when I was like 15, a drunk woman I didn’t know at a party who was smoking a cigarette on the porch started randomly opening up to me about her infertility journey and I told her how I was my parents rainbow baby after multiple miscarriages and fertility treatments said not to lose hope. she comforted me about being a strange kid without many friends my age (hence why I was at a party full of adults thrown by my uncle) and told me everything would work out eventually. the next time I saw her like 2 years later (small town, mutual friends) she was carrying her newborn. I think about that a lot. it’s easy to feel disconnected from people and but sometimes just talking to them and hearing their point of view and relating makes you feel less alone. even if you’re only each other’s company for a few moments.
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Lolth and her lesser known siblings Lmaoth and Roflth
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“why sister daniel and blond phil? this is just phil! this is phil all the time! this is not dan before the clock strikes 12, this is just phil now!” no no i can accept that phil is blond now like i will concede that this:
is phil. but this:
is NOT phil. this is a butch lesbian with a motorcycle who is dating sister daniel. nothing you say will convince me of anything else ok. that’s not phil that’s the head of DOB leading the march before going to pick up her girlfriend from the convent for hot lesbian sex. they have nothing to do with dan and phil. separate entities. stop lesbian erasure 😤
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i was just talking about this after being wrecked by the discovery that the little elf-goblin fellows my parents/family used to tell me warnings and stories about as a little kid are regionally specific, and that you can trace people's geographic origins by what word they use for "little spirit-fellows who live in your house". no matter what you call them (domovoi, kobolde, brownies, so on); for purposes of this post henceforth "little guys"
i think one of the things that i find frustrating about like, idk, modern animist revivalist movements is that very few of them ime spend a lot of time romanticising and spiritualizing human habitation. obviously, we as a culture need to think more about protecting and defending nature/the earth/so on, but like.
if you don't have room in your heart for making up a little guy who lives in the water heater, or who squats under your stove and makes it run 15 degrees off the programmed temperature, and thinking of him with the same kind of respect/affection as you do for the spirits (or whatever) of the wildlife you interact with like.
genuinely: what are you even doing. you are removing a source of richness and fun and whimsy from your life! like, pip @creekfiend made up the concept of "little guys who live in an airport (and are the reason it's so shitty to be in an airport)" and i already like airports like 30% more just knowing it's the little airport inconvenience guys doing that.
more importantly, like. genuinely: interrogate what parts of the world seem ~rich with spiritual meaning~ to you. what parts of the world are "wild"? what does that make the rest of the world - a chore? a burden? who has to carry that burden?
we're never going to like, "return to nature", because that's nothing and the concept of untouched nature is also nothing; we're always going to have some sort of human habitation and interaction and cultivation with nature. if you can't extend grace and whimsy and genuine and sincere meaning to human habitation, including its inconveniences and annoyances, you are making your own lived experience duller!
notably, most of these kinds of little-guy-spirits historically exist in the parts of human habitation that are partially abandoned, partially removed: haylofts, inside the walls, under the house, in the bathhouse, behind the furnace... i've been thinking a lot about urban wildlife lately, and the animals who make space for themselves in and around human habitation. the "natural" and the "wild" persist inside and around the edges of the "tame" and always, always have. if you have a crawlspace, there's a little spirit who lives there and he's the reason the dryer always eats your socks.
LIVE WHIMSICALLY.
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