#lewis' ramblings

[werethropy]

"The nonbinary afab who goes by she/her, dresses femininely, and uses a push-up bra when I—" when you what? What's wrong with her?

Is she not nonbinary enough for you? Is the way she experiences her queerness and how she presents not perfect enough for you? Nonbinary people don't owe you androgyny, right? So why is she the exception? Why does she have to hate herself to appeal to your standards? Why is she any less trans—any less worthy of respect—cause it's "not visible"? Queer solidarity my ass. Don't spout this bullshit on Pride, man.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

C 👏 S 👏 LEWIS 👏 WAS 👏 NOT 👏 MISOGYNISTIC

IM SO SICK OF THIS TAKE

“But he said girls shouldn’t fight in battles—" No, actually. What he said was “Battles are ugly when women fight.” Which literally translates to “in a war where women are required to fight to help win it, it means the war itself is really bad.” And this literally just means that the war has gotten so bad that women have to fight, not that women shouldn’t fight. Just that they shouldn’t be forced to. Anyway, remember Lucy?? Lucy who rode to battle in The Horse and His Boy?? Lucy who fought as an archer?? “But Susan didn’t—" Yeah. Because she didn’t want to. No one was forcing her not to fight. She had free will to fight or to not fight, and she chose not to because she didn’t want to, not because a man made her stay home.

“He punished Susan for growing up—" S i g h. This is the one I see the most often. “He did Susan dirty” “he made her suffer because she liked lipstick” “etc etc blah blah blah” First of all Narnia is a children’s book series. For CS Lewis to delve into why Susan forgot Narnia, talk about her dealing with the death of her entire family, discuss her grief, and write about her eventual return to Narnia (more on that in a second), it would’ve made for a pretty dark and heavy children’s book, and Lewis said that he didn’t think that was something he wanted to write. But he also encouraged people to finish Susan’s story themselves, and said she might eventually make her own way back to Narnia. Not only this, but Susan’s name means lily, and the waters around Aslan’s country are covered in lilies. Coincidence? I think not. I think it symbolizes she was going to go back. (Especially considering I think Lewis was very careful in choosing each of the Pevensie’s names, since they all relate to their character).

Also, Lewis did not condemn Susan simply for growing up and liking makeup and clothing and boys. If so why would he have written about Aravis and Shasta/Cor, or Caspian and Liliandil? Why would he have written about Susan and Lucy being beautiful and having many suitors? So no, he wasn’t condemning her for that, and in fact he wasn’t condemning her at all. It’s extremely probable that her family’s death would have brought Susan back to her senses. Because here’s the thing: she forgot. She threw herself so much into the world and approval and convinced herself that her life as a queen and her acquaintance with Aslan was all a silly game they played as children, that it wasn’t real. But, she very well could remember again, and I 1000% believe she did.

“All his female characters were weak and did nothing—" My friend. Lucy Pevensie was a female. She discovered Narnia. It was because of her. Her siblings would never have found it without her. Lucy is one of THE most important characters in the entire series. And her title? The Valiant. Lucy’s very title as queen denoted her bravery and fortitude without one even knowing her. As for Susan, she was not any weaker for being “The Gentle.” I would say gentleness is honestly one of the strongest traits a person can have, because it takes a lot to live and be gentle. Also remember Aravis? A major character in The Horse and His Boy and future wife of Shasta, Aravis literally nearly killed herself to escape an arranged marriage. She was not someone to be dictated to; she made her own choices and escaped rather than submitting. And in the end, she’s still fiery, just a little more humble and with less of a chip on her shoulder. Then there’s Polly, who is the more logical person in The Magician’s Nephew and tries to stop Digory from ringing the bell that wakes the White Witch. A boy causes her to awaken, not a girl. It was Digory’s fault she woke up, not Polly’s!!

Also, Peter and Edmund do not ignore their sisters because they’re girls. They listen to what they have to say and speak to them as equals. They don’t forbid them from fighting; Susan chooses not to, but Lucy goes straight into the heart of the battle with them! So don’t even say Lewis made his female characters weak. They were the backbone of much of the series and without them much of the plot would never have happened!!

So don’t you ever say to me that CS Lewis was misogynistic because it’s the furthest thing from the truth

[strwbrryfire]

[delopsia]

I will not speak

[garykingz]

Gentlemen.....☺️ A short view🔭 back to the past👈🏻. Thirty years ago🏚️, Niki Lauda told🗣️ us: "Take a trained monkey🐒, place him🫳🏻 into the cockpit🪹 and he is able to drive🫨 the car🏎️" Thirty years later🔮, Sebastian👱🏻 told us: "I had to start😓 my car🏎️ like a computer💻, it's very complicated😵‍💫." And Nico Rosberg💃🏼 said he pressed🫱🏻 during the race — I don't really🫤 remember WHAT🤷🏻 race — the wrong❌ button🔘 on the Wheel🛞. QUESTION⁉️ for you two✌🏻 both: is formula 1 driving🏎️ today too complicated😫😵? With twenty2️⃣0️⃣ or more buttons⚫ on the wheel. Are you too much🚦😭 under effort, under pressure🛑? What🤨 are your🫵🏻 wishes💫 for the future❓ CONCERNING😡 the technical PROGRAM💿 during the race🏁? Less buttons⚪ MORE🤔? Or less◀️ or more▶️ COMMUNICATION📞 with your engineers👩🏻‍���👨🏻‍🔧?

[rossacorsa]

nico rosberg genuinely deserved better at mercedes. why?

who had mercedes first win since their return? nico rosberg

out of the 54 wins mercedes had in the hamilton rosberg era, nico won 41% of them (22 races)

out of the 63 pole positions mercedes earned in this era, nico earned 46% of them (29 pole positions)

nico is still FIFTH on the rankings of most consecutive victories with 7 (mexico 2015 - russia 2016)

nico quite often beat michael schumacher in equal machinery (yes, i know its not prime schumacher, but c'mon , its still schumacher)

but, who was mercedes tailoring the car towards? schumacher. yet who won the only grand prix they won before lewis got there? nico . rosberg .

who did the team tailor the car to when lewis arrived? lewis. who had the first victory in that car? nico . rosberg .

nico did everything expected of being the number 2 driver that they FORCED him to be

then, he went against his OWN team

his OWN friend

showed the WORLD he didn't have to be a 2nd driver

this is a massive what if

but.. what if they'd actually trusted nico in that no.1 driver position?

what if he wasn't left to be following lewis and michael?

maybe I'm delusional, but nico was a damn good driver

underrated in his technical outlook

nico . rosberg . deserved . better .

[larissa-the-scribe]

Reading The Four Loves by C.S. Lewis (and loving it so far), when--

"But the nature-lovers whom I have in mind are not very much concerned with individual beautiful objects of that sort. The man who is distracts them. An enthusiastic botanist is for them a dreadful companion on a ramble. He is always stopping to draw their attention to particulars."

Is this from personal experience. Is. Is he talking about Tolkien.

[wolfstardaughter-jj]

The brain rot is r e a l, people. I started watching the show for the plot.

The plot:

[ihaveitprintedout]

when you're in a normal conversation and they bring up the F1 driver you're obsessed with and you have to pretend you only like them a normal amount and not a psychotic amount

[singing-not-sleeping-beauty]

if there is one thing I really want to thank Chris Chibnall for it is the companion support group

seriously, if the BBC wants to film a series of short webisodes featuring whichever former companions that are willing to come back,I would happily watch all of them

[werethropy]

"mental health" advocates when they see someone with Z-OCD or P-OCD (suddenly they don't care about mental health anymore and just want to jump to conclusions to hurt the people they swore to help)

This also goes for psychotic people who have "scary"/"disturbing" reactions to certain things (screaming, rocking back and forth while holding their head, mumbling about seemingly "crazy" or "inane" things, defecating themselves, scratching their skin, lashing out, wetting themselves, etc.)

Everyone wants to be on the right side of history until they realize mental health advocacy includes everyone and not just the 'prettier' disorders that they oh-so-love to cherrypick and romanticize.

Everyone loves the idea of disorders being less stigmatized than they are today, but will, in the same vein, clutch their pearls when they hear a person with POCD sob about how they feel like a disgusting human being about having uncontrollable, EGO-DYSTONIC, INTRUSIVE thoughts/images about children. They will call a morally incorrect person psychotic, they will say things very reminiscent of "I'm scared that the EVIL PSYCHOTICS are able to roam freely 😰😰😰😰" with a helluva lot of padding, they will make "schizo" jokes whose whole purpose was to trigger psychotic people because it's funny.

It's disgusting how your beliefs stop at the people who's disorders don't fit into your perfect little box of what's acceptable for a fucking illness or not, as if they have any damn control over it.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[menshusband]

He is so tiny and oughthttm.........

[delopsia]

If I had a nickel for every time I've watched Lew play through the "Who are you?" "Bob." lines, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but its weird that it happened twice

[banjo-bugs]

stanley parable funny for a friend on ig :-)

[tetheredbysin]

they share a name and language. they both grew up watching their country's greatest, marveling at his skill. both wanted to be the next german driver to be the best in the world. neither of them were, that title went to someone else. that man did not share their name.

their junior careers were a promise of glory for both, winning the championship that would launch them into formula 1. everyone expected so much of them and they were ready to sacrifice it all.

one of them got the glory. the wins, the points, the championship. he got to hoist that trophy high in the sky but even in that moment of joy he grieved because it meant leaving. leaving, because he had promised to sacrifice it all and he had. now he can only sit on the sidelines and watch on as the person, who unintentionally but inevitably forced him to leave, continues. the person he used to love so dearly. they don't talk anymore.

the other is still waiting for the glory, fifteen years since his last win that got him here. he promised to sacrifice it all and he tried but his sacrifices didn't seem to please the ladies of luck. perhaps there just wasn't enough to give. but he doesn't grieve, because his eyes light up when he gets to work, seeing who he gets to drive side by side with. the man he used to hate is now someone he gets to rely on. instead of sharp comments, now there is warm smiles and caring touches. they don't fight anymore.