Latest Posts by self-inconsistent - Page 6
saw a poll about whether you prefer corruption or redemption arcs and i realized that for me it's not really either, it's a distillation arc: when a character becomes the most intense version of what they could be, everything inessential falling away or being discarded so that only the core remains.
how it feels "trusting the process" as a writer/artist
This is a GoodTimesWithScar appreciation post. RB if you love GoodTimesWithScar
They/them pronouns but not because of gender but because there’s two guys in there
The closer a language is to yours, the easier it is to understand, the further it is from you, the harder it is to understand. But there's a sort of uncanny valley right in the middle that makes a language sound silly.
I'm an English speaker. German sounds similar, I can even find cognates sometimes. Mandarin Chinese sounds completely alien, but I can understand that it is a language.
But Dutch, Dutch sounds hilarious. Dutch sounds like a clown version of English. I wonder why that is.
I've heard Spanish speakers say similar things about Portuguese, which makes me think there's some sort of linguistic Silly Zone.
also before the new series drops i have to say my dream but very unlikely team up at the moment is flower husbands 2 simply because i believe scotts divorce roleplay would be insane
hey, so i just read "the psychology of the transference" by c.g. jung bc my psychoanalyst told me to. all of the misogyny, rampant racism and overconfident speculation on the role of incestuos desires for the human psyche aside (lmao), i found it a worthwhile read. one of the main points that he seems to make in regards to alchemy is that it wasn't *really* about chemistry/material processes, but more about the images and metaphors used to describe the alchemical process. and jung compares this alchemical imagery, which in large parts revolves around themes of divisions and fusions, to subconscious (psychic) processes that in his opinion also revolve around divisions and fusions (like dissolutions or integrations of the self, contradictions in gender relations and other social relations, etc). and idk, that part makes sense to me. did alchemists really care about the physical world? or did they care about gender, sex, identity, art, death, the horrors, etc?
YES. THE TEXTS HE IS TALKING ABOUT ARE PROTO-CHEMISTRY WORKS.
Alchemy was demonstrably, overwhelmingly, about the physical world. Jung's psychological interpretations of them are --and I cannot stress this enough-- entirely invented ahistorical bullshit.
I cannot overstate the amount of damage that Jung has done to alchemical scholarship. His interpretations of alchemical texts have caused literally thousands of historical proto-chemistry texts to languish in the historical wastebin of "Psychological mumbo jumbo" or "it's just old therapy language tee hee!"
What's worse is he actively misrepresents many of the actual religious or mystical ideas present in the texts he cites. For example, many alchemical texts in the Arab world we're the result of Isma-ili mystics from northern Africa and more gnostic-influenced parts of the early Muslim world. Their equivocation of Hermes Trismegistus with the biblical Enoch, and unique relationship to both hermeticism and Jewish apocrypha, gets ENTIRELY sidelined in Jung's reading, in favor of "it's just early psychology."
Furthermore, Jung tries to make the argument that these images present in alchemical texts are somehow representative of some deeper, universal structure within human psychology. Which is, --again I cannot stress this enough-- howling clown bullshit. Alchemical texts are similar because chemistry works the same wherever you are on the planet. He actively ignores the hermeneutics of different alchemical theories, which change RADICALLY depending on culture and location.
All this in service of adding a pseudo-historical foundation for psychological theories that are about as scientific as astrology.
hey, so i just read "the psychology of the transference" by c.g. jung bc my psychoanalyst told me to. all of the misogyny, rampant racism and overconfident speculation on the role of incestuos desires for the human psyche aside (lmao), i found it a worthwhile read. one of the main points that he seems to make in regards to alchemy is that it wasn't *really* about chemistry/material processes, but more about the images and metaphors used to describe the alchemical process. and jung compares this alchemical imagery, which in large parts revolves around themes of divisions and fusions, to subconscious (psychic) processes that in his opinion also revolve around divisions and fusions (like dissolutions or integrations of the self, contradictions in gender relations and other social relations, etc). and idk, that part makes sense to me. did alchemists really care about the physical world? or did they care about gender, sex, identity, art, death, the horrors, etc?
YES. THE TEXTS HE IS TALKING ABOUT ARE PROTO-CHEMISTRY WORKS.
Alchemy was demonstrably, overwhelmingly, about the physical world. Jung's psychological interpretations of them are --and I cannot stress this enough-- entirely invented ahistorical bullshit.
I cannot overstate the amount of damage that Jung has done to alchemical scholarship. His interpretations of alchemical texts have caused literally thousands of historical proto-chemistry texts to languish in the historical wastebin of "Psychological mumbo jumbo" or "it's just old therapy language tee hee!"
What's worse is he actively misrepresents many of the actual religious or mystical ideas present in the texts he cites. For example, many alchemical texts in the Arab world we're the result of Isma-ili mystics from northern Africa and more gnostic-influenced parts of the early Muslim world. Their equivocation of Hermes Trismegistus with the biblical Enoch, and unique relationship to both hermeticism and Jewish apocrypha, gets ENTIRELY sidelined in Jung's reading, in favor of "it's just early psychology."
Furthermore, Jung tries to make the argument that these images present in alchemical texts are somehow representative of some deeper, universal structure within human psychology. Which is, --again I cannot stress this enough-- howling clown bullshit. Alchemical texts are similar because chemistry works the same wherever you are on the planet. He actively ignores the hermeneutics of different alchemical theories, which change RADICALLY depending on culture and location.
All this in service of adding a pseudo-historical foundation for psychological theories that are about as scientific as astrology.
bumping your OCs ages up every few years because they’re starting to feel like infants to you. reblog if you agree.
This is it! By removing all unnecessary parts I will find my one true immutable self and solve the question of identity forever, said a kid, who in a few years will become familiar with the term gender dysphoria, rapidly approaching an industrial grade wood chipper
“ Kip looked up at him, face entirely blank. Maybe it was something about the dying firelight, or the sound of the rain. Maybe it was how Kip's eyes formed huge perfect circles, and how his mouth was a flat line. Marin was struck with the sudden and intense feeling that he had just asked something deeply personal. “
unhinged little yellow man
i'd rot in hell with you btw. if you just asked me to.
Hey, can y’all rb this if it’s okay to send you messages asking about your ocs, cause on god I wanna interact with y’all but I am terrified of being annoying lol
Among moss and ferns something slept. It knew not of the rose rays of sunrise seeping through young leaves. It could not hear the howling of the wind above or the birds singing to greet the coming of spring.
It dreamt of a place darker than a starless night, of flight and of falling.
It dreamt of hands caked in mud, of crawling and of tearing through a canopy of roots.
Finally it stirred and began unravelling. From a bundle of white fabric limbs began slowly emerging. The small creature rose and only then it became apparent that it was a child, probably a boy, with dishevelled brown hair and clothing that was best described as rags.
He grabbed a broken branch he fashioned into a walking stick, blinked at the sun lazily and wandered away.
As the day went on the birdsong grew quiet. To the child’s delight, despite the strong winds chasing heavy clouds in the sky, fog gathered among the trees. It snaked around almost as if alive, curling up wherever the sunlight did not quite reach. The boy watched with amazement as it grew. He thought that it almost looked like it was reaching out towards him.
That could have been a reason for concern, since he was alone, deep in the wilderness, away even from the tracts that were reluctantly used, only by heavily armed caravans and the desperate. But he was thirteen, had a stick in his hand for a weapon and could climb trees really fast. This surely meant he was as well equipped as one can be to face the world.
The fog grew and swelled steadily, until the whole world became a collection of blurry shadows. In the distance something large moved through it.
The boy ran quietly towards where he saw the movement, wanting to make sure it was not just a trick of his eyes. He found nothing there but towering old trees, their branches weaving slowly. The child’s disappointment was short-lasting as at the edge of where he could see something moved again.
Over the next hour it happened multiple times, in the dead quiet of the endless grey ocean something would appear, but always for just a moment, too far to properly see. Sometimes there would come a sound, a call so distant it could have been both of a man or a beast. The child dutifully followed each one, making his way down the gentle slope of the valley.
Just as the boy began to grow bored the fog was filled with a wail so low it was more felt than heard. A distorted cry that made a cold shiver run down the child’s spine. It hung in the air for longer than he was able to hold his breath. At that point it finally occurred to the boy that he may not be safe. Slowly and cautiously he began moving from tree to tree, searching for one he could climb. All of them were an old growth with the nearest branches at many times the child’s height.
The boy sneaked through the endless fog with a growing sense of unease.
Then, he stopped.
Between the trees a new shadow appeared. For a moment the child thought it could have been his, somehow cast many meters away, as it was shaped like a person and more or less his height, but when he waved at it, it remained motionless.
The shadow slowly extended a part of itself that was supposed to be a hand and made a beaconing gesture.
The movement made it sway slightly as if it was not supporting its own weight.
The forest remained deathly silent.
The boy stared at the shadow with eyes wide open and began silently walking forward.
To an outside observer it would have seemed that the child was being enthralled, unnaturally compelled to move and reach out his hand. But that was not the case, the boy moved like one would towards a bird, never seen before, that inexplicably is not flying away, trying to see if it can be touched.
The boy did not know what the shadow was and with every step his excitement grew, because he assumed that what he saw was another person, made blurry by the fog, but moving closer had not made the stranger any clearer. Even when he stopped an arm’s reach away from the apparition it still looked like a shadow cast on the fog by some invisible object. The boy’s mind was on fire with questions of what he was seeing and what he should do, all while he continued to extend his hand towards it. When he realised there is something moving above him he allowed his self-preservation instinct to shine.
In a swift motion the child swung his stick up and brought it down. There was almost no force behind it, it was not meant to be an attack, but a test of a theory.
The stick dropped down meeting no resistance.
The shadow disappeared while the stick passed through it.
“Hello?!?” the child shouted quietly, his voice muffled, even to his own ears. “How did you do that?” the child added, without as much as a hint of fear in his voice.
He spun around looking for where the apparition could have gone and to his surprise saw it swaying gently a few steps away. An indiscernible whisper filled the air.
The shadow extended its hand again and the child began repeating the gesture.
The low painful wail filled the forest again and the boy flinched back to cover his ears.
When he looked up, the shadow was gone.
The child searched for his new friend fruitlessly. He saw no more distant movements and not long after the fog began to dissipate, letting the child out into a late evening in the wilderness. The sun had already began to set, drowning the forest in elongating shadows.
“Do you know what that was?” The child spoke, half addressing his stick, half no one in particular.
The only answer was the chirping of insects.
Even sharper than the agony of being opened and remade is the joy of becoming
I was inspired to try and paint the dream monoliths.
I keep dreaming of physically impossible monolithic structures made out of a glassy stone like dull black marble or tarnished obsidian. I can always see the stars like the structures themselves are floating on the surface of a still lake that perfectly reflects the night sky. That or they're just floating in space.
I have not stopped writing the trilogy. It was not even supposed to be a book and I tried to drop it multiple times but now that I have reviewed a plan it probably will be a trilogy... It's been a decade.
studio ghibli movies are like if someone took all of your fondest, softest childhood dreams and put them into a film
Making a magical elixir of feeling like an alive human person existing within the confines of time.
How exhilarating it is to reap the rewards of being known without submitting to the mortifying ordeal of being loved.
I am right and i should say it.
I close my eyes, hours turn into years as I sit motionless and when I finally open that I am where I have always been, in an airport borgir king