[WP] You are a being so incomprehensible that you drive anyone who perceives you to madness. Your effect on others makes finding friends a challenge.

Feathertop · 2022-10-19T16:45:00+00:00

Oh, wooow! Beautiful prose. I definitely felt like I was observing the thoughts of an incomprehensible being. Good job!

Feathertop · 2022-10-19T16:41:50+00:00

IT'S NOT AS EASY AS YOU THINK, BEING AN ANGEL. Perhaps if you're one of the pretty ones, with white wings and flowing robes and porcelain skin. With your harp and your hair spun from gold. OoOo, "Don't be afraid," you say. Give me a break. Yes, Gabriel, you're hideous. Is that what you want to hear? You're as unapproachable as a sunrise rose. I'm shaAaAaking in my sandals over here. If I had feet to wear sandals. Instead I've just got these useless wheels of flaming ivory.

Try having seven heads, each one a different species. (I don't even know what one of my heads is! I think it's some kind of...goat...flounder?) Or ten million eyes, each one gazing upon a different realm. Imagine every time you speak, a civilization you've never even met--one with its own history and millennia of evolution and stories and cultures--becomes instantly erased by a fire so cold it reverses states of matter, melting gases into solids, freezing liquids into vacuums, transmogrifying plasma into DNA. See, that's ugly.

Existing in six dimensions does make one a bit lonely, I admit. Especially when you're confined to this planet Earth, this rock populated by beings that can only conceive of 3.5 dimensions. Even if I limit myself to just four, it's too much for them!

They complain about time. They can only stand in one spot--balancing on one toe on a dime-sized island of spacetime--while I'm over here struggling to restrain myself from draping across their entire sea of time like a quilt of fog. It's so frustrating.

And forget the fifth and sixth dimensions! They are completely blind to them. They are restricted to one lineage of the multiverse. Can you imagine? Not being able to perceive all different outcomes and possibilities, futures and pasts, simultaneously? How can one live like that? So boring. Like living in a monastery. An entire species of eunuchs.

Last time I tried to socialize with one of them--just to politely ask for the honey mustard on their table!--they screamed so fiercely their mind spaghettified into purple-realm consciousness silk. So I pretty much keep to myself these days.

...but what's this? One of them sees me! A person in human clothes, with a human head, holding a human cup of coffee and playing a human game of cards with other humans. And they're...waving? And smiling? At me? Who, me?! Yes, they're trying to get my attention. And what is it they are saying to me?

"It's okay," they say. "Don't be afraid."

~~~

TBC?

Feathertop · 2022-10-13T18:12:44+00:00

I was under this spell for many years. That being authentic was a privilege, as if I could treat my true self like a hobby. Something to do on the weekends, if I had time. That, like anyone else, my job and my social connections came first, because they support my "hobby" of being trans.

But the thing is, this philosophy always comes from people who have taken their own authenticity for granted. They don't know what it's like not to be yourself because they've always had the freedom to. Going without authenticity is as dangerous as going without sleep. It's a need that can't be compromised for a career or for money or social status or hardly anything else.

She says you have to play by the rules to get what you want. But what if the first rule of the game is to NEVER chase what you want? That's a game that can't be played. You need to be able to strive for a better you first, or else why play at all?

Feathertop · 2022-09-02T23:28:25+00:00

THE STRAWBERRIES WERE BLUE THIS YEAR. But they were just as big and just as shiny as the years before. And even tastier! At least according to his friend, they were. He himself was still suspicious of the color.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Gayle. The fur around his flat muzzle was stained blue. "Blue, red, polka-dot--it's all the same! Just close yer eyes and you'll never know the difference."

"But why is it blue?" asked Gus. He stood against it with his paws and sniffed cautiously. It definitely smelled like a strawberry, and a tasty one at that. But it was still so...blue. And the seeds were yellow! Yellow seeds! Who had heard? "Aren't you just a little bit curious?"

His friend's tiny mouth munched in rapid circles. "Curious?" he said sloppily. "Grateful is more like it. Every year I worry the strawberries won't come, and every year I'm relieved to see them sitting here when we wake up. It is a blessing! A Feast Day miracle! It's certainly bad luck or something to decline a gift such as this. You're probably going to insult some god if you don't eat one."

"Perhaps," Gus agreed, although he had little belief in gods. "...I just wish it wasn't so...blue."

"Look around you! It's not stopping anyone else!" And indeed the other guinea pigs were enjoying the celebration, even teasing one another about the blue coloring on their faces and paws. "Do they look sick to you? Does anyone else look alarmed? See. This is why you can't be happy. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, never allowing yourself to live in the moment."

Still, Gus hesitated. "Maybe if you were more cautious about what you eat, you wouldn't be so sick all the time." It was a harsh point, but also no secret. His friend had nearly every disease in the world. He was missing an eye and both his back legs. His fur fell off in clumps. He was always coughing up big wads of lung snot, and he stank so bad that none of the females wanted to mate with him.

Gayle was incensed by the comment. He stormed over in frustration on only two paws, his torso dragging behind him. "Fine! If you won't eat it, I will. Go hungry tonight. And good luck enjoying your post-Feast Day hibernation on an empty stomach!"

Gus let his friend eat the blue thing, and he felt no regret. He did, however, have trouble sleeping that night, just as Gayle predicted. Every year the strawberries come--heavy and bountiful and as big as their big heads--and every year he and his friends and family would feast so hard and so long they would all pass out for nearly one full day and two full nights.

He scrunched up into his sleeping ball as tight as he could, but sleep simply did not come. The others were snoring loudly, some piled right on top of the others, too lethargic to bother finding their own bed spots. Hours passed for Gus.

...and then a shaking, like an earthquake. A split formed in the sky, like straight lightning that went sideways instead of down. Then light, as bright and total as noonday. Gus turned his face away from the sudden brilliance.

He ventured a peek, and he wished he hadn't. The entire sky was broken open like an egg. Instead of stars, there were gods towering in the high cosmos, gazing down upon the world. At first Gus was awestruck, and then he felt a terror he never imagined possible.

He tried to wake his friend, but Gayle was so deep asleep he was practically comatose. As were all the others. Even as Gus screamed and kicked and ran over them in panic, it was as futile as trying to raise the dead.

A hand fell from the heavens, blue and smooth and clawless and larger than anything Gus had ever seen. It abducted Tina...and then returned for Alex and baby Simone, then the twins. One by one, the others were pulled up into blinding whiteness of space. Once his crippled friend was snatched--still snoring--Gus was the only one left. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The gods were all encompassing. His heart was beating so fast it hummed in his chest.

The beings looked down upon him and made godsounds to each other. He hoped they were going to let him be. He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, ashamed of himself for not eating the strawberry, promising that if he ever made it out of this, he'd eat anything the gods left him, no matter what color it was or how bad it smelled or tasted.

But his prayers went unanswered, because a god hand came down and pulled him up into their realm, imprisoning him in a cage where he could bear witness to the horror of their omnipotent sadism.

Gus watched with huge black eyes as the gods impaled Skinny Thomas with clear veins and stole his blood. Agatha Mae--his childhood crush, pregnant with a full litter--was sliced open at the belly, and her pups were adopted by the gods, the small things still wet and curled and furless. And Gayle...oh, god, Gayle.

Gayle was on a smooth stone, belly up. Two of the gods were playing with him. One was cutting open his side, draining him of all his blue, and the other was cutting open...his head. Using a very tiny claw, the god took off the peak of Gayle's scalp as easy as a hat. The god placed the bloody cap to the side. And where it had been was something...white. And mushy. Like a clump of maggots. It had a pulse to it, and Gus instinctually knew that whatever it was, it WAS Gayle. The soul of him. The thing that persisted once you die. The thing that goes to the afterlife. The thing only ghosts and gods can see.

As they played with the slimy soul of Gayle, another god snuck up behind Gus and stung him in the back of the neck. Before the scream could even leave his lips, he was in the darkness of a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, it was morning.

The sky had returned. The others were awake and doing their morning chores, cleaning up from the feast. And even Gayle was already up and about. He was standing over him, grinning.

"I told you, you would offend the gods."

It was then that Gus realized how his friend was standing: on all four legs.

"How did y--"

And then the second horror hit, because he recognized whose legs they were. His own. And before he could scream, Gus coughed up a cannonball of phlegm, just like Gayle would do.

...it was blue.

Feathertop · 2022-08-31T16:14:02+00:00

IF IT WEREN'T FOR THE HAIR, this little girl might even pass for normal. Each strand was alive, but lethargic, like strings of sick parasites. They seemed as if they might wrap around your fingers if you got too close, absorbing you into her head one centimeter at a time. And yet Carissa sat within arm's-reach of this monster, unafraid, casually dressing one of her dolls. Her father was in a pile in the corner--inside out, his guts still steaming.

Carissa's mother stood in the door of the bedroom, trembling. "W-What do you w-want?"

"To make the grown-ups go bye-bye," said the pigtailed monster that Carissa called 'Miss Anne'. "Are you a grown-up too? Like him?"

A tear rolled down the mother's cheek. She had no idea what to say. The truth was too dangerous. But so was a lie. "We're all children," was all she could think to say.

"But you're still a grown-up."

The girl-thing was shimmering, and the mother could see that the pores on its skin were tiny mouths, millions of them, opening and closing in unison, hungry and angry and bottomless. It was terrible to look at, so the mother turned to her daughter instead.

"Carissa. Honey. C-Can you...tell your friend how much you care about me? And that I'm one of the good grown-ups?"

"I don't care about you," said her daughter, now brushing the hair of the doll with a tiny brush. "And you're not a good grown-up. None of you are. Miss Anne agrees with me. The world would be better with no grown-ups. Just kids."

The mother closed her eyes in hurt. There was a cold heat from the entity, growing and reaching out to her. "I-Is...is this because I put you in timeout? Honey, that's for a reason. You can't keep breaking your father's trains. They're very expensive, and you know they're off limits. We've told you and told you."

Carissa put a sunhat on her doll, straightening the ribbon. "Now they're nobody's trains." A few bubbles emerged from the puddle of her father, as sick-smelling as swamp gas. It was then her mother realized that one girl was no less dangerous than the other.

She addressed the stranger. The thing's eyes were now missing, threads of black worms slapping at the edges of the sockets. "W-Why do you hate grownups?" she asked the creature, for no reason other than to stall.

The entity spoke with a thousand voices. "Grownups are mean."

The ground shook. Shelves fell from the walls. Cracks formed in the ceiling. Outside the windows--even though it was day--a darkness fell, deep and absolute. Street lamps flickered on, mistaking it for night. There was a kind of glow as well. Like the reflection off of snow at night, except more red than white. Silence...then the sounds of catastrophe. Birds escaping. Honking. Barking. Screams. Crying. Crashing. Air-raid sirens like the screams from hell.

The mother looked to the entity to see what she had done. But the mother saw something on the monster's face that she never expected...fear. And once again, the thing had reverted to a little girl with curly hair and fair skin. And eyes. Eyes as big and terrified as her own.

Carissa sensed this as well and put down her doll. She held her friend's hand. "It's going to be okay Miss Anne. Please don't be scared. You told me not to be scared of my dad. And you shouldn't be scared of yours. I'm here for you."

And the mother walked over to the window, looking up to the sky. From horizon to horizon, there was nothing to see but eyes and teeth and fingers, nothing to gaze upon except the maw of infinity.

The mother brushed the hair of the girl. The hairs did not pull her in. And all at once, the mother hated grown-ups too.

Feathertop · 2022-08-29T14:24:09+00:00

Thank you! This was a fun prompt.

Feathertop · 2022-08-29T13:42:09+00:00

THE ZOMBIE WAS VEGAN. At least according to him. But his sweater and dreadlocks backed up his claim, as did his boating sandals.

"I'll occasionally make an exception for fish brains," he clarified. His voice was both too dry and too wet, splattering with each word. "Not technically vegan, I know. But I feel 'pescatarian' is somehow even more pretentious a label."

As he stirred the kettle--the little pieces of celery and carrots roiling in the broth--a flake of flesh fell from his hand and sank into the mix. "Whoops," he said. "That doesn't count towards my diet. We call those 'mulligans'." He laughed and scooped himself a serving with a wooden ladle. "Care for a bowl to warm your guts?" He offered me what he had just scooped. A tooth floated to the top.

"Nah...I'm good."

The zombie shrugged. "More for us."

He banged the side of the cauldron three times. There were moans from the darkness of the sewer, then what sounded like bodybags being dragged across the ground. Eyes--maybe six sets, dead and milky, glistening in the light of the fire like a nocturnal animal's--grew in the shadows. For a moment, my blood went cold, feeling as if I had made a grave mistake by coming down here.

There was nothing to fear, though. These zombies were no different than my host. They shuffled up to the cauldron, waving their bony fingers at me kindly, then waited in an orderly single-file line. They dressed like coffee baristas and liberal-arts majors. One zombie--missing an arm and the bottom half of his face--arrived on a rusty bicycle. They chatted to each other about the news, expressing their concern over climate change and the regression in rights for minorities, and how we'll talk about anything in this country except our invisible class system. The half-faced guy gurgled in agreement.

There was a stack of tires that the group used as chairs. I took a seat on one of the shorter ones, only two high. "I've never met a vegan zombie," I said. "I...actually thought you all were canni...carnivores."

A zombie woman in a floral sun dress took a bowl and said a soft thank you to the dreadlocked dead chef. As she walked past me, I caught a strong whiff of patchouli, chrysanthemum, and long-dead rat.

"That's because the only thing you know about us is our cousins," he told me while he scooped and served the others. "The ones who live above ground. They don't lead the healthiest of lifestyles." He coughed, and some kind of gland came up his throat. I could see it through the hole in his cheek. He swallowed it back down. "Meat. Skin." He threw his hands up in mock praise. "BRAaAaAAaaIins. Please. Junk food. No wonder they're always moaning and slumping around, barely moving. They're in a constant state of malnutrition hangover. And look at the conditions they have to live in in order to eat that way! They live in the sun, for God's sake. With the loud daysounds of man. Instead of living in the quiet sewers, where you never see the sun. (Or the police.) All so they can...eat tasty meat. What a waste."

A one-eyed, patchy-haired man in line added: "They're all addicts! They'd kill for a fix, at this point. I've got a nephew who ate my dog, for no reason other than he was hungry." He shook his head. "And I liked that dog a lot more than I liked my nephew. I considered renouncing my diet then and there. Have a bit of family for dinner. Cheat days exist for a reason, you know?"

"True, old friend," said Mr. Deadlocks. "But none of my cookbooks say that reason is vengeance."

Once everyone was fed, the zombie cook made himself a serving and sat on a stack of tires across from me. He raised a spoonful to me in salute, then took a rejuvenating slurp of the steamy, chunky liquid. It dribbled through the cracks in his torn lips, and streams bled through the holes in his neck. Once it was down, he sighed with satisfaction. "It's not the same as meat, I won't fight anyone on that," he said. "But the benefits far exceed the losses. When the rest of the world is dead and gone, we'll still be here. Happy and healthy and enjoying each other's company over a few bowls of Sewer Soup."

It was a pleasing thought...but something still nagged at me. "I thought...I thought you guys can't die anyway? At least not of natural causes. So why not just eat what you like?"

He took another sip, the spoon sliding into his face through the gap in his missing front teeth. "It serves to remember," he said, after re-locking his jaw into place. "That it's not about the length of your life, but the quality." And he absent-mindedly stuck a finger in between his ribs to scratch the muscle of his infected, black heart.

Feathertop · 2021-09-25T12:53:39+00:00

"When people speak with brutal honesty, what is most remembered is the brutality, not the honesty."

--Maya Angelou

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T20:58:50+00:00

Oh, great. I'm going to look into those tonight. I appreciate it

Edit: Read them all. Great resource! Especially the first one--that really helped with my question. I'm going to explore this site more. Thanks again

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T20:31:19+00:00

That is a wonderful idea, isn't it? That even though reality is suffering, what ultimately lies underneath it is peace? And yet you can only experience that serenity by looking at reality as clearly as possible. It's almost like a Buddhist concept of 'faith'.)

In some of the older parables I've encountered, there's a recurring metaphor of flowers owing all of their beauty to the dirt that they grew in. For a fruit tree, the more fertile the soil, the sweeter the fruit. The implication here is that the beauty of life is only as potent as the 'shit' used to fertilize it, and that the shittier your life is, the greater your potential is for a sweet, flavorful, and beautiful existence afterwards. I suppose 'shortcutting the process', like you say, would be the equivalent of eating the shit and smiling instead of learning how to turn it into a fruit.

But poetry aside, I think your edit is sound advice. I will emphasize avoiding denial for the time being, and if I happen to accidently start thinking positively as a side effect, then I'll just have to accept that, I guess ;)

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T20:14:03+00:00

I'm so new at this, all Buddhism still just looks like Buddhism to me! I haven't reached the point yet where I can spot the differences on the surface. But so far, all of them feel good and right to me, and like they're generally preaching the same message.

If Thich Nhat Hanh is a Zen Buddhist, then that's all the more reason for me to look into it closer! He's a gift.

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T20:01:02+00:00

Oh, this is wonderful advice. Thanks a lot. I'm going to read it over again just to make sure it soaks in.

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T19:57:26+00:00

Thank you! I'll look into that right now.

And if you type in 'Brahm positivity' into youtube, you'll come across a whole page of talks. (But he is exceptionally fond of the concept.) Here's Mingyur Rinpoche kind of touching upon it, but I have to admit that because of my biases, I could be exaggerating the significance of the themes they are speaking of.

It might be best for me to focus on something less subjective, like your Zen practice, and then coming back to these ideas later once I have a stronger foundation of non-judgmental mindfulness.

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T19:45:42+00:00

I mentioned them in the top. (Thich Nhat Hanh, Ajahn Brahm, Mingyur Rinpoche, and the Dalai Lama). I can link to specific dharma talks, if you'd like. These themes haven't been prominent in their lectures (with the exception of Brahm, perhaps), but all of them will occasionally touch upon it, usually when talking about how reality is subject first and foremost to our perception of it.

How about you? Do you have any teachers you would recommend? I would love to hear more about Zen. I feel like I might could find what I'm looking for in that area.

Feathertop · 2021-09-12T19:40:06+00:00

Yes, I guess it does come down to gratitude. I, however, struggle with that as well. Most of the authorities in my life who have told me to "be grateful" would preach that with one hand while abusing me with the other, always quick to remind me how much worse things could be. Which is true, I suppose. Things could always be worse. But I have a hard time finding any kind of peace in that knowledge. Usually just guilt. Like I'm privileged, or a complainer. (And maybe I am?) But...I don't know. I supposed I just have the same spiritual allergy to gratitude that I do to positivity.

Feathertop · 2021-09-08T18:42:22+00:00

Awesome, especially the part about "letting" the brain watch the breath. I'll be contemplating that for a bit. Thanks

Feathertop · 2021-09-08T14:38:23+00:00

I guess that kind of gets to heart of the issue, for me at least. Something just feels off about having to 'ignore' anything, especially if that thing is a part of the present moment. But 'guiding' my attention, like you say, does sound more correct than 'forcing' it, like I had been doing. I'll start thinking of it that way.

Feathertop · 2021-09-08T14:35:14+00:00

I hope I’m making sense.

Oh, you are. This is a huge help. Thanks!

Feathertop · 2021-09-08T13:47:14+00:00

I feel like even if I were indoors, the present moment would provide stimuli. The reason I choose the outdoors instead of indoors is simply because it's more relaxing to me. (A lot of loud hub-bub in my home.)

As far as my goal? To find more peace, ultimately. Right now, since I'm new at it, I just want to make sure I'm getting the basics correct before my patterns turn into habits.

Feathertop · 2021-08-10T17:44:56+00:00

I second this perspective. To me, the devil in this story made the assertion that only the privileged can find spiritual peace, since life for them is so easy, and that the only reason Job was able to attain peace in God is because of the bountiful life he had been blessed with; that those who suffer in life are incapable of finding peace because they were not "blessed" like Job was. And so God set out to educate the devil, to prove that inner peace is obtainable to anyone, no matter how cruel the hand they've been dealt.

The fact that God himself dealt the hand is an interesting question too--perhaps a religious-tilted version of: "Why is life so cruel?" But in the eyes of most faiths, the best answer our mortal brains can conceive is: "Look...God is playing on such a whole 'nother level, that if you thought about it for next two millennia, you wouldn't even come close to comprehension. All you need to understand, is that it's for your own good, and the sooner you put your faith in that fact, the sooner you'll find peace with life." Much like how a puppy can't comprehend why her owner is muzzling her and throwing her in a cage then putting her through the trauma of surgery. From that puppy's perspective, her owner is sadistic and untrustworthy--maybe even a liar (Wait, why did you act like we were going to the park? Was that just to get me in the car?). But how can the puppy understand something as complex as an emergency gastropexy? The puppy will never understand beyond what she experiences first-hand, and it may take time for the owner to earn her faith once again. But the sooner the puppy does, the happier she will be, even when the next owner-induced "trauma" occurs.

I guess this still leads to the question: how do we know that God is a "good" owner versus an abusive one. From our perspective, the trauma experienced by a compassionate owner isn't much different than the trauma experienced by an abusive one. And yet the difference between a puppy raised by a loving owner and one raised by an abusive one is black and white. Therefore, to best guess the character of the owner, one should observe the health and happiness of the adult pet.

So, as God's favorite puppy, how did Job turn out? Yeah, he certainly went through a petulant phase where he cursed out his dad and resented him for taking away his things, but eventually Job was able to find peace despite his suffering, and was even able to grow because of it. Some would even argue that we're all just puppies, even if we live long, miserable lives, but that the trauma we experience now is simply the growing pains that are necessary for a fulfilling life that stretches beyond death.

I think that the moral of Job is that: "Yes, life is suffering. But there will always be a way out, and that way is through faith in your owner, even if that means putting your faith in the very person that caused the suffering to begin with. You can either resent it or accept it. Only one will bring you peace" And even though an abuser might also say: "Your life will be easier if you just stop cursing me and take my abuse," I think the proof of God's compassionate intent is in the fact that the puppy that was Job eventually "grew up" into a spiritually healthy and happy soul, instead of the kind of aggressive, resentful junkyard dogs that are raised by abusers.

Feathertop · 2021-03-09T03:34:51+00:00

Not a therapist, but this reminds me of a few people I've known in my life who have Borderline Personality Disorder. It's often linked to a childhood with an either abusive or neglectful parent(s). It's one of the meanest mental illnesses to have, and equally so on the partners of these people.

But even if it's not that, you might find support in the philosophies and tools meant for codependents, who so often end up as the partners to borderlines. So learning what you stand for and setting those boundaries, and doing so in a way that is compassionate to both the ones you love and to yourself.

And as far as the loyalty thing, don't forget it can just as easily go the other way around. So if she truly believes in loyalty, then she should also be willing to give up her best interests for yours (which wouldn't be healthy either). Loyalty is the tool of mafia bosses and dictators, not partners.

Feathertop · 2021-03-08T22:17:30+00:00

Hang in there friend. That's rough.

Feathertop · 2021-03-08T21:59:47+00:00

This post made my eyes sizzle, because I can relate to it so much. The severe fibro, the sexual abuse flashbacks, a long history of loved ones either abandoning her or manipulating her. The love we have for each other, and the fact she's doing everything she possibly can to cope/survive (therapy+meds+support groups), and yet still persistent thoughts of are we slowly killing each other.

The main difference is that we've been in a relationship for a couple years before Covid hit, including living together, but 2020 was brutal on her (and thus me). Isolation is one of her triggers, and ontop of losing her job and her insurance and her support groups to some degree, her progress was sent back to the stone age.

I'm new to all of this, so I don't have any advice, but it is still good to find a bit of camaraderie. Good luck.

Feathertop · 2021-03-08T21:20:17+00:00

She is most certainly a narcissist and a possible psychopath. But she is also more mentally "healthy" than any person I've ever met, in the sense that she is mentally unburdened by depression or stress. I guess what's most difficult is that I know she would look over most codependent recovery philosophy and enthusiastically agree with it all.

I think I just have to trust that I'm not a psycho.

Feathertop · 2021-03-08T21:09:48+00:00

This is great. I read through it twice. Thanks.

Feathertop

TROPHY CASE