I've noticed a pattern in anticapitalist books I read (specifically I'm talking abt Mark Fisher here, in Capitalist Realism). They do this great anticapitalist analysis etc and then go on to critique their students? and sometimes it's a bit ableist? it's like all the critical thought goes out of the window and they cannot understand the situation because for once suddenly they are in the authoritative position. It always gives me this "I don't understand these kids, back in my day-" vibe, and I see this with lecturers at university too. like Mark Fisher maybe we can think outside the box about your student who "needs" headphones to focus in class "even though no music is playing". and maybe it's not to do with the "Matrix"(????) I'm well aware this was written in 2008 but it's weird that I see this pattern continue today. Not to mention Mark Fisher took part in some ableist studies, and was a guy with questionable intentions on occasion.
it's like you Just said that reducing labour is good why are you calling your students lazy, that's so unprofessional and privileged. I wonder of coincidence that he is anti-meds when his right wing, pro-eugenics, accelerationist friend was addicted to amphetamines.
Or even just the amount of people who have written books about laziness and anticapitalism (excluding you) and just saying the most contradictory shit ever?? or not following their own ideology???
Anyway, I wonder if, when writing Laziness Does Not Exist, you came across any of this and were equally as baffled.
Materialism is just *so* true that high-status academics don't have a vested class interest in seeing their student struggles as legitimate or in recognizing the struggles of disabled people in general. For many edgy academic leftists having the correct opinions is just a way to flex one's intellectual status, not a lived experience they give a shit about. I'm not shitting Fisher in particular in saying this, it's more that it's a really widespread problem in the culture of these kinds of (very white, very academic, very cishet) leftists communities. You see the same kind of thing among some of the Chapo stan types, too, you don't have to be specifically an academic to do it -- lots of people throwing around the r-slur and flexing on how much they have read and doing fuck all for the oppressed people around them. I tend to find it especially common among people who inherited leftism from their (often academic) parents? Whereas leftist communities populated by Black & brown anarchists and working class people tend to fare a lot better in this particular respect.
Note that I'm not saying a person's identities are a guarantee of them being any more radical -- there's lots of liberals lurking in our midsts of all identities for instance -- more that someone's orientation toward power tells you a lot. and unfortunately there is an approach to leftism that puts a lot of stock in either institutional power via the academy, or in a kind of soft power of intellectual authoritativeness that tends to punish anyone who is supposedly less well read, less intelligent, lazy, needs disability accommodations, has trauma triggers, or what have you.
The simple answer is that power and privilege obscures other people's challenges from you, and the desire to preserve one's power (be it actually institutional academic authority or just the status of the person who supposedly knows the most in the room) leads to a lot of oppressive behavior. a lot of these guys that you're talking about believe in communism sincerely but they don't have humility, they believe themselves to be superior to most everyone else. and they tend to be white guys from wealthy families who either do not have any disabilities of their own, or they have the undiagnosed intj mastermind rational flavor of autism that makes you feel incredibly alienated from others but interpret that alienation as a sign of your intellectual superiority. (i had this type but i got better. a little)
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sometimes i think about the future symphony "i should have married you" post you made and it makes me so sad but the other night as i was falling asleep i was struck with absolute agony by the awful idea of "i should have married you" because marrying her would have made her hamato and maybe just maybe then she would have been able to become a hamato spirit. and the brothers most likely would have been able to make contact with the hamato sprits like they do in the series. and because if he married her at least he would have been able to contact her spirit. hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh anyways thought i should share hope your day is going fabulously captain desceros
oh, this is awful. allow me to make it even worse :)
we’ve seen in the series that you dont actually have to have the hamato name to be ‘a hamato’ as april demonstrates. we’ve also seen varying levels of. hm. ninj-oscity? ninpo skills? from the boys. like raph and leo doing a ninja mind meld. just. just mikey.
and we’ve always seen that donnie struggles with ninpo the most.
his ninpo is mechanical. when he uses it at its most conscious level, we see it manifest as blueprints coming together. literal pieces, as if constructed with real material. when he panics or doesn’t go through this process, it’s a vague shape that isn’t as strong or as defined in purpose.
so let’s take this scenario you’ve brought to us.
viola-chan would have, unquestionably, been a hamato. and for that reason, i can definitely see her having a hamato spirit.
…..but i dont think donnie would ever be able to communicate with it.
mikey would be the most likely, since he has the strongest ninpo. but he’d be in high demand since he’s so strong, so i think it would tire him and i dont know how much time and energy he’d have to talk to anyone. not to mention the stress he’d feel when donnie would come to him like Hey Can I Talk To My Dead Girlfriend and mikey’s like…. dude i just got home from 24 hours of straight ass kicking i’m about to pass tf out.
and raph, i imagine, died not too long after viola-chan, so whether he could or not is moot.
leo. well. i dont think leo could communicate with viola-chan either. leo is rather avoidant when he feels guilty or ashamed, and (without going into too much of spoiler territory) he’d feel largely unworthy to talk to you, i think. and since we’ve seen that it takes an open heart to use the technique, it wouldn’t work.
and donnie. god. donnie would try. he would try so, so hard. he would try, hours upon hours, every free moment, banging his fists on his thighs as he’d meditate until he’d collapse. reaching out. seeking. already not as strong at this whole ninpo nonsense. unable to calm himself from the need to see you need to see you please just let me see you one last time please please please that would make it impossible to focus. he’d start thinking about tech that could bridge the gap. that’s how his ninpo works, after all. modeling his blueprint. so if he can design a machine that can talk to you. his ninpo can bring it to life.
but he doesnt exactly have a lot of time to dedicate to a personal project like that, let alone one so fucking insane in scale, so actually impossible to do. and as the time passes he grows more and more obsessed with thinking about it. yet simultaneously more and more sure it’ll never happen. i feel like his last moments, alone, bleeding, staring up at the rust-colored sky, he’d be smiling. because of course he he has some kind of death drone army set to go the moment his ninpo cuts off, and it’s one last middle finger to krang. …but also i think he’d be a little relieved. hoping his spirit will find yours and lavi’s.
(do they? who knows. no more hamato exist in that timeline to find out.)
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Little E.G. Drabble
Premise: You’re his betrothed, his loved- his lover, and he can be a dick about it sometimes.
18+ MNDI NSFW
CONTENT WARNING: Manipulation, lack of efficient communication, NSFW
𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅
To the public, you were Gortash’s Side Piece, his Partner. But when you’re alone, he is your Enver and you are his beloved.
At his public events, you were draped in elegant fabrics. You sat to the right of the back pews, or stood to the back left of him, or at the side of the supper table. Softened features and an elegant stature, you exuded. In reality you were your own person, quite and obedient but not lacking in character by any means.
You painted yourself up when you had to. You loved to do so, it was a special occasion to make yourself pretty. And on the days you didn’t, Enver sent you to Figaro on a whim.
But Enver knew you better, a secret he cherished from the world. You loved to let your hair get frizzy and wild. you would wear mascara to bed. You got up to piss in the night endlessly, and you’d meet his gaze while he read in bed next to you. You’d get shy and turn red. He didn’t sleep often. And you slept in a lot.
You would stutter over your words and go silent, in shock over your stupid fumble. He’d smile with a little bit of teeth when that would happen. You weren’t akin to magic because you lacked concentration. Easily distracted and inconsistent. You got better, he would implement mediation into your schedule.
If anyone knew you, it was Enver. The in’s and out’s and the deepest colors of your soul. He used it against you, and he would apologize but it didn’t change the next time it happened.
He’s a vain, selfish piece of shit, and you want to look past it so you let him repeatedly run you over, thinking maybe that this time, talking to him about the problem would work. But he just swears it won’t happen again and undermines his promises.
You didn’t speak to people when you were out in public with him. Your tongue tripped over itself often and you were deeply afraid of looking stupid. You had a guard or two blocking anyone from reaching your presence to ask you questions. Enver appreciated this insecurity of yours. You might look crazy if you ever lashed out, being quiet and shy and a beauty to the public. He has you pinned under his thumb at all times out of Wyrm’s Rock.
𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕
NSFW below
What he lacks in length, he makes up in girth. Slightly curved, throbbing red thick dick.
He gives me the energy that he would have an erectile dysfunction. Deeply unhappy with himself about it. He would hide it and plan your intimate time accordingly. You wouldn’t always be looking when he would take pill-form herbs for his problem.
Eventually, after awhile of being together, he’d confess. Maybe you’d caught him a few times taking pills but you’d only ask if he was feeling well or needed to stop for the night. You didn’t think beyond a simple tummy ache he might have, as he was prone to those.
It happened because you had told him something very embarrassing about yourself and he had prodded it out of you, you had a few tears to shed about it. He confessed to make it equal, an embarrassing story for an embarrassing condition. He wanted to stop your sniffles he had unapologetically caused.
After he told you, you tried to tell him it wasn’t embarrassing and that you appreciated the honesty in that moment. It wasn’t his fault, yadda yadda, you still think he fucks like a god. But performance was everything to Enver. He still had his self-doubts.
He gives vibes like come warm my cock while I read over these letters and respond to them. Come suck me under the table in my leather apron after I tweak this invention. Let me push you against the wall of this hallway when no one’s around and kiss you deeply.
He’s a tease. More passing and lingering kisses than usual. A little more tongue, and a little deeper for just short kisses and pecks. Sometimes there were more surprise kisses, where your teeth would clack together, and you’d smile into it. Those kisses were his favorite.
It’s a love that has passed its honeymoon phase quickly, and you coordinate accordingly with him. You don’t have to tip toe around him, you respect his schedule and his frantic mannerisms. And after a long busy week, he’s just happy to go home to someone and lay his stress to rest. With fucking, or cuddling skin to skin. A simple service like cutting up fruit for him, laying out his pajamas, or helping him bathe and shave before bed, because he doesn’t do it in the morning. He will be awake and ready to work at the ass crack of dawn with his insomnia.
His breath always kinda has that smell, like he hadn’t eaten. Or he’s only had coffee that day. His clothes are always clean, his cologne is always sweet like rosewood. His skin is rough and dry, covered in a coat of dark hair. You could coerce him into letting you massage him (put some fucking lotion onto his lizard skin) and wash his face. You’d ask for a stack of blini/crepes with jam and butter, and share a plate with him. These were the small forms of intimacy that softened his looks and let his smile reach his eyes.
He definitely loves to admire, top, bottom, in between. His favorite is to press your body down into the silky sheets and have your legs on his shoulders. It felt a bit awkward to you but he loved feeling your skin sweat this way.
Enver doesn’t pound into you, he takes his time. He watches your face very very closely as he tests the water on your body every single time. Eventually he picks up the pace, comfortably. He wants to climax with you, he can acknowledge it's better than ravaging you for himself.
Sex with him is almost the same every time. If he’s stressed, it’s slower and softer, you’re able to take the lead for him. If you had fought before, he takes the lead- aggressively. He’s very sweet after, physically love-bombing your body after he unabashedly bites and bleeds it.
His lips are as plush as they look. You love kissing him every so lightly and ever so softly to capture how they feel. Unaware, he goes in deeper and you pull away. Trying to re-memorize that softness you’re after. He thinks you’re quite a tease this way.
He adored you, you’re his trophy. A gorgeous glimmering perfect trophy. Everything he needs, you’re quiet naturally and have no need to be trained down to a level he can control. You willingly bring yourself to be everything he wants. The partnership looks sicker in his head than yours.
𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕𐌀𐌔𐋅𐌄𐌍ᕓ𐌄𐌓ᏵꝊ𐌓𐌕
Thank you for reading!! :) there's more to come, and I have some more on my masterlist!
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its crazy how coming into clinical social work, i really just thought I was up against systems and cycles of trauma....but it turns out i'm up against those two things AND other therapists. the amount of work spent correcting mistakes from other clinicians--whether with clients or during the classroom--is fucking crazy.
i totally get we're all on different journeys in terms of being clinicians. but it is insane finding out day after day of therapists and clinicians saying the worst things ever to clients. demeaning them, telling them "it's all in their head", the racism and the ableism and harm that is caused. like no fucking wonder people are afraid to seek therapy (on top of the accessibility issues). while i'm a little biased and think that at the very least clinical social work training focuses on viewing people within their environments (so not engaging in the medical/individualist models of practice that a lot of counseling programs focus on), that doesn't mean it gives every person the skills to be an effective therapist. i'm also not saying i'm the best clinician ever--I'm literally in training--but boy! it is jarring seeing how some of my peers interact in class and wondering...is that how you are with your clients??
my social work program at the very least also has a focus on anti-racism, but i know students from other programs and some of them don't even mention racism AT ALL and focus entirely on diagnosing people "correctly", or finding the perfect form of therapy to use on a client. but man, what none of these programs teach are basic life skills. wanting to be a clinician isn't enough, especially considering that an inhumane amount of people in my program are 1. so nervous about making mistakes that they lose scope of their practice 2. have so much internalized racism/white guilt to work thru 3. or they have absolutely no listening skills.
again, im not trying to make it seem like I am the number 1 clinician in the world ever. I don't even have a psych background or bachelor's in social work. my reasons for going into social work are quite selfish (I want a job that is very flexible, easily transferable, and can be done in different contexts), and the helping people part is just a plus. i'm just saying it's very jarring seeing other people in training and realizing they too are working with clients. i have conversation after conversation about these issues with other BIPOC/queer/marginalized clinicians, so I know i'm not the only person worried about some of the people that will be out of this program in a few years practicing on their own or with vulnerable populations.
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