#hemp-use-case

[broadleafhemp-blog]

Why Hemp is the Future of Sustainable Materials - Paul Benhaim Interview Part 1

An interview between Dylan Wood from Broadleaf Hemp (BLH)  and Paul Benhaim from The Hemp Plastic Company (PB). | www.hempplastic.com | www.broadleafhemp.com Exploring the Versatility of Hemp BLH: Something I get asked about a lot is what can you do with Hemp and  my answer to that is anything! There’s over 25,000 recognised industrial uses of the hemp plant and I think the question is more…

[ofdarklands]

@shilohta pulled a bit of a uno reverse on me and wanted me to draw my own blorbo, which is not what i thought would happen, but they're the boss! did a bit of everything in the small list they suggested

here's the post for the jacket and some other shots of it. i changed some details, but given the rather slim figure of miqo'te ingame it works very well by itself. considered giving him pants instead but then i realized i had misjudged the size of the paper anyway so dress it was. bit of a formal whm/bard fit i suppose

pallas miqo'te are a hardy mountain clan of moon keepers and they're all magnificently thickhaired and sideburned. and they stare so well

[victusinveritas]

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[expfcultragreen]

If replaced with hemp grown for purpose, paper and building products could END global warming instead of causing it, you demonic fucks

Fuck your pose of heroism, fuck your timber poaching, fuck the people you claim to feed with it, fuck yourselves capitalist vultures

A blight on the land

I invite anyone interested in spending some karma bucks on wishes to also wish cancer on you all

Nobler by far to be a cop, mercenary, etc....a million times less damaging to the planets ability to sustain life at all, than being a logger

You could be on welfare, you could be a cop, you could drive a bus, you SHOULD farm hemp...the system doesn't need your precious tax money, your industry is redundant in the face of hempcrete and at this point it's just obviously demonic activity being conducted for the sake of causing global warming due to some evil agenda on the part of the super rich or maybe the masons or both

As it stands they're selling a dangerously inferior product to sleepwalkers as we all run toward the edge of the cliff, tied to them

And I mean the whole global commercial logging system, cancer for all

It's demonic to not implement the industry-killer you've been suppressing because you love wishing death on us all in your every working deed....so I wish death on you all back

Don't worry, I've heard all the smugly self-serving arguments you might make for your uh, line of work. Sorry for you that you're incapable of doing any other job and refuse to take the ethical payout of early retirement onto disability (since you're apparently not competent for other work and are, as you'll let anyone know, destroying your body out there....sounds like you're disabled). If they couldn't hire people the industry would collapse, like any businesses that can't keep employees because their reputation as an employer is so bad....what is really needed is pressure on the gov or your own CEO's who manipulate policy through "lobbying" and direct violent intimidation, to move the fuck on and transition to hemp cropping

Heard of mancamps? Loggers should really be as disposable to us as we are to them, really tired of entropic people in general .....still wishing testicular cancer on them all daily

[peekofhistory]

Hello there! I recently discovered your blog and it's really wonderful resource. I have a question and maybe you would be able to answer. From what I know the mourning garments are white, and I've seen some in movies or dramas. But I also saw many hanfu or hanfu-like costumes in dramas that predominately use white as a color for characters. So I am a bit confused, if what is considered mourning garment is much different (in style or in cut)? or the white clothes in dramas are just something modern and for aesthetics? I hope I'm making sense here.. Anyways, cheers and thanks in advance!

Unf, such amazing questions, I love it ❤️❤️

I'm going to answer this one very carefully because I don't want to get screamed at for "gatekeeping" 😆 Right off the bat I'm going to put a disclaimer:

Whatever show you enjoy, whichever actor/actress you like, you do you and have a good time. What I'm going to write is ONLY some trends in Chinese TV/movies over the past few decades, I'm not saying any show isn't "good", please don't hate me.

You're absolutely correct that historically, Chinese mourning clothes are white, but not just white, the material is also important. The actual term for mourning is "披麻戴孝" so if we break the words down:

披 (pi) = to wear on the body (like a cape) 麻 (ma) = hemp (fabric) 戴 (dai) = to wear, to hold, to have 孝 (xiao) = filial piety, show honour and love towards one's parents

So it's wearing white hemp and some sort of white fabric on the head to express one's respect for an elder. Mourning wear is only for those who are older than you (ex. parents, grandparents, older siblings, etc.), of a higher rank, or in some cases your superior (ex. solders in a battalion wearing mourning clothes when their captain passes).

I'll use some screenshots from the 1994 version of Romance of the Three Kingdoms as an example:

Pic 1-3: The emperor has passed away in this situation so everyone is in full mourning attire. His court (pic 1), his concubine (pic 2), his kid (pic 3). If you enlarge the image, you'll see the material they're wearing is quite rough-looking (best seen in pic 3, the other images' resolution aren't great).

Pic 4-6: In this funeral, the Wu Kingdom's Commander of the naval forces has passed away, so almost everyone is in full mourning because that's a very high rank.

Pic 5: You'll see the man on the right isn't in mourning because he's head of the Wu Kingdom, so his rank is higher than the Commander, therefore he doesn't wear mourning clothes.

Pic 6: This man is a visitor and frenemy of the Commander. He's coming from the Shu (Han) Kingdom and because they're not from the same Kingdom, there's no consideration of whose rank is higher or lower. Therefore, he's only worn a strip of white cloth over his hair out of respect (he technically doesn't even need to wear that). Now, obviously, even though he's not required to wear white hemp mourning clothes, it's not a good idea to show up in flashing pink or electric orange (very disrespectful), so he's gone with a soft, pale blue

Pic 7: In this image, a distant relative of the leader of the Shu (Han) Kingdom has passed away (at this point in the show the Kingdom hadn't been established, so he's only the head of a province). This particular relative is younger than everyone present, so; a) he's not ranked above them b) he's not older than them

Therefore, none of them are in full mourning, but they've tied a white cloth to their belt to express respect.

The man in blue, on the right, with the black hat is a visitor from the Wu Kingdom, so much like in Pic 6 he's coming to pay respect to someone not from his Kingdom (doesn't matter the rank) and not his senior) so he's not in mourning clothes (he doesn't even have a white cloth at his belt when he turns around).

So yes, white is traditionally a mourning colour but not all white coloured clothing is for mourning. If you're wearing a white silk robe with embroideries and designs, that's not considered mourning clothes.

Now, having said that, traditionally people still tried to stay away from full on, completely white outfits from head to toe. It's just not a lucky colour to wear. A jacket that's white, or a skirt that's white with a coloured border or some colourful accessories, not a big deal, but if you're going full white in everything...just, no, lol.

As for the Chinese period dramas/movies of today...that's a really deep well to dive through. I'll try to summarize it here and do more detailed posts later on.

TV dramas/movies are never 100% historically accurate, I'm sure everyone knows this, and we don't expect them to be. But for the Chinese entertainment industry it's been becoming less and less accurate in the last 20-25 yrs or so. In terms of clothing/make up/hair/set design/aesthetics in general, there's debate on why these changes have occurred (some say video games, some say foreign aesthetic influence, etc.) but the final result is a LOT of the costumes you see in period dramas today are very, very not historically accurate or even fitting to what is considered "traditional" Chinese aesthetics.

There's a LOT of these "Xianxia" shows going around, stories about immortals and "Gods", "xian/ 仙". I guess the character designers today feel that white somehow makes the characters feel more "immortal", more other-worldly, an imported aesthetic mainly from the West where "white" has been associated with "purity". There's actually growing push-back from the Chinese audience inside China against the character designs in recent years because people are beginning to feel like we're losing OUR aesthetic, these designs aren't what OUR Gods and immortals traditionally looked like. Here's a comparison:

On the left we have some shows and movies from the 80s and 90s, on the right we have more recent shows.

I'll be honest...some of the clothes on the right I barely consider "Hanfu". That's not to say they're not pretty, but the Hanfu influence in them is so small at some point I start thinking, "You're essentially wearing a large-sleeved dress...". In addition to the clothes, there's the hair, the makeup, even the buildings...they're...kind of East Asian styled but not really? I can't even say they're Chinese-styled because it's so generically East Asian some of these set designs.

Traditional Chinese aesthetics favoured bold colours, and the more power and wealth you had the larger the hair styles for women, with rich, beautiful accessories. Gardens and buildings are not minimalistic at all (that leans more Japanese style), rooms are not large and empty, even in large buildings each individual room are sectioned to be fairly small. There's a running joke on Bilibili (Chinese youtube) that the Heavens have gone bankrupt these days because the costumes, the hair, and buildings look so...bare xDD

Some audiences will say these shows are fiction anyway, not set in any particular time or country but...I mean, clearly they're not writing about a Western immortal or an African God, these stories are set in the frame of Chinese characters.

In any case, basically what I'm saying is, take the Hanfu you see in dramas/movies with a grain of salt. Sometimes with a whole bag of salt. It's absolutely no problem to like them, enjoy them, cosplay them, buy them, but don't link them to anything with history unless you do some research.

And again, not saying any show is good or bad, enjoy whatever you want, this is only an opinion regarding trends in Chinese period dramas/movies. If you'd like to see what a traditional Chinese image of "Heaven" and immortals look like, here's a video from the 1986 version of Journey to the West. This is a show I would say over 80% of Chinese people have seen, most of us watched it as kids. Many, many people think it recreates the image most Chinese people have of what our "Heaven" looks like:

Src: 嗑学家与挑剔学家 【86版西游记演出了中国传统神仙该有的样子】 https://www.bilibili.com/video/BV1DV4y1g73N/

[woso-dreamzzz]

Master Builder

Lauren Hemp x Reader

Summary: You work at Legoland

You spent most of your time tucked away in your workshop, isolated from the rest of the world.

Your work was repetitive most of the time, forcing Lego bricks together and gluing them in place, but you loved it. You had done a lot to become the head Master Builder of the Legoland Windsor Resort and sitting in your little room with your earphones in and nothing but Lego bricks was soothing.

You got to do what you loved day-in, day-out and watch as your creations got displayed around the theme park.

You weren't used to having people in your workspace (all of your coworkers knew not to interrupt you while you were building) so you didn't expect the thunder of feet on the stairs as you worked on your life size model of a leopard.

You paid no mind to it though. Sometimes the park booked schools to come look at the workshops and as the head Master Builder, they always ended up in your one last.

Sure, little kids were a bit annoying and always tried to touch your models but you could tolerate them for the ten minutes they spent in your room.

So, you didn't even turn around as you dug through your drawer of black bricks.

Arms wrapped around your shoulders and a familiar wet kiss was placed on your cheek.

You wiped it off in disgust and tore off your headphones, whipping your head around to glare at the offender.

Chloe Kelly grinned back at you.

"Must you do that?"

"Course I do!" She said," Only the best for Mrs Hemp!"

"The fact that you think you're the best is very arrogant," You replied, hunching back over your model with the black brick you had fished out.

"y/n's our head master builder," The tour guide said," It seems that she knows a few of you already..."

"You can leave them here," You said," I can take them from here."

"Are you sure? You're-"

"I'm nearly done. Can you call the site team and get them to move this outside the gift shop?"

"Of course."

You glued on your last piece and took your usual photo of the model before turning around to face the rest of the Lionesses. You hadn't met many of them in person apart from the City girls, whom you each greeted, but your eyes were immediately drawn to your wife.

Like whenever she ended up at your work, she was digging through the drawers of your mini models.

"If you're going to take some of them," You said," Then I'm going to need some of my other ones back. You're robbing me blind, Lauren."

She smiled at you. "You can make more. What's yours is mine, right?"

You rolled your eyes. "You're so lucky we're married."

She pressed a little kiss to your lips. "I know."

You picked out a few little parrots and a wolf for Lauren to put in her bag. "I didn't know you were coming today."

"It was meant to be a surprise. We've got the next few days off before we fly out."

You kissed her cheek. "It's nice that you came to see me." You slipped your hand into hers, swinging it for a moment before sending her an ear-splitting smile.

She shrugged. "I just came for the Lego."

You pulled your hand away. "In that case, I'm sure that Chloe can take your place."

"You're a catch!" Chloe crowed from the other side of your workshop," I'll fill Lauren's space if you're asking!"

"Hey!" Lauren grabbed your hand again. "Get your own wife!" She squeezed your hand and pouted in a way that had you kissing it off her face.

"Come on, pouty," You said," You've only got a few more hours before you have to go to your hotel. Don't waste them being grumpy."

Lauren sighed. "Only if you take me to see Miniland. It's very mean that you guys keep updating it while I'm in Manchester."

You laughed, already pulling her out of your workshop by the big double doors that led into the park. "The work doesn't stop just because Lauren Hemp isn't here."

"It should," Lauren said as you led her and the group over to Miniland," You know how much I love coming here."

"You love coming here because you get in for free," You reminded her with a soft smile," Always take advantage of me, you are."

"Only when it's about Lego."

From behind you, you could hear one of the girls say in amusement," Of course, Hempo's wife works at Legoland. I don't know what I expected."

"There's a bit of a surprise for you now," You said as you wandered through Miniland (with the same amount of pride you always got from looking at your work)," And I want you to be very happy because I had to fight tooth and nail for this."

Lauren's brow furrowed as she frowned. "Huh? But you didn't know we were coming."

"I didn't," You confirmed," But you haven't been here for a while now. I did want to show you on our anniversary but," You shrugged," You're here now and you would have found out anyway."

You covered her eyes with your hands and guided her over to the model of Wembley.

"Okay," You said, feeling an anxious kind of excitement filling your body," Are you ready?"

"Ready."

You took your hands away from her to reveal the final of the Euros made out of Lego figures.

It had taken you a while to get permission to change what was going on in the model and even longer to get speciality minifigures made to represent everybody.

Lauren looked wildly between you and the model even as all of her teammates crowed out and exclaimed their excitement.

"Do you like it?" You asked.

"Baby," She said," I love it!" Her hands wrapped around your waist and she spun you around. "You're so brilliant! Look! That's me!"

"Good god," Chloe muttered behind you," She's more excited about a bloody Lego figure than having her shirts sold."

[ohsalome]

What Ukrainians ate to survive Holodomor

(translated excerpts from an Історична Правда article): + images source

The villagers would dig up the holes of the polecats to find at least a handful of grain hidden by these animals. They pounded it in a mortar, added a handful of oilcake (from hemp seed), beetroot, potato peelings, and baked something from this mixture.

Those who managed to hide at least a little grain would grind it in iron mills made from wheel axles and cook "zatyrukha" (a concoction made from a small amount of flour ground from ears of grain).

Acacia flowers were boiled and eaten raw, and green quinoa was mixed with crushed corn cobs. Those who could - and this was considered lucky - added a handful of bran. This food made their feet swell and their skin crack.

The peasants dried the husked ears of corn and millet husks, pounded them, ground them with weeds, and cooked soups and baked pancakes. Such dishes were impossible to chew, the body could not digest them, so people had stomach aches. Pancakes, the so-called "matorzhenyky", were made from oilcake and nettle or plantain.

It went so far that peasants would crumble straw into small chips and pound it in a mortar together with millet and buckwheat chaff, and tree bark. All this was mixed with potato peelings, which were very poisonous, and this mixture was used to bake "bread", the consumption of which caused severe stomach diseases.

There were cases when village activists took away and broke millstones, mortars, poured water on the heat in their ovens. After all, anything found or saved from the food had to be cooked on fire, and matches could only be purchased by bartering for their own belongings or by buying them in the city, which was impossible from villagers that were on "black lists".

Chestnuts, aspen and birch bark, buds, reed roots, hawthorn and rose hips, which were the most delicious, were used as food substitutes; various berries, even poisonous ones, were picked; grass seeds were ground into flour; "honey" from sugar beets was cooked, and water brewed with cherry branches was drunk. They also ate the kernels of sunflower seeds.

Newborns had the worst of it, because their mothers had no breast milk. According to testimonies, a mother would let her child suck the drink from the top of the poppy head, and the child would fall asleep for three days.

In early spring, the villagers began to dig up old potato fields. They would bake dumplings from frozen potatoes, grind rotten potatoes in a mash and make pancakes, greasing the frying pan with wheel grease. They also baked "blyuvaly" (transl. "vomities") from such potatoes and oatmeal mixed with water, which was so called because they were very smelly.

They ate mice, rats, frogs, hedgehogs, snakes, beetles, ants, worms, i.e. things that weren't a part of food bans and had never been eaten by people before. The horror of the famine is also evidenced by the consumption of spiders, which are forbidden to kill in Ukrainian society for ritual reasons.

In some areas, slugs were boiled into a soup, and the cartilaginous meat was chopped and mixed with leaves. This prevented swelling of the body and contributed to survival. People caught tadpoles, frogs, lizards, turtles, and mollusks. They boiled them, adding a little salt if there was salt. The starving people caught cranes, storks, and herons, which have been protected in Ukraine for centuries, and their nests were never destroyed. According to folk beliefs, eating stork meat was equated with cannibalism.

The consumption of horse meat began in 1931, before the mass famine. People used to take dead horsemeat from the cemeteries at night, make jelly out of it and salt it for future use.

Dead horses were poured with carbolic acid to prevent people from taking their meat, but it hardly stopped anybody. Dead collective farm pigs were also doused with kerosene to prevent people from dismantling them for food, but this did not help either.

After long periods of starvatiom, the process of digestion is very costing for the human body, and many people who would eat anything would drop dead immediately out of exhaustion.

If a family had a cow hidden somewhere in the forest, they had a chance to survive. People living near forests could hunt/seek out berries and mushrooms, but during winter this wouldn't save them. People living near rivers could fish in secret, but it was banned and punishable by imprisonment/death.

[tanuki-kimono]

Priests' outfits - Jikitotsu, Daimon, and Hentetsu

(as worn during Edo period - great charts by Nadeshico Rin). You can find more about samurai ranks and their regulated attires under the tag "samurai kimono".

"Hight Priest" jikitotsu

This outfit was worn for court events by Buddhist priests of the highest rank ( 法印 Hôin) and second highest rank (法眼 Hôgen). Those titles could also be also given to 儒者 Confucian scholars, 医師doctors, Buddhist 絵師 painters and 仏師 sculptors, etc.

直綴 Jikitotsu - type of monk robe, originally made by stitching together a 偏衫 henzan (monk robe covering the upper body) and a 裙子 kunsu (monk robe covering the lower body) together. Overtime, jikitotsu came to be worn opened, more like a haori vest.

末広 Suehiro - a type of formal folding fan. TN: the fan drawn here ressemble more a 中啓 chûkei, as suehiro have curving ribs which don't seems to be the case here (find more about fan types here)

(長)袴 (Naga)bakama - hakama pants with long trailing legs, here made of hiraginu (plain silk)

白小袖 Shiro-Kosode - white kosode (=ancestor of the kimono) /or/ 帷子 Katabira - thin garment made from hemp or raw silk (worn during Summer). Note that 経帷子 kyôkatabira designates a shroud (=the white kimono used to dress the dead). /or/ 熨斗目Noshime - kosode (=ancestor of the kimono) with stripes/lattice pattern at waist area

小さ刀 Chîsagatana - small katana

"Companion" formal kimono

First people helping buddhist priests, 同朋 dôbô (lit. "companions) became overtime men attending on the Shogun, feudal lords and other high-ranked officals.

They were in charge of miscellaneous tasks (like cleaning, messengers etc.), or depending on their talents more skilled ones (dance, music, ikebana, tea ceremony etc.).

大紋 Daimon is a specific hitatare set, patterned with large 紋 mon (clan/family crests)

菊綴 Kikutoji - decorative tassel-like knots, first appeared on Heian nobility clothes. Here, those were leather ones

胸紐 Munahimo - chest ties​, first appeared on Heian nobility clothes. Here, those were leather ones

熨斗目 Noshime - kosode (=ancestor of the kimono) with stripes or lattice pattern at waist area. Also note the colored undergarments collars.

袖括 Sodekukuri - decorative sleeve ties. Originally appeared on Heian clothings (like kariginu, nôshi, etc) where they were used to tighten sleeve cuffs. Here, those were leather ones

(長)袴 (Naga)bakama - hakama pants with long trailing legs, here made of white linen

小さ刀 Chîsagatana - small katana

The Proto-haori

This outfit was the formal wear worn by lower class priests, scholars, doctors, artists, etc.

編綴 Hentetsu (lit. "stitched together") - a vest with large and long boxy sleeves, made from gauze or plain silk, most often black or dark brown. The chest straps were also made of the same fabric It evolved from 十徳 jittoku (itself a variation of 直綴 jikitotsu, see above). First a casual wear for court nobles, and then spread to lower-class samurai who wore it over their kosode from Muromachi era and on. Its use then reached other social classes during Edo period. Overtime and minor variations, it finally became known as our modern 羽織 haori

服紗(小袖) Fukusa(kosode) - a kosode (=ancestor of the kimono) bearing crest, and made from soft silk (like habutae or rinzu). In summer, it was a katabira (thin garment made from hemp or raw silk) /or/ 熨斗目 Noshime - kosode (=ancestor of the kimono) with stripes or lattice pattern at waist area

[yzegem]

Some sketches I did of typical bladed weapons and armor in the Sun Empire.

Here are the names of some of them.any are taken from irl weapons. Before the usage of bladed weapons was common, the ancient inhabitants of Helicas (now heartland of the Sun Empire) had a long tradition of maces and thick padded armor. This, most current bladed swords are very top heavy and good against armor.

Here is the gear of a heavy infantryman of the warrior caste.

The kora sword is meant to reach over or around a shielded oponent and in the offhand of the first drawing he has a short jasa sabre (in this case used as a dagger, but longer versions are used as a proper sword). His armor is made out of leather from a rhino like animal and iron plates.

The kora sword is the sacred weapon of the warrior caste, and long, two handed weapons are made for animal sacrifices and important executions, though these weapons are still effective in combat.

Here I wanted to compare how the poorest and richest soldiers would gear for battle:

On the left a humble peasant levee. His armor is layered with an inner tunic of linen, cotton or wool, and a shorter, thick tunic made out of hemp or woven esparto grass. Over these two layers a fleece coat is worn. This one also wears a belt with hanging stripes of reinforced leather covering the groin and a brass helmet could also be used by more well off peasants. This armor is not that bad against blunt objects and cuts, but is very vulnerable to stabbing. His weapons are mostly repurposed agricultural tools, such as the leaf knife and a straightened out scythe on top of a bamboo stick as a polearm.

The other one is the most expensive unit by far: a heavy yakor cataphract, with lamellar armor both on the rider and camel. A camelry charge of this kind is often deployed in the most decisive part of the battle. His gear is very ornate, with a feather crown and a saddle with the resemblance of a large erect penis. Soldiers of this kind usually belong to the warrior caste.

The cataphract normally uses a spear, but they are also trained for shooting bows, throwing short javelins (like the ottoman jarid) or using long maces. An incredibly rich cataphract might even use a sabre made out of a unicorn horn (coming soon) or some kind of firearm.

Light yakor camelry is also deployed by the Sun Empire, but these skirmishers are usually foreign mercenaries or auxiliary tribes from inside the borders of the Empire.

Here is a light infantry soldier armed with a war axe (inspired by the irl Igorot axe) and a shield and covered with scale brass armor. Besides him, a war ogre hound.

Next, some sketches about the main enemies of the Empire in it's northern frontiers:

[madamejadex]

Hi Miss Jade, I'm curious is to how you'd introduce someone to bondage/shibari?

-🐶 (I sent this ask through before but forgot to sign off. Mwah <3)

Hello Pup,

First and foremost, I’m honored that you trust me enough to ask this. And I'll do my best to explain it in the best way I can. So, let’s start by clarifying the difference between the two: 🔹 Bondage - is more about restriction, control, and power play. 🔹 Shibari - is an art form that blends restriction with beauty, emotion, and intimacy. While both can be erotic, shibari is often more about the journey of being tied rather than just the restraint itself.

Now when that's been clarified, let's move on to how I would introducing someone to rope play. And as in all the cases of introductions I always begin with the three fundamental principles: communication, consent, and safety.

Communication & Consent Before any rope even touches your skin, we talk. What excites you about this? What makes you nervous? Are there any physical limitations, previous injuries, or mental blocks I should know about? Bondage (especially shibari) can be deeply intimate and even emotional, so we establish safe words and nonverbal signals (like tapping or humming) in case you ever feel uncomfortable but can’t speak.

Trust is built in layers, and my priority is making sure you feel secure in every step.

Safety First, Always!!! Rope can be exhilarating, but it also carries risks, like for example: circulation loss, nerve compression, or emotional instability. That’s why I always make sure you know a few key safety rules:

🔹 Anatomy Awareness: Some areas are safer for bondage than others. I avoid placing pressure on delicate nerves, especially around the wrists, inner thighs, and neck. If you feel tingling, numbness, or coldness in any limb, we stop immediately.

🔹 Circulation Checks: A good Dom/me always keeps an eye on your hands and feet. If they turn pale or blue, if you can't wiggle your fingers/toes, or if there’s any intense discomfort, we adjust or remove the rope.

🔹 Breathing: Certain ties (like chest harnesses) can restrict breathing if too tight. I’d always make sure you can breathe comfortably.

🔹 Rope Choice Matters: Soft, natural fiber ropes (like jute or hemp) are preferred for shibari because they hold knots well without tightening unpredictably like synthetic ropes can. I always make sure my rope is properly conditioned to avoid roughness on your skin.

🔹 Always Have Safety Shears: No matter how beautiful a tie is, I never tie without a quick-release option. Safety shears are always within arm’s reach, just in case.

The First Scene For a first experience, we wouldn’t dive into suspension or complex ties. Instead, I would guide you through something simple, maybe a single-column tie around your wrist, letting you feel the pressure, the snugness, and the restraint. I'd keep checking in, making sure you feel comfortable.

If you enjoy the feeling, we build from there, perhaps binding your wrists together, then moving to a harness around your chest, all while watching your breathing and body language.

Bondage or Shibari is never about just restraint. It’s about the emotions it brings, the surrender, the trust, the vulnerability, and the quiet power exchange between us. If, at any point, your mind or body says, this doesn’t feel right, we stop. No hesitation. Your well-being comes first, always.

Aftercare – The Gentle Come-Down Rope play can bring out deep emotions, even if the scene is lighthearted. Once I untie you, I take time to check in, massaging any areas that may be sore, using lotion if needed, offering water, a blanket, and soft touches to comfort you. We talk about how you feel, what you liked, and what you might want to explore next time.

Bondage and Shibari is an art, but it’s also a responsibility. My hands are not just tying rope, they are holding your trust, your safety, and your surrender. And I do so with the utmost care.

Let me know if you have any follow-up questions, dear. 

xo Miss Jade

[broadleafhemp-blog]

Transforming Invasive Trees into Topsoil Regeneration Solutions 👏 VRM & Broadleaf Hemp

Camphor Laurel and Hemp Humi Soil pile in Northern New South Wales , Australia Camphor Laurel has long been an invasive weed, hindering the regeneration of Australia’s native flora and encroaching on our pasturelands. Traditional herbicide control poses environmental and health risks, but what if we could manage this weed without chemicals? Dylan Wood from Broadleaf Hemp has developed…

[auspicioustidings]

Price likes to pick up books on random things because he thinks it is always good to know niche info. Gaz doesn't realise this is the case when he sees a book on Shibari. He is so delighted with Price taking an interest in something outside of work that he gets all the ropes and sets up a suspension point and then presents it to Price.

And even if it was just a random book, Price had found it fascinating. The minute he sees those ropes in Gaz's hands he can't stop thinking about how they look biting into skin. How they'd look biting into Gaz's skin.

It's awkward and difficult at the start. Gaz is clothed of course and Price ties too loose because he's trying to avoid it being too intimate, trying not to let his hands stray too long. He fucks up once and Gaz can't feel his hand for a few hours because the rope bit into a nerve.

But then the next day after a disastrous first session Gaz asks if it would be OK to do it again. If maybe he could take his top off for the chest harness this time. He wants to try suspending and the ropes need to be the right tightness around his body to hold properly. Tight enough to leave marks.

The next session is an exploration. Not quite full trust yet, but they are learning together. Price gets more comfortable with his hands on Gaz. Gaz gets more comfortable speaking up when he thinks it doesn't feel correct.

The third session and Price understands the chapter in the book about emotional connection. Gaz is gorgeous all strung up, ropes cutting through and leaving his normally hard body looking soft with how it flows over the jute, almost like the plush rolls he tends to like on a woman. And he can see how he lets go, how the sharp edges of his mind have fuzzed out and left him seeming boneless.

He holds him after he's all untied. Massages at him to get the blood flowing again, whispers hushed and reverent praises to him. 'Did so well Seargant, perfect boy, took ropes like a dream.' He barely even remembers when he switched to massaging inside him instead. Doesn't know when it went from Gaz giving mumbled acknowledgement of his praise to crying softly and asking for more, asking permission to come with Price buried inside him to the root.

They spend the rest of the evening with Price looking after his boy. They take a bath together and he hand feeds Gaz before wrapping himself around him in bed.

They never call it sex because it feels like too small a description for what they've built here, the perfect connection of it. It goes beyond casual intimacy. It's not romance, it's not lust, it's something beyond that. It becomes their ritual, their safe space.

(It's a very different beast when Ghost finds the book. He has Soap strung up and drooling, fucks him while he's suspended and blindfolded, uses hemp rope and gets hard as fuck whenever he sees the mess of bruises it leaves. They don't quite get into the intimate emotional connection of it, but my God do they get into the kink of it.)

[justinspoliticalcorner]

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer. I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs. In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US. I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person. I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues. After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply. I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand. I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it. [...] For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long. On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact. They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless. [...] The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Jasmine Mooney for The Guardian on her experience being unlawfully kidnapped by ICE goons and detained for two weeks (03.19.2025).

Canadian actor Jasmine Mooney wrote an opinion column for The Guardian on her experience being unlawfully kidnapped by ICE goons and detained for two weeks.

[hpowellsmith]

THE EARTH HAS TEETH RO intro: Armell Bassar

The Earth Has Teeth Intro Post | Forum Thread

Full name: Armell Bassar

Age: 23

Gender: selectable between cis man (he/him), cis woman (she/her), and agender (they/them)

Background: as the only child of the head of their town who is also a religious leader, Armell is conscious of having big shoes to fill. They’re intensely curious about what makes the storms tick and the use of magic to protect people from them: both because of their drive to help their community, and because they want to prove themself to their mother, who believes that only traditional methods are appropriate.

Personality: passionate, impetuous, inquisitive, enthusiastic

Appearance: tall and rangy, with dark skin and eyes, and black springy hair

Style: Armell wears their hair in locs with a few beads here and there; regardless of gender, their hair is about shoulder length. They wear a long rust-coloured waxed hemp coat with fur trim whose pockets are often filled with charms, chalk, quills, and scroll cases. What they can’t fit in their pockets, they’ll stuff into their satchel. Male and agender Armell sometimes have a bit of stubble, but are usually clean-shaven.

At their best: determined, loyal, inspired

At their worst: oblivious, naive, tunnel-visioned

You’ll like Armell if you like… someone with a keen interest in magic who wants to use it for good, who is willing to jump into danger when it matters, who may sometimes be a bit of a gremlin, who’s eager to help those around them.

You’ll like romancing Armell if you like… intensity, fervent ambition, being appreciated and admired, being in charge (if you’re into that), feeling like the most important person in the room when they’re around.

A song from Armell’s playlist: How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful by Florence and the Machine

Face cast ideas: (bear in mind that this isn’t the be-all-and-end-all - feel free to imagine as you like) Alfred Enoch, Amandla Stenberg, this one model called Sylvan who seems to have dropped off the internet after I found their photoshoot...

[tiramisuandlove]

hihi, my magical mira. i’ve come to bother you about your lovely selfships, i hope you won’t mind (<- it will happen again). c:<

for misusugu,

#1 cashmere

#2 wool

#3 silk

for misuhime,

#1 hemp

#2 denim

#3 mesh

take your time to answer. xxxx

Dear and sweet jiah , if one day I mind your presence that would be the day that I’m no longer myself. Do note that you bring unfathomable joy and warmth with every interaction that I’m lucky to have with you.

And I can promise you , I will soon appear in your inbox to asks you about your lovely ships.( you chose such lovely questions , with the sweetest names!)

For misusugu

1. what’s a domestic moment you always imagine with them?

Waking up. The early rays of light gently shining over us , our limbs tangled with each other , skin to skin as our eyes flutter open. Still hazy and sleepy , not wanting to separate yet. Holding into each other out of reflex , out of need for one more minute in this bliss.

I genuinely think I would sleep best next to Suguru , so of course I wouldn’t want to wake up once we have to.

2. what’s a sensory detail (a smell, texture, sound) that instantly reminds you of them?

Humming. The vibration that comes out of one’s chest once they hum. The warmth and security of hearing that sound. For me that’s unmistakable Suguru.

3. when do you feel the most vulnerable around them?

When I let him take care of me in my sick days.

I’m a person that gets easily sick , my body is week and my skin sometimes is ghostly pale , as my whole being hurt… so of course , I find something scarily intimate in giving my body to be treated by his hands. Messaging my aching muscles as I lay down fully relax. His touch that would undoubtedly bring salvation from my pain is very frightening thing , but also the final step in my relationship with Suguru.

For misuhime

1. what routine makes your relationship feel grounded?

I assume grounded in this context is like safe/secure ? Well in that case I would say , the small moments of mutually giving each other our full attention.

Small moment of piece where we just sit next or beside each other , with a drink or not , and talk about everything . These talks may turn into deep conversations or keep being nonsense , but they always feel like a hug that make us both feel safe and loved.

2. how do they make you feel safe even when you’re falling apart?

It truly depends how I’m falling apart , but just her presence alone is enough. Words of comfort and her helping hand in stuff would be enough to put back some ground under me so I can get up.

3. when did you realize you were in love?

Oh well now that’s funny. My au with Utahime is legally blond/ academic rivals/ ex of the same person getting together at the end , so it seem fitting for us to be fell first / fell harder , with me falling first.

It was slow process, where the line of our newfound friendship got blurrier with every teasing comment that could be easily mistaken as flirting. So I would say somewhere in between my admiration for her and my pleasures in bantering with her , I fell deeply and unmistakably in love.

There was no date , no particular moment or place , but one day my eyes gravitated towards hers and all I could think was how much I wanted them to look at mine.

And that’s it. It was so fun to answer these questions. I’m sorry I took so much time dear , I hope you enjoy my reply! Like I said , as soon as possible, I will chose few questions for you too. ♡

As for my parting words , it’s only fitting to be…

[mutant-distraction]

Neil Bockoven

OTZI THE ICEMAN - SOME FACTS YOU MAY NOT KNOW:

1) It took ten years to figure out how he died. The 5300-year-old remains of Otzi were discovered by two hikers in northernmost Italy in 1991, as he melted out of a glacier. First thought to have died from exposure, Otzi was found in 2001 to have an arrowhead in his shoulder that had cut a key artery.

2) He was a wreck - he had severe arthritis, ulcers, whipworms, gallstones, blackened lungs, atherosclerosis and rotten teeth. He had a frost-bitten toe, broken ribs, and genetic markers indicating the world's earliest known case of Lyme disease.

3) He was in shape - pollen studies indicate that, even though in his mid-40's and suffering from multiple ailments, he'd climbed from high elevation to low, then back again, perhaps as much as 8500' each way, all within 33 hours (Dickson et al. 2019).

4) Recent genetic work by Wang et al. (2023) indicates more than 90% of Otzi's ancestry came from Anatolian farmers, and he had dark eyes and skin. Rather than a forehead, Otzi had a five head (i.e., genes for male pattern baldness). These genetic indicators match up with what's seen from the mummified body.

5) Otzi had a relatively high level of Neanderthal genes - some reports saying more than 5% compared to a ~2% average for Europeans today.

6) Otzi may have been a part-time coppersmith. His possessions included one of the oldest-known copper axes, and analyses of his hair indicate that it was heavily contaminated with copper and arsenic, a pollutant associated with copper smelting (Brothwell, 1995).

7) Lead isotope and trace element studies indicate the copper in Otzi's ax came from ores in central Italy's Southern Tuscany region more than 300 miles away. The flint used for his arrowheads came from about 100 miles to the south. This suggests an extensive trade network.

7) Otzi had traces of cannabis on his tools, clothing and in his digestive system. The traces probably stem from its use for pain relief and/or from working with hemp fibers for rope or clothing (Wacker et al. 2019).

It's amazing what all we've learned from the wonderful discovery of Otzi!