#but kids. are often pretty fully realized communicators in whatever method comes naturally to them from a pretty early age

[heedra]

honestly i think my biggest pet peeve bar none, especially when it comes to talking about media and social media, is when ppl who clearly spend a minimal amount of time around kids (particularly little time listening to how they talk to each other and to adults they actually trust) critique something by adamantly asserting that kids of a certain age group 'wouldn't talk like that/say things that complex' when they absolutely fucking would and youd know this, if, again, you knew kids at all

[craftmanatee]

Fantasy, is good, bad and ugly.

DISCLAIMER: Most of what I am writing here is for myself and not much consideration will take place. This is just a write up of all the things ive experienced and researched on put together as concisely as possible. A practice essay of sorts.

I do find myself to have finally separated what makes Fantasy what it is from Escapism or just Entertainment and how it works, especially for us today. Fantasy is used incredibly vaguely, going between its natural definition (Something akin to Imagining or daydreaming)  to a specific genre in storytelling or visual or description of something. These are just methods of using the word that change based on how it is used, but it has been used often and vaguely to the point that it looses its original intent. A lot of what you use the Word on can already be better replaced with other words such as escapism, daydreaming or imagining, surrealistic etc.

Here is my addition to the definition of Fantasy: “Fantasy is an imagination derived from the Real World in order to better understand it.” Or “An explanation of the Real world”

This means that Fantasy can be negative, or positive. The imagination, or simplification or replacing of the things you dont know with things you do know. It is what we use to explain many things to children and people alike, especially if the specifics of the explanation will not suffice to the target person.

As soon as you put together this intent in which to understand the Real World through Fantasy, you can better identify what makes good fantasy, bad fantasy and Ugly fantasy.

To put Ugly Fantasy away real quick (As it is an entirely different subject). Ugly fantasy in the case of this writing is fantasies that abuse the uneducated, gullible or any person prone to fall for some kind of falsehood that flips their belief of the real world into something bad. So ideologies, fanaticism or any kind of prospect that changes how you perceive anything, into something that is not even remotely fundamentally real of that said thing.

Good Fantasy is fantasy that manages to convince, persuade or anything to you of the subject that they are trying to convey, but in a way that affects you. An example is simple folk tales told to Children such as “Hansel and Gretel”. Stories like these are meant to scare or teach kids of things to avoid, not do, etc. In a way, the same way how a Slasher Horror movie shows us what is stupid, or dangerous, such as splitting up.

Bad Fantasy is simply just fantasy that dont follow real world implications and as such could be misinterpreted. An example is Pornography. Therefor, for anything that is identified as “Bad fantasy”, its good to learn to not take in any implied effects, be it emotional or educational as true. But rather for entertainment purposes mainly. A better name for this would be “Simple” fantasy or “plain” fantasy to better describe it into the current definitions of Fantasy.

But for now, it should be Called Bad Fantasy as it is often used and is what people think Fantasy is in aspects of media today that I will point out.

Fantasy today is not Fantasy. It is escapism. You pick something up, it could be a book, movie or a game and you know how it is fiction and thus escape into it. Depending on your preferences, some things are suited to have you escape more into it than others simply because of either familiarity, or a deeper understanding of the subject. Movies as an example combine many aspects between visuals, story and music to have you have certain senses put your guard down and fall for whatever fantasy the movie has in place. There are many people who adore movies and have seen so many to the point where these cinematic tricks no longer work on them and they then happen to see how flawed the fantasy is. But that does not mean that it cannot be enjoyed.

This is where we separate Escapism and Fantasy from each other. I hate how (ex:)Toy Story 3 or a majority of animated films play out, but I do enjoy watching them. I know what comes next, but just maybe, I will still find something to like about it. This is me just liking a piece of Fiction for my own reasons, this does not apply to everyone.

But I can still identify how in Toy Story in general, has an amazing fantasy about better taking care of your belongings, or in this case, Toys. (I just think that the Fantasy can be enhanced if it did not fall slave into typical cinematic story beats)

But what we have majority of the time is fantasies that play an exaggeration to something. Such as power fantasies. Or fantasies that is exactly what you want. These are “Bad” fantasies that dont really add to any understanding, it is simply for entertainment purposes and feeds whatever “Sin”(Lust, greed whatever, lol) that you have in an innocent light. But I will claim that these fantasies are eroding Fantasy in general by the chance that these “Bad” fantasies can be misinterpreted and be wished upon. The reason why there is so much bad fantasies is because of misinterpretation of prior fantasies.

Here are some examples as to what is good Fantasy and what is Bad fantasy and what is Escapism, and how they surmount to themselves.

Lord of the rings is a story told and derived from the real world that puts conflicts into some kind of characterization. The fantasy tells of something very deep to the point of some kind of spirituality, religious or subjects of fate in general. But the Escapism is how the world is dressed up in these characterizations such as the different races and creatures. It is easier to buy in on a story of grand fate if it has appealing subjects. But, simply having elves should not be enough, there needs to be rules set in place and functions. Because of this, you then also buy into the characterizations. Basically, LotR didnt have what it had without reason. I do believe Tolkien did this in reverse however. He first had a Fantasy, but dressed it up later to better escape into. It is how Elves are Elves, and not just a different tribe of humans.

UnderTale is a good modern fantasy example and leads into a different subject such as modern intelligence! People today are a lot more educated than before, and thus when they want to escape into something, the fantasy needs to be really good in order for people to buy into it. Folk tales have been updated time and time again because of innovations such as writing, books etc that demanded more explanation in these stories. People asked more questions as stories get re-told which finally revealed cracks in these old stories. Undertale, however is a different kind of medium. Undertale tells of a pretty typical fantastical story of hope, but, it is the method that it tells it that gets people to buy into the story. As a Videogame, Undertale directly addresses the player for its actions. It also subverts videogame expectations in order to have you truly appreciate the message that undertale generally gives out. Even when the player disobeys this message, undertale still plays in on its fantasy that it is a Videogame. And as such, Undertale very well uses modern intelligence and expectations to the point of players realizing into listening and understanding what it has to offer.

The Marvel Cinematic universe is nothing but colourful escapism. It takes a simple fantasy of becoming truly special, and stretches it out far and wide. The best quote from a superhero film is probably “With great power comes great responsibility.” Just as a quote, this is the fantasy that Superhero fiction plays with even without the knowledge of this quote. Fundamentally and purely, this is what superheroes end up doing. Their power also becomes a responsibility. But, despite this. The movies, comics, etc mostly play with  “ With great power..” portion of the quote. When a supehero character finally reaches a paragon status and finally realizes the full quote within its character, there wouldnt be any more stories to tell with that superhero. This is why we keep seeing reboots and rehashes. They keep starting over, witnessing the journey that it takes to fully realize that one quote again and again. And therefor, they are mostly being retold again for the fantasy of having super powers, or great power.

Fantasy is incredibly vague today, and I do feel like my added definition has you better deconstruct a fantasy from anything. Fantasy has started getting wishy washy near the 80s and onwards, and is why there is so many “Bad” fantasies today. With the advent of video games and new generations of people, it will become more clear and easier to seperate Good fantasy from Bad fantasy and Ugly Fantasy. Even movies, shows and games have a little Ugly fantasy that needs to be made aware of. Such as how Overwatch, a game that pandered to the LGBT community, making it all feel insincere, a complete opposite effect of fantasy.

After so long, I have read and researched on certain genres and going into deep analysis on them has made me discover a philosophy, or a new genre I will try to develop on. It is called Punk-Fantasy and that is a Write up I will make continuing this one. (And after that write up, actual proper content will be uploaded...)

[meadowhilley]

what’s wrong with this picture

Part I: A Walk in the (Upside-Down) Park

I’ve always wanted people to like me. As far back as I can remember, though, I was never convinced they did.

Don’t worry, I’ll spare you the self-tortured speculation bit where I delve into the possible origins of my persistent insecurity. All I want to say now is that, however strong or self-assured or even arrogant I may have appeared to you over the years, what I most wanted, always, was for you to understand me, to accept me, to tell me that the person that I am is alright by you.

Then one day you did. It was three years ago. On October 30, 2014, actually, the eve of what could have been the scariest Halloween of my life. This invigorating shot in the arm came just hours before Chris and I would sit down with a team of medical experts who claimed to have discovered a relatively successful protocol for dealing with the zombie apocalypse. Little did any of us know at the time that you, my friends, had slipped me a powerful antidote the day before, one whose real effects would manifest and multiply over the months and years to come.

On that Halloween eve, in my shock at having been abruptly relegated to the ranks of the undead, I turned to Facebook. As one does. And there you were, my imagined community, ready to inoculate me against the looming horror. A motley group of friends that reflected better than anything else the complex composition of my character—character and friends I would need now more than ever. Looking to you, I realized, was the best way of looking at me. The converse, I understood, was equally true. Mirror, mirror, I began. A weird approach to fighting cancer, admittedly. An indication I’d spent too long in fairytale land as a kid. As wild-eyed Joyce Byers of Stranger Things has repeatedly insisted, “I know what this looks like!” By that, of course, she means BATSHIT CRAZY. Unless you happen to be the one who has found a way to talk with your missing son via Christmas lights. Or who feels you’ve discovered a “cure” for your disease in regularly confiding your deepest fears and greatest foibles in the world’s most public forum.

Self-reflection, I quickly discovered, can look an awful lot like an exercise in vanity, its mirror-image and near enemy.

Just as poison can serve as medicine.

Patriotism can resemble treason.

Standing up can involve taking a knee.

Abuse can masquerade as tough love.

And, if you should find yourself suddenly separated from everything you hold dear by the thin wall concealing an eerie dimension you never suspected could exist, then your frantic effort to break down that space-time barrier with an axe or whatever goddamn tool you happen to have on hand will likely appear to many concerned onlookers as the textbook sign of a nervous breakdown.

(Note my weapons of choice: a pen, a child’s fork, a pair of scissors, needle-nose pliers, lip gloss, and a few fake bullets.)

If any of my soul-searching exploits of the past three years ever struck you as exhibitionist—just the sort of self-absorbed, navel-gazing, attention-seeking, ego-driven kind of behavior that gives social media its bad name (well, that and the whole selling-out-to-the-Russians thing)—you are not alone. On many occasions, I myself came to question the methods I’d adopted and to ask what hidden motivations my sneaky subconscious might be cleverly concealing.

My closest friends and family shared these concerns, but whenever they voiced them I justified my Facebooking and blogging and memoir writing as so many means to achieving a noble and necessary end: healing.

Of course, even as I emphatically defended myself against charges of look-at-me narcissism, I was fully and uncomfortably aware of the fact that how we arrive at our destination is bound to change the very nature and outcome of the journey itself.

Social media can have a terrifically corrosive power. We know this. Evidence that these platforms can fracture and divide our community more than they unite us is everywhere apparent. Many social scientists have taken to the soapbox of late, screaming that our devices have made zombies of us all, preaching that the end of the world is nigh, and offering statistics to back their claims.

Showing up regularly in such a fraught virtual environment was a risky proposition, I knew, being all too aware of our susceptibility as humans to the lure of likes, the intoxicating effects of flattery, and the tendency to get greedy and hoard the sort of social capital such attention bestows. Hip to all this, I was a bit like Will Byers, understanding that, even if my initial intention was to use my insight to spy on the Shadow Monster in the hope of defeating it, I could easily end up a double agent in the employ of pure evil.

But whatever. It didn’t seem to matter how often I flipped the perspective switch during those internal debates about the advisability of “performative self-examination,” as I’d come to think of it. I always found myself coming back here, to this massive virtual theater, and awkwardly uttering “Ahem” to get your attention.

Driving my actions was something far more powerful than what the visible world was willing to reveal. Like Joyce, I felt what I felt. I knew what I knew. This was a salvage operation; at stake was not only the rebuilding of my body but the redemption of my soul. To hell with what it looked like. Just sell me the fucking Christmas lights, Donald. And yes, I mean on credit.

There’s something seriously wrong with me, I began by admitting to us all three years ago. And to the public confession that I was harboring a horrifying thing at my core, you responded with 162 likes, 146 comments, and 24 shares, which combined told me what I’d always secretly hoped to hear: that you liked me anyway, that some of you even loved me, and that you cared whether I lived or died.

It was a glorious and strange occasion, like attending my own funeral. Announcing my diagnosis helped us all dump our inhibitions in a screw it, let’s hug sort of way. Within the space of an instant I received this rare and beautiful gift: learning how you felt about me without having to die first.

Everyone should be so lucky. Seriously.

You and I wanted to have a moment, right then and there, while it was still possible. We felt compelled and instinctively driven to enact a basic human transaction at the brink, for our mutual benefit. What we had to figure out were the terms of our trade.

Conventional wisdom says cancer patients need casseroles. While my kids thank those of you who cooked to show you cared over the six-month period when I found even the taste of water overpowering and insufferable, what I most wanted for myself was something very different, and really hard to ask for: an audience.

Hard because, if asking for pretty much anything is awkward, it can be downright mortifying to walk up to the mic and announce, “May I have your attention, please? I have something very worthwhile and important to say.”

Especially for a 5’2” female who indulges in self-doubt the way that others devour a pint of ice cream (ok, I do that, too). Inviting you to read along as I muddled through some early responses to The Big Questions, I was always excruciatingly aware of the bigness of my ask. Time is precious, after all, and far greater voices than mine constantly compete for your attention. But there was so much I wanted to tell you. So much, in fact, that I was dying to tell you.

However lovely the intentions behind donated comfort food, forcing myself to enjoy it in the context of my cancer felt a lot like roasting marshmallows while my house was burning, to be perfectly honest. Every one of my instincts was fully engaged in the all-consuming survival effort, and there was a clear consensus among those deep and shrill interior voices that, if my existence was to mean anything at all to this world, I needed to express myself 1.) immediately and continuously, 2.) to the exclusion of many other worthy pursuits, 3.) within hearing range of an audience, 4.) without any hope of reward beyond simply being heard.

Here’s something you may have figured out about me by now: I am no good at playing the part of Helpless Cancer Victim. No more than I can pull off the role of Classroom Party Mom. “Don’t count on me for cupcakes,” I recently explained to my daughter’s first-grade teacher. “But hey, if you’re open to some curriculum enhancement, I’ll bake you up a big batch.”

Please understand: this is not me acting all smarty-pants, holier-than-thou, self-righteous, proud-to-a-fault, or ungrateful for your concrete aid when I was at my lowest. This is not me judging all of those compromised folks who legitimately need casseroles, or even those who are getting on just fine but would like to enjoy a steaming bowl of consolation without a side dish of complicated, thank you very much. Nor is this me looking down my nose at the phenomenal cupcake bakers of this world who brighten our kids’ days (I love you ladies for all you do—and yes, it’s almost exclusively ladies who do this very important work). It is simply a matter of me knowing me. Of me understanding that the best of what I have to offer is something far less comforting than casseroles or cupcakes, but just as important.

For the better part of my life, most folks haven’t known what to make of me. Like Carla Bruni, “je suis excessive” by nature. I was always too much for people. Too intense. Too far out there. Too eclectic. Too intimidating. Too earnest. Too touche-à-tout (all-over-the-place). Too outspoken. The proof? I just compared myself to Carla Bruni, France’s perfectly bilingual supermodel, actress, singer songwriter, and former First Lady. Who does that?

I’ll tell you who: the sort of person who has been looked at askance, questioned, criticized, and reined in all her life for expressing this brand of intolerable excess.

Someone should really take you down a peg or two, I’ve heard more than once.

You think you’re so great.

On whose authority do you make such claims?

Goody-goody!

Who do you think you are?

Can’t you just focus on one thing at a time?

Stop pointing your finger at me!

What makes you think you have something worthwhile to share?

How about you just shut up already and give someone else a chance to talk?

None of which felt good. If those voices had it right, I’d be forced to conclude there was something seriously wrong with me. The prospect of approaching life in a fundamentally different way would necessarily mean fighting the wild nature even my name told me I was meant to embody.

But still the voices persisted. Which is likely what led to my most valiant effort at shutting myself up: a 13-year relationship in which I was actively discouraged from expressing myself in almost every way imaginable.

Then the most amazing thing happened: I got cancer!

Again, an admittedly excessive thing to do. Not something I’d exactly gone and signed up for. But I’ll be damned if this illness wasn’t the perfect antidote to my lifelong alienation problem.

Suddenly, nobody begrudged me my excesses. No one wanted to be in my shoes. Nobody envied my lot in life. People pretty much stopped telling me to be more this and less that. My body was not a source of jealousy or desire. My manic antics didn’t grate on people’s nerves, or at least not the way they used to. That old, persistent claim that the deck had been stacked in my favor was abruptly dropped. And just like that, after a lifetime of curbing my natural élan so as not to make people uncomfortable, after decades carrying guilt over what I’d been given and wearing shame because my very being could often seem an unwelcome excess, I was finally free to just be me.

The jig was up. My cancer had outed me, revealed what I’d long been concealing. And the only way to spare folks discomfort was to hide the fact that I was sick… which of course could only make me sicker. Repressing, stifling, conforming to expectations—this cautious approach had clearly been unhealthy. Besides which, following all the rules had failed to keep me safe from mortal danger.

Call me crazy, what others saw as a tragedy I experienced as a liberation.

In the Upside-Down, I felt quite suddenly well-liked. Welcome. Just right. The sensation Alice must have felt when she finally stopped growing either too big or too small. Or the comfort Goldilocks found in tasting Baby Bear’s porridge, sitting in his chair, and sleeping in his bed.

The natural bravado and intensity I’d carried into many of my earlier endeavors and that had often struck observers as problematic were instantaneously recast in a heroic light. Whereas in the past I’d been accused of overreach and gaudy showmanship, now the very same gestures were perceived as acts of “incredible bravery” and “kick-ass determination.”

Thanks… I guess? I stammered, totally baffled, knowing that this “amazing courage” people spoke of was nothing more than me being me, only the context had shifted dramatically. The extreme nature of my circumstances finally seemed a good fit for my own radical character. My fearlessness finally had a proper outlet. This is going to sound weird, I know. Offensive, even. But I immediately knew that cancer was going to be easy compared to feeling unliked. That had been excruciating. This would be a walk in the park.

I’ve got this, I assured everyone.

But what I was really thinking was: Holy crap, I was made for this shit.

Ever hear the story about how Br’er Fox wanted to kill Br’er Rabbit in the worst possible way? “Hang me from the highest tree!” pleaded Br’er Rabbit. “Drown me in the deepest lake!” he implored. But please, PLEASE, p-l-e-a-s-e don’t throw me in that there briar patch!” Which is precisely what Br’er Fox proceeded to do, letting predatory spite blind him to the fact that his prey had royally played him.

Like the tricky rabbit, I was born and bred in this here briar patch, my friends. Born and bred.

(to be continued)