kalindamage

[kalindamage]

Fascinated by stories of the - I guess you'd call it the "stolen identity" genre, like, of the Anastasia Romanov variety. But - from both sides.

Your husband has been at war for thirty years. You married when you were teenagers. The man who returns bearing his name looks... plausible, you don't remember his eyes being quite so blue, but it's been thirty years and it's not like you could ever afford to have a portrait painted. He knows your name and the names of your children and your parents, but there are curious gaps in what he remembers. But war does things to the mind. And if he's kinder than you remember? Kind enough that, maybe, you let yourself believe...

No one has ever looked twice at you, since you're just the maid, until the day a revolutionary bomb goes off, blowing a crater in the summer palace. The famously reclusive duchess and the rest of her household lie dead in the rubble. You know that you and she were the same dress size. You know where her jewels are kept. Most importantly, you know the location of the secret tunnel that leads down to the docks, and to a life overseas that would be torturously hard going for a poor maid, especially one suspected as a thief, but a lot more comfortable for a royal in exile...

The old king's most faithful retainer swears this is the heir to the throne, raised in secret and trained to one day step into his father's shoes. As the usurper as dragged off the throne, she screams that the old king's children are all dead, she made sure of it; no one pays her any heed. (Maybe they should have...)

The man in the tavern is buying drinks for the whole bar before he sets sail tomorrow for the far side of the world. He's got it all figured out - a ship of his own, retirement to a tropical paradise when he gets sick of the pirating life. His lip curls as he talks about the stultifying boredom of the aristocratic world he's already left behind. You find out that his parents recently died, and the estate is in the care of his younger sister, who was only six when her brother first left home two decades since. Between the lines, they sound like a good family; they sound like they love him, the way your family never did. Your heart aches. He shows you portraits, letters, before shoving them carelessly back in his coat pocket. They would be so easy to lift...

It's a surprisingly common concept and I just love it. It's The Return of Martin Guerre; it's multiple 90s romcoms; Agatha Christie pulls it half a dozen times. Sooner or later, it crops up in fanfic for just about any fandom with a royal or aristocratic main character.

And I can see why, because there's so much richness to it. From the outside, it can be anything from a horror story to an unlikely love story; from the perspective of the person pulling off the con, a heist movie or a tragedy or a heartwarming tale of found family. And then there are the longer-term implications: What happens if you wear a mask so long that it becomes who you are? What happens if you come to love the "replacement" to the point where you don't want to find out the truth? What is it like to uncover such a deception a century down the line, to find out that your great-grandfather... wasn't?

Just. Identity stories, man. <3

[kalindamage]

if you're just joining us, george takei is having to educate jk rowling on holocaust denial

[kalindamage]

If u want to write a story about a character that's just you but hotter with a dark twisted backstory and magical powers and a pet falcon or something, I think u should just go ahead and do that. Who's gonna stop you? The government?? Fuck the police.

[kalindamage]

My butch and I are both lesbians. We are, neither of us, men.

But I call him my boyfriend. I call him my boytoy, my boy, sir, Mr., guy. Cause this language makes him happy. It supports his gender and expression, and it makes him happy.

Butches of all flavors and types have been using he/him pronouns and masculine language forever. Butches have been called boy, guy, boyfriend. Butches have used "traditionally masculine" names like Mitch, Ed, Mac, Joe.

Cause guess what?

Language is fake! It's all made up! If it makes you happy, use it! Wanna call yourself "boy," even if you're not a man? Do it! Wanna be called "boyfriend," even if you're not a guy? Go for it!

[kalindamage]

The Thing

John Carpenter, 1982

[kalindamage]

One of the best writing advice I have gotten in all the months I have been writing is "if you can't go anywhere from a sentence, the problem isn't in you, it's in the last sentence." and I'm mad because it works so well and barely anyone talks about it. If you're stuck at a line, go back. Backspace those last two lines and write it from another angle or take it to some other route. You're stuck because you thought up to that exact sentence and nothing after that. Well, delete that sentence, make your brain think because the dead end is gone. It has worked wonders for me for so long it's unreal

[kalindamage]

Apple TV+ made the title of their Monsterverse show official (Monarch: Legacy of Monsters) and released a few stills. Yes, that's Kurt Russell; he and his son Wyatt are playing the mysterious Lee Shaw, first seen in the comic Godzilla: Awakening as the token American. Anna Sawai plays Cate, one of the leads. About time a live-action Monsterverse thing gave a Japanese actor top billing.

[kalindamage]

Hedorah wonders what all the fuss is with the new Grimace shake.

[kalindamage]

One Million Years B.C. (1966) Hammer Film Productions Dir. Don Chaffey

Stop-motion beasts by Ray Harryhausen

[kalindamage]

The Gryphon (Godzilla Found Footage)

[kalindamage]

[kalindamage]

A Variety of Kaiju

[kalindamage]

Reblog if you’re 30 or older

This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!

[kalindamage]

I think that 2023 is a good time for many of us, and allies in particular, to practice again the dying art of minding our own fucking business when it comes to the identities and lives of other people.

You see someone from one of your classes in a public place with a different gender presentation/expression than they typically have? Mind your own business.

You discover that one of your coworkers is in a same gender relationship, but they aren't out at work? Not your place to share that information in the workplace.

You notice that your neighbor in a red state takes a road trip across state lines with their transgender child every 3-6 months? No you fucking didn't.

You overhear students in your classroom using a different name and different pronouns for one student than you are used to using? If you live in a state hostile to trans rights, pretend that you don't know anything about this and report nothing.

You suspect that an acquaintance of yours might be gay, but they deny it when asked directly? Leave them the fuck alone.

One of your friends refuses to publicly label their sexuality? Good for them, you aren't entitled to that information anyway.

Your sibling comes out to you as questioning, but isn't comfortable sharing that with your parents yet? Keep your fucking mouth shut.

Don't out people; coming out is a personal choice not a moral obligation. Don't demand personal information about other people's sexuality or sex lives. You aren't entitled to information about anyone's gender identity, assigned gender at birth, or transition.

Bring back privacy, allow people to have control over the information that is shared about them publicly; it might save their job, their housing, their parental rights and their child's safety, or even save lives.

[kalindamage]

The Blues Brothers (1980) // Dir. John Landis

[kalindamage]

I’ve been seeing a lot of anti-Nazi ones, which is great, but I felt like we needed one to show our support for the Jewish community.  

[kalindamage]

So, okay, fun fact. When I was a freshman in high school… let me preface by saying my dad sent me to a private school and, like a bad organ transplant, it didn’t take. I was miserable, the student body hated me, I hated them, it was awful.

Okay, so, freshman year, I’m deep in my “everything sucks and I’m stuck with these assholes” mentality. My English teacher was a notorious hard-ass, let’s call him Mr. Hargrove. He was the guy every student prayed they didn’t get. And, on top of ALL OF THE SHIT I WAS ALREADY DEALING WITH, I had him for English.

One of the laborious assignments he gave us was to keep a daily journal. Daily! Not monthly or weekly. Fucking daily. Handwritten. And we had to turn it in every quarter and he fucking graded us. He graded us on a fucking journal.

All of my classmates wrote shit like what they did that day or whatever. But, I did not. No, sir. I decided to give the ol’ middle finger to the assignment and do my own shit.

So, for my daily journal entries, over the course of an entire year, I wrote a serialized story about a horde of man-eating slugs that invaded a small mining town. It was graphic, it was ridiculous, it was an epic feat of rebellion.

And Mr. Hargrove loved it.

It wasn’t just the journal. Every assignment he gave us, I tried to shit all over it. Every reading assignment, everyone gushed about how good it was, but I always had a negative take. Every writing assignment, people wrote boring prose, but I wrote cheesy limericks or pulp horror stories.

Then, one day, he read one of my essays to the class as an example of good writing. When a fellow student asked who wrote it, he said, “Some pipsqueak.”

And that’s when I had a revelation. He wanted to fight. And since all the other students were trying to kiss his ass, I was his only challenger.

Mr. Hargrove and I went head-to-head on every assignment, every conversation, every fucking thing. And he ate it up. And so did I.

One day, he read us a column from the Washington Post and asked the class what was wrong with it. Everyone chimed in with their dumbass takes, but I was the one who landed on Mr. Hargrove’s complaint: The reporter had BRAZENLY added the suffix “ize” to a verb.

That night I wrote a jokey letter to the reporter calling him out on the offense in which I added “ize” to every single verb. I gave it to Mr. Hargrove, who by then had become a friendly adversary, for a chuckle and he SENT IT TO THE REPORTER.

And, people… The reporter wrote back. And he said I was an exceptional student. Mr. Hargrove and I had a giggle about that because we both knew I was just being an asshole, but he and the reporter acknowledged I had a point.

And that was it. That was the moment. Not THAT EXACT moment, but that year with Mr. Hargrove taught me I had a knack for writing. And that knack was based in saying “fuck you” to authority. (The irony that someone in a position of authority helped me realize that is not lost on me.)

So, I can say without qualification that Mr. Hargrove is the reason I am now a professional writer. Yes, I do it for a living. And most of my stuff takes authorities of one kind or another to task.

Mr. Hargrove showed me my dissent was valid, my rebellion was righteous, and that killer slugs could bring a city to its knees. Someone just needs to write it.