#Abstract device

[blacklotusmuseum]

"Time Bomb"

Ice Age 1995 | Illus. Amy Weber

[liesonthefloordramatically]

okay, Midst is very good, PLEASE listen to it, but also I realized that part of why I am so gleeful about Midst is that it not only features one of my favorite things (unreliable narrators) but also features one of my other favorite things (the narrative standing directly behind the characters with a gun)

case in point: spent the entirety of the episode last week feeling an intense amount of dread because I DID see the narrative standing directly behind the characters with a gun and then this week felt an intense amount of vindication when the gun fired

Rowan has said before that I am way too good at picking up on foreshadowing (I think I am a normal amount of good at it, but also recognize that I seem to correctly predict where things are going substantially more often than many of my friends), but also I am so gleeful that A. Midst does occasionally manage to clothesline me anyway (yes! it's fun to stop dead in the middle of the street due to Events and Revelations!) but also B. the narrative is built to be even more enjoyable when you pick up the foreshadowing because then the narrative is making pointed eye contact with you while standing behind the unsuspecting characters with a gun

anyway, this metaphor is getting away from me, please listen to Midst, I'm having a GREAT time

[panvani]

Despite it all Noise is definitely like the most thruppy character of PH

[joostmarkerink]

[iamlisteningto]

The Haxan Cloak’s “N/Y”

[bluemonkwrites]

track: "Tunnel At The End of the Light" by Device Flesh

art: "dancing over the webinar" by Michael Neal Morris

[nakedb4god]

[radicalityincident]

God I hate how normalized not being in control of your own devices has become. My phone updates in the middle of the night without asking me shit or getting my consent for anything and its like "Oh hi I'm your new AI, please enjoy this forced overlay that you can't exit out of until you go through my tutorial"

"Great fuck you, I would like to uninstall you" "Oh I'm sorry you can't uninstall me! I'm a core system application and if you uninstall me your phone won't function correctly despite the fact that I did not exist yesterday and your phone worked fine" "....." "You can disable parts of my functionality but I will always be here and I will pop up notifications asking you to re-enable me unless you figure out how to disable those too! Then I will still show up in a different color at the top of your settings application telling you that you need to 'fix" a 'problem' with your phone, that problem being that I am disabled. Does that help?"

Like, you know what I can do on my desktop? "sudo pacman -Rdd linux" , this will just fucking remove the entire linux kernel. Fundamentally breaking my computer until I boot up a live disk and chroot in and reinstall it or whatever, and the computer will go "Are you sure (y/n)" or whatever and i'm like "y" and it will just go "Ok you got it boss"

But its mine, I get to do what I want with it. I control the computer, the computer does not control me. I refuse to cede control to my phone or anything else. The thing is a lot of people will joke that like "Oh I love just letting the machine tell me what to do, I don't know what I'm doing, it knows best" or whatever but the thing you have to realize is that when you say that you are abstracting away that "the phone" or whatever is not some value neutral logic driven robot like from sci-fi, it is a collection of the the capitalistic and fascistic desires of the tech oligarch fuckwits that are burning the world to the ground right now. You aren't submitting to the phone, you are submitting to Musk, Bezos, Nadella, Pichai, Cook and all those other evil bastards.

Fuck them, fuck their little AI toys, and fuck this.

[vamptastic]

Part of this is just my fair share of dumb judginess based on my cultural background and I'm probably making a slew of uncharitable assumptions. Also I mostly know about Catholicism and not much else.

But I feel that people sort of misunderstand Judaism as a monotheistic religion. Like, we genuinely do not see Christianity and Islam as monotheistic, and we are not really worshipping the same God. God really does tend to be seen as a more abstract and primordial force in Judaism than other Abrahamic religions.

The most tangible God gets is a version of God that's a sort of all powerful alien being, who can directly intervene in our lives on occasion and may turn the tide on major events and cause inexplicable things to happen, and has a fundamentally different view on life than we do. The most common interpretation I've encountered is that God is the more abstract will of the universe, like a manifestation of fate. He makes decisions, these decisions are not always things we understand or agree with and all we can do is accept that what God makes happen is what's right and deal with it ourselves by extrapolating on His motives.

And we directly connect with God in these very sensory ways that connect us to nature and to ourselves. Smelling, tasting, singing, meditating, sacrificing animals. It's sort of at odds with the very literary nature of Judaism where one's experience of God, the moments you most believe in him, are very base and sensory, but you decide how to act based on the written word and God is just kind of the metric for good behavior to use as an argumentative tool.

[blacklotusmuseum]

"Icy Manipulator"

Ice Age 1995 | Illus. Amy Weber

"The scavengers who first found it called it the 'Bone Crank.'" — Arcum Daggson, Soldevi Machinist

[klausysworld]

reader and klaus just had an massive argument and he kicks her out the house and invites cami over , reader ends up getting attacked badly in the middle of the night by one of klaus enemies and she calls him and he ignores all the calls until he listens to the voicemail in the morning only to find yn but it’s too late

The Ache Of Agony

Everything had been blown out of proportion. Y/N was a mess of tears and yelling whilst Klaus's paranoia was flaring. Within seconds Klaus had stopped thinking with his heart, looking at her like an enemy instead of his lover. Something to fight not fight for.

He had to get her out of that house before he hurt her; killed her.

However even once she was gone his mind was spinning. She hadn't meant to but she had caused a small sum of pain to him, put his family in danger and for that his mind told him to make her hurt.

Which was how Camille ended up at his house, lashes batting prettily as she sat beside him, leaning into him gradually. One of his hands was tense against the back of her neck, his body unsure how to respond between the battle of his head and heart as his lips neared the blonde's.

Their mouths finally met with a lack of passion on his end meanwhile she relished in finally having what she desired. His eyes only closed for a second before they were open, the look in them distant as he pulled away and let her rest her forehead against his.

The buzz of his phone vibrated against the table making him glance to see Y/N's name. Guilt crawled up his throat like a thousand tiny legs and he felt his arm reach out to grab the device but Cami's beat him to it. She clicked the button on the side and turned the phone face-down, pushing it to be forgotten.

Camille didn't stay as long as she'd hoped, Klaus couldn't go through with what his irrational mind had originally conjured up and he wound up back alone on the couch with his head in his hands.

Drink and drugs filled his body in an attempt to gorget his mistakes but in doing so he forgot her. The phone call and the dozen more that followed.

Morning had long passed before Klaus woke up face down, fully clothed against his bed. Elijah had been the one to drag Klaus downstairs, lecturing about his behaviour. One brief mention of Y/N's name was enough to spark a memory, the faint vision of his phone lighting up for the tenth time whilst his head was spinning a hundred different ways.

Klaus stood up fast, too fast. His body ached to throw up as the blood rushed up but he fought against it and ran for his phone, ignoring Elijah's impatient calling.

"No, no, no, no." He muttered, panic finally setting in as he clicked on the list of voicemails left from her only to be flooded with pure and utter dread when the haunting echo of her screams left the speaker.

Elijah's voice died down and the brother stood in a deathly silence as he pressed the next one. The familiar voice of a couple witches they had been antagonised by were laughing, mocking Y/N's agony as they tortured those cries from her one smiling lips.

"We need Davina, now." Klaus announced though the crack in his voice wasn't missed and Elijah was moving immediately.

Y/N had been looked at fondly by the vampires of New Orleans, wolves too via Hayley. There wasn't a bad word to say about her, so when hearing she was missing and most likely stung up in stitches, everyone was there to bring her home.

Five broken barriers and a covens worth of witches later and they finally had her within reach and yet nobody moved to pull her free of those chains.

Not when her throat was already slit, her body torn open down to her navel. Blood painting her skin, dripping down to the floor in a platter of abstract.

Klaus's heart ached so much he'd rather have had it torn out a hundred times over.

His steps were hollow against the ground as his trembling hands raised to tear apart the shackles that held her wrists up, dangling her from the ceiling like a butcher would a pig.

His arms caught her body with a broken cry, knees giving out but he didn't dare let her touch the floor. She was still warm against him, although that could have just been the blood, still her limbs were still soft and he could still curl her body against his and pretend for just a second longer that she was alive and snuggled up to him in bed like she should have been that night before.

Rebekah's hand touched his shoulder but the whimper that left his throat made Elijah pull her away. "Not yet." He uttered, his own voice struggling to maintain the usual stoicism it held. The other vampires hung their heads in grief, listening to the sobs Klaus Mikaelson whilst Marcel encouraged them to step away and let the family grieve.

Only a few had began to move when a sharp gasp reached each corner of the room.

A sound of terror leaving both Klaus and Y/N when her body lurched to some sort of life. She pushed him off, screaming with fear and confusion. Klaus's hands flew up in an attempt to show no harm and the other vampires were forcefully removed from the building to give her a moment.

Eventually her mind recognised her wrists were free, her insides were intact and the physical torture was gone; only psychological left.

Coming to the realisation she was a vampire hit her too hard after everything else she had gone through in the past hours. All her senses were running too high, causing her to spiral erratically.

Nobody could touch her, talking to her was proving just as difficult and it was eating Klaus up.

Hours dragged by but every minute was another minute closer to truly losing her forever. Klaus was given a glimpse of what her death would do to him and he knew that he couldn't let her go. He would give anything to go back and just let her yell at him, to have just forgiven her and make it up to each other. Or to at least have been the one to leave so that she could have remained safe at home. Instead he threw her out to fend for herself, an angel in a land of monsters.

Exhaustion wrapped its way back around Y/N as her end started to sink in. As her last grains of strength crumbled down the drain, Klaus was finally able to get close enough to hold her red-stained hand. He could feel her inner conflict to pull away or accept his comfort, she was scared and he understood that but he couldn't hold her lifeless body for the second time in 24 hours.

"I'm so sorry." He whispered, careful not to speak too loud and irritate her heightened senses. Y/N's eyes were full of such a sadness he had never seen in her before. "Please let me bring you home, if you won't transition, at least be somewhere safe? Somewhere that's not here." He pleaded with her, hoping that of he got her home he could sway her decision.

Lucky for him, she didn't want to see that room for a minute longer than necessary. She couldn't have those walls be the last walls she ever see.

Being back in their bed, her bloody body staining the sheets as she shook worse than a leave on an autumn's night, was so much better than that floor.

The gentle touch of his fingertips on the side of her arm was the most amount of comfort she would accept so it was what he would give. The mere mention of turning shut her down but when her skin started greying, desiccating, Klaus couldn't just watch.

She whimpered a cry when the beautiful taste slipped down her throat, her vision blocked by tears as the hunger vampires had always described to her devoured her whole.

Klaus was finally able to get his arms around her as he felt her submit to the urges and drain blood bag after blood bag that he handed to her.

Klaus had to push the guilt down, he would have to survive her resentment, he would live with her hating him just so long as he never had to hear or see her in that kind of pain again.

He would never be the cause of that, not ever again.

[pathologicalreid]

forwards beckon rebound | s.r.

[previously]

in which fate reveals itself to you and Spencer. it's exactly as you feared, you're in love with him.

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: blowing smoke FINALE (p4), maeve, kidnapping, russian roulette, imminent death, violence, blood, nondescript case fic, no hea word count: 1.88k a/n: two things 1) i do have an alternate ending to this series 2) fluff this weekend i promise

Brightness seared your retinas when the blindfold finally came off, you felt the sore skin in places where the fabric was too tight over your face. An abstract of indents were left over your skin.

Dots and shadows danced in your vision while you tried to blink them away, forming the shape of someone who oddly resembled Spencer. He was hunched over in a chair in front of you, his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. Your solace was the steady rising and falling of his chest. Each time he took a breath it eased your own.

“Spence,” you called for him, your throat so swollen that it came out as a hiss. The desperate cry of a rattlesnake hindered by whoever had crushed your windpipe.

Tunnel vision blinded you to anything in the periphery, your eyes scanned Spencer while you acquainted yourself with the binds around your wrists and ankles. He seemed unharmed, save for the obvious unconsciousness. You had no idea who had taken you, but the BAU had no shortage of enemies. The two of you were, by extension, always targets.

Your ears perked up at the first sign of noise in the warehouse, hot air rose to the floor you were on, leaving you sticky and uncomfortable in the humid prison. Glancing over your shoulder, you watched a masked figure waltz through the doorway.

Clocking the gun affixed to their hip, you quickly looked over to Spencer, hoping he would wake up soon. The fabric ties around your wrists dug into your fragile skin as you looked around the room, remembering there was someone else in here with you, someone who had pulled your blindfold off.

Silently, you started putting the pieces together. “Spencer,” you whispered, having half a mind to reach your foot out and try to kick him awake. There was a reason you had been the one blindfolded. Somewhere in your subconscious, you knew where you were. It led to the horrifying realization that this was about you.

His nose wrinkled, and the first sign that he was starting to wake up was interrupted when the masked figure stood behind him, gripping him by his hair and lifting his head.

Your body instinctively tried to jump to its feet in protest, “Hey!” You shouted as your chair creaked from its bolts in the ground, “Let him go.” Cringing, you watched as he dropped Spencer’s head, letting it loll to the side while he woke up.

The two UnSubs walked out of the room, leaving you and Spencer to your own devices. You shushed him slightly while he groaned, your breath hitching when your name slipped past his lips.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “I’m okay, I’m right here,” you assured him, though you weren’t entirely sure how comforting it was knowing you were both bound to chairs.

Spencer didn’t respond. You twisted your wrist within your binds and winced when it pulled in precisely the wrong way. Looking around, you chewed on the inside of your lip and tried to find something to help you, but there was no next step if you couldn’t get your hands free.

He groaned across from you, and you swallowed back a consolation. You studied him, his head tilted so aggressively to the side that you could see the glint of the scar on his neck. The faded mark was invisible to the naked eye, but when it caught in just the right light, you remembered the way you’d succumbed to dread in that hospital in Texas.

You should’ve called it then. You should have thrown in the proverbial towel and committed yourself to him that very night, with that guy bleeding out on the hospital floor and Penelope shouting about her ears popping.

But you’d heard the gunshot, and you’d seen the fear on his face, and at that moment, the only thing you could remember was trying to pick him up from the floor when he tried to crawl over to Maeve’s lifeless body. You remembered the way he cried when the team tried to give him space and you watched him push Diane’s body over so he could finally get a look at his dearly departed.

Even before she became the most beautiful girl in the world, you never trusted yourself with him. Your lack of faith in him pressed upon your shoulders like the weight of the sky. The pendant he had gifted you seared your chest like a brand. The Tree of Life weighed heavy over your heart.

Your romance with Spencer was like a car crash you couldn’t take your eyes off of. He relentlessly rammed his shoulder into the wall you’d constructed between you while you were on the other side reinforcing the bricks. His soft skin had been marred with bruises, and debris was littered across your body.

You should’ve called it then, but besides your sinking feeling that you’d never step up to the pedestal he had placed Maeve on, you knew you’d only have him temporarily. Life was excruciatingly short, and no amount of time would suffice when it came to him

The wall remained standing in the same way that Maeve’s had, refusing to let Spencer in, refusing to let Spencer help. “Spence,” you whispered. “Are you alright?”

Slowly, his eyes lifted to look at you, and you imagined he was witnessing his worst nightmare. Maybe he’d convince himself he was dreaming, damning you to the fate of telling him this was really happening. “You’re bleeding,” he said, voice gruff from lack of use. His brown eyes flashed with fear when they met yours, but it was no longer residual fear from Maeve’s death—it was fear for you. Had it always been fear for you? Was it possible that the terrorized look in his eye that pushed you away from him had always stemmed from his fear of losing you?

Wrinkling your nose, you finally felt it on your upper lip; blood had trickled from your nose down your face. You shook your head once and said, "It’s just my nose.” You watched his face contort as he tried to free himself from his binds.

Birds chirped outside of the windows; the setting sun invaded the blinds that shadowed the otherwise dark room. Lines of tangerine light lit his face while he ascertained your well-being for himself. There was no point in asking if you knew what had happened, and Spencer wasn’t in the habit of wasting time.

You tried using your thumbnail to cut through the twine around your wrists, the broken piece of keratin on your hand was, so far, the best option you’d had. “Did you see anything?” You asked him, trying to use conversation as a distraction from your current predicament.

He only said your name in response, wide eyes looking past you and watching as the man in the ski mask walked back into the room. The revolver that had previously been holstered on his hip was now in his hands. He spun the cylinder as he approached you, and your heart dropped when he raised the gun, pointing it at Spencer.

“No,” your voice was no more than a whisper while Spencer looked up at your abductor. He met his gaze and refused to flinch, even when he pulled the trigger. Someone who had never met Spencer would think he was entirely stone-faced in the face of a weapon, but you watched the light in his eyes shift and his Adam’s apple bob.

When he pulled the trigger and nothing happened, your chest tightened, but everything about Spencer’s demeanor changed when the gun was turned on you. The barrel pressed to your temple, you shook your head when the shouting started, “Stop!” You closed your eyes, two silent tears streaking your face as the cold metal pressed against your skin. “Let her go,” Spencer urged. “You don’t need both of us.”

The bargaining started, and memories flashed behind your eyelids. Her for me. Let me take her place.

Spencer called your name when the trigger was pulled again, and the weapon clicked without expelling a bullet.

“Where is she?” Your abductor asked, his voice ringing out in an unfamiliar accent, referring to a mystery woman.

You shook your head once when the weapon was removed from your temple, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Part of you wished you were just egging on a suspect, but you felt entirely powerless while you looked at Spencer, confused.

His clenched fist made contact with your cheek, eliciting a shout from Spencer while your head twisted to the side. “Don’t lie to me! I know she called you.”

The gun rose again, “Please,” you cried as the barrel met Spencer’s forehead. “We can help you if you tell us what’s going on,” you assured the unnamed man.

Flinching, you watched the revolver click again, now halfway through the six cartridges. You were left with three more chances and, presumably, one bullet. “Killing one of us isn’t going to get us to help you,” Spencer tried to reason with him, but if there was one thing you knew, it’s that you can’t change a mind that’s been made up.

He scoffed, lifting the gun to your head, and you felt the blood drain from your face in anticipation. Every part of you ran cold as the gun met your temple, “Spencer, close your eyes.”

You continued digging at your restraints, jumping slightly when the gun clicked again. The mechanical sound of the trigger rang in your ears, echoing endlessly when you looked back at Spencer. You swallowed back an I love you, not wanting to succumb to the cliché while you met Spencer’s eyes again. A piece of you hoped the look in your eyes said everything you needed, noises came from elsewhere in the building, and you wished it was a savior.

With the revolver up at his temple, he nodded reassuringly at you, “I know.”

“Please let him go,” you begged, your voice catching over your tears. “If this is about me, you have to let him go,” you promised.

When the trigger was pulled again with no consequences, your heart dropped. The blood-pumping organ fell through your entire body, and you looked up at Spencer, unable to hide the terror in your eyes.

You shook your head as the gun was pressed against your temple, “Spencer, don’t watch.” You faced down your own death, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled as you tugged at your binds in a last-minute escape attempt. “You don’t need to see this,” you didn’t add again, but the thought crossed your mind while you thought of the necklace that sat over your heart.

“I have to see you through,” Spencer insisted, silver lining his eyes while he furiously pulled at his own restraints.

Your chest rose and fell in desperate, shaking breaths. You couldn’t do it; you couldn’t meet his eyes with a revolver pressed to your skull. You should’ve done it. You should’ve called it then, but that was how life worked. Things were already clearest when they were in the rearview window. There was nothing for you to do.

All Spencer could do was watch as he pulled the trigger, and the cycle repeated.

"History repeats itself, but in such cunning disguise that we never detect the resemblance until the damage is done." - Sydney J. Harris

[phaeton-flier]

This isn't the same as a rigorous philosophical argument, but my suspicion about the cloning/teleporter problem is that if such a device were created, everyone drops their issues in 5 minutes. I think you see your friend for lunch a week after they casually travel to Mars and they're the same and you stop caring regardless of they're the same de re. They certainly seem to think they're the same!

Eventually the desire to go to a destination wedding outweighs whatever abstract fear you have about this being some abstract death, you walk through, and you get told that due to an accident you were actually created 10 seconds ago with a collection of memories no one ever experienced. You are a traveler from nowhere whose most cherished memories and friends never existed

[pixierainbows]

30daysofautismacceptance

April 14th: What are some of the most difficult aspects of being autistic to you? What makes it difficult? Talk about it.

For Pixie is really hard be being nonverbal and have cognitive disability . So many things Pixie just not can do or understand .

Pixie see other autism people often say need direct conversation because not can understand social cues or language that be metaphors . But Pixie also really struggle to understand direct communication , especially abstract subjects , and often need information and words be simplified to be able have any chance of understand .

Also , People are too much expect AAC devices fix all communication problems . and . maybe is true for other nonverbal people what can type make own words . But not true for Pixie , not can make own words , not can type . Pixie communicate with symbol based AAC device because not can make own words . need pictures , images , icons to communicate .

Sensory problems are also very very very disabling for Pixie .

[corviiids]

"i suck at summaries": a dubiously helpful list of tips for how to do a summaries

by no means am i an expert. but in the hopes that this is helpful.

fic summaries have two main purposes:

tell a reader what the premise of your fic is in one glance, and

provide a 'hook' that convinces them to click on it.

based on those two purposes, here's what you should aim to do:

pack the key information into something that can be read while scrolling, and

make your fic stand out.

how do you do that. there are many different ways. ymmv. here are some starting points which may help if you are really, truly stuck.

details under the cut. in summary:

know your premise

keep it short and sharp

demonstrate your style

1: can you describe your premise in maximum three lines?

fewer is better. im not saying your summary has to BE fewer than three lines, you just need to be able to describe the premise as concisely as possible. not the whole fic. not everything that happens. just your premise.

being able to condense your ideas this way will improve your understanding of the work and make it easier to summarise.

sometimes it's a bit hard to isolate what exactly your premise is, especially if you were just writing into the void. so here are some questions you can ask yourself to figure it out:

what was the idea that spurred you to write the fic?

what is the climactic action in the fic?

if the fic is an au, canon divergence, what if, etc - what is the point of difference between this and canon?

if the fic is based around a trope, a genre, a particular device - how did you apply it, what makes the work familiar, and what makes it different?

this is important, because:

2: brevity is the soul of wit

now that you know your premise, it's time to jazz it up. turn it into a one-liner or similarly catchy pitch. give it a makeover.

it doesn't have to be literally one line. however, do not make your summary super long. do not make either your summary or your tags a massive block of text. the reader is scrolling. they have not yet decided to invest time in your fic.

the ideal summary is stylish and concise. your reader should be able to take it in without pausing for too long. it gives them a good impression of you: you know how to be economical with your sentences, which means your writing is probably easy and enjoyable to read.

and on that note:

3: including an excerpt is always an option

an optional option. but if you're stuck, it's a free card to play.

readers want to know that your writing style matches what they like to read. showing off your style can help you stand out to an interested reader.

try and find a few lines which are representative of the premise, representative of your style, and sufficiently intriguing. an excerpt is a try before you buy. you just wrote a whole fic. you want people to read the whole fic and enjoy your work. so show them what you have to offer.

what is an example, postmaker

look im not more qualified to give this advice than anyone else, but here's what i do if it helps. i typically pick out a short excerpt and include a short pitch underneath it. that way the reader knows what i sound like and what the fic is about.

here is a baldur's gate 3 fic summary

shadowheart says, “kill l–” “not lae’zel, darling, it’s too obvious. in fact, both of you are banned from killing each other.” astarion thinks for a moment. “in the game, at least.” -- the gang plays fuck, marry, kill.

this fic has a basic premise and hinges on dialogue, so i picked some sample dialogue to demonstrate what my grasp on the character dynamics looks like and then added one line to explain what the fic is about.

here is a death note fic summary (death note spoilers) (i guess)

The night Ryuzaki dies, L appears in Light's bed. -- (every night when light goes to sleep, his dreams place him in a romantic relationship with his newly-dead rival. it makes him sick.)

this fic has a more abstract premise, so i picked a short excerpt to demonstrate what the tone of the fic is (a bit mysterious). then i added two lines: just enough information to explain what the catalyst of the fic is, but no more than that, so that the reader will be intrigued.

here is a persona 5 fic summary

Ren grins. “You want me to date Goro?” “Pretend-date Goro,” Ann corrects. “And make his crush jealous.” “This is not going to work,” Goro says. “Sure, I’ll do it,” says Ren, still grinning. He does his own rendition of Ann’s eyelash bat. “Go out with me, Goro-kun?” “I’m older than you, so show me a little respect,” Goro says crossly. “Our relationship is off to a bad start, Ren-kun.” -- (or: what not to do when you're fake-dating your real crush.)

this fic is based on a premise everyone knows well (fake-dating trope), so i picked dialogue that samples the tone of the fic and of the key relationship so that readers can decide if i write the dynamic in a way they personally vibe with. then i added a line to tell them what the trope is, so that fake-dating trope enjoyers know that's what it is.

anyway. hope that helps

[letterful]

Unmediated presence has funded concepts of value in the Western metaphysical tradition since its origins, but Knausgaard’s ingenuity, and the global resonance of his voice (blockbuster sales and translation into thirty-five languages; an avant-garde cohort at work on the antifiction he enunciates) foretell something historically situated right now. Indeed, he names it: value crisis. Nothing more than what phenomenally exists can be produced; all that remains is fluid, effulgent, sui generis exchange. Fiction, narrative, impersonality, and collectivity withdraw; reality, voice, personality, and atomism ascend. To get at value, get rid of mediation.

Among literati, immediacy as literary style goes more readily by the name “autofiction.” Auto is a Greek reflexive pronoun: self, same, of itself, independent, natural, not made. In English compounds, it usually means self-acting and spontaneous, as in “automatic.” The recently surging autofictions acquit as fictions that are not fictions, not made but just extant, exalting a presence preceding representation. As a rule, autofictions follow the fight plan Knausgaard outlines for eschewing the devices of fictification (character, plot, and narrative). Rather than building character, they advance a protagonist who is the same as the author in name and circumstance and real friends and real family and, above all, real voice. Rather than narrativity and plot, they purvey first-person present-tense uneventful short-spans, just elliptical ruminations in real time. Redacting fictional construction, duration, and figuration, autofiction delivers identity, instantaneity, it-ness. It moves “to get to the things in themselves.” Through these varying neutralizations of literary synthesis, autofictions put fictionality itself under erasure, crowning immediacy as writerly imperative for the moment.

(...) Anti-mediation coalesces the literary field at present into a dominant style—one that converges hitherto-distinct genres of theory, fiction, memoir, the essay, and informal personal expression in a ubiquitous polyvalent writing. In the liquid emulsion of these modes, in their propensity for indistinct blur, in their churning flow, glides the writerly guise of propulsive circulation: frictionless uptake, fluid exchange, pouring directness, jet speed. Slick with this style, we may fail to read how the “auto” of autofiction inscribes the self-manifestive quality common to the governmental ideology of human capital, how the engulfing formlessness of genre melt ferries less the genius of authors than the flooded ruins of institutions like the university or the publishing house, how the defigurative realness of unadorned charismatic persons suffering execrably presages the dystopia already here. Immediacy as literary style holds incredible lure, but it sticks too close. In resigning the potential of writing to estrange, abstract, and mediate; in castigating the capacity of writing to collectivize and convoke; in deflating the power of writing to fabricate more than the immediately tangible detritus of evacuated sociality, immediacy writing collapses into self-identical emission: “This!”

— ANNA KORNBLUH, from Immediacy, or The Style of Too Late Capitalism.