD post. I've had people judge me irl for going from openly identifying as bisexual specifically to IDing as Lesbian (with a secret Bi- for Cool People)/Queer/It's Complicated. And while some of that is genuine shift in my identity, a lot is about seeking medical diagnosis rn and being scared of a BPD diagnosis and I can't explain that to people BC I'm worried they'll take that as manipulative, too. Seeing people talk about how it's genuinely dangerous and how bisexuality is such a factor in the diagnosis is really fucking validating.
i rarely see people talking about the biphobic aspect to how bpd gets diagnosed—one of the main diagnosis criteria is about "disordered/unhealthy sexual behaviors", which immediately pathologises bisexuality and any kind of non-normative sexual behaviour from non-monogamy to having kinks to just enjoying having sex with strangers (and again if you're bi this is included in the non-normative, disordered behaviour). i remember reading how bi/pan women tend to have higher bpd diagnosis rates than heterosexual women and even lesbians bc of the whole "oh you're bi you cant choose a side so i diagnose you with manipulative slut disorder" and i mean i experienced it myself, with a doctor trying to diagnose me despite not even fitting *any other criteria at the time* except that my anger at the abuse i saw in psych ward counted as a "manipulative ourburst" i guess and me being perceived as a bi woman sealed the deal lol. so i feel you entirely, as an nb dyke myself
as a whole id argue that bpd and most psychiatric diagnosises are only as useful as far as they provide you with a community who might share similar issues and in rare cases, being able to support each other. certainly i know friends who are antipsych but id with bpd in terms of being able to better understand specific symptoms of trauma and find tactics to handle said symptoms better, as well as support others with similar delibitating symptoms. but this is what a shared community does that can be good—the truth is, bod and most personality disorder diagnosis are not just fundamentally flawed but used to deny any kind of care or help to already traumatized and depressed people. ive heard cases of "misdiagnosis" of bpd, but id argue any official psychiatric diagnosis is a danger bc it puts a target on you and marks you indefinitely. you could fit the bpd criteria to a T and I'd still argue that a diagnosis is a danger and can actively impede your access to care, and be used as ammo against you by doctors, healthcare providers, family and even random acquaintances because frankly, no matter how nice an individual doctor is, most doctors treat a personality disorder diagnosis as a way to say "this person's shitty and hard to deal with and should be kept away from healthy society" and it's also how it's used by 90% of people (whether in healthcare or otherwise) who love to have a way to distance themselves from Irrevocably Broken People and put any instance of abuse or poor behaviour on them. there's a much wider argument to be had about the harm of psychiatry as a whole, but i have this particular issue at heart. i know so many traumatized and abused people whove been retraumatized and frankly destroyed by being marked with this kind of diagnosis, whose abuse has been justified by their peers bc they have the Broken Slut Disorder or the Has No Feelings Disorder or the Selfish Cunt Disorder. which are all apparently Real and Important medical tool that serve an important function and should never be criticized lol
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oooh modric?
L U K I T A
(i'm already both struggling with the concept of finding just one favorite photo of him, but at the same time i have a very classic go-to hahaha)
favorite thing about them: uh literally everything? if i was raising or helping to raise a boy, i would use luka as a positive role model for non-toxic masculinity. i just adore him in every way. he's not perfect, but he seems like such a good person who operates with intelligence and humility--at the same time he's tough and no pushover! i love his floofy hair and elf face combined with his Manly Voice and best abs in football (and 3rd nipple vibes hahaha...he has a birthmark on his Tits.). plus, his wife Vanja is the queen of wags and in the family photos they seem to be raising their kids to be normal kids--they're not always posed in instagram ready outfits and express their own senses of style instead of wearing cutesy matching outfits (looking at you rakitic family your kids are TOO OLD for that). his football is so sexy and exciting to watch. i will watch his rm highlights and it's just so!!! imagine a lukita & lamps midfield linkup!
also the #old #man #way he #UsesHashtags #😎
also also i like that he is older than i am...i feel like footballers are all 5 years old these days lol
least favorite thing about them: he plays for one of my least favorite teams :( so i never watch him play, lol. but at least rm (as far as i know) treats him decently as an Ancient Player
favorite line: omg...maybe when he cursed out a slovenian ref, "jebem ti mater slovensku u pičku" (def spelled that wrong) ORRR uh the classic when he wrote "I am fucked" in the comments of his ancient insta post
brotp: like...everyone he meets? luka and kova, luka and carli (tho luka ćorluka is def a valid OTP), luka and MARCELO...idk he just seems to bring joy and sunshine to everyone he meets. no wonder his mom called him "my sun" at one of his awards ceremonies.
notp: with messi
otp: i mean....i mean...
R A K I D R I Ć. my first otp of two footballers. it's everything. after all these years i think it still might be my favorite football ship. it gives lamperry in a sense (though lamperry also gives šejan...Interesting) the way Luka makes ivan feel so good and bright and happy and like he belongs (until it all went to shit.). i wish they could have been together somehow, even though vanja is the rare wag i 100% love lol.
(runnerup: modramos)
random headcanon: uhh...lukita is one of those guys who i think is pretty straight, but has some exceptions.
unpopular opinion: STOP CALLING HIM A FUCKING LESBIAN/DYKE i will literally. what the fuck. it ain't cute and saying a man isn't a man bc he has qualities you like? or somehow associate with femininity? is...don't contribute to the problem guys. thank god i haven't seen much of this recently but like...gurguhg it gets my blood Boiling
song i associate with them: ok this is weird...but the only song that makes me think of lukita is "sin pijama" by becky g/natti natasha, and this is only because dejan had an insta video where he's driving to see luka and singing that song into the camera...apparently he wants to see luka in his bedroom without pajamas? modren agenda
favorite picture of them: actually. i'm going into my Archives and posting two random ones
feat. ms VANJA BOSNIĆ herself
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Identity
Word Count: ~900
[CW: internalized homophobia, homophobic slurs (self identified)]
Summary: Tommy has something to tell Gwyn, but things don't always go to plan.
January, 1984 - Tommy's Bedroom
Tommy wipes his palms on his pant legs for the fourth time in as many minutes, gritting his teeth in frustration. Why is this so hard? Either she'll take it well, or she won't, but not knowing is worse, and he's never going to know anything if he just keeps sitting here without saying it.
"Gwyn, there's something I need to tell you," he says. He can't look at her, though, so he stares at his shoes instead. The sole is starting to come loose, but he can't afford a new pair.
"Of course, babe. You can tell me anything."
Tommy doesn't wince at the endearment, too used to Gwyn's casual affection, but it chafes at him, somewhere deep below the surface.
"I'm not who you think I am. I've been lying to you, to my Uncle, to everyone, and I'm tired. I can't keep hiding from you, Gwyn. You're my best friend," he says, hating how his voice is getting tight, or how he keeps babbling instead of getting to the fucking point.
"Tommy..." she says gently, mattress sinking when she sits down next to him. "It's okay. I already know."
...what?
Tommy’s blood runs cold. Had he been so obvious, even before he figured it out for himself? His thoughts are racing, wondering if she’d noticed how focused he’d been when they watched John Travota prance around a Ford De Luxe on movie night, or maybe she’d seen how his eyes had lingered a little too long when Harry Osborn climbed the rope in gym class. Have other people noticed? How long until he stopped knowing even a minute of peace? Until even the adults who tolerated him left him for the wolves? What about his uncle?
"What? What do you mean, 'you know?'"
"The lying, the missed practices, the bruises. You're Spider-Punk. I've known for a while."
Yeah, Tommy definitely missed something.
He gapes, for a moment, mouth opening and closing a few times without a sound before he manages to find his words—
"What? No."
—and then they just don't stop.
"I mean, yeah. We can do that too, while we're at it, but that's not— that's not what I meant. Well, I would have told you, right after this, even, but that isn’t what I was trying to say. I am Spider-Punk, but that's— it's not—"
Apparently, his confusion is letting him skip right over the panic of Gwyn somehow knowing his secret identity, but not letting him find the right words to say what he actually wants to. He just keeps babbling.
"Tommy, honey, take a breath. What's this about?"
Fuck it. Who cares whether they're the "right" words?
"I'm gay, Gwyn," he blurts, and everything goes silent, like even the shitty pipes are too scared to break the tension with their usual clanging.
"What?"
"I'm gay," he says again, and it comes out easier, even if it hurts more. "I'm queer. A fairy. A fucking faggot, if you prefer." He spits the words like a curse. It definitely feels like one.
Why me? Isn't my life hard enough!?
His eyes are burning and Gwyn is still just staring at him. She doesn't look disgusted, but maybe she’s just in shock, processing this huge bombshell.
"Say something," he rasps, "please?"
She doesn't respond, not with words, anyway. Instead, she surges forward, wrapping her arms around him and tucking her face into the crook of his neck. It takes him painfully long to reciprocate, movements halting and awkward with surprise. This has to be a good sign. Right?
They stay like that for a long moment, with only the sound of shaky breathing and the background hum of the heater to fill the silence. Eventually, though, Gwyn is the first to pull away. She doesn’t go far, just enough so they're face to face. Her eyes are just as damp as his own.
"Me too," she confesses.
"What?"
"I'm gay. More of a dyke than a fairy, actually. Men? Not really my thing."
Oh.
Tommy doesn't know how to respond to that, other than to pull her back into a hug, burying his own face in her shoulder. It's probably for the best, because he starts to bawl like a baby, choking on the overwhelming mix of emotions that crashes over him. It's almost too much to parse and he feels like he's drowning, pulled under a riptide of relief-joy-trust.
He's mourning a bit, too. Grieving for the normal life he could have had— that they could have had. It’s one thing to admit such things to himself, but admitting it to another person— to Gwyn— makes it all the more real.
And it hurts. Each strangled sob is soothing agony— like the gangrenous decay of fear-shame-isolation being cut from healthy flesh. He hadn’t realized he was suffocating until he could finally breathe again.
He can’t stop crying and Gwyn's not doing much better, if the wetness of Tommy's collar or her shaking shoulders are anything to go by. She’s clutching onto him like a lifeline and Tommy? Tommy is independent. He stands on his own because he’s never had a choice, so it’s… terrifying to rely on others for support, but he’s holding onto her just as fiercely. Sharing the burden instead of stumbling under the weight of everything. It’s indescribable.
Tommy doesn't think he's ever connected with anyone the way he does with Gwyn.
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rant post about the online queer community
hey after going outside and talking to real life people for a while Ive come to the conclusion that most of the online queer community is just horrible for queer people.
hi reddit today Im going to ramble on about how the queer space on the internet has somehow regressed back into separation under a more progressive and performative light.
so after being on tumblr for like, fucking 7-8 years or some shit as well as experiencing other queer spaces on other social media platforms (twitter and reddit, mostly twitter) for only a couple years, Ive come to the conclusion that people are so caught up in their own asses that theyve completely misunderstood and forgot why the queer community exists.
side note: I dont care how messy this post is or if the points made are all over the place, this is tumblr.com who gives a shit.
as far as Im concerned, a lot of non-queer and especially religious people really dont like us queers. unfortunately we were all born in a world where we suffer as a minority under laws and power that would really rather have us killed than working together. as such a collective of queer people started banding together under a community where we were finally allowed a space to be ourselves and live as people.
the community consists of fags, dykes, transsexuals and whoever was in-between or outside of those terms. our relation comes from how we are rejected from living normal lives for simply trying to express romance or identity in a way that would finally make us feel alive. so it would only make sense to band together and make sure each of us finally have a home and a life we always wanted to live, surrounded by people who would finally accept us for who we are, right?
ya!!!11!!11one
thats the whole point of the queer community, to band together and finally be treated as people. but the one problem that I see nowadays is that the current queer community just doesnt fucking do that.
Im bad at formulating problems in an essay-like way so Im just gonna make a list of things and explanations underneath ok? :) :) :)
1. the queer community unfairly fetishes women:
now theres nothing wrong with liking women sexually or romantically or whatever, in fact it doesnt correlate with the above sentence at all.
Ive noticed in my time on using the internet, that queer people tend to hate or forget people who arent women. whether they are men, or nonbinary, or both, or none at all.
women have a much larger audience than other queer people and its stupid. its gotten to the point where I forgot that the trans flag included women, men, and those who dont identify with either. I just got used to seeing them depicted with women or feminine figures that arent cis.
I literally didnt make the connection until a few days ago that people other than women completely belong under that community as well, yet Ive seen so much trans discussion that only involve women and no one else.
lets change that please, people who dont identify as women belong with the rest of the trans community. I feel ridiculous saying that because I shouldnt feel like I have to even formulate that sentence at all.
2. the majority of the queer community doesnt care about brown people:
now there are a lot of online queer people who arent actively or intentionally trying to be racist but I cant help but notice that they tend to forget about brown people a lot, specifically black people now that I think about it a bit more.
you guys remember when a new version of the pride flag came out and it looked the exact same but they added brown and black colors onto the flag?
strange that at the same time the blm protests were also really popular and part of current events at the time as well, its almost as if it was simply a performative gesture to signify what should have already been obvious.
even after those colors were added, black people were just forgotten again. Im not even going to sugarcoat it I dont think the majority of the online queer community would even care if black people just died, because they already dont.
but this isnt just about black people either, anyone with darker skin tones, no matter the ethnic group, are either used for diversity gestures or completely forgotten about overall.
it has been pointed out multiple times that tumblr staff has actively silenced or banned accounts belonging to brown people.
actually the only time I saw tumblr even care about shadow banning was when they started doing it to trans women, what a fucking shit show. its so easy to care about people no matter their skin color its literally so fucking easy, why is it impossible for the majority of this community to do that.
3. why are we fucking separating ourselves from each other:
hi Im sure youve noticed that Ive been saying the word "queer" over and over again.
first of all, if it bothers you, grow up. the queer community have fought for decades to reclaim phrases used against us dont give it power again.
second of all, I prefer saying queer over lgbtqia+ because it unites us all under one word rather than an acronym pointing out each little category of queer people.
theres nothing wrong with trying to create an identity for yourself that means a lot to you and makes you feel more comfortable for yourself, but I have to argue and say that certain labels just seem pointless and belong under ones that have already existed before their creation.
yet I dont blame people for using different ones than the labels that have already existed because I think we collectively failed to inform people that those labels can have multiple meanings.
bisexual doesnt just mean you like cis men and cis women, it means you like anyone you want to.
transgender doesnt mean you are now the opposite of your assigned gender, it just means that you arent cis. it also doesnt mean that you need to have surgery done on you or that you wear different clothes than the norm either.
although I see the point of creating extra labels, I ultimately think they do more harm than good. we have to stick together to survive, any more individual groups then we are as good as gone.
those are the general points that Ive wanted to make anyway. I would love to type more but I have a feeling that the reading comprehension on this site wouldnt survive the first two paragraphs.
the last thing I want to say is that you should find more ways to be together than try and exclude each other, because while youre calling yourself a "foxgirl bi lesbian enby demiboy" there are queer people in real life being kidnapped and mutilated for simply trying to exist.
please for the love of everything that keeps us alive and safe, find ways to stick together.
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07/10/23 | g.r.
[text below the cut]
poem without pronouns
so the devil went down to florida, passed seventeen u-hauls
on the wrong side of the road and kept trucking. store-brand
exodus. DIY rapture. devil made __ to the heart of the everglades
and held council with the gators, with the wrinkled and wrathful.
devil said breaking news: god has resigned. heaven is empty,
on account of prayers no longer being addressed correctly.
no more capital h. no more father art in heaven. the pious
have forgotten __ name to hallow; up to __ to sort out the mess.
(the end of the world has been beginning for a while now)
last week the woman at the school board meeting shouted:
no more pronouns!
and the monkey’s paw didn’t so much curl as spasm: less easy
motion and more rigor mortis, a dead thing still desperate to matter.
an affront to nature, really. probably why the devil showed up.
devil said __ is fucked up, even for __. devil said want to see a spell? say the magic word and watch __
disappear
devil said
how many people will be erased for the sake of tradition?
justification is secondary—cutting out expression just looks
like violence in the end. not saying the word does not strip meaning
nor dignity. politician shouldn’t be a synonym for magician.
bigot is not a synonym for god. __ am done playing devil’s
advocate against the far more monstrous: cold hearts never listen
to hypotheticals. so time for hellfire. time for pride, for the lustful
and angry. ban controversy and the only thing left is clear-cut
and vulgar: the dykes and the fags and the rest of the defilers.
no more polite words to use, but in no world would __ go quietly.
only 5% of __ poem has been redacted and yet the silences scream.
__ are screaming. __ are screaming
a sound big enough to be mistaken for war cry, for angel, for chorus.
home and heaven are empty, but __ are forging a new kind of paradise around the bonfire. singing a new kind of song. listen to the sound of perseverance, __ cowards. the sound of love. the sound of millions
filling in the blank.
#alt title for this: american politics enrage local queer person more at 10 o clock#poetry#spilled ink#trans rights#gay rights#wrote most of this back at the beginning of june and only finished it this week it's been a rough one folks#not even sure if it coheres but it was cathartic at least#i went kind of crazy w the religious stuff in this one too huh#ALSO SIDE NOTE DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD THIS WAS. PRONOUNS ARE SO FUCKING FUNDAMENTAL TO LANGUAGE Y'ALL#daydreams for lost things
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im really annoyed because everyone at work knows i use he him pronouns right
well the other day my coworker says ' i dont see dykes as women ' but hes super cis and kinda young hes only 17 so i dont really expect much more than accident ignorance bc in the three months ive known him he means well at the end of the day and respects my gender the most at work actually he uses the right pronouns almost every time and even calls me a gentleman sometimes and he once even jokingly mentioned gender roles that apply to men like they applied to me and that made my stomach turn in the best way hes probably my most frequent validation in life rn (even tho he messes up but i dont correct him i know he knows and im not gonna chastise him for an accident) but he Does have that cis way of treating women and men differently in a platonic situation u kno? but anyway i digress he was talking about how 'dykes' dress like him talk like him act like him so he doesnt see them as women but rather men and i couldve gone into the whole history of butch lesbianism but 1. im not a lesbian and know only mid to decent knowledge anyway and 2. it wouldve been lost on him and he wasnt saying anything as if he was looking down on butch lesbians he just clearly has more traditional notions about gender that i plan on slowly but surely breaking down as seen by the next series of events
and i go what do you see Me as?
and he was like i dunno a dyke and i responded saying im not a lesbian and my Other coworker who i only just met recently so i have even less annoyance about the encounter regarding her bc shes only spoken to me a handful of hours so far but anyway she goes so what Do you see yourself as?
and i wanted to say a man that has the unfortunate situation of having tits but instead all i did was say im vic bro and that answer absolutely satisfied everyone to the point where i got a high five but i could tell it was in the way that i validated the idea im not a man in their eyes if that makes any sense
this is a very long post considering all i want to say is i dont want to be some nebulous in between. i want to be a man who isnt afraid to indulge femininity. thats it. not something breaking binary. im not nonbinary. i do feminine things and like feminine clothes sometimes but that's just out of me thinking clothes don't indicate gender expression. not some weird submission to my female nature or whatever cis people probably see it as sometimes.
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i'm tired of pretending like what i did needs to be forgiven, and also that you're sorry
draft of a story about dying, and the things we say or do around it (incomplete)
for the week of January 28th, prompts were "heaven, necklace, tree."
CW for slurs, homophobia, cancer, transphobia, mentions of drug use
----
Trees get smaller as you grow up. You used to think it was because you were small and the trees were very, very large. They used to span up over your head, into the air, into infinity, but when you look around the neighborhood now, forty years passing, it’s that the trees have definitely gotten smaller.
This is how I feel, at least. This town’s been growing, and as more people come in, more trees leave. They replant the trees, sure, but the ones put in are smaller and frailer. I think a lot about the copse I used to smoke weed with in the nineties, where the trees blocked out most of the sun but just enough got through the leaves that the patterns on the grass became mystifying with each puff. That copse is gone now, ripped out to make room for a strip mall. The trees there are spread far apart, each one barely fifteen feet tall, and they’re smaller.
I can see it from the side of my car as I stop for a smoke break. Coming home is a bitch. Everything always changes. I’m pretty sure the high school in this backwater is no longer a hick high, where being an open dyke makes you less of a target. It probably even has a Gay-Straight Alliance, given how trendy among Gen Z being queer is. But the rules are stricter now, aren’t they? Once something stops being counter-culture, it starts to form its own status quo. Think of how this town used to treat me, and now think of how this town celebrates June. On my sister’s Facebook, I’ve seen advertisements for the pride celebration. Probably exceedingly tame, and exceedingly corporate. Fuck.
I take a drag on my cigarette, looking out at those pathetic little trees. Coming home. I haven’t done this in years, but the sperm donor’s on his way out, and I’m a fucking idiot. I’m giving him one last chance to look me in the face and decide if this boy-girl creature that I’ve become is worth forgiving. Not that I think I need forgiveness, but there’s some bullshit saying about making peace with your enemies. And yeah, the Dad that slapped me for shaving my head when I was 15 is definitely one of those.
The only reason I know they’re still here is that I’m in contact with my younger sister. Even now, I’m texting her about the arrangements and when I can come by. Ellie’s a saint, as some would say, or just spineless. She can’t handle confrontation, and because of that, she’s been put in charge of the sperm donor through his chemo. The two older siblings, who don’t talk to me, are apparently too busy with their perfect families to lift a finger to help him, not when Ellie’s there to dump everything on.
Dumbass Ellie. Too subservient for her own good. That’s probably why she’s the only one that talks to me, too, because she’s scared of rejecting me at all. Her texts come through soft and mousey, each one a slight suggestion. “What time is good for you?” she’d say, and I’d say, “What about one?” and she’ll go, “No, I think Dad is sleeping at one. Do you have a better time?” Just tell me what time to come over, god fucking dammit. We’ve finally settled on four, and she’s asking me about dinner. “What do you want?”
I know it’s a trap. Ellie’s got something picked out, something in her heart, but she wants it to feel like it’s my idea because if she stands up for anything at all, she’s pushing people away. She wants me to feel like she’s making me feel welcome. I hate her so much, and yet I keep in contact with her, too. Because she’s family, and she’s technically all I fucking have. I have the in-laws, technically, but one of them’s going down the dementia hole and the other isn’t coping well, so it’s not like I can talk to them casually. But Ellie’s around, and it helps that I don’t see her often. We keep in touch with pokes on Facebook, texts occasionally sent on birthdays, and selfies seen through the only social we share. And in those moments, I almost miss her.
Until I’m talking to her again, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other, trying to play “guess the restaurant” and get the answer right. Family fucking sucks. Why do I bother, I think as I take a drag. I could leave, and spend the entire day curled up in my hotel, and fly home tomorrow like I planned on it. There’s no way in hell I’m staying longer than tonight. Ellie’s going to try to talk me out of it, but I can’t. Even if it goes well, I can’t.
In many ways, it would almost be worse, wouldn’t it?
“How about pizza?” I finally text, after three other suggestions are thrown out. Chinese food gives her the shits, apparently. Ordering sandwiches is a waste of money, or so she’s suggested with her passive redirection. And Dad’s not really in the mood for burgers. So, I’ve got it. Pizza. The bitch wants pizza.
A few seconds later, I get a, “Pizza is fine.” A few more seconds later, I’m swearing and stomping out my cigarette as the new guessing game shows up. “What kind of pizza?”
---
If you listened to my mother tell it, it was over a necklace. It wasn’t even a particularly expensive one, just a simple golden chain with a cross and a small lab-grown gem in the center. A birthday present, expensive for our middle class family, that I ungratefully spat back in their face. I was a bitch, couldn’t just accept being a good girl, and nothing was worth dealing with my disgusting dyke ass.
If you’ve ever had parents that would rather you kill yourself than be gay, you know it was a long list of various breaking points that led to me throwing the necklace across the room and screaming that I’d rather be anywhere but there. Another spit in the face, another birthday getting make-up and dresses and frilly clothing in an attempt to fix me. And I was seventeen and not particularly emotionally stable, so how could I have stopped myself?
The way Ellie put it is that my father is willing to forgive me, and I’m not sure if I’m going to throw it back in his face or take it gracefully. I’m not seventeen anymore, and this isn’t the nineties. And sure, I survived being homeless. I crashed on friends’ couches, dropped out of school, and started full-time at the Dairy Queen. Then I threw together as much money as I could and moved with my friend Desiree to the nearest city, where we quickly realized we hated living with each other and it wouldn’t last much longer than the lease.
Sometimes I think about Des. Last I checked, she’s gotten married to a man that looks extremely boring, nothing like the men she used to dream about back then. They’ve had kids. They’ve grown up. And while I have, too, it doesn’t look like Des. I live in a two-bedroom apartment with my spouse, Brooke, and roommate, and while it’s a good location in Los Angeles, it’s generally agreed that none of us are ever going to be able to have kids. We’re too old and too broke. We’d have to leave the city, probably move to a red state, and my spouse isn’t as resilient as I am. I could survive, maybe. He couldn’t. He’s lived in California all his life, and while I love him to death, there’s a softness to him that I don’t quite want to ruin.
That’s why he’s not with me. He had offered, but I’m not willing to explain his presence, and I don’t think my sperm donor deserves to know him. I’ve got a few texts from him on my phone, asking me about the flight and how well things are going, and I’m not sure I can deal with telling him that I am going to kill my sister and end up in prison for the rest of my life.
I drive down the road where I grew up, and it almost looks the same. This part of the town, at least, has been untouched by the development of new businesses. Most of the houses are well-kept. I wonder if they’ve started an HOA; it would be just like them to try to keep undesirables off the block. I personally can’t stand lawns, which is part of why I didn’t move back to the suburbs even when we had to take a roommate just to keep rent.
Pulling up to the house, I think it looks just as shitty as it did back then. I park in front, because I’m not comfortable being in the driveway. It feels too close, too oppressive. I sit out in the front for a while and wonder if I sit here long enough, the neighbors will call the cops on me. “Scary bald butch in your neighborhood. Might convince your daughters to cut off their tits.” It’s a thought, and that’s how they think it works, right? Then I catch something in the neighbor’s yard: one of those progress flag “everyone is welcome here” sign boards.
Is that how we’re doing things now?
I guess I don’t look quite as shocking. Bald head, piercings, but I’ve chosen a relatively muted outfit. A normal pair of shorts, a normal tank-top for the summer heat. I could have dressed worse. I glance up at the door to the house, its imposing oak wood telling me that this is my last chance to run.
It swings open, and I’m so tired of running. Sighing, I unbuckle my seatbelt and get out of the rental. I slam the door shut behind me. Ellie is there, thin as a wire, walking down the steps and waving me over.
It’s too late now. She’s spotted me, and so I must stride, headlong, into the jaws of the beast. I exit the rental car, praying for no hugs as I head up the walkway. She calls my deadname and reaches for me, but I stare her down in such a way that she drops her arms.
“I told Dad you were coming,” she says.
“Any reason why you wouldn’t?”
She hesitates. “Well, I didn’t think you’d actually come, much less stay for dinner.” I didn’t promise that. I hope she remembers that I said maybe to dinner. “He really does want to spend time with you,” she adds.
I clench my jaw so hard that I think my teeth are going to crack. I remember my mom crying and begging me to reconsider my lifestyle, that I wouldn’t go to heaven if I kept this up. I remember the necklace. I remember his hand in the hair I was forced to keep, yanking hard. Why am I here? “I bet he does,” I say instead, as neutral as I can.
We stand on the porch for a few minutes, stewing in the awkwardness of the moment, and I wonder if I made a mistake not cutting off Ellie like the rest. She wants peace, but does she care about what’s best for me? I don’t even know if I know what’s best for me. She twiddles her fingers, picking at her cuticles and the chipped paint on her nails. Then she clears her throat. “You should come inside.”
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2024 / 01
Aperçu of the Week:
"He who breaks a resolution is a weakling. He who makes one is a fool."
(Frederic Lawrence Knowles, US-American poet from the 19th century)
Bad News of the Week:
Flooding in Central Europe. Extreme continuous rain has caused a variety of dangers in Germany and France. The consequences of simply too much water in too short a time range from overflowing river beds to washed-out roads and burst dams. In Lower Saxony alone, 10,000 helpers from the fire department, technical relief organizations and even the military are working to prevent the worst.
Nowhere did the rain fall as snow because it was simply too warm: in the course of last week it was plus 12 degrees Celsius in southern Bavaria - and that at the beginning of January. In the new week, however, we have 12 degrees below zero. The experts disagree as to whether the frost is beneficial to the stability of the softened dykes or not. And if we humans are already having problems coping with the change in temperature with all our resources, what must it feel like for nature?
Sweden, for example, is experiencing record sub-zero temperatures. This is pushing fauna and flora to their limits. I dare not even imagine that this will once again be used as an argument by people wearing aluminum hats that there is no global warming.
Good News of the Week:
For a change, there is some good news from Israel. No, Benjamin Netanyahu has not resigned. Even if he in particular will see this as bad news: Israel's supreme court has declared a core element of the so-called "judicial reform" illegal. As a reminder, the far-right executive has been engaged in a trial of strength with the judiciary for a year now. In principle, the government's aim is to disempower the judiciary, for Netanyahu also out of personal self-protection against prosecution. Hundreds of thousands took to the streets against this for months. Then stopped not by sensible government action, but by the Hamas attack on October 7 last year.
But the Supreme Court still has its powers. And it uses them. By rejecting an amendment to the law that would have prevented it from taking action against "inappropriate" decisions by the government, the prime minister or individual ministers. Critics had already warned that this amendment could encourage corruption and arbitrary appointments to important posts, among other things - in other words: it was simply undemocratic.
This is an important victory on points. However, it remains to be seen what effect the decision will have on the government's other so-called "reform projects", all of which are directed against an independent, strong judiciary. But have been on hold since the Hamas attack. Evil voices say that Netanyahu's creeping loss of authority is also on hold only because of the Gaza war. After all, no nation likes to change its government in times of crisis. All the more reason to hope for an early end to the conflict.
Personal happy moment of the week:
Saturday was Epiphany. A holiday on which children in rural Bavaria dress up as the three holy kings and carol singers and go from house to house. And bless the house for the new year. A collection is made for a good cause: a children's home in Puerto Rico. A touch of normality and hope for 2024.
I couldn't care less...
...about royal news. Even if, as a Bavarian, I recognize their historical significance (Ludwig II, Sissi, etc.), I think they are simply outdated these days. Even if my daughter, in her current student job, is trying to keep the Wittelsbachs alive on social media. In this respect, I welcome the fact that Queen Margrethe II of Denmark announced her abdication at the end of the week. Unfortunately, she is not abolishing the monarchy at the same time, but handing over to her son. Sidenote: British King Charles III is still the official head of state of Canada. Ridiculous.
It's fine with me...
...that my favorite newspaper (which I rarely get to read in detail) "Die Zeit" is headlined this week: How does peace work, Immanuel Kant? I think it's extremely valuable that journalism doesn't limit itself to daily news tickers, but instead asks questions, looks behind the scenes and thinks about things. It is not for nothing that in democracies it is called the "fourth power in the state" alongside the legislative, executive and judicial branches. Bravo!
As I write this...
...I discover the music of Keith Jarrett. The exceptional pianist has not only excelled in remarkable recordings of classical music (especially Johann Sebastian Bach), but above all with jazz. I would have loved to experience one of his concert evenings with only improvisations (!) live. I don't know many musicians whose performance makes you realize how much fun they are having doing music. It's also charming that you can hear Jarrett humming along from time to time, or even beatboxing. My favorite albums are the ones he recorded with bassist Charlie Haden. Thanks to excellent headphones with noise canceling, they provide a relaxed oasis of quiet ("piano") music enjoyment even after a long working day on a packed commuter train.
Post Scriptum
My "symbolic thinker" for 2024 - after Goethe, Cicero, Freud and Aristotle in recent years - is Friedrich Nietzsche. Who stares at the elephant in the room. Fascinated? Disgusted? Surprised? In any case, observant, analytical and critical. And an allegory that I am really proud of. In the 19th century, the classical philologist and philosopher broke the mold with both his thinking and his style and did not allow himself to be assigned to any classical discipline - but created new ones, of which my wife understands more than I do due to her interest and a corresponding university degree. In the first semester, Nietzsche wears the ancient Greek symbol for democracy on his lapel. And the elephant has blood dripping from its tusk. Perhaps it is no coincidence that it is the heraldic animal of the US Republicans. But let's hope for the best...
#new years resolution#flooding#germany#france#sweden#bavaria#water#global warming#israel#supreme court#hamas#gaza#benjamin netanyahu#epiphany#royalty#charles iii#newspaper#die zeit#keith jarrett#piano#jazz#friedrich nietzsche#elephant#philosophy#republicans#symbolic#thinker#charlie haden#journalism#margrethe ii
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Toni & Archie
Toni: Ma said you’ve got yourself a boyfriend
Toni: she’s tasked me with finding out who it is
Archie: Wow, she managed a convo that long, eh
Archie: lucky, lucky you
Toni: could be a new record and it was all about you, don’t you feel special? 🙄
Archie: Obviously, full of 💛
Toni: who’s it then?
Archie: like I’m gonna make your special job that easy for you
Archie: what’d be the point, you could get weekly progress reports out of this
Toni: I’ve got my own life to live here, you know
Toni: just drop a name and we can both move on
Archie: Don’t be jealous, sure mum has just learnt not to ask about your love life, like everyone else, like
Toni: ha, the old digs really are the best, like
Archie: it is pretty old, at your age but you know, that’s your baggage to leave un-dealt with
Toni: whatever you think you can force me to unpack to get us off topic, nice try
Archie: Why would I tell you anything?
Archie: said the exact same to her, we don’t do that, not starting now
Toni: grand, she can’t say I didn’t make the attempt to talk to you
Archie: Ha
Archie: her expecting anything looking like effort off you proves she’s got fuck all idea who either of us are
Archie: you’re the laziest person I’ve ever met
Toni: she’s in good company with you at least, with her not knowing
Archie: What guy with greasy hair and a guitar has told you you’re an enigma was lying to you in so many ways, babe
Toni: I don’t need no lad to tell me who I am, Arch
Archie: feminist statement of the year if you hadn’t gone from being that Sam’s bitch to China’s
Archie: it still counts, probably why lesbians hate bi girls if you’re going ‘round acting like it don’t
Toni: I’m not anyone’s bitch
Archie: 👌 alrighty then
Toni: grow up will you, it’s no wonder she’s shitting herself about you seeing a lad if you’re gonna act about 12
Archie: right, because your brand of bitch is actually really groundbreaking and much, MUCH cooler than mine
Archie: you’ve got the same stick up your hole that she does
Archie: and she’ll get off my back when she realises that America’s the one sexting teachers so you don’t even have to with this shit attempt at acting like you care
Toni: I don’t care, I’ve told you loads of times before I’m sick of this shit from you
Archie: exactly why I don’t tell you anything and I’m not going to for your sake, why the fuck would I, at this point
Toni: cos you think you’re so big and clever, probably, or that’s what she would’ve been counting on anyway, there’s nothing you won’t do for the bragging rights
Archie: nothing I’ve ever done has been to impress you, you boring cow
Toni: it’d be mortifying if that was your aim and even more if I had to be pretend you’d done it
Archie: only in you head where you’re interesting in any shape or form
Archie: in reality rocks don’t give me a boner so nah
Toni: it’s me living in an altered state of reality, for sure
Archie: admitting is the first step to getting better, well done you
Toni: go ahead and take your own advice and bs praise
Archie: I’m not a self-absorbed, uptight dyke bitch, so I’m good
Toni: me either
Archie: you are though but sure, agree to disagree
Toni: I’m not though
Archie: You’re fucking boring, is what you are, Christ
Archie: how’s it feel only being tolerated ‘cos you don’t spoil the scenery
Toni: I wouldn’t know cos that’s not even close to being right
Archie: I’ll tell mum to look into benefits, I reckon your delusion goes into being a sort of disability at this point
Archie: widow’s pension only goes so far after-all
Toni: it might work on her but it don’t on me
Archie: really not the flex you think it is
Toni: I could say the same about your 👊
Toni: do you really think I’ve not been called any of this before?
Archie: fucking hell 😆
Archie: and who’s the common denominator there, Tone
Archie: me and everyone else are wrong and you’re 👑 checks out
Toni: it’s not everyone, it’s you and immature bitches like you, babe
Archie: Oh no, not immature
Archie: you’re the one too emotionally retarded to have real feelings, you saddo, get a grip
Toni: you first, before your BIG feelings push even more people away and get you in even more shit than they already have
Archie: I’d rather feel things than be a narcissistic sociopath, but you do you, you think you’re having fun
Toni: I feel plenty of things, what I don’t do is shove everyone’s faces in whatever the emotion is
Archie: you do realise everyone is going to move on, to real, meaningful relationships
Archie: and you’re gonna be stuck unable to commit to anyone asking them all to go for a pint long after they’ve given a single fuck about you
Toni: I’ll move on too, that’s part of growing up, you should try it
Archie: what about your history suggests that’s remotely possible, hmm
Toni: what are you talking about?
Archie: you aren’t there, for anyone, ever, who’s going to settle down with you
Archie: you think you’ll hit 23 and it’ll all stop being so hard for you, yeah
Archie: and I’m childish
Toni: not true
Archie: Whatever, it’s obvious we’ll have fuck all to do with each other by then so I don’t care
Toni: I’m glad it’s obvious, it’d be awkward if not
Archie: I’ll be out of here before you, darling, there’s no need to act so smug
Toni: I don’t think so
Archie: think what you like, you’re the most ignorant bitch I’ve ever met
Toni: I’m the most … of loads of things you’ve ever met, maybe you should get out more
Archie: maybe I can’t fucking stand you
Toni: yeah, I got that loud and clear and it’s obviously mutual
Archie: then don’t try and talk to me again, even if it is to score brownie points off mummy
Toni: alright, I won’t
Archie: 👋
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["At the end of August in 1981, I found myself in a small town in Arkansas, where I knew no Lesbians other than my new lover, Lynn. I wanted it that way. We were living in hiding from my armed and vengeful ex-lover who had abused me for four years and had threatened both of us with deadly harm. This was five years before the publication of Kerry Lobel's ground-breaking book, Naming the Violence: Speaking Out About Lesbian Battering. I knew I had been battered, but I did not understand how deeply I had been injured.
I only knew that I seemed to have saved my life at the cost of my sanity. I jumped at loud and not-so-loud noises. A frown from a stranger could reduce me to tears. I was afraid to bathe if I was alone in the apartment. I relived every word of every fight in relentless flashbacks. I had blocked much of the unbearable pain of the previous four years out of my consciousness at the time, in order to cope with immediate danger. Now that I was "safe" it all came flooding back. To escape, I watched TV compulsively, avoiding anything violent—nature shows were my favorites—and I read science fiction. Having lost faith in women as well as men, I was a serious candidate for a species-change operation.
Luckily, at some point in that bleak winter, I read a magazine article on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) in Vietnam Vets, and I recognized all my symptoms. I had a name for my suffering, and 1 knew I was not "crazy." I'd felt so much guilt and anger towards myself for not being okay, that is, my old self, since I was "free." Now I knew healing would take time and effort, and I gave myself permission to not be normal right away. Also, seeing how much my condition resembled that of war survivors helped break down some of my denial about the hell I'd been through.
Still, I had no guidance on how to recover from PTSD. I followed only the dimmest instincts. First, I began to read accounts by survivors of any serious trauma. These people became my invisible support group. I found myself drawn especially to stories of political prisoners and concentration camp survivors. Although my experience was not like theirs, these were the people I felt would understand how my will had been sapped and my strengths twisted, how the smallest acts of resistance and mere endurance had needed all my wits and courage. Bruno Bettleheim in his chapters called "Behavior in Extreme Situations" (The Informed Heart) finally answered the question I'd put to myself every 44 hour since my escape: "How could I have been so stupid?" He made me realize that under abuse, especially the combination of intermittent threats, unpredictable violence and constant psychological torture, everyone responds differently, but everyone changes fundamentally, and everyone has their breaking point.
One day as I sat reading at the kitchen table, I looked out the window at the small yard beside our duplex apartment, and I began to imagine growing a garden there in the spring. It seemed like a highly improbable idea: the area was very small, steep, bare of everything but gray shale and orange clay, and the house shaded it part of the day. But the notion of a garden took root strongly. For the first time in several years I had something pleasant to anticipate.
I wrangled my landlady's permission to put in a garden. Then I mailed off postcards for seed catalogs. I persuaded an acquaintance who owned a truck to bring me a load of cedar slabs discarded by a local sawmill, and I used these to construct two frames, about four feet by six feet, and two even smaller ones, just three feet by four feet. By this time Lynn and I had saved enough money to buy a very old VW bug, so we drove to a nearby creekbank and filled bushel baskets with rich bottom dirt, which we dumped into the frames to make raised beds about four inches deep.
To supplement the tiny growing space, Lynn scavenged large cans from the cafeteria of the hospital where she worked. I painted them a hopeful green, filled them with soil and placed them along the sidewalk below our porch. Old-timey "Corn-row Beans," originally bred to tolerate the shade of cornfields, grew up strings tied to the roof and bore prolifically.
I didn't have much money from my SSI income to spend on garden gadgets, so I made do. I wove a trellis for my peas from six-pack rings liberated from a liquor store trash bin. (I can testify that this plastic never biodegrades—the pea fence survives to this day.) I got some more bushel baskets from the local grocery, painted them with non-toxic preservative and lined them with garbage bags after snipping a few drainage holes in the bottom. Placed around a small stone patio above the garden, these became containers for large plants.
The garden rewarded me before the first mouthful of early spinach was harvested. It moved me out of the gloomy apartment and into the sunshine, watering can in hand. It motivated me to interact with people and to occasionally risk asking for help. I found out they would usually say yes. My attention was now focused on the future, not the bitter, unchangeable past. At night when the flashbacks threatened to roll, when I dreaded the dreams I might have, I put myself to sleep with 45 detailed plans of my next crop rotation. I found out I could learn a major new skill, a little at a time. I could do things right, even come up with ingenious solutions to seemingly impossible difficulties. And when I did things wrong, plants were most often forgiving. The plants themselves were a tremendous source of inspiration. Talk about survivors! They defied every book written about their needs, often thriving with too little sun, too little water, and too little soil. At the end of a year, I could easily stick my shovel in the dirt up to the hilt, where only four inches of top soil had previously existed; compost and the action of the roots had created friable loam out of shale and clay.
When I experienced failure with gardening, it was never the kind of disaster I'd grown to associate with mistakes. We didn't go hungry, because other crops outstripped our expectations. My lover didn't beat or berate me, but sympathized and helped. The garden was important to us economically, because we'd both lost almost everything we owned in our escape. Luckily, in southern Arkansas, it's possible to garden yearround. The garden gave me precious, desperately needed tastes of success. Disabled, unemployed, I still felt like an important contributor to the household. I even had food to give away sometimes, and that was a delicious feeling.
Gardening was not the only factor in my recovery, but it was an important one. I didn't grow up with abuse, but battering and similar traumas can expand minutes into hours, years into decades, until four years feel like most of a lifetime. At the end of a year and a half of gardening, I no longer felt as if I'd spent the majority of my life in a battering situation. Healing had acquired a new definition for me: I didn't insist on having the old me back; I'd mourned her long and well. I accepted the fact that some injuries are too severe to be made whole, that I might never be the same again. But I began to actually like and trust the me I am now, scars and all. As my garden taught me, I must make do with what I am. I have discovered that my flaws are not fatal and my successes are greater than I'd hoped for. So far I have not gone hungry, and I even have something to offer."]
Amy Edgington, Gaining Ground, from Garden Variety Dykes: Lesbian Traditions In Gardening, Herbooks, 1994
#amy edgington#lesbian literature#terra preta#cw abuse#you are a goddamn tree stump with leaves sprouting out
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Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige
“The thing I love about being an actor is to fully work with someone and try so hard to be at every level with them, chasing whatever it is you need or want from them.”
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Studio Photoshoots > 2021 > Session 008
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Backstage: Elizabeth Olsen grins widely over video chat when recalling many such moments on set with her co-stars. Yet, she can’t bring herself to divorce such a lofty vision of film acting from the technical multitasking it requires. The camera sees all.
“But then you move your hair, and you’re in your brain, like: OK, remember that! Because I don’t want to edit myself out of a shot. I know some actors are like, ‘Continuity, shmontinuity!’ But the good thing about continuity is, if you remember it, you’re actually providing yourself with more options for the edit.”
That need to balance being both inside the scene and outside of it, fully living it and yet constantly visualizing it on a screen, feels particularly apt in light of Olsen’s most recent project, “WandaVision.”
The mysteries at the heart of the show grow with every episode, each fast-forwarding to a different decade: Could this 1950s, black-and-white, “filmed in front of a studio audience” newlyweds bit be a grief-stricken dream? Might this ’70s spoof be a powerful spell gone awry? Could this meta take on mockumentary comedies be proof that the multiverse is finally coming to the Marvel Cinematic Universe?
The series’ structure, which branches out to include government agents intent on finding out why Westview has seemingly disappeared, calls for the entire cast to play with a mix of genres, balancing a shape-shifting tone that culminates in an epic, MCU-style conclusion. What’s key—and why the show struck a chord with audiences during its nine-episode run—is the miniseries’ commitment to grounding its initial kooky setups and its later special effects-driven spectacle in heartbreaking emotional truths. It’s no small feat, though it’s one that can often be taken for granted.
“I was thinking how hard it would have been to have shot the first ‘Lord of the Rings,’ ” Olsen muses. “Like, you’re putting all these actors [into the frame] later and at all these different levels. All the eyelines are completely unnatural. And yet the performances are fantastic! And technically, they are so hard. People forget sometimes that these things are really technically hard to shoot. And if you are moved by their performance, that took a lot of multitasking.”
As someone who has learned plenty about harnesses, wirework, fight choreography, and green screens (she’s starred in four Marvel movies, including the box office megahit “Avengers: Endgame,” after all), Olsen knows how hard it can be to wrap one’s brain around the work needed to pull off those big, splashy scenes.
“If you think about it, it’s, like, the biggest stakes in the entire world—every time. And that feels silly to act over and over again, especially when people are in silly costumes and the love of your life is purple and sparkly, and every time you kiss them, you have to worry about getting it on your hands. Those things are ridiculous. You feel ridiculous. So there is a part of your brain that has to shovel that away and just look into someone’s eyeballs—and sometimes, they don’t even have eyeballs!”
The ability to spend so much time with Wanda, albeit in the guise of sitcom parodies, was a welcome opportunity for Olsen. Not only did it allow the actor to really wrestle with the traumatic backstory that has long defined the character in the MCU, but having the chance to calibrate a performance that functions on so many different levels was a thrilling challenge.
“It was such an amazing work experience,” she says. “Kathryn [Hahn] uses the word ‘profound’—which is so sweet, because it is Marvel, and people, you know, don’t think of those experiences as profound when they watch them. But it really was such a special crew that [director] Matt Shakman and [creator] Jac Schaeffer created. It was a really healthy working environment.”
Related‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance
‘WandaVision’ Star Kathryn Hahn’s Secret to Building a Scene-Stealing Performance
Considering that the miniseries spans several sitcom iterations, various layers of televisual reality, and a number of character reveals that needed to feel truthful and impactful in equal measure, Shakman’s decision to work closely with his actors ahead of shooting was key.
“We truly had a gorgeous amount of time together before we started filming,” Olsen remembers. “Our goal was—which is controversial in TV land—that if you wanted to change [anything], like dialogue in a scene, you had to give those notes a week before we even got there. Because sometimes you get to set, and someone had a brilliant idea while they were sleeping, and you’re like, ‘We don’t have an hour to talk about this. We have seven pages to shoot.’ And so, we were all on the same page with one another, knowing what we were shooting ahead of time.
“Matt just treated us like a troupe of actors who were about to do some regional theater shit,” she adds with a smile.
That spirit of camaraderie was, not coincidentally, at the heart of Olsen’s breakout project, Sean Durkin’s 2011 indie sensation “Martha Marcy May Marlene.” As an introduction to the process of filmmaking to a young stage-trained actor, Durkin’s quietly devastating drama was a dream—and an invaluable learning opportunity.
“It was truly just a bunch of people who loved the script, who just were doing the work. I didn’t understand lenses, so I just did the same thing all the time. I never knew if the camera would be on me or not. There was just so much purity in that experience, and you only have that once.”
The film announced Olsen as a talent to watch: a keen-eyed performer capable of deploying a stilted physicality and clipped delivery, which she used to conjure up a wounded girl learning how to shake off her time spent in a cult in upstate New York. But Olsen admits that it took her a while to figure out how to navigate her career choices afterward. In the years following “Martha,” she felt compelled to try on everything: a horror flick here, a high-profile remake there, a period piece here, an action movie there. It wasn’t until she starred in neo-Western thriller “Wind River” (alongside fellow Marvel regular Jeremy Renner) and the dark comedy “Ingrid Goes West” (opposite a deliciously deranged Aubrey Plaza) that Olsen found her groove.
“It was at that point, when I was five years into working, where I was like, Ah, I know how I want it. I know what I need from these people—from who’s involved, from producers, from directors, from the character, from the script—in order to trust that it’s going to be a fruitful experience.”
As Olsen looks back on her first decade as a working actor, she points out how far removed she is from that young girl who broke out in “Martha Marcy May Marlene.”
“I feel like a totally different person. I don’t know if everyone who’s in their early 30s feels like their early 20s self is a totally different human. But when I think about that version of myself, it feels like a long time ago; there’s a lot learned in a decade.”
Those early years were marked by a self-effacing humility that often led Olsen to defer to others when it came to key decisions about the characters she was playing. But she now feels emboldened to not only stand up for herself and her choices but for others on her sets as well.
“[Facebook Watch series] ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ I got to produce, and I really found my voice in a collaborative leadership way. And with ‘WandaVision,’ Paul [Bettany] and I really took on that feeling, as well—especially since we were introducing new characters to Marvel and wanted [those actors] to feel protected and helped,” she says. “They could ask questions and make sure they felt like they had all the things they needed because sometimes you don’t even know what you need to ask.”
It’s a lesson she learned working with filmmaker Marc Abraham on the Hank Williams biopic “I Saw the Light,” and she’s carried it with her ever since. “I really want it to feel like we’re all in this together, as a team,” Olsen says. “That was part of ‘Sorry for Your Loss’ and it was part of ‘WandaVision,’ and I hope to continue that kind of energy because those have been some of the healthiest work experiences I’ve had.”
If Olsen sounds particularly zealous about the importance of a comfortable, working set, it is because she’s well aware that therein lies an integral part of the work and the process. As an actor, she wants to feel protected and nurtured by those around her, whether she’s reacting to a telling, quiet line of dialogue about grief or donning her iconic Scarlet Witch outfit during a magic-filled mid-air action sequence.
“Sometimes you’re going to be foolish, you know? And [you need to] feel brave to be foolish. Sometimes people feel embarrassed on set and snap. But if you’re in a place where people feel like they’re allowed to be an idiot,” she says, “you’re going to feel better about being an idiot.”
This story originally appeared in the Aug. 19 issue of Backstage Magazine. Subscribe here.
Press/Gallery: How Elizabeth Olsen Brought Marvel From Mainstream to Prestige was originally published on Elizabeth Olsen Source • Your source for everything Elizabeth Olsen
#Elizabeth Olsen#WandaVision#Avengers#Scarlet Witch#Wanda Maximoff#Sorry For Your Loss#Avengers Infinity War#Avengers Age of Ultron#Captain America Civil War#Ingrid Goes West#Godzilla#Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness#Marvel#MCU#Candy Montgomery#Love and Death#Avengers Endgame
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52 Project #46: To The Other Side Of The World
I first visited the Rismel Tower with my father when I was about 10. It wasn’t my first time out of the country, but it was the first time I’d visited the Risilon Archipelago. It’s a beautiful place, warm all year round, with incredible beaches, and the night sky with the Eye of Rusella directly above your head is one of the most amazing sights you can see. It’s easy to understand why the Risiloni thought of themselves as the destined rulers of the world for so long, with the Eye gazing down directly on them like that. And why they tended to be religious to the point of superstition long after most of the rest of the world had rejected the idea of theocracy. Even today, the Risiloni worship of Rusella is… well, let’s just say they have more temples per square hundredbody than anywhere else in the world, and there are serious political discussions undertaken from time to time as to what Rusella truly wants of them.
It’s also easy to understand why they thought of themselves as the political center of the world, when they are in fact at the geologic center of the world. The Risilon Archipelago sits in the bottom of the Bowl, the lowest point on Rusella-side. However, it’s not actually true that the Rismel Tower is literally at the lowest point in the world; if it was, we’d lose the entire ocean to Sister-side, because the lowest point in the world, by definition, has to be below sea level. It’s not even at the lowest point of the land; there are places in Risilon that are actually below sea level, and they use dams, dykes and pumps to keep those places from flooding. Risilon is an underwater mountain range, like most archipelagos, and some of the mountains are taller than others. The hub island of Pelagi is actually about twenty bodies above sea level in most places, and the rampart they built around the Rismel Tower is another twenty bodies. So even in the case of a tsunami, it’s unlikely that significant amounts of water could flood into the Rismel Cavern.
From the outside, the Rismel Tower doesn’t actually look all that impressive. It’s about twenty stories high, standing over the ramparts of the Rismel Cavern, but from the outside of course the cavern doesn’t look impressive either. My dad and I came in through the side that isn’t covered by the rampart, the main entrance. The atrium is beautiful, a soaring ceiling five stories up over a polished, reflective obsidian floor, with the forward walls made entirely of glass. Of course, the back and side walls have no windows because they’re buried in the rampart.
The elevator we took to the roof was entirely mundane, a traditional high-speed elevator like you’d find in any skyscraper, but I was so excited, it felt to me like something new and magical. When we reached the roof, the sun was already setting, and I could see the Eye of Rusella glowing down at us. My father had always told me it was only a nebula, but I felt sure I could feel some kind of presence looking down at me. After all, I’d always been told someone had built the world, so why not Rusella?
When I went to the edge of the roof, and looked down, I could see the Rizmel Cavern below us, a deep cavernous pit, and the faint glow of light at the bottom, so far away. I shivered, imagining what would happen if I fell. Which I couldn’t do, there were nets, but as a child I’m not sure I knew that. I thought I’d fall forever, that I’d go out the bottom and all the way out into space. I learned later in school that gravity doesn’t work that way; I might fall out the bottom from the momentum, but gravity would pull me right back in, and eventually I’d end up stabilizing at the center, after falling forward and backward multiple times.
My father and I got in the Bead, the clear, round elevator car that sits on the outside of the Rizmel Tower, facing the cavern. The Bead is actually two clear spheres, one inside the other; we sat in the inner one as it descended. The cavern was actually lighted, just dimly enough that I hadn’t been able to make it out against the growing sunlight at the bottom. We went past the Risilon subway – there was an exposed subway tunnel, because the Risiloni had decided that subway travelers deserved to be able to look down into the cavern. Down further, below the bedrock, we stopped at the docking station for the Mole People – who, to my disappointment, didn’t look like moles at all, just very pale humans with very large eyes. Further down, and we began to grow noticeably lighter. By the time we passed the Lava People – who aren’t actually made of lava, but they are made of rock – I felt like I was about to float.
I told my dad, who warned me not to take off my safety harness. A few minutes later I learned why not. Another child took his off, laughing, as he floated upward. At the center of the world, there’s no gravity, so you can float inside the Bead. But the inner sphere rotated as the gravity of Sister-side began to pull on us, and what had been a ride downward became a ride up. The boy who was floating a leg or two above the seats was suddenly a leg or two below the ceiling, in a graphic demonstration of relative motion that I wouldn’t appreciate the physics of until much later, and that pushed him several bodies above the seats. Which might have been fun, if we hadn’t been accelerating upward. Gravity pulled him down, gently at first, until suddenly he weighed enough that he couldn’t float at all, and he fell. His mother, who’d been trying to catch him without unbuckling herself for some time, managed to grab him just in time to keep him from hitting the floor head first.
Now we were definitely heading upward. We saw the vast glittering caverns of the Crystal People (who are not made of crystal, but they do glitter), and made a stop at the chrome purity of the level of the Machine People (who are, in fact, machines.) There were more Mole People close to the top but these ones were furry. I didn’t even know they were the same as the Mole People on Rusella-side until my father told me. They still didn’t look like moles, though, more like very large cute baby monkeys with big eyes.
The city of Karjas in Melrenek has a subway system also, theirs even more complex and comprehensive than the one in Pelagi, but we didn’t see it; they hadn’t compromised the integrity of their tunnels by running one along the inside of the Rizmel Cavern. They had a station for Rizmel, of course, but no actual train or even track visible, so I didn’t recognize it for what it was at the time. And then we were outside, into the sunlight on Sister-side.
It being summer on Rusella-side, of course it was winter on Sister-side, so it didn’t strike me as unusual to see banks of snow. It should have, if I���d thought about the fact that of course the Rizmel Tower is at the center of Sister-side as well, and therefore, Melrenek should have been balmy and warm all year round. Except it isn’t; Sister-side is overall significantly colder than Rusella-side, and while the line that’s parallel to the sun’s arc is the warmest, it’s not warm enough to overcome how much winter cools all of Sister-side. What I thought was more notable – and much more disappointing – than the snow was the architecture. None of the flared gables or spires or glittering glass walls or complex stonework of Pelagi; from what I could see, everything in Karjas was a box made of gray concrete bricks, or poured concrete, or occasionally for some variety red clay bricks. Every building near the Rizmel Tower looked like what would have been a warehouse in a bad side of town, back home.
As we rose, though, I started to see beauty. Firstly, all of the flat roofs in Karjas (I found out later, in Melrenek in general) have reflective dark glass solar panels on them, to make maximum use of the sunlight they get. Then we rose higher, and I could see the ocean lapping at the harbor, only a thousand bodies or so away. And then a bit higher than that, and my eyes were drawn to the walls around the world.
The Bowl is much deeper on Sister-side, the walls much higher. At home I could see the eastern mountain range that bounded the world, barely, as a gray mound on the horizon in the distance, but there was no chance of seeing it in Risilon; the rise was too gentle, so there were far too many forests and mountain ranges and the hazes from heavy industry in the way. But on Sister-side the Bowl rose so steeply and the walls so high at their edges, I could see the boundaries of the entire world.
Not while I was still in the Bead, where my vision was cut off by the bulk of the Rizmel Tower behind me and I could only see to the south and west; there, I could see the endless glittering ocean that fills the Bowl in those directions, broken only by archipelagos here and there, all the way to where the land rises out of the ocean at the edges of the Bowl, and keeps rising until it forms the walls around the world. Once we reached the roof of the Tower, and I could see in all directions, I saw how huge the continent of Melru was, stretching back north and east, dipping low enough in some places to see lakes or even vast seas; I saw the other continents of Sister-side, distance turning them into squashed lines of land sticking up from the water, and I saw the walls on all sides. There was no haze in the air; it was winter, and therefore not sporing season, and the people of Sister-side have been much more conscientious than Rusella-side about keeping the offgases and ash from burning fuel from entering the air. Probably because it’s so cold that they burn a lot more fuel, and if the haze from your smoke drifts over your neighbor’s lands and blocks the sunlight, they’d be willing to go to war over it.
All around, wherever I saw land, I saw the giant colorful mushroom-trees that make Sister-side so notable and alien, round caps and plate-tops rather than the triangle of a conifer or the cloud of a deciduous canopy. There were a few green forests, but not many. In winter, snow covered the fields, so everywhere I looked I saw glittering white. It was amazing, and I highly recommend it. There is no point on Rusella-side where you can see the entire Bowl; the fact that you can see all of Sister-side from the Rizmel Tower on the Melrenek side is humbling and awe-inspiring.
After that view, Karjas itself was somewhat disappointing. Of course, the food was different, the clothes were different, the customs were different, but all of that had been true in Risilon as well, and Pelagi’s architecture is beautiful no matter what level you look at it from. Whereas from the ground, Melrenek architecture is deeply, deeply boring and utilitarian. And it’s a bit of a system shock to travel from your home in the summertime, go to equatorial Risilon where it’s balmy and warm all the time, and end up in the middle of the winter. Now I knew why my father had insisted that we pack our warm clothes, but I was still much too cold in Karjas.
I will say this. If you’ve spent your entire life under the Eye of Rusella, there is nothing so unsettling as a sky where it’s just not there. When night fell in Karjas -- after my father and I had slept half the day due to time lag – I looked up at the sky, saw the Seven Sisters instead of the Eye of Rusella, and part of me wanted to cry. I’d never been raised to believe in Rusella – my father was pretty clear on the concept that gods don’t exist, and I knew the Eye was just a nebula. But the sky looked so wrong without it.
My father comforted me. Reminded me that this alien world had always existed; I was just seeing it for the first time now. Reminded me that the Eye of Rusella still shone down at home, and we would return there, soon.
We did return, and I never forgot that trip. I’ve made it many times since then. But things have changed so much. I can’t forget the bombing of the Bead, and the year it took to rebuild, and the months that everyone was trapped on whatever side they were on because they didn’t trust their security procedures for the cargo elevators to handle passengers securely while there might be terrorist bombers around. I remember when the plague struck, and all the finger-pointing between the nations of Rusella-side and Sister-side as to which side it came from and who infected who. I remember the years of the Spore War when a particularly fast-growing mushroom tree managed to get over to Rusella-side as spores on a visitor’s clothes, and the economic and agricultural damage it did to Risilon.
Now, you stand in a long line. You go into a booth and change clothes, bagging up the ones you were wearing to start, and they go under sterilizing radiation while you get a shower, and then they make you put on plastic disposable clothes to make the transit. Supposedly they will deliver your clothes to you on the other side, but things are lost so often, the roofs of both towers are now covered with merchants who’ll sell you clothes and snacks. There are interminable security checks at every stop along the way, but you’re not allowed to get out and explore unless you actually got a ticket for a trip to that floor and then a second trip to the far side, which is twice as expensive despite covering the same distance.
The second to last trip I took, I didn’t even look out the window. We were packed in like pieces of pre-fabricated furniture in a box. My seat was on the lower level, and a tall man was directly above me; nearly kicking me in the head; I could feel his boot swoosh past the top of my hair. I was in an aisle, and I couldn’t have seen out the window if I’d wanted to, because my seatmate with the window wanted to take a nap on the two hour trip. Oh, and it took a lot longer; my father and I were on Sister-side in an hour. Now the Bead is slower and makes a lot more stops. Costs three times as much money, even factoring for inflation, and the service is horrible. You can’t peer off the edge of the roof anymore, either; the merchant stalls take up so much room, we’re all more or less forced into the center, directly into or out of the Bead queue.
And nowadays we have so many cables to the other side. Cables on the outer rim, running along the sides of the walls of the Bowls. Cables going through holes we drilled all the way down that aren’t large enough for humans, or even the smallest of Crystal People, so only the Machine People and the dumb machines we make on the human surfaces can service them. Now we can communicate instantly with people on Sister-side. We can see through their windows. We can share recipes. You can look at a view from one of the resorts on the edge of the world.
Which is the only place you’ll see it. The people who used to live on the edges? Displaced. Now there are mining concerns, scientific expeditions, and expensive resorts. And that’s all. The edge has been taken away from the people of the world, made a luxury for the wealthy or a resource to be stripped.
The world is smaller. We can talk to people a thousand miles away, people on the bottom side of our world, people on the bottom and a thousand miles away… but we can’t go anywhere to experience the magic I felt that day.
Or so I thought.
But on the last trip I was on, I sat next to a little girl. I had a window seat, but I traded with her so she could have it. She had never been on this trip before, and she was incredibly excited, bouncing up and down in her seat, even with the seat belt on. I told her about the different layers and the different kinds of people who lived in them. She was going to visit her aunt, who had moved to Sister-side for work, and who’d be meeting her at Melrenek Station at the top of the tower (or bottom, depending on how you look at it.) She hadn’t had a chance to go to the edge of Risilon Station and look down, but she’d seen pictures of it. And she’d seen many pictures of Melrenek already, and her aunt’s home in Bestog, and the night sky with the Sisters and no Eye of Rusella.
For her, this trip was full of the anticipation of seeing for real the things she’d already seen in pictures. She was traveling alone, so there was the thrill of being an unaccompanied minor, out on her first major trip by herself. There was the excitement of getting to see her aunt, who was apparently her favorite relative outside of her parents. She didn’t remember when you didn’t have to stand in a ridiculous line, and change all your clothes. She’d never experienced this trip in comfortable clothes that belonged to her rather than scratchy, baggy plastic disposables. For her, this was the way it was, and it was magic.
Did the people who first rappelled down the Rizmel Cavern, before the Bead was even built, think the magic was lost when they had to ride down an elevator instead of making the journey with climbing ropes? Did the people who dug down into the earth, and first experienced the light of the alien sky of Sister-side, think the magic was lost when there was an entire cavern built that anyone could climb down with ropes, rather than the thrill of opening up a hole themselves to a new world?
We have a passage between the two Bowls. We know, now, that it is two Bowls and not a convex surface on the other side. We know there’s an atmosphere like Rusella-side and that there are people, humans like us, surface dwellers, who must have climbed over the mountains at the edge of the world, not even knowing for certain that gravity would continue to hold them as they descended, who went there and made lives and cover the surface now just as we cover the surface of Rusella-side. We know that Mole People must have found passages through the mountains on the edge, or maybe natural passages that no one but them know about now, from before they lost their fur, that the ones on Sister-side are actually closer to their evolutionary origins than the ones on Rusella-side now. We know about the Crystal People and the Machine People.
We know so much. And when you first discover something new, it’s magic. The longer you live with the knowledge, the more it turns into the everyday. Something expected, normal. Magic no longer.
The magic is still there. It will always be there. What changes is not the wonder of a passage to the other side of the world, but us, and our knowledge and understanding. As you grow old it becomes harder and harder to find magic, because your mind will classify anything you are used to as mundane. Science fiction writers have to write tales of spherical worlds, where there’s no edge and you can just keep going forever, because they can’t write fantastic tales about the other side anymore… we know what’s there now. So they imagine worlds that don’t exist, or might exist somewhere. They imagine worlds where there are two round worlds circling each other, and one is smaller than the other, like a mother and a daughter. They imagine worlds where the sun has a dark partner, a reflecting mirror that comes out at night and turns the darkness of the night into slightly less darkness, lit eerily by dim cold white light. Because the everyday world around us isn’t enough, anymore. Because we want to imagine strange and different objects in the sky, or different shapes the world could be in, to get back some sense of magic.
We don’t need to. You know that? We don’t need to. The magic is still there in the everyday world. The fact that we can travel to another side of the world is no less stunning and strange for the fact that there are people who do it every fiveday. We can grow mushroom trees in sealed arboretum habitats, and see them on our days off, but that doesn’t make the world that’s covered with them less wondrous. And there are people, people over there for whom our green conifers and deciduous trees are alien, and our foods are different, and our architecture is strange, and the Eye of Rusella is a new and amazing sight rather than the thing we see every night of our lives. There are people who aren’t just atheists – they don’t believe in Rusella because they were never raised to believe in Rusella. They have their own gods, that they embrace, or they reject, and Rusella’s just not even within the scope of their imagination except to say “And the people on the other side worship a nebula that’s only visible from their side, because they think it’s the eye of a god.” And that is also magic. That there are people for whom everything you know is alien and strange, and everything you consider unusual and stunning, or terrifying, is their everyday life.
Think about how your world appears to people who are unfamiliar with it. Think about the unfamiliar world and how it must feel to the people who live with it every day. The wonder is still there. The magic is still there. But you need some empathy with people who aren’t like you, who haven’t had your experiences, to see it. And if you can do that, you can see that your own everyday world still contains magic. Even if you never go to the Tower, never ride the Bead to Sister-side. There is still magic all around you.
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