#embodiedness

[missrosiewolf]

One day I’ll write some Rog/Celebrimbor fics

One day….

[smashlovesscream]

Billy loomis is the embodiedment of Bad Habit by Offspring in their Smash album

[piratesmyass]

Con O'Neill is so funny because one photo he'll look like the embodiedment of cishet god of testosterone and then next he looks like the majestic goddes of Pussy.

He slays both, I'm not saying either is wrong. Both are great. It's just funny. The dichotomy of Con

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

As a therapist, an Autistic TM, and the trans child of a trans drag king, I spend a lot of time thinking about the concept of performativity, and frankly I think it gets a bad reputation despite its capacity as a subversive technique and tactic.

When we hear the word performativity, most of us think of the concept of being superficially engaged, of skin-deep participation, of wearing the aesthetic without being able to back it up by walking the walk. It has a quality of being inherently lesser and incomplete. "Performative allyship" is one of the more damning things one can be accused of in radical circles because it means you're all talk, no substance.

The thing is, performance has been such an integral part of so many subversive communities since their inception. Performance has been a crucial form of self-expression for those same communities for just as long. It has historically held layer upon layer of meaning, to the point that calling it superficial would be akin to calling yourself unobservant. At a certain point, using performance and performativity to define superficiality is deeply irresponsible and erasive of our own cultural contexts when the word superficial is *right there*.

Everything about me is performed. From my personality, to my social graces, to my gender presentation, to my political praxis, to my professional therapeutic presence, to my embodiedness, to my version of learned empathy, to my sexual practices and desires, to my morality. Without that performance, those things don't materially exist, and I intentionally and precisely craft each performance for very specific outcomes and effects. A good deal of that is probably the autism, but I have significant doubts that every single one of these elements of selfness are completely beyond the intentional creation of everyone, autistic or allistic.

Performance is intentional, chosen action. It is a meaningful act of self-creation. Any performance, embodied long enough, becomes selfhood. The belittlement of performativity, as far as I can tell, is a belittlement of one of the most transcendental and radical acts of self-narration, change-creation, and meaning-making we as human beings have access to.

And I imagine that the immediate response will be "but there are people who are only *pretending* to embody the spirit of the performance and that's who we're calling out when we call out performativity!"

To which I say: Let's say I believe you have a 100% success rate in identifying who's a true believer in the awkward midst of change-making and who's a wolf in sheep's clothing never intending to make good. Why does the performance, the tool of change making, the cultural heritage that serves us, have to become the origin point of confrontation? Why can't we do the work of trying to call people in without degrading the tools of disidentification and meaning-making? We do a disservice to everyone, including ourselves, when we suggest that intentional performance is somehow lesser than spontaneous action. It removes our own ability to conscientiously do the right thing while still learning what that specifically means in a given context, and as human beings there will always be something we are still learning about. It compels us to question our own authenticity and ability when imposter syndrome rears its head because imposter syndrome relies on the idea of intentional performance of role as distinct from innate knowledge of the same role. It contributes to sanism/ableism around low/no empathy comrades who intentionally choose to perform to high standards of morality and equitable praxis because somehow their choice to do so means less since they aren't also emotionally self-flagellating when they make a mis-step. It contributes to transphobia by forcing us to argue over whether or not gender is a performance and whether or not that means trans people's existence is valid when we could just accept that gender includes performativity for some, both cis and trans.

There are so many upsides to embracing notions of performance. I find myself wondering why doing so has remained so contentious up to this point. Especially when so much of the scholarship around marginality DOES embrace performativity. The contention seems to remain in the public sphere, and I'm curious where that comes from. Most importantly, I'm curious why anyone would want to cut themselves off from the primary form of self-creation. It feels very much like the sort of thing that got snuck in early on as a self-sabotaging element against the possibility of revolutionary meaning-making.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

It's easy to fall into a habit of thinking of speaking and writing as automatic and abstract, so I want to just take a second to celebrate the utter embodiedness of words.

Speaking? Well then your lungs are working to ensure that you have enough air to power the musculature of the human speech apparatus, from the diaphragm, intercostal, and other breathing-related muscles to the vocal cords, the throat, the lips, tongue, teeth, and hard and soft palates. Your body intricately and intimately knows the feeling of air moving through it, the shapes of sounds that carry meaning, and can shape otherwise neutral sounds with tone, pitch, timbre, and sheer attitude to communicate meaning beyond just the sound.

ASL? Look at the beauty of the tendons, bones, muscles, and soft tissues of the hands, arms, and shoulders that allow you to form shapes that take on meaning. And then there are the nuances of space, body position, speed, and sharpness or softness.

Writing by hand? The fine and gross motor skills involved are just wondrous, and your body knows the shape of letters in ink, graphite, wax, and paint. The minute, constant microadjustments to ensure that your mind, body, and writing tool can work in the perfect synergy to get words on paper are practically magic, and they are as deeply embodied as speech and ASL.

Typing on a physical keyboard? Your fingers have to know patterns, must adjust to tiny variations in size, shape, and intensity to make the keys function. Each finger has to be able to manage by itself but also work with the others to get words into a computer.

Typing on a screen? We all have our preferences for that. Some of us do the single-figer peck, some wear out our thumbs...it depends on the size and shape of our hands, their strength, the presence or absence of pain. Even this most maligned way of getting words down in a form others can read is embodied and changes for every single person based on the body they are in.

So...speech, writing, and communicating is inherently some of the most embodied we are as humans, and I think that's kind of magical.

[finiffy]

clef is rhe embodiedment of like a tiktok that makes you feel fear and also contemplate everything around you but when you accept it a natuee valley bar comes and riins everything and youre just contemplating again and you see like a cow and start sobbint because its fluffy anf then later eat a steak that comes from least normal famr possible fucks sake send ask

A...andrei what the hell are you talking about-

[meltorights]

ive been trying to keep the request of palestinian christians to avoid unnecessary christmas festivities and celebrate the feast in solidarity with palestine. and the first reading for midnight mass really hit for me... this is a god who chooses the oppressed but rejects power and instead embraces childhood. the way isaiah moves from a vision of god's victory using images of god's victory to the vulnerable image of childbirth and the way his prophecy is reinterpreted in light of the eternal word taking on embodiedness, marginalization, and death speaks to where god is found, where he is listened to... but ultimately this is a god who chooses to suffer with us, but also wants the rod of the oppressor to be smashed. im not really going for anything here it's just comforting to feel, in spite of everything, that in doing my part to free palestine, i am on god's side.

[7vyntheefaerie]

Poetics of Black Becoming: A Manifesto/Syllabus by 7vyn

A Prelude:

i am 7vyn. that is a self-given name that i claim in exploration of my gender and its manifestation of xpression through the digital. 7vyn is dislocated and pixelated embodiedment. a dis-spirit(ed) alien(ated) straddling human and monstrous livlihood. as 7vyn and thru this account, i hope to host a pilot of a manifesto/syllabus that crafts a tangible imaginative world that centers decolonial praxis. i wanted to create a place where texts central to themes of interest for me could live together on the same throughline to think with, around, and beyond each other.

why syllabus?

this is a tradition that came long before my attempts at uniting the scholarly and the activist for more fluid models of knowledge production and sharing. some considerations that made the syllabus a useful tool for me include:

proclamation, this syllabus is not making an argument as much as it is just saying, uniting threads of information. this syllabus is not engaged in any larger debate as much as it is a declaration of a more considerate, passionate, just world and its maintainance and flourishing needs. this syllabus/manifesto is the bare bones of a lineage of thought greater than my own wing-span, so rather than declare and leave thought to the wind as many in the tradition of manifesto do, i insist on the collabortative intention and nature of this piece. as in, this syllabus can be added to. this syllabus will remain malleauble and engaged.

invitation to learning, this syllabus/manifesto is creating a sort of index library or guide map of thinking toward decolonization in a Black trans-cyber-anarchafeminist tradition. this manifesto is uninterested in interacting with and sharing knowledge in such a way designed to exlude nonmembers of academia. so, i use my institutional access to create knowledge beyond academic spaces, straddling the line between academia and activism and daring myself and other producers of knowledge and culture to be intentional about the the work we do to prioritize and care for our audiences of intention. because this is a collaborative work, i most aim for Black transfeminists with specific niches related to the digital and decolonization (broadly) or even beyond to progress and advance the thinking of this syllabus. i encourage all others to engage this manifesto/syllabus as a learning tool.

accessible. this manifesto does not privilege knowledge. by this i mean, i am not the owner of this knowledge, i am merely an assembler, a curator. i also reject bullshit academic vernacular because i believe that is a method of exclusion and i want everyone, even people this is not useful for to at least be able to meaningfully engage with the information offered. i elect to spark enthusiasm and curiousity, not headaches.

translatable. because i think of this manifesto/syllabus as a useful learning tool, i believe that it should also have a flexibility that supports it as a learning model. this means i currently understand the syllabus/manifesto as a zine, twine game, installation, digital exhibition, and on a decentralized platform. these are initiatives i hope to take up later in the life of the manifesto/syllabus, hopefully in direct collaboration with other scholars, organizations, activists, cultural & knowledge workers, etc.

this is a living document + post. i will return as needed to update information, offer specificity, add resources, activities, prompts, and more. this post will serve as the original and masterlist. below you can gain access to some preliminary writing on the sources I have decided to include, key concepts I am drawing from them, and why they are useful to my thinking (and potentially yours too!). as i may have stated earlier in this post, this is just the pilot of this project for me. so what you see as of now (5/17/2024) is just the bare bones of something i will be building outward as long as i need to.

Solidarity (tag: #solid, where strength lies)

Accomplices Not Allies by Indigenous Action

Insurrectionary Mutual Aid by Curious George Brigade

Power Makes Us Sick Issue #3

Resistance (tag: #push/pull)

My Gender is Marronage by Nsambu Za Suekama/Bl3ssing

Them Goon Rules by Marquis Bey

Rave:n by Kelela

Sabotage (tag: #set aflame)

Random Acts of Flyness by Terrence Nance

The Poetics of Difference by Mecca Jamilah Sullivan

Play With The Changes by Rochelle Jordan

thank you for reading! my placemaking & writing on process does not end here, so stay tuned!

with care,

7vyn

[enactivewebs]

20/04/2023

Reflection on 2 months teaching online to ZYU in Shaoxing China, from my home office post-cyclone This course has felt simultaneously really short and really drawn out at the same time. Similar sensation to a COVID lockdown working from home, and getting into a very regimented and structured routine.The dynamic that has evolved and we have taken on as a lecturer, TA, and class is one of me being a floating head at the front of the classroom screens, mic off and answering questions and offering feedback on WeChat.  We don’t even really need the video on. I could just be a living chat bot to answer students’ questions and direct their thinking and project. This approach has been borne out of some necessity (their English levels, lack of ability to interact with them one on one properly and with dodgy sound quality) and also fatigue and energy maintenance. To offer feedback to 40 students every lesson in an online context would drain me completely. I feel like some of the students’ work has been amazing, but a lot is lacking in refinement and enthusiasm, which I take the blame for. If I had been on the ground or at least not working from home, my energy levels would have been significantly higher, and I would have been able to engage in non-verbal, embodied and more natural ways.I wonder if I had been on the ground, I could have energised the class more, communicating with my body language and presence in the room, as well as connected and co-evolved the briefs with te students more. I.e could they ‘proprioceive’ me and my body movements, instruction and enthusiasm, and lead to more interest and overall motivation? I feel like I’ve connected with some, but more in a textual and chat oriented way, which feels less natural and relational - more transactional.Also think this overall experience would have been a lot more fun. For both myself and the students and TA. There are some aspects I really think work about this set up, especially the fact they can translate my texts into chinese easily, but also is lacking some form of relationality or true connection. I have found it hard to get responses from the class to questions or even general comments, and it doesn’t even really feel like a real class I’m teaching, just random chats popping up asking for help. The lack of embodiedness and presence in the room with the students makes it all seem kind of unreal and virtual. Like I’m given a narrow virtual window to a Chinese classroom, but only allowed to peak through, I don’t feel like I’m ‘there’ mentally, culturally and obviously physically.

[superstitionrev]

Jenny Wu’s having a solo exhibition at Morton Fine Art in Washington, D.C. featuring her sculptural paintings! Wu’s work combines latex paint and resin on wood panels to explore “tactility, in-betweenness, embodiedness, and construction,” an approach she has been refining for nearly a decade. To read more about it, check out our blog here:

https://superstitionreview.asu.edu

[m-a-k-k-u]

Oh crud. Why do I relate to your blog? It's the embodiedment of me.

You are one seriously twisted fuck

[bluewatsons]

Katie Lew, The Unproven Body, The New Inquiry (October 13, 2016)

Charting the losses of contestable sickness

ILLNESS is a state of the body that demands testing.

April 26th: Self-testing/Reality-checking

I woke up one spring morning with vertigo. I turned my head to the window and nearly got sick on my pillow. I was 33. It is common for the newly vertiginous to distrust their perception of motion because vertigo is uncanny. The world is familiar, and yet the known spaces of your life (your room, your street, your workplace) are uninhabitable, because they are moving. Thus, the first round of testing is a self-directed series of questions: Did that happen? Did the room turn with me? (Yes; yes and no). This second answer with its relative “yes and no” is the pivotal point of the vertiginous person’s relation to their life and to the world. Because the room turned for me, but not for my partner next to me, I would have to see a doctor. And because every space continued to turn for me wherever I went, I would have to change my relation to the world, as regards what I could expect from it and it from me. Could I expect rest? food? comfort? Could the world expect adherence to its metered and measured environment? Independence? Labor? Seemingly esoteric questions critical to daily exigencies: could I eat, and could I work?

(I said the spaces of my life became uninhabitable; I continued to live in them because I continued to live but for a time in a way that felt like a lonely death. No one can follow you into vertigo, or into any sickness for that matter.)

May 1st: Wild Rose Vestibular Rehabilitation and Audiology Clinic

The first symptoms of my illness were tinnitus, hyperacusis (a rare condition of hearing sounds at painful volumes), and vertigo, and so Google told me my problem was otological (a word that autocorrects to ontological, which also feels appropriate). There are several ear conditions that cause spinning, which specialists can identify by tracking nystagmus, the abnormal beating of eyes as they follow objects. My mother took me to a vestibular therapist. I entered the clinic staggering, my arms reaching out in front of me for any wall, or chair, or countertop, to let me know where I was in the organized space of the room. A zombie in a vertigo nightmare. The therapist was surprised at my state. In medicine, you never want to look like something no one has ever seen before, something beyond evaluation that will not fit within the known universe of legible maladies and, especially, remedies.

The vestibular test involved opaque goggles that project the eyes on two TV screens. I cried in protest at the darkness that I knew would accelerate the spinning. I reached my hand to hold the therapist’s arm — uninvited skin on a stranger’s skin. She looked at my mother and my mother at her; which of them could explain my excess? Or this breach of social boundaries? Then I went and laid my head in the stranger’s lap. She said: “Listen to me. I once had vertigo too. And guess what? Last weekend I went skiing with my husband and my kids.” I wanted to throw up. But I allowed the darkness of the goggles because even that kind of alright-ness was desirable. The site behind the drawn curtain of the medical cubical was one of uneasy conjunction: all of those measuring apparatuses, and every space between them saturated with fear. When she fit the goggles to my face, I caught a glimpse of the left TV, there a giant eye flitted like a cornered animal, and I recognized my own horror.

(I was incapable of thought then, but remembering it now I think of Anne Boyer: “This is the problem of what-to-do-with-the-information-that-is-feeling.”)

“Her eye movements are irregular but not in a recognizable way. I’m not even sure if the distortion is coming from her ears or her brain.” — a vestibular specialist.

The body that refuses the parameters of the medical test is an unlucky body. Especially because it means more, even unlimited, testing, more encounters with non-recognition, further alienation. But also because sadness, fear, and desperation are considered interference in clinical testing, and these emotions increase the longer a diagnosis is deferred. Affect is surplus without value.

There are several tests that every first-year medical student can use, and with fair accuracy, to determine the presence of a neurological disturbance in a patient. They are the finger-to-nose test, the heel-down-the-shin test, and the follow-the-pen test. There are non-invasive tests that will reveal with more precision the location of that neurological disturbance: the computerized axial topography scan, which can detect brain swelling and hemorrhaging, and the magnetic resonance image, which will light up tumors and lesions. There are invasive diagnostic tests that can more narrowly decide the cause and nature of a tumor or lesion: the lumbar puncture, which collects a sample of cerebrospinal fluid, and the biopsy, which extracts tissue for microscopic investigation. If the tumor or lesion is too deep for biopsy, such that a biopsy would cause damage to the brain, then there is one final test, non-invasive and barely medical, and that is time.

(I used to say damn it some one must tell me what is happening to me. I used to call sickness up to my every measurable surface with the incantation: Show yourself.)

May 9th: Medical Imaging Department, University of Alberta Hospital Multiplanar, multisequential MRI of brain with and without IV contrast

FINDINGS: T2/FLAIR bright lesion in the right middle cerebellar peduncle measuring 1.3 x 1.0 cm.

A lesion is any localized abnormality found on the body. Lesions are not particular to a disease or condition: they signal a structural difference from healthy tissue, nerves, etc. My lesion is in my brain, on my cerebellum. My lesion is too deep for biopsy. After this MRI, my diagnosis was brain cancer with a differential of multiple sclerosis.

Following some diagnoses, sadness, fear, and desperation continue to increase. For the moment, the doctor’s work is done, and emotions unfold in private interiors, among you and others near you, where they disrupt no one but yourself and these others near you. I tried to move around my home the way I had the day before. I tried to move as if I could feel the floor beneath me, and as if I could breathe that easy breath of the continuous life.

May 17th: Diagnostic Imaging, St. Mary’s Hospital MRI HEAD C-\

FINDINGS: solitary lesion in right middle cerebellar peduncle, could represent a demyelinating plaque.

Demyelinating plaques are the scleroses of multiple sclerosis, areas where the protective myelin that encases nerves is stripped away. After this MRI, my diagnosis was tentatively multiple sclerosis. Finding out that brain cancer is a misdiagnosis is at once a relief and a terror. The razor edge of life newly-granted balances just on the other side of a gaping death. How to live when you know how easy it is to die? It was not so much a misdiagnosis as a difference of opinion. The lesion in my brain is hunkered down deep, unavailable for biopsy, and so, in itself, gives no more information than the fact of its existence. Doctors have argued right in front of me, before a screen of my brain, the points for and against both tumor and plaque. (Some illnesses submit only to that final test, time).

“This is a difficult case.” — my neurologist.

I wanted an etiology. Diagnostics and prognostics are future-orientated projects, optimistic in form if not in content. I wanted that dire course of my recent past, the charted points of my specific failure. I wanted an etiology general to the type of neurological event I experienced, but also specific to my personal life. What had my body done to itself? And when, exactly? What time was it when those changes in my brain became irrevocable? (When I fell sideways up the stairs on Tuesday? When I hugged the lap of a vestibular therapist instead of going to the ER?). There are no tests that can identify these moments, and these are not in fact medical questions. They are the existential crisis and the abjection of feeling, and then seeking, the fracture-line of meaning in a life.

(For a long time, I didn’t let myself remember anything from before. I stored a lifetime in the orbital bone around my right eye. The skin there became painful to the touch. This is the pain of non-recognition, I told myself. And it was.)

“The real question is, what will this look like in your life, practically speaking.” — my insurance adjuster.

“MS is just a word, it doesn’t change who you are.” — a different neurologist.

I disagree. But this is the nexus of insurance pragmatism (who you are is the same as what you can do), and brash medical optimism (illness affects what you can do only in so far as you let it).

While diagnostics are the test of illness, function is actually its truer measure. How much will you lose? What can you expect to be able to do around the house? At work? In the bathroom? And with what good humor, what positive attitude, will you confront the losses? For every functional loss, the medical industrial complex offers a mechanical, technological, pharmaceutical aid to replicate the function, which insurance adopts and identifies as the means of labor in illness. The sick person is responsible for availing herself of all of these accommodations. I have a bar in my shower so I don’t break my neck when I close my eyes. And that is about all the accommodation available to me. Yet the promise of medicine and the expectation of insurance is that I will find a way to reproduce all my functions, and myself.

(As if I could sit right back into myself. As if a self was an armchair. As if I wasn’t recast anew by illness. As if I had it all save for these isolated deficits.)

An insured body is a body that demands evidence.

My losses are both difficult to measure and to accommodate: chronic fatigue, chronic headaches, motion sickness, poor balance, tinnitus, hyperacusis, sadness, nostalgia, anger. The latter three are not in relation to loss of function. They hover over the outrages that are: the inexplicable, the past, and the eternal subject position of patient. The former kept me out of work, and qualified me, for a while, to a partial salary replacement through my work’s insurance plan.

The discourse of insurance shares interests with the discourse of medical testing: it is concerned with naming (secular baptisms), with categories, and with function, but insurance has fewer classifications — payable and non-payable conditions — and is interested only in function insofar as it relates to labor, and labor to paid work. Where medicine seeks results, positive proof, by which to name, authenticate, and file illness, insurance seeks negations. The first principle of insurance is the de-authentication of bodies, and the discovery of function where there is no health.

“How long can you keep your head up unassisted? How long can you read a screen before becoming nauseated? Have you attended acupuncture for the recommended 6 months?” — my insurance adjuster.

Insurance banks on the wellness industry’s persuasive, and now fully internalized, imperative to maintain ourselves, to somehow counter deficits in function that are medical, social, or economic. (Wellness is a leveler). It says: supplement yourself until your awkward and angular disability becomes streamlined quick-stepping ability; until, in spite of your age, illness, children, or finances, you are as able as a young god who has never been sick or poor or pregnant or faltering, or any age but twenty or any color but golden.

Health insurance is a fitting figure for the neoliberal relation between wellness and money. The obvious relation between the two is that diligently minding your health will keep you well enough to stay in paid work, or to keep looking for paid work. But the lens of insurance tightens focus on the actual obligation to self-care as an act of compliance in this exchange. To receive benefits, the sick have constantly to prove their dedication to health, their sense of their own responsibility for recovery, to earn the insurance money they actually need to survive. It is too easy to forget that whatever compensation we get, either private or state, we have agreed to pay for in one way or another. We have bought it like every other thing.

Because it functions as part of the service economy, insurance is in the business of selling lifestyles. But insurance doesn’t pay the sick in health, if it pays at all. Because the product is money, insurance effectively sells the material ability to sustain your life, the lifestyle of being alive. The emails from the insurance adjuster were full of resources: organizations and websites dedicated to the management of diet, sleep, pain, relationships, stress, and general outlook on life. They recommend supplements, meditation, stretching, and saying yes to social engagements. It is a deft slight of hand; insurance’s identity as pure finance (money making money) is obfuscated, and self-care replaces money as the means of survival.

(Don’t weary of supplementing, of fighting, of therapy. Don’t let on that your one desire is not to reenter the competition.)

The adjuster gets a bonus when she helps someone get back on her feet. She was eager to find a diagnosis for me that fit within the company’s regulations of non-payable conditions (any condition with qualitative effects; any condition in which a measure of ability remains). And because I myself was in the fading twilight of believing that knowing more could mean feeling less, I went to a neurotology clinic in Toronto for a last round of testing.

August 12th: Hearing and Balance Centre, St. Michaels Hospital

The neurologist in Toronto sits me on a swivel chair before a room of medical interns. This one is a test for all of us. I stretch out my arms and look at my thumbs. He spins my chair.

“Eye movement normal or abnormal?” “Abnormal!” “Disturbance from ear or brain?” “Brain!”

We all pass. But abnormal brain is not a diagnosis, nor is it new information. I undergo seven more tests, the data from which yet again evade a secure diagnosis but confirm the following: “The patient has a demyelinating plaque that involves the function of her cerebellum, which is readily evident in both her neurological history and the appropriate abnormalities on her neurological examination.”

My last visit is with a psychologist. I answer a questionnaire:

Do you ever think about past instances of vertigo and feel fear? Yes. How often do you worry about your vertigo returning? Fairly often. Do you feel anxious talking or thinking about vertigo? Yes. Very.

I begin to cry, not like me, but maybe like I did as a child. The psychologist looks at me and I see I have become an informer for the wrong side. My affective response is not appropriate to the questionnaire. I drop tears on it. My face is hot and red above it. My body is full of the wrong kind of information. Not data. Not paper print out. The typed questions before me should not elicit this much sadness. It is the sadness of memory, the sadness of waiting, the sadness of testing, the sadness of never knowing. It is the sadness of illness.

The psychologist writes a prescription. “I want you to take this every day, in increasing doses until you feel one hundred percent better. Don’t stop increasing until you forget that any of this ever happened to you. Until you forget the word vertigo altogether.” His reaction to me is remarkable for a few reasons. He asked me no questions related to sadness and made a diagnosis based on the sight of my crying. But while paying attention to only my body’s visible reaction to the questionnaire, he also forgot my body. Chronic is that which continues. In this instance he has forgotten my lesion and its daily symptoms. I will never forget that this has happened to me, because it continues, returns, flares and eases and flares again. But his advice also relates to function. He thinks I am too sad to function, as if memory (which shares a certain form of repetition with the chronic) is keeping me from “living my life.”

(Why say, I won’t let this change me? Why not say, this is a small death? There are many deaths before the end.)

Two months after this, I lose my insurance on the grounds of an “unmanaged psychiatric illness.” The immeasurable and qualitative displays of affect that once obstructed the object of medical investigation become themselves the object, and finally the primary diagnosis, when run through the metrics of insurance. Losing health insurance to an unnamed mental state is a gothic, a spectral, a gnostic kind of sexism. Hysteria, nervousness, sadness. Neurological exams and MRIs — literal pictures of illness — are nothing against these feminized monoliths. I didn’t see it coming. Because the front end, the interface, of insurance operates as customer-service, my insurance adjuster never let on that she was gathering information for anything more than helping my case, finding me resources, keeping me covered. She called me by name. She called me at home. Insurance is the long con.

What is insurance but an incorporated wager against you?

It sounds counterintuitive; insurance always assumes the lesser risk. But the lesser risk is not illness — the lesser risk is the contestable data of illness. A dismissal such as mine comes down to an easy gamble that has little to do with health, or even function: What does she have in her hand? Is it enough to overturn this ordinance?

(I lost the same game we are all losing.)

I can say that after everything I still don’t know what happened to me or what will happen. I know less about my body than ever. All that data, all those tests, all of my own Googling, and I will still never know if I am doing the right thing. I don’t know if I’m doing the right exercises, or eating the right foods. I don’t know if I bought the right shoes or painkiller or pillow. I don’t know. I don’t ask anymore either. With the lesion came an initial threat of cancer and death, and then the differential of multiple sclerosis and the prospect of immobility. For now, in that final and enduring test (time), I live beside, or within, or along a set of chronic symptoms, which, gathered together, have no medical precision, but exist in my body as the residuals of a neurological event that is either ongoing or not; that will either repeat itself or not; that will either kill me one day or not. I’ve spent the interim attending to losses not physical. Opening that safe of memory around my right orbital bone and letting out old bits now and then to look at, from a great distance.

[casgape]

ppl in ed recovery r so fucking strong

[missroserose]

Fic Writer Question Meme!

Thanks for the tag, @venhedish—I love stuff like this! I'd apologize in advance for how long this is likely to be, but I suspect we share that tendency, haha.

How many works do you have on AO3?

20 total. I've been publishing there since late 2018, so about three years now. That sounds right for me—I'm way too perfectionist to ever be prolific.

What's your total AO3 word count?

125,744! Apparently it takes me three years to write a novel's worth of words I feel are worth publishing...which also sounds right.

How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

Three, primarily: The Lost Boys, Stranger Things, and Supernatural. Mostly Stranger Things, since I was pretty enmeshed in the Harringrove community for about a year and a half, though these days I'm hanging out more with the SPN crowd. We'll see if that translates to more fics.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

1.) Sunflower (524) 2.) Quickly, look away (506) 3.) We'll Become Who We Meant To Be (383) 4.) Too Young To Fall In Love (333) 5.) When the Waters Start to Cross (283)

First, what's not surprising: all are Stranger Things/Harringrove works. I'm a little surprised to see that "Sunflower" had edged out "Quickly" as my most-kudosed story, for years it was the other way around—but maybe that's actually not that surprising—part of the reason I haven't been as active in the fandom is that I really love the darker and more complex renditions of Billy Hargrove's character (a la "Quickly") and since S3 aired it seems like the fashion has moved more towards more lighthearted fluff (a la "Sunflower"). Still, both are pretty undemanding smut, so it makes sense that they're on top; similarly, I'm not surprised to see "Too Young To Fall In Love" in the top five either.

I am a little surprised that "We'll Become Who We Meant To Be" is #3—it's honestly close to genfic, there's only the tiniest moment of hinted-at attraction in there. I'm not mad about it, I honestly feel like it's one of my better efforts; on the other hand, "Wake Me Up" was in a similar vein and it's close to the bottom. I guess there's just no telling what's going to catch on...in fairness, a 25K outsider POV novella is a much bigger ask than a 3K short story.

Honestly, I'm probably most surprised at "When the Waters Start to Cross" cracking the top five—it's a 52K+ WIP and a profoundly complex atmospheric existential horror/romance, which is, like, five strikes against it. I'm not mad about it, though—I love that fic, even if it is a huge time and energy suck, and it definitely contains some of my best writing.

Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

I do! Sometimes it takes me a while, but I genuinely appreciate people taking the time to leave feedback (even if it's just a string of emoji!). And every once in a while I'll get really thoughtful or incisive comments that spark whole conversations—that's one of the best reasons to write fic!

What's the fic you've written with the angstiest ending?

Hmm...to be honest, nothing immediately comes to mind; I love angst but tend to want it to serve a purpose, i.e. it gets a character closer to who they want to be. So most of my endings are at least hopeful. *checks list* It looks like probably my angstiest ending is also my first fic posted, "Blue Masquerade". Poor Michael.

Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you've written?

I don't currently write crossovers; I wouldn't rule it out, but frankly I haven't come across an idea that appeals to me. Waaaaaay back in the mists of time I had a Daria/Harry Potter crossover that I was actually pretty proud of, but I got about as far as getting them to Hogwarts and then kinda ran out of ideas, so I never posted it.

Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not that I can think of? I'm not big-time enough to get hate, haha. Worst I ever got was some rando asking for top or bottom tags, which I just ignored, and one person on "We'll Become" who was like "I don't like this pairing but you did a good job", which kinda had me like ??? thanks, I guess? I did get one comment on "Quickly, look away" from someone who felt like it was in a different headspace from the fic I wrote it as a sequel to, but that didn't strike me as hate, it's a perfectly fair observation.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

So first off, yes, and second...I recently came across this great Garth Greenwell quote that really gets at what I'm trying to do when I write smut:

In America in 2019 we are inundated with images of bodies to an absolutely unprecedented degree—images of eroticized bodies, images of sexual bodies; the Internet makes all our fantasies visible, and it trains us in new fantasies. And yet it also seems to me that our culture suffers from a dearth of representations of embodiedness, by which I mean of bodies imbued with consciousness. I’m not at all antiporn, but sometimes pornography (maybe especially Internet pornography, with its arms race of extremity) seems to want to evacuate bodies of personhood, to present them as objects. I think literature is the best technology we have for representing consciousness, and so I think there’s a kind of intervention that literature can perform in representing sex explicitly: it can reclaim the sexual body as a site of consciousness.

"Embodied porn" is probably the best description I can come up with—I love writing sex precisely because it's such a charged form of communication (Greenwell's words again), because there are things a character can do and say in that context that they never would normally. Like, sex acts are great and all, but what really does it for me is what's going on in their head, what's the history that brought the character to this point, how're they handling the inherent vulnerability and intimacy of this incredibly risky but potentially rewarding moment. Kink (whether through roleplaying, props, costumes, or whatever) is really just another way of adding to that personal meaning, since without the characters' reactions any trappings are meaningless.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, although I'd love to work with a translator someday (whether with fic or another context)—I'm fascinated by the inherent puzzles in translating between languages, especially with informal speech and its many idioms and cultural references.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Not yet! I'd be open to the idea, but it definitely has to be with the right person...

What's your all time favorite ship?

Isn't that basically like asking a mom to choose her favorite kid? Seriously, I like different things about all of them...which one's getting the most attention depends entirely on mood and headspace and other effectively random variables.

What's a WIP that you want to finish but don't think you ever will?

I don't have any I've given up on entirely, yet. Even Waters, as beastly complicated as it is, I've been ruminating on and adding to and arranging in my head lately...

What are your writing strengths?

Atmosphere, character, dialogue. I've said it before, I'm a capital-R Romantic at heart: I love writing settings that reflect and reinforce a character's headspace—while also implying what said character might be missing in their viewpoint.

Something I've noticed—my husband worked for years as a penetration tester, which meant he would regularly have to talk his way past people on a moment's notice. So, unsurprisingly, we both notice people, but he tends to observe their presentation (clothing, accessories, especially ones that're markers of social class and group belonging that allow him to tailor his approach), whereas I notice what they say and how they say it—and, often, what they don't say.

What are your writing weaknesses?

I suddenly feel like I'm in a job interview, haha. Perfectionism is a big one—I have a tendency to feel hopeless and quit if something's taking too long, rather than persisting until I get it sorted, even though some of my best work is stuff where I persisted. Also, I'm big on emotional intensity—which isn't a bad thing, necessarily, but I sometimes read back over my stuff and I'm like "geez, Ambrosia, ease up a bit"...I could definitely use some comic relief in my writing sometimes, but I think I'm often too insecure to try it.

What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I don't have any in particular—I rarely do it myself, because I don't trust myself to do it properly. (Perfectionism again!)

What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Daria, way back in the day. My work is still up on FF.net...sometimes I wonder if anyone's ever going to dig it up and confront me with it, haha. (I doubt anyone will ever care that much...I guess I'm more just curious if my style from twenty years ago is recognizably me.)

What's your favorite fic you've written?

If we're talking about finished fics, probably either "Wake Me Up" or "Young At Heart"—they're both pretty oddball, but both required a fuckton of work and both came out pretty close to what I wanted. But "Waters" is my biggest baby...maybe I'll open up Act III to work on today...

Thanks again for the tag, Ven! I'm going to tag @ihni, @redmyeyes, @twobrokenwyngs, @skybound2, @sambrosia, @shewritesdirty, @introvertia, @coffeeandchemicals, and @anarchist-billy—if you're up for some rumination, I'd love to hear your thoughts on your writing!

[honeypeachiepie]

"Capricious Lady"

She smelled of peonies

The sun in her eyes

An embodiedment of Spring

Dutp ID: Peachigo (884237973)

[kimheecheon]

tagged by @miyeoncey thanks love ♡ wow i really forget every media ive ever consumed when im asked about it lmao

MUSIC

fave genre: kpop, edm, folktronica. i ilke songs that are upbeat and bassy and kinda tacky and in a language i don't speak

fave artists: i can go on for days but my current faves are loona, a.c.e, dreamcatcher, orβit, ateez, pinkfantasy. for non-kpop daoko, karma fields, zhu, san holo, mahmood

fave song: kyungri - blue moon. unmatched legend. also red velvet - peekaboo, every topp dogg song

Most listened song recently: its a dating sim song lmao

fun fact this was released 8 days ago and it's already my 11th most listened to song in the past 4 years :) yes i obsessively monitor my spotify stats

song currently stuck in your head: e'last - swear

fave lyrics atm: hey. i don't pay attention to lyrics, like i specifically listen to foreign songs so i don't have to hear the lyrics

radio or your own playlist I solo artists or bands I pop or indie I loud or silent volume I slow or fast songs I music video or lyrics video I speakers or headset I riding a bus in silence or while listening to music I driving in silence or with radio on

BOOKS

fave book genre: low fantasy, historical fantasy, romance

fave writer: ??

fave book: ??

fave book series: the ONLY book series i've finished in my entire life is ilana tan's seasons serises and i barely remember it. i was in grade school

Comfort book: aristotle & dante, good omens (young me wild for crushing on the embodiedment of pollution)

Perfect book to read to a rainy day: ?? ok so perhaps i can't read. it makes sense i play dating sims because i don't have the time for actual books lmao. society if i actually read books *insert that pic*

hardcover or paperback I buy or rent (pirate too lmao) I standalone novels or book series I ebook or physical copy I reading at night or during the day I reading at home or in nature (hello from tropical country) I listening to music while reading or reading in silence I reading in order or reading the ending first I reliable or unreliable narrator I realism or fantasy I one or multiple POVS I judging by the covers or by the summary I rereading or reading just once

TV AND MOVIES

fave tv/movie genre: comedy, fantasy, mystery

Fave movie: lego batman movie. i stand by this choice

Comfort movie: lego batman movie, jennifer's body, the proposal, this indonesian horror movie pengabdi setan/satan's slave (THE school recess/sleepover movie. really not as scary as the reviews make it to be)

Movie you watch every year: nightmare before christmas, coraline

Fave tv show: hannibal, ahs coven

Comfort tv show: any game shows & reality competitions (nailed it, drag race, bake off, taskmaster, etc). hgtv fixer upper shows. also indian & turkish soaps and shitty tv soaps (check out this episode titled, verbatim, corpse of a cruel foreman died buried in cement casting anD STRUCK BY METEOR sdfgjgjk i can't make this up)

Most rewatched tv show: hana kimi, yamato nadeshiko

5 fave characters: all three totally spies, wen ning from mdzs (but not for the normal reasons ppl like a character. i would explain but the margins are too small), yuuko from xxxholic (defined my childhood)

tv shows or movie I short seasons (8-13 episodes) or full seasons (22 episodes or more) I one episode a week or binging I one season or multiple seasons I one part or saga I half hour or one hour long episodes I subtitles on or off I rewatching or watching just once I downloads or watches online

tagging @santir0sales ♡