#like he's got neurosis stacked on neurosis stacked on-

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hm ok so for a while i was thinking that Wally, for the most part, only perceives reality as "Home", the neighborhood. that's his entire world, it's all he knows

but then i slapped myself and went wait. the Live Interview. Wally has been outside of Home, and has interacted with humans (presuming that the interview did actually happen, of course). and through Wally's interactions - or rather, attempt at interactions with Us, the QA, and the WHRP, it can be strongly assumed that he knows that there's an Elsewhere. there are places outside of Home. maybe he doesn't quite understand that there's another reality of sorts, but there's no way he's unaware that there's more than just the neighborhood out there

(and then of course there's the fact that Clown has said that humans are deeply involved (not a direct quote, im paraphrasing) in Welcome Home. maybe Wally interacted with them / regularly interacted with them. there could have been an adjustment period after he gained consciousness where humans helped him learn how to walk/talk/fine motor skills - this could be why he has such a seemingly inherent / desperate trust in Us & the WHRP & the QA... humans made him and cared for him. it's possible he could view them as a sort of higher power to trust & have faith in

& maybe he's been off-set or could go off-set. i mean, the houses' rooms were all different sets - the buildings themselves were empty husks, right? who's to say Wally wouldn't physically walk to the individual set pieces whenever he went over to someone's house (but then that leads me into speculation on how the puppets' consciousness works and how multiple copies of them could co-exist and wondering which is the - im getting off track. but there's all of that and then the two part "you're okay!" art pieces of Wally & Eddie, which are technically canon - dont quote me on that - and that's Another ramble/theory post i could go on about & have strong feelings on. Anyway!)

"but wait," i hear someone protest, "what about Barnaby? he was in the Live Interview too"

but was he? was he really? was that Barnaby, or was that a person in a suit playing the character Barnaby B. Beagle? i mean, if it was Barnaby, there had to be some memory fuckery going on that prevented him from either fully comprehending/realizing the situation, or just made him forget as soon as it was over.

and actually wait, Wally has to be aware of the reality discrepancy. because it was certainly him in the Interview as himself. He had to have understood on some level that either that wasn't really Barnaby, or that Barnaby wouldn't remember the interview.

(there's a connection in my head between all of this & how he would view an apple pie. "it isn't the same anymore. something's different". but i can't pin it down for the life of me.)

and with the Talking Telephone calls, Wally explicitly tells Us that he's not going to tell anyone who was behind the calls. i remember listening to the "original" prank call audio tests, which while were very similar to the canon in-website ones, have a few changes. one of which was Wally - in the tests - saying that the others weren't ready to meet Us yet. now in canon that tidbit has been swapped out for "You have to go too. You have work to do" but i think it's still implied through Wally's purposeful withholding-of-information that he doesn't think the others are ready to know. or he straight up doesn't want them to know

i mean, one little theory i previously had is that Wally wants them all to catch on to the nature of their reality and situation, but he doesn't want to - or Can't - tell them outright. they have to figure it out. and that can't was either something keeping him quiet, or because if they learned too soon / inorganically, their little puppet heads would pop into confetti like Red Guy's in dhmis 4

However my views have Changed and i'm pretty sure Wally is purposefully not telling anyone to maintain the illusion that everything is fine and can continue on as it always has. maybe it comes from a place of protectiveness, of love? whatever the motive i think he wants them all to keep being unaware and dare i say, Complacent while he "fixes" their situation.

which is delusional, but we all know Wally is digging his metaphorical claws into a desperate bid to keep everything the same / return it to its original state, leaving bloody scratches in something already rotted. or something like that!

all this to say i think it's interesting how it seems that he's the only one aware of humans / an outside/other world, yet he's so determined to stay in his lane. he wants connection & communication yet he doesn't want to leave or change. he wants help in keeping things the same (some could say in keeping Our reality & his separated) but in the process he's dooming everyone/everything and tearing down those walls himself

(Wally: i'm going to stay where i am, and you're gonna stay where you are, and we're gonna help each other keep me and my friends where we're meant to be. anyway i wonder what this sledgehammer does)

#this is a very disjointed ramble but when are they ever put together! #i have to start at point a to get to point 36 yk yk #trying to write down my thoughts is like trying to keep a firm grip on a lubed up ferret #SOAPED!!! SOAPED UP!!! I MEANT SOAP yk that doesnt make it any better. anyway moving on dont look at me #its. its. the more i think about wally the more i go insane #like he's got neurosis stacked on neurosis stacked on- #there is something soooo wrong with him <3 #homebogging #welcome home speculation #wh speculation #i do think his heart is in the right place. i do think he's trying to achieve something he thinks is good & best for everyone #but... despite being aware of more than his friends... technically knowing more Truth than them #he's more trapped by that knowledge. he's ruled by it. and he doesn't really have the - #i dont want to say capacity bc i have to believe that he Can change. he just doesnt know how / currently doesnt want to / is too scared to #but he doesn't have the freedom the others have. bc in their ignorance they can ignore their confines #in a way they're more real than wally despite living in a fabricated world as fabricated people with fabricated lives #they're authentic in their ignorance #and ive said it before and ill say it again - wally was created as a blank slate while everyone else already had a Foundation #no matter how false their memories are they Have them. they have the tools to change and want change #they already perceive themselves as more than what they were made for. they think they're People (not humans - people) dont they? #so if they learn theyre trapped... they'll want out. meanwhile wally is already stuck bc while they have - in a way - More #the neighborhood & the show are all wally has. he knows there's outside but he doesnt have any reason to Want that outside #bc why would he want to leave home? why would he want anything to change? it's his sole purpose isnt it? #idk i just think wally would benefit from being told 'you dont need a purpose / you dont need to adhere to a purpose / you are enough as Yo #doing what You want. you can just Be' #but yk. what was i talking about again #oh yeah - wally is so so aware and yet so in the dark #he's got one half of the puzzle but they're all corner/edge pieces and he's trying to fill the inside space with Nothing #hm. i wonder if he'll end up needing the other neighbors to help finish the puzzle... who's to say who's to say!! #FUCK YOU TUMBLR I HAD MORE TO SAY. CUT OFF AGAIN AGH

[matchagyudon]

Charisma, Charisma Battle Anthem - Fumiya Ito English Lyrics Translation

TL Notes:

I kind of butcher it in the English translation, but what Fumiya calls a “Yukichi Bromide” is just 10,000 yen. He likes to collect a bunch of them like bromides, like a hardcore stan with their ita bags and rooms of the same merch. I think I managed to get the point across. The American version I guess would be “Lincoln Photocards” or something like that lol.

I really had to keep myself from writing “my peppy lil pro idol” because maybe Fumiya would have come off a little Discord admin-y. But I think Fumiya would do anything for some yen at this rate. Anyways, JPY is just the currency (Japanese Yen). Like how he calls the Yukichi note a bromide, he essentially relates JPY to an idol he adores.

そそり勃つ/sosoritatsu: To become erect (like a nipple/penis/etc).

I don’t even know how to explain where Amahiko gets asparagus from 野天門. 野天 (noten) is to be in the open air and 門 (mon) is gate. His ass is a gate…. Also thank you to my friend for pointing out that で (de) is in fact a location marker, and with the shape of asparagus…. You can see asparagus inside Amahiko’s Wild Gate ;)

札束 (satsutaba) is a bundle of cash/stack of money. So he’s collecting those bands!!!

“Do well on your mission and “you will be rewarded”. This most definitely has some religious connotation, given the verse as well as the whole thing of Fumiya and his “godly” message. A missionary going on a mission.

ビターな甘味処 “This place is bittersweet” 甘味処/kanmidokoro is a cafe featuring Japanese sweets. Bitter sweet[shop].

“Shit that makes something out of nothing call that Holy shit” Ohse our Holy Mary <3

Tera, peta, and exa are SI prefixes. Tera is 1012, peta is 1015, and exa is 1018. Lots of beauty to go around.

I can’t keep beating around the bush anymore with Amahiko. I try to fluff up anything he says but if he were to say “I LOVE ROUGH ANAL SEX” in full blown English what am I supposed to do at this point. I give up.

Fun fact! Look up χάρισμα. This is read as charisma…. Which in Greek, means gift of god! A divine boon.

Raps are not my strong suit. Maybe one day I’ll be able to make this make sense. In the meantime, I tried. Not my best work. I really appreciate the writers creativity though <3 even though it melts my mind a lot of the times.

“1, 2, 3” Chasin’, chasin’ after that paper like collectible photo cards “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7” Driven High, you’ll get your fair share “1, 2, 3” JPY, my peppy pro idol A handbook? Nah, how ‘bout a tour guide? “Charisma Style Rap Battle Break!”

Didn’t I already explain it to ya? Well to sum it up At the beginning of the week Let's call it Charisma Monday Interpol scatters Asia’s allies Marching alongside them, inciting right and wrong

Even birds who tweet their blessings have morals Attaining that QOL comes with responsibility Adulterated fraternizing, Not love for you Try to follow a different justice without diminishing it

Take advantage of that gap in my armor I’m a speedy, pro-slave Just a stray dog if you don’t call my name So tip my scale with endless burdens

Rebel then counter, counter, counter And counter again Lemme paint a picture of me for ya I’m like a coyote in the Sonoran desert Bloodthirsty and comin’ for ya throat

Beat down the greed that’s outta your league I’ve got a great view from down here like the shitty bug I am There’s 7 of us, but I’m the only dwarf The color of snow white Neurosis

No need for even a sliver of eccentricity Am I a necessity? “Seeking irregularities” Even from a long, long, long, long, long time ago, I’m a legacy Yes, I’m super beautiful ♪

The inevitable is calm So stiffen up This world’s fate is sexy! It’s sexy to read “Amahiko’s Wild Gate” With “ASSparagus!”

Magnificent 7th wonder I reach out and grab some bands Now it’s time to shine This Charisma Alchemy We’ve already got it in the bag

24/7 We set out, under the same roof With our everyday chaotic synergy 24/7 Eating out of the same pot Check out our flashy energy

Don’t give a shit about Pitiful jealousy Don’t give a shit about Living shamefully

Just shout out whenever And you can tell by the sound of footsteps

24/7 We set out, under the same roof With our everyday chaotic synergy 24/7 Eating out of the same pot Check out our flashy energy

We ain’t friends so stay out of our way ‘S no good? This is the path between Good and Evil

However! We’ve got rules here too If someone’s in trouble We’re all going down together

“1, 2, 3” Chasin’, chasin’ after that paper like collectible photo cards “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7” Driven High, you’ll get your fair share “1, 2, 3” JPY, my peppy pro idol A handbook? Nah, how ‘bout a tour guide? “Charisma Style Rap Battle Break!”

I wonder, are there spawns of demons and gods? And when you sift through them, how many people will be left? Do well on your mission and “you will be rewarded” This place is bittersweet

A pure white monologue No need for a secretary, just this diary You’re a caller of injustice So let’s get to the bottom of this, are you good or evil

Another successful case of tendonitis If you can’t get it, then we aren’t on the same page Those who are scrupulous Are squares My load tolerance is more than double-digits

Rage Against everything in this world Always angry, forgetting how to show mercy “Right?” Garbage that don’t burn That’s bullshit I’ll light it up anyways

Scum who is bewildered by those who are gentle A dark craft that drains the joys and sorrows of peace Shit that makes something out of nothing call that Holy shit A digital tattoo engraver

A neverending diffusion in every direction My beauty multiplies: tera, peta, and exa Mirror, oh mirror Even if you can’t understand the words The answer is revealed right in front of you

Extremely☆Horny A midsummer monster Quivering☆swaying A gift from God Locked in a grapple Inside of you Is a treasure Nearly bare!

If you back out now, it’ll vanish Your offerings of one hundred million Are not nearly enough But they can offset it “Rainy days” So from the back With no motion “Strike” While the iron’s still hot

24/7 We set out, under the same roof With our everyday chaotic synergy 24/7 Eating out of the same pot Check out our flashy energy

Don’t give a shit about Pitiful jealousy Don’t give a shit about Living shamefully

Just shout out whenever And you can tell by the sound of footsteps

24/7 We set out, under the same roof With our everyday chaotic synergy 24/7 Eating out of the same pot Check out our flashy energy

We ain’t friends so stay out of our way ‘S no good? This is the path between Good and Evil

However! We’ve got rules here too If someone’s in trouble We’re all going down together

“1, 2, 3” Chasin’, chasin’ after that paper like collectible photo cards “1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7” Driven High, you’ll get your fair share “1, 2, 3” JPY, my peppy pro idol A handbook? Nah, how ‘bout a tour guide? “Charisma Style Rap Battle Break!”

Charisma Battle Anthem (google.com)

#english translation #matchagyudon #translation #charisma #charisma house #crsm #karisuma #fumiya ito #rikai kusanagi #tendo amahiko #terra #iori motohashi #minato ohse #kei sarukawa

[funkymbtifiction]

Thank you for your patience, Charity.

I think I wrongly associated the word dreamer with a synonym of the word visionary.

I guess I tried to ask if there is a type that is known for being grounded in reality, responsible yet detail oriented and lost in fantasies at times/ be philosophical.

You see, I tried to assume and start looking into the sensors cause “apparently” they are more common.

I found a character in a book that acts exactly like me, especially when feeling sad which confuses me cause he doesn’t seem like a sensor at all.

He tends to use homework as an escape from problems and feelings, I suspect I have my feeling function in the Tertiary or inferior position on the stack cause I think that is my weakness, besides little outbursts of anger or overthinking, I tend to never speak about my feelings, and showing it through actions (actions speak louder than words~) like acts of service or when someone asks for advice I try to come up with a solution and give them a pat on the back, not necessarily talking about how they feel at first cause I think they need help with their problem, then later we could focus on what they feel.

Have you heard of Sara Mbti on YouTube?

I will link a video, and I am not saying I “relate” to this one in particular but I wanted to ask your opinion since I am a beginner and I thought it was well made.

I have to admit that even without depression I act as I said earlier, tending to be by myself in the most sad cases cause even though I love my friends, and they care about me, I would rather figure it out slowly rather than having a meltdown in front of myself, trying to control what I feel, asking for help when it is necessary.

This is one of the videos of the series (Mbti types in their inferior function grip)

https://youtu.be/mQdagW6gvnw

Sorry for the long texts but I love this blog and to be honest, I wouldn’t really trust other people when it comes to Mbti on Tumblr, cause they just make charts of characters and shows, treating it as a zodiac, that’s why I always come back here for insight.

-------------

Yeah, “dreamer” is better for intuition than “visionary.” Visionary is usually associated with an NJ type, but I would call them more “singular-focused.” This longer explanation is somewhat better. (I would assume you are an intuitive just because there’s a lack of actual detailed evidence in what you provide, as if you are just ‘floating’ in the world and not touching the ground.)

An NP could be ‘grounded in reality’ if they had a somewhat practical and/or fearful Enneagram type that made them want to be realistic and practical and allowed them to develop Te in particular, but their communication with details would be either/or.

Either… a little scattered, unfocused, and forgetful of them, or an over-obsession with them to the point of mild neurosis. (An example from my own life, whenever I get stressed, I become obsessed with irrelevant details – I don’t know which ones to include or leave out, so I meticulously include them all, double and triple checking to make sure I got dates and things right. I even get to a point where I wind up fiddling with the size of my Word Document, to make it more ‘aesthetically pleasing’ for me to write in, rather than just being able to concentrate on writing itself. Or I become fixated with finding every single typo in something, even though I can’t slow down and read ‘deeply enough to force my brain to find them all, and feel like I’m simultaneously bored out of my mind by this tedious task and ‘going too fast.’ Do you have any stories like that, about how your weak sensing function “doesn’t really work”?).

I would say the video is good in the sense that it does illustrate some of what they are hoping to communicate, but I question using Howard Hughes because he had an extreme case of OCD which made these symptoms compulsive and they happened “all the time,” it wasn’t just because of inferior Si, nor do most people’s inferior Si get that bad. I personally have experienced the depressive inferior Si slump – it really is a process of losing all your creativity, imagination, hope for the future, and idealism, and instead becoming convinced that the deeply mentally unsatisfying situation you are in right now is going to continue indefinitely, and feeling a sense of hopeless despair about the ongoing banality of your life, because you can’t see any alternative other than the life you are stuck in here and now. Inferior Si tends to hold to what is familiar in that way, so it drags you down whenever you fall into ‘the grip.’ And because I’m an intuitive, it doesn’t occur to me to do sensory things to get out of it—like change my environment, move somewhere else, get a different job, etc. I just look for intuitive hobbies and mental stimulation in an attempt to try and drag myself out of it – and “resign myself that this is the only life I’ll ever have.” Does any of this sound familiar? I don’t mind living in sameness and doing my responsibilities, as long as I get mental stimulation. That’s all I want. Things to think about.

You seem to use Fi rather than TiFe (how private you are in your feelings, preferring to sort them on your own rather than share them, focusing on Te solutions to other people’s problems, doing rather than talking about your feelings), and assuming you use Ne (it’s unclear here, since you don’t show a strong thinking process or specific intuition other than general vagueness), that would make you NFP rather than NTP. And since you don’t seem feeling dominant and have a strong sense of problem-solving, ENFP might be accurate.

#question #mbti #enfp

[miniherodesktales]

Interview Day (1)

“What was it like in there, Fowl? What kind of questions did she ask? Did she say if you got the job or not? Oh, man, I’m so nervous!’

Artemis smoothed down his school tie and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he had indeed pulled the door firmly behind him. Oliver Doyle’s fast spoken round of quick-fire questions had caught him off slightly guard, although he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear it. Oliver had always possessed a jumpy disposition, even from day one of school, earning him the nickname Oliver the Frog, or Froggy Olly. Still though...

“It’s not a real interview, Oliver,” he reminded the boy, not unkindly. Since his Atlantis Complex diagnosis he had become much more sympathetic towards the neurosis’ of others. “It’s only pretend.”

Goodness, he was talking to Oliver as if he were a toddler...not that he didn’t view his peers as possessing the mental ages of toddler’s, some of them still didn’t know their seven times table!

He fired off a text for Butler to pick him up and sat down on a chair to wait.

‘But do you think you got it?’ Oliver pressed. He took to smoothing down his red hair repeatedly with his fingers. 

‘There is no job, Oliver!’ Danial called from two seats down.

‘Yes, there is!’ Oliver hissed. ‘A pretend job and I bet Artemis got it!’

A collective grumble rippled down the line of waiting boys. Artemis did not like the sound of it.

‘I may not have done,’ he said, sheepishly. ‘She may not have liked me.’

‘Why wouldn’t she like you, the boy genius?’ demanded Oliver. ‘Isn’t it true that you’ve done more for this planet than Greta? She’d be mad not to pretend hire you!’

The other boys nodded in agreement.

‘That’s not the point,’ Artemis told them. ‘It’s supposed to be good practice for the future. If our parents’ money runs out and we need to interview for a job we can think back to this day and put all the skills we’ve learnt to good use. Today might make the difference between Amazon and the job centre.’

Oliver leapt up onto his chair, a bad habit that had placed him in detention more than once.

‘Look at that smirk!’ he cried, pointing at Artemis. ‘He’s not taking this seriously at all.’

‘Sit down, Frog, you idiot!’ Jack snapped all the way from the end of the line. ‘Left-Foot is right, there’s no point to this.’

‘Don’t talk about him like that!’ Artemis and Oliver said, in union. 

Artemis hid his face in embarrassment, but Oliver grinned because in his mind they had just become friends. Which they had.

Oliver played with his tie knot.

‘Why is she taking so long to call me in?’

Artemis cleared his throat. ‘Maybe because she hasn’t stopped crying yet?’ he suggested in a whisper.

‘You made her cry? How? You were only in there for ten minutes.’

Artemis shrugged. ‘I was told to act as though it were a real interview...’

‘Which you did.’

‘Which I did,’ Artemis nodded. ‘So, pretending it was real, I reacted in a way which was real for me....and told her that there was no way I would ever consider stacking shelves for a living and would rather become one of those ridiculous celebrity scientists who are always on the television....and eventually buy out her supermarket, knock it down and turn it into a body farm for forensic study...I may have become caught up in the moment...’

Oliver’s eyes had widened in horror but then he punched the air.

‘The pretend job is as good as mine! Thanks, Artemis!’

‘Please pass on my apologies, I had no idea she would be so affected by my little monologue.’ 

#artemis fowl #artemis fowl fanfic #artemis fowl books

[likeshipsonthesea]

can i make a klave request for 76? i love your work, btw!

from this list 76. “You’re so weird.” “You have no idea.” I modified it a little for soldier talk, hope you don’t mind. enjoy!

“I need two,” Klaus tells Fitz when he gets to the front of the chow line.

Fitz raises his eyebrows, unamused. “You know the rules, Hargreeves. One ration per soldier.” Klaus flutters his eyelashes, which makes Fitz snort but doesn’t soften the hard set to his jaw. Klaus sighs. 

“Fitzy, baby, I’m gonna level with you. I need a second ration, and I’ll tell you why, I’ve done and got myself the shits. Real bad ones. Just, like, fuckin’ geyser shits, but I don’t need to tell you, I’m sure.” Klaus gives him a wink. “So you and I know both know that I gotta eat double to keep something in my body or who knows what could happen. What am I gonna do when I’m out there shitting my guts out and Charlie comes up outta no where to kill me? Now, I’m sure you don’t want me scrambling to get my pants up and gun out with the only the strength of a barren empty stomach to support me, now do you?”

Fitz blinks for a few moments before shaking his head with a sigh. “You’re are so fucking weird, Hargreeves,” he says, filling up a second plate.

Klaus grins, taking it. “You have no idea,” he says, turning and swinging his hips away.

Fitz chuckles. “Say hi to Katz for me.”

“If I had a free hand I’d flip you off!” Klaus yells over his shoulder but he doesn’t mean it. Fitz is of a good sort, as far as the platoon goes. Klaus doesn’t think he knows, but he doesn’t think Fitz would go out of his way to say anything if he did. That’s about the best they can hope for, out here.

“Hey baby,” Klaus purrs, pushing into the tent with the rations. Dave sits up from where he was napping, resting his ankle after hitting it funny on the trek here. “Got you some chow.”

“Aw, canned ham and crackers, my favorite.” Dave smiles, taking the plate. “You’re too good to me.”

“It’s only ‘cause you put out,” Klaus says around a mouthful of crackers and Dave shakes his head, still smiling.

They don’t talk much as they eat. It’s habit, even if they’re far from any enemy territory. Klaus munches on the stale crackers and thinks about Fitz, and the rest of the company along with it.

It’s weird to fight for the lives of people that might turn on him if they ever knew who he loved. Fitz is really an exception to the rule, and though it’s an open secret amongst the platoon that Klaus and Dave are close, implying anything beyond friendship is always meant as a jeer. Even Klaus, with his eyeliner and sashaying and calling everyone and their mother “baby,” still gets roped into the nights when they reminisce about girls back home. The guys still think– refuse not to think– that Klaus and Dave are straight as they shoot.

It makes Klaus think about back home. Not that the Academy was ever home. But he worked alongside his siblings and he still isn’t sure if all of them are okay with his inclinations. He assumes Allison must be, working in Hollywood and all, and Vanya is definitely repressing something under all those button-ups and undiagnosed neurosis.

He knows Ben doesn’t care, at least not more than he cares about not seeing what Klaus gets up to. “I don’t need to see this,” he’ll whine or, more lately, sigh, and drift off to wherever he goes when he isn’t haunting Klaus. He acts as if Klaus never gives a warning, like there isn’t build-up before the actual dicks come out. Though, to be fair, there’ve been many a drug deal that went down downtown, if you catch his drift, so possibly Ben had a point.

Klaus thinks Luther is too repressed to even know what a dick is and Diego might be the straightest person Klaus has ever met– come on, the knives are most definitely compensating for something only someone giving it would worry that much about. Neither of them screams “ally.”

There is Five, though. Klaus wonders. Anyone who hits a Diamond Anniversary with a damned piece of plastic is in no place to judge, but Klaus doesn’t know. He wonders what Five would think, though. Think of Dave.

A foot nudges Klaus’ knee and he looks up. Dave is smiling. He’s always smiling. Typically it would irritate Klaus, someone smiling all the time, but knowing what Dave goes through here, what he sacrifices just to be able to smile, it feels so much more than the empty victories Klaus is used to, in smiles.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Dave says, and Klaus is almost positive that the phrase is out of date, even for today’s date, but it’s so perfectly Dave, so sweet and genuine and– fuck, Klaus is so gone for him.

“Wondering what my family would think of you,” Klaus says, because he doesn’t know how to lie to Dave and doesn’t have any inclination to start. It’s weird, but in the good way. Like pedicures or wax figurines.

“Oh? And what seems to be the verdict?”

Klaus thinks about it. “Luther would be confused by you.” He glances at Dave’s body. “Intimidated, maybe. He doesn’t know what to do with people who aren’t more broken than him.” Dave frowns slightly, so Klaus adds a nice thing. “I think he’d make you laugh, and I think he’d like that.”

Smiling again. Score.

“Diego might pull the protective older brother thing because he likes that kind of stuff. He might threaten you with a knife, we don’t know.” Klaus shrugs and Dave shakes his head. “You’d be too earnest for it, though, and he’d give up and probably make you talk about sports. Ugh. Men things.”

“You’re a man,” Dave says, giggling a little the way he always does when Klaus is being ridiculous.

Klaus waves a hand. “Semantics. Moving on.” Dave chuckles and Klaus smothers his own smile by talking. “Allison would see how drop dead gorgeous you are and congratulate me on the spot.” Dave flushes but doesn’t comment. Klaus goes soft, looking at him. “She’d also like how kind you are, I think. She’s always liked that stuff. Vanya, too. She’d talk music with you I think. You’re both huge nerds for that.

“Ben would love you for much the same, he’s a huge nerd too.” Klaus curls his hand around Dave’s unhurt ankle. “He’d like how much you love me. And how much I love you.”

Dave presses his toes into Klaus hip, smile warm like the first rays of sun after days of rain. “My folks wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he says but it isn’t harsh. “I think they’d like you for how good you are for me. They always said I was too quiet and such, needed someone to balance me out.”

“Well I damn well tip the scales,” Klaus preens, fluttering his eyelashes at Dave, who laughs, again.

“Sometimes you’re almost too much to hold,” Dave says, so damn earnest and heart pounding and Klaus can’t help himself, daylight be damned, he leans in to press his mouth to Dave’s smile, and they keep at it, slow and too much, for minutes longer than they should, but Klaus doesn’t care one bit.

They settle into sleep a mere hour later, needing to be up bright and early to keep moving. It’s cold at nights, always is, so they huddle together for warm, Dave the little spoon because Klaus got to be it last time.

With his cheek pressed to Dave’s shoulderblade, Klaus thinks about Five, inexplicably. How would he react to Dave? Assuming he isn’t a bigot, assuming he cares at all, would he like Dave?

They had so little time together, but that’s not it because the rest of the house dispersed within years of Five’s disappearance. The only thing Klaus can base his other assumptions on is who his siblings became later. He never got to see that with Five.

He suddenly, achingly, wants to. He wants to see Five grow up, see who he is beyond the impending apocalypse. Is he funny? He was funny as a kid, Klaus remembers. The dry kind of wit. He’d say something and have Klaus in stitches while the rest of the group hadn’t caught on to the joke. He’d been a condescending asshole, yeah, but he shared some of his cooler facts with the rest of them.

Klaus remembers mentioning once, halfway into a panic attack or something, that he couldn’t tell if he was awake sometimes because the ghosts haunted his dreams. Within days, Five had read several books on the subject of nightmares and, offhandedly, unimportantly, dropped tips on telling the difference between dreams and reality when he was around Klaus. Klaus wouldn’t have known, but he’d been looking for his mask one day and found a whole stack of books, and Five shooed him out of his room yelling, but Klaus had known.

He’d found out Five’s biggest secret: he cared.

Klaus’ chest clenches thinking back to it. Five had spent decades trying to get back to them to fix the apocalypse. To save them. Klaus couldn’t figure out why, thinking on it, because they were all seven shades of fucked up, but maybe they weren’t, when Five left.

There’d been a time when they were as close to a family as Dad– Reginald had let them be. Sneaking out to play after dinner, sharing comics and inside jokes, fighting over the bathrooms and defending each other from the world. Five had left them a family and come back to find them fractured.

Klaus always thought they were strangers who grew up in a house together, but they hadn’t been strangers, really, until after they’d left. After they’d stopped trying. After there’d been something else to hold onto aside from each other.

Five never had that. Neither had Luther, come to think of it, and Ben only had it tangentially. None of them grew up, and the rest of them grew– wrong.

For a moment, clinging to Dave’s sleepless form and shivering despite the sleeping bags he’s cocooned in, Klaus wants desperately to go back. Go back to a time before they all gave up, before it got too hard. Grab on to each other instead of let go, help each other.

Maybe it’s being in the marines, having Dave and Fitz and all the other guys, but Klaus finally knows what being on a team can mean. What it can be.

“You okay?” Dave mumbles, mostly asleep. Klaus nods against his back. “Go to sleep, matok.”

Klaus squeezes closer. No use wondering over the past now– or the future, or whatever it is. Klaus is here, with Dave, and that’s what matters now. Klaus doesn’t have to wonder if Dave loves him or wants him or any of that. He knows the answer, and the comfort in that is worth more than anything his siblings could give him.

Klaus presses his lips against Dave’s shoulder and quickly falls asleep.

#klaus x dave #klave #klaus hargreeves #the umbrella academy #fic #the umbrella academy fic #my writing #sort of fic #ficlet #angst #fluff #all of the above #i love these two!!! #SEND IN MORE ASKS IF Y'ALL WANT #preferably other characters but klave is fine too #i am loving this!! #also i officially started my first real tua fic today #so that's exciting #telepathy anyone?

[eddieeatsass]

Stripped Bare - Chapter 2

Summary: Eddie gets an offer from his company to work in Barbados over the summer. Beautiful weather, all expenses paid trip, and a stay in a suite at one of the most highly rated resorts in the world. How could he say no? Unfortunately, Eddie soon realizes there were a lot of reasons to say no. His skin doesn’t take kindly to the harsh sun, his suite ends up being the size of a shoe box, and, oh yeah, it’s also a nudist resort. Pairing: Reddie (side Benverly and Stanlonbrough) Rating: E Warnings: Eventual smut, explicit language

Read on AO3

“So yeah, she’s probably one of the most bad-ass people I’ve ever met.” Bill finished off his story with a thoughtful nod, as if he was lost in his own memories while recalling them. “I would not want to be on the wrong side of Beverly’s fury.” He explained as an after thought.

Eddie had been listening to Bill talk about his best friends for 10 minutes. Technically, they were on the job, but no one had flagged down Eddie yet and he welcomed the distraction from the naked bodies he still hadn’t gotten used to. Plus, it was cute the way Bill’s eyes lit up as he talked about his friends. Eddie secretly hoped he could be on that list one day.

“And then there’s Richie.” Bill started back up, a fond smile accompanying his words.

Eddie leaned against the lifeguard chair that they were both standing under and focused on the way Bill’s lips moved as he talked.

“He’s a huge fucking dork. I love him, but I mean that guy has a bigger comic book collection than anyone I’ve ever met. He also never shuts up, we call him Trashmouth because-”

As Bill continued describing his friend in great detail, Eddie found himself thinking about Stan. He felt kind of guilty that he’d tricked Stan into coming. He’d be arriving later that day and he had no idea what to expect. Eddie had been there for a few days now and, granted, it did get a little easier once you got into the habit of keeping direct eye-contact with everyone you meet, but it still wasn’t comfortable. Stan was going to hate it, was going to hate him.

“Anyway, they should be here soon, you’re gonna love them.”

“W-what?” Eddie stared at Bill dumbfounded. Clearly, he’d missed something important when he zoned out.

Bill just laughed, not taking any offense to Eddie’s spaciness.

“Richie and Bev, I mentioned earlier that they come here every year. I get an employee discount that extends to friends and family, so they usually spend the majority of the summer bothering me while I work.”

“Oh, that actually sounds kind of fun, having your best friends around.”

“It’s fun until the 3rd time Richie pretends to drown just to get me riled up.”

Eddie laughs at that visual, picturing a big dramatic scene ending with Bill stone-faced as he returns to his lifeguard post, now unnecessarily wet. The image is enough to make Eddie completely miss the new presence suddenly behind him.

“I hate you.”

Eddie recognized the monotone drawl immediately. He doesn’t turn around though, is too afraid to face Stan right away. Instead he keeps his gaze trailed on Bill who is flicking his eyes back and forth between Eddie and the face behind him, silently questioning the situation.

“You’re not gonna turn around?” Stan asks.

“Mmm, nope. I like it here.” Eddie responds matter-of-factly, planting his feet a little more firmly in place.

Bill’s confusion finally gets the best of him. He peeks around Eddie’s body slightly, addressing Stan directly as he introduces himself.

“Oh yeah, sorry, Bill this is Stan. Stan, Bill.” Eddie supplies without moving.

“Nice to meet you, I think?” Bill says hesitantly, checking Eddie’s face for confirmation.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just worried I’m gonna be mad that he tricked me into working at an all-you-can-ogle buffet for the summer.” Stan says.

“Are you?” Eddie asks.

Stan sighs, but Eddie could hear the smile when he spoke. “No, I’m not mad. Confused, maybe.”

The second Eddie had confirmation that he could let go of his anxiety, he was whirling around to face Stan and talking at the speed of light.

“Oh thank god because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to survive this summer without you here! I mean this is so weird, right? Like ‘excuse me sir can I have a towel’ oh yeah sure let me just wade through this sea of naked bodies to bring you a towel that you won’t actually use to cover anything up. And this can’t possibly be sanitary, right? How often do these patio chairs get cleaned? And the water, I mean how many people do you think have free-peed in there today alone? AND WHAT ABOUT BONERS!?”

Stan has his hands on Eddie’s arms before he could spiral any further. Stan chances a glance over at Bill and is surprised he’s still standing alongside them. He gives Bill a mental check-mark for being able to deal with Eddie’s neurosis and then turns his attention back to the task at hand.

“We’ll deal with it.” Stan says, his tone surprisingly convincing.

Eddie nods in agreement. “Okay, yeah, we’ll deal with it.” He repeats.

Having gotten that out of his system, and with the new presence of his best friend, Eddie actually sported a real smile for the first time since he’d arrived at the resort.

“Why are you here so early, by the way?” Eddie asks, once he realizes what time it is.

Stan shrugs. “They got me a direct flight.”

Eddie’s jealousy shows in the way his nose crinkles up. He didn’t get a direct flight.

Stan just smiles and opts to change the subject.

“So, our supervisor is hot.”

Bill and Eddie both agree embarrassingly fast, looking at each other afterwards and sharing a laugh.

Stan got a grasp on things considerably faster than Eddie did. A week and a half in and Eddie was still struggling with the environment, years of sexual repression making it hard to normalize it in his mind. Stan, on the other hand, had adopted a rather naturalistic approach.

“Bodies are not inherently sexual, Eddie.”

Eddie huffed out a groan in Stan’s direction. They were in the supply room grabbing towels for guests, Eddie taking a purposefully long time just to avoid going back out there.

“I know that, Stan.” Eddie bit back with no real bite.

“We’re born naked, it’s normal. None of these people are here for sex, just to enjoy their time in the freedom of their body.”

“It’s not normal to see your neighbor, doctor, and teacher’s dick.”

“None of these people are your neighbors, doctors, or teachers. You don’t live here.” Stan challenged.

“You know what I mean!” Eddie rushed in response.

“Try and think of it this way, you’re never going to see these people again. So what if you know what Mr. Fraser’s dick looks like? In a few months it’s just going to be irrelevant information your brain stores away to be forgotten.”

Stan had a point. It’s not like Eddie was going to form any type of meaningful relationships with any of the guests. This was strictly professional, and the same way that you don’t remember every customer’s face, you also won’t remember every customer’s genitals.

“Are you about done folding those towels or do you need another minute?” Stan teased, nodding towards the small stack of towels he’d been folding and refolding to procrastinate for as long as possible.

“Yeah, I guess.” Eddie conceded, tucking the towels under his arm and following Stan out of the room.

They made their way back out to the deck and distributed towels to the guests who had requested them. Just as Eddie had handed the last two towels over to an older couple, he heard a voice calling him over.

A few seats over from where Eddie stood, a hand was waving at him. Being caught off guard, Eddie didn’t have time to concentrate on keeping his head eye level, and boy was that the biggest mistake of his life.

The man in question was unmistakably naked, that much wasn’t surprising given where they were, but what was surprising was that he was hot. So far, Eddie had counted himself lucky that he hadn’t seen any guests that he found particularly appealing, but this guy changed that real fast. He was tall, Eddie could tell even though he was sitting down. He had long limbs that stretched out from his body in an almost lanky way, but it worked for him somehow. He was well defined but not obnoxiously so, and atop his head was an unruly mop of black hair that mimicked the dark happy trail that lead down to…

The biggest cock Eddie had ever seen in his young life.

Well, fuck. If he hadn’t been staring before, he definitely was now. How could someone be so big while flaccid? Eddie almost bypassed being turned on just to admire how impressive that length was.

“Excuse me?” The voice rang through the space again, bringing Eddie’s eyes up to meet the pair gazing towards him. He didn’t look like he’d noticed Eddie staring, but then again, maybe he was just being polite? Oh god, or what if he had noticed and now he was calling Eddie over to tell him off. No, this guy didn’t look like the type to chew Eddie’s head off.

Eddie kind of wanted him to chew his head off... But, in a sexy way.

“Sorry to interrupt your inner monologue, I was just wondering if you could get me something from the bar?”

Eddie’s throat was dry. Something from the bar sounds great right now. He could chug a gallon of water right on the spot and still be dehydrated. He realizes with a start that he still hasn’t said anything since being waved over and the guy was probably starting to wonder if Eddie was mute.

“Yes.”

Okay, great job Eddie. That’s a start. Now just continue with what you say every day.

“What can you get me.”

Nope, that’s not it.

The stranger’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk that had no business being so charming taking over his features.

“I don’t know, what do you want?”

Okay, so the stranger was smoother than Eddie could ever dream to be, but he was also teasing Eddie, and in any other circumstance he’d be peeved. But this wasn’t any other circumstance, and Eddie had to admit it was kind of endearing.

“What can I get you.” Eddie corrected himself, choosing to ignore the man’s last comment.

He chuckles. It’s deep and throaty and Eddie wants to swallow it whole.

“Just a virgin sex on the beach, please.”

“You’re a virgin!?” Eddie blurted out, before his brain could catch up with his mouth.

The stranger seemed to stall for a moment, before his grin grew even wider than before.

“Well, I haven’t had sex on the beach, if that’s what you’re asking. Too much sand getting in too many places.” He played along.

Eddie didn’t want to think about this man’s ‘places’. Eddie wanted to die.

He decided quickly that the only way he would get out of this interaction with at least some of his dignity left intact was if he left as soon as possible. Clearly his mouth couldn’t be trusted, and neither could his eyes, apparently, since they were already wandering back down the man’s body on their own accord.

Eddie forced his eyes to the ground and mumbled a quick “I’ll be right back with your drink.” Which he’s surprised to get out without some sort of slip up. His feet were carrying him away before he even got an answer. He was headed in the wrong direction, not even relatively close to the bar, but he couldn’t get himself to turn back around. Now that he’d put distance between him and the hot stranger, his heart had started beating irregularly fast, and it wasn’t because of a panic attack this time.

Eddie flung the door to the storage room open, startling one of his co-workers who was exiting the room. Eddie gave him a meek smile, a “sorry for almost beheading you with the door” apology. The co-worker, who Eddie wouldn’t be able to name even if he cared to try, just returned the smile and passed by Eddie.

He only waited a few seconds before slamming the door shut behind him and slumping against the surface, face pressed into the hard wood. He groaned audibly as he let the embarrassment finally swallow him whole.

“Poor Jack is going to be traumatized now.”

Eddie just about jumped out of his skin at the sound of another voice near him. He turned around to see Stan leaning against the wall with an amused smirk.

“Who?” Eddie asked.

Stan nodded towards the door. “You threw that door open so violently I thought the poor boy was going to shit his pants.”

Eddie felt bad now, knowing he may have given his co-worker PTDS, post-traumatic door stress. Jack may never be the same.

“So, are you done being dramatic or do you need another minute?” Stan asked.

Eddie walked over to the stack of clean towels neatly folded on the counter, calmly placed his elbows on either side, and proceeded to smother his face in the fresh cotton. He let out the loudest, longest groan he could, letting the sound muffle through the layers beneath him. He kept going until there was no air left in his lungs, and then, taking a deep breath, he lifted his head back up to face Stan.

Stan’s eyebrows were raised as he waited for an answer beyond a groan.

“I saw a cute guy.” Eddie offered.

“Okay.”

“I made an idiot of myself.” He added.

“Mhm.”

“I need you to bring him a virgin sex on the beach, so I can spend the rest of the day wallowing in my misery.”

“Eddie,” Stan sighed. “You can’t just avoid him.”

“I can and I will.” Eddie declared stubbornly.

They had a stare down for a few moments, until Stan finally took pity on his best friend.

“Fine, what does he look like?”

Eddie proceeded to describe the stranger, leaving out the part about his big dick and stunning physique. Once Stan was pretty sure he couldn’t miss him, he left, leaving Eddie alone with the towels and his shame.

  Eddie managed to go three days without seeing hot stranger again. He didn’t see much of anyone, actually. Bill had switched his shifts around with another staff member for a couple of days while his friends got adjusted to being in town. Eddie had yet to meet them, the infamous Richie and Beverly, but he was sure it was only a matter of time. The resort wasn’t that big, after all.

Stan had gotten heat stroke within his first few days of working, so he was on mandatory bed-rest, per Mike’s instructions, until he felt well enough to work again.

This left Eddie working his shift one man down, and alongside employees he hadn’t gotten to know yet. He supposes he could try and be more social, chat up the lifeguard who’d taken Bill’s shifts, but the woman who now sat up on Bill’s lifeguard chair had a look of judgement in her eyes that reminded Eddie too much of his mother. It made his solitude much more enticing.

The day dragged on. Since Eddie was the only pool boy working that day he was constantly running back and forth to fetch things for the guests. He thought he’d finally caught himself a minute of downtime when someone new was waving him over. With a discreet sigh he steeled himself, plastering a customer service smile on his face before he made his way over.

The hand belonged to a girl, probably around Eddie’s age if he had to guess, who was easily stunning enough to be a model. Eddie was as gay as they come but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his few exceptions, and this girl could definitely be one. He didn’t want to fuck her, that would be a bit too much whiplash for his dick, but he did want to spend hours running his fingers through her hair and telling her just how pretty she was.

Speaking of, her hair was the most striking color of crimson he’d ever seen in real life. It was long, falling down her freckled back and ending at the dip in her waist. Despite being completely nude, she had a delicate gold chain around her neck that settled just between her breasts, adorned with a small key. It looked old, worn in, and Eddie found himself starring at it before he realized it probably looked like he was staring at something else in that area. He flushed pink before his eyes flickered back up to meet hers, a daring blue that rivaled the red of her hair but held the same fire.

“Hi! Sorry, I know you’re busy. I was just hoping to get a glass of lemonade when you have a chance?” Her request was accompanied by a warm smile. It made Eddie feel safe. It was an odd feeling, but not unwelcomed.

“Pink or regular?” Eddie asked, only a bit shaken by her politeness in contrast to the other guests he’d served that day.

“Just regular. But no rush!”

She sounded so genuine that Eddie couldn’t help but smile back. Just then, as if to drive home his point, he was being called over by another guest as she rudely snapped her fingers in his direction.

It took about ten minutes before he found the downtime to pick up the lemonade from the bar. He made sure to get the bartender to garnish the glass with a little wedge of lemon and an umbrella. It was silly, and probably too extra for something as simple as a lemonade, but he liked this particular guest and wanted to do something special, even if it came in the form of miniature plastic umbrellas.

He made his way over to the area where he’d last seen the redhead but instead of sitting in the spot she’d been in previously, she’d moved a few chairs over and was now talking to another guest. From their body language, Eddie guessed they didn’t know each other, but they were definitely trying to. The redhead was sitting on the edge of the chair, leaning in to listen intently to whatever the guy was saying.

He was extremely animated as he talked, his face lit up in an endearingly cute manner. He seemed to be a tall guy, but while hot stranger had been tall and lanky, this man was tall and broad, filling out his frame with strong arms and a round belly. He was quite hairy, but not in an off-putting way. Blonde locks eased into neatly trimmed facial hair, a round beard that framed his equally round cheeks perfectly. Eddie knew from a quick glance that he was hairy in other places too, but he didn’t want to be caught staring again, so he forced himself to behave.

Eddie wasn’t sure how to approach the situation, to be honest. He didn’t want to interrupt their conversation, which they were both too engrossed in to notice him awkwardly standing nearby, but the lemonade in his hand was keeping him from getting back to work. Not that he wanted to get back to work, standing around and people watching (see: eavesdropping) was definitely favorable, but he didn’t want to get behind on an already busy day. Just as he was preparing himself to step in, a presence from behind spoke up.

“You better jump in now before she jumps him.”

The voice was right in his ear, it startled Eddie so much he lost his footing as he tried to swivel around to see who was behind the comment. He saw a flash of black hair and dark eyes receding quickly from his vision, and he realized too late that he was falling. He tried to put his hands out behind him to catch himself but was enveloped by water instead. The water quickly filling his lungs burned, his wet clothes weighed him down, the chlorine stung his eyes. He knows how to swim, knows he should be trying to, but he’s too overwhelmed by the suddenness of the situation to think clearly.

Then there were arms circling around him, a strong pressure against his back, and in seconds he’s breaking the surface of the water. The body behind him doesn’t let go, which Eddie is grateful for considering he’s too busy coughing to focus on anything else. He can tell they’re moving but his orientation is all off, he can’t differentiate up from down yet.

He’s being pressed up against the edge of the pool within seconds. His head is still cloudy with water and panic, but the feeling of steady ground against the palms of his hands helps to ground him. He vaguely starts to register that his feet don’t touch the ground of the pool, and the only thing keeping him up is being pinned between the ledge and the stranger behind him.

At that realization, Eddie swiveled his head around, trying desperately to figure out who had been his savior. The face was too close, featured fixating into nothing more than a blurred cyclops from Eddie’s vantage point. He blinked a few times, trying to get the water out of his eyes as if that would make a difference. When he opened his eyes again, the stranger had leaned back as much as he could without letting go of Eddie, and that’s when he realized who had saved him.

Hot stranger. Hot stranger was holding him. Hot stranger was appraising him with a look of worry. Hot stranger was… Shit, he was saying something that Eddie couldn’t hear through the water in his ears.

“What!?” Eddie said, probably a bit too loudly.

Hot stranger chuckled, his smile even more charming up close. When he repeated himself this time, Eddie heard him clearly.

“You really fell for me, didn’t you?”

He was… making a joke? Right now? While Eddie was dripping wet and fighting back mortification and still struggling to get his breathing back under control? What kind of asshole makes a joke before apologizing?

Eddie knew his anger was unwarranted, a by-product of his ever-growing embarrassment, but just because he was self aware didn’t mean he was good at controlling it.

Choosing not to acknowledge the comment, Eddie sent him a glare over his shoulder. He tried wiggling in his spot, searching for leverage to pull himself out of the pool while still wedged between a rock and a hard place. He re-settled his palms on the granite surface beneath him, ready to hoist himself up and out of the pool, when he felt it. The hard place.

Hot stranger was still holding him up from behind, lithe arms circled around Eddie’s torso and chest pressed to his back, crotch rested against the curve of Eddie’s ass. The thing was, hot stranger was still naked. Meaning, Eddie had a cock pressing right up into the backside of his wet uniform, which clung to him much more now than when it was dry.

What happened next isn’t Eddie’s fault. It’s biology, a Pavlovian reaction. Eddie’s gay and right now there was a dick pressing against his ass. That does something to a guy.

“Get off me!” Eddie seethed, grabbing hot stranger hands and removing them from his body. He bobbed down in the water at the sudden loss of support but managed to keep a hand on the edge of the pool which aided him to hoist his body up and roll onto the deck, much less gracefully than he would have liked.

The redheaded lemonade girl from earlier, who had probably been watching the whole show unfold, was offering him her towel. It was a nice gesture, but Eddie couldn’t risk getting caught with a hard-on, especially not while working at a place like this, so without a word he pushed past her, running towards the doors to the storage room.

He didn’t worry about anyone else being in there, threw the doors open and let them shut behind him with a thud as he paced towards the back of the room. He removed his soaked clothing in the process, stripping down to his underwear and grabbing a clean towel when he reached the small hidden alcove.

He wasn’t proud of his next move, screwing his eyes shut before shoving his hand into his briefs unceremoniously. He brought the fresh towel to his face to soak up some of the water as his hand moved rapidly, spurred on by his anger and embarrassment and shame. It didn’t take long for him to release into his fist, his moan muffled by the towel. Once his breathing evened out again and his head was clear, he rid himself of his sullied underwear and wrapped the towel around his waist.

He gathered his discarded clothing, moving slower now, almost lethargic. He threw the garments into one of the empty washing machines, throwing in a few of the used towels that were piling up as well, so he could at least pretend he was still doing work. Then Eddie slid to the floor, hung his head between his knees, and began making a list of all the things he wanted to yell at that stupid, arrogant, unfairly hot stranger.

#reddie #reddie fanfic #reddie fanfiction #reddie lemon #reddie lemons #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #it fanfic #it fanfiction #reddie smut #it smut #my posts #my writing #Stripped bare

[sargenthouse]

Dylan Carlson’s Theme for an Imaginary Western // Interview

Feature by Kate Koenig via Premier Guitar After nearly 30 years as the only constant member of drone-doom-metal cult heroes Earth, guitarist Dylan Carlson has released his first album, Conquistador. As the title suggests, the work espouses a fantasy world that’s rooted in history, not unlike the one explored on Earth’s 2005 Hex; Or Printing in the Infernal Method—a belated imaginary soundtrack to novelist Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Carlson has also done soundtrack work, under his solo moniker drcarlsonalbion, for the film Gold. But this time, the music speaks exclusively to his personal vision.

Carlson has always been known for wading against common trends—an approach that’s helped him define his voice in the sparse, expansive sound of Earth. Like most artists, he’s proud of not fitting into a mold. “I make records for people. I don’t make records for guitar players,” he says. But it’s not an exclusionary statement, just one that acknowledges the detachment he takes from the technical and cultural associations with the instrument while songwriting. Drawing heavily from his tastes in film and American history, he gradually and steadily builds a world on the all-instrumental Conquistador in which he becomes more of a visual architect than a guitarist, exploring the negative space between rich, textural tones.

The minimalist, ambient compositions on Conquistador rely on the subtle personalities of Carlson’s guitar tones, which he achieves with a lot of patience, trial and error, and the perfect combinations of gear. Though, he admits, gear is not as important to him as it used to be. “There’s no magic box or magic amp. It’s all you, for better or for worse,” he laughs. Even so, he keeps a particular family of pedals—“discovering compression was a godsend”—and has refined, over the course of his career, the routes to creating the precise hues of distortion to furnish his sonic world. On the album, he worked with producer and Converge guitarist Kurt Ballou, and is accompanied by his wife, Holly Carlson (who’s also the model on the cover), on percussion, and Emma Ruth Rundle on baritone and slide guitars.

What inspired you to write your first solo album? We had finished a lot of touring with Earth, for our last record for [L.A.-based label] Southern Lord, and we had just changed management. I had some ideas for some songs, so it seemed like a good opportunity to get into a studio and get some music done. The idea originally was in the vein of Hex, which was sort of a soundtrack to an imaginary film, and the other soundtrack I did for the movie Gold. Conquistador is also sort of Western-themed, and a soundtrack to an imaginary film. Since soundtrack work is something I’m really interested in, I hope to get to do another one at some point, but until then, I guess I’ll keep doing imaginary film work. [Laughs.]

So if Conquistador is a soundtrack to an imaginary film, is that film a Western? The era that Conquistador envisions is during the initial collision between Europe and the New World. When I was in junior high, I lived in Texas, and we had a Texas history class where I read about a conquistador. He had a Moorish squire named Esteban, and they went to what was then Northern Mexico, now the American Southwest, and got lost for 20 years. They had a bunch of, I guess you could say … “adventures” where they were sold into slavery by one tribe and escaped, and worked with another tribe—basically, things didn’t go as planned. The album was more based on this memory of the story rather than the specific text. I’ve also been influenced by a number of my favorite films, like The Fountain by Darren Aronofsky. So it was a bunch of little things all bubbling around. Is your guitar playing usually guided by that kind of visual experience? I’ve always been visually oriented when it comes to guitar playing. When I first started, I’d find patterns on the guitar and see how they sounded, as opposed to being an ear player. And as I’ve progressed, I’ve become much more of an ear player. Also, since the title is the only verbal cue to describe the narrative arc of the song, I’m very conscious of the way the title looks or sounds. I’m always trying to look for something evocative, ’cause I’ve always believed there still needs to be narrative arcs to the songs—even songs that I do with a lot of repetition. I believe that there should be a narrative arc to the record as well, which I feel is something that’s a bit lost with the advent of the CD, and now digital media. It’s the order of the songs that makes a great album, as well as the songs themselves.

How do you give your music a narrative arc? Usually it’s through textural cues. I’ve always been interested in subtle dynamics in music. The thing that always bugged me about grunge is it reduced musical dynamics to “here’s the quiet part and here’s the loud part,” and I’ve always preferred music where the textures and the interplay of instruments build small crescendos and dynamics in that way. The intensity in the playing, you know? And then I was lucky in that Emma Rundle joined me to add her music to mine. I’ve definitely always been a believer in that approach—where if you limit the options in certain things, it forces you to become more creative with what you have. I’m also a strong proponent of what I like to call “happy accidents.” What is the ratio of improvised versus composed music on the album? I don’t know … 80/20? [Laughs.] The riffs were there, but the structures were done in motion. And then a lot of it had to do with the fun of looking for guitar tones. Some songs are more composed than others, but even with the ones where there’s a strong compositional presence, I’ve always believed in leaving room for improvisation. The most composed song is the last song of the album, “Reaching the Gulf.” There’s the basic riffs, but then the arrangements sort of happened naturally as I played them in the studio, so they have much looser organization. Which, again, I think helps with the narrative arc of the record, because it’s about leaving, heading into the unknown, and then stuff happening that you don’t foresee, and then the return at the end to a controlled environment—or at least a more controlled environment. What is it that draws you to repetitive patterns? I’d always hear stuff in other songs and be like, “that’s a great riff, why don’t you just keep going with that rather than immediately jumping to another one?” I always liked Indian music and psychedelic stuff and, obviously, blues. Maybe it’s this atavistic thing from my Scotch heritage, like the bagpipe or something. [Laughs.]

How was it working with Emma and Holly on the album? I played a show with Red Sparowes and Marriages, bands Emma was playing with, and I borrowed some of her gear that night. And then she’s on [our label] Sargent House, and my wife, Holly, and Emma got along quite well. I think she’s a fabulous musician and she really added a lot to the proceedings. Holly was travelling with me at the time, and we needed extra percussion. She played piano when she was younger and sang in choir. She was also a dancer, a belly dancer, so she has good rhythm [laughs], so that’s sort of how that happened. It was also my first time working with Kurt Ballou, which was really enjoyable. He has a cool studio and a really good ear and a lot of helpful ideas. At the same time, he doesn’t force them on you. He’s really open to your ideas. And then he has a lot of interesting equipment. But it was a very easy record, in a lot of ways, because it flowed quite well and everything that needed to get done got done. I enjoyed it. I hope other people do, too.

Let’s talk about gear. How important is your gear to the songwriting process? I’m much less gear-centric than I used to be. I realized over the last few years that no matter what I use, I’m going to get my sound and be me. And obviously, there’s slight variations based on gear choice, but I realized I could have saved myself a lot of time and money in the early days.

What guides your preferences? I don’t like a lot of pedals. I think there’s almost too many to choose from nowadays. [Laughs.] I see some people’s pedalboards and I’m, like, confused. I think some of the prices on gear lately are ridiculous. You don’t need to spend $10,000 to sound good. I’ve always been a big MXR fan. I use a Custom Comp, which is the sort of nicer version of the Dyna Comp. I love the regular Dyna Comp, too, but I find that the Custom Comp has a lower noise floor. And then I like the Shin-Juku Drive for distortion. Then, I just got this HBE Dos Mos, which is a dual MOSFET preamp. I really like it because it allows me much more textural options, where the distortion becomes a texture, too, so I can also do a loud cool sound. In the studio, I’ll end up using more modulation to separate the tracks and to color them. Live, I reduce the number of effects I use.

What about amps? I’ve actually gone solid-state. [Laughs.] I have a bunch of tube amps lying around and they all need servicing and are annoying to carry around. Right now I’m using a DV Mark 50-watt solid-state head, and I have a Crate Power Block solid-state head. I think a 50 watt is the largest head you’d ever really need. You’re never gonna get to the sweet spot on a 100-watt head, you know? We all grew up with pictures of Hendrix with these huge amp stacks, and that was because they were playing without PAs. Nowadays, you don’t need to do that.

One of the best shows I think we ever did was opening for Neurosis in London, and I was playing an old WEM Dominator, which is basically a 15-watt amp. People were saying how great we sounded that night, and no one thought we were too quiet or not loud enough. Because a 15- or 30-watt amp will scream. People seem to forget that you double the wattage of the amp and you’re only increasing the actual volume by 3 dB. All you’re increasing is your headroom. If you want the harmonic enrichment, you have to drop the headroom.

How did you first get into guitar? I guess my favorite guitar would be the Tele. Right now I’m on a bit of a Strat jag. I’ve played other guitars, but I always seem to come back to the Fender style. I find them the best for touring, ’cause they have the straight neck instead of the angled headstock, and they’re not finicky. They get the job done and they take the road really well—whereas set necks and headstocks that are angled are accidents waiting to happen.

How did you first get into guitar? My parents were into music, so I grew up with a lot of music around me. But no one really played an instrument. And then when I got into music, as in buying my own, AC/DC was the first band I got into, and that’s what made me want to play rock ’n’ roll, I guess. For a long time, I wanted to play guitar, but never really got around to it. Then one day my dad suggested it, so I bought one finally on my 15th or 16th birthday. A good friend of mine at high school who was a big prog-head showed me a few chords, and that was sort of my beginning. I immediately started trying to write songs rather than learning other peoples’ songs. I taught myself the rudiments of theory. Although, the thing I’ve always tried to remember is, the music comes first—the theory grew out of that, not the other way around.

What influences your guitar playing? I’d have to say the guitarists I really gravitate to serve the music or serve the song—people like Steve Cropper or Cornell Dupree. I’ve always felt like the thing that really motivates me is, “Is the riff something that’s worth repeating, and does it convey my conception of the song?” I always find it very interesting when people talk about a song I’ve done, and they’ll say it’s similar to something I may have thought about the song, and the landscape I may have envisioned for it.

Earlier you mentioned how the music industry on the whole has somewhat lost sight of the album. Do you think this would ever shift your approach to your own music? When I was young, Buzz from the Melvins was talking to me and he said, “There’s two ways to do things.” He was speaking specifically of music, but I guess it could apply to other things. “You can try to jump on the trend, or what’s happening at the moment, and you might succeed famously, but you might not. Whereas, if you do what you do and you just keep doing what you do, eventually people are going to pay attention to it, hopefully.”

I’ve always tried to follow that advice. I just do what I do, and just try to keep doing what I do, and it’s obviously not the quick route, but it’s seemed to work up to this point. I haven’t had to take advice from record labels, or play songs by hit songwriters I don’t know or don’t like, or dress up in clothes I don’t want to wear. You may not have a mansion on MTV Cribs, but you can go to sleep at night and look at yourself in the mirror, hopefully.

#Dylan Carlson #Earth #Conquistador #Premier Guitar

[typologycentral]

Death by Thesis

I first encountered my trickster before I knew anything about Jung. I was studying comparative literature in graduate school, which meant studying languages and literatures, ancient and modern. Many of my peers were bilingual or trilingual from birth, so I felt disadvantaged from the start. All of us, however, were in awe of one Professor Ulrich K. Goldschmidt (anglicized to Goldsmith), a German émigré who had fled the Nazis and who spoke numerous languages, both living and dead—we could never figure out how many because he kept surprising us with new ones. I had the dubious distinction of being his guinea pig in my cadre of grad students, having foolishly volunteered to give the first oral report in his class. The reason that I volunteered was not a good one: I couldn’t stand the silence that greeted the professor’s question, “Who will go first?” This was the classic extravert’s mistake, and I paid for it. My topic was rhetoric, which the ancient Greeks raised to a high art so that eventually it became synonymous with verbal manipulation. I was a wordsmith. I had made my way through school with verbal manipulation. I thought I knew the topic well.I gave my report on Day Two of my grad school career. Goldsmith debated every word that came out of my mouth, accusing me of using terms imprecisely. I was from then on notorious as the example of How Not to Succeed in Grad School. This and my language handicap made me decide not to bother with a doctorate but to take a master’s degree and run. To leave with a master’s required writing a thesis. Goldsmith’s known areas of expertise were Germanic, Slavic, Nordic, and East European languages, so I decided it would be prudent to stick to western European topics for my thesis. I consulted a professor who had given a seminar on satire, asking her to suggest novels in, say, France, Spain, or Italy. She suggested looking at Rabelais and Cervantes. Only two authors, I thought. How hard can that be? I promptly submitted the proposal, assuming she would be my advisor. To my horror, I was told that Cervantes was one of Goldsmith’s areas of expertise, and “Wasn’t I lucky to have such an expert for a thesis advisor?” This was the early warning sign for me that something trickster was afoot. I was learning, like Oedipus, that you meet your destiny on the road you take to avoid it. Cervantes’ Don Quixote is 940 pages long—a book of tales forever unfinished and unfinishable. John Beebe (2009) has an essay on the hero and the post-heroic attitude in Cervantes’ Don Quixote. Early in the essay he describes how he was invited to give a talk at a Congress of the International Association for Analytical Psychology to be held in Spain, and how it seemed apt to give the talk on Quixote, Spain’s most famous contribution to literature. The trouble is, Beebe observes, then he had to read the thing. As he put it: “I discovered that if I was to have a paper to include in the advance proceedings of the Congress, I was going to have to start to write about the massive novel even before my reading of it was complete” (p. 4). Beebe observed in a footnote that, “Frustration might even be described as the archetypal field that emanates from the novel itself” (n. 29, p. 21). “Frustration” is an understatement. Once I got into La Mancha myself, I thought I would never get out. And this was only one of my focus texts. The other was equally gargantuan and is, in fact, the source of that word in our language: Rabelais’ Gargantua and Pantagruel. This verbal monstrosity is actually a series of five novels. Don Quixote comprises two very long ones. I had to read all of them in the original languages, the sixteenth-century versions of Spanish and French. These two masterpieces spawned my own permanently-in-progress unfinishable work. Both of them, I now realize, epitomize trickster works of literature, seducing and abandoning the reader, and turning the world upside down. And my own trickster was clearly at work here: I had tried to take the easy way out of grad school and now I was faced with an avalanche of work. Here, I must admit, Dr. Goldsmith was inordinately helpful. I had to meet with him to officially launch my research, and at that meeting he suggested that I focus on the topic of judgment and pointed me to a critical chapter on this topic in each work. The topic did not interest me much, but I was so intimidated by him that I did not resist. That turned out to be fortunate, because he had handed me a bite-sized, digestible chunk out of a huge torrent of words. The Jungian connotations of Goldsmith’s name have not escaped my notice. Moreover, Goldsmith’s suggested topic held even more Jungian irony, though I did not realize it until years later: Judgment is one of the two categories of Jung’s mental processes, the other being perception. It is a central theme of Jung’s (1921/1971) Psychological Types that we must balance our use of perception with judgment, and vice versa. This plays out in our personality type in our dominant and auxiliary functions: one is a perceiving function, the other a judging function. When we over-rely on one or the other, trouble occurs. I was going to discover something that Goldsmith probably knew intuitively—that I had a dearth of judgment and an oversupply of perception. My dominant function was a perceiving function, and it was much more fun than my auxiliary judging function. As I was to discover, it would be a judging function that would send me into a tailspin with this project. I spent more than a year doing research on judgment, judging, and judges, without understanding the first thing about the topic. These were the pre-computer days, and I collected a huge stack of four-by-six note cards containing my research results covering 400 years of literary criticism and thousands of pages of source text. Some people are afraid of flying; others are afraid of heights. I have a paperwork phobia. My worst nightmares involve a visit from the IRS asking for receipts. So, creating and maintaining my archive of notes was an agonizing task. This is fairly typical of individuals of my personality type, ENFP, though I’m a bit extreme on the subject. It relates to the inferior function of ENFPs (see Fig. 1). The inferior function, the fourth function, is the site of our inferiority complex, so each personality type has a weakness around the fourth function. My inferior function, introverted sensation (Si), is the mental process we use to record, to recall, and to archive our recollections. When introverted sensation is in the inferior position, our recall is not good. Mark Twain described well how Si inferior manifests for my type, when he made the following comment in his old age: “When I was younger I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not.” (Mark Twain is thought by some to have had ENTP preferences, a type that also has introverted sensing as an inferior function.) When introverted sensation is our fourth and most primitive conscious function, we don’t remember things well and we don’t even know we don’t remember them; we confabulate. If forced to remember things, we get bored. The psyche knows our points of resistance and will take us there unerringly. My psyche led me to blindly choose a subject guaranteed to trigger my paperwork phobia, my inferiority complex, my animus. To have to spend a year in one’s inferior function is like a yearlong time-out for a toddler. I got so bored and desperate with my inferior introverted sensing (Si) function, required to gather and document the data, that I spent many hours asleep in the library. I could have asked Dr. Goldsmith for help, or maybe a mercy killing, but I was too proud to admit difficulty. I had arrived in grad school in a state of unconscious incompetence, to use Noel Burch’s term from his “Conscious Competence Ladder.” According to Burch’s analysis, an individual in training must progress from the stage of unconscious incompetence to a stage of conscious incompetence if he is to learn anything. Those who resist becoming consciously incompetent get stuck on the first rung of the ladder forever. My grueling Day-Two experience in Dr. Goldsmith’s class was his effort to move me out of my state of unconscious incompetence to a state of conscious incompetence—to show me the limits of my knowledge so that I could actually learn something. This movement is always a humbling experience, and those who do not endure it humbly are ripe for trickster reversals. The thesis research in the library was tedious and laborious, but working in my inferior function was nothing compared to what came next—being plunged into an unconscious place: my trickster function. Our unconscious functions are not just uncomfortable; they sometimes seem not even to exist—until they rear their ugly heads in a neurosis. Being plunged into our less conscious functions resembles that old joke about high school: long periods of excruciating boredom punctuated by brief moments of abject terror. When I had dragged myself through every available research source, there was nothing left to do but write. The trouble was, I was drowning in theories. I normally began a paper by organizing the ideas into neat categories, then arranging them into a logical sequence. But now, whenever I tried to organize the stack of note cards, I could not decide on a sequence. The whole thing seemed so circular that I couldn’t find the beginning. I would decide on a starting point and spend an entire day trying to organize the cards appropriately, promising to write the next day. I kept redefining the thesis statement, continually reconsidering it from different angles. Sequencing is the operational forte of introverted sensation, my baby function. If I had slept a lot in the library during the research phase, I was now nearly comatose. I couldn’t maintain the required concentration long enough to sit, let alone write. Each morning, I would see that my previous day’s decision was wrong, and I would reconsider the thesis statement again and re-organize the whole thing once more. The hypothesis was a moving target that I never hit. Jung would have noted that Goldsmith’s critique of my first oral report—my imprecise use of terms—pointed to inadequate introverted thinking (Ti). Introverted thinking is the function we use when constructing theories to make sense of something, and so it must be engaged in academic research, which aims to create new knowledge. As Beebe put it, the Ti function “reflect[s] on whether a particular construction … accord[s] with the conviction of inner truth” (2017, p. 31). Introverted thinking seeks ever greater precision in expressing that truth. According to Beebe’s eight-function/eight-archetype model, introverted thinking falls in the seventh position for my type, the trickster position. Introverted thinking is a judging function, but if undeveloped it may fail to reach a judgment and simply circle the drain. I did not know then that this is often how trickster Ti manifests: continually redefining, refining, and going in circles to the point of total confusion. I spent about six weeks stuck in this “paralysis by over-analysis.” I couldn’t move forward and I couldn’t go back. I was stuck in a trickster’s double bind. I was trying to write about judgment, but I was completely unable to muster a judgment. Eventually, I reached the point of being unable to face those note cards. I put them out of mind for a while. And that’s when disaster struck: I lost them. All 300 cards. My inner trickster had helpfully rescued me from the odious research cards by rendering me unconscious while it threw them away, thus ridding me of a loathsome task. I spent several days searching the campus for that gigantic stack of note cards, wrapped with elastic bands. I looked in all my usual haunts: classrooms, library carrels, favorite café tables. I even asked the campus janitors to look for them. The cards were gone. A thousand references, quotations, and page numbers had succumbed to the second law of thermodynamics. I went into shock. The shock was followed by humiliation. The loss was a painful confirmation of my inferiority in the realm of record keeping, memory, and all the other details for which introverted sensation is known. It seemed to corroborate my bottom-of-the-class status. I told no one about the event, not even my closest friends, but endured it silently and alone. I suspected that my psyche had played some kind of grotesque trick on me, the kind that Pantagruel and Gargantua are known for. I had morphed into the buffoons Rabelais satirized. I had become Sancho Panza and Don Quixote in one, the butt of all of Cervantes’ jokes. A huge lesson seemed to loom nearby, though I could not see what it was. My mind seemed to have disappeared along with my research. For a while, I thought I had no choice but to drop out of grad school. Finally, after days of depression, I understood that I had one other option, though not a pleasant one: I could try to re-write from memory everything that had been on those cards. This meant going back into my inferior Si again! Though memory would never be my strong suit, the previous six to eight weeks of doing nothing other than shuffle the cards like Sisyphus in Vegas had had some effect. And so, in a big hurry to get everything out while I could still recall it, I threw the words onto the page as fast as I could, writing in longhand on lined paper. I wrote like a fiend. Of course, there were no references, no sources, and no footnotes. I couldn’t bother with anything as trivial as accuracy at this juncture. I was in a race against the growing black hole of forgetfulness in my mind. I didn’t care if the logic was circular, I didn’t care whether I was writing from the beginning point or not, and I didn’t care that Goldsmith would assassinate every word. Terrified of stopping lest I forget it all, I simply regurgitated everything I could recall. When I drew a blank on a topic, I didn’t brake to look it up; my dominant extraverted intuition (Ne) just made something up. And this is when something peculiar began to happen: These space-fillers were often jokes, puns, or other odd tidbits that seemed to come straight out of my unconscious because they were so unlike me. Maybe my Ne dominant took me into my 8th or demonic function, extraverted sensation (Se); extraverted sensation can be a great joker and storyteller. My conscious mind told me this would not qualify as “academic discourse.” Academe requires gravitas, my inner critic argued. These jokes will get you thrown out of the department. “Good!” I snapped back at myself. “Let them throw me out! That would be an improvement of my life!” In retrospect, I see that the new Ne ideas and the crazy Se jokes that popped out played an important role in the process: They kept me from getting bored with the Ti writing style and falling asleep again. I even grew curious to see what would come out of my pen next. Beebe (1981) has compared possession by the trickster archetype to bipolar disorder (pp. 24-37), a comparison I can understand after my brief episode of dealing with the trickster. I had gone from depression to mania during my trickster crisis, albeit these were not clinical or pathological states. Nonetheless, I feel sympathy for those who suffer bipolar episodes. In my trickster episode, I began to sound logical, cohesive, and authoritative to myself. I was writing fluently in an academic-sounding mode that resembled introverted thinking (if you squinted your eyes), although the trickster energy around my seventh function made it feel like a huge fraud of pretend research. Still, I was in love with my flights of fantasy, and I cackled like a hyena at them. I didn’t realize it, but those jokes were signs of an emerging trickster. The trickster is a prankster who doesn’t take anything too seriously. Thus, in sabotaging me, my trickster severed the grip of my paralysis. It liberated me. It was still tricking me (with delusions of grandeur), but I was at least enjoying the trick. I was now conscious of being a trickster. Eventually, to my surprise, I had a complete first draft. All I needed were references—no big thing when you’re in the manic phase. I airily breezed back to the library, re-researched the whole thing, and tried to retrofit the data to what I had written—the opposite of standard research procedure. Of course, the data did not fit. Remarkably, this did not alarm me. It seems that once I had jettisoned perfectionism, I was completely unfazed by the grossest imperfections. I had reached a stage of acceptance of my incompetence. Moreover, I was curious to see what I would find, rummaging in the black hole of my mind. I did not realize it, but I was starting to access the data-collecting mode of my Si inferior in a constructive way. Introverted sensation verifies accuracy in a fact-checking way, and my Si function began to lure me toward accuracy. I enjoyed the library work this time through. Far from falling asleep, I couldn’t stop working. I was salivating to discover what the evidence actually showed, as opposed to what I had confabulated. I corrected the first draft to accommodate the evidence I uncovered, reversing some hypotheses and modifying others if the data so directed. More importantly, as I revised the thesis, I could easily engage introverted thinking (Ti)—defining, refining, and analyzing—without becoming paralyzed. Finally, at the end of the academic year, it was done—under the deadline. I delivered it to Goldsmith’s office at about 5:00 p.m. one afternoon. He raised an eyebrow and said without a smile that he would get back to me. It suddenly occurred to me that I had probably committed a huge faux pas in the academic process: After our first meeting, I had not spoken a word to my advisor. It had been a full year since we had met the first time. I believe now that his restraint and withholding of unsolicited advice allowed me the space to discover my own thought process and to develop my own voice. This is what introverted thinking needs in order to find expression. It operates independently of the collective voice that guides extraverted thinking. I went to bed that night with peace of mind. I expected that Goldsmith would hate my thesis and would nitpick every line, and that I would have to spend months revising. I didn’t care. I had passed out of the stage of Good Student that had been my chief persona for many years and was now willing to be Mediocre Student if that was my fate. This is what Goldsmith had been trying to teach us smart-alecks in the first place: You can’t learn if you don’t know how ignorant you are. Goldsmith surprised me by calling at 9:00 a.m. the next morning—only hours after I’d dropped off the manuscript. This could not be good. I steeled myself to hear Mr. Punctual tell me of some major flaw in the manuscript that had prevented him from even reading it. Maybe I had used the wrong format and would have to re-type all 200 pages. To my shock, he told me that he had stayed up all night reading my thesis, unable to put it down. I was stunned to hear him say that he had “laughed and laughed” all the way through: He loved the jokes! Who knew Goldsmith had a sense of humor? Then he said in his punctilious, Germanic, back-handed-compliment way, “Even zough you completed your thesis in order to leave viss a master’s, I must insist zat you stay for a PhD. Viss just some additional vork, you can turn zis into a doctoral thesis.” It’s lucky he could not see my face over the phone. The last thing I could stomach was more Cervantes and Rabelais. But, surprisingly, I did want to stay in the program and write a doctoral thesis, and I knew the topic I wanted to write about: Twelfth-century chivalric romance, the source of Don Quixote’s mania. (This would require me to learn some new languages, medieval ones, but nothing looks impossible once you give up your ideals of perfection.) Like the hidalgo, I was infected by romantic notions, but unlike Quixote, I had grown aware of the hidden satire within those naïve romances—and within my own life. In writing my master’s thesis about two master satirists, I had stumbled onto enantiodromia in both literature and life. Jung defines this term as follows: “In the philosophy of Heraclitus it [enantiodromia] is used to designate the play of opposites in the course of events—the view that everything that exists turns into its opposite” (1921/1971, ¶ 708). I had transformed from being a prolific writer able to write about anything whether I understood it or not to being a blocked writer unable to form a single sentence. My doctoral thesis was a quest to understand whatever it was in my psyche that had emptied my mind and disappeared my master’s thesis research. Beebe (2014) offered a succinct solution to the problem of enantiodromia: “By letting go of our expectations, we will find that some of our expectations will be met.” He was pointing out that the American addiction to mastery is a poison. We have to relinquish our determination to develop competence in all things in order to have satisfaction in anything. Perfection is static. It imprisons the psyche. Growth and progress are imperfect, so when we aim for perfection, as we always do, the psyche must sometimes trick us into relinquishing it in order to grow. By forcing me to confront my imperfection, my psyche led me along a circuitous route that involved completing two theses in order to get a PhD. Dr. Goldsmith became my friend and staunch supporter. He even gave me private tutoring in German and art history. I think of him now as I think of Jung: a demanding but caring guide, one who, like Jung, never presumed to tell someone what to do but merely pointed out inconsistencies with reality. It was no accident that I had chosen rhetoric as my first topic in his class, and no accident that he saw the appeal it held for me, the ability to persuade others through word-weapons—a classic example of unconscious trickster introverted thinking. His detachment and relentless truthfulness broke me of my addiction to that most primitive definition of rhetoric and my insatiable need for approval. Pleasing others had motivated me for so long that I had nothing to replace it when it was pulled away. Losing that as a motivation, I had to develop my own internal motivation. If no one was going to applaud, then who was I performing for and why? That was my real crisis. The thesis was only the form it took. Beebe (2009) said of Quixote and his companion Sancho Panza, “As their own haplessness dawns on them, they see the realistic limits of a life lived to perpetuate the myth” (p. 17). I had tried to perpetuate my own heroic myth of child prodigy. My pseudo-self had to die in order for a more whole, more mature self to evolve. This death helped me escape the box I had inhabited for so long. I had to give up trying to be who I thought I should be in order to become more of who I really was. To state this in the terminology of the eight-function model, I had to give up the simplicity of my eternal child function (tertiary extraverted thinking), and be mature enough to access the complexity of my trickster function (introverted thinking in the seventh position). Beebe made a radical proposal when he suggested that the trickster and not the senex is oppositional toward the eternal child, an idea he first explored in his 1981 essay on the trickster. His eight-function model’s tenet that the seventh trickster function shadows the third eternal child function implies that we must surrender the innocence of the child in order to access our trickster defenses. The eternal child archetype and the trickster archetype are connected by a quality of youthfulness, but while the former is innocent and pure, the latter’s duplicity means it cannot be pure. The trickster is the dark embodiment of the creativity of the eternal child, and to access that creativity requires surrendering the halo of the divine child with its infantile omnipotence. It is the eternal child’s omnipotence that blocks anima integration, for the anima function is the site of our inferiority complex. According to Beebe, we have to make the descent into the underbelly of the psyche and get our hands dirty with the trickster before we can integrate the anima/animus. My extraverted thinking eternal child likes to play with ideas generated by my dominant extraverted intuition, putting them into piles and moving them around like chess pieces. I had gotten stuck in that game board of my mind, eternally reorganizing the note cards. Surrendering the puella aeterna Te function to access my trickster Ti function meant relinquishing the perfection of the illusory world of play that the eternal child believes is hers by right. Accepting the trickster within means acknowledging our own tendency to be deceitful about our incapacity. The eternal child would rather withdraw from the field than admit imperfection, let alone deal with it. The trickster lives in the nether world of the borderlands where purity cannot exist. We need to find a way to give expression to both archetypes, and we all tend to prefer the eternal child and the function it carries, as Lenore Thomson’s (1998) work on the tertiary has shown. If we do not voluntarily acknowledge our trickster, it may force us to surrender control. Grappling with the trickster is painful but rewarding; it enables us to accept our anima/animus, the seat of our inferiority, and to be re-animated by it. The trickster destroys us to save us. --- References: Beebe. J. (1981). The trickster in art. San Francisco Jung Institute Library Journal, 2(2), 21-54. Beebe, J. (2004/2017). Understanding consciousness through the theory of psychological types. In Energies and patterns in psychological type: The reservoir of consciousness (pp. 19-50). London, UK: Routledge. (Reprinted from J. Cambray & L. Carter, Eds., Analytical psychology: Contemporary perspectives in Jungian analysis, 2004, pp. 83-115, Hove, UK: Brunner-Routledge). Beebe, J. (July 23, 2009). The memory of the Hero and the emergence of the post-Heroic attitude. Congress of the International Association for Analytical Psychology held in Barcelona, Spain, August 29-September 3, 2004, Barcelona. Reprinted on IAAP site, Spring, 78, Politics and the American Soul. Beebe, J. (August 7-8, 2014). Selected topics in psychological type [workshop]. Sponsored by Type Resources. Jung, C. G. (1921/1971). Psychological types (R. F. C. Hull, Trans.). In H. Read et al. (Series Eds.), The collected works of C.G. Jung (Vol. 6, pp. 330-407). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Retrieved from http://www.proquest.com Thomson, L. (1998). Personality type: An owner’s manual. Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications. Images: Adrian-Nilsson, G. (1929). Shadows, twilight. Retrieved from wikiart.org Bortnyik, S. (1921). The lamplighter. Retrieved from wikiart.org Hartley, M. (1939). Sustained comedy. Retrieved from wikiart.org Hokusai, K. (date unknown). Carp leaping up a cascade. Retrieved from wikiart.org Kandinsky, W. (1941). Untitled. Retrieved from wikiart.org Lewis, B. (date unknown). Trickster. Retrieved from commons.wikimedia.org Masson, A. (1942). The sand crab. Retrieved from wikiart.org Picasso, P. (1904). Woman with raven. Retrieved from wikiart.org The post Death by Thesis appeared first on Personality Type in Depth. RSS Feed - Link To Personality Type In Depth Article https://www.typologycentral.com/forums/showthread.php?t=95196&goto=newpost&utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

#Typology Videos and RSS Feeds

[regrettablewritings]

RAFAEL BARBA. Sorry I got carried away!

1. What does their bedroom look like?Fancy-ass Rafi is one classy mother-respecter, and this extends even to how his bedroom looks. It’s nothing expensive, but there’s a sleek mahogany dresser, probably a small chest for cufflinks, and a nice full-length mirror. For what few decorations he does allow on the walls, they’re likely small versions of posters of two or three Broadway shows he’s fond of, tastefully framed and arranged.Closet is filled with his immaculate suits and he has so many ties that he has them on a motorized tie rack.Bedframe is a simple yet nevertheless quaint matching mahogany with plush comforting and several decorative pillows. And bottom line, everything is so freaking organized and neatly folded. Even his college sweats. Even his socks.

5. Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)I think it’s safe enough to say that we can all agree that Rafael Barba is one clean and orderly man. The only time his desk ever gets considerably out of order is when he’s working on a particularly taxing case and case files and law books get stacked all over the place.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting timeRafael Barba is not really one to waste time. Hell, even breaks are something of an oddity for him. He’s no-nonsense and knows that there’s always something that must be done. If not, he’ll look for something that needs to be done until he’s assured that there’s nothing left. From this, we can tell that he simply. Doesn’t. Waste. Time.

10. Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?As neat and tidy as he is, it’s not from neurosis or anything. But I think it’s practically canon that Rafi has a caffeine addiction and will fight anyone who dares suggest he divorce himself from it.

12. Favorite book genre?Cliche as it sounds, I see Rafael enjoying the classics. Particularly political ones like Brave New World or even Animal Farm. However, he is especially fond of Slaughterhouse Five by Vonnegut to the point of referencing it and occasionally quoting it, only to be a bit sheepish or surprised when nobody else gets it. Poor nerd.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?Poor busy bee: Most of the buzzing going on in this man’s head as he falls asleep are the things he has to do the next day. If he’s on a particularly grueling case, however, we’re making the assumption that he’s even going to sleep at all instead of staying up raking over counterarguments and ways to get the upper hand.

22. Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?First, he would ask you why you gave him this stuff. Once you tell him to do something with it, he might sarcastically write down, “What is this for??” Or just give you his coffee and pastry order and slide you $10 and return back to work.

26. Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?Honestly, I can’t help but feel that if you were to ask him this in a personal setting, he might freeze up a bit. Because as orderly and hardworking as Rafael is, he honestly doesn’t know what he wants to do way ahead. He always just sort of focuses on this job. The idea of a family doesn’t seem right for him, but maybe it’s because of the crap Yelina put him through? Maybe it’s even because the horrors of his job has allowed him to realize just how much he wouldn’t want his children to be exposed to things he can’t definitely protect them from.The only thing he can decide on: Helping people.

29. Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?Rafael’s job is riddled with extrapersonal shit and his usual responses can range anywhere from, “This might as well happen (goddammit!)” to “Fffffffffffffffff–” In the example that his place is on fire, he’d try to be composed but he’s likely going to be cussing up a storm in both English and Spanish. The stress will hit him hard and it’s likely that he’ll really need to take some time off to compose himself and stay with his mother until then.

35. What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?As stated before, Rafael does not like the idea of wasting time. Therefore, he doesn’t see what he devotes his time to as a waste. On that note, he loves theater and catches a show whenever he can. He also likes trying out restaurants and eating the most interesting thing on the menu. Sometimes, he’ll even try making the simpler dishes at home (he’s a surprisingly skilled cook).

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?If I had been asked this before “Spellbound”, I would’ve assumed he didn’t believe all that much in the supernatural. After all, he seems like a many completely driven by logic. But post- “Spellbound”, it actually makes a bit of sense that he believes in some aspects of the paranormal. He was raised Catholic, after all. Ultimately, though, I think he tries to keep a cool head about it: There’s a lot that logic and science can explain, but some (a lot more) that logic and science can’t. Stick to what you can understand, and stay away from what you can’t comprehend. Bottom line: Rafael don’t mess with the occult and thinks anyone who does is crazy.

48. How do they express love?It depends on how long he’s known you and what sort of relationship you have. The main consistent thing is that he’ll assure that you’re taken care of: Make sure you’re eating well and not overwhelmed by anything. If it’s familial, he’s a lot more open with you. If it’s platonic, He tends to show more sarcastic affection that you’ll learn is actually very well-meaning over the years. After a certain point where he’s sure he can trust you, however, he’ll smile a lot more and be more open with you.Romantic expression is all this, but with more affection. He’d want to share a lot with you but won’t readily do so on the account of logic, and the fact that Yelina still messes him up to present-day. He may see you as a partner, but in the work sense, and you’re going to have to remind him a lot in the beginning of the relationship that you want to be his partner in life as well. It will fluster him to no end. He’s not big on PDA for the first few months, but if he feels he’s not expressing himself enough, will have flowers sent to your workplace in a gesture that he’s not embarrassed by caring for you.If you’re upset, you’d best believe that he’s in your corner ready to hoist you back up (in his own, awkward Barba way). He’s still going to use sarcastic quips that can be taken the wrong way, but if he upsets you then he’ll hold your hands and talk to you while maintaining eye contact and express his utmost remorse for hurting you in anyway. Also, once in the blue moon where he’s well-rested enough, he’ll cook for you.Once you’ve been together long enough, he’s not against holding hands while walking in the park on his off days and does so in quiet happiness.

#rafael barba headcanons #headcanon meme #regrettablewritings #long post #so many times I almost wrote him as Raul #rafael barba imagines #rafael barba imagine #svu imagines #svu imagine #law and order svu imagines #law and order svu headcanons #law and order svu imagine

[persephoneandpomegranates]

flashbacks and old posts

I’m consolidating blogs so here’s some fun posts from when i was a senior in high school / freshman in college.

Sunday, July 22nd, 2012

whenever i go to the library

i always find the most embarrassing books at the very beginning so then i have to walk around with them while i peruse the rest of the library.

so then i end up grabbing up bunch of random, potentially interesting books to use as an awkward shield so no one can see that i have a stack of comic books and paranormal research and whatnot.

but then i have to check them out. even though we have self-serve, which i always choose, the librarian is always sitting right there just watching so no one tries anything sinister like stealing library books. and at some point i run out of normal books to check out and then i’m just like. … oh yeah tarot cards? i forgot i grabbed that book. that’s for my… dog… because he can read and he’s really into learning about new… nevermind.

#awkward , #library, #tarot cards, #embarrassing books

Monday, July 30th, 2013

procrastination is an onion

i like to create multi-layered procrastination.

instead of just putting off my summer homework or my online byu classes by watching tv, i like to create mind numbing projects like organizing my gruesome music or kindle collections, or cleaning my room.

but then i don’t want to do those either.

so then i realize that it’s almost august and camp nanowrimo is nearly upon me.

well, i can’t possibly organize my kindle and music collection with less than 48 hours to figure out plot, characters, and most importantly, how about genre.

but then.

it’s really hard to just do that.

so i have to get some creative inspiration, right?

so that’s how i ended up on neopets.

i swear, they used to have the most amazing writing boards and guilds. but now things just trudge along on the boards because there are less users. and i am all about the speed and instant gratification because hey, facebook.

but because the boards are so slow i find myself trying to feed my neopets in the meantime.

and then i’m like, oh i never got the pack rat avatar! i better start finding a bunch of useless items to put in my safety deposit box…

and now i have to work my way all the back down to my summer homework and byu classes by completing everything else first. because my neurosis says so.

my procrastination is an onion.

so many layers and it makes me cry.

#onion  #procrastination  #neopets  #nanowrimo  #camp nanowrimo #layered procrastination  #somebody end this miserable cycle please

Tuesday, December 18th, 2012

captain college

this one time, a girl desperately wanted to go to college.

but then she realized that she would have to do college applications and also ask for letters of recommendation.

that’s a lot of work.

so instead she watched tv and lol’d at the internet.

and spent like half an hour wikipedia captain planet because when i ws younger i thought it was freaking bad ass and captain planet was hot. or something.

the power of heart!

but seriously, can i put this on my application? heh.

#college apps  #applications  #college admissions  #captain planet

Thursday, January 24th, 2013

i am not even a good artist.

cute guy was like oh can i borrow your notes?

so i went to get my notes only to find them covered in doodles.

and not cool ones.

doodles of danny phantom.

…in a slightly suggestive v-neck.

well fuck me it can’t get any worse.

so i go to give the folder to said guy.

and i drop the folder.

papers. everywhere.

i am so slick. and by slick, i mean extremely socially inept.

my only hope is that my doodles are so terrible, that he can’t even tell what i drew.

but somehow, the fact that i also wrote DANNY PHANTOM next to the picture, does not make me feel optimistic.

#danny phantom  #bad doodles  #aww jeez  #socially awkward  #awkward #i like tags almost as much as i liek turtles.

Sunday, September 15th, 2013

Jesus, Marie

My life is a bunch of rocks.

No but really, I’m freaking out. I’m going to college in like three fucking days and its going to be my last day at this amazing parrot sanctuary I volunteer at tomorrow. All I want to do is sit in a corner and play with those fucking parrots and probably get bit at because I am not the best parrot handler but I’m  learning. Beyond the point.

I just feel so unready. All my friends are out there doing that college thing already or they’re like me and have a few days left but they are so ready. They want to meet new people and go to parties and join clubs and hangout with their new roommates. They want to get out and live life like a college student.

And I just don’t.

I just can’t picture it. Me doing laundry, making my own food, sharing a communal bathroom. I can see myself doing all these things, but it’s like watching a movie montage. It’s not actually me.

I don’t know if I can do this.  But dammit I’m not giving up. A teacher told my senior class to look around our classroom and know that while we were all going  to college, at least one person would drop out before they graduated. It wasn’t harsh, it was just a fact. The point was that it’s not for everyone and sometimes people learn that too late.

I’m just terrified that person is me.

But you know what? I love school. I love learning. I love procrastinating by organizing all my notes and color coding them when I could actually be studying which would be a lot more useful. I love commiserating with my friends during all nighters or even just glancing at my Facebook and see that twenty other people in that class are on Facebook at that ungodly hour, doing the exact same thing I’m doing- which is regretting that they put off a giant project or a huge midterm.

I am so excited that I’m going to get  to grow up and prove to my parents they did a good job raising me, despite my flaws: my laziness, my morning crankiness, the fact that I worry about everything.

I think that’s the problem, that last part. I always worry. My worrying has one level: defcon five. I think about how the supervolcano in Yellowstone could erupt at any moment and kill a gazillion people and also me. A heavy fear that wraps around me and my shaking hands inevitably weaves its way through thoughts like my immeninent demise. But it’s also what I do when I think about the scores on my latest math test might be. There’s no panic gradient with me. Just on or off. And it’s rarely off.

But you know what else I’ve learned about my worrying? Even when it is absolutely warranted, like when I get  that math score back-and yep I saw that coming- I hardly flinch.  I mean, “Ouch, I am not so good at this calculus thing” goes through  my mind, but I accept it and move on ridiculously fast, considering how much worry I put into it.

So that’s what I’m doing now. Taking everything and turning into the apocalypse.

College isn’t going to be what movie montage me expected. It’s going to be me figuring out how to talk to my roommate and still sucking at talking to boys and probably using too much laundry detergent and most definitely awkwardly trying to feed myself at 3am because I’m suddenly starving.

It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be different  than anything I’ve ever done before.

But that’s okay. Because I can’t just spend my life sitting in my room wishing  I was 16 again and my biggest defcon five worry was never getting my license and ending up like my aunt who’s trapped walking and riding a bike or bus everywhere.

I can’t just stay where I am right now forever. That wouldn’t be living; it would just be existing.

What I’m saying is dammit. My life isn’t just going to be a bunch of boring rocks. It’s going  to be a fucking kaleidoscope of experiences.

I’m going to go to a college rager, even though I won’t  drink more than two sips of lightweight beer, just because if I don’t go, I’ll always wished I had. And you know what? Maybe I will get drunk and seriously regret it in the morning but at least  then I’ll know it’s not for me, rather than just being too afraid  to find out.

I’m going to join the pre veterinarian club even though I’ve heard it’s cutthroat and that scares me, I have every right to be there. And I’m definitely joining some nerdy fan clubs. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play D&D.

Who’s going to stop me? Myself?

Not a chance.

#jumbled mess  #college  #fuck yeah  #worries  #i can do this #even if i need to take a few xanax  #i got this

Sunday, September 15th, 2013

Whew

I feel a lot better now. Like I’m fucking capable of being alive or something.

#post rant #much better

Wednesday, September 25th, 2013

First Week of College

Great first week at UW.

So my life is pretty cool and all my worries about college have been unfounded. That being said, I did shrink some of my cotton shirts in the dryer doing laundry for the first time. Also, the lotion I brought for my legs is something I’m definitely allergic too. Oops. I have two little hives on my legs and both my shins are super itchy. Guess who is buying new lotion tomorrow?

I did almost kill myself in the shower today, though. I went to shave my legs for the first time, but because the shower is just a tiny little rectangle, I had to get creative with my acrobatics. Because I went to a yoga class today, I felt like maybe I could put my leg up on the wall and do a modified wall sit type of thing. So I did that and it seemed like a pretty good idea except for the fact my leg was a little lower than I meant it to be. No problem, I can just hitch my leg up a little higher and then we’re in business.

That’s where my shower took a turn for the worst.

As I was lurching my leg up, I lost a bit of my balance and my back slid down a little. Now I’m stuck. Well, shit.

So I struggle a little more and realize there’s no way I’m getting out of this gracefully. But I can hope, so I decide to slide slowly down the wall of the shower until I reach a point where I can adjust myself and stand up.

Of course, showers are fucking slippery when wet.

For a brief moment, I thought I was going to die.

Whooosh. Clunk. Fuck.

So now I’m sitting on the floor of a nasty ass public shower, butt naked of course and feeling sad about myself because that kind of hurt. I missed my head and whatnot so luckily none of my roommates found me bleeding and unconscious and also naked in the shower an hour later, but still. My dignity is bruised.

Anywho, since I’m already sitting on the floor of the gross shower and the five second rule has gone and past, I just decided to wallow in my self pity and shave my legs on the floor.

It actually worked out quite nicely except for the fact I probably have butt herpes now.

#how i almost died in the shower  #slippery bathroom  #college life #don’t shave your legs like i did #also you can’t get herpes like that but you probably can get something else horrible #can you get herpes in your butt

#newphonewhodis #memoir

[stars-and-silver-linings]

The Human Eyes and Nocturnal Animal Eyes, Daydreaming, and Stardust: A Stellar Explanation

Raizza T. Dauz Article 7, August 7, 2017.                                                       A Space Odyssey

First, let us all look at the picture below where the part of the human eyes and nocturnal animal eyes are shown.

The human eye is an organ which reacts to light and pressure. As a sense organ, the mammalian eye allows vision. Human eyes help provide a three dimensional, moving image, normally coloured in daylight. Rod and cone cells in the retina allow conscious light perception and vision including color differentiation and the perception of depth. The human eye can differentiate between about 10 million colors and is possibly capable of detecting a single photon.

Similar to the eyes of other mammals, the human eye’s non-image-forming photosensitive ganglion cells in the retina receive light signals which affect adjustment of the size of the pupil, regulation and suppression of the hormone melatonin and entrainment of the body clock.

The Connection to the Stars in the Night Sky:

1. The human eye, specifically the pupils, dilate or expand in response to mere thoughts of light or dark. Most people don’t spend much time pondering the diameter of their pupils. The fact is that we don’t have much control over our pupils, the openings in the center of the irises that allow light into the eyes. Short of chemical interventions—such as the eyedrops ophthalmologists use to widen their patients’ pupils for eye exams—the only way to dilate or shrink the pupils is by changing the amount of available light. Switch off the lamp, and your pupils will widen to take in more light. Step out into the sun, and your pupils will narrow.

Mechanical though they may be, the workings of pupils are allowing researchers to explore the parallels between imagination and perception. In a recent series of experiments, University of Oslo cognitive neuroscientists Bruno Laeng and Unni Sulutvedt began by displaying triangles of varying brightness on a computer screen while monitoring the pupils of the study volunteers. The subjects’ pupils widened for dark shapes and narrowed for bright ones, as expected. Next, participants were instructed to simply imagine the same triangles. Remarkably, their pupils constricted or dilated as if they had been staring at the actual shapes. Laeng and Sulutvedt saw the same pattern when they asked subjects to imagine more complex scenes, such as a sunny sky or a dark room.

However, this is not related to why you see stars in your vision. That’s another explanation. There are two main causes of seeing stars in your vision. One is the result of a blow to your head. This type of injury can scatter nerve signals in your brain and affect your vision temporarily.The other cause is a problem with your retina. If that’s the reason, it can be triggered by something other than an injury.

2. There are animals—nocturnal animals that relies on the stars in the night sky. To cite an example, Dung Beetle is one of them. The Dung Beetle uses the milky way galaxy for navigation at night.The beetle uses the polarized light from the sun for navigation, but what did they do at night? They thought it could be the moon, but what about moonless nights? It turned out that they were using the milky way, which was confirmed by taking them to a planetarium. The scientists found out that the beetles used the visual cues of the milky way instead of something like the magnetic field. And it is because of their eyes.

Night Vision (On human eyes)

Night vision is the ability to see in low light conditions. Whether by biological or technological means, night vision is made possible by a combination of two approaches: sufficient spectral range, and sufficient intensity range. Humans have poor night vision compared to many animals, in part because the human eye lacks a tapetum lucidum.

Since stars typically emit light with shorter wavelengths, the light from stars will be in the blue-green color spectrum. Therefore, using red light to navigate would not desensitize the receptors used to detect star light. Using red light for night vision is less effective for people with red–green color blindness, due to their insensitivity to red light.

Night Vision (On animal eyes)

Nocturnal mammals have rods with unique properties that make enhanced night vision possible. The nuclear pattern of their rods changes shortly after birth to become inverted. In contrast to conventional rods, inverted rods have heterochromatin in the center of their nuclei and euchromatin and other transcription factors along the border. In addition, the outer layer of cells in the retina (the outer nuclear layer) in nocturnal mammals is thick due to the millions of rods present to process the lower light intensities. The anatomy of this layer in nocturnal mammals is such that the rod nuclei, from individual cells, are physically stacked such that light will pass through eight to ten nuclei before reaching the photoreceptor portion of the cells. Rather than being scattered, the light is passed to each nucleus individually, by a strong lensing effect due to the nuclear inversion, passing out of the stack of nuclei, and into the stack of ten photorecepting outer segments. The net effect of this anatomical change is to multiply the light sensitivity of the retina by a factor of eight to ten with no loss of focus.

Second, let us talk about how daydreaming is related to stars.

Daydreaming is a short-term detachment from one’s immediate surroundings, during which a person’s contact with reality is blurred and partially substituted by a visionary fantasy, especially one of happy, pleasant thoughts, hopes or ambitions, imagined as coming to pass, and experienced while awake.

There are many types of daydreams, and there is no consistent definition among psychologists, however the characteristic that is common to all forms of daydreaming meets the criteria for mild dissociation. Negative aspects of daydreaming were stressed after human work became dictated by the motion of the tool. As craft production was largely replaced by assembly line that did not allow for any creativity, no place was left for positive aspects of daydreaming. It not only became associated with laziness, but also with danger. For example, in the late 19th century, Toni Nelson argued that some daydreams with grandiose fantasies are self-gratifying attempts at “wish fulfillment”. Still in the 1950s, some educational psychologists warned parents not to let their children daydream, for fear that the children may be sucked into “neurosis and even psychosis”.

Freudian psychology interpreted daydreaming as expression of the repressed instincts similarly to those revealing themselves in nighttime dreams. Like nighttime dreams, daydreams, also, are an example of wish-fulfillment (based on infantile experiences), and are allowed to surface because of relaxed censorship. He pointed out that, in contrast to nighttime dreams, which are often confusing and incoherent, there seems to be a process of “secondary revision” in fantasies that makes them more lucid, like daydreaming. The state of daydreaming is a kind of liminal state between waking (with the ability to think rationally and logically) and sleeping. They stand in much the same relation to the childhood memories from which they are derived as do some of the Baroque palaces of Rome to the ancient ruins whose pavements and columns have provided the material for the more recent structures.

Imagination is usually thought of as “a private and subjective experience, which is not accompanied by strongly felt or visible physiological changes,” Laeng says. But the new findings, published in Psychological Science, challenge that idea. The study suggests that imagination and perception may rely on a similar set of neural processes: when you picture a dimly lit restaurant, your brain and body respond, at least to some degree, as if you were in that restaurant.

The new experiments complement popular methods for studying consciousness by providing visual stimulation to participants without their awareness. Joel Pearson, a cognitive neuroscientist at the University of New South Wales in Australia, explains that mental imagery research takes the opposite approach, allowing subjects conscious awareness of a mental image without the accompanying stimulation. Perhaps by combining the two approaches, scientists can better understand how consciousness works.

Third, how are we connected to stardust?

Did you ever wonder where you came from? That is the stuff that’s inside your body like your bones, organs, muscles…etc.  All of these things are made of various molecules and atoms. But where did these little ingredients come from? And how were they made? The answer to these questions will take us back to a time long ago when the universe was much different than it is now. However, the physics was the same.

“We are a way for the universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return. And we can, because the cosmos is also within us. We’re made of star stuff,” Sagan famously stated in one episode.

His statement sums up the fact that the carbon, nitrogen and oxygen atoms in our bodies, as well as atoms of all other heavy elements, were created in previous generations of stars over 4.5 billion years ago. Because humans and every other animal as well as most of the matter on Earth contain these elements, we are literally made of star stuff, said Chris Impey, professor of astronomy at the University of Arizona.

“All organic matter containing carbon was produced originally in stars,” Impey told Life’s Little Mysteries. “The universe was originally hydrogen and helium, the carbon was made subsequently, over billions of years.”

How star stuff got to Earth

When it has exhausted its supply of hydrogen, it can die in a violent explosion, called a nova. The explosion of a massive star, called a supernova, can be billions of times as bright as the Sun , according to “Supernova,” (World Book, Inc., 2005). Such a stellar explosion throws a large cloud of dust and gas into space, with the amount and composition of the material expelled varying depending on the type of supernova.

A supernova reaches its peak brightness a few days after it first occurred, during which time it may outshine an entire galaxy of stars. The dead star then continues to shine intensely for several weeks before gradually fading from view, according to “Supernova.”

The material from a supernova eventually disperses throughout interstellar space. The oldest stars almost exclusively consisted of hydrogen and helium, with oxygen and the rest of the heavy elements in the universe later coming from supernova explosions, according to “Cosmic Collisions: The Hubble Atlas of Merging Galaxies,” (Springer, 2009).

“It’s a well-tested theory,” Impey said. “We know that stars make heavy elements, and late in their lives, they eject gas into the medium between stars so it can be part of subsequent stars and planets (and people).”

Since stardust atoms are the heavier elements, the percentage of star mass in our body is much more impressive. Most of the hydrogen in our body floats around in the form of water. The human body is about 60% water and hydrogen only accounts for 11% of that water mass. Even though water consists of two hydrogen atoms for every oxygen, hydrogen has much less mass. We can conclude that 93% of the mass in our body is stardust. Just think, long ago someone may have wished upon a star that you are made of.