2017-09-20 11:12 pm
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Making potpourri with last year’s dried flowers,

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Making potpourri with last year’s dried flowers, dried herbs, and some essential oils. Statice, larkspur, gomphrena, lavender, even some celosia and probably some odds and ends I don’t remember now, and topped off with some of last year’s hydrangeas, which have now leached to a beautiful creamy golden color. (at Laughing Earth)
2017-09-20 08:52 pm

I had saved this photo, which my mother texted to me from France...

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I had saved this photo, which my mother texted to me from France the day before yesterday or so, because I wanted to post an illustration of how goddamn adorable my parents are, but @dolly-bassett just posted about visiting this site and I suppose it does warrant a much more serious caption.

Adorable little old folks aside, this is a very somber site. It’s the Carriére Wellington, which is a museum related to WWI: in the chalk soil, since medieval times there had been tunnels dug to quarry the chalk, and during the War, British sappers connected the tunnels to blow up a huge mine during the Battle of Arras in 1917.

My parents are currently overseas on a long-anticipated once-in-a-lifetime trip to visit WWI battle sites– they’re focusing on sites relevant to American units, as my mother is finishing a book documenting the experiences, insofar as she can verify them, of every man from our local town who served. They’ve participated in a number of wreath-laying ceremonies. Dad has his own investment in it; he served for many years in the 42nd Infantry Division [National Guard], which was formed in order to fight in WWI. (My sister, meanwhile, served for a long time in the 3rd Infantry Division [regular Army], and at the gate of any base they staffed, their standard greeting was “Rock of the Marne,” which was the Division’s catchphrase– they were first blooded there, at the 2nd Battle of the Marne, in 1918, and awarded the nickname for their refusal to retreat.)

(Maybe the US should have stayed out of it, and maybe WWII would have been averted. You could argue that either way, but you can’t deny that, clearly, a lot of our modern military and status as a world superpower kind of grew out of that intervention. Maybe we should have intervened earlier. Nobody ever writes that AU, they’re too busy saving the Confederacy or letting the Nazis win. Has anyone written an AU where the Americans stayed isolationist? Hook me up.)

Today my parents took a side trip to Verdun, which, no, was not a site American units notably participated in, but is important to see. About a million people died there, about a hundred years ago. Humbling to consider. 
2017-09-20 08:02 pm

glittersword: thatonepinkdress900: thefistoinitiative: charlie brooker literally said in the...

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charlie brooker literally said in the post-emmys interview that he initially tried to write san junipero about a heterosexual couple and it kinda sucked and he switched them to a same-sex couple and it immediately became much better and also easier to write and he finished it with ‘so that’s my writing tip’… the only true ally

ah yes, because everything gay is automatically better. //s

it sure is bitch!

I went to reblog this because I love the sentiment that everything gay is automatically better as a true thing, but I do find this sort of thing is often true about writing and stories in general. Oftentimes writers will unwittingly take shortcuts and rely on formulas without realizing it, and if you actually turn and address your assumptions head-on instead of handwaving a Default Everything, your story will be much richer. 

By “default assumptions” I mean all the boring formulaic shit that everyone assumes in stories, and it’s lazy. Like, the boy gets the girl, that’s a formula; the boy’s story is centered, that’s a formula; everyone important is white, that’s a default Hollywood assumption; everyone important is straight, ditto; a whole list of tropes and assumptions and formulas and frameworks that the part of the story you’re interested in hangs on without you noticing.

The more you pay attention to those, and come up with real genuine thought-out ideas instead of relying on frameworks, the richer your story is, the more worldbuilding you’ve done in those little ways– like, is a character disabled in some way, or from a marginalized identity, or from a different background, and can you give even your background characters some real consideration as humans, all of that weaves in and makes the story, the “hook”, the plot thing that made you want to tell the story, have much more resonance. 

Even things like, you’re a middle-class person who grew up with financial security but not a ton of extra money, and you’re writing a story where a bit of the plot framework hangs on some event relating to money, giving your protagonist a background of either extreme wealth or extreme poverty, and then really considering how that would have formed her character up to this point, will give her a lot of resonance with readers in how she reacts to this central plot point. She’ll react differently as a person than you, the author, would in this situation, and that will ripple outward and change all kinds of unexpected things about the story, and that will give you so many things to work back into your story, enriching it the whole way. Similarly, even not plot-significant traits that you don’t have but that many humans on this earth do, will pay dividends in giving your character a whole set of characteristics that make them see the world in a distinct way. (Like, your character is an amputee, or something– it doesn’t have to matter in any way to the plot, but if you write the whole story with that characteristic in the background, it just enriches the character. It doesn’t have to be a story about How Janey Got A New Foot; she can have one she likes just fine, and it doesn’t affect the plot, but it’s going to affect tiny details of a lot of her scenes, and that’s cool. As a side bonus, if you do your research really well, someone who has a prosthetic foot and has never read a novel with a protagonist who had that trait too will find this story to be the Most True Thing Ever and will maybe write you to tell you so, and it will make you cry Good Tears.)

Of course every time you write a character whose background– race, disability, economic class, sexual identity– is different from yours, you have to research, and be prepared to get something wrong and have to research more how to fix it– but that’s all such a good way to immerse yourself deeper in a story, and get a much clearer headspace for the story. And anytime you upend your assumptions and see what weird shit is living under a particular rock, you’ve expanded your world an awful lot.

This is a long-winded way to point out that I tend to write diverse stories not because It’s The Right Thing To Do And Representation Matters– although that certainly doesn’t hurt, I do think of that sometimes, and sometimes notes from readers who saw themselves and were kind enough to tell me so make me cry a lot of the Good Tears and it’s great– but because the stories are just so much better, the more of the Real World Outside Your Own Personal Experiences that you try to draw upon to create your fictional world. This applies across genres, of course. 

Anytime you’ve got unexamined tropes and Central Casting Characters you’ve mostly just changed the hair and outfit of, you’ve got a weaker story. Even if you do decide to go with tropes and Central Casting, if you’ve at least considered why, your story will be better.

Also, yes, everything gay is automatically better, that’s just the truth and I don’t make the rules.
2017-09-20 12:01 pm

lynati: taraljc: orangeschmorange: Something I did not...

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Something I did not know…

wait, so the clowns are Insane Clown Posse fans? I just assumed they were random clowns.

2017-09-20 05:45 am

The sister whose apartment I appropriated for Found Cat has decided to motivate herself to clean her

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The sister whose apartment I appropriated for Found Cat has decided to motivate herself to clean her by now very cluttered apartment by throwing one of those Tupperware-style parties on Saturday. It’s for luggage or something, I don’t know. Anyway. 

The apartment’s a disaster; when she moved in, she filled the large closet in the entryway with huge rubbermaid bins full of shit she hasn’t looked at in the four years since (and, I might mention, shit she’s hauled from Cortland to Buffalo to Denver to Troy to across-Troy). And then she had bad depression, and then she went through grad school, and then she had roof leaks that meant she had to pile everything she owned into different rooms in the rather small sort of railroad-style apartment (buildings in old Troy are like fifteen feet wide for real), and it happened like three times that the lighting fixture in her bedroom crashed down amid filthy water all over her bed at three in the morning, but the landlord (a good dude don’t get me wrong the building’s from 1831 and shit happens) finally fixed it, and then she came home once and her living room was full of water on a sunny day and it turned out someone’s garden hose next door had burst and sprayed straight in her window for hours, warping her floor and damaging a lot of her belongings (the mortified neighbor paid, but, the damage was impressive). 

Anyway. This place is to put it mildly a disaster area. I’ve hauled furniture out, in the last couple of months I’ve spent several days here mostly cleaning out bags full of old mail and shit she threw in there to hide it when someone came over and she was “tidying”– but today I promised her several hours, and showed up with a half-assembled quiche Farmsister had prepared for the occasion, and threw it in the oven and we started to clear out the Dreaded Closet.

She insisted, see, that if we just got the shit out of the closet, the stuff she cares about can go in there, and then she’ll go through those boxes and throw away most of what’s in them.

But like. The closet was stuffed full. The rest of the apartment is also stuffed full. So we pulled out a filing cabinet yesterday, and put it into my car, and Farmsister now has a second filing cabinet for her office, which doesn’t fit but that’s her problem, not Middle-Little’s and thankfully, not mine. 

And it’s going to take weeks to go through the contents of these boxes. We moved the remaining filing cabinet into the closet, but that now means we can’t put even a single one of these totes or boxes back in– and some of them might be things she wanted to keep after all, so… 

We hit on a daring plan. Earlier, Farmsister had expressed to me that she worries about Middle-Little, and thinks she should probably make a standing dinner date with her once a week going forward, it’d be good to see her and make sure she’s eating properly and also, Farmbaby loves her and listens to her and wants to see her all the time. 

So I said, we take all the boxes over to the farm, and then you have a deal: Once a week, you come to dinner, and the first thing you do on arrival is take a box. That box comes back to your apartment. You know you have now one (1) week to get through that box. And Farmsister isn’t going to let you not take a box next week. You’ve got to get this one put away and sorted out and gone, in your apartment that is already cleaned and organized with your current belongings. You start from a baseline of your currently-used belongings are present and accounted for. And then you go through your old shit and either make it fit, or throw it out. Instead of binging, it’s regularly-scheduled.

This, unlike many plans– which Middle-Little excels at making and literally never sticks to– will work, because Farmsister is really good at sticking to a fucking plan, ok, and she’ll do it, and she doesn’t understand Middle-Little’s total lack of executive function but she does love her and want to help, and this way she won’t be too mean, but she also won’t let her slide. 

So we called Farmsister and she agreed to this. It’s probably five carloads of stuff, which will fill about half of one of the empty grain bins up in the granary. 

This all is very good, because our poor mother has awful PTSD, of sorts, about cluttered apartments in Troy– when her brother, her only brother, her baby brother, died very suddenly a couple of years back, he left her a three-story townhouse in Troy absolutely stuffed fucking full of cats, their vomit and shit, tuna cans, old clothes, books and books and books, garbage, and priceless antiques, and she and Dad had to clean it out alone. Well, they had the help of the homeless man who was living in the garbage-filled basement apartment. I’m not kidding, there really was a homeless dude in there. My uncle knew he was there and had decided he was cool with it. The dude was… not really… okay, but Mom and Dad gave him actual money to keep the house from burning down while they were cleaning it out, and they all parted friends, sort of, in the end. Which is better than you’d expect a story like that to go. 

Anyway. Mom cries sometimes because she’s worried about Middle-Little’s apartment. It’s good she hasn’t seen my house in six or seven years. Though, she wants to visit. Yikes.

Hey, I got like six huge totes full of fabric and old drapes out of my basement to make yurt quilts so that’s a start. 

And if I can save Middle-Little’s apartment– she’s lived here exactly four years as of last week, by the way. Yiiiiikes. 

I took a break and let Middle-Little have some time to herself to go through her shit, and instead deep-cleaned her bathroom, which was cathartic as fuck and rewarding. It’s a lovely little tile joint and I Magic Erasered the fuck out of it and it’s literally never been that clean, so I feel really good.

The other thing I did today was clean out half the granary’s second floor, and inventory all the Christmas ribbon, and go through the dried flowers from last year and cut down all of the statice and sort it by color. Then I spent the afternoon entertaining Farmbaby, whose cooperation was easily bought by the promise of a single candy bar. She’s wonderfully bribeable and it’s great. 
2017-09-20 03:46 am
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Spectator, Remi the cat watches as, in the process of helping...

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Spectator, Remi the cat watches as, in the process of helping Middle-Little sister clean her apartment, I accidentally shotgun a beer. No, don’t ask me how, it’s best left up to the imagination. (at Troy, New York)
2017-09-19 08:06 pm
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Reblog if you genuinely support asexuals

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It terrifies me that there’s so much raging passion in the lgbt+ community that insist on marginalizing asexuals and implying that asexuals don’t deserve to have safe spaces. There’s still so much acephobia so I just wanna know which blogs are genuinely supportive and a safe space for asexuals
2017-09-19 12:01 pm
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ileliberte:Tiny (tinier?) Poe with mom, pilot Shara Bey (from...

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Tiny (tinier?) Poe with mom, pilot Shara Bey (from Shattered Empire), for inyron’s art prompt for little Poe and playtime with his mother (with bonus Leia doll) :)
2017-09-18 08:00 pm
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Fabric magery

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So I’ve been geeking over not only the embroidery from @deadcatwithaflamethrower‘s Nizar and @jabberwockypie’s enthusiasm for making real life versions of costume renderings, but also the magic involved in producing the fabric, and how to sew protective spells, and I am headcanoning medieval magic fabric production methods like mad.
So, one of my oldest fabric geekery areas is medieval natural dyeing in both western Europe and Japan? And if anyone tries to tell me plant-based non-synthetic dye methods are not both potions and magic I will bust out chapter and verse on how the Heian Japanese used to dye silk with cloves for the scent in addition to the color, and used to drape silks over heated frames and play scent-guessing games to see who could identify what went into them, and how the Nara dyers in 900 produced thousand-year-colorfast reds with combinations of akane reds and tea ash mordants that preservationists who came along in the 1500s couldn’t even begin to replicate, and dyers with fermentation-based indigo vats they’ve kept running for 30+ years by tending the vats as though they’re just as alive as people - feeding them, watering them, sheltering them from heat or humidity, removing the living “mother” with care and replacing the same decades-old mother along with more nutrients…
tl;dr Indigo vats are totally potions magic, and indigo was usually a significant component in medieval blacks because the tannin-and-oak-gall combo for ink did terrible things to wool and logwood wasn’t available until trade with the New World happened. And then when you add ACTUAL magic in…
Mother of indigo is such a deep blue-violet-black with green-and-purple raven-wing shimmers that it’s gorgeous by itself, but in the real world you can’t actually capture that in fabric; it’ll flake off. So let’s say that’s one of the colors an enterprising potion-witch DID manage to capture, adding some raven feathers to the mix for transferrence and symbolism of cleverness and flight.
And then there’s the additions to the vat that keep it healthy over the long term, and having to know what it needs to keep the subsurface indigo in deoxygenated states before they had titration kits and pH testing. Madder was added to indigo vats for the fermentation-related enzymes and the like, but also brought red dye components to deepen the color. Bran was also part of the fermentation system but didn’t bring any color at all.
When you cross-pollinate that with non-pigmented but magically symbolic potions ingredients, and then cross-pollinate that with silks “dyed” for scent rather than color… yeah. All kinds of symbolism in the waiting there, along with time of year and phase of moon and harvesting of the ingredients and how to adjust the pH with vinegars crafted from symbolic plants and ashes from others….
And then there’s the spinning. Hand spinning every thread, and what the spinner’s hands and the wood of the spindle (which is very like a magic wand) bring to the fabric. And then there’s the weaving, and the loom choice, and the patterning.
And then there’s the embroidery. With knotwork as the design base there’s three layers of spellwork to stitch in – spell-words in a hidden underlayer with any color of dye that would be magically appropriate, covered by the couched-down silver overlay, and then with a technically-visible but practically-unseeable set of additional spell-words stitched over the top of the couching, and you need to work each ribbon of the knot in the correct order because some pieces overlay - that would be a huge part of making that fabric unreproducible without taking out every stitch one at a time, and that’s before getting into the non-visible parts of spellcasting. :)
Plus it’s entirely possible that the actual species of sheep required for making the wool is no longer available? They had very different sheep breeds in the mundane middle ages; magical sheep breeds must have been even smaller population bases to start with, and there may have been magical non-sheep creatures that provided fiber for the spinning too… imagining angora bunnies the size of alpacas here…
(happy fabric geek.) :D 

2017-09-18 06:55 pm

archifist reblogged your photo and added:turns out, you are a terrible hunter and Whiskey will...

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archifist reblogged your photo and added:

turns out, you are a terrible hunter and Whiskey will prevent you from dying THIS TIME but really you should learn to do better.

Last year she left stuff a couple of times, and I never ate it, and told her to eat it, and finally she started eating it herself. This year though, I just don’t want to step over a dead… vole? is that a vole? short tail… so i threw it out into the fresh-plowed field when no one was looking. So she’s gonna think I ate it.

I think she’s actually paying me protection so I’ll keep Beans, who bullies her, from coming around. Beans loves the yurt but only remembers about it when she follows Whiskey out there to beat her up. So I hissed at Beans last time and backed Whiskey up while she drove her off (she’s much smaller and less tough than Beans is), and I think Whiskey’s bringing me protection mousies so I’ll keep it up. Her brother Reno chased her into the yurt last week too, and I hissed at him and actually smacked him with a towel so he’d leave her alone. (Also it was four in the morning so he was not on my good side.)

Poor tinycat Whiskey just needs a safe space. I’d rather she bribe me than pee on my bed, which is what she did to the vegetable manager when Beans was harassing her in his apartment… 
2017-09-18 06:20 pm
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The granary, next to the house, is a 2-storey structure of...

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The granary, next to the house, is a 2-storey structure of similar age to the house (1820s). The second storey is basically wholly unchanged from its original settup, and the intact slate roof means the floor is basically flawless. Dad fixed the windows this spring. It’s currently serving as a living room for the apprentices on oe side, and sewing machines and dried flower paradise on the other. So the photos are of the sewing machines (both mine, a 40s singer knockoff I’m using to quilt yurt insulation, and a brand-new Brother embroidery machine I’m using to make patches), the loft door, and some of the drying flowers. (at Laughing Earth)
2017-09-18 01:30 pm

Whiskey, you don’t have to pay rent. Really.

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Whiskey, you don’t have to pay rent. Really. #yurtlife #catsofinstagram #deadrodent
2017-09-18 12:01 pm
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newboy-bigworld: destinyrush: Yes! Let them

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Yes! Let them know ✊🏾

2017-09-17 11:46 pm

Whiskey cat has rediscovered the yurt and is now making air...

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Whiskey cat has rediscovered the yurt and is now making air biscuits. #yurtlife #catsofinstagram #perpetualkitten #farmcat (at Brunswick, New York)
2017-09-17 11:00 pm

unicornduke replied to your post “ok I bought

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yay fancy chickens! I hope you post lots of pictures when you get them

thesacredreznor replied to your post “ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and…”

omg i’m so excited for you!

I’m excited for me too!!

The only downside is that they’re arriving the week of Oct 2nd… which is a week I’m not here. I won’t be back until… oh, the following week, that’s not too bad.

It does throw a wrench in my plan to hand-tame them, since they have to be handled EVERY DAY, but I’ll be back in time to take some cute pictures of them still as babies.

They’re arriving the same time, just about, as 350 red hens, though, so it’ll be hard to keep track of them I think. 
2017-09-17 10:50 pm

The Farm Family is trying to play Bananagrams (which is like Scrabble without a board, as far as I..

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The Farm Family is trying to play Bananagrams (which is like Scrabble without a board, as far as I can tell), but Farmbaby is having predictable trouble with participating, despite a lot of help. 

FB: When I was little, I couldn’t read, so I was bad at Bananagrams.
Her mom: Um… can you read now?
FB: *sings the alphabet*

(No, she can’t read. She can recognize a lot of letters. You have to modify Bananagrams a lot if one of your players can’t really read…)
2017-09-17 09:15 pm

ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and Barred Rocks, 10 each, and then.

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ok I bought fancy chickens. Females of Silver-Spangled Homburgs and Barred Rocks, 10 each, and then a straight run of Silver-Laced Wyandottes. And orders come with one Free Rare Chick, so we’ll see what I wind up with.

We don’t need roosters, but I saw a lady yesterday walking downtown in steampunk attire (there was an event or something), and she had this hat adorned with beautiful blue-black rooster tail feathers, and I want some of those, badly. And hens don’t grow them, and the roosters of the other two breeds do. Actually none of the three *really* do, but the wyandottes are closest to what I want.
2017-09-17 08:05 pm
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lj-writes: Does anyone else get a lot of feels about Cassian as a child throwing rocks and bottles..

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In our world children have been shot for throwing rocks at occupying forces. Did Cassian watch kids, kids he knew from his neighborhood being killed? Did he run away and hide, too scared to even cry, still clutching his rock and wishing it were a blaster, or a bomb?

By the time he was seven the Clone Wars ended and the Republic was replaced by the Empire. His enmity simply transferred to the Empire, a logical if extreme continuation of what the Republic had become.

Yet even in the Rebellion it was the Senators who called the shots, the Senators who told him to get blood on his hands, grinding him down to be harder and sharper until he hardly felt like a person. Even the name was cruel; the Allience to Restore the Republic. To restore what? Repression and destruction, children dying in the streets? The Senators promised things would be different this time, but that’s what they promised the first time around.

Did he think about taking up arms against the Republic, too, giving them more than rocks and bottles if the Alliance won and the demands of the downtrodden were not met? Did he think to live that long?

Perhaps his victory lay in this small, hard fact: The Senators might have had his life, but his death was his own. It wasn’t some Senator or General who told him to go to Scarif, he went against direct orders for the conscience he found still beating in him, for the wisp of a hope that he could protect other children from the fires of annihilation.

So Cassian Jeron Andor went to Scarif a free man, though freedom demanded an unfairly high price. He had known that already, though, from the moment his father’s lifeless body came home. Freedom was a mean, demanding bitch and he reached out and grasped her with both hands. He died in that embrace; it was all the choice he had in a broken universe.
2017-09-17 01:07 pm

Well. Busy Saturday. Mostly personal rambling, because I have a terrible memory and otherwise...

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Well. Busy Saturday. Mostly personal rambling, because I have a terrible memory and otherwise sometimes don’t know where my whole life goes. Discussion of guns, potpourri, and babysitting.

 Made potpourri the other night, which went to the market yesterday and sold about $30 worth, which pays for the ingredients, hurrah. Shopped at the farmer’s market, cleaned Middle-Little’s kitchen sink and counter, laid out the Master Plan for how she’s rearranging her furniture, planned future sessions of cleaning because she’s hosting a party next weekend, and then us two middle sisters went up to our absent, vacationing parents’ house to feed their cat and practice shooting the hunting rifle I intend to use for deer season. Then we cut and made about 15 grapevine wreaths to make into Halloween and generic-autumnal decor to sell at the farmer’s market. And then we drove out to a gun shop and bought ammunition to replace the hunting rifle’s ammo that we’d been practicing with. We also stopped by a craft store to get inspiration for this autumnal decor we’re making to sell. 

Gun stores are weird, man. I was going to buy a rifle cleaning kit, since I know Dad has like a million but I don’t think there’s one at the farm– but the most basic ones were like, $30, for like, a couple of rags and a ramrod and a bottle of gun oil, and that’s dumb. I’ll research and pick up the components myself, and in the meantime, Middle Little has a cleaning kit I can borrow to clean the Winchester 94 that we were using. [That gun, by the way. I figured it was nice, and old, and such, but there was one in the gun store, used, same vintage, about the same model, and they wanted $700 for it, so holy shit.]

Also, a single box of Remington Winchester 32-30 hunting ammo is $40, so, like, god damn, I’m glad I decided to only shoot a couple of practice rounds.

(That’s from both of us. The low ones are when I started to get tired and decided I was done.) (If the deer is 50 feet away I’m all set. If it’s farther, well. I’m going to have to set up a longer range and practice, but I’m also thinking, well, I’m just not going to take any really long shots; I’m here for nuisance deer, and if they’re keeping their distance respectfully, I’m not so worried. Also 32-30 just isn’t that powerful a caliber for hunting, so I’m better off not trying to make a kill with a near-spent bullet. And given the kick on a 32, I don’t think I’m eager to use the 45-70 instead; Dad has a couple of those kicking around and I’m not super into it. My dirty secret is that I’m not really super into guns, I just think they’re kind of a rural life skill one needs.)

Then we made it back to the farm in time to take over care of Farmbaby so that Farmsister and her husband could get dressed up and go out to dinner, since they missed celebrating their anniversary about a month ago. Middle-Little and I cooked dinner and collaboratively looked after Farmbaby. She had spontaneously requested this, that her parents could leave for a night so she’d get to be babysat by both aunts, because this is something she enjoys. She was quite well-behaved for us, insofar as she’s capable– we did a lot of bargaining with her to get her to do anything, but she did all the things we wanted her to, with a minimum of fuss and no tantrums at all, so that was good.

(Yesterday morning as her mother and I were trying to leave for the farmer’s market and my meetup with Middle-Little, Farmbaby pitched a shrieking fit that involved hitting and pinching her mother and screaming about how she was a bad mother, because– here’s the thing– she was wearing shoes on her hands and wanted to go the market like that, and her mother said, well, you do what you want, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. “YOU NEVER LET ME DO WHAT I WANT,” Farmbaby shrieked upon hearing this, which was– it would have been funny if it weren’t so goddamn annoying. Like, kid, she didn’t say no. She just pointed out that you were likely to regret doing this. Ay yi yi. THREENAGERS.)

So anyway. She didn’t do that shit for us, which was great. Her parents came home so early, though– they hadn’t bothered trying to go see a movie, so they got home after their 5:30 dinner reservation and it was only 7:45 and the kid was still in the bathtub. So they snuck into the house, and went and hid in the living room. 

Farmbaby finished her bath, and wrapped herself in her towel and set off to walk upstairs. This route goes past the living room. The door was shut, but the light shows in a crack underneath. I was some distance behind her, not really expecting her to react, but she saw the light, and said, “No, we can’t leave the light on in rooms we’re not in!” and flung open the living room door. I didn’t know what to do, so I just braced myself. 

She went in, turned out the lights, and came back out. “Grandpa hates it when we leave the lights on,” she told me, and continued up the stairs after shutting the living room door behind herself. 

(It turns out her mother had heard her coming and ducked down below the couch back, so she didn’t see her. I was about to find out where her father was.) 

We processed up the stairs, just as the bathroom door opened and her father came out. “Oh,” she said, spotting her father. “Hi, Daddy!”

“Did you sneak back into the house,” I said, not really knowing what to say.

“Yeah,” her father said, looking like a deer in headlights. “I just kind of snuck in. I’m gonna go again now, though. Go to bed, kid. Goodnight, I’ll see you later!”

“Okay,” said Farmbaby, and incredibly enough, continued down the hall and put herself into her pajamas, and at no point asked where her parents were. I read her far too much book, and she bargained and bargained for one more book, one more, so I read one more. And then she got out of bed. “I need a bedtime snack!” 

Kiddo, you already brushed your teeth, you had a huge dinner, you had dessert and then like half a head of broccoli right before bath, you are not hungry. She started running around the upstairs shrieking and giggling, clearly intending to Be Bad, grabbing toys and throwing them and so on.

“Well,” I said. “I was going to sing you a song, but if you’re not going to go to bed, then I won’t.” 

She instantly ran and climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. So I sang her two songs.

She fell asleep and I left, rather smug. 

Today I need to measure the broken zipper on the case for the Winchester and order a replacement. I think I’m just going to replace the case, though– it would be probably easier to just make a whole new case, which I could do out of the material I have with me (which I brought to make yurt quilts but there is definitely extra), and anyway whose father wouldn’t want a handmade quilted scrap denim gun case lined with old draperies to replace the cracked plastic-leather one from the 60s with the busted zipper that it’s currently in? New nylon gun cases at the store are $45 and I can beat that. I might also practice my embroidery-machine quilting on it…

I also have to hang up those grapevine wreaths so they can dry. Some of them were pretty green in places. 

This coming week I need to tidy the yurt and its surroundings, since my bestie is coming to camp out with her kids and I’ll need to clear out an area for tents. I can probably just mow the whole area, or use a weed whacker. I forgot my metal firebowl but I bet I can nab some rocks to make a firepit. 

And I have to spend at least one evening at Middle-Little’s tidying, so I can come back with Farmsister and the pickup and get a filing cabinet and two coffee tables out of the apartment, which will let her rearrange furniture so her cocktail party will have adequate places to sit. (Bonus, then I’ll have a coffee table for the yurt.)
2017-09-17 12:02 pm
Entry tags:

"[nita] munus-ra munus nita-ra ku-ku-dè

via http://ift.tt/2xcTMVl:
“[nita] munus-ra munus nita-ra ku-ku-dè ᵈinanna za-kam”

trans. “to transform men into women and women to men is yours, inanna.” from in-nin ša-gur-ra. enheduanna, ca. 2250 BCE (via patrexes)

ok, so I was gonna infodump in the tags, but I think this is important enough to talk about on the post itself.

Inanna was the supreme Goddess of ancient Sumer, a region of what is now known as the middle east. She was a queen who ventured into the underworld to save her husband, and came back alive. (Her story is one of the many pre-Christian stories of death and rebirth/resurrection.) She was heavily revered, more so than any male god at the time (even though she did have a male consort, as mentioned before).

Enheduanna was a priestess to Inanna. Not only was she one of the first (if not the first) priests or priestesses whose names are still known today, but she was actually one of the first authors to still have her name still preserved. Pretty much all the writing we have that was from before her time was written by anonymous scribes or chisel-workers; her writing is the oldest (or one of the oldest) with a name attached to the writer.

It’s already known that many ancient and Indigenous societies accepted trans people, but…seeing writing that’s pretty clearly supposed to be about trans people, written by the oldest, most ancient priestess we know of, which says that trans people are under the *direct* care and domain of the most important goddess in the society of that priestess…sure is something.

(via earthmoonlotus)

thanks for adding some context! here’s actually some more, because i’m real fucking weak for inanna. 

trans people played a major part as priestesses and other staff in her cult (it’s even been argued that trans people were the only people who served as her cultic staff, though that’s generally received with some discontent). transness was considered inexplicably tied to the goddess and imparted by her in some respect, as we see from erra IV, “lú kur-ĝar-ra lú issini ša ana šuplu niše ištar zikarussunu uteru ana sinnišuti”, trans. “the kurĝarru and assinu, the people beneath ištar/inanna whom she has transformed from virile men into women”. 

now, note, all of the english translations of erra IV i’ve come across (i’m mostly affording my own translations here, because people use slurs a lot when they translate sumero-akkadian and i ain’t about that life) add something like “in order to strike fear into the people” when quoting that transliteration, but a) there’s nothing in that passage i can figure to get that meaning and b) that description is inconsistent with other descriptions of the kurĝarru and assinu (who are also called, variably, gala, pilipili, sag-ur-sag, kalu, kulu’u, and ur-sal). in “the descent of inanna to the underworld”, we see the creation of the first of these by enki for the indisposed inanna: as you noted, inanna does indeed survive the trip, and it is solely because of her explicitly transgender priestesses. 

[the gala-tur and kur-ĝar-ra] flitted through the door [to the underworld] like flies. they slipped through the door pivots like phantoms. […]

[ereš-ki-gal-la] asked: “who are you? i tell you from my heart to your heart, from my body to your body – if you are gods, i will talk with you; if you are mortals, may a destiny be decreed for you.” they made her swear this by heaven and earth.

they were offered a river with its water – they did not accept it. they were offered a field with its grain – they did not accept it. they said to her: “give us the corpse hanging on the hook.”

shining ereš-ki-gal-la answered the gala-tur and kur-ĝar-ra: “the corpse is that of your queen.”

they said to her: “whether it is that of our king, or whether it is that of our queen, give it to us.”

they were given the corpse hanging on a hook. [the kur-ĝar-ra] sprinkled on it the life-giving plant, and the other the life-giving water. and thus, inanna rose.

when the fuck have your faves ever, am i right? 

and, hell, inanna herself in a šir-namšub (”incantation hymn”; a hymn or poem written in voice, for the sake of performance) says this: “e kaš-a-ka tuš -a-[ĝu-ne] / nu-nus-ĝen šul giri-zal-la me-e-ĝen-[na]”, trans. “to sit in the tavern, i go as a woman [or] i go as a joyful young man”.

(via patrexes)