Folk musician, movement addict, giant nerd. Social Justice Paladin and hoarder of hobbies. She/her or they/them.
This is my main blog; send me an ask if you want my music blog.
A lot of people–a gratifying number of people, really; it was like reaching the actual apocalypse cleared a lot of puritan bullshit out of everybody’s heads, so that their response to “we’re married” became “congrats,” and not a frantic game of “which one is your husband, which one is just a friend,” or worse, “oh, you’re gay, how nice, is she going to be your surrogate”–a lot of people assumed, when they walked into a hanger, that they were like those Chinese triplets. Three pilots. Triple the strain but triple the connectivity, the control.
(”How amazing,” those people murmured, in their own dialects, in their own ways. “They’re not related, you know. They can run a drift that close on love.”)
Except that they couldn’t.
When No Encores woke, she woke with Eliot on her left and Parker on her right, and Hardison back in the control room, monitoring their vitals, dying a little bit inside from the fear, coming back to life from the pride. He never stepped into the cockpit, never saw what they saw, never had to hold up the weight of the world as they knew it. That was for the best. He kept them safe in so damn many ways, in all the ways that counted, and their Jaeger danced like a thief and hit like a trained professional, and they came home. They came home every time.
Sometimes those same people, the ones who had assumed, would see Hardison on base when No Encores was running the waters. They would treat him so gingerly then, assuming he was hurt, neglected, left behind. And he would only smile, and maybe touch the inside of his left arm (”one show only” tattooed there, black on brown, small and meant for him and his and no one else), and say, “Nah. You think I want to punch a kaiju? Those things are full of germs.”
The drift wasn’t love. It was similarity in the broken places. Hardison didn’t envy them that.
So my mother recently got married (mashallah). And she set up this thing where guests were encouraged to take photos of the proceedings on their phones and text them in to a given number, after which they would be played as a slideshow on a screen at the front of the venue. I want you to take a minute to imagine how this went.
It began just about as you would expect. People taking photos of each other and the décor and taking selfies and having a good time. The slideshow was tasteful. Clearly not “professional,” but nice and personal.
And then people start getting a little drunk. A person who signs their work only as “Moo” posts this masterpiece:
[ID: a vertically oriented photo of a garbage can. A long table draped with lavender fabric at which the bride and groom are seated is in the background. The garbage can is centred in the frame, clearly the focus of the photo. End ID]
Someone at my table notices. “Is that… a photo of a garbage can? What?” We all express confusion and have a chuckle about it. Clearly someone is taking the prompt liberally. But the avant-garde approach to what is worthy of documenting does not end here, and our artist soon enters these submissions into the canon:
[ID: photos of a pendant fire sprinkler, a ceiling vent, a lightswitch, and a door handle. the photos show a casual, non-intensive approach to framing (neither perfectly even nor deliberately askew, &c.) end ID]
Meanwhile someone has uploaded this photo of the groom:
He is sitting at the bride and groom’s table alone with his hands clasped in front of him. I can’t show you his face but he has a bit of stubble and is wearing wire-framed rectangular glasses. I can best describe his vibe to you by saying that he wore this newsie cap to his wedding and this made perfect sense.
Using this photo, someone at our table makes their first few volleys:
[ID: the groom cut out of the photo from before and edited into an empty booth at an empty chain restaurant and an empty movie theatre, respectively. End ID]
At this point, basically everyone except the bride and groom have noticed, and are more or less following the evolution of this guérilla art project. Some people are trying to talk the instigators out of submitting their unworthy photos; others are riling them up.
Moo makes several more of their found object entries:
[ID: a cleaning schedule sign on a bathroom wall; a bathroom sign reading “men”; a digital thermostat; a framed photo of a smiling man, the sign for the men’s bathroom reflected in its glass. end ID]
And it goes back and forth like this for a while, Moo submitting objects (a close-up on the tines of their fork; a mop bucket; a framed fish head) and their nameless collaborator, not be to undone, putting the groom into more situations:
[ID: the groom’s head edited onto the body of a cast member in the Broadway musical Newsies, his cap causing him to blend in perfectly; the groom’s head edited onto Jamie’s head from Mythbusters as he poses next to Adam, his cap causing this edit to be perfectly seamless. end ID]
A further development in the form of these submissions occurs when The Editor invents reappropriation and collage, beginning to edit the groom into photos that other people have uploaded:
[ID: the photo of the groom at the table from earlier, edited so that there are two identical grooms sitting side-by-side: text over their heads reads “Just Married!”; another photo of the groom standing and smiling with a drink in his hand, apparently talking to another groom who is holding his stomach, throwing his head back and laughing aloud. end ID]
Meanwhile, Moo has taken his aesthetic ethos to its only possible logical conclusion:
A photo of a urinal. “Fountain,” Moo, iPhone camera, 2023.
People are now watching the screen even more actively, laughing each time a new silly photo arrives in the stream of genuine submissions. Moo submits a photo of a dented Pringles can seen through a grate in the street outside and a photo of a bag of road-salting ice. The photo of the groom at the table is edited so that he sports a towering Cat-in-the-Hat hat instead of the newsie cap; the groom is edited into an astronaut suit on the moon; he and the bride wearing her fur stole are edited as Jackie O. and JFK in the limo (this last The Editor wisely did not upload but sent only to me).
Not content, however, with editing the groom into non-wedding photos or with sabotaging earnest submissions to the photo album, The Editor proceeds to bring us full circle by reappropriating Moo’s recontextualisations, Sherrie Levine-like:
[ID: 1. the photo of the garbage can from earlier, with the groom edited onto the flap that you push garbage through; 2. the groom edited into the photo of the framed photograph from earlier; he has been made greyscale to match the photograph; 3. the photo of the urinal from above, with the groom edited into its bowl. end ID]
The people at Moo’s table (groom’s family) love this last submission (“Urine a Urinal,” Anonymous, iPhone camera, 2023). They watch the screen waiting for it to come up again, and when it does, they shout “there it is!” and laugh and clap.
Alas, our destabilisation of what constitutes artistic merit was not allowed to persist. Like the Society of Independent Artists sticking Duchamp’s “Fountain” behind a partition, the bride and groom silently deleted all of the unworthy submissions from the publicly shared album. Luckily, I saw this coming and was able to document the proceedings.
In conclusion, I recommend not crowdsourcing your wedding photos unless you have a very well-developed sense of humour.
Us, arriving to Austria to a tiny family hotel owned by an elderly lady
Us: speak only limited German
Lady: barely speaks English
Us:
Lady:
Lady: Czech? Slovak?
Us: Czech
Lady, to herself: Czech, that’s a Slavic language right
Lady: understand Yugoslavian?
Us:
Us: yeah that works
Shit like this can really only happen in Europe. Reminds me of the time I took my best shot at ordering at a restaurant in Spain in spanish. The closest language to spanish that I actually speak is latin.
Waiter: Germany?
Me: No, Czechia.
Waiter, in a heavily accented but intelligible Czech: Why didn’t you say so before! We get you guys here all the time!
Já v roce 2019 na Ukrajině: OK, takže když použiju tohle staročeský slovo, přidám polský sloveso, své chabé znalosti záhoráčtiny a řeknu to s ruskym přízvukem, tak to projde.
[Me in 2019 in Ukraine: ok so if i use this Old Czech word, add a Polish verb, my poor knowledge of the Záhorie dialect of Slovak and say it with a Russian accent, it might pass]
Reminds me of the time when we were in Poland and I tried to order a burger using a truly unholy mix of Slovak, Russian and Ostrava dialect (which in itself is like an unholy mix of Czech and Polish).
I did get the burger
[#my grandpa called this “Slavic Esperanto”]
I know Ukrainians who can do this on purpose and masterfully, and it was mind-blowing to hear a speech as immediately understandable to an audience of native speakers of three different native Slavic languages, not just two languages as is common
During one student exchange I (a Pole) got acquainted with two students from Czechia and Russia. At first we talked in English or German, but after a while we’ve noticed, that we could understand each other’s native languages just fine. And if some word was unknown in one language, another one had the right synonym.
*Each of us talking in their mother tongue*
Me: Bla bla bla.
Russian: I don’t know this “bla”.
Czech: Oh, we have “bla”! We also call it “that”!
Russian: Oh I know “that”! It’s a very old version of “this”.
Me: Oh, we have “this” too, but it means something slightly different.
German acquaintance: Was für nen Scheiß zieht ihr da ab? o_O
the reason there aren’t slavic people in the bible is that they wouldn’t have been surprised or awed to hear the disciples speak in tongues and be understood by people of many nations at once
Slavs walked away from the Tower of Babel mildly inconvenienced.
Found a Murderbot playlist and, like, I wouldn’t have expected “electropop specifically about the grinding inhumanity of a corporate state and/or social anxiety” to be a niche with enough material for a 24-song, 91-minute playlist, but damn if I’m not enjoying it
Today’s Adventure is that I, after an unintentional 13-hour power nap,
Got woken up at 6AM by a phone call from a friend stranded in Montana because of the heat wave and almost no cell service because of their crap provider.
OhSoThat'sHowIt'sGonnaBe.jpg
Ok.
I somehow summon a week’s worth of spoons and in less than 30 minutes and 5 phone calls, get them
A hotel
An appointment with a mechanic from 2 states away
A perscription refilled from 2 states away
and A Pizza
Go me.
But then it’s 8AM and there are unscheduled live humans at the door and while EVERGENCY MODE is still on, I have already blown through a ton of spoons, and also probably shouldn’t meet whoever it is wearing just a pair of bootyshorts that say “CRYPTID” in Gothic Font on my ass.
So I greet them in those shorts and a T-shirt that I manage to put on both inside out and backwards
#nailedit
It is, Fortunately, not the mormons.
it is, Unfortunately, two UPS guys trying to deliver my other in-house friend’s new phone except the new guy doesn’t know how to operate the “sign for package” device, and the old guy that’s supposed to be mentoring him is like, 92, deaf as a post, and doesn’t actually know how to operate the device either.
by the way
it is already
over 100 out
it takes almost 30 minutes to sign for the phone
when i get back inside, i discover that apparently the Corgi has learned how to open his kennel from the inside because he is now out of the kennel and waiting for me to come in.
he also has cat litter all over his face because while he was waiting for me he also learned how to open the baby gate to the cat’s room and help himself to a cat shit breakfast.
He’ll be fine
He’s a cattle dog, they’re legally required to have at least 1 really disgusting snack they love.
but
more to the point
i have no idea at what point he learned to open his kennel from the inside
has he been staying there out of politeness this whole time??
And
I got other shit to do today.
namely.
I’m seeing a realator
The Devils most pathetic yet effective demons
I get a reminder text that I have an appointment with her
at least
I think that’s what it is because what she sends me is: “🏡⏰12:00 ❔”
With the time typed in the middle like that.
She is, according to her profile, at least 80.
so I reply “😎👍”
and then she sends me a string of GODDAMN POST-MODERN EMOJI HEIROGLYPHICS THAT TAKE UP MY ENTIRE SCREEN.
She’s on an iPhone so half of them don’t even translate across platforms
It takes me half an hour and three different software programs and goddamn wingdings to translate, but she has sent me the address and rules about masking and not wearing shoes inside.
in emoji
instead of like
literally any other format
I am
FASCINATED
and simply must meet the woman so if I don’t come back to update I got stolen by the fairies but I’m taking the Corgi with me as protection so I’ll see y'all later.
Update:
It’s not fairies
It’s Doris.
might be about to get a sewing machine and/or start an ACAB riot.
Ok, so:
I’m going to see a prospective house because due to various circumstances, I’m probably going to be moving to the other side of a major metropolitan area in the next few months, but that’s not important.
I get to the house
I get a text from the realtor
The realtor is not the person who has been texting me in emoji
The person texting me in emoji is the homeowner, who the realtor says will let me in if I want, she’s running late.
Sure
Why not
I put Herschel on leash and go to the front door
As much crime as he commits at home Herschel The Hanukkah Goblin has terrific public manners, and is Very Cute so I’m about 90% sure the emoji fairy is going to let me take him through the house
Door opens.
90-something blue haired old lady with a spine like a question mark and glasses that could be used as telescope lenses opens the door.
“OH [Gallus]! How lovely to see you!”
This woman clearly knows me because she remembers my anniversary was last week and that my sister is back from Australia.
Problem is
I know about 500 geriatric ladies with blue hair, scoliosis and extreme prescription glasses, because I am a member of 2 quilt guilds, the scientific illustration guild, the rocky mountain SCA and stagehand for three different theater companies, so I know everyone’s grandma and fuck me if I can tell them apart.
Wait
There’s a quilt in thekitchen, visible front hall
I don’t know faces but apparently I can recognize applique techniques at 40paces.
“…Doris? From SAQA?”
“YES! Who is this handsome little man?”
Herschel speaks enough English to know that “handsome little man” means “this person will feed me milk bones and bacon if I’m cute enough”
Immediately does a Sit Pretty and Shake.
Doris is bewitched
This is fine, but I also know I’m about to severely disappoint the realtor because there is no way in hell I’m moving into this House.
Because
The reason Doris is moving out is that her neighbor is a Cunt Magnifique and has been harassing Doris and everyone else to form an HOA and “improve the quality of our residents” because this woman has nothing better to do than be a racist-ass busy body, and recently, she’s set her husband, a county sheriff on Doris, trying to bully her into signing paperwork and threatening her with legal action and writing her up for bullshit property violations
Ain’t putting up with that shit
And neither is Doris, so she’s selling all her shit and moving out to live with her grandchildren in Santa Monica.
But she’s technologically impaired, so the only indication that there is an estate sale happening is a small paper sign in her front yard.
“Doris.” I say, as Herschel makes himself comfortable on the couch for belly rubs and pieces of ham. “Did you tell SAQA or FRCC or anyone on Facebook that you’re having the sale?”
“oh, I don’t know how to do all that!” She sighs. “I tried to call the Denver post but they just put me on hold for ages…”
“Watch Herschel for 20 minutes and he’s only allowed to have that one piece of ham.”
Pics of everything
Address, time and pics to Facebook, both quilt guilds she’s in, two more I have contacts for, nextdoor, and the local SCA discord for good measure.
It’s 12 minutes and Herschel persuaded her to give him at least three pieces of ham.
He is petitioning for a fourth by doing a little puppy dance on the living room rug.
“OK, that’s enough ham, people will be here in 10. Where is your cash box?”
Because apparently I’m running an estate sale today too.
It’s fine :)
There’s about 7 minutes of quiet.
Then
They DESCEND
The first on the scene is DeeDee, who doesn’t believe in speed limits. She’s arrived with a horse trailer. I remember that she is also moving.
“HI DORIS SWEETHEART WHY DIDN’T YOU CALL I HAD NO IDEA THIS WAS TODAY I WAS GOING TO TAKE ALL THIS TO THE GOODWILL HERE LET ME SET UP ON YOUR LAWN ”
DeeDee is 73, and has a special spiritual bond with Hello Kitty. She weighs like 98lbs, dresses exclusively in neon pink sanrio clothes and the kind of eye makeup drag queens aspire to.
She also speaks non-stop at a volume normally associated with jet engines.
Half the horse trailer is already spread out on the lawn.
Doris is putting price stickers on stuff
Herschel is trying to tear open a bag of cotton batting.
This, and the arrival of approximately 56 minivans, five more trucks with horse trailers and Corgi Excitement Screaming alert Cunt Magnifique that something is happening outside.
Madame saunters off her porch up to Doris and Demands to know what’s happening, you’re supposed to notify the neighborhood and get a permit to-“
Doris, surrounded by her pack of silver wolves, shouts. "OH HELLO! EVERYONE, THIS IS MARCIA. I’VE TOLD YOU ALL ABOUT MARCIA.” >:)c
… further details in a bit I think the Vikings are here.
~`* SOMEONE’S GETTING FIRED!!*`~
OK so.
You know those high school house parties you see in movies, where the person invites only a few friends, but those friends call their friends, and those friends call THEIR friends and soon like 500 people show up to one house and someone calls the cops and that one John Mulaney sketch with “SCATTER!” happens?
Old people will 100% do this too, except instead of a house party it’s an estate sale on a wednesday afternoon and when the cop shows up there are lawyers present and he is in DEEP SHIT because his wife just spent the afternoon admitting to doing a bunch of wildly illegal shit on tape.
So when we left off, the party had really started getting underway, because Marcia the Cunt Magnifique had decided to crash the estate sale and whine about “we’re supposed to coordinate garage sales as a neighborhood” and “your friends are blocking traffic on this cul-de-sac while nobody is home” weh weh-
DeeDee is about ready to throw hands but she is nowhere near the most dangerous of the Silver Silver Wolves.
That’s Dr. Ruth.
Dr. Ruth turned 99 this year and went paragliding for her birthday
So you understand just how hard she goes
Dr. Ruth sort of hobbles over and point-blank asks “So I understand you’ve been trying to start a homeowner’s association?” :3c
Marcia
Entirely misunderstanding how much danger she’s in
Starts enumerating the TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS of trying to start one, because SOME PEOPLE DON’T RESPECT AUTHORITY and all the paperwork and talking to people and she even had to ask HER HUSBAND. A SHERRIF. To go around and hand people stuff to sign.
Some people, right?
Dr. Ruth nods. Some people. She agrees.
You know.
Her son is a lawyer.
Why doesn’t she give him a call?
Marcia, a Moron: Oh that’d be great!
Dr. Ruth, hobbling back to Doris: “Don’t worry. David will handle this.”
Meanwhile
The Friends-Of-Friends and the Friends-Of-Friends-Of-Friends are arriving, lured in because they heard the words “Longarm Sewing Machine” and “Hand-made quilts”
Various factions present include but are far from limited to: -Probably Six Quilt Guilds -The Denver Art League -The Denver Leather League -The Vikings -The Klingons -The Colorado Wild Game Share -A Pack of Scientific Illustrators -A Pack of Assorted Scientists they brought with them -The Sheep Lesbians -The Horse Lesbians -Three Extremely Competent Finnish People (My Scientific Illustration Professor and her sisters) who immediately take over the estate sale and turn it into an auction to maximize profit and keep the taxes in order.
Someone brings two additional Corgi called “Cap” and “Bucky”
They are Pembroke Corgi, and weigh about 21lbs apiece
Herschel is a Cardigan Welsh Corgi and weighs 42lbs because he’s hug even for a Cardigan, and is Delighted with his New Minions.
They worship him as a God and follow him around so every time he sticks his face in something two smaller corgi faces immediately follow, like some kind of adorable cerberus.
Pelts and meat shares are being traded out of the backs of trucks and vans
Someone is making bratwurst.
Intrigued by the Brouhaha, Doris’ neighbors emerge.
They are also Geriatric and very nervous, because Marcia has been harassing them too.
They are telling this to the members of these factions that are also lawyers.
There are at least 5 of them so far and David isn’t even here yet.
I realize my realtor isn’t even here.
I decide to text her.
She is somewhere in the crowd and having a nervous breakdown because She’s SO LATE!!!
Ma'am.
It’s 103 out.
I was just handed a freshly grilled Brat
Some bitch is incriminating herself on the lawn.
Nothing scheduled is happening.
Come sit in the yard and watch the Corgis play on the Palyskool plastic slide set. They’re disassembling it like tiny furry engineers.
Have a bratwurst.
One of the Klingons appears, having physically carried my realtor through the crowd, and gently deposits her on the lawn before handing her a Bratwurst.
Diane, the Realtor, is not much older than I am, and from the preppie swaths of society that has “Never had a dog growing up” and “Didn’t Know People Could Just. Make. Blankets?” and “What is this? It’s like a hot dog but spicy?”
She is having a LEARNING EXPERIENCE.
One of the Horse Lesbians comes over and compliments Diane on her Dior handbag.
Diane thanks her ans compliments the apparently expensive brand scarf she has on. Do you. Know all these people?
Horse Lesbian explains that she’s part of the SCA, and what that is, and that why yes. Her girlfriend Tasha is an armorer. Yes like for knights.
More Livestock Lesbians assemble.
They are pulling off shirts to show off livestock and battle scars, and biceps.
Diane is LEARNING A LOT TODAY.
I am just getting everyone’s contact info and making sure Herschel does not consume his weight in bratwurst.
BWOOP!
Uh-Oh.
Marcia’s Husband is here.
I step out front.
He has used the siren to largely part the crowd and pull into his driveway but it has closed around him and there is No Escape.
He starts huffing and puffing about blocked traffic and permits and the like, but this is not his usual Can-Bully-Without-Consequences crowd.
These are Grandmas.
Veterans of the 60’s protest front who never let up.
He’s starting to turn bright red and looks like he’s about to cry and I’ve got my phone out to record whatever Incident is about to occur.
-And a Mercedes pulls up.
It’s David.
Dr. Ruth’s son.
The Lawyer.
And I emphasize that The because David is not some mere ambulance chaser.
David is the guy that the state sends to prosecute Corporate Fraud and Organized Crime and Other State Departments.
David was part of the team that took down the CO Branch of the KKK.
David is all of 5'4", very round and a balding little man that looks like the Dictonary Definition of “Nebbish” that moves with such intense confidence and authority that he pretty much has the Pillar Men Theme Blasting behind him at all times.
So when he and three other lawyers from the state’s office step out of the car
Mr. Sherrif goes from red to while like color-changing octopus and I am like 50% sure he shit himself.
Because what he and Marcia have been doing is Very, Very, Very, VERY, Fucking Illegal.
“mArCiA!” he garbles. “sHuT tHe fUcK uP!”
Marcia is standing in the middle of the cul-de-sac, having spent the last 3 hours recounting to anyone who will listen about the ‘measures she’s had to take’ and now the 5 lawyers that were here are delightedly handing over the paperwork that she had forced on Doris and her Neighbors, and pointing at all the doorbell cameras and witnesses out to the state’s top prosecutor.
Friends
I ugly laughed.
FOUR HOURS LATER: -Auction wrapped up with a solid $40K to Doris’ name plus pending sales on some of her larger furniture and antiques
Plus whatever David gets in damages from the county sherrif’s office.
Marcia and husband are fucking busted
Herschel spent all afternoon running around and eating snacks and is passed out on the floor
Diane is “meeting up with” one of the Horse Lesbians next week.
The sewing machine went to someone else but I did open my purse and found out Doris or someone shoved a bunch of cash in there.
I love how in the films Boromir and Aragorn made a Hobbit Dad Agreement™ that Aragorn was responsible for looking after Frodo and Sam, while Boromir was responsible for looking after Merry and Pippin.
On Caradhras, Boromir carries Merry and Pippin while Aragorn carries Frodo and Sam; Boromir trains Merry and Pippin to sword-fight;
in Moria Frodo/Sam both call for Aragorn when they need help;
on the stairs of Moria Boromir takes Merry and Pippin while Aragorn takes Frodo and Sam; when going down the Anduin Boromir goes with Merry and Pippin in a boat while Aragorn goes with Frodo and Sam; etc, etc, etc.
The big climactic payoffs to these relationships are Aragorn allowing Frodo/Sam to leave the Fellowship, and Boromir dying for Merry and Pippin.
Aragorn and Boromir must’ve had a conversation offscreen like “Ok here’s the plan: two hobbits each. We can’t separate Merry/Pippin or Frodo/Sam, so we’ll each take care of one Hobbit Duo.”
The reason Frodo/Sam were Aragorn’s hobbits is probably because the Fellowship didn’t trust Boromir to look after Frodo. Aragorn was better at resisting the Ring.
But I also enjoy the idea that Aragorn was like “I want to look after the relatively laid-back and mature hobbits who take this quest completely seriously” and Boromir was like “I WANT THE HYPERACTIVE LITTLE BROTHER ONES”
I also think it’s relevant that Aragorn and Boromir “switch hobbits” in the end.
After Gandalf’s death/as he loses hope, Boromir begins trying to reach out to Frodo.
And after Boromir’s death, Aragorn decides to rescue Merry and Pippin. He lets “his hobbits” go to Mordor alone, then sets off to save the hobbits who (up until this point) have been Boromir’s responsibility.
And then Faramir takes over protecting Frodo and Sam for a bit on his brothers behalf
Be nice to them. They’re doing an important job. Do not chase them, grab them or harass them.
Always bring some food with you, it’s just polite.
Approach them slowly, and let them come to you. Sometimes you might have to sit on the ground and tap it a few times. This is what you brought food for.
At some point after you have managed to touch the cat it will turn and sprint away. This is when you start following it.
Cats do not want you to get lost, but they can be fast. Never lose sight of them, you should stay with it until your return. This might still look like your usual street but you are in a liminal space already. Try not to get lost.
(NOTE: do not follow cats with mismatched eyes. You can pet them, but the moment they run away you should immediately turn your back to them and walk in the opposite direction.)
Black cats:
Follow black cats into the floor-level vents. Don’t worry, there are many spider webs but there aren’t any spiders.
Do not lose sight of them in the dark.
When you emerge, you will be in the same street you were before, but there will be no people to be found.
Do not stray, follow your cat. Sometimes it might want to just catch a bird and go back. Do not stay longer just to explore.
If you hear the sound of a crowd in the distance do not try to follow it. Your cat will never lead you there.
You can take anything with you but you cannot take pictures or record video or sound.
Orange cats:
Orange cats hang around train stations for a reason. Follow them into the next train. You will not need a ticket.
If the cat wants you to scratch its ears during the trip, do it.
The landscape will not look like the area around your town. Do not panic - this is normal.
The people in the train will not speak a language you understand or recognize, but they will have clothes and devices similar to yours. They are usually nice.
Get down at the same stop as your cat. You will not understand the name of the station, and no one will get off in the same station as yours. You should follow your cat, but it will never leave the station. Follow it into the next train to get back home.
Never stay in the train. Never wait for the last stop.
White cats:
White cats live on the edges. They will take you to many places but at the same time they will never take you anywhere.
If you meet them during the night-time, the sun will start rising, regardless of the time. If you meet them during the daytime, the sun will start setting. It will stay like this for the duration of the trip.
Follow them to the edge of a forest that smells like honeysuckle. You will hear the song of birds and the flow of water. You should never stray and enter the forest on your own. Your cat will not follow.
Follow them to a building where a fancy party is being held at. Through the windows you can see the food and the champagne. The guests will ask you to join them, but your cat will keep walking. Do not accept the invitation, and never eat the food or drink the champagne.
Follow them along the edge of a swimming pool. People will be bathing, playing and laughing. It will be hot, regardless of the season. Do not step too close to the edge, because they will try to grab your ankles and pull you into the water. Keep walking.
Once the sun finally sets or rises you will be back home. Never enter your house until you are completely sure the sky is changing.
Calico cats:
Calico cats are the safest. They will follow you instead.
Walk around your town and you will see everything is the same, but you will not be able to make the connections between the streets.
If you want to go to a certain place you will find it is no longer where it used to be.
You will not recognize anyone. Every single person in the street will be a stranger. They are not dangerous but do not look them directly in the eyes.
Never try to find your house. Because you will find it.
When you want to come back take the cat back where you found it. This might be more difficult than you expect.
Remember to always take some food with you, something make of iron, and comfortable shoes.
And remember to always be nice to the cats!
[if you like my writing consider buying me a coffee? your girl works night shifts ;u;] @senshi76 gave me the suggestion for this one!
Text: Sometimes in the dead of night on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, I see an extra door in the hallway, black and imposing.
It’s not a bad boarding house, as these things
go.
We’re not allowed up to the fourth floor, for
any reason – but I don’t blame the landlady for wanting her privacy.
Nobody but the landlady answers the strange
willow-patterned telephone on the third floor landing.
We all lock our windows on full moon nights.
No couples are allowed, ever. Only single women
and girls.
And sometimes, if you go down the hall to the
kitchen late at night, there’s a strange black door that’s never there by
daylight.
For some reason, it’s hard to get new lodgers
to stay. I don’t know why. It’s a little strange, maybe, but the meals are good,
Mrs Hallow the landlady is kind, and the rent is ridiculously cheap. I’ll take
the strange black door and the phone that rings even when there’s no wire going
to it over rats in the walls and cigarette ash in the food any day. My last
boarding house was like that. I like it here.
I’d been living here for nearly two years when
I lost my job working at the telephone exchange. It wasn’t my fault – they cut
the night shift back, and one of the girls cut was me. Mrs Hallow told me not
to worry – as I was an old lodger, she’d let me work for room and board while I
looked for another job. She’s so nice, I don’t know why people say she’s
creepy. It’s not her fault she’s so tall and thin, and her bones show through
her fragile old skin.
I worked hard, wanting her to be glad she’d
kept me. One of the jobs she gave me, since I was used to working nights, was
packing lunches after supper. For the Night Gentlemen, she told me, but didn’t
say more. Every night, I packed twenty lunches in twenty tin pails and filled twenty
thermoses with strong coffee. I made sandwiches, and boiled eggs, sliced
pickles and cheese, and packed a paper napkin into each pail. I was to have
everything done by eleven, Mrs Hallow told me, for the Night Gentlemen came at
midnight to collect their meals, and I should be in bed by then. By morning,
the pails were all gone. By evening, they were all stacked neatly in the
kitchen again, clean and ready to be filled. I never saw them come, but I
supposed it must be while I was sleeping.
Then I started to worry that my lunches were
dull. I baked cookies for the lunch pails, and pies and pasties. I put in
different kinds of fruit and vegetables each day. The Night Gentlemen worked
late hours, if they came for their lunches in the middle of the night. They
needed to eat good food. I looked through Mrs Hallow’s old recipe books and tried
new dishes, like german apple pancake and potato dumplings. Mrs Hallow was
pleased, and said she would pay me a little wage in addition to my room and
board, if I didn’t mind continuing. She was getting too old, she said, to make
all those meals every night.
I had been working at the boarding house for
nearly six months when I really messed up. I’d burned a whole batch of cookies
to a crisp, so I had to start all over, and I didn’t have time to decorate them
before evening. It was Valentine’s Day, and I felt so bad that I decided to
stay up late to finish them. The Night Gentlemen didn’t come until midnight, so
I had time… I thought.
The
first time the humans told us they sang their way through subspace,
we thought it a translation error.
.
We-the-hive
were overjoyed to meet them. Finally, finally, it was proven that we
were not alone! And though we already knew that we must not be, given
the vastness of time and the multiverse, we also knew that those same
vastnesses were against us. Civilizations we could meet are
greatly outnumbered by those who came before us and we are too late
to meet, those who will come after us and we are too early for, and
those so far away that we cannot find them.
A
starfaring civilization, like our own, increased the chances of
meeting greatly. One of our most distant scientific surveyors sensed
a faint and far away disturbance, similar to the waves our own ships
make when diving into and out of subspace. An exploratory team was
sent to investigate, and there at the furthest reach ever taken from
the hive’s center, to our everlasting joy, we found human explorers
on the far edges of their own range.
Their
ships were strange to us, and their selves even stranger.
Translation, and the mutual communication of peaceful intentions, was
difficult. Mathematics was the first understanding we were able to
share, as the basic principles do not change—though their and our
systems of harnessing it are different. Science followed after, as
the elements and natural laws are unchanging. So it was discovered
that we-the-hive and the humans share the common ground of being
carbon-based heterotrophs who consume water to maintain life
processes.
These
commonalities were far outnumbered by our differences. Yet, the most
important thing we had in common was the desire to understand each
other. With earnest effort, with forgiveness for unintended insult
and misunderstanding, we worked to learn each other’s languages.
Science
being an early part of our understanding of each other, we asked them
about the construction of their ships. They told us of their material
compositions and their subspace engines, different in design but
similar in purpose to our own technology—but when we asked them
about the shielding and stabilization they used to make the journey
survivable, they told us only that they sang their way through.
If space travel doesn’t involve sea shanties then I think we’ll have missed an opportunity.
You see though, for sea travel you want big strong people who are capable of managing rigging. For space travel you want small low-mass people who are technically educated, as they are called, nerds. Your space shanties are going to be less booming and more squeaky.
in so far as there will be space shanties, they’ll be filk
I call shenanigans on the big strong people; sailors were young and malnourished by modern standards, and climbing around the rigging is easier if you’re small and light.
Like, I am 100% in favor of shanties in as many situations as possible, but I’m having trouble coming up with a mode of space travel that would require multiple humans to move in concert, thus necessitating songs with a strong beat to move to.
Sea chanties were for providing a strong beat to move to. Space chanties might very well arise just because we’re bored, out there between point A and point B for so long.
(Also yes, @gdanskcityofficial up there has the right of it.)
Space shanties are for warp piloting. Under warp drive, human time perception and time as measured by crystal or atomic oscillators don’t match. Starship pilots listen to a small unamplified chorus singing a careful rhythm while keeping their own eyes on a silent metronome that the chorus can’t see, linked to a highly-precise atomic clock. How the chorus and metronome fall in and out of sync tells the pilot how to keep the ship safely in the warp bubble and correctly on course.
Depending on route, a typical warp jump can last anywhere from one to ten minutes, and most courses consist of five to fifteen jumps before a necessary four to six hour break to check the engines, plot the next set of jumps, and give everyone a chance to recover. A good shanty team, with reliable rhythm, a broad, versatile, and extendible repertoire, and the stamina to do 3-4 sets a day over the course of a voyage, is just as vital to space travel as a pilot, navigator, or engineering team.
Other reasons Shanties will experience a revival in the space age:
We will sing for any freaking reason, or no reason at all, and Shanties are FUN to sing.
Deep Space is a lonely place and recruiting people suited to long periods of isolation might be a good idea. People from Newfoundland/Labrador, for instance.
SPACE WHALES
THEY’RE DEFINITELY REAL I FEEL IT IN MY SOUL
“What Do We Do With A Drunken Sailor” is basically a revenge fantasy against your most incompetent co-workers and if there’s something humans love doing, it’s being petty.
It’s over, Thal'fax thought in despair, the last shot had disabled their warp calculation-matrix and the Pirate’s ship was much too fast to outrun in normal space, losing them in the warp stream had been their only hope.
The Warp Drive, though still technically operational was impossible to use safely without the calculation-matrix to guide them through flows and eddies of the warp stream.
Thal'fax hoped the Pirates only wanted their valuables and left them enough fuel to make it to the nearest port, if not th-
“Oh, the stars they shined so bright that night, upon our dear fair lady”
Thal'fax was cut off mid-thought as their pilot, Dave, began to sing, he knew humans were insane, but singing when you about to be boarded by pirates?
“The maiden voyage of our craft, Apollo two and eighty”
A human voice came from the communications console, the lights on the screen indicating that the voice was coming from the engine room.
Another human crew member, Susan, shooed a stunned Garlaxian out of his chair in front of the nav systems and began pressing buttons in quick succession.
“Oh, ho, we were there, we were there to see her through”
This time it seemed ever human on the ship was singing.
“Oh, ho, the maiden voyage, the maiden voyage of Apollo 82”
and Dave hit the warp drive.
@dreddude Hello yes this is fantastic and I would LOVE the rest of the lyrics to the song cause it sorta caught hold of my soul and it’s not letting go.
as pointed out to me by @mizrashkiphardi, the now popular sea shanty ‘Wellerman’ is based on the Weller brothers who were Pākeha (European) colonizers and whale-hunters in Aotearoa New Zealand in the 1800s.
They kept Māori people, my people, as hostages, and traded preserved Māori heads (which are considered sacred to my people). They “bought” land off Māori people (which always was 100% legal and consensual, totally /s). They contributed to the colonization, genocide, and harm of indigenous land and indigenous people.
this song should not be sung, it should not be shared.
most people probably don’t know the meaning of the song, or who it’s about, but it should not be spread. their names should not be spread, sung about, or celebrated.
