tricks of perception


I love how comfortable they are standing so close together that Link’s shoulder keeps brushing against Rhett’s chest. (x)

Glamour Talk

When did glamours start to be taken so lightly? 
When done properly, glamours should be considered nothing less than complete bewitchment of the senses. 
They aren’t any more moral than love spells. It is to trick another’s mind, eye, nose, mouth, touch, ear, heart, spirit, etc. It isn’t any more honest than casting a love spell on them. 
They are not always spells to make you look slightly better. They can be spells to completely seduce the senses. 
And they are spells to hide, to harry, to horrify, etc. 
Glamours aren’t cute. It is magic to trick the perception of another. It is, in its truest form, a magical lie. When carried out well, they can be used to great effect. 

Some people see a magic trick and say, ‘Impossible!’ They clap their hands, turn over their money, and forget about it ten minutes later. Other people ask how it worked. They go home, get into bed, toss and turn, wondering how it was done. It takes them a good night’s sleep to forget all about it. And then there are the ones who stay awake, running through the trick again and again, looking for that skip in perception, the crack in the illusion that will explain how their eyes got duped; they’re the kind who won’t rest until they’ve mastered that little bit of mystery for themselves. I’m that kind.
—  Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo

Aight so everyone that knows the Fake AH Crew knows of their frontman, the Golden Boy. People in the city never really questioned when Gavino Free joined, because for as long as they can remember, he’s been associated with them. In reality, he has. It just wasn’t in the concrete way it is now.

Gavin Free admired the Fake AH Crew from the second he heard about them, at 17 arriving bright eyed and eager in the heart of Los Santos. They hadn’t yet reached the legendary status they once would, but they were up and coming and certainly the talk of the city. A brilliant strategist, skilled pilot, eagle eyed sniper, rage in the flesh, and the devil himself being a black skull mask,They were dangerous. Efficient. Powerful. Rich.

It wasn’t easy making a living in the city. The underground was cutthroat and teeming with competitors that were eager to drop their opponents as they struggled to stay afloat. Little Gavin Free didn’t have much, a worn duffle bag and a stolen gun, but he had his brain and he had his charm. Gavin wasn’t bulky, he wasn’t a fighter. What Gavin was good at was people, twisting their perceptions, tricking them with pretty words and slight of hand. 

Thugs didn’t always stop to listen to what you had to say. Not unless you made am impression. Gavin did that with his appearance. His golden rings, necklace, shades, the sharply pressed collard shirts, the wild hair and the breezy smile. He didn’t have combat skills and an arsenal of weapons. He had an image. If that didn’t stop them, his reputation of being a Fake did.

Only that he wasn’t. Not at first. You see, it’s much easier to make someone listen to you if they’re terrified of what forces you have at your fingertips. Gavin used the name, the brand, to sow his seeds. Whispers of a newcomer with incredible talents, hand picked by Geoff Ramsey himself. The boy was pure talent. Ruthlessly efficient and as deadly as his smile was lovely. Thugs on the street had second thoughts about messing with a Fake, more willing to listen, much easier to bend and break to Gavin’s will. They saw rich and powerful Gavino Free, not the broke, scrawny, kid from England that was still bumming in  a shitty apartment building his assets.

It all worked well, using his imaginary crew to pull off heists, gather a small working of minions, build a tiny fortune. He was safe and the Fakes were none the wiser. Not until a heavily tattooed man approached him at the bar and ordered them drinks, a knowing smile on his face and careful, measured movements. Gavin knew exactly who was sitting across from him and he knew that he probably had exactly two minutes to explain before he was dead on the floor. Only surprise was when the man introduced himself as Geoff Ramsey and asked if he’d like an official invite into the crew rather than playing pretend, said that he’d been watching Gavin for weeks and was impressed. Gavin was more concerned that the Fakes had been watching him for weeks and hadn’t killed him than the fact he’d been studied. After the two shook hands, the history of the Fake AH Crew had been written, only the inner workings of the group knowing the amended version of it.

Gavin Free, Golden boy of the Fakes and the Kingpin’s silver tongued negotiator had been with the crew for as long as the city can remember, and only a scrawny, cocky little Brit knew that histories weren’t always so clean cut.

Okay but Lucretia couldn’t possibly have erased all of the red robes’ memories of the stolen century and the evidence of their origins from another world. She wasn’t there for every thing everyone did and she definitely didn’t write every detail of each person’s lives. Sure, she could wipe away major stuff like inter-dimensional travel and robot civilizations and giant mushrooms, but what about the little things? The details that don’t quite fit in with their current world and the life they’ve had on it, but are still too insignificant to be erased.

Like one day, Merle finds a flower he’s never seen before in his life, but it smells so familiar. When he concentrates, he can almost picture a garden that he doesn’t quite remember ever going to, but the details are so blurred that he can’t be sure he hasn’t. When Merle tries to picture the plant he thinks this flower smells like… well, he knows it can’t be right. It must have just been a dream or something because Merle knows that there is no plant in this world with leaves like a sunset and a voice like a chorus of flutes.

And Taako’s just cooking some stew one night between stops for his cooking show. But it feels so lonely, so slow. He’s made this stew dozens of times in his childhood and adolescence, but he’s sure it’s never taken him this long to make it. Taako tells himself that he’s just really impatient to be cooking in front of an audience again, and that’s playing tricks on his time perception. Because Taako is an expert chef, so the only way this stew could be made any faster is to have someone working with him, helping him chop up the vegetables and take turns stirring the stew. And Taako has always been alone.

While walking through Wave Echo Cave with Gundren Rockseeker, Barry Bluejeans thinks about how fish from the surface can lose their eyes within generations after being put in a dark cave. He remembers trying it one time, just to see the process for himself. Which is strange, because Barry Bluejeans doesn’t think he’s a scientist or has that kind of knowledge and the time to do experiments, though he doesn’t actually remember that much about his life. But he is a mercenary, and those aren’t usually the science-y type. And every time he tries to think of the kind of fish he used, all he can remember is static. Barry wonders if it might have something to do with the reason he woke up naked in a cave with no memory of how he came to be there and a set of instructions from someone claiming to be himself.

And one quiet evening, Magnus is confiding in Merle about his fear of not being able to protect the people he cares about, and he’s so certain he’s had this exact conversation before. The feeling increases when he predicts almost exactly what Merle says in response. But it must just be some strange deja vu because Magnus has only known Merle for a few months and has never felt comfortable in opening up about something like this up until now, so Magnus knows he’s never mentioned this to Merle before.

Davenport’s mind is not intact. He remembers nothing from beyond a decade ago, and he knows that something is missing from his life, something so important that he is nothing but a hollow shell, going through the motions. What little spark of life still exists is mostly consumed by trying to figure out who he is, trying to remember, grasping for knowledge so close yet so impossible to reach. He doesn’t have little details from his life before this world in his head, so unlike the others, they never come up unexpectedly. But that doesn’t mean everything is gone. Every time he hears Magnus (and to a lesser extent, Merle and Taako) call him Davenport, he wants to disappear because that word sounds so wrong coming out of their mouth, like it’s almost right but just slightly off. Just like everything else about himself, he doesn’t know why, but when he thinks hard about it, he can almost recall a hard ‘C’ sound and a feeling of humored affection.

Lucretia, of course, has always remembered everything. But once, she’s talking to the Tres Horny Boys and Taako mentions being on tv, and Lucretia’s heart freezes because there has never been tv in this world. For a second, Lucretia thinks they’ve remembered, that Taako knows about the world, around year 69, where Taako was briefly on tv. But the conversation continues and it’s clear that they are all still just as clueless as they have always been. They haven’t remembered anything. She simply must have forgotten to write that detail down; during that cycle, Lucretia had been more focused on cataloging the impact instantaneous communication had on the societies there than on her friends’ shenanigans. Lucretia isn’t sure whether the feeling that hits her with that realization is relief or disappointment.

–「 The smell of chlorine fills your sniffnodes, lifting up into the normally fresh air of the living room. It sends you jolting out of your sleep, bloodpusher racing, acidic bladder churning with sickness. Were it not for that awful, awful smell you might have mistaken the swimming pool in the living room as some feverish tequila dream when it happens. You blink awake, slowly pushing yourself up off the couch as the walls around you fade away into a starry, late summer night.

 The smell of alcohol is thick in the air, and the one human synth song of the night you didn’t seem to hate blares from inside a nearby hive, vibrating the ground beneath you.

 You shouldn’t have been there that night. And yet you are here again, dressed to the nines in an outfit you’d long since burned.」


Keep reading

I’m really curious about whether 2016 was truly, objectively a terrible year, or if it’s some sort of a bias or perception trick. Like someone needs to look at statistics and compare the amount of tragedies and just bad things happening in 2016 to another year and tell me whether it was truly worse than usual. Cause I have an intuitive guess that it is partially because of attitude and you can therefore make any year seem as bad as 2016.

Is it the negativity bias? Is it confirmation bias (cause we started saying 2016 is terrible pretty early on)? Is it something else? I don’t know and I really wanna find out.

Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
“One Earth, One Mother
One does not sell the Earth the People walk upon”
We are the Land
How do we sell our Mother ?
How do we sell the Stars ?
How do we sell the Air ?
Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
Too many people standing their ground
Standing the wrong crowd
Brother’s face
He possessed a race
A war that doesn’t end
Children of God feed on Children of Earth
These days people don’t care for people
These days are the hardest
Material fields, material harvest
Decoration on chain that binds, mirrors gold
The People lose their mind
Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
“One Earth, One Mother
One does not sell the Earth the People walk upon
We are the Land…”
Today is now at end
Praying Smoke touches the clouds
On a day when Death didn’t die
Real world time. Tricks
Shadows lie
Red, White, Perception, Deception
Predator tries civilizing us
But the Tribes will not go without return
Genetic light from the other side
A song from the Heart
Our Hearts to give
The Wild Age, the Glory Days live
Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
“One Earth, One Mother
One does not sell the Earth the People walk upon
We are the Land
How do we sell our Mother ?
How do we sell the Stars ?
How do we sell the Air ? ”
Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
Crazy Horse. We hear what you say
We are
The Seventh Generation
We are
The Seventh Generation   

Love and Gratitude ~ John Trudell - Crazy Horse

Left. Right. Right. Left? Left. Up. Up. Up. Right.Dead end. Back. Left. Precipice. Back. Down. Left. Right. Left. Left. Left.Down. Down. Get out. Walk. Walk. Run. Straight. One. Two. Three. Fourth door. Dead end. Back. Keep going. Down. Down. Down. Left. Dead end. Back. Dead end. Dead end. Dead end. No way out. NO. WAY. OUT.


It is easy enough to find your way into the place, if you venture far enough down Knockturn Alley – far enough to be robbed or murdered, if you are not careful. There is an entrance, there, into the sewers and from there, into the network of Billingsgate’s underground canals. At the end, right under the docks, a door to a tiny house – but appearances can be deceiving. So many who enter underestimate it. The entering is easy enough; a knock should let you in.

It is the leaving that is difficult.

Once upon a time, it used to be a temple to Æsculapius – a place for healing for those whose dreams were troubled and for those who dreamt the future to congregate and be ministered to by those who were specially trained for the task. Any mentions of the divine are only ironic now. Most call it Lethe House. The dead, or the nearly dead all find their way – lost and broken and no room for them in the world above. Stray werewolves. Gancanagh and Veela; too old to dance, too young to die. Wix who have tired of this world for some reason or the other, or else have sought some new pleasure to tickle their fancy. Vampires too broken by their injuries to venture out into the world above. They all find their way down to Lethe House and from there, to oblivion.

Once upon a time the healers would talk to those who came to them and tell them what their dreams meant and once they had paid their tribute to the gods, they would leave its halls. They find them a bed, now, and feed them opium mixed with Elixir of Euphoria, abandon them to the company of the tricks and games the mind plays when left alone in the dark and supplied with opium.

So many come down here convinced that they will stay only a short while before they leave. They are wrong.

Lethe House is an enigma. Stare at it from the outside and it appears no bigger than a tiny hut. Enter and it is evident that it is much bigger than it seems, but by how much? Ah, that is a mystery. Whether it is a trick of perception, or some evil magic at work is uncertain. What is certain is that those who try to leave wander its halls in never-ending circles. The longer they stay, the deeper they wander and the larger Lethe House grows.  The deeper they go, the darker their dreams until they are no longer dreams but nightmares and the fine line between the real and the dream world is finally severed. They may spend years, wandering down corridor after corridor, staircases this way and that, criss-crossed in unsolvable Escheresque puzzles and for all those years, they find themselves no closer to finding the door by which they came in.

There is a price, of course, unwritten though it may be, for that never-ending supply of opium for free. For every dose, every dream, hallucination and memory thrown up by the drug to feed the oneiromancers and healers who learn the art of dream-interpretation. For oblivion, your freedom. There is no return. Once you take the opium, once you set foot in Lethe House, your life is forfeit and you are no more than yet another mind – another crop ready for harvest.

Only a perseverant few will find their way back out into the Billingsgate canals. Most give up and grow old and die in Lethe House.

Their bones and anything else left unravaged by years of drug use may find their way on to Knockturn Alley’s blackmarkets. The rest?

There is a reason the canals of Billingsgate smell the way they do.


No panic.



Left. Left. Right. No dose. Down. Down. Up. No dose. Down. Left. Left. Down. Down. Down.

These are dreams. Not real.

No dose.

Left. Down. Down.

Tired. So tired.


Keep moving. Left foot. Right foot. Left. Right. Move. Breathe. Live. Move.


So cold.

No dose.


Pain. So much pain.



Drink. Eat. Move. Left. Right. Move. Drink. Eat. Move.


Just one – no dose – one – NO.



Vomit. Drink. Eat. Move.

A - NO.


I can’t.



He remembers - jumbled old memories, he can’t quite tell if they’re real or not, not right now, but they feel more definite, more certain than the drug-dreams, as though they may have really happened to him once. It’s so hard to tell, everything looks the same in Lethe House and time, time stops in Lethe House - so easy to believe that everything begins and ends there, that there was no life before and no life after Lethe House; just the house and its strange twisting hallways. Still, he remembers, something, realer than a past-life, but still so strange and alien. A woman with brown hair with her head tilted back and laughing and telling him he’s an angel. Her angel. A man with dark blond hair with his arm around this woman’s waist and smiling at him, crinkle-eyed and sad. Marches - so many marches - for muggles, for muggleborns, for Ireland, for Wales, for the miners. Support the miners - and then the door, the black door - and then he is angry.

Get up. Move. One foot in front of the other.



Keep on. Straight down. Straight now.

No dose.

A door.

The door.


The stench of Billingsgate canals, the fish and rotting bodies and piss and all the sordid smells of despair and life at its most broken, are a welcome escape from the sickly sweet smell of opium fumes. After – days? Weeks? Years? – inside the halls of Lethe House, even the stagnant air of the canals seems like fresh air; cold and alive and bracing.

Remus Lupin breaths the foul air in deeply and turns to solve the Billingsgate canal maze and find his way back into the world. After Lethe House, getting out of the canals seems almost like child’s play.

Knockturn Alley. King’s Cross. Home.



“The Thatcher Effect, also known as the Thatcher illusion, illustrates that the brain can’t properly process a photo of a face that is upside down. The interesting part is that the brain thinks it can so you get a confident feeling that everything is alright, until you turn it over.”(

“The Thatcher effect or Thatcher illusion is a phenomenon where it becomes more difficult to detect local feature changes in an upside-down face, despite identical changes being obvious in an upright face. It is named after the former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, on whose photograph the effect was first and most famously demonstrated.” (Wikipedia)

The brain is conditioned to see what it expects to see rather than what is presented with. No matter how obvious it is, the brain will still think what it sees must be right. (sounds too familiar, doesn’t it?)

And you read my writing upside down.