#compassless

[bardorable]

it's a new day today for the first time in months-- the sky delights with dancing and it tastes of september through and through; the mountains are wild with the colours of goodbye as the road unfurls between, so i follow the sun where i know it leads me home; i am leaving, i am leaving. may i never return.

-compassless

[tavina-writes]

I do not know much about LoCH but how about Huang Rong for the blorbo ask?

I love and adore Huang Rong and my moral compassless babygirl has done nothing wrong ever. With Guo Jing she is an unstoppable duo. Her dad is a pathetic wet cat of a man. But alas! still no bingo.

:D I adore her.

[gods-blade]

a vagabond; compassless as it were. compassionless, companionless.

you never know what the daynight brings- don't know if its going to suck you or fuck you..

if you don't have a destination, you can't be lost...

winters in the wilderness are difficult but so is heating a home....

you thought you knew what love was? you're having a laugh.....

[fistfuloflightning]

Oooh *grabby hands* let me reeeeeaad! Ngl compassless is the best way to explore new places, that’s how you find fun aus and weird relationship dynamics and strange little hole-in-the-wall cafes that sell bubble tea only at night, so I think you have the right idea and now it’s making me even more intrigued as to what you managed to cram into this fic 👀

Also, here’s the big forehead smooch I promised you: 💋💋💋 thank youuuuu!!

*runs off to immediately start reading*

Quick question

Do you accept gifts on ao3? Because I have the first chapter of the YueYi fic finished and I'm not even sure if you do

Oh wow (⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄) Yes I do!!

THE FIRST YUEYI FIC!!! This is a day for the ages—I’m super excited to read what direction you decided to take it. I’ve really liked your other svsss stuff and this is something new, for both of us lol! (If you can’t tell, I’m vibrating like a hyperactive puppy 😆)

[sapphireluminescence]

Amatonormative Invective

I'm so tired of love.

Please don't say that there are other kinds of love. I know, okay? I've written an ode to a best friend and an elegy to an interest and called it love both times—I know. But the rest of the world doesn't seem to. Any kind of "love" I might deign to describe will be assumed romantic, and my own arcing terms will be turned against me to hold romance aloft as the all-encompassing, end-all-be-all singular thing to die for. And so, I am tired of love. Spare me the lecture.

But at the same time, this ire is not against the idea of intimacy; I have no quarrel with connection. Romance is not inherent to either, and though it still feels like a betrayal of the sentiment, I do not want to brave the world on my own.

I want to know the quiet of companionship. Not silence—not the frigid abyss of an empty house, where every sound is startling in its foreignness, nor the tightrope tension of tripping over porcelain, reading someone else's anger into the brittle air—just, quiet. Mornings in a light-flooded bedroom, waking up slow and watching someone else blink themselves out of sleep. Inane musings over separate tasks, paper-airplane banter tossed and caught from room to room with ease. Afternoons sprawled on the living room floor, watching sunlight slant through the windows to illuminate their face, eyes molten in the glow. A study of peace, curled up in office chairs listening to rustling pages and the breath of another. Lofty midnight ramblings, hands a flurry of motion and still failing to keep pace with a brain sparking ahead, but content in the knowledge of a mind to match.

I want the warmth of someone else's presence. A partner, I guess, in the purest sense of the word. "A person who shares or is associated with another in some action or endeavor," if the action is living and the endeavor is the building of a future. The promise of an ally. Steady at one shoulder, solid back-to-back. The assurance of a crewmate through storm and smooth sailing alike, over the ceaseless seas of this life.

But the world has agreed that these things are reserved, that they are romantic at their core.

I don't—have never—seen why.

They require trust, and understanding, and dedication, and a thousand other things, but none of them are love.

And I know it's a teenage cliche, to fear a future spent unlovable, but this is not quite that, twists around it and never quite aligns. I would have been happy piecing together an existence with friends, laughter rising through the rafters of a shared house and life, would have found joy, and warmth, and peace. I could have found myself a family—fuck what the world thinks love should be—and settled comfortably into my own skin.

Could have.

Could have, and cannot.

There is no future I can see where my friends stay, where they don't fly from my side like swallows in winter wind. Each disperses after the other, seeking warmer shores, absorbed into insular units of nuclear family to leave me, drifting unmoored and compassless, searching the skies for a sign of their soaring. The thought of a life without them makes me ache to the bone, an endless march of cold mornings in an echoing house. Their absence turns the future bleak and desolate, frost creeping over my brightest dreams.

How could they stay? You've seen what the world says:

My mother tells me to be careful about whom I marry. My father tells me to start a family early. I have expressed nothing but disinterest in either, but the advice persists, because surely it will be relevant one day, because I am young and minds change, because of course I will get married in the end.

I tell someone in a moment of confiding that I don't want kids, not really, would be satisfied with a cat or dog and a space of my own. They say, "Yeah, that's what I thought when I was like, eight."

The sentiment is passed over school tables and internet cables, words not meant to be sharp, but regardless, they find a mark.

"Reasons to stay alive," and a future marriage is at the top, followed directly by starting a family.

"Don't worry," someone consoles. "It's alright to take things slow, you'll find someone!"

"Friends don't cancel other plans" for each other the way lovers do, the song insists.

"True love," someone proclaims, like romance is the only kind that counts.

"I don't want to die alone" equates to needing to get married.

"Friendship doesn't count, doesn't last, isn't enough."

After all, your spouse is supposed to be

"The most important person,"

"Your other half,"

"Soulmate,"

"The one."

Under this barrage, who is meant to resist? Who would think to stray from the concrete course laid before them? When it's held up as the pinnacle and standard, the ultimate goal, who would dare to question?

To leave the expected trajectory—never as simple as stepping sideways, all bitter fury and disillusionment. Half the songs I once loved are tainted now, innuendo and implication mocking from the shadows. It tears cruel thorns through the fabric of this world, seeps through the cracks, into tropes and stories and conversations, desecrating spaces I once called holy.

For those who do not stray, these are words and nothing more, harmless briar in places they need not tread. They have been spared this casual clawing at my heart, and though I cannot begrudge the ones I care for their immunity, I seethe with a soundless envy.

Two roads diverge in a yellow wood—one a barely-there footpath through the trees, unnoticeable from the main route unless you're looking for a way out, mist-shrouded and dense with bramble, the other, a well-trodden trail through open fields that stretch, uninterrupted to where the waving grass meets the horizon. This one leads where I cannot follow, so I have taken the one less traveled by.

I trust that it will get easier. The slope will even out and the path will open up, mist and bristling vines alike will recede. I know this. But for now, this is an aimless trek through unforgiving and unmapped wilds, and the journey before me has never looked so long or so lonely.

[futuristika]

Genesis P-Orridge: Broken into pieces in order to be one body

Genesis P-Orridge: Broken into pieces in order to be one body

It’s been a year since Genesis P-Orridge, as she put it, left her body. “It’s time to go home,” she said before saying goodbye to the world on March 14. She was too free to measure life by death. At the end of her journey, she had arrived home, home. So what was the journey like? To understand this a little, one should go back to the compassless journey of Genesis, as if we are entering to a…

[shadowoflightx]

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence - whether much that is glorious - whether all that is profound - does spring from disease of thought - from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awaking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the ��light ineffable,” and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, “agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi.”

Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora, The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Tales, p.115   

[anothersadgayboy]

My chest feels tight.

Like the rope between a ship and it’s anchor in the middle of a storm at sea. It loosens inbetween waves, only to tighten again as the next wave hits.

My head feels foggy.

Like the morning after the storm. The captain surfaces to the deck, compassless, with no sight of land or safety. Lost. Unsure of which direction to travel.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

Democracy Bedevils Brazil’s President Bolsonaro

His rocky first six months rebut fears of a return to authoritarianism.

Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro has had a rough debut. Congress recently scotched his decree to relax gun controls, limited his discretionary spending powers and claimed vetting rights over public regulators. Over the howls of the Bible-slinging right-wingers who voted him into office, the Supreme Court made homophobia a crime. The retired army generals he recruited to watch his back have instead been walking back his campaign bluster against leading trade partner China and muting talk about invading Venezuela. “They’re turning me into the Queen of England,” Bolsonaro complained.

Thanks to Bolsonaro’s authoritarian exhortations, Brazil’s renascent democracy was supposed to be in peril and a return to dictatorship imminent. Yet six crisis-filled months of mercurial populism have turned that fantasy on its head. Brazil’s constitutional democracy looks fit to survive Bolsonaro; the question is, can Bolsonaro survive democracy?

To be sure, Bolsonaro remains unbowed. Brazil’s strong presidential system lets him set the policy agenda, regale cronies with pork and patronage, and keep congress on its back foot by firing off executive decrees. Indeed, only one elected president since Brazil’s return to democracy 34 years ago issued more decrees this early in his term, and he was forced to resign in disgrace. (Given the willfulness in Brasilia, that record may not stand.) Congress has shown it can push back; it just overturned his proposed gun bill. But don’t call Bolsonaro a figurehead just yet. “My pen is mightier than yours,” he told lower house Speaker Rodrigo Maia.

Such imperiousness, naturally, has fed the public funk over the state of Brazil’s constitutional democracy.  Yet that misses the mark. More than a nostalgia for autocracy, Bolsonaro’s penchant for decrees belies a political disability. He spent 28 years on congress’s back bench, wooing favored constituencies by championing small-bore bills, most of which languished in committee. He has brought the same modus operandi to Brazil’s highest office, flogging pet causes—open carry, home schooling and abolishing speed traps—as if they were national priorities. “His is a typical lower tier lawmaker’s agenda,” said Getulio Vargas Foundation political Octavio Amorim Neto. “It’s what Bolsonaro knows how to do well and it spares him from squandering political capital on unpopular measures.”

The danger is not one of a “country speeding toward an authoritarian past,” as the lugubrious narrator puts it in Netflix’s “The Edge of Democracy.” In many ways the country’s civic spirit and institutions have never been so resilient. The larger problem is compassless politics, which corrodes consensus and encourages populist outsiders and adventurers.

Continue reading.

[ohpollenpowder]

Knowing what we do. Just from HoT. Caithe, not knowing how her own Hunt will progress, just her knowing that the Scion is out there. (Also just her playing at her Hunt being like ours.) I'd say hers is almost just as ephemeral. Granted. We—as a Sylvari Commander—surpass what our Dream and our Hunt could have ever imagined for us. Caithe still had hers guiding her up until that point. We were compassless. Just driven by morals and ideals.

I dunno where I was going with this, honestly. But. Ideas.

[streetlamped]

Kids who grew up on teen titans, hows your god awfully straight moral compass going with your moral compassless friends? oh, and hows that bad daddy/mommy characters obsession going? did i mention a weird soft spot for specifically rose wilson? and jason todd? hmmmmm???

[aoabmur65]

a poet

is a compassless,

sometimes

compassionate person

in a space

strangely open

but private like a wound...

-

-

-

-

-

just saying

poemssongsphotographsandmemories.wordpress.com

[sczerbetto]

“They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi.” ― Edgar Allan Poe, Eleonora (Italico Brass) #bibliobibuli #leitura #livros #leitores #frases #citações #pensamentos https://www.instagram.com/p/CTJxL4lrlrq/?utm_medium=tumblr

[baredmirror]

This sense of the numinous has many constituents: but one of the most important of these is what Otto calls an apprehension of 'awe-inspiring mystery', the mysterium tremendum of the divine. Such religious 'dread' or 'awe' has, as an antecedent stage, 'daemonic dread ... with its queer perversion, a sort of abortive off-shoot, the dread of ghosts. It first begins to stir in the feeling of something "uncanny" [unheimlich is the term Otto uses]. It is this feeling which, emerging in the mind of primeval man, forms the starting point for the entire religious development in history. "Demons" and "gods" alike spring from this root and all the products of "mythological apperception" or "fantasy" are nothing but different modes in which it has been objectified.' ... no one, I think, will sever again the connection he has made between the numinous and the uncanny. It is behind Martin Buber's description, for instance, in The Eclipse of God, of the uncanny as a 'dark gate' through which we must pass to reach the love of God—though Buber reminds us forcibly that it is 'only a gate and not, as some theologians believe, a dwelling'. For Buber, the uncanny is something that helps to pierce the protective armour assumed by modern man in his endeavours to shut out the call of a beyond. We may remember, too, Paul Tillich's repeated assertion that the demonic belongs into the sphere of the holy, and that, wherever the demonic appears, there the question of its correlate, the divine, will also be raised. But one cannot, I think, proceed very far in the study of modern literature and film without reaching the conclusion that much of their uncanny quality is due to secularization, to a recession of a sense of the divine, to a drying-up of metaphysical aspirations, to a loss of faith. In Poe's 'The Pit and the Pendulum' with its talk of 'demons', 'fiends', 'angels' turning to 'meaningless spectres', and so on, and in Mamoulian's Jekyll and Hyde, where Ivy speaks of Jekyll as 'her angel' and of Hyde as 'the devil', metaphysical imagery seems to have lost its moorings, and what is left may perhaps best be described in Sartre's phrase as 'a ghost of transcendence floating about in immanence'. But we would do well to heed the claim made by many masters of uncanny effects that they were the guardians of a metaphysical outlook in a mechanistic and positivist world—from Poe, who declared that his stories penetrated, 'however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable"', to Georg Heym, who saw in his own work, 'the best proof of a metaphysical land that stretches its black peninsulas far into our fleeting days'. And I think the works so far discussed will tend to confirm the view, advanced by Mircea Eliade, of the 'real spiritual function' of the nineteenth-century novel: that it constitutes 'despite all scientific realistic or social "formulas" ... the great repository of degraded myths'.

S. S. Prawer, Caligari’s Children: The Film as Tale of Terror

[thisdaynews]

Bishop Kukah’s truth vs government’s fiction (1)

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/bishop-kukahs-truth-vs-governments-fiction-1/

Bishop Kukah’s truth vs government’s fiction (1)

That the year 2020 was a monster and irregularity of a bad dream with an ugly look is no information. It was the time of the COVID-19 pandemic and #EndSars. It was the year the world was in a real sense on a turn, in a ghastly exhibition of suspended liveliness. The year that the world was really secured, driving mankind into a condition of limbo. Indeed, a year God showed His amazingness, power, all-knowingness and inescapability, destroying man’s case to goliath steps in science, innovation, medication and correspondence. 2020 was the year Priests, Pastors and Imams had to relinquish the temples and mosques. The year got into sticky situations and uncovered lead representatives, priests and legislators who concealed the individuals’ palliatives. The time of all out resignation of the study halls by ASUU.

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2020 was the year debasement graduated to a public mantra, basically received by the public authority as an essential level headed and order standard of state strategy. Nigeria positioned 148 Out of 180 nations on the planet as filed by straightforwardness worldwide. She conveyed the loathsome diadem as the third most degenerate nation in West Africa. 2020 exhibited Nigeria as the destitution capital of the world, surpassing dear old India. It was the year Trump was bested by Biden who bound him with voting form. A monstrous year of conservations and conclusion of organizations. It was the time of yearning, starvation, filth.

How Bishop Kukah talked truth to power

In any case, I never accepted the Buhari’s administration could cover it all and end the year by denigrating, tormenting and endeavoring to lynch and crush the profound wads of cassocked Bishop Matthew Hassan Kukah.

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What was Kukah’s offense? That he composed his 2020 Christmas message named “The Middle Grounds of Optimism have proceeded to Shift and Many Genuinely Ask, What have We Done to the divine beings? Does Nigeria have a Future?” In this message, the minister x-rayed the ills of the Nigerian state, from Chibok, through Dapchi, to Kankara. He considered the to be as one of the “Annus Horribilis” (the Year of Horror); as opposed to one of “Annus Mirabilis” (the Year of Joy). What was Kukah’s offense here? I can’t see it. Or then again, can you?

Searching through the nefarious expansiveness and profundity of a rotting country, the flaring lectern fear of awful governments accepts our province has been taken; with enough scorn and harshness to liberally go around. Kukah demands our fantasies have been prematurely ended; our “malignancy of debasement metastasized”; and we all, liable of patricide, fraticide, even endeavored self destruction [I deviate; there were really several self destruction cases]. He says we are eager, furious, parched, and starving. He accepts we show up calmed and acclimated to torment; misfortune remaining as a guard; with every Christmas bringing its dim wad of awfulness, distress and passing, over the most recent 10 years. Where did Kukah turn out badly here? I can’t see it. Or then again, can you?

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Kukah accepts our nation is floating rudderlessly, with Nigerians going without maps, without objective, and with neither skipper nor group. The priest thinks back to the pre-Buhari period with sentimentality, on the grounds that, at any rate, there was food to eat, and individuals could go to latrine. He mourns that as of now, “an excursion to the latrine is considered by the poor an additional extravagance”; and that “our nation’s powerlessness to take care of itself is perhaps the most perilous indications of state disappointment and a trigger to viciousness”. What did Kukah say here that was not right? I can’t see it. Or then again, can you?

Cleric Kukah notes, splendidly, that the experience of Northern Nigeria is proof that nepotism (Buhari’s most prominent “accomplishment”) is a fake cash. Lamenting Pastor Femi Adesina’s tag on Nigerians who are griping about his manager’s awful government as “grievers”, Kukah concurs, contemptuously and jokingly, that Adesina was correct, in light of the fact that, “on the dismal circumstance in Nigeria, the United Nations has howled. The Pope has howled. Cardinals, Archbishops, Bishops, Priests, Pastors have cried. Emirs have howled. Lawmakers have cried. The Sultan has cried. Clearly, it is the ideal opportunity for the Lord to hear the grievers as they have sung their recovery melody”. Where did Kukah turn out badly here? I can’t see it. Or then again, can you?

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For these remove honest pieces words on marble, Aso Villa got anxious. They requested the top of this righteous man; this poor, wifeless, childless and houseless worker in the Lord’s grape plantation, whose pen is mightier than the blade; whose platform words seemlessly break chains of fear, oppression, absolutism and autocracy into bits.

Be that as it may, hang tight for it. It was maybe the accompanying passage of Kukah’s Christmas message that got the Aso Villa falcons and their media workers bouncing, yelling, shouting and baying for Kukah’s otherworldly blood, blaming him erroneously for requiring an overthrow. He wrote in passage 6 of his scholarly composition, named “A country looking for vindication”:

“This administration owes the country a clarification with respect to where it is going as we appear to travel into haziness. The spilling of this blood should be identified with a more vile plot that is outside our ability to understand. Is it accurate to say that we will remain hogtied by these detestable men or would they say they are slowly turning out to be important for a bigger plot to seal the destiny of our nation?

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“President Buhari purposely relinquished the fantasies of the individuals who decided in favor of him to what exactly appeared to be a program to delineate and organize northern authority by lessening others in open life to below average status. He has sought after this pointless and distancing strategy to the detriment of more prominent public attachment. Each fair Nigerian realizes that it is highly unlikely any non-Northern Muslim President might have done a small amount of what President Buhari has done by his nepotism and pulled off it. There would have been a military upset quite a while past or we would have been at war. The President may have presumed that Christians will never really will live with these activities. He might be correct and we Christians can’t feel sorry that we have no pool of brutality to draw from or compromise our nation. Be that as it may, God doesn’t rest. We can see from the incomprehensible quandary of his North.”

Was Bishop Kukah right or wrong?

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Where did Bishop Kukah turn out badly here? I can’t see it. Or on the other hand, can you? The public authority is essentially pursuing the courier, as opposed to the message. Kukah has not said anything new. He is basically striking and brave to repeat the conspicuous truth. Was it not Uthman Dan Fodiyo that once stated, “Still, small voice is an open injury, no one but truth can recuperate it”? It is basically Bishop Kukah’s lifted up status and the in all cases regard and acknowledgment instructed by Kukah that alarms the schizophrenic, delusionary and neurotic enemies of individuals government. Did the country not shake under the danger of the primates being “absorbed their own blood”? Was President Jonathan not cautioned at a time to stop killing Boko Haram guerillas, since it added up to killing northern Muslims? Check your Google!

There isn’t anything said about this Buhari government by Kukah that isn’t established on truth, information, figures and a firm ground. Is it the cluelessness, compasslessness, compassionlessness, and harshness of the public authority to the situation of the Nigerian public? Is it the rising debasement that currently swaggers about like a pleased peacock and where recuperated plunder is by and large gradually re-plundered? Is it the desolating neediness that has decreased numerous Nigerians to vassals and slaves taking care of from dustbins? Is it the glaring frailty that has since mathematically graduated and duplicated from just Boko Haram to outlaws, phlebotomy herders, awful kidnappings, horrifying homicides and “otokotoism”, delivering our homes, interstates, trails, markets, places of worship, mosques and ranches hazardous and jeopardized?

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Is it the close to psychopathic intoxication with northern authority, cronyism, prebendalism, sectionalism, tribalism and partiality we see day by day in this present government’s arrangements into the directing statures of our public life? Is it the away from of disruptiveness, ethno-strict emergency, sexual orientation obliteration, and prejudice of resistance, majority of voices and disagreeing feelings? Is it the lowering of Nigeria into a subsequent downturn, and continuous slaughtering of the naira, lowering it to about N480 to only one dollar? Is it the huge scope hunger, penury, despairing, tears, dread, distress, torments, aches, blood, misery and haplessness that have since inundated Nigeria? Is it the annihilation of the working class; the enthronement of northern incomparability and government’s absence of responsibility and straightforwardness in administration? Where has Bishop Kukah gone off course? I can’t see it. Or then again, can you?

Cleric Kukah didn’t simply begin today

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Priest Kukah has so far filled in as one of the not many enduring hearts of the country. He has been a compass with which the country’s heading or absence of it is perused. He fills in as a thermometer to gauge the consistently rising temperature of ambushed Nigeria. Kukah speaks to the sphygmomanometer with which Nigeria’s high or low pulse is continually estimated to stay away from public coronary failure and corridor blasting. Coming up next are not many of his prior mediations:

In my article in the Sunday Telegraph paper of second August, 2020, named “Presently, WHO WILL COMFORT BISHOP KUKAH?”, on the entry of Bishop Kukah’s mom, I had composed, interalia, as follows:

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“Priest Matthew Hassan Kukah, that searing minister, social pundit, rights extremist and scholarly wonder on the lectern, lost his mom in July. I had mourned with him by SMS and WhatsApp message when his number was not experiencing. In any case, I continued posing myself one inquiry: “who will comfort Bishop Kukah?” This inquiry is applicable, considering the way that this magnetic, fruitful and previous Secretary-General of the Catholic Secretariat and current Bishop of the Sokoto Diocese (brought into the world 31st Au

[zhugeliangs]

Compassless stands the thistle fountain where there is only the static loop in the desert, landscape of ghosts of I and thou—

Tessa Rumsey, from “Turkish Delight”, Assembling the Shepherd