#taxonomy tw

[cnestus]

i thought someone tagged a recent post of mine "#taxonomy tw" and it was actually taxidermy tw but for a minute that was the funniest thing in the world to me and now i have to use that tag if i ever make the mistake of grumping about whatever taxonomic shenanigans the monophyly zealots have pulled lately

[gl1tchxr]

animals all have human level intelligence in my world, so it wouldn't make sense for them to herd sheep and cows or have dogs and cats for pets. so what if insects filled those roles? that opens the door to so many cool concepts. huge fluffy moths kept for their silk, mantises as livestock guardians, cricket coops instead of chicken coops, beetle species being bred for the brightest colors and shiniest shells to compete in beetle shows, tarantulas as beasts of burden, dragonflies as aerial mounts. honestly just scale them up and bugs can do anything

[forms-and-phyla]

Phylum #14: Tardigrada, the water bears!

With humans, the only creatures to have reached the Moon alive are small, inconspicuous eight-legged creatures. But they are not spiders, or arthropods for that matter. While still their ancient relatives, tardigrades have followed a very different evolutionary path.

Tardigrades are part of our third and last ecdysozoan group, panarthropods - with a segmented body bearing multiple pairs of limbs. However, most of the tardigrade body isn't homologous to the arthropod one! Instead, most of their limbs correspond to what would become antennas and mouthparts in arthropods, functionally making them a giant head with two back limbs!

Most famous for surviving extreme conditions, from near-absolute zero temperatures to immense pressures or the vacuum of space, tardigrades achieve this thanks to a special capability called cryptobiosis. By entering a dehydrated "tun state", they preserve themselves while nearly stopping their metabolism, and can be revived decades later in perfect health! While they survived on the surface of the Moon, they do not thrive in those extreme conditions, only being dormant - in fact, they prefer moist environments like mosses or hot springs!

Fancy a mystery? Tardigrades today are divided into two main classes - the plump Eutardigrada and the armored Heterotardigrada. However, a third class, Mesotardigrada, was discovered in 1937, with a single specimen found in a hot spring near Mount Unzen, Japan. Of unique appearance among tardigrades, it was never found again despite repeated searches, and the type locality was destroyed years later.

[corbinite]

Hot take: this TikTok "how to spot a narc by their facial features" trend, while definitely a unique phenomenon of that hell app, was in some way inevitable with how people on the internet talk about NPD. If you believe that there is a category of people who are inherently evil, who will always be evil, whose very existence is a problem, you are someone who it will be extremely easy to sell eugenics to. Same reason why fascists have taken to calling their targets "narcissists" over the past few years (transphobes especially do this). If you believe there are certain people who ARE inherently problems, you are an extremely fucking easy mark for recruitment into fascist ideologies. This is the foot in the door. See it for what it is and stomp that foot out your door now. Fucking now.

[friendofthecrows]

Sorry I have brain rot now about the biological taxonomy system can I share more !!

Aaaa ABSOLUTELY

This is the shit I'm here for (note that I'm aiming to be an entomologist so while I know fuck all about fish, weird biology stuff is my JAM. I'd love to hear about it :])

[legobiwan]

For a writing prompt: maybe something with Luigi and polterpup? Or just Luigi and ghosts in general. The fact that ghosts are Real and Present in that world has always been super fascinating and a little upsetting to me haha. Could be as light or as angsty as you wish I just think Luigi being terrified of ghosts and having to (or in polterpup’s case, choosing to) be around them constantly is a fun concept to toy around with.

Apologies this took so long, anon. I vastly underestimated the demands of my travel schedule over the past few weeks. Oof. But now we're back!

Minor TWs in this one for general talk of death, existentialism, and broad references to both animal and child death (nothing graphic, nothing extreme, no on-screen death).

~~~~~~~~~~~

Of Ghosts and the Afterlife (Luigi’s Mansion 1)

Luigi didn’t like to think about death.

Not that there was much he could do about it. Death was as inevitable as a subway car with broken air conditioning on a hundred-degree day.

There was no such thing as the afterlife, Luigi having long ago abandoned the faith his brother and what remained of their family clung to, a practice more cultural than spiritual, steeped in the mores and traditions of a country and people he shared little in common with beyond his last name and an untamable mane of wavy, thick brown hair. 

For Luigi, death was death - game over, end of the line, see you never. A philosophical problem he didn’t enjoy contemplating, but one he could easily shove into a forgotten closet of his subconscious, the more pressing concerns of his daily life taking up his mental energies, banal things like scraping up enough plumbing jobs to pay the rent, dealing with corroded spark plugs in the repair van, and being forced make a meal of the questionable meatball subs from the corner bodega.

Death was death. Religion was religion. And ghosts were…a fairytale, a folklore conjured to rationalize away the heavy weight of existential dread. That, or something used as a cudgel, to keep people on the side of moral righteousness, lest they be doomed to walk the earth for all eternity in the shadows of existence.

Ghosts were a thought experiment. A fun diversion in a cramped Bensonhurst studio, the heating bill long unpaid, he and his brother buried under a set of fraying blankets, their father’s hefty industrial flashlight in hand, competing to see who could scare the other the most as the D Train rattled its metal bones past their window at two in the morning.

Mario was good at stories. (Mario was good at everything). And it wasn’t that Luigi was afraid of the spirits his brother would describe in gruesome detail, the way they’d seep through cracks and keyholes, wrapping their grey, misty arms around skinny, lost children who kept too many secrets. No. He couldn’t be afraid because ghosts weren’t real.

Not until he had been unceremoniously dumped into the Mushroom Kingdom, that was. 

He could deal with the existence of Boos. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, but he could at least assign them a category outside the paranormal. Boos were just another strange species, a bunch of floating marshmallows that looked like ghosts and acted like ghosts, but in no way were actual ghosts. Boos were something real, something alive, but beyond Earth’s limited taxonomies, just like everything else in this impossible world of talking mushrooms and tyrant turtles and evil wizards and booted dinosaurs and a million-and-one things that could leap out with fangs or fire or spikes and kill you at any moment - 

Death, he had once nervously told his brother over a campfire on the outskirts of Toad Town, felt like it had become a way of life. 

The letter had arrived on a crisp autumn morning, the early sunlight peeking through the gaps of Luigi’s drawn curtains. He remembered thinking it was a clean kind of light, unsullied by the drudgery of heavy coats and thick scarves, of greying slush and oily puddles pooling in the gutter, cigarette butts bobbing up and down like the stained buoys off Brighton Beach. Life had been, if not normal (he didn’t think he’d ever consider his existence in the Mushroom Kingdom normal), at least less chaotic than usual. There had been no invasions, no kidnappings, no pleas from neighboring kingdoms for help. For the first time in a long time, his daily routine was…pedestrian. A little boring, even. It was a nice change of pace.

He should have known better. Did know better. 

No one gave away mansions.

Yeah, and I’m sure they also have a bridge in Brooklyn they’d like to sell me he had muttered, crumpling up the notice, tossing it into a dented, mushroom-shaped garbage pail without another look as he groped for a gurgling coffee pot.

Three days later, a short, wiry old man was thrusting a souped-up vacuum into his hands, blathering all kinds of nonsensical instructions about ectoplasm and strobe lights and hearts and all that Luigi could think through the high-pitched static descending on onto his brain is that my brother is in danger and holy shit this entire mansion is filled with actual, real ghosts.

There was no time to wrap his head around the metaphysics of it all, the very real danger of being killed by an entire army of irate specters overriding any considerations as to the how or why of the entire situation. Ghosts apparently existed, not only as Boos, but as colorful, globulous forms, as cantankerous old knitting women, as mechanical, murderous toy soldiers, and worst of all, as small children and even screaming babies, the terrible implications of which rattled around Luigi’s already frenzied consciousness as he sucked the heart from a wailing infant, in all likelihood murdering it a second time. (A hazy memory had surfaced, a small, doll-like figure laid on a cheap, linoleum kitchen table, legs unstable as a small cadre of extended relatives wept and laid kisses on the child’s forehead. Forty and eight hour, their great-grandmother had commanded in broken English. To be sure the true dead. Spirito.)

It had been less than twenty-four hours, he reminded himself. Mario wasn’t dead. Or undead. Or whatever. Not according to tradition, and certainly not according to Luigi’s empirical observations (which seemed to be holding less and less weight as the paranormal evening drew on). No, he had seen his brother through the marble fangs of the dragon’s head. He was in the painting, banging for his life against an invisible prison of oils and canvas, his mouth open in a silent scream.

A victim of magic, but not a ghost.

Not if Luigi had anything to say about it.

He ran. Up broken, splintering sets of stairs; down dimly-lit corridors with threadbare rugging; through trap doors and flocks of toothy, golden bats, vacuum hose at the ready, sucking away at anything even resembling a ghost (how many curtains, how many dresses and bedsheets had he whisked into shreds all because of the ripple of a breeze or a trick of the light?)

He fought his way through chamber after chamber, slurping phantasms from earthly existence, unwilling to consider just what he’s damning his enemies to, if he’s killing them again, if they can feel pain or remorse, if this whole situation is maybe a figment of his imagination and in reality he’s back in Brooklyn, or worse, committed to a padded cell in Bellevue, colorful apparitions dancing on blank, white walls, the evidence of a broken mind. 

He found his brother’s portrait hung in a baroque, gilded antechamber, the room something as alien as the specters he had been fighting, his grimy boots sinking into blood-red, lush carpeting as gems and pearls and other precious-looking stones twinkled in the light of a silver candelabra. 

The keeper of Mario’s canvas prison turned to greet him, a gargantuan Boo with a jeweled crown named “King Boo” - an uninspired moniker if there ever was one - who pontificated at length, swearing vengeance on both Mario and Luigi, demanding reparations in blood and soul for crimes Luigi couldn’t even begin to understand, no less remember. 

Did I kill him? Luigi had panicked, rooted to the spot, Poltergust in hand as the Boo continued his long-winded diatribe. Is that why he’s a ghost? Did Mario do something? Luigi tried not to think too hard about the ethical dilemmas of their adventures, of their roles as protectors of the Mushroom Kingdom. Sure, people got hurt, that was the nature of the beast, but…

It didn’t matter, not when King Boo conjured a several-story tall likeness of Bowser, whisking Luigi through a portal to the stark rooftop of the dilapidated mansion to engage in a twisted game of cat-and-mouse (ghost-and-plumber), the giant Koopa puppet doing its best to stomp Luigi into a fiery, broken heap of ashes.

He escaped with his life. That, and the promise of retribution from beyond the grave, King Boo spitting all forms of vile epithets and visions of eternal pain as Luigi sucked the last of his bulbous form into the squealing, smoking Poltergust. 

When Mario was spat from E. Gadd’s printing machine, tumbling across the floor in a confused pile of limbs - his brother, real, corporal and definitely not dead - Luigi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

He never wanted to see - never wanted to think about another ghost again in his life.

Of Dogs (Luigi’s Mansion 2)

He supposed it made sense. In a way.

After all, if there were Boos, if there were ghost adults and ghost children and ghost babies - there were bound to be ghost dogs. Maybe ghost cats, as well. Hell, maybe an entire ghost civilization living (dying?) in tandem with his own flesh-and-blood world. 

He hated the idea. It trampled on every tenet of thermodynamics he had carved into his brain at the age of ten, made a mockery of the physics and chemistry and engineering that had carried him through adolescence and into adult life.

The Mushroom Kingdom - that was something he had at least managed to rationalize, had begun to construct a loose schematic for, notebooks upon notebooks filled with messy diagrams and rambling equations, an inadequate translation to his Earth-bound science, but one that allowed him to find some kind of solid footing in this incomprehensible new dimension.

Ghosts did not fit into his neatly constructed template. 

Least of all, ghost dogs.

Of course, the dog had to eat the key and run away, leading Luigi on a wild goose chase (he dearly hoped there was no such thing as ghost geese). He ran pellmell through gardens, through labs, through a series of mansions and other haun - 

Other decidedly creepy spots in the Evershade Valley. Places where he was left to battle groups of angry, globulous…shadows. Specters. Phantoms. Spirits. Poltergeists.

Ghosts. 

Again. 

He would have been angry if he weren’t so terrified. 

The dog, as much trouble as he was (He? She? Did it matter?) had at least not fallen under the spell of the Dark Moon, making him the Least Frightening Ghost of this particular run-in with the ethereal undead and King Boo.

And Luigi could almost get himself to…well…maybe not like him, but tolerate him. Even though the dog ate his keys, left messy trails of crumbs and soggy, half-eaten baguettes, slobbered all over Luigi’s pants, and managed at least once to urinate in a public fountain, a phenomenon Luigi would be puzzling over for months after the fact.

Best of all, the dog, unlike almost everyone else here, wasn’t bent on killing him. 

He was just a normal dog.

Who happened to be a ghost. 

Luigi wondered if he had had a family in life. Children to grow up with. A big house with a yard. He acted more like a puppy than an adult dog, his exuberant chaos reminiscent of the little Golden Retriever pup his second cousins had gotten when their family moved out to the Island. Oyster Bay, he remembers, real fancy stuff. Sal and Tony’s house had had trees. A garage. Separate bedrooms. He and Mario had begged for a dog for weeks after visiting, shuffling furniture around their tiny-windowed room, marking out places in purple chalk for the dog’s water bowl, his kibble, his toys.

Their father had grunted at the proposal, noting the two brothers would have to sleep in the same bed to make the space for their imaginary new pet. This ain’t no place for a dog, you two. You want animals, get a job with the pound. What, you’re still going to beg? Santa Maria. You two share that bed for a week without beating each other up and then come back to me. But I don’t like the odds. You boys haven’t shared a bed since you were seven. Five’ll get you ten you last forty-eight hours before someone’s fist is in the other one's face. 

They lasted three whole days before Luigi had planted his foot in Mario’s kidneys at two in the morning.

They never saw the dog in Oyster Bay again.

A car accident, real unfortunate stuff, Aunt Maria had told them later.

The memory haunted Luigi as he unholstered the Poltergust, forcing his fingers to twist dials and push at levers. He needed that key. It wasn’t just his life on the line if he failed. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he sucked the ghost dog into the machine, trying his absolute best to ignore the little whines and terrified yips of the struggling not-animal. After what felt like an eternity, he heard the tell-tale “pop” of the Poltergust, signaling his success in capturing yet another ghost, the silver key clanging to the cobble-stoned ground.

Luigi had never felt less heroic in his life.

I just think he wanted someone to play with, E. Gadd had commented offhandedly later, emptying the Poltergust's canister into the gigantic silver ghost vault with his usual detached efficiency, oblivious to the way Luigi's features had paled at the comment.

When he got word of the dog’s escape a few hours later, Luigi didn’t even try to deny his relief.

Of Half-Lives and Vengeance (Luigi’s Mansion 3)

Fatigue. Carelessness. Hubris. Naivete. 

Or maybe it had just been sheer stupidity.

An invitation to vacation at an exclusive, luxury hotel, addressed to him. 

Nice things never happened to Luigi. Or if they did, he could hardly enjoy them, waiting on tenterhooks for the other boot to fall.

The boot fell that evening. It was ghosts. Of course, it was. Nearly twenty floors of ghosts. At this point, he could say he was almost used to it, the creeping shiver up his spine, the gluey residue of ectoplasm which would leave him tattooed with ugly, mottled rashes for weeks on end.

Once again, he had to act as a one-man army against the mass of spectral, malevolent will. Once again, his brother had been trapped in a painting.

There were differences, of course. Polterpup was by his side, the ethereal puppy proving more loyal to Luigi than his fellow spirits. (Luigi could never say Polterpup was "his" in the way most pet owners would lay claim to a regular cat or dog. The ghost puppy had a disturbing tendency to disappear for weeks, sometimes months on end, only to make his return in the most startling manner possible, more than once sending Luigi screaming, flailing off his bed at some weird, inconvenient hour of the night. But for as much as Polterpup could have a "home" - Luigi's house was it).

Luigi also had the help of his pseudo-clone, Gooigi, a horrifying creation of E. Gadd's, an unholy combination of ghostly discharge (the nature of which Luigi did not want to know), coffee, and, Luigi's own biological samples. An impossible being with whom he shared an inexplicable telepathic connection, and if Luigi had had any semblance of a minute to consider what that all meant (was he part ghost now? Could Gooigi outlive him? Would he maintain that consciousness after death?) he would have likely run screeching into the night.

(The fact Gooigi had proven essential to his continued existence did not distract from the wildly dubious ethics behind Gooigi's creation, an issue Luigi was definitely going to have a long talk with E. Gadd about at some point. If he could manage to broach the topic without falling into a breathless panic).

But the most striking aspect of his third encounter with King Boo and his minions, something that wriggled at the base of Luigi's cerebellum as he fought floor upon gimmicky floor the largest array of ghouls he encountered yet, was the element of premeditation.

King Boo had easily disposed of Mario, the Princess, and the Toads during their first midnight encounter. Sure, Luigi had escaped down a laundry chute, chest heaving as he toppled onto a pile of dirty towels. But that shouldn't have posed an issue for this crazed version of King Boo, a being who could literally phase through walls.

Luigi should have been dead, or worse than dead, ten times over.

No, King Boo had decided to wait. To draw out the deep, sustained hum of terror far beyond its final breath.

Security cameras were posted everywhere in the hotel. Luigi had no doubt the ghostly tyrant was following his every move, watching, salivating as he fought and struggled against Egyptian gods and malevolent Mozarts, and bearded, Bayou beasts. (Were these the literal souls of the departed? Was Mozart truly in these walls? Or was this like a ghost Halloween, a once-in-a-deathtime opportunity to fulfill that longing urge to finally be someone who you will never be?)

(He remembers being six years old. Remembers dressing as his brother for Halloween, Luigi stealing Mario's iconic red t-shirt, his parents pleading with him to go as anything else - a spider, a rat, a baseball player - Luigi refusing each entreaty. The other boys aren't going to like it, Luigi, his mother had said, consonants slurring. You're going to get the snot pounded out of you, Dad had added a beat later).

(In the end, he had thrown an old floral bedsheet over his head, not even bothering to cut out eyeholes. I'm a ghost! Luigi had boasted. You're a loser, Vinny Malanga had laughed).

And worst part of it was, Luigi knew it. Knew he could turn any corner, go down any dark hallway and be met with that signature violet gemstone, that bladed, fanged smile ready to slam an empty frame down on his head and trap him for all eternity in oil and canvas. 

Death waited in every shadow.

And King Boo was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Of Death (Epilogue)

Luigi thought he knew death. After three, separate encounters with buildings chock full of the undead, after countless hours spent in the company of the best paranormal researcher he knew (the only one he knew, admittedly), after providing part-time shelter for a genuine ghost puppy, after meeting his half-undead clone - Luigi considered himself, if not comfortable, at least conversant in the hows and whys of the afterlife. 

One day, he tried to stop a wedding between a princess and a monster.

Death, he would learn, was only the beginning.

[covidsafehotties]

Hey I saw that you had a post mentioning suicide and it was tagged "sui ment tw" - could you also tag it and future things for "suicide tw"? Censoring the tags themselves isn't helpful to those of us who are trying to filter it out

Putting the whole word in the tags risks my blog getting marked as adult/harmful/whatever. I've been banned/limited too many times to let it happen again. It's easier for you to actually blacklist your triggers than to try and convince every blog to adopt your taxonomy anyway. It's not like the subject comes up much on this blog, and I'm not gonna get blurred just because tumblr mods suck for one person, sorry. Add the phrase I used to your blacklist.

[winpolitics1234567890]

生物分類學（英語：biotaxonomy）簡稱分類學（taxonomy），是關於生物個體的鑑定（identification）、歸類（classification）和命名（nomenclature）的原理和方法的學科；此三要件間有相互依存的關係。生物分類學範圍包括：研究生物類群間的異同程度，闡明生物間的親緣關係、演化過程和發展規律。[1]要將生物分類，首先要知道生物與非生物的定義，但是我們似乎沒有辦法準確定義，以病毒來說，雖然可在其他生物體內寄生並複製，但在生物體外卻沒有一般生物的特徵如製造或攝取營養，生殖等現象。又如引起瘋牛病的朊粒（prion）可以造成感染卻無DNA成分，一直以來，DNA被視為生命遺傳物質，經由與RNA的轉錄轉譯過程，形成蛋白質，再進一步形成組成細胞的各個部分，如細胞膜、胞器等，而細胞則是我們長久以來所認為組成生命體的最小單位。

https://zh.m.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/%E7%94%9F%E7%89%A9%E5%88%86%E7%B1%BB%E5%AD%A6

生物分類學（英語：biotaxonomy）簡稱分類學（taxonomy），是關於生物個體的鑑定（identification）、歸類（classification）和命名（nomenclature）的原理和方法的學科；此三要件間有相互依存的關係。生物分類學範圍包括：研究生物類群間的異同程度，闡明生物間的親緣關係、演化過程和發展規律。[1]要將生物分類，首先要知道生物與非生物的定義，但是我們似乎沒有辦法準確定義，以病毒來說，雖然可在其他生物體內寄生並複製，但在生物體外卻沒有一般生物的特徵如製造或攝取營養，生殖等現象。又如引起瘋牛病的朊粒（prion）可以造成感染卻無DNA成分，一直以來，DNA被視為生命遺傳物質，經由與RNA的轉錄轉譯過程，形成蛋白質，再進一步形成組成細胞的各個部分，如細胞膜、胞器等，而細胞則是我們長久以來所認為組成生命體的最小單位。

https://zh.m.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/%E7%94%9F%E7%89%A9%E5%88%86%E7%B1%BB%E5%AD%A6

[tanghighacester]

生物分類學（英語：biotaxonomy）簡稱分類學（taxonomy），是關於生物個體的鑑定（identification）、歸類（classification）和命名（nomenclature）的原理和方法的學科；此三要件間有相互依存的關係。生物分類學範圍包括：研究生物類群間的異同程度，闡明生物間的親緣關係、演化過程和發展規律。[1]要將生物分類，首先要知道生物與非生物的定義，但是我們似乎沒有辦法準確定義，以病毒來說，雖然可在其他生物體內寄生並複製，但在生物體外卻沒有一般生物的特徵如製造或攝取營養，生殖等現象。又如引起瘋牛病的朊粒（prion）可以造成感染卻無DNA成分，一直以來，DNA被視為生命遺傳物質，經由與RNA的轉錄轉譯過程，形成蛋白質，再進一步形成組成細胞的各個部分，如細胞膜、胞器等，而細胞則是我們長久以來所認為組成生命體的最小單位。

https://zh.m.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/%E7%94%9F%E7%89%A9%E5%88%86%E7%B1%BB%E5%AD%A6

生物分類學（英語：biotaxonomy）簡稱分類學（taxonomy），是關於生物個體的鑑定（identification）、歸類（classification）和命名（nomenclature）的原理和方法的學科；此三要件間有相互依存的關係。生物分類學範圍包括：研究生物類群間的異同程度，闡明生物間���親緣關係、演化過程和發展規律。[1]要將生物分類，首先要知道生物與非生物的定義，但是我們似乎沒有辦法準確定義，以病毒來說，雖然可在其他生物體內寄生並複製，但在生物體外卻沒有一般生物的特徵如製造或攝取營養，生殖等現象。又如引起瘋牛病的朊粒（prion）可以造成感染卻無DNA成分，一直以來，DNA被視為生命遺傳物質，經由與RNA的轉錄轉譯過程，形成蛋白質，再進一步形成組成細胞的各個部分，如細胞膜、胞器等，而細胞則是我們長久以來所認為組成生命體的最小單位。

https://zh.m.wikipedia.org/zh-tw/%E7%94%9F%E7%89%A9%E5%88%86%E7%B1%BB%E5%AD%A6

[lichenaday]

Cyphobasidium hypogymniicola

Ok, so what you are seeing here isn't a lichen--not all of it, anyway. The foliose lichen in these pictures are members of the Hypogymnia genus, but the pale bumpy wart guys growing on it? Those are C. hypogymniicola, a lichenicolous basidiomycete fungus that parasitizes Hypogymnias! It infests the host and induces it to grow those bulbous, brownish galls out of the thallus surface from which it releases its sexual spores. Creepy cool, huh? So like, by hijacking the thallus of the host fungi, is this lichenicoulous fungus also a constituent of the lichen symbiotic relationship? Does that make it a "lichen?" I mean, no, but since a "lichen" is made up of multiple organisms, where do we draw the line between symbiotic partners and parasites and associates? Food for thought.

images: source | source | source

info: source | source

[forms-and-phyla]

Phylum #13: Nematomorpha, the horsehair worms!

The cousins of roundworms! Much longer and thinner, often macroscopic in size, they get a bad reputation for their parasitic lifestyle. You might have seen videos of huge worms crawling out of an insect - yep, that was them.

But nematomorphs, or horsehair worms, aren't anything evil - no phylum is, really. In fact, the dramatic worm emerging from an insect is only the larva, with the adult living a casual free-living worm life, swimming in the seas or climbing in the trees!

They are also called Gordian worms - referring to the Gordian knot, as they have the habit of coiling themselves in intricate knots. In fact, they are often found like this after emerging from their host, usually several times smaller than themselves. (Details of the parasitic cycle and picture below)

As larvae, horsehair worms will take full control of their host - often a cricket, pushing them to dive into the water where the adult will emerge and lay its eggs. As gruesome as the process can look, the host might survive. Or, on the flip side, get eaten by a predator, in which case the horsehair worm can still wiggle out of the latter's digestive system, perpetuating the cycle.

[warholfactories]

[two-headed fawn] - 2020

[just-goblin]

Warning dead animal

Trigger warning Dead bird

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Can anyone identify this bird? My cat killed it this summer and I really want to know what it is as I have it's skull and wings. I'm in western Newfoundland if that's any help

[handweavers]

this is partly related to the prev post but theres this thing i've noticed among tw/erf rhetoric where they constantly accuse trans women of "colonizing female spaces" (the word colonizing specifically) and i don't think i've seen such an egregious misuse of that term anywhere else that just represents how much they fundamentally and very deliberately do not fucking understand anything at all. not the colonialist history of gender taxonomy not the lived material conditions of women as a class not racism and white supremacy just absolutely nothing at all

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (22-28 Aug 2021)

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😍👂 Sometimes I Trip On How Happy We Could Be (Nichole Perkins) - I love Perkins’ voice, both narrative and speaking, and these are great essays. [Some day I’ll remember that, for me, an entire book of memoir essays should probably be dipped in & out of, rather than binged.]

🙂 I Want To Teach You A Lesson In The Worst Kind Of Way (fandomfluffandfuck) - 61K, Stucky, no powers AU with an age gap & some D/s elements - 

😍 Ackerman’s Tea Shop (crinklefries) - 70K, Levi/Erwin - so technically this is a post-canon-divergent story but it’s basically a completely standalone AU and even those bits that are referencing canon directly are written so clearly that you don’t actually need any canon knowledge to love this. which i did. with zero canon knowledge beyond sweet large/grumpy smol. this fic will make you crave tea and scones and the art is stellar - 

🙂 The Bride Wore White: A Wedding Novel (A Nick & Carter Story #3) (Frank W. Butterfield)

🙂 Finding His Boy (Safe Harbor #1) (K.D. Ryan)

🙂 Finding His Home (Safe Harbor #2) (K.D. Ryan)

🙂👂 King Bullet (Sandman Slim #12) (Richard Kadrey, author; MacLeod Andrews, narrator) - a satisfying conclusion to Stark’s journey from full-on insanity to actual (but still fucked-up) human being. I really do love you, Jimmy Stark, you stubborn, not-overly-bright, often accidentally noble bastard. MacLeod Andrews remains a stellar fucking narrator for this series - I will never hear Stark’s voice any other way. [tw for all the usual Sandman Slim violence & fucked-up-ness but ngl the pandemic and autophagia mentions were almost too much for me. Not inappropriate for a noir thriller but my personal tolerance for those 2 elements is low low low.]

plus 1.3K of shorter fic and this great essay by Sarah Gailey about labels and identity: 

Do Hippos Count as Dragons: An Examination of Identity and Taxonomy

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

Glow Up - s1, e1-8

Legends of Tomorrow - s3, e7

Crisis on Earth-X Crossover - Supergirl - s3, e8;  Arrow - s6, e8; The Flash - s4, e8; Legends of Tomorrow - s3, e8

Criminal Minds - s15, e8-10 [like sandman slim, it was very satisfying to say farewell to this team. the actual murdery bits have been dismal for a while but i still really liked the found family]

Ted Lasso - s2, e6

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

Big Gay Fiction Podcast - Hockey Players in Love with Rachel Reid

Films To Be Buried With with Brett Goldstein - Russell T. Davies

Ologies with Alie Ward - Is Your Carbon Footprint BS?: How to Save a Planet takes over Ologies

Word of Mouth - Digital body language: how to work online (with Erica Dhawan)

Richmond Til We Die: A Ted Lasso Podcast - BONUS: The Real-Life Ted Lasso (with Coach Donnie Campbell)

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Beishan Broadcast Wall

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Places with a Purpose

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Tank

Hit Parade - What a Fool Believes, Part 1 & 2 [YACHT ROCK, BABY!]

Song Exploder - Lykke Li “I Follow Rivers”

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - Dead Companions

Strong Songs - “Africa” by Toto

Strong Songs - “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé

Films To Be Buried With with Brett Goldstein - Dominic Monaghan

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

Dark Side of the Summer of Love

Summer on the Stoop

All-Time Summer Jams

Summer Fridays

At The Hop

Doo-Wop

Julie and The Phantoms (Season 1 soundtrack) [JATP cast]

Ska Sounds

[roaringgirl]

Books read in January

I am keeping this as a little record for myself, as I already keep a list (my best new year’s resolution - begun Jan 2018) but don’t record my thoughts

General thoughts on this - I read a lot this month but it played into my worst tendencies to read very very fast and not reflect, something I’m particularly prone too with modern fiction. I just, so to speak, swallow it without thinking. First 5 or so entries apart, I did quite well in my usually miserably failed attempt to have my reading be at least half books by women.

1. John le Carré - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (1974): I liked this a lot! I sort of lost track of the Cold War and shall we say ethics-concerned parts of it and ended up reading a fair bit of it as an English comedy of manners - but I absolutely love all the bizarre rules about what is in bad taste (are these real? Did le Carré make them up?).

2. John le Carré - The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (1963): I liked this a lot less. It seemed at the same time wilfully opaque and entirely predictable. Have been thinking a lot about genre fiction - I love westerns and noir, so wonder if for me British genre fiction doesn’t quite scratch the same itch.

3. David Lodge - Ginger You’re Barmy (1962): This was fine. I don’t have much to say about it - I was interested in reading about National Service and a bit bogged down in a history of it so read a novel. As with most comic novels, it was perfectly readable but not very funny.

4. Dan Simmons - Song of Kali (1985): His first novel. This is quite enjoyable just for the amount of Grand Guignol gore, and also because I like to imagine it caused the Calcutta tourist board some consternation. Wildly structurally flawed, however. Best/worst quote: ‘Hearing Amrita speak was like being stroked by a firm but well-oiled palm.’ Continues in that vein.

5. Richard Vinen - National Service: A Generation in Uniform (2014): If you are interested in National Service, this is a good overview! If not, not.

6. Sarah Moss - Ghost Wall (2018): I absolutely loved this. About a camping trip trying to recreate Iron Age Britain. Just, very upsetting but so so good - a horror story where the horror is male violence and abuse within the (un)natural family unit.

7. Kate Grenville - A Room Made of Leaves (2020): Excellent idea, but not amazing execution - the style is kind of bland in that ‘ironed out in MFA workshops’ way (I have no idea if she did an MFA but that’s what it felt like). Rewriting the story of early Australian colonisation through the POV of John Macarthur’s wife Elizabeth.

8. Ruth Goodman - How to Be a Victorian (2013): I mostly read this for Terror fic reasons, if I’m honest. I skimmed a lot of it but she has a charming authorial voice and I really like that she covers the beginning of the period, not just post-1870.

9. Gary Shteyngart - Super Sad True Love Story (2010): I read this on a recommendation from Ms Poose after I asked for good fiction mostly concerned with the internet, and I thought it was excellent - it’s very exaggerated/non-realistic and that heightening of incident and affect works so well.

10. Brenda Wineapple - The Impeachers: The Trial of Andrew Johnson and the Dream of a Just Nation (2019): What a great book. I had to keep putting it down because reading about Reconstruction always makes me so sad and frustrated with what might have been - the lost dream of a better world.

11. Halle Butler - The New Me (2019): Reading this while single, starting antidepressants and stuck in an office job that bores me to death but is too stable/undemanding to complain about maybe wasn’t a great decision, for me, emotionally.

12. Halle Butler - Jillian (2015): Ditto.

13. Ottessa Moshfegh - Death in Her Hands (2020): Very disappointed by this. I don’t really like meta-fiction unless it’s really something special and this wasn’t. Also, I’m stupid and really bad at reading, like, postmodern allegorical fiction I just never get it.

14. Andrea Lawlor  - Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl (2017): This was really really hot! I will admit I don’t think the reflections on gender, homophobia, AIDS etc are very deep or as revealing as some reviews made out, but I also don’t think they’re supposed to be? It’s a lot of fun and all of the characters in it are so precisely, fondly but meanly sketched.

15. Catherine Lacey - The Answers (2017): This was fine! Readable, enjoyable, but honestly it has not stuck with me. There are only so many sad girl dystopias you can read and I think I overdid it with them this month.

16. Hilary Mantel - Wolf Hall (2010, reread): Was supposed to read the first 55 pages of this for my two-person book club, but I completely lack self-restraint so reread the whole thing in four days. Like, I love it I don’t really know what else to say. I was posing for years that ‘Oh, Mantel’s earlier novels are better, they’re such an interesting development of Muriel Spark and the problem of evil and farce’ blah blah blah but nope, this is great.

17. Oisin Fagan - Hostages (2016): Book of short stories that I disliked intensely, which disappointed me because I tore through Nobber in horrified fascination (his novel set in Ireland during the Black Death - which I really cannot recommend enough. It’s so intensely horrible but, like Mantel although in a completely different style/method, he has the trick of not taking the past on modern terms). A lot of this is sci-fi dystopia short stories which just aren’t... very good or well-sustained. BUT I did appreciate it because it is absolutely the opposite of pleasant, competently-written but forgettable MFA fiction.

18. Muriel Spark - Loitering with Intent (1981): Probably my least favourite Spark so far, but still good. I think the Ealing Comedy-esque elements of her style are most evident and most dated here. It just doesn’t have the same sentence-by-sentence sting as most of her work, and again I don’t like meta-fiction.

19. Hilary Mantel - Bring up the Bodies (2012, reread): Having (re)read all of these in about 3 months, I think this is probably my favourite of the three. I just love the way a whole world, whole centuries and centuries of history and society spiral out from every paragraph. And just stylistically, how perfect - every sentence is a cracker. I’m just perpetually in awe of Mantel as a prose stylist (although I dislike that everyone seems to write in the present tense now and blame her for it).

20. Muriel Spark - The Girls of Slender Means (1963, reread): (TW weight talk etc ) As always, Hilary Mantel sets me off on a Muriel Spark spree. I’ve read this too many times to say much about it other than that the denouement always makes me go... my hips definitely wouldn’t fit through that window. Maybe I should lose weight in case I have to crawl out of a bathroom window due to a fire caused by an unexploded bomb from WW2???? Which is a wild throwback to my mentality as a 16 year old.

21. China Mieville - Perdido Street Station (2000, reread): What a lot of fun. I know we don’t do steampunk anymore BUT I do like that he got in the whole economic and justice system of the early British Industrial Revolution and not just like steam engines. God, maybe I should read more sci-fi. Maybe I should reread the rest of this trilogy but that’s like 2000 pages. Maybe I should reread the City and the City because at least that’s short and ties exactly into my Disco Elysium obsession (the mod I downloaded to unlock all dialogue keeps breaking the game though. Is there a script online???)

22. Stephen King - Carrie (1974): I have a confession to make: I was supposed to teach this to one of my tutees and then just never read it, but to be honest we’re still doing basic reading comprehension anyway. That sounds mean but she’s very sweet and I love teaching her because she gets perceptibly less intimidated/critical of herself every lesson. ANYWAY I read half of this in the bath having just finished my period, which I think was perfect. It’s fun! Stephen King is fun! I don’t have anything deeper to say.

23. Hilary Mantel - Every Day is Mother’s Day (1985): You can def tell this is a first novel because it doesn’t quite crackle with the same demonic energy as like, An Experiment in Love or Beyond Black, but all the recurring themes are there. If it were by anyone else I’d be like good novel! But it’s not as good as her other novels.

24. Dominique Fortier - On the Proper Usage of Stars (2010): This was... perfectly competent. Kind of dull? It made me think of what I appreciate about Dan Simmons which is how viscerally unpleasant he makes being in the Navy seem generally, and man-hauling with scurvy specifically. This had the same problem with some other FE fiction which is that they’re mostly not willing to go wild and invent enough so the whole thing is kind of diffuse and under-characterised. Although I hated the invented plucky Victorian orphan who’s great at magnetism and taxonomy and read all ONE THOUSAND BOOKS or whatever on the ships before they got thawed out at Beechey (and then the plotline just went nowhere because they immediately all died???) I had to skim all his bits in irritation. I liked the books more than this makes it sound I was just like Mr Tuesday I hope you fall down a crevasse sooner rather than later.

25. Muriel Spark - The Abbess of Crewe (1974): Transposing Watergate to an English convent is quite funny, although it took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that’s what she was doing even though I lit read a book covering Watergate in detail in December. Muriel Spark is just so, so stylish I’m always consumed with envy. I think a lot of her books don’t quite hang together as books but sentence by sentence... they’re exquisite and incomparable.

Overall thoughts: This month was very indulgent since I basically just inhaled a lot of not challenging fiction. I need to enjoy myself less, so next month we’re finishing a biography of Napoleon, reading the Woman in White and finishing the Lesser Bohemians which currently I’m struggling with since it’s like nearly as impenetrable Joyce c. Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man but, so far... well I hesitate to say bad since I think once I get into I’ll be into it but. Bad.