live and obscure


Would you believe that. out of all places, this came from a Garfield TV Special?

it was called Garfield and His Nine Lives, back from the 80s where Garfield was a juggernaut rather than an ironic joke, and it’s one of the weirdest, most experimental things to come out of American TV animation, and I wish more mainstream stuff would take risks like this.

You can watch the whole special in three parts on Youtube, and I highly recommend it if you’re looking for a hidden gem…


as soon as he shut off the monitor he began to pace. this mission was definitely going to be difficult for you, hell, it would be difficult for him. and you were the last one.

the last operative.

but you were so much more than that. he’d known you for years. he couldent help but feel attraction for you, even though it was against the rules of the company.

but then again there were zombies infesting the world and the apocalypse had pretty much happened so damn the rules right?

Wesker sighed and grabbed a gun, he was going after you. shocker.

A wonderful peace done by the fantastic artist @kevanhom, who has given me permission to repost this here, with a little drabble I thought up! A link to the original post may be found here. 

Please do not remove the source!

*The following journal entries were found within the travel journal of what appears to be a trader or fishermen in the beginning of the Edo Period of Feudal Japan.*

*Edo, Entry #1 dated 1654, 25th of October-* "Today, the mountain moved, the earth itself shook, trees were felled, and the birds halted their songs as they fled. As we passed the landscape, we watched it lumber along the banks of the river opposite us. Every step it took shook the ground beneath us, the waters rippling in submission. My dearest friend seemed terrified beyond words. I have never seen another man, much less him, tremble so, not before today. It seemed as thought the mountain lumbered toward the sea…“

*Entry #2, dated 1654, 29th of October-* "On this evening, we heard the voice of the mountain. The call was loud, deafeningly so. It had to have been no less than five hundred meters away, yet it sounded much closer! The fog is dense and obscures all but the mountain’s shadow, but we could tell it was not alone today… It must be fighting with a rival… A shrine will be built in the coming days to appease and praise this mountain god.”

*Entry #3, dated 1654, 1st of November-* “The living mountain, again today, was obscured by the mist, but its shadow was clear. It slumbered peacefully near the shores of the vast ocean, waves gently crashing against it. It seems it is resting before its great journey back to the seas. A few children foolishly wandered too close, yet the mountain god seemed to be impartial, letting them do as they pleased. The children said it had been wounded, possibly in the clash a few days prior… We are praying for its well-being.“

*Entry #4, dated 1654, 3rd of November-* "The entire village saw it off. The mountain god gave one last great cry before wading into the waves and diving beneath them. Children cheered and waved, and the Elders prayed. The land has been blessed by the presence of this god, and we seek to live enlightened lives. Perhaps, one day, the mountain god will return, and once again grace us with its presence to remind us that the gods are watching…”

This small thing was brought on by my personal fascination with the concept of kaiju being present in ancient history and living along side of humans many centuries ago, who hailed them as gods. Gojira would be a great candidate for that, especially the 2014 rendition, with how passive it seemed to people. The above story is about as historically accurate as I can make it while still being vague and unique to its own lore. Were the onlookers locals? or travelers from a nearby country? The ships in the image seem to be Junk ships, mostly utilized by China, and given their history for travel and trade, it is not unlikely merchants and traders would stumble upon the local god himself. Extreme kudos to the artist for producing this wonderful masterpiece, and I hope my writing compliments your own talent!


Argentina can be beguiling, but its grand European architecture and lively coffee culture obscure a dark past: In the 1970s and early ‘80s, thousands of people were tortured and killed under the country’s military dictatorship. In many cases, the children of the disappeared were kidnapped, and some of those children were raised by their parents’ murderers.

That troubled past serves as a backdrop for Things We Lost in the Fire, an unsettling new collection by Argentine writer Mariana Enriquez.

In ‘Things We Lost,’ Argentina’s Haunted History Gets A Supernatural Twist

Photo: Marian Carrasquero

anonymous asked:

What do you know about Georges Washington de Lafayette

All sources from Lafayette by Harlow Giles Unger: 

Georges Washington de Lafayette was born on December 24th, 1779. Adrienne wrote to her husband rather icily at his army camp. She offered sarcastic recognition of her husband’s many responsibilities in the military, she scolded him or not being with her and their new child. The baby’s full name wsa Georges Louis Gilbert Washington de Motier Marquis de Lafayette, he would always call himself George Washington Lafayette. The one he was named after, George Washington, became his godfather.

May 1781, Adrienne wrote that Georges “nearly died teething” and left her “weakened by anxieties”. During Gilbert de Lafayette’s second-to-last visit to America in 1784-1785, his returning ship ran aground and repairs delayed his departure home for a week. General Greene and Henry Knox had come to see him off, and the three spent long hours together reminiscing with Alexander Hamilton. Lafayette urged Greene, Hamilton and Knox to send their boys to him in Paris for several years of European education. He promised in turn, he would send his own boy, George Washington to them. Lafayette said he wanted his son educated at Harvard.

Unlike other European parents, Adrienne and Gilbert did not keep their children at a distance with tutors; they adored their children openly, embraced them spontaneously and showed them off to all their guests. Benjamin Franklin listened with a smile as seven-year-old Anastasie and five-year-old George sang children’s songs in English. Georges used to also help his father attach his sheathed sword and other military trappings.

When Georges was ten years old, one guard unit sought to make him an honorary second lieutenant, his father turned the honor into theater: “Gentlemen,” he proclaimed to the assembled militiamen, “my son is no longer mine; he belongs to you and to our nation.”–and the troops roared as Georges stepped forward and stood at attention in his snappy-looking new uniform in the Paris guards. Felix Frestel was his tutor, starting when he was eleven years of age; he was a principal of the College de Plessis, his father’s secondary school, the Lafayettes retained him to tutor their son privately until he was old enough to enroll in classes.

During the Reign of Terror, while Gilbert de Lafayette was in prison and Adrienne was just being arrested. The police nearly to their home, Adrienne ordered a governess to flee with ten year old Virginie to a nearby farmer’s house, while thirteen year old Georges and his tutor Frestel rushed into the woods and fifteen year old Anastasie hid in a secret in cubby in one of the towers. Unaware of her husband’s fate, Adrienne (on house arrest) grew fearful for the survival her only son–the only person who could inherit his father’s name and fortune. Every once and a while, Frestel would descend from the mountain hideaway late at night and report on her son’s health and his future. They agreed on a plan to obtain a false license and passport as a merchant and go to the port at Bordeaux with Georges, who would feign the role of his apprentice.

When Adrienne was released by Elizabeth Monroe’s manipulation, James and Elizabeth Monroe both aided Adrienne in acquiring a fake passport, ID and changed Georges name in order for him to be able to travel to the United States undeterred. Monroe obtained government counterstamps on their passports for them to go to America, with the boy traveling as “George Motier.” Adrienne gave Frestel a letter for president Washington written in French, which she hoped the American president would be able to read and understand:

[Translated French-English] “Sir, I send you my son… It is deep and sincere confidence that I entrust this dear child to the protection of the United States (which he had long regarded as his second country and which I have long regarded as our sanctuary), and to the particular protection of their president, whose feelings towards the boy’s father I well know. The bearer of this latter, sir, has, during our troubles, been our support, our resource, our consolation, my son’s guide. I want him to continue in that role… I want them to remain inseparable until the day we have the joy of reuniting in the land of liberty. I owe my own life and those of my children to this man’s generous attention… My wish is for my son to live in obscurity in America; that he resume the studies that three years of misfortune have interrupted, and that far from lands that might crush his spirit or arouse his violent indignation, he can work to fulfill the responsibilities of a citizen of the United States… I will say nothing here about my own circumstances, nor those of one for whom I feel far greater concern than I do for myself. I leave it to the friend who will present this letter to you to express the feelings of a heart which has suffered too much to be conscious of anything but gratitude, of which I owe much to Mr. Monroe… I beg you, Monsieur Washington, to accept my deepest sense of obligation, confidence, respect and devotion.”

At Olmutz prison, Adrienne coaxed the prison commander to let her write to specific family members, whom she had identified with each letter obtain approval. He read every word she wrote and rejected a letter written to her son. The received occasional news from the outside, the rest of the Lafayette family heard Georges arrived safely in Boston in September of 1795. Adrienne did not know was that her son’s arrival plunged his godfather, the American president, into a potentially embarrassing political and diplomatic situation that posed dangers to the Lafayette family. George Washington was unable to publicly offered sanctuary to Georges in the America because the French might consider it a threat to their neutrality. Washington decided to leave the boy in New England until the government recessed later in the year and he could move to Mount Vernon. Washington asked Massachusetts senator George Cabot to enroll young Lafayette incognito at Harvard college, “the expense of which as also of every other means for his support, I will pay.” Washington also wrote to his godson: “to begin to fulfill my role of father, I advise you to apply yourself seriously to your studies. Your youth should be usefully employed, in order that you may deserve in all respects to be considered as the worthy son of your illustrious father.”

In America, Georges studied at Harvard, was a house guest of George Washington at the presidential mansion in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and at the Washington family home in Mount Vernon, Virginia. Young Lafayette chose to make his way to New York where he waited in hopes to join Washington in Philadelphia and lived with the Washington’s for the next two years. He also stayed with Alexander Hamilton in his New York home.

The Lafayette family, Georges’s two sisters, his mother and his father were released from prison in 1797, but it wasn’t until 1798 that Georges was able to return to France. In February, on a sunny day, Georges–who had just turned nineteen–arrived back in Europe to the embrace of his family; he also brought with him a letter from George Washington. His father had not seen him in six years. Initially at Cambridge, then a few weeks with Alexander Hamilton in New York, before going to the Washingtons in Mount Vernon after the president’s retirement. On his return to France, George first went to Paris, where he found only blackened stone shell of his beautiful boyhood home on the rue de Bourbon. George’s arrival in Holstein revived the spirits of all exiled families.

“He is perfect physically: tall, with a noble and charming face. His temperament is all that we could wish is all that we could wish. He had the same kind heart that you remember, and his mind is far more mature than is usual for his age.” Lafayette wrote to his Aunt. Virginie wrote to her as well, “My brother is grown so tall, that when he arrived we could scarcely recognize him, but we have found all those qualities in him that we always knew. He is just as good a brother as he was at Chavaniac. He is so like Papa that people in the streets can see immediately that his his son.” While attempting to retain the family land that the Lafayette’s lost when it was all confiscated, Adrienne returned to Paris for a second time to try at negotiation–this time she brought Georges with her, who, she believed might intimidate government clerks more than Virginie.

Georges also was a prod at his father, who was writing his Memoires and who would grow impatient when Georges wasn’t there to coax him to write it. Mid-1799, Gilbert grew impatient with Adrienne’s constant absences, “It is two years today, dear Adrienne, since we left the prison to which you came, bringing me consolation and life… How can we arrange our spending the winter together?”

In the Spring of 1802, George Washington de Lafayette married Emilie de Tracy, the daughter of Destutt de Tracy, a renowned philosopher who had served in the Constituent Assembly with Lafayette and as a cavalry commander under him at the frontier in 1792, just before Lafayette fled France. Pere Carrichon, the priest who had blessed three of Adrienne’s family members as they marched up to the guillotine, performed the ceremony. After the wedding, the Lafayette’s and the de Tracy’s went south together for a long visit to the Chavaniac–”to share our new found happiness with our old aunt, who still had all her faculties,” according to Virginie.

Italy rebelled against French rule and Georges and his brother-in-law were called to military service. His mother and his father were responsible for caring for his wife, she had just given birth to a little baby girl. He served as a second lieutenant in the French Army under Napoleon Emperor Napoleon blocked every promotion for Gilbert’s son and sons-in-law, prevented them from ranking up in the army despite the highest recommendations of their commanders. During one battle, George suffered a minor wound saving the life of General Grouchy to whom he was an aide-de-comp for and had given up his horse for during battle.

1805, Russia and Austria joined Britain in a new coalition against France, but French armies swept northward through Austria and crushed a combined Austro-Russian army at the decisive battle of Austerlitz in Moravia (now eastern Czech Republic). Two days later Austria sued for peace, and the Russian army limped home to Mother Russia to lick its wounds. In 1806, Napoleon destroyed the Prussian army at Lena and extended the French empire eastward to Warsaw. With peace at hand, with no chance for promotion, and with their military commitments complete, Georges Washington and his two brother-in-laws resigned their commissions. Although his father grumbled at the emperor’s pettiness, Adrienne rejoiced to have the boys home safely; she wanted no more knights in the family and reveled in the presence of the three young couples and their children, all of whom made La Grange their permanent home.  

August 1807, Georges and his father went to visit the elder Lafayette’s Aunt Charlotte and inspect the Chavaniac properties. In their absence, Adrienne developed terrible pains and high fever; she began vomiting uncontrollably, unable to retain any food or liquid. They moved near Paris and Lafayette and George raced up from Chavaniac from La Grange. Both refusing to leave her bedside.

In March 1814, George introduced his father to the young duc d’Orleans. 1821, they both returned to their home on the rue d’Anjou. In his father’s later years Georges was always hovering at his side. Georges helped him with his Memoires and his voluminous correspondence. At six each evening, the courtyard bell sounded dinner, and as many as thirty people poured into the huge dining room–Lafayette’s children and grandchildren. Virginie and Anastasie sat opposite their father as hostesses, Georges always sat beside him. 1820, thirty nine year old Georges and Lafayette organized a group of young liberals into a new political club, Les Amis de la Liberte de la Presse. In the Autumn of 1821, King Louis XVIII posted spies outside La Grange, considering arresting Lafayette and Georges.

On Gilbert de Lafayette’s last trip to America, Georges accompanied him. “My brave light infantry!” his father cried out once, “That is exactly how their uniforms looked. What courage! How I loved them!” In an accident, a boat they were taking sunk and they were assured into lifeboats and rowed to shore. At bunker hill, Lafayette gathered soil from the ground, placing it into a tiny flask and told Georges to sprinkle the soil across his grave when he passed so that he would be apart of two countries when he was buried. Throughout most of the trip, he stayed close company with his father’s secretary, Auguste Levasseur. They visited Mount Vernon again and Georges got to meet Thomas Jefferson at Monticello. 1826, Lafayette and his son thought of America and sailed away towards home.

In 1832, Lafayette sent Georges back to La Grange to help Anastasie and Virginie cope with the needs of the family and the villagers,while he remained in Paris to help the government deal with the emergency. During the battle of the Bastille, Georges managed to hustle his father from the fighting and blood. After the death of his father, Georges Washington covered his father’s coffin with the dirt they gathered at bunker hill.

Georges Washington de Lafayette had five children total with his wife, Emilie de Tracy:

Oscar Thomas Gilbert Motier de Lafayette (1815–1881) was educated at the École Polytechnique and served as an artillery officer in Algeria. He entered the Chamber of Deputies in 1846 and voted with the extreme Left. After the revolution of 1848, he received a post in the provisional government; as a member of the Constituent Assembly, he became secretary of the war committee. After the dissolution of the Legislative Assembly in 1851, he retired from public life, but emerged on the establishment of the third republic, becoming a life senator in 1875.

Edmond Motier de Lafayette (1818–1890) shared his brother’s political opinions and was one of the secretaries of the Constituent Assembly and a member of the senate from 1876 to 1888.

Natalie de Lafayette who married Adolphe Périer, a banker and nephew of Casimir Pierre Périer.

Matilde de Lafayette who married Maurice de Pusy (1799–1864, son of Jean-Xavier Bureau de Pusy).

Clementine de Lafayette who married Gustave de Beaumont.

None can direct agnatic claim to the Lafayette name. It disappeared after Georges sons both died before having a male son. He spent the remaining years immediately following his father’s death organizing Lafayette’s letters, speeches and papers and compiling together his Memoires and more of his writing which was published in a six volumes in Paris in 1837-1838 he retained is seat in the Chamber of Deputies until the summer of 1849, remaining a loyal member of the ultra liberal minority his father had organized to oppose the restrictive dicta of King Louis Philippe. He lived to see the third French revolution of his life in 1848. 1848, Georges won reelection to his old seat in the Chamber of Deputies, but he failed to win the following year. He died in November 1849, never achieving the celebrity of his father.

Love In Darkness And Pain

So here comes Felicity Al Sha-him.

Watching the 519 promo, she looks courageous, defiant, capable, worried, fearless, scared and in love—all at the same time. That is the inertia of being a hero. Can you imagine how powerful Oliver and Felicity are going to be when they come back together. They will understand each other so much better. They will see that his crusade (actually, it will be both of their crusades by then) will define them. It will be the kind of life together they only had a glimpse of back in the fluffy, short sweet time they spent with each other in 4A.

I think it is really great that Felicity is leading the charge against Chase. Like Oliver, she ignores the danger and puts herself on the line to protect those she loves. She has stepped up and made a difference. She will save Oliver from what Chase did to him. She will save Oliver from Oliver as well. Her tech savvy, her intelligence and drive, her willingness to sacrifice herself—it’s selfless, brave, honorable (and for the best reason) loving. Felicity is not broken like Oliver currently is. She is angry and hellbent. It gives her determination and strength. Like she told Oliver in 502, she is passionate and dedicated and focused. And Oliver will be the one in awe.

She will answer Oliver’s question he asked her in 410—how did she get to be so strong? Yes, she took her lead from him, going from a boring IT girl living an obscure life, to a partner in a crime fighting tandem, to a valued friend and partner, to a lover and soulmate. But her real strength came from a truer source—herself. Oliver was only a conduit, a affirmation that love is stronger than any kind of torture or tragedy. Both of them would move Heaven and Earth to ensure each others safety and well-being. And both of them would die for the other. Felicity told Oliver at the fake wedding that his love gives her life purpose. Even though they were broken up, it was a a purpose both of them knew in their hearts. In their souls.

Felicity loves Oliver, first and foremost. Every pure hero has a motivation that drives them. Oliver loves Felicity, first and foremost. Every damaged hero has the same motivation. They have come from different backgrounds, but you can’t avoid Fate. They were put together to love each other, to care and protect and fight for their home. It is a truth, a destiny, an endgame.

So Felicity, you go as dark as you want. And if you do fall, Oliver will be there to pick you up. Like you are for him when he is down. That’s how love works. It conquers all.

So I’ve heard.

@hope-for-olicity @almondblossomme @louiseblue1 @tdgal1 @geemarie @cruzrogue @ibelievenu @jaspertown @dmichellewrites @callistawolf @miriam1779 @swordandarrow

what really kills me about Achilles’ narrative is that the only way he could become immortal was to give up his humanity. we’re so often reminded of the fact that he’s half a god, we sometimes forget he’s only half-human - that the line that keeps him from breaking is so thin.  

in the Iliad, he was ready to give up immortality and go home before Patroclus went off to battle, he was ready to give up that fabled honour he was promised. 

and then he loses Patroclus. And with it goes the last of his compassion and humanity and that sheer, brutal, visceral anger that drives him back into battle will be what he’s remembered for, his hubris and strength and pride, and ‘Achilles in Tent’ will eventually become a well-used trope in stories about team-work and selflessness, and he will eventually turn into an invincible hero archetype. 

His legacy could never have happened without Patroclus’ death. He could never have become the legend he was known for, because it was either die young and famous or live out his life in obscurity. He was ready to choose the second option until it was taken from him.

And something had to fill the void that Patroclus left, and because he loved so fiercely and so much, the only emotion that could take over in it’s place - anger - needed to be overwhelming and superhuman in its strength. When he faces Hector, his ruthlessness is an exact reminder of that side of him, of the divinity that is half of who he is, that gods can only be gods if they are also capable of greed and cruelty and pettiness. 

in his story, he ascended into godhood by having humanity ripped out of him. immortality is not a kind thing. 

ID #96196

Name: Samridhi
Age: 15
Country: India

Hi, I’m Samridhi. I’m 15, and I live in India. I love obscure rock bands, Harry Potter, and painting (not that I’m any good at it). I also love boybands like One Direction and The Vamps. My aesthetic is grunge or pastel, depending on my mood. I’m very awkward, and I find it hard to make new friends, but that changes once you get to know me. I’d love to have a pen pal as I think it would be a great way for me to get to know new people from different places and with different lives, and help me improve my communication skills. The idea of writing to someone far away, someone whom you haven’t met, but holds a lot of significance to me, has always been very fascinating. I’d love to write to someone, just talking about trivial things, or having deep conversations, and sending each other cute things, things that mean a lot to us.

Preferences: Ages 13-21 preferably. Gender, religion, nationality, or sexual orientation doesn’t matter. Open minded and non-judgemental. Electronic medium of communication like email or chat preferred, though snail mail works too.

The unexamined life is surely worth living, but is the unlived life worth examining? It seems a strange question until one realizes how much of our so-called mental life is about the lives we are not living, the lives we are missing out on, the lives we could be leading but for some reason are not. What we fantasize about, what we long for, are the experiences, the things and the people that are absent. It is the absence of what we need that makes us think, that makes us cross and sad. We have to be aware of what is missing in our lives — even if this often obscures both what we already have and what is actually available — because we can survive only if our appetites more or less work for us. Indeed, we have to survive our appetites by making people cooperate with our wanting. We pressurize the world to be there for our benefit. And yet we quickly notice as children — it is, perhaps, the first thing we do notice — that our needs, like our wishes, are always potentially unmet. Because we are always shadowed by the possibility of not getting what we want, we learn, at best, to ironize our wishes — that is, to call our wants wishes: a wish is only a wish until, as we say, it comes true — and, at worst, to hate our needs. But we also learn to live somewhere between the lives we have and the lives we would like.


We refer to them as our unlived lives because somewhere we believe that they were open to us; but for some reason — and we might spend a great deal of our lived lives trying to find and give the reason — they were not possible. And what was not possible all too easily becomes the story of our lives. Indeed, our lived lives might become a protracted mourning for, or an endless tantrum about, the lives we were unable to live. But the exemptions we suffer, whether forced or chosen, make us who we are.


We are always haunted by the myth of our potential, of what we might have it in ourselves to be or do… We share our lives with the people we have failed to be.


Our lives become an elegy to needs unmet and desires sacrificed, to possibilities refused, to roads not taken. The myth of our potential can make of our lives a perpetual falling-short, a continual and continuing loss, a sustained and sometimes sustaining rage.


Because we are nothing special — on a par with ants and daffodils — it is the work of culture to make us feel special; just as parents need to make their children feel special to help them bear and bear with — and hopefully enjoy — their insignificance in the larger scheme of things. In this sense growing up is always an undoing of what needed to be done: first, ideally, we are made to feel special; then we are expected to enjoy a world in which we are not… When people realize how accidental they are, they are tempted to think of themselves as chosen. We certainly tend to be more special, if only to ourselves, in our (imaginary) unlived lives.

So it is worth wondering what the need to be special prevents us seeing about ourselves — other, that is, than the unfailing transience of our lives; what the need to be special stops us from being. This, essentially, is the question psychoanalysis was invented to address: what kind of pleasures can sustain a creature that is nothing special? Once the promise of immortality, of being chosen, was displaced by the promise of more life — the promise, as we say, of getting more out of life — the unlived life became a haunting presence in a life legitimated by nothing more than the desire to live it. For modern people, stalked by their choices, the good life is a life lived to the full. We become obsessed, in a new way, by what is missing in our lives; and by what sabotages the pleasures that we seek.


We make our lives pleasurable, and therefore bearable, by picturing them as they might be; it is less obvious, though, what these compelling fantasy lives — lives of, as it were, a more complete satisfaction — are a self-cure for. Our solutions tell us what our problems are; our fantasy lives are not — or not necessarily — alternatives to, or refuges from, those real lives but an essential part of them… There is nothing more obscure than the relationship between the lived and the unlived life. (Each member of a couple, for example, is always having a relationship, wittingly or unwittingly, with their partner’s unlived lives; their initial and initiating relationship is between what they assume are their potential selves.) So we may need to think of ourselves as always living a double life, the one that we wish for and the one that we practice; the one that never happens and the one that keeps happening.


In our unlived lives we are always more satisfied, far less frustrated versions of ourselves… Our possibilities for satisfaction depend upon our capacity for frustration; if we can’t let ourselves feel our frustration — and, surprisingly, this is a surprisingly difficult thing to do — we can’t get a sense of what it is we might be wanting, and missing, of what might really give us pleasure… That frustration is where we start from; the child’s dawning awareness of himself is an awareness of something necessary not being there. The child becomes present to himself in the absence of something he needs.

Adam Phillips, Missing Out (2012)

nobody cares that you dislike otherkin! freaks out there are creating adult swim cartoons, there are people dedicating their entire lives to knowing obscure models of guns used to kill people, weirdos collecting WWII axis memorabilia and pretending they’re stuck in the year 1950… but i can’t feel a close connection to the moon? shut the fuck up and live a little… !


The reason why I love Achilles is that he has so much balance to him. This is a man who is poised on the knife’s edge, volatile and proud, but also dedicated and honorable, loving and kind, and so desperate that it tastes like bloody iron in your mouth. He came from a mother who only cared about his accomplishments, a distant father constantly wary of his son. A young boy of 16 thrown into a war he didn’t understand or care about. A boy who grew into a man surrounded by blood, who lost his innocence the first night on Trojan ground, who was in charge of 2500 men and bucked under the tight grip of his obstinate commander, who stood up for what he believed was right, who championed single combat and valued xénia above almost all else.

A boy who staked his entire life, all the years he had to live, all the children and family and long decades with Patroclus, on this one war, this one soap-bubble fragile chance to shine like a god. This boy who, to the end, was unsure about his choice, who was ready to return home with Patroclus and his men, to live in obscurity and fade away rather than live another day of blood. This boy who had decades to come to terms with the fact that he would die, that Patroclus would live on without him, that he would never see the other side of thirty, only to have it ripped away from him as Agamemnon stole the physical embodiment of his achievement, of his honor, of all the work he had put in, everything he had given up. To have it ripped away from him again as Patroclus died first, blindsiding him completely.
This man who grieved and loved so strongly that his rage decimated the Trojan ranks, that he choked rivers with blood because the world had to hurt as much as he did, who fought gods and won, who had to be killed by the Gods because his hurt was so strong it could rip apart Fate itself. This man who wasn’t afraid of kings or gods, who spoke out the will of the people, who cared for his prizes and matched wits with Odysseus. This shining golden mortal who teetered over the edge of more than one precipice and forcibly pulled himself back from it. This man who took his revenge on his enemy and it wasn’t enough, was never enough, because Hector could only die once and that was nothing compared to the hollowed out ripping Achilles felt inside him at Patroclus’ death, at the fear Patroclus must have felt, trapped in Achilles’ armor, at the pain and the blood and the terror, and he dragged Hector around and around and around and it still wasn’t enough. This hollowed out man filled with pain who still listened to a father when Agamemnon would not. This man who went out and fought Amazons after, but hoped to die. Who fought warlords after, but hoped to die. This mechanical broken god’s puppet who had to be killed by Apollo because, even shattered, he was invincible. This man whose last wish was that his bones be mixed with those of the man he avenged, the man he loved more than life itself, more than his godhood or his immortality, Patroclus, who removed all rational thought from his head.
This man who made a bargain with Fate and shocked the very skies themselves with how he upheld it. This man who traded his years for immortality and who has still lived through stories to this day.

just thinking about how all the internationally renowned chefs are men even though cooking is part of a set of gendered domestic activities carried out by women in many (if not most) cultures. and how these men engage in high end luxury cuisine usually partly inspired by the old traditions kept by generations of women that live in obscurity. they use these recipes to give an exotic edge to their product, its the commodification of generational knowledge, the so called watered down “fusion” cuisine. and dont get me started on the anth*ny b*urdain syndrome where they go around “discovering” new flavors or whatever