daemonologywrites

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rotting honey

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belatedly realizing that crawling out of a reading fugue from devouring vandermeer’s annihilation in one day and announcing “to eat a person, you have to know them” was probably more alarming than not to my father, who was just trying to do the dishes

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Women of Sinners - Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler

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snippet from a wip (i don't technically know if the birds are seasonally appropriate, but shhhhh)

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worlds slowest fanfic author tries really really hard

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i severely fuck with alien communication that is, well, alien, so having the "lost in translation" aliens join the ranks of those like the prophets from ds9? beautiful. the way the symbol (the direct "language" that is perceived by the senses, or in this case uhura's visions) of the triangle of reference is not arbitrary and blurs with the referent and then the concept relies on a metaphorical jump? love it

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snw s2e6 "lost in translation" has such good sound design already??? the enterprise has such a distinct rhythm/tone to her, so the contrast of what uhura hears is genuinely jarring, probably even more so than the jump scare of hemmer

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at 2,257 words in my wip currently and realizing it's the longest for one of my fics do go where the protagonists are yet to meet... probably says something about my usual word count :D also narratively convenient public transportation failure my beloved

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Antonín Procházka - Still life (1921)

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I find it incredibly interesting that when I try to summon up reading experiences similar to Nighbitch, the first to pop up was The Argonauts by Maggie Nelson? Obviously, both have the theme of motherhood, but I also think there's also the idea of the "queerness of self and the body" and the intersection between the hypermundane and the philosophical

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Nightbitch by Rachel Yoder

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i love the genre of star trek episode that's just "wouldn't it be fucked up if this happened" and then they never acknowledge it again and we're supposed to believe the characters can just go on with their lives as normal after experiencing life shattering events like what do you mean Laan went back in time to repair a devastating temporal anomaly had a heart to heart with her genocidal freak ancestor as a child after developing fast and intese romantic feelings for james t kirk who she then had to watch get BRUTALLY MURDERED and it all happened in toronto. they're keeping khan noonien singh in the royal conservatory of music. They're across from the bloor st george mc donalds. and then the temporal starfleet agent was just like. lmao thanks sry for the trauma don't tell anybody tho. you're telling me that the earth of the future has eradicated poverty but the temporal department doesn't have like... an agent recovery/support program. this show is so unserious i love it.

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The Dead Lovers by Edvard Munch / Vienna Cemetery / Lovers of Valdaro / The Lovers of Modena / Hasanlu Lovers / Monumento Rossi / Dave Navarro & Carmen Electra by David LaChapelle / A Memorial to Marriage by Patricia Cronin / Monumento Scarneo / Olavi Lanu / Bronze Age Scythian Couple / The Life & Death of a Relationship - Sue Law / Lovers of Turuel / New Orleans Botanical Garden / Etruscan Sarcophagi / Gravestone commissioned by widow for deceased husband - Mt. Macedon Cemetery / Eternal Love - Frank Kunert / Meant To Be - Bruno Caesar / Roman Sarcophagus / Sarcophagus of the Spouses

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now that exams are over, i want to focus on some of my WIPs, the first is a t'pura fic (from t'pring's pov, which is actually turning out to be incredibly fun to write), and the second is la'una (meaning i need to catch up on season 2 and get a move on if i want to get it out before season 3), and then maybe a part 3 to my "separate frequencies" series? so many ideas, so little energy

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Gate A-4

by Naomi Shihab Nye

Wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal, after learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.”

Well — one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate. I went there.

An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing. “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly. “Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?” The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying. She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely. She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day. I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later, who is picking you up? Let's call him.”

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies — little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts — from her bag — and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo — we were all covered with the same powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar, too. And I noticed my new best friend — by now we were holding hands — had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradition. Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, This is the world I want to live in. The shared world. Not a single person in that gate — once the crying of confusion stopped — seemed apprehensive about any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.