WHICH IS YOUR FAVORITE?

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I've been writing more at work in-between customer interactions. Upside is that I can hit my daily goal before I'm even off for the day (and I technically get paid to do it!). All I gotta do is transcribe it into Obsidian when I get home. The downside is I get interrupted often and keep losing really good lines x_x Poor one out for all those bursts of inspiration that get squashed before they make it onto the page

slow down for your disabled friends. thats like a bare minimum kindness that we shouldnt have to ask for. i love that youre so quirky and walking fast is a cool personality trait to you and all that but i bet you can count your physically disabled friends on less than one hand

Some Things To Consider When Writing Weapons Training

Your character will hurt. Even if they don't get hit, it can be exhausting training, especially if they're just starting. It can be a weird set of muscles to use, and things like their shoulders will hurt if they do what a lot of people do and tense up while holding the weapon.

They will drop the weapon. There are a lot of reasons why people drop weapons--because the weapon is awkward to hold or the person isn't used to holding them, because it gets hit out of the person's hand, because their own hand gets hit, etc--but it happens.

People get hit by accident all the time--including the person holding the weapon. When I've done jō practice, I consider it a success if I don't hit myself with it while I'm practicing. And even when doing controlled sparring or paired katas, people still end up hitting each other, especially on places like the hand.

Practice weapons still hurt. Depending on what you're doing, they're usually made of either wood or rubber rather than metal, but just because they're not metal, it doesn't mean they don't hurt. Bruises are really standard, especially if you're practicing something like knife fighting where you're doing a lot of hand-to-hand blocking.

The goal of training is not to hurt your opponent. People who (intentionally or through carelessness) hurt their sparring partners are bad at training and will probably be kicked out of it or at least get a very strong talking to. Good training will also teach them how to train without getting hurt and strongly discourage doing things in a dangerous way.

What they wear will differ widely depending on the discipline. HEMA and fencing tend to have a fair amount of protective gear (helmet, etc.), as does kendo, while disciplines like aikidō, iaidō, and jūjutsu are more likely to have people wearing a gi or hakama. This will impact how they feel about hitting opponents--it's always riskier to hit someone in a place with no protective gear.

Some weapons' training is primarily defensive, and some is primarily offensive, and some is both. Some training (knife defense, gun defense) is primarily about disarming someone with one of those weapons, where the actual use of the weapon is just as a training tool. In those cases, the specifics of the attack are usually emphasized less than the specifics of the defense. HEMA and fencing are much more offense-focused, with the goal being more about landing a hit. In forms like that (or in a similar fictional form), you'll see the mentality that the best defense is a good offense, as opposed to the mentality that the best defense is a good defense (or the best defense is running away).

Knowing one form of weapons training is (often) helpful in learning another. Even while they differ a fair amount, different weapons styles can often use similar patterns in terms of strikes, blocks, and steps. Part of this is that there are only so many useful places to hit a person and only so many ways to step. There are other things that are fairly universal as well, like awareness of your blade and your opponent's blade, awareness of your body, and awareness of relative distance.

some of my favorite woven tapestries, by Cecilia Blomberg:

Point Defiance Steps

Mates

Rising Tides

Vashon Steps

Service Station

You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit, said the attendant every time my mother pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue. We never knew why. She didn’t ask and he didn’t explain. My brother and I would look at each other sideways in the back seat, eyebrows raised— though lord knows we’d lived in Berkeley long enough. He smiled when he said it, then wiped the windows and pumped the gas. I liked the little ritual. Always the same order of events. Same lack of discussion. Could he sense something? Attune to an absence of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting— a way of tossing her an apple, a peach? It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment of which she seldom spoke, and true she never thought herself a beauty, since in those days you had to choose between smart and beautiful, and beauty was not the obvious choice for a skinny bookish girl, especially in Barbados. No wonder she became devout, forsaking nearly everything but God and science. And later she suffered at the hands of my father, whom she loved, and who’d somehow lost control of his right fist and his conscience. Whose sister was she, then? Sister of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute, the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams? But didn’t her savior speak in parables? Isn’t that the language of the holy? Why wouldn’t he come to her like this, with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms, to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan, and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness, as he filled the car with fuel, and told her— as a brother—to go ahead, partake of the garden, and eat of it.

Bonfire Opera : Poems. -- Danusha Laméris.

graves grow no green that you can use.

gwendolyn brooks

My mistress is a bumbling idiot. She’s been seeing a suitor who intends to buy her hand in marriage from her father, but she’s told me quite clearly that she doesn’t think this man is right. As her devoted maid, I cannot let her be wed off to some scoundrel like him. But all my efforts to save her from him have been foiled by her clumsiness. When I brought the tray to them with the poisoned teacup closer to him, in a breach of etiquette she reached for the far teacup and took the poison for herself. When I poisoned his wine, her ring got caught on the tablecloth and knocked over his glass. When I set up the armoire to fall and crush him, she tripped on the rug and made it go off too early. Once I even rigged one of the chandeliers to fall on his spot, and right before it did she violated table manners, got up, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him to the window because she “thought she saw a stag outside.” A stag?! There weren’t even any woods visible from that window! And after all these foiled attempts she has the audacity to complain to me that marrying this man will ruin her life. As if seeing her with any man wouldn’t ruin mine!