Mar. 21st, 2017


Of course, as the child of Heroes of the Rebellion himself, little Poe Dameron grew up with the litany of the names of the Great Heroes, and their lives, spread out like glory-studded hagiographies, holoposters on the wall, paragraphs in written accounts, slow-motion pans and swelling music in documentaries.

On festival days there were sometimes solemn recitations of the names of the dead, different according to different customs.

He himself was always called upon in school for these sorts of things, because of his Direct (hereditary) Connection to The Heroes. His father came in sometimes and spoke to the classes, always with a deep and oddly remote solemnity that gave Poe some idea of how other people saw the man he thought of as Papa.

There were recitations of the deeds of the living, as well, and Kes always seemed weirdly unwilling to sit still for those. That, Poe thought, he could understand; he hated the weird reflected attention, himself, and could see how his father was unwilling to bear the brunt of its direct force.

When he was much older he understood that it was painful on quite another level entirely to be the only one still alive to receive that kind of attention.

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boogiewoogiebuglegal reblogged your photoset and added:

Ser is used when the condition is permanent, estar is when the condition is likely to change.

Oh, I know. I just can’t keep them straight. What if I might lose weight, does that mean soy sobrepeso or estoy sobrepeso? What if I’m a chronically sad human, soy triste or do you still say estoy triste? What if my pencil-sharpener is permanently, fundamentally broken? El sacapuntas es descompuesto, or would I still say el sacapuntas esta descompuesto? and, lazily, I’m leaving off all the accent marks, so… 

I mean. I should really just get duolingo or something and brush up, but that involves like, getting my shit together. My mother’s a Spanish teacher, and it’s not that there’d be no utility for it in my life, I’m just super lazy.

My favourite example is that you say ‘estoy casada’ - like, I’m married, FOR NOW, but who knows how long it’ll last? But then ‘es mi marido’ - as in, he’s my husband, and even if I divorce him and run away to join the circus, I will forever carry with me 17 years of picking his damn socks up of the floor.

And in this, Spanish neatly illustrates a fundamental but often unspoken truth about long term relationships.

Well in the first case one would usually say “tengo sobrepeso”, because overweight in Spanish is a noun and not an adjective.
The second one would depend on whether you were to describe your situation at a given time (even if it never changes), you’d say “estoy triste”. While if you were, lets say, engaging on a self-depreciating monologue, you’d use “soy triste”.
And in the last case the right thing is “está descompuesto” because broken is seen as a slightly less permanent adjective than things such as colors.


oh like, tengo miedo. Fuck, you know, I should just get onto duolingo or something, my twenty-years-ago knowledge of Spanish from high school is clearly not cutting it in the real actual world of Internet conversations about the foibles of language. 

So– but like, “estoy triste” would be mood, even if it’s a long-standing and frequent mood. “soy triste” would be like, a state of being. I’m a pathetic creature, more or less. 

And even an irreparably broken object would estar descompuesto, because it wasn’t conceived and created as a broken thing, it became a broken thing. 

And in your tags– sure, Romance languages are hard, but it’s all nothing to English, I am grateful pretty much all the time that I did much of the bulk of learning this insane garbage fire of a language before I was old enough to recognize how stupid it is, because it was damned convenient. I just wish I wasn’t so monolingual. My dream as a kid was to be a translator, but not like, one language– no, I wanted to know every language. But the American schooling system doesn’t leave any room for language instruction until you’re 13, so, I never got all that far. I have a great accent, I’m told, in any language I try to pick up, but I have such poor vocabulary retention that I’m like a parrot. I can say some really great stuff but I’m mostly just doing it for crackers, I don’t know what it really means.

The other great thing about being monolingual English-speaking is when you travel, and these people in far-off lands where you’ve come all this way and are trying to brokenly ask where the bathroom is, they all pat your hand and say, in quite passable English, oh dear you’re so sweet to try it, my english is terrible but I’ll help you anyway, aren’t you a dear, and their English is like, perfectly serviceable, and you feel about three inches tall. I just called myself a bookshelf because I’m hopelessly lost in this phrasebook but most of my countrymen are such assholes that this was notably sweet behavior. holy shit this bar is so low.
via replied to your post “I’m so tired, for no good reason. I need to go grocery shopping and…”

I hate it when good people do not have good options. You deserve better than to divide yourself between your dude and the half of your life that makes you happier. And I wish I could just, I dunno, be your admin assistant and organize appointments and shit for you, because organizing shit is my jam and even though I dislike cold-calling people it’s totally within my ability. <hugs>

<hugs you back>

I tried to get my dude to relocate, back when that was easy, but now his remote-work company is setting up here, and I just– I don’t really want to leave here either, but. Oh well. 

That’s the nature of physical existence, I think. At least my exile is shortish-distance; a 5-hour drive is doable twice a month if I must. 

You’re very sweet and it’s bitter to me that these things are So Difficult for me to do for myself. How hard is it really to make a dang phone call?? I don’t know but every time I do it I dread it, and I do it and it’s terrible, and I replay it for literally years afterwards so I can cringe on repeat about how Terrible it was, so, clearly, it’s a Thing, and I’m done letting people tell me it’s not a Thing. It’s a Thing! Listen friends if you could just Denial your way out of Things i would have done it by now, it would have worked by now, believe me I would have made it work, I am a person capable of many things. If the power of Denial were real I would probably be able to fly.

Another thing that gives me trouble is that my dude claims to be perfectly neurotypical except for being bad at remembering things, but he can’t make a phone call either, can’t put objects away or find them if they’ve been put away, can’t set a grocery-shopping routine or whatever either, can’t make his own appointments, etcetera– and like, okay, I’m doing all this work and figuring out I have some kind of condition, and he’s just– he’s just bad at things and it’s both not his fault and not something he needs to compensate for or work on, or– and it’s just. Sigh. I mean, is it that he’s a dude and thus unaccustomed to doing his own logistics and emotional labor? or? I don’t know?

(Fortunately I can make a phone call for him, it turns out, so I can use that to end-run some of my own issues, but it doesn’t help that he then uses that to doubt whether I really truly have problems with phone calls, if I can make them on other people’s accounts but not my own. Alas, the end-run doesn’t work for him, he can’t make my phone calls. His phone anxiety stems from an apparent different source than mine, or isn’t alleviated by protectiveness of others the way mine seems to be.)

And it’s kind of– it’s not worse, exactly, I can’t find it in myself to regret any of this, but it’s compounded by the fact that we’ve been together so long. I moved in with him when he was 22 and owned no furniture and had just gotten his driver’s license. It was his first apartment on his own. I’d lived on my own-ish for a while because I’d moved off-campus in undergrad, and had shared a house with other students and no adults. But I’ve literally never lived alone in my life, not even for a week. And I think I’d fare awfully at it– but I’d also have only my own shit to worry about, for once, you know?

(I don’t count the yurt as “my own place”, because it’s literally just a bedroom. There’s an outhouse near it, and a bed in it, and that’s it, I just sleep there. I don’t eat there, I don’t live there, I just sleep there. People are like “wow tiny house living!” and I’m like no, tiny outdoor bedroom. I shower indoors. I have a barn full of chest freezers and a house with an enormous kitchen and a big TV. I just sleep here. Me and the wolf spiders. And the fox or chupacabras or whatever the fuck that thing was. Fuck, I should get a game camera this year, find out what all the beasties are that go bump (or growl, or crash, or bark) in the night.)


Executive dysfunction is basically going “Okay one two three go. And now. Aaaaaaannnnnnnd we’re goinnnnng now.” for like three hours before the thing happens

Three hours, three weeks… you know, whatever.

ha I still have a little mental corner reserved for a to-do list of things I told myself to take care of after a particular event. That particular event was in 2007.
Idk if these are jewelers loupes or what but they’re fly, I’m gonna sell em on Etsy.
Dude decided to decorate the huge wall at his new office with a portrait I painted of my couch in college. It’s a long story, but me giving that couch to him to furnish his first apartment is part of our origin story.
I forgot we still had that hideous painting.
Looking at it, I actually kind of like it. I’m pretending that his bringing it in to display it is supportive as opposed to sarcastic.

Orders? When you know they’re wrong? You might as well be a Stormtrooper.



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