anthropologistfromentropy

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Before I knew I was bisexual I was just insanely dramatic and weird around guys I liked. I had a crush on this guy in my ward - he was older than me, he played bagpipes and had a cheerful dog and an old Volkswagen bus that he worked on all the time. He also had nice scruff and unnaturally attractive hands and a good sense of humor, so I was like FULLY smitten.

I talked about him a lot and about how he was just so dang COOL, dang it, because he was so frickin’ cool. And I really liked him. I thought he was funny and smart and interesting and cool and fascinating and a bunch of other weird feelings I barely had the attention span to think about (I think my ADHD may have prevented me from coming out for a while tbh).

One day, I’m like 14-15, his dad is called to be my Sunday School teacher. His dad is this ex-military hardass with a chip on his shoulder for absolutely no reason and unattainable standards for his children. He spent most of Sunday School talking shit about his eldest boy and how he was rebellious and didn’t listen to him and how that was going to make him a bad adult and a bad son forever. How his son was too lazy and unmotivated to be successful because he didn’t listen to his advice on how to read the scriptures. He complained about how our generation was too weak to do things right and that our generation would surely be the one that brought the world’s downfall because of our laziness and sin.

And like, first of all, that guy can already go fuck himself for that. To clarify, that’s already stupid. BUT. He was talking about the man I had uncomfortable dreams about at least once a month. I couldn’t stand it. I’d get so mad I’d go home shaking sometimes because how fucking DARE he insult his hardworking stunning son by calling him lazy? For not reading the Bible the way his dad wants? When he’s already spending his time learning bagpipes? And fixing cars? And being cool? And cute? Who the fuck even cares if he uses the footnotes in the Book of Mormon? Who gives a rotten rat’s ass if he doesn’t use the scripture study manual his dad uses? He’s so cool he doesn’t even need it? So fuck off?

And eventually I got fucking Sick Of It and decided to mutiny. And by mutiny, I mean skip class. I’d just not go. And after a bit, adults started noticing and bugging me about it. At first, this was put off by small talk and excuses, but as my absence from Sunday School became more well-known, my excuses began to be rejected.

“Oh, Lizard, why aren’t you in class?” Uhm idk because my Sunday School teacher is mean to his kid and that makes me so mad wtf do you want from me? 🫠🤔

“Where’s your class, I’ll go with you!” Oh no ty I’d rather peel my own eyes than have my taste in men critiqued tyty 🩷

“Lizard, you should go to class, I’m sure they miss you!” And I miss the innocent days where my stomach didn’t hurt when a cool boy I knew was being belittled but unfortunately for us both those days are LONG gone and all that’s left is a budding psychosexual clusterfuck that will render me almost fully incapable of functioning for the better part of a decade so Bye Bye, sister Smith 🙂‍↕️

It had gotten to the point that ward leadership was involved. I was being approached by members of the Young Men’s presidency and the Bishopric to try and make me to back to class. They were telling me God had told them to find me and instruct me on my rebelliousness. This is where I implemented my secret weapon - women. Mormons are weird as hell about a lot of things, but especially about women. And I was GREAT with women. So to combat the leadership’s attention, I started helping women.

Our ward had a lot of new moms with babies who were, as babies tend to be, fussy. But for Mormon women the church is often their only social outlet, so they try to power through as long as they can even if it means enduring the exhausting ordeal of taking care of a fussy baby at church.

For what it’s worth, I have a lot of sway with babies. I got baby street cred. Me and babies have a rapport. I have always known this. I have always loved this. And in this crucial gay time in my faggot life my baby mind powers came in clutch - Every time I saw a member of the bishopric getting close, or a young men’s leader giving me side-eye, I’d start walking slowly towards class, passing by relief society. I’d wait until a mom’s baby had gotten too fussy and needed to leave the room, and I’d swoop in like a knight. “Oh, don’t you worry sister, I’ll bounce him a bit. You go back and hang out with your friends in class. You deserve a break.”

If it was a diaper change or something they’d tell me no. But if it was just some good old-fashioned baby fusses, I mean, they’d be moved almost to tears. They just got their social time back AND a free babysitter who is renowned as the Baby Whisperer. And because I was holding a baby as a favor for someone else, I of course could not reasonably be bothered to return to class.

So just like that, I was out of everyone’s sights. This went on for about a month before the straw that broke the camel’s back, which was that without my class participation the classes were quiet and awkward. I’d often take the brunt of Sunday school lectures by answering questions impulsively and over explaining myself enough that the clock could run out without anyone needing to do or say much. My absence meant everyone else was getting hit with the full unpleasantness of this guy’s bullshit. And so slowly, one-by-one, I had a group of about 8 kids on baby-holding duty. These new moms were so overjoyed, they and their husbands were both so actively in our corner that now chastising us was untenable. Now we had bargaining power. So the Bishopric approached us, confused beyond confused and uncomfortable beyond uncomfortable, and said,

“What’s it gonna take to get you back to class?”

The POWER I possessed in that moment was addictive. By being kind to the women of the ward and ignoring the Mormon de facto Rule of Law of following rules en-masse so the rule breakers feel left out, there were now so many people breaking ranks that we had effectively enacted a church boy labor strike. And they crumbled so fast it was almost like we had swayed God himself to our cause.

“I want brother assholedad gone. He sucks at teaching.”

I didn’t even have to say it. One of my rebels said it for me. I just nodded sagely and said “Yes, his class is not edifying. It’s better to not go and hold babies.”

And just like that, with a snap of my limp-wristed, Christ-wounding, bottom-brained fingers my faggot will was enacted. God’s revelation that brother shitdad was his chosen Sunday school teacher flipped on a dime. Suddenly brother shitdad was asked to be an usher and the fun dad of another one of my crushes was called in to teach us. I still stayed to hold babies a lot, but the rest of the class returned and all was well again.

Although I didn’t recognize it then, I think that was a formative moment for me in a lot of ways. I learned that being really persistently annoying will get me what I want from authority eventually. I learned that God’s will can be swayed by going in strike. I learned that ignoring men’s made up authority forces them to level with you as a person. I learned that caring for women, especially vulnerable women, can make a whole world happier. I learned that letting women rest can help them feel more love for the things that matter in their life. I learned that social bonds make everyone stronger and happier. And I learned that loving others in a gay way can change the world.

Be gayer. Read Terry Pratchett. I love y’all 💕

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Yes, especially in my AU fic. He is a CSA survivor, so he doesn't have good associations with loving words and touch. But he does love, and shows it through his actions. And words too tbh, just not in a lovey-dovey way or with love confessions.

(Well as best as I can write it, it's a lot harder to write unfortunately)

Like:

There is love in your body but you can't get it out

It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth

Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face

That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste

Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks

And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

- (Hardest of Hearts by Florence and the Machine

And on special occasions, he does make references to Achilles and Patroclus and to Plato's Phaedrus/the chariot allegory, comparing Richard and himself to them. Like when Richard talks him out of suicide. He literally decides not to kill himself because he can't risk Richard's soul - the lovers love for each other helps them achieve virtue and wisdom, so they can reincarnate faster and be together again faster. And Henry and Richard definitely haven't done well so far, what with Bunny’s murder and all. So yeah, it's obvious they are SO in love, they may as well be married.

Henry wouldn't say he liked you, but he would make your tangerine clean, cover the sharp corners with his hand when you leaned over and memorize the location of that little mole on your lip.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

i once saw a pic of donna tart in a suit and i couldnt look at a woman for five days without having a panic attack

[anthropologistfromentropy]

there’s this extremely kind soul of a woman on instagram that makes accessible recipes that don’t require standing, chopping, or a stove and she might just have a permanent place in my heart

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Resist, it is our duty.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Oh, I ended up making my OC Andre a grandson of Marius Petipa (famous guy in the Imperial Ballet). So he has a pretty interesting family story now. Like Petipa was French and Catholic, but raised his children in Russia and was forced to raise them Orthodox.

Imagine one of his sons (also a dancer and ballet teacher) moves back to Paris, converted to Catholicism and married a Jewish woman. Andre is still raised Catholic tho.

Also Andre was a trenchrunner during ww1, becomes a soloist in Ballet Russes and has a Russian boyfriend. I think his father is going to be more unhappy with the Russian part than the gayness lol. Even though the father actually has a Russian mother, but still, he has a grudge lol

Andre's boyfriend Mischa failed out of the Imperial Ballet school at 11 and was forced into child prostitution by his mother. Got adopted by Sergey Razumovsky who trained all the kids to be spies lol. Now he is a seamstress making costumes for Ballet Russes and both Mischa and Andre are spies.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Decided to share some things for mapmisia awareness day. Not my art, just stuff I have collected over the years.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Damn, I didn't even remember the whole hard-boiled detective thing when I made my OC, an undercover cop who is a trans egg.

But now I can't believe I have hardly ever come across a character who is a transgender detective?? Such a missed opportunity for a perfect pun

Also, just for fun, meet Detective Evelyn Fleming from the Metropolitan Police Special Branch. She's gonna investigate Julian Morrow's Greek class after Bunny's murder, and the whole queer and socialist circles.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Normalizing loving plurality. Not even your own.

Normalize treating new potential headmates in other systems like a default positive until otherwise. Normalize hearing "I think there's a new guy in here" and saying "Wow! Do you wanna talk to them?" instead of "Oh, no :(" And, of course, normalize treating new headmates who front out of nowhere with no idea where they are with kindness, patience, and understanding. Normalize being a rock they can stand on while they get their footing.

Normalize being frustrated you can't physically hold all your friends in a separate system the way you might hold a non-plural friend group. Normalize adoring your friend's headmates. Normalize being happy for them when they talk about their plurality.

Normalize loving plurality.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Personally I don't really understand why we are so anti-solidarity these days, but I don't like it.

"I relate to your struggle because it sounds similar to my struggle, therefore I want to help you with this the way I would have wanted to be helped myself" is pretty much the baseline of allyship. For whatever reason, though, it's almost become a matter of stolen valor and stealing the spotlight, and frequently I see it rejected outright.

I just don't get it. Personally I am thrilled when someone who Isn't Like Me reaches out to share help or even just an encouragement. I don't really see it as an out group "making it about themselves" if they're just trying to say they've experienced similar and sympathize.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

I think Henry would still be a pretentious vinyl guy. His idea of a portable music player is a portable gramophone he takes with him on picnics. I think he would remain exactly the same whether it's 1920, 1980 or 2020.

the greek class as modern dumbphone + portable music player + camera combos

Henry - sim card 'landline' (or just a regular landline) + portable cassette player with am/fm radio + fujifilm klasse w

Bunny - light phone ii (he's already preordered the iii) + super modded 1tb ipod classic 7th gen + fujifilm instax mini 99

Francis - unihertz titan slim + sony wm1zm2 + canon powershot g7x mark ii

Charles - sunbeam f1 horizon robin + sony discman dej017ck + olympus xa2

Camilla - nokia 2780 flip + ipod shuffle 5th gen + sony cybershot dsc-w630

Richard - dumbed down hand-me-down iphone + sandisk clip jam + nothing (he just uses his phone)

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Yes!

Týr's new buddy Michael bringing a ChristoPagan soul to Valhalla~

[anthropologistfromentropy]

"Kiosk" is a really good loanword, nice mouthfeel. Thank you, ancient Persia.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

[anthropologistfromentropy]

"why do you write?" because it’s the only way to silence the characters pacing around my brain like victorian ghosts with unresolved issues that prevent them from moving on.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

When silence becomes too loud-Winterbunny

Or when Henry Winter realizes that death is—indeed—something fatal and irreversible.

Snow falls thickly tonight, muffling even the cracking of the trees as they bend under the weight of winter. The old lamplights along the Hampden path burn dim and gold, softened by the fog of breath and cold. Henry Winter walks alone.

He no longer notices the cold. It passes through him like wind through a ruined house. His coat, thick and old, is buttoned up to the throat, his gloves dark and worn. He moves with the same careful precision he always has, but something’s missing. Something flickers behind his eyes—burnt out and unspeakable.

Bunny Corcoran is dead.

Buried beneath frozen soil and wet leaves, his mouth stuffed with mud and silence. The memory is a constant, a companion, a brand burned beneath the skin. The others are splintering—Camilla pale and distracted, Charles drinking at odd hours, Francis shaking hands, Richard always looking just over his shoulder. But Henry, by all appearances, remains unchanged.

And yet, he is not.

There is a type of silence that comes after violence, a hush so total it rings. He hears it now, in the soles of his shoes on the path, in the quiet rustle of leaves as the trees shift overhead. The silence of a room just after someone has screamed. The silence of a confession swallowed and never spoken.

He tells himself it was necessary. Still tells himself that. They had no choice. Bunny was reckless. Dangerous. He had pushed and prodded and joked and threatened. But then, hadn’t he always? And hadn't they—he—loved him all the more for it?

Henry lifts his gaze to the sky. A pale moon hangs in the dark like a watchful eye. And suddenly—terribly—he wants to hear that voice again. Bunny’s voice, nasal and warm, calling out across the Commons. That stupid laugh. “Henry, old man!” Too loud, always just a bit too familiar.

But there is no voice, and there will never be.

When he reaches the library steps, he pauses, gloved hand resting on the frozen railing. A group of students passes, murmuring. One of them laughs—high, sudden, nothing like Bunny. Still, Henry turns his head, heart leaping with something awful. But it’s no one. Just another boy in a coat too thin for the weather.

He used to feel such superiority to people like that. Now he just feels apart. As if he’s standing behind glass, watching them all live.

He remembers the quote, not from a book, but from the crackling speaker of a radio cassette Bunny insisted on keeping in their apartment—a chunky black metallic thing with faded buttons, always half-covered in crumbs and band stickers, forever threatening to eat the tape mid-song. One night, late and half-drunk, Bunny had put on some dusty recording—an old mystery drama from the '40s—and the line came floating out like prophecy: You will look into the faces of passers-by hoping for something that will for an instant bring me back to you. Bunny had laughed, called it corny. But Henry hadn’t forgotten. Now, it loops in his mind with the eerie rhythm of a ghost story, lingering like smoke after the candle’s gone out.

He cannot explain what it is that makes him miss Bunny most. Not his intelligence—though it was there, in its unruly, unsharpened way. Not his charm, which was clumsy. But perhaps it was the way Bunny needed him. Clung to him, almost pitifully. His dependence had annoyed Henry then. Now it feels like a wound.

When he dreams, he dreams of the ravine. Sometimes Bunny is there, sometimes not. Sometimes it's Henry at the bottom, looking up at himself. And when he wakes, the cold clings to him in sheets of sweat and ice.

Even now, in the library, he feels the weight of absence. The chair where Bunny used to drop his coat. The desk he never studied at. The way he used to say Henry’s name. As though they were closer than they were. Or maybe closer than Henry admitted.

He had told himself it was brave. That killing Bunny was a necessary sacrifice. That their secret knowledge, their pursuit of beauty, of higher things, justified the cost. That it was noble, even.

But now, when the moonlight falls on the empty quad, when the windows fog and the lamps hum and his hands tremble just slightly on the pages of a book—what brave thing feels like this?

This is not bravery. This is ruin.

Henry does not believe in God, but sometimes he wonders if this is a punishment. Not hell, but exile. To live long. To go on breathing while Edmund Corcoran lies still beneath the frozen earth. That is the true sentence. To endure.

He remembers once, in the orchard near Commons, Bunny picked an apple and threw it at his back. “Hey, Henry,” he’d said, laughing. “You ever stop thinking?”

Henry hadn’t answered. He rarely did. Now, he answers constantly.

He thinks. He remembers. He regrets.

And always, always, he searches.

In the laughter of strangers. In the rustle of leaves. In the whisper of snow on his coat. In the empty space beside him.

Bunny does not answer.

And the night goes on.

[anthropologistfromentropy]

Mayhem. What is that. Is there some tiny, four inch tall prince running shirtless through my house? Where did this come from??