fuck it we ball

@auspice-writes

I like to write things, I want to get back into writing. I'm going to post it here. will tag things that need to be tagged after the tag 'cw', let me know if you need anything tagged. main is @gigglingauspice. Check pinned post

89 posts

intro post

Hey. It’s another writing blog. Name’s Auspice. I’ve got pronouns, for sure.

I use this blog to save bits of writing I like and post my own. so here’s some tags for my quick reference and your own.

-> my stuff | not my stuff | original fiction | fanfic | poetry | web weaving

There’s a few themes that I tend to touch on and some warnings, too. Same difference.

-> divinity | cannibalism | love | the end of the world | absurdism | mundane fantasy | meat | death | being queer | smut

Here’s some universes I dabble with. You may notice they’ve got connected themes.

-> Cecile Dies At The End | The Three Worlds | I’m Still Here.

Fandom tags for your following or blocking pleasure

-> homestuck

#writeblr intro

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I ATE A BIG BAG OF FACTORY REJECT SEEDS UNTIL A HEALTHY FLOWER UNFURLED IN MY CHEST ...

I MISTOOK THE SENSATION FOR LOVE AND DIED.

my uncle was somewhat of a rascal. we were hanging out on the roof of his barn when i was ten, and we saw some shooting stars. he told me they were angels carrying messages from god. then he handed me his old hunting rifle and taught me how to nick one out of the sky, even when it was travelling all fast like that, and how to triangulate its location — taking me out in his rusty truck down dirt roads, unerring and unceasing, until we saw that gleaming lantern. he pocketed the note from god and took me down to a pinboard where he was working on deciphering the language with his friend who was a linguistics major but got kicked out of grad school. after they shook hands, they held on for just a bit too long and i started wondering why my aunt doesn’t live with my uncle anymore, but then my uncle took me back up stairs and taught me how to fry the angel up real nice, halo and all. it was tasty

There’s six guys who live in this flat and all they do all day is play WoW and watch movies. Waking up at 2pm every day and there’s always just someone asleep on the bed near all the multimonitor computer setups. There’s always music playing and it feels like a recovery day every day, padding around blearily in pyjamas or underwear. Old hoodies from defunct school teams. They’ve got this system where they’re selling their excess computing power to companies and hosting all this warez, and they’re stealing the internet from the business next door anyway and getting welfare on top of all that. They’re self sufficient and never go outdoors except to buy more fast food, and even then only in the dark. But then one of them wakes up dead some heavy afternoon. He’s just dead and they don’t know why but maybe the floor covered in fast food wrappings is a clue. They don’t want to tell the cops because of the purgatory den they live in and the illegality that supports it, and as far as they know he never had any actual parents. So it’s trouble. It’s taking a long trip out to the forest and thinking about how stars are so far away for the first time in a long time. It’s sweating in the cold air and digging a hole all night with your brand new shovels to leave him alone in. And it’s a long few days cracking all his passwords to keep his identity and associated payments persisting. Until the rhythm of waking up every day at 2pm to play WoW for nine hours and half watch a movie on your other monitor takes over again. It’s the same as it ever was except now there’s a room no one ever goes in.

my uncle was somewhat of a rascal. we were hanging out on the roof of his barn when i was ten, and we saw some shooting stars. he told me they were angels carrying messages from god. then he handed me his old hunting rifle and taught me how to nick one out of the sky, even when it was travelling all fast like that, and how to triangulate its location — taking me out in his rusty truck down dirt roads, unerring and unceasing, until we saw that gleaming lantern. he pocketed the note from god and took me down to a pinboard where he was working on deciphering the language with his friend who was a linguistics major but got kicked out of grad school. after they shook hands, they held on for just a bit too long and i started wondering why my aunt doesn’t live with my uncle anymore, but then my uncle took me back up stairs and taught me how to fry the angel up real nice, halo and all. it was tasty

beforus-for-real-justice

Prometheus was punished by the gods for giving the gift of knowledge to man. He was cast into the bowels of the earth and pecked by birds

CC: i wonder if the knowing hurt.

#poetry #not mine

writing-is-a-martial-art

You meet god and she's mostly dead fish. You ask her why and she says most of the world is dead fish, and she's made herself to appeal to the most common denominator, the everyman funnyman comedy show that runs for eleven seasons but with the entire universe in mind. You ask her how much of the dead fish is your fault, she says it's far less than you'd think, in the grand scheme of things. You ask her if you matter at all. If you can do anything. She shrugs her rotting shoulders and says mattering is a made-up concept, like life, but sure, you can matter if you want to, on some scale. She has many scales. She doesn't know what you mean by 'anything', but you can do everything you can. You ask her if it's enough. She says there's no base requirement for deserving to exist. She's smoking a joint and the smoke filtering out of her gills gathers and forms gas giants and red dwarfs. You ask her if there's any hidden secrets of the universe you should know and she says it's not a secret if she tells, plus it's fun to let you figure it out yourself. You ask her if any of your questions were right questions and she says you worry about being right so much it might keep you from fucking around, which is as close to meaning of life as she ever bothered to make. You don't ask but she says she loves your hair, also your whole being, also your planet. She says she figured out what love is yesterday and is trying it out, which explains the ten thousand rainbows and sudden influx in rains of fish. She offers you a drag of her joint and you wake up half past midnight behind a chain restaurant clutching a smoked salmon. The new stars are winking like they're in on some joke and you're sure if you try hard enough you'll remember what it is.

brutalistarchitecture2

HAMMOND B3 ORGAN CISTERN by GABRIELLE CALVOCORESSI

Dora Teitelboim,"Today the Wind Spoke Yiddish to Me," translated from the Yiddish by Aaron Kramer

july in appalachia by keaton st. james

(patreon)

[poem text: ma says there’s an angel in the creek out behind old mr. henry’s shack. she saw it when she was seven years old, playing by herself while her pa helped mr. henry with his hay bales: sliced her bare foot open on a jagged rock, and the angel swam towards the blood in the water.

ma looked right into the angel’s six blind eyes and asked him, “how come you’re down here, sleepin’ in the mud, when you could be up in heaven, plantin’ sunflowers for god?”

his wings were like a dragonfly’s, transparent and glimmerin’, and his halo was a ring of algae. the angel grinned, three rows of sharp teeth, and said, “girlie, god has plans for the bluegills too.”

end poem text.]

things that are angels: fungi. computer programming. bioluminescent creatures in the middle of the pacific ocean that have never been seen by people. a weird restaurant server late at night pouring coffee. overgrown things. androids and robots. etc

hwaet! memory-mother, in meadhall sing the hatred, from heartlocks broken, of achilles peleusson, cursed by his people, wreaker of woes unending. often his spear made the mighty drink to dogs, food for the feathered, strong souls banished to breathe in the dark.

deep it was driven, the doom of zeus, since they stood sundered, bitter in boasting, atreusson the people-king, and sun-bright achilles. but who in heaven struck up their strife? the son of leto, livid at the king, spelled sickness, and the people perished, for atreusson harmed his holy priest, chryses.

spear-greeks he sought by the swift sea-steeds, daring, undaunted, his daughter to ransom, bearing garlands of the arrow-guiding god on a golden staff. he sank before spear-greeks, saying to them and the sons of atreus, people-guides: “sons of atreus, and strong-scaled spear-greeks, may the mighty gods in their mountain-helming halls give you Priam’s gore-gold, and glorious homecoming. only unchain my child, in exchange for this ringhoard, with honor for him, the arrow-hailing son of zeus.”

jumpingjacktrash

is this the illiad as a norse saga? i’m in love.

Sumerian-style addition!

Bitter is the wail for you Achilles,

The wail I sing for you!

Bitter is the wail for you Achilles,

Of which the goddess sings!

Lo, the storm of his devastation was falling,

The baleful storm reaping itself upon the host of the Achaeans,

The baleful storm, which takes no mercy,

The storm of devastation, which takes no mercy,

Wrought by his anger.

The dark-headed people,

A thousand went to dust below the earth,

In that wind which swirled like hot clay,

The dogs were abandoning their bodies, to the winds,

The birds were abandoning their bodies to the winds,

The insects were abandoning their bodies to the winds,

Zeus was abandoning them, their bodies to the winds,

Open the copper chest with iron locks;

The tablet of lapis lazuli tells the story.

Long since Agamemnon, Mycenae’s wild bull,

And Achilles, Thetis’ son, the black-beared Aurochs,

Did emperil like lions the sheepfold of Troy- the dark-headed people mourn!

Truly the creator had compelled them to strife- the dark-headed people mourn!

Leto’s son, and Zeu’s son Apollo- the dark-headed people mourn!

He let forth the shroud of pestilence upon the city- the dark-headed people mourn!

The hot winds stirred it forth- the dark-headed people mourn!

And the pestilence shrouded the city like the dead.

The twelfth year having gone, the month ended,

Atreus’ son of princely office,

Atreus son of princely office,

Chryses in his holy house,

His temple of lapis and cedar,

His mighty name with unclean hands dishonoured.

At last! A second chance to share my Gilgamesh by way of Homer!

Sing to me, Nissaba, of the great might and the far reaching travels

by which came knowledge of many things to the bright son of Ninsun

two parts divine mortal Gilgamesh, strongest of men, king of Uruk.

Wisdom he sought from the deluge survivor, from Uta-napishti

driven by fear while bitterly grieving his dearest companion

fighter by his side, his equal in strength, wild-born Enkidu.

First he brought grief and then he brought happiness equal in measure

to his own people in holy Eanna, in long-walléd Uruk.

When a bull in a rage wanders abroad in the fields in the evening

no rest is given to shepherds who lead their flocks wearily trudging

always he rushes swift at them and both men and sheep run in panic.

So the streets fill with the running of people in long-walléd Uruk

when the king goes on the rampage bringing much grief for all fathers

whose sons are slain by his hand as he challenges young men to combat.

Maidens and wives too he ravishes and many tears shed all mothers

Hearing the motherly prayers, the gods in high heaven took counsel.

on tragedy, fate, and inevitability.

oresteia, robert icke // theatre of the oppressed, augusto boal // song of achilles, madeline miller // the book thief, markus zusak // antigone, jean anouilh // revisiting mockingjay ahead of the hunger games prequel, entertainment weekly // romeo and juliet, shakespeare // h of h playbook, anne carson // war of the foxes, richard siken // the road to hell (reprise), hadestown // planet of love, richard siken // they both die at the end, adam silvera

the reason i love the comparison between angels and machines (robots, transmission towers, trains, computers, etc.) is that it gets to the heart of what angels essentially are: divine machines. they're mechanisms through with the divine is able to act, created with a purpose and "happy" to fill it simply because they were made to do so. they have more in common with a machine programmed to run on algorithms and make calculations based on input commands than they do with humanity, even if they bear a human visage - an attempt by the divine to help bridge the gap. angels do not need to be eldritch monstrosities to be terrifying, because they are already alien to us simply by being angels. for an angel to choose to deviate from their purpose and achieve free will is to fall because in order to have free will they can no longer be an angel, because an angel is defined by its purpose. much like the stories we tell of robots that gain sentence, only to discover that they can never truly be human, but neither can they go back to being a machine, angels who fall become something else entirely, purposeless and adrift and alone. it is a tragic sacrifice.

"did it hurt when you fell from heaven?" did it hurt when you realized you no longer had any purpose? that you weren't needed, and could easily be replaced? that the very fabric of your existence had been irreparably torn asunder and it was up to you to pick up the pieces and make something of them? that you would always be seen as a deviant monster by some no matter what you did next? that your choices have consequences? if you spent your whole life knowing exactly who you were and what you were meant to be, only to be cast aside and left to fend for yourself when you changed your mind, would you not be hurt? would you not be scared? would you not be angry?

i asked an angel what the deal with lichen was and they got really skittish and told me they could give me the answer to anything in the universe but to please not ask them about the lichen

i need to start a collection of found poems they’re honest to god my favorite thing in the world

this one is my very favorite c/o @ 0x11eaea on twitter

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