the gulf between

The McDonald’s french fry is unbelievable. When you bite into it, you think: It’s so tasty, it can’t be real. As soon as it gets cold, it turns to lard and flubble. I mean, have you ever tried to eat a McDonald’s french fry that’s gone cold? That’s one of the circles of hell. The gulf between the warm, fresh, lightly salted McDonald’s french fry and the cold McDonald’s french fry is as great a gulf as any I know. - Viggo Mortensen, Esquire magazine (x)

A New Normal: Ten Things I’ve Learned About Trauma

by Catherine Woodiwiss

1. Trauma permanently changes us.

This is the big, scary truth about trauma: there is no such thing as “getting over it.” The five stages of grief model marks universal stages in learning to accept loss, but the reality is in fact much bigger: a major life disruption leaves a new normal in its wake. There is no “back to the old me.” You are different now, full stop.

This is not a wholly negative thing. Healing from trauma can also mean finding new strength and joy. The goal of healing is not a papering-over of changes in an effort to preserve or present things as normal. It is to acknowledge and wear your new life — warts, wisdom, and all — with courage.

2.  Presence is always better than distance.

There is a curious illusion that in times of crisis people “need space.” I don’t know where this assumption originated, but in my experience it is almost always false. Trauma is a disfiguring, lonely time even when surrounded in love; to suffer through trauma alone is unbearable. Do not assume others are reaching out, showing up, or covering all the bases.

It is a much lighter burden to say, “Thanks for your love, but please go away,” than to say, “I was hurting and no one cared for me.” If someone says they need space, respect that. Otherwise, err on the side of presence.

3.  Healing is seasonal, not linear.

It is true that healing happens with time. But in the recovery wilderness, emotional healing looks less like a line and more like a wobbly figure-8. It’s perfectly common to get stuck in one stage for months, only to jump to another end entirely … only to find yourself back in the same old mud again next year.

Recovery lasts a long, long time. Expect seasons.

4.  Surviving trauma takes “firefighters” and “builders.” Very few people are both.

This is a tough one. In times of crisis, we want our family, partner, or dearest friends to be everything for us. But surviving trauma requires at least two types of people: the crisis team — those friends who can drop everything and jump into the fray by your side, and the reconstruction crew — those whose calm, steady care will help nudge you out the door into regaining your footing in the world. In my experience, it is extremely rare for any individual to be both a firefighter and a builder. This is one reason why trauma is a lonely experience. Even if you share suffering with others, no one else will be able to fully walk the road with you the whole way.

A hard lesson of trauma is learning to forgive and love your partner, best friend, or family even when they fail at one of these roles. Conversely, one of the deepest joys is finding both kinds of companions beside you on the journey.

5.  Grieving is social, and so is healing.

For as private a pain as trauma is, for all the healing that time and self-work will bring, we are wired for contact. Just as relationships can hurt us most deeply, it is only through relationship that we can be most fully healed.

It’s not easy to know what this looks like — can I trust casual acquaintances with my hurt? If my family is the source of trauma, can they also be the source of healing? How long until this friend walks away? Does communal prayer help or trivialize?

Seeking out shelter in one another requires tremendous courage, but it is a matter of life or paralysis. One way to start is to practice giving shelter to others.

6.  Do not offer platitudes or comparisons. Do not, do not, do not.

“I’m so sorry you lost your son, we lost our dog last year … ” “At least it’s not as bad as … ” “You’ll be stronger when this is over.” “God works in all things for good!”

When a loved one is suffering, we want to comfort them. We offer assurances like the ones above when we don’t know what else to say. But from the inside, these often sting as clueless, careless, or just plain false.

Trauma is terrible. What we need in the aftermath is a friend who can swallow her own discomfort and fear, sit beside us, and just let it be terrible for a while.

7.  Allow those suffering to tell their own stories.

Of course, someone who has suffered trauma may say, “This made me stronger,” or “I’m lucky it’s only (x) and not (z).” That is their prerogative. There is an enormous gulf between having someone else thrust his unsolicited or misapplied silver linings onto you, and discovering hope for one’s self. The story may ultimately sound very much like “God works in all things for good,” but there will be a galaxy of disfigurement and longing and disorientation in that confession. Give the person struggling through trauma the dignity of discovering and owning for himself where, and if, hope endures.

8.  Love shows up in unexpected ways.

This is a mystifying pattern after trauma, particularly for those in broad community: some near-strangers reach out, some close friends fumble to express care. It’s natural for us to weight expressions of love differently: a Hallmark card, while unsatisfying if received from a dear friend, can be deeply touching coming from an old acquaintance.

Ultimately every gesture of love, regardless of the sender, becomes a step along the way to healing. If there are beatitudes for trauma, I’d say the first is, “Blessed are those who give love to anyone in times of hurt, regardless of how recently they’ve talked or awkwardly reconnected or visited cross-country or ignored each other on the metro.” It may not look like what you’d request or expect, but there will be days when surprise love will be the sweetest.

9.  Whatever doesn’t kill you …

In 2011, after a publically humiliating year, comedian Conan O’Brien gave students at Dartmouth College the following warning:

“Nietzsche famously said, ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ … What he failed to stress is that it almost kills you.”
Odd things show up after a serious loss and creep into every corner of life: insatiable anxiety in places that used to bring you joy, detachment or frustration towards your closest companions, a deep distrust of love or presence or vulnerability.

There will be days when you feel like a quivering, cowardly shell of yourself, when despair yawns as a terrible chasm, when fear paralyzes any chance for pleasure. This is just a fight that has to be won, over and over and over again.

10.  … Doesn’t kill you.

Living through trauma may teach you resilience. It may help sustain you and others in times of crisis down the road. It may prompt humility. It may make for deeper seasons of joy. It may even make you stronger.

It also may not.

In the end, the hope of life after trauma is simply that you have life after trauma. The days, in their weird and varied richness, go on. So will you.

You may have noticed that the books you really love are bound together by a secret thread. You know very well what is the common quality that makes you love them, though you cannot put it into words: but most of your friends do not see it at all, and often wonder why, liking this, you should also like that. Again, you have stood before some landscape, which seems to embody what you have been looking for all your life; and then turned to the friend at your side who appears to be seeing what you saw - but at the first words a gulf yawns between you, and you realise that this landscape means something totally different to him, that he is pursuing an alien vision and cares nothing for the ineffable suggestion by which you are transported. Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of - something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clapclap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it - tantalising glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest - if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.
—  C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

one of the things i love about bluesey is that, in many ways, it’s an inter-class love story that actually deals with all the difficult, problematic and uncomfortable shit that most rich/poor relationships depicted in the media just glosses over or dismisses. maggie actually unpicks and really explores the deeply unromantic nature of a class divide: everything from the place they live, the schools they attend, the clothes they can afford/choose to wear, their modes of transportation, the food they eat, their accents, their vernacular, their body language, their habits, their hair styles, their ambitions, their values, their entire worldview – is filtered through the lens of class (and gender as well, but that’s a whole meta in itself). and most importantly, the meeting of these cultures isn’t harmonious. maggie is always at pains to point out how there is a dollar-sign gulf between blue and gansey.

maggie tackles, head on, the clash between them, the different things they represent. blue is in a constant and eternal struggle with herself, being subconsciously attracted to (and resentful of) the things that are pointed signifiers of his affluence and privileged upbringing (loving the things that mark him as other; hating that he represents her life as governed by a pre-ordained fate). blue spends most of the raven cycle at war with her feelings over gansey and they are never really resolved. they don’t overcome these, really: you can’t do away with your childhood and completely refashion your identity. maggie poses the question: are these two characters who could ever really be brought on a level with one another? there is not, i feel, a resounding yes to that question. it’s true love, yes, but it’s also a lot of other things. and i really, really admire maggie for not taking the idealistic turn. she tries for verisimilitude in a way i’m not sure all writers do, and i think maggie should get more credit for that tbh. 

cparvum  asked:

I'm curious if you know about a kind of rpg I don't really know how to search for. I'm thinking of something with larger than life, powerful characters doing incredibly mundane things. Dragon slaying heroes who have accounting jobs and worry about bills, or better yet DRAGONS who have accounting jobs and worry about bills. Something about people who could level city blocks but are more concerned with avoiding awkward social situations and keeping their crappy undersized car alive.

The previously discussed (note: two separate links) Chuubo’s Marvelous Wish-Granting Engine has probably the largest potential out of any game I’ve ever played for the size of gulf between the power level of the characters and the scale of the action. As the linked posts describe, the basic premise is that it’s about young gods growing up in a pastoral small town; owing to the complexity of character creation, it’s typically played using supplied pregens, among whose ranks you’ll encounter:

  • The eponymous Chuubo, the Wishing Boy, whose Wish-Granting Engine is quite literally omnipotent, though his wishes are typically along the lines of “I wish I had an ice cream cone” or “I wish I were a seagull”.
  • Leonardo de Montreal, Nightmares’ Angel, who once sacrificed his own heart in order to kindle a new Sun into the sky, and who now mostly uses his incomparable command of nightmare science to impress teenagers.
  • Miramie Mesmer, the Dream-Witch, who assembled herself from the broken shards of a defeated world-devouring god-monster, and whose greatest ambition is to own a tea shop.
  • Natalia Koutolika, the Prodigy, a human child whose peerless martial arts could strike down God Himself, and who spends most of her time angsting about the fact that she doesn’t have any friends.
  • Jasper Irinka, the Child of the Sun, a primordial god of Hope who’s trying the humanity thing on for size (she’s almost gotten the hang of this whole “sneezing” business).
  • Entropy II, the actual, literal God of Evil, who serves as principal of the local high school (and also moonlights as a mysterious vigilante, except there’s no actual crime, so he mostly spends his nights fixing potholes).

Other notables include a cosmic blasphemy from beyond space and time who accidentally became a dorky teenage boy and decided he liked it better that way, a straight-up mythological hero, and an ogre whose strength is axiomatically infinite (she teaches social studies).

Basically all of them are grotesquely overpowered even by tabletop RPG standards - several are capable of working miracles that affect the entire observable universe - and a lot of the fun comes from trying to apply those skills to problems that wouldn’t be out of place in a typical high school dating sim. The staggering disconnect between the scale of action you’re capable of and your actual forum for action leads gameplay in some fascinating directions.

“If you’re not a survivor, don’t...”

I don’t know exactly when or how the discourse around cultural appropriation got expanded to encompass trauma survivors. The logic seems to go like this: we’re all more or less in agreement that it’s wrong to lay claim to the racially specific experiences of marginalised groups to which you don’t belong. Surely the same thing applies to trauma: if you don’t share personally in the experience, you’ve got no right to talk about it. Leave those stories to the people who’ve actually lived them. Stay in your lane.

But here’s the thing: survivorhood is not a stable identity marker in the way that something like race is. ‘Appropriation’ is only a relevant concept when the experience we’re talking about is an exclusive one. It is impossible for, say, a non-Chinese person to ever become ethnically Chinese, or to understand from personal experience what it is like to live as a Chinese person. By contrast it is very, very possible for a non-survivor to become a survivor. That’s … actually kind of the whole point of trauma, you know? The ‘in-group’ is an open and ever-changing roll call that spreads itself out across all demographics. People can and do become members of the group overnight.

Given those circumstances, there’s something very ugly about the idea of trying to claim ownership over the universal human experience of trauma. People who’ve never lived through trauma themselves have a legitimate stake in trauma narratives because they’re aware – assuming they possess normal, adaptive levels of foresight and caution – that it could just as easily happen to them as anybody.

How do you identify a person as a survivor or a non-survivor? Trauma is an inherently subjective experience; a person can suffer catastrophic psychological damage from an incident that a different person, under different circumstances, might completely brush off.  There are people who’ve survived extremely painful and dangerous ordeals but who wouldn’t dream of identifying with any kind of survivor ‘community’. There are people who’ve been legitimately traumatised by an ordeal so small and strange that they feel like impostors if they call it ‘trauma’ at all. There are people with second-hand trauma, people who’ve survived ‘near miss’ incidents, people who’ve lived relatively safe lives but still live in fear of the endless ‘what-ifs’. All of those people have perfectly good reasons to want to talk about trauma, to share stories about it, to create their own narratives about what trauma means and how they should interact with it. They have no moral obligation to defer to any old stranger who comes along claiming superior trauma credentials.

Locking people out of conversations unless they clear some arbitrary bar of ‘traumatised enough’ isn’t just misguided – it’s damaging and offensive. It others people with traumatic personal histories and creates an artificial gulf between ‘survivors’ and ‘non-survivors’. It discourages empathy by treating trauma as something that happens to a distinct group of People Who Aren’t You. It pressures people who’ve lived through trauma to embrace the abuse that’s been inflicted on them as a defining aspect of their identity. It demands that people who are already suffering subject themselves to painful scrutiny over whether their experiences have been bad enough to ‘count’.

And I can’t speak for anyone else, but let me tell you: I have spent an upsetting amount of time in so-called ‘progressive’ circles feeling obliged to carry my pain around like a pass card in my wallet, ready to pull out for inspection whenever someone challenges my right to speak or read or write about trauma. It’s messed up. Trauma is not an axis of marginalisation, it’s not the domain of any one minority, and it’s sure as hell not a debate-hall trump card. We need to do better.

the only personality dichotomy that means anything is

people who find vast places and concepts like the ocean and the infinite nature of the universe deeply unsettling and fucking offensive;

and people who can only calm down around vast places and concepts like the ocean and the infinite nature of the universe

The McDonald’s french fry is unbelievable. When you bite into it, you think: It’s so tasty, it can’t be real. As soon as it gets cold, it turns to lard and flubble. I mean, have you ever tried to eat a McDonald’s french fry that’s gone cold? That’s one of the circles of hell. The gulf between the warm, fresh, lightly salted McDonald’s french fry and the cold McDonald’s french fry is as great a gulf as any I know.

-Viggo Mortensen

Mr Styles.

[Not an AU, set throughout 2014]

Harry enjoys the finer things in life; the fine dining, the fine wine, and fine entertainment. He’s takes a liking to a waitress in his favourite Mayfair restaurant, making sure to ask for her every time. She gives him excellent service, he gives her excellent tips in return. The tips don’t quite cut it though and she finds herself with a second job to cover her time at university in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Harry discovers her second job in a less than chaste circumstance and makes an offer she can’t resist.

“If my boss catches me, he’ll haul me in to the kitchen and throw my hand in the deep fat fryer.”

17.5k // Daddy kink-lite, if I could even call it that.

Be nice.

Keep reading

“The loneliness of the Christian results from his walk with God in an ungodly world, a walk that must often take him away from the fellowship of good Christians as well as from that of the unregenerate world. His God-given instincts cry out for companionship with others of his kind, others who can understand his longings, his aspirations, his absorption in the love of Christ; and because within his circle of friends there are so few who share his inner experiences he is forced to walk alone.

The unsatisfied longings of the prophets for human understanding caused them to cry out in their complaint, and even our Lord Himself suffered in the same way.

The man who has passed on into the divine Presence in actual inner experience will not find many who understand him. He finds few who care to talk about that which is the supreme object of his interest, so he is often silent and preoccupied in the midst of noisy religious shoptalk. For this he earns the reputation of being dull and over-serious, so he is avoided and the gulf between him and society widens.

He searches for friends upon whose garments he can detect the smell of myrrh and aloes and cassia out of the ivory palaces, and finding few or none he, like Mary of old, keeps these things in his heart.

It is this very loneliness that throws him back upon God. His inability to find human companionship drives him to seek in God what he can find nowhere else.”

—A. W. Tozer

reading-through-the-night  asked:

Both in 1 fic, Nessian! 😘 -The heater broke and I’m freezing get over here -The Classic™: The hotel only has a king sized bed, I guess we’re sharing

OMG! I love that you saw that tag <3 Thank you so much ily

Also, you maybe wanted smut but it turns out all I have in me today is angst and a dash of fluff.

By the time they made it to the inn, Nesta’s feet were dragging, her lower back aching. She couldn’t believe she had just sat there and allowed Amren to convince Rhysand that she was the one who needed to track down these missing relics. That she had to continue “practicing her skills”. As if she cared for one minute about faerie relics and whether or not they were ever found.

She had a sneaking suspicion that these “relics” were a figment of the High Lord’s imagination. A suspicion that had grown when Cassian was suddenly “the only one available” to accompany her, for her “protection”. And especially when Feyre and Rhys gave each other that look. That look they gave each other when they were having a silent conversation about her, about them. Still, doing something was better than sitting around while everyone continued to tip toe around her.  

It was just unfortunate that getting out of Velaris meant being alone with Cassian. Alone. Where Cassian finally stopped pretending everything was normal between them. Where he didn’t feel the need to put on a show for the others, to maintain the facade of sarcastic general.

When they were alone, he was silent. He had yet to breach the gulf that had grown between them since that day on the edge of the forest. That day Hybern had nearly torn him to shreds. The day she had placed her body over his.

If he wasn’t going to say anything about it, neither was she. If that made her a coward, well… That was nothing new. But Cassian had gotten more and more irritable as the day had dragged on. Snapping at her and stomping through the woods as she continued to try to “feel” where these relics might be. She was about ready to shove him from the nearest cliff when they finally saw the lights of the inn reflecting off the snow.

Nesta was dragging her hand over the back of her neck, trying to dislodge the wet hair that was plastered there, when it finally registered what Cassian and the innkeeper were talking about.

“You’re telling me that there are no rooms with two beds left in this entire inn?”

“I’m s-sorry sir, we’re almost completely-”

“Fine. Give me the key.”

The small man handed over the keys and barely stuttered out the explanation of how to get to our room and the washrooms before Cassian was stalking off. Our room. Nesta paused for a moment at the front desk before grudgingly following Cassian. When she caught up he was heading up the stairs, wings tucked in tight, shoulders tense. He gave her half a glance over his shoulder.

“I’m used to sleeping on the ground, it’s fine.”

“Fine.” Nesta certainly didn’t care where he slept tonight. Not with the way he had acted towards her today. Still, she found herself watching him. She could tell by his face that he was tired, and when he thought she wasn’t looking he would rub his thigh. The thigh that hybern had smashed. The thigh that she knew he still favored.

They didn’t speak another word to each other as they separated to wash up and change into dry clothes. When she came back into the room, he had already taken one of the pillows and placed in on the floor, positioning himself between the bed and the door. When she yanked back the covers and slid underneath them, he leaned up to the dresser to dim their lone lantern- the only source of light in the room. Apparently, all of the rooms with fireplaces were taken as well.

They lay there in silence as the minutes dragged on and on. She knew he wasn’t asleep. He kept repositioning and releasing harsh sighs. The tension in the room was almost enough to distract her from how very ineffective her thin blanket was to keep her warm. And she was just pissed off enough and it was just dark enough in the room for her to decided she’d had enough.

“If you have something to say to me I wish you would just say it instead of huffing and puffing down there.”

“Go to sleep, Nesta.”

“I’m not falling asleep in this frozen cave any time soon and neither are you. So either say what’s on your mind or spare me your silent judgement.”

“I’m not judging you.”

Another moment of silence, then, “I tried to finally fulfill the promise I made you and you wouldn’t let me keep it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You keep-” he paused, and she knew he was shaking his head. “I try to protect you and you just keep putting yourself in harm’s way.”

“That happened once.”

“And it was precisely the moment I told you to run!”, he snapped.

“You don’t get to order me to do anything, Cassian. And I’m not going to apologize for my decision that day.”

“You were going to sacrifice yourself for no reason.”

“I can sacrifice myself whenever and for whoever I wish. That is my choice, not yours.”

His voice was muffled and she could tell he was dragging his hands over his face. “Why do people keep saying this type of shit to me. I’m a commander for gods’ sake I don’t need people sacrificing themselves for me.” His voice had became thicker as he spoke and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Would you get your ass up here already so I can see you?”

He sighed again and she rolled her eyes. “Besides, I’m freezing up here and all those pounds have to be good for something.”

He huffed a laugh and there was a long moment where she was sure he wasn’t going to move. Then the wood floor groaned and she propped herself up on an elbow to see him staring at her.

She left her warmed sliver of mattress to roll over to the side of the bed and felt it dip behind her as he sat down.

“I thought you wanted to see me.”

“Just shut up and lay down.”

He moved slowly, as if trying not to disturb the bed too much, and when he stopped moving she looked over her shoulder to find that he had left a large berth between them, he wings hanging off the side of the bed. He was rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb before she grabbed his hand and pulled. His eyes widened as she continued to position them until he was pressed up against her. Her arm slung over his to hold it against her, their fingers entwined.

Finally, finally, he responded. He moved his other arm to worm it under her neck, bending his knees to press into hers.

“If you’re allowed to put yourself in harm’s way then so am I. If you’re allowed to tell me to run then I’m allowed to ignore you.” His only response was to pull her closer and burrow his head into her hair.

They lay there in silence together. This time the silence was easier, comforting; their breath syncing while she felt the thump of his heartbeat against her back. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and he moved his hand so he could drag it down the length of her arm, back and forth. She finally felt sleep pulling at her, and she was just about to succumb to it’s lull when Cassian lifted his head slightly to place his lips at the shell of her ear.

“We have more things to talk about, you and I.”

“I know. Tomorrow.”

He kissed her hair and behind her closed lids she felt the world get darker. She opened her eyes to see he had draped his wing over them both, shielding them from the cold. It took her a moment to realize that the sensation that came over her was not just from the warmth, but from an overwhelming sense of comfort and safety she felt with him surrounding her.

As you wish

Monday morning. Halloween. And while it was one of his favourite days of the year—scary movies, candy, corn mazes; the day Eleven came back home four years ago—Mike really didn’t feel like getting out of bed. 

Because he couldn’t remember the last time he felt this annoyed with El. Well, he technically could, but he preferred to not think about the time he cruelly yelled at her, years ago now, after a fake body was pulled dripping from the quarry. El had never lied to him. And he had never been mad at her since that day—not really. Sure they bickered over what movie to see and where to order pizza and whether to go to Lucas’s baseball game or Holly’s dance practice, but never anything even close to this. 

Mike sunk further into his pillow. How could she possibly be taking Max’s side? And how could a stupid disagreement between Lucas and Max have spiralled so far? It didn’t make any sense to him, but somehow it had happened. Mike hadn’t picked up the phone to call his girlfriend in two whole days—nor had she called him—and their interactions at school had become limited to small waves or stiff hellos in the hallway. 

And, god, he missed her so much.

“Michael!” His mother’s shouting from Holly’s bedroom drew Mike from his thoughts, “Are you getting reading for school?” 

Mike groaned, frustrated before shouting back. “Yeah! Almost ready!” 

Pulling himself from his bed, Mike’s body felt like lead. He forced himself forward, catching sight of the flowing black costume set out on his dresser—El had insisted he be the Westley to her Princess Buttercup and he had not objected. 

Mike’s shoulders slumped. He knew—aside from the fact that Dustin had repeated it to him a hundred times—that just because their friends were arguing didn’t mean they had to argue too. And so he resolved to do something about it that day. Because today was their day. 

Breathing in heavily, Mike grabbed the costume from his dresser and made quick work of getting ready.

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I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures.

Persona (1966)
Ingmar Bergman

The Great Canon Divide

The Great Canon Divide: YGO and Source Material

An extract from an in-progress essay

…as you can see from the diagram above this is going to be a poorly executed geographical metaphor.

The original source material of YGO is - of course the magma manga, written by Kazuki Takahashi. Initially, Kazuki Takahashi did not plan to focus on the card game, Duel Monsters in his work. However, Duel Monsters is a cash-volcano, just sort of spewing movie exclusive cards and revenue out. This decision radically altered the direction the manga was taken in.

In the sub, this divide took place between two separate anime series, known to fandom as s0 produced by Toei Animation and also s1-5 produced by Studio Gallop and Nihon Ad Systems. Whereas s0 followed the early manga, s1-5 were more card-focused to reflect the later work.

Further dividing the sub and manga are the filler arcs, notably DOMA. Whilst Virtual World involved concepts brought up in Death-T from the manga, the anime-exclusive DOMA arc was written to give Takahashi further time to work on the Millennium World Arc (s5). In the end, the canon non-compliant DOMA was aired, and Takahashi removed most of his intended ideas for MW, leaving a number of subplots unaddressed or explored.

Nevertheless, the two slightly wonky canons of sub and manga remain a collective whole to their original audience.

However, the American Licensing Company, 4kids Entertainment (now, 4Licensing Corporation, because that doesn’t sound evil) then purchased the dubbing rights to s1-5 but not s0. Over-all, this decision was financial, but resulted in an natural gulf between the canon. Added to this, dubbing of the time also included a large amount of localization, as well as censorship (there’s a subduction joke in here somewhere) in order to soften the material for a western - and/or younger - audience.

YGO had a small problem then; the original source material is violent. This resulted in some sweeping changes to the already divided material. Examples of the changes 4kids felt it needed to make include seemingly random name localization (Yugi remains unaltered, Anzu is now Téa), odd voicing choices, and the creation of card game hell. Entire character arcs were invented and others stripped out.

The result of all this is that, whilst every fandom encounters rifts in its canon, whether due to continuity snarls, dubbing or other factors, YGO is a complete mess. There are radical differences between and within, manga, sub, and dub that are all technically canon, and as a fandom we are quite divided.

Further – the popularity of Yu-Gi-Oh! The Abridged Series, which is itself a parody of the dubbed material, but calls upon sub and manga when required. As an elaborate transformative piece YGOTAS commands a wide audience, and a wider canon of its own, separate from the original materials. However, are many places in the western fandom where YGOTAS canon overtakes dub, and even sub or manga canon, convoluting what is understood as canon further.

In order to begin any serious discussion of YGO as a series, not only is an understanding of this history pretty much required, but if you don’t address it at the onset, you’re just going to end up with cross-canon complaints.

Green-Eyed Monster, one-shot

TITLE: Green-Eyed Monster
AUTHOR: Losille2000
GENRE: Romance/Drama
FIC SUMMARY: Sometimes it’s difficult balancing a romantic relationship with a career and other obligations, but sometimes chances have to be taken. Sometimes, even, the green-eyed monster needs to be let out of his cage to get results.
RATING: T (language)
AUTHORS NOTES: This is for the Anon who sent me a kind message requesting a fic. I don’t always do requests, but this sprang to my mind soon after I received details. Thank you, Anon, for the messages. Also, Happy Birthday, again!

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anonymous asked:

with general conference coming up once again, which old testament figures do you think would be the best and worst conference speakers?


  • Isaiah: the man is a pure poet. The rhymes fall so fast from his lips you’d almost swear his tongue was on fire. Every word fits perfectly, every phrase has twenty different meanings–all of them True.
  • Daniel: he’s got a folksy touch, a kind of rustic hospitality if you will. You can tell he’s got a whole lot of knowledge packed away in that brain based on some references he makes here & there, but most of what you hear from him are simply the most fabulous stories. Fabulous, to be sure, but also grounded enough that you can figure out very easily how they apply to your life as well.
  • Esther: She can talk circles around literally anyone and convince them of practically anything. It’s a real relief she’s chosen to use that gift only to better the lives of others, you think, as she makes the Truth sound not only true, but fiercely convincing.  
  • Amos: not sure if you know this, but Amos invented an entire genre of literary and poetic prophecy, the one you see every single prophet in the back half of the OT use. And if there was a single prophet from that era I could summon into right now, it would be Amos because our world is really aching for more Amoses. He spoke shocking truths to power, unflinchingly, he condemned a society with a massive gulf of inequality between the rich and the poor, and he always brought it back to how God’s sense of justice was for the oppressed. He wouldn’t give a talk in any conference center; guessing from the story in Amos 7, our guy would be camped out in front of the White House right now, preaching to all who would listen about how America and the wicked man leading it will fall into ruin, just causing a PR disaster in all the right ways. Everything he says has the impact of an earthquake. 
  • Enoch: he managed to walk up as a complete stranger and convert a bunch of wicked people into the most righteous city of all time, so speaking to an audience that already knows and agrees with him is a cakewalk for Enoch.
  • Habakkuk: able to offer a message of comfort and peace in a hard time without ignoring or minimizing how hard and heartbreaking that time might be.   
  • Elisha: Elisha rolls up into the conference center simply rocking the Bald Mormon Dad Look. He’s got two she-bears following two feet behind him at all times as a security detail and he just discovered some sunglasses that really tie his look together. As Elisha and the Bears file in, he shares an exclusive “bald men only” fist bump with Eyring, Oaks, and Renlund. The Bears loom behind him as he speaks, practically daring anyone in audience to just try cracking a joke about Elisha being bald.  
  • Ezekiel: He’s always having visions and, in fact, starts experiencing one as he steps onto the pulpit that he narrates in real time. It’s a stupendous and awful (in the older sense of “awe-full”) experience.  
  • Hagar: when Abraham tossed her out into the wilderness with her son to die because he thought that’s what God wanted him to do–that’s when Hagar learned who God really was, because God saw her and reached out to hold her. She bears a powerful testimony of the personal love Our Lord has for victims of abuse and of society. The auditorium is flooded in tears.  


  • Moses: he’s a smart guy and he’s got a lot to say but public speaking is just not his venue in so many ways.
  • Jonah: complains for the entire six months leading up to Conference about having to write a talk. complains even more when everyone asks if they should just drop him from the schedule. almost actually ends up giving a good talk? but then ruins it by complaining about how everyone who listened to it is actually following what he told them to do.
  • Jacob: “y’all want to hear another story about my sheep?”
  • Solomon: For all his supposed wisdom, Solomon reads the room completely wrong and goes into an open mic of his raunchy love poetry. It doesn’t sound particularly inspired.
  • Joshua: really good about carving people up on the battlefield; really bad at using his words to talk to people instead. 
  • Jeremiah: stretches his fifteen minute talk into a hour-long doom & gloom showcase. You don’t envy his having to be the bearer of bad news but it gets pretty repetitive.  
  • Noah: He still smells like sawdust and animals. also, he gets way too drunk before he’s supposed to speak and shows up shirtless.
  • Lot’s wife: too salty 
  • Elijah: You’re so excited for this guy to speak. You’ve heard all the stories: ravens, spontaneous combustion, sky chariot. Elijah is a capital-L Legend. There’s a chair set right up front for him, the reddest one with the fluffiest cushions. It’s empty. Elijah never shows up to General Conference.