let there be light

original essays + poetry + stories + occasional fan content

[gingersh0t]

Separate breakdown of what Said means by humanism since he seems to emphasize this pretty heavily here: 

This general term means human agency over destiny and meaning

The attempt to use your mind rationally, historically, and compassionately

Where a sense of community and interconnectedness across time and societies is critical

Commonality and rationality are key

[gingersh0t]

Lumping all the good takeaways from the preface here:

Every empire says it’s not like all the others.

Policy jargon as a tool of the empire

The dangers of standardization, specialization of knowledge, and fragmented knowledge - how these things can threaten our sense of the density and interdependence of human life

I’m spotting some interesting overlap between Salman Rushdie’s and Said’s critiques of modern Islam (with the general idea being the ascendency of dogma over the “individual wrestling with the problems of the modern world”)

[gingersh0t]

Something else interesting - Said distinguishes between knowledge obtained for compassionate study and knowledge obtained for self-affirmation/outright war. 

[gingersh0t]

“That these supreme fictions lend themselves easily to manipulation and the organization of collective passion has never been more true than in our time, when the mobilizations of fear, hatred, disgust, and resurgent self-pride and arrogance - much of it having to do with Islam and the Arabs on one side, “we” Westerners on the other - are very large-scale enterprises”. 

- Preface, Orientalism

This quote really struck a chord with me. Manipulated fiction is a good way to describe some of the narratives that run rampant on both sides of the China/U.S. standoff. I know that this book was written about the dynamic between the “Near East” and the West, but it could be interesting to think about the discussions in the book from the lens of an era where the Orient is shifting its center of mass to China.

[gingersh0t]

let’s read orientalism by said and take some notes on here! my goal is to finish it... as fast as possible. 

[gingersh0t]

So I sit in my chair. A candle by my side. A green book on the white table. If I close my eyes and press gently on the softness of my eyeballs, I see faded, blotchy bursts of green light explode like fourth-of-july fireworks. The sun is setting outdoors and I am thinking of starting a blog. I never thought that I could journal like this before. I feel martian. Disjointed. A world separate from the chatter of the imagined crowd behind me. I know these thoughts are cliche and overthought, but I can’t help thinking of them anyway. A song comes on in the background. It sounds familiar. Soft, gentle, melancholy. Every thought I have has been thought before, every word I write already recorded. The archives of the Internet run atlantis deep. I feel like that one saying. A blink of the eye.

[gingersh0t]

some thoughts on gallavich, pt. 1

Full disclaimer: I haven’t watched Shameless in full(lots of Shameless Wiki episode summary reading, though). Not at all a devoted fan, so if I get stuff wrong, feel free to correct me. 

One of the most compelling things about Ian and Mickey's relationship is the long-term aspect of its portrayal. The show starts out with a 15 and a 17(16?) year old, and ends with both in their early-to-mid twenties. That kind of long-term gay relationship, and all the turbulence that accompanies it? That's really rare. There's lots of great LGBT representation these days, but so often it comes in more short-form media - shows with just a season or two, one-off movies, etc. A relationship that lasts(sort of) for several years is pretty unique in its display of the staying power of queer relationships, special in its embrace of a rare permanence. For lots of queer people(especially young queer people), love is something that seems fleeting, more conceptual than grounded in reality. Ian and Mickey are the opposite of temporary. By the end of S11, not only are they canonically endgame, but they feel endgame in a way made possible by the way their storylines have entwined through the course of so many seasons. Take notes, Supernatural. Actually, it’s offensive to even compare Shameless and Supernatural when it comes to how they treat gay people, so forget I said that. 

[iko66]

Austria, europe

[gingersh0t]

The transience of an empty library at eight

        dark out. a hollow October frost is peeking through the blinds

Prelude to the quiet roar of the building furnace A yawn, a stretch, the clattering of classroom doors Somewhere, a pencil skitters across the floor and lands at my feet

I dream a rattled, restless sleep The wooden spine of a crippled bookshelf Is something I’d like to lean on

        sit up straight. keep still

The cold glow of a thirty-year light dims

[gingersh0t]

still on this goddamn website in 2023 hahahahaaa

just can’t leave it behind

[gingersh0t]

glimpse of the future

tags: azula redemption, subtle tyzula and maizuko, ember island, basically a glimpse into what azula what look like near the end of her rehabilitation at her fave childhood vacation destination

wc: ~900

a/n: i might write a longer azula redemption fic in the future, with this one-shot as the end goal and guiding point. depends on if my azula brainrot goes away or not! will eventually x-post to ao3

___________________________________________________________

The east coast of Ember Island is no longer the thriving tourist destination it once was. The vacation homes have grown dilapidated, their wooden support beams rotting at the edges, and the stores are mostly shuttered and boarded up. 

But the mountains seem to reach taller than they ever did. The inland grasses bloom a vibrant, healthy green each spring, and there’s a beautiful flower garden - with a turtleduck pond - behind the only house that is still well-kept. 

This is Azula’s home. 

She wakes with the sun every morning, as all firebenders should do, and warms herself a carefully crafted cup of jasmine tea. And every morning, without fail, she remembers to feed the turtleducks. 

She still doesn’t feel anything when she looks at them. Soft, weak, and as Zuko would say, cute. Sometimes she idly wonders how they would react if she were to kick the rocks along the pond’s edge into the water. Or maybe even directly towards them. 

Then she remembers her mother’s frown, lines creasing in her forehead. She thinks back to Zuko’s voice, soft with disappointment, laden with concern for the poor, poor creatures.

She holds back. 

The turtleducks have swam in this pond happily and untraumatized ever since they arrived. That’s a feat Azula is particularly proud of. It took self-control. More self-control than she ever thought she was capable of. 

Instead of disturbing their peace, Azula scatters breadcrumbs into the still reflection of the water. Cobalt, cerulean, azure. Blue is such a beautiful color. She hesitates, staring at the turtleducks lazily paddling back and forth, and heads back into her house. 

She used to tell herself that she was born lucky. That Zuko was just lucky to be born. She’d gotten it backwards. 

Zuko was the one who was born lucky. Lucky to be naturally, effortlessly kind, to have the distinction between right and wrong come so easy. It was second nature for him. Azula, on the other hand - well. She had injured her fair share of turtleducks as a young child. But Azula has never been one to shy away from the difficult. For the most part, she has this thing known as morality pretty much down. Some days, she even finds that it feels as natural as breathing, as weightless as bending. 

The house is empty, of course. She’s ordered that no servant or guard come near her as long as she stays out of the forest and between the two jagged peaks of rock that flank her house on either side. Old habits die hard, even if the “old habit” in question was formed in the middle of a throne room during her infamous mental breakdown. She likes solitude these days.

She used to be more scared of it than anything, she thinks, smiling humorlessly.  Mai and Ty Lee. As if they ever needed Azula. It was always the other way around. She’d just been too idiotic to realize it. 

Sometimes, Ty Lee comes and visits her. Presses kisses into her forehead, talking excitedly about her latest exploits, look, Azula! Isn’t this new circus troupe I’ve put together just wonderful! It is wonderful. Everything she says is wonderful. It’s always when Ty Lee is here that Azula feels the most normal. As if she could be just like Zuko, just like Iroh, just like Katara and Aang and everyone else who never had to think too hard about caring, about loving.

She hasn’t seen Mai in years. Azula feels strangely apathetic about it. She’s learned from Uncle Iroh that forgiveness is never deserved - only gracefully accepted when someone chooses to offer it. That old food. She wonders when she’ll see him next, if only to get another chance to crush him at Pai Sho. 

Azula sits down at her kitchen table and stirs her tea. She picks up a pen and smoothes the white piece of paper in front of her until it becomes creaseless and perfect. 

Dear Zuzu,

You’re an idiot if you don’t withhold raising the taxes on the largest corporations and highest tax brackets for another six months. I know treasury funds are running low, but growth is bound to soar with the official trade agreement you’ve signed with the Earth Kingdom. The influx of profits will make your plan to construct a true Fire Nation welfare net all the more politically palatable. People with money in their pockets don’t put up much of a fight. 

Have you survived any assassination attempts lately? Put down any coups? Tell me all about the political extremism present within the borders of the Fire Nation. I’m sure there’s much to discuss. And I’m sure it’ll be more interesting to read about. I’m destitute when it comes to entertainment on this godforsaken island, as I’m sure you’re well aware. 

The turtleducks are doing well. The wisteria has already begun to bloom. Tell Mai I wish her well.

Your most loyal, useful, beautiful, and perfect servant,

Azula

She takes a deep breath, grounding herself, and looks out the thick glass windows for a hawk on the horizon. They’re beautiful creatures, their mottled brown wings powerful and tireless. She trusts them to relay her letters week after week. 

Azula might be the only person on this section of the coastline for miles around, but she is far from alone. 

Things have changed, haven’t they?

[thespiandrummer-deactivated2025]

I am beholden to the month of June

like a reliquary where a larkspur sky

contains the blue woodgrain of lost stars

in a sacred exploit of shaded form bleeding 

light from the purification of my time here –

As if I am the offering to this place, 

this landscape of harsh beauty, a litmus 

of the blue-black night on a wide open horizon, 

I hold my light in ascension, to be present  

here – now above the ramadas

Of my own body as this resting sky of 

my oblations break to the crease of a 

Lapis blue ether, like flux in the canted

road ahead among dogbane and saltbush, 

bringing me closer to the cardinal refuge of night

______________________________ © Thespian Drummer / Beholden

[gingersh0t]

SO GOOD WTF

[gingersh0t]

why would you pretend that men are real? all they are

they are battered steel cages and severed locks of hair. stolen underwear(and sometimes they steal more than just underwear). magic pills that gouge out your stomach and leave your ribs picked clean. they are the sickly cries of december children on your doorstep. and gone by september. they are wildflower bruises and imagined ammunition, the wild thrum of bullet heartbeats. they are mechanical, violent, incomplete. 

but if you look closer, you will find that they are not real. a projection. fantasy. so don't you worry that pretty little head. 

and smile for me.

[gingersh0t]

.

[meganspublished]

x

[gingersh0t]

quichotte is getting worse with each word i read

[gingersh0t]

The roses at the bottom of the barrel are luminescent. They glow faintly with hope, a golden-pink light that carries through the hollow chill of a February evening. I want to swallow them whole, feel the burn of the thorns slicing through the flesh of my throat, a firebrand that scars me from the inside out. I want the light to glow from inside my cavernous frame, to illuminate the abyss of my stomach, to feel the warmth of hope turn to unbearable heat, to feel like a witch tied to some invisible stake, my flesh charred black, my jaws gaped wide in a silent scream. 

Only I will look angelic.