holy ghost, i'm on fire

moon/26/ind

[tongueofgod]

hi i'm moon (he/it) i'm in my 20s.

most of the posts i make are in an indian context. northeastern and south indian, so don't call me desi.

i post a lot abt music and complain about life.

idm minors interacting but don't get snippy about an adult posting adult content.

don't rb personal posts ty

sideblogs

@eriong - music

@dreamquartz - kpop

@apocryphalis - aesthetic (?)

[utopians]

duuuuuude you have GOT to come out tonight we're enacting cruelty upon those who have transgressed so badly that we can justify any act against them... and you KNOW we're interpreting our delight as moral righteousness... Yeah it's fucking crazyyyyyyy get an Uber

[tongueofgod]

my partner pisses me off too much lately it feels like we're not longer on the same wavelength

[eldritchbauble]

Sometimes an abuser:

- Tells you they love you all the time

- Compliments you

- Spends money on you

- Does favors for you

- Stands up for you to other people

And that doesn't outweigh them being an abuser. A person can do all of the above and still control you, degrade you, and hurt you. Sometimes the "good" they do makes you easier to control and makes it easier for them to pretend they're not an abuser. Sometimes they do these things intentionally to prove to themselves and others that they're decent. But that doesn't outweigh them being an abuser.

[eldritchbauble]

This is one of the biggest reasons that people don't "just leave" abusive relationships, whether it's their parent, roommate, or a partner. It's so much harder to walk away from someone if you have reason to believe they're good at heart. The secret is that abusers are just people, people are complicated, and hardly anyone is all good or all bad.

That doesn't outweigh them being an abuser.

[eldritchbauble]

You're allowed to acknowledge that things aren't all bad all the time with someone. You're allowed to feel sad or have other mixed feelings. You're allowed to love and feel sympathy for the good in someone.

That doesn't outweigh them being an abuser.

[lumsel]

sometime's you'll be reading the wikipedia article for Marshton's Ant and halfway down the page you'll see "marshton's ant is omniscient and very small[1]" and you'll go what the fuck so you click omniscient and be redirected to a page called Omniscience (ant biology) that tells you "in ant biology, an ant is considered omniscient if it knows what its own ass looks like" and you're like oh okay and the disappointment follows you for the rest of the day

[thingsfromthedirt]

[feastofsnakes]

hey sorry I snapped at you, I've just had a really hard day and [remembers focusing on myself is selfish] maybe it's your fault for provoking me?

[necrofauna]

Dinner for two

[tongueofgod]

hosting a BBQ so that one specific person will show up is soooo gatsby of me

[jakeperalta]

not using AI genuinely feels like the rest of the world is experiencing some kind of mass amnesia. if someone says they never use it, the immediate response is that can't be true because "everyone" uses it to write their emails or answer their questions. saw a comment suggesting that not using chatgpt to write an essay is "like the 90s". girl I graduated in 2021 and we weren't doing that! how is it that everyone has suddenly forgotten that they were entirely capable of doing these things all by themselves for their entire lives up until the past few years!! am I going crazy!!!

[tongueofgod]

should I even do a PhD. In anthropology that too.

[makingqueerhistory]

We are going to spend Pride Month working to fight book bans this year! If you want to join or keep up with us, check out our Patreon!

[iphigeniacomplex]

my first year of high school i was in this intensive outpatient exposure therapy program which i attended for the first half of every other weekday, or something. it was in this out-of-the-way room in some sort of hospital; the memories flicker a bit because i've been in a lot of rooms with buzzy fluorescent lights and adults who talk to me like a dog, so they sort of blur together. there are a few things that distinguish my time in iop, though, and one of those is the little boy on the other side of the room, with a different small group of kids and therapists, who screamed endlessly. he couldn't have been much older than eleven. he would come in every day a bit after me and start screaming and i would put my head down on the table between my arms, trying to cover my ears. i never heard him say a word. there was a tiny empty room they sent him to, but it wasn't actually soundproof, just a little further away, so everything we did at the program was accompanied by the background score of a little boy screaming in another room. at the time i found it only a bit more annoying than the slight buzzing of the fluorescent lights, because none of the adults gave any indication that something was wrong here, and all of us kids were crazy anyway. i graduated the summer before my sophomore year, and he was still there when i left. i don't remember his name or what he looked like, and it's not like i could reach back and save him if i did.

[iphigeniacomplex]

i keep wanting to reframe this act as some kind of tiny liberation, but that's a lie, and not a permissible lie like the lies that slip into everything i write from memory no matter how objective i pretend to be. it's the worst kind of lie! it's theft! i spent some time in that room, too, when i became too unwieldy, but i can't cut and fold my memory over him and place the screams in my throat. i can't know why he screamed. i know that i could have, and i think that i probably should have, and i know that i didn't. i spent the first part of my childhood screaming, and then i spent a lot of time in rooms with buzzy fluorescent lights and adults who talked to me like a dog, and i became the only person i can tell this story as: the girl on the other side of the room who listened to him scream and didn't wonder about it at all.

[iphigeniacomplex]

“I was thinking,” I said, “about back then, at Hailsham, when you used to go bonkers like that, and we couldn’t understand it. We couldn’t understand how you could ever get like that. And I was just having this idea, just a thought really. I was thinking maybe the reason you used to get like that was because at some level you always knew.”

Tommy thought about this, then shook his head. “Don’t think so, Kath. No, it was always just me. Me being an idiot. That’s all it ever was.” Then after a moment, he did a small laugh and said: “But that’s a funny idea. Maybe I did know, somewhere deep down. Something the rest of you didn’t.”

— Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

[nevver]

Reggae records scene, Alex Bartsch

[pussyhoundspock]

joining the war on kids reading any book they want on the side of kids reading any book they want. simply you will be fine. it's even good to be confronted with things you don't understand and even find upsetting, uncomfortable and difficult. it's a surprise tool that will help you later.

[nonevahed]

prev tags:

literally ok so not a funny story but kind of funny? when I was nine I encountered rape in a book and I was like hey mom what’s this mean and she explained it and I was like oh. gross. and then like two weeks later a girl on the bus abruptly disclosed her csa and we were all like ????? what ???? but I was like wait hang on there’s a word for that ☝️🤓 and explained what it meant and that it was illegal and that you could talk to a teacher or my mom if it had happened to you and everyone was like ohhhhh I see I see and very somberly comforted the girl (she was safe she was removed from her home and living with my neighbor at the time so it wasn’t Urgent)

[zarohk]

And this is a perfect illustration of why it is important for kids to read or variety of things, and why abusers don’t want them to.

[unsettling-mantis]

Hiding knowledge from kids will not benefit them but only render them helpless when faced with the unknown

[maybuds]

Hope (in 8 select parts)

1. Faint Music, Robert Hass

Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.

2. No Choir, Florence + The Machine

3. from The Naomi Letters, Rachel Mennies

4. from On Jellyfish, Nina Li Coomes

5. When We Were Orphans, Kazuo Ishiguro

…oh, I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve wasted all these years looking for something, a sort of trophy I’d get only if I really, really did enough to deserve it. But I don’t want it any more, I want something else now, something warm and sheltering, something I can turn to, regardless of what I do, regardless of who I become. Something that will just be there, always, like tomorrow’s sky.

6. To the young who want to die, Gwendolyn Brooks

7. In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver

Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go.

8. Untitled Project 01 - ISSAC LAM

[7scorpio]

chen chen / moonlight (2016) / fiona apple / stand by me (1986) / clementine von radics / shoplifters (2018) / marina / the florida project (2017) / tracy chapman