#unhoused grief

[chronicallycouchbound]

Winter Solstice Reflections / Homeless Persons Memorial Day

I was 16 when I moved from the Pacific Northwest to New England. I had recently come out as trans, and I was hoping the move would be a fresh start. But the physical abuse I had already been facing at home escalated. 

It was two days after Christmas when I was told to leave and never come back, so I packed what little belongings I had into a bag as quickly as I could and rushed out the door. I didn’t have food or a plan or anywhere to stay. 

It’s my luck that the first blizzard I ever experienced was on my first night of homelessness here. I remember the cold night air on my freshly bruised skin and it felt nice. It felt like freedom. As I crossed the bridge from one town to the next, the snowflakes were still small and gently falling. 

In exactly one week, it will mark 8 years since that first night in the cold. It wasn’t my first or last time being homeless, but it was the longest time, and I didn’t know many people, let alone people I could live with.

Most often, I stayed in the middle of nowhere. I slept on floors, in cars, on benches, under awnings, in abandoned buildings; and anywhere I could put my backpack down as a pillow and throw my jacket over me as a blanket. The cold no longer felt comforting– it was a threat to my existence. I prayed every time I closed my eyes to not freeze to death. 

I didn’t have proper clothes— Chuck Taylors which had too many holes to count, basketball shorts worn under my pants that were two sizes too big for me, well-loved band tees, and a jacket that wasn’t even close to waterproof. I felt cold in my bones. 

On nights I had nowhere else, I walked around all night until McDonald’s or Dunkin opened up. I remember counting steps to focus on anything but the stinging of cold. I would go into the bathroom and run my hands under the faucet until they turned from pale blue to bright red. My hands burned when they finally thawed out. Eventually, the blue became just another thing to carry with me, like my backpack and the weight of homelessness. 

For a few months, I spent nights all over the county, and then, after finally getting permission from my parents to access it, stayed at the youth shelter for three years. On my first night at the shelter, I arrived late– nearly midnight. I was afraid to go in. But, they set me up a bed anyway. 

Soon after I laid down, a guy a few years older than me came in from work. His bed was right next to mine. He leaned over and whispered to me in the darkness that if I needed anything, just to let him know. His name was Peter. 

That was the year I met my street mom who told me I reminded her of her younger self. Her name was Sarah. I couch-surfed with Abby, who always snuck me extra pizza from her work so I wouldn’t go hungry. 

Living at the shelter I met Ryan, who made us laugh as if it kept us warm. And Ariah gave anyone anything they needed if she had it. I miss Peter, and Sarah, and Abby, and Ryan, and Ariah, and all the many other friends I’ve lost. 

My friends were people who stood up for me, who gave me the clothes off their backs, food off their plates, and cared for me better than family. We all struggled together and never had to explain ourselves. We were welcome just as we were. 

It’s hard for me to exist in this town sometimes. I walk around and can see all the places where I nearly died, where someone else died, or where I slept at night. I’ve lost count of all the people I’ve lost over the years. I have fond memories of rooms and cars filled with people smiling and telling jokes, and then I remember that I’m the only one still alive out of all of us.  

People tell me I should feel lucky to have survived, congratulating me. Acting like I should be proud to "overcome" while the system still hurts us all. As my friends– my family, are still in the streets dying. I feel guilty to just be alive. Our whole community is grieving all the time. 

Tonight, as the sun sets, the temperature will feel like 2 degrees. There will be 15 hours and 18 minutes of darkness. This is only the beginning of a long, cold winter. Our community members will still be in the cold. We are still dying for warmth. 

We don’t need art installations, we don’t need benches with three bars, we don’t need air b&bs. We need fewer barriers and more supports. We need safe, stable, reliable, and affordable housing. We’ve needed it for a long time. As my good friend Ariah always said, “Keep your coins, we want change”

(From my speech on 12/21/23 for National Homeless Persons Memorial Day)

[kethabali]

randomly i will think of all the people i have left unsaid words with and never explained why i didn't wanna be friends or whatever else anymore bc i don'tknow how to communicate and then i feel the worst guilt ever and i feel like i'm gonna drown bc i feel so bad but i still can't bring myself to say something bc it just feels so unnatural to me... i dont wanna hurt peoples feelings but i am still hurting them by essentially ghosting without explanation i just wish i wasn't so scared or worried about peoples reactions to my feelings and that i could confidently express myself to anyone and everyone without putting their feelings and reactions before my own i feel like ican only express myself when i feel there are no stakes like i dont care if the person remains in my life or not or i have already decided i don't like them but i can't tell people i like being around and respect although if i really do feel okay around them it should be easier to tell them things that are important for making our relationship stronger but i just can't... how do i even start what do i say to myself to assure myself its okay

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

03/08/2024 Daily OFMD Recap

TLDR; Cast&CrewSightings; DavidJenkins;RuiboQian;Samba Schutte; Alex Sherman; Rhys Darby Cameo; Fan Spotlight; SaveOFMD End of the Line Statement; SaveOFMD Billboard News and updates; Watch Party Reminders; OFMDCrew Gratitude Event; Kudoboard Reminders; New Kudoboards; Fundraiser Statuses; Articles; Love Notes; Daily Darby/Tonight's Taika

== Cast & Crew Sightings ==

= David Jenkins =

Chaos dad poked his nose out to send us some lovely and encouraging words. "Your power is noticed and admired, Don't doubt it. Ever."

= Ruibo Qian =

Our Pirate Queen Ruibo Qian had so much love and support to send today.

= Samba BTS =

Samba's keeping us fed with little bits of BTS each day, thank you Samba. Full Video here courtesy of @daria-meoi

= Alex Sherman =

Oh Alex, our 'Ass Tonight' Guardian Angel. I love that he's just over here liking all our unhinged stuff on top of the usual porn.

== Rhys Darby Cameo ==

Our wonderful crew-mate @_irene_adler and the Our Flag Means Daddy crew got us a wonderful bed-time story from Rhys. Please check it out on Cameo.

== Fan Spotlight =

Thank you @melvisik for continuing to give us lovely collectibles for all our cast & crew. Tonight is Fred Armisen!

== Save OFMD Crew "End of the Line" Statement ==

"Like our inimitable captain Stede Bonnet, we aren’t ready to give up just yet. We are devastated by the news from David Jenkins that attempts to find an alternative home for Our Flag Means Death have "reached the end of the road", but we want to keep fighting—not just for Our Flag Means Death, but for all the shows cancelled before their time. Shows that people put their heart and soul into. Shows that create life-changing experiences for their fans." Please read the rest on the website here.

== Save OFMD Crew Billboard News ==

== OFMD Gratitude Event ==

Join the OFMD Crew on Saturday March 9th, 11 AM PST / 2 PM EST / 7 PM GMT / 8 PM CET, follow OFMDCrew on Twitter.

== Watch Party Reminders ==

03/09/2024 there will be a watch along with the German premiere of OFMD Season 2!

@OurFlagRTL at 1PM EST/4PM GMT/5PM CET #OurFlagRTL.

Feel free to watch in any language you like! #SaveOFMD#LongLiveOFMD

= Wrecked =

Wrecked Season 1 Catch Up Party Starts Tomorrow at 8 am CST / 2pm GMT on the #RhysDarbyFaction server, feel free to reach out if you need access.

= Coming & Going =

Tomorrow 3/9, 9pm cst - 1030pm cst / (3/10) 3am gmt - 430am gmt on the #RhysDarbyFaction server.

We know it's awful, we're getting drunk and having a laugh.

== Kudoboard Reminders! ==

= Taika =

Kudoboard Link

The board will stay up until March 12th, and we will share the link with him on March 13th. The Kudoboard is monitored prior to approval to prevent trolls from jumping in (so if you don't see your additions right away, that's why!)

== Cast & Crew Kudoboards ==

In addition-- thank you to @sharpenyersword on Twitter for setting up ALL THE KUDOBOARDS!

Go send the cast and crew some love folks!

David Jenkins

Nathan Foad

Con O'Neill

Ruibo Qian

Leslie F*cking Jones!

Matthew Maher

Samson Kayo

Alex "Ass Tonight" Sherman!

David Fane

Fellow OFMD Fan Crew!

== Fundraiser Statuses ==

Many fans are turning their grief and feelings of poison into positivity. Since this post by @gentlepanpirate was posted this afternoon around 1:45 MT, the eSIMS and Sanitary Products for Gaza has gone up 12%. Do you have a few dollars to spare? Everyone doing just a few dollars will move it up fast. If not no worries, please consider sharing the link instead!

givebutter.com/OFFP3

= In Soup Now =

In Soup Now in honor of Kristian Nairn's favorite charity Team Haven Belfast, is at 17% Great job everyone working on helping feed unhoused neighbors. Can't donate? No worries! Please consider sharing the link!

https://givebutter.com/OFFP3

== Articles ==

Lot of articles tonight yall. Remember that every one of these shows you made an impact. It sucks cause a lot of them say "failed to find a home" which isn't true, we were robbed of one. But they still matter. The fact that they wrote anything at all shows we've been making waves. You still have power, as Chaos dad said. They didn't take that from you.

Our Flag Means Death Creator David Jenkins Confirms Show Has Reached the End of the Road

Our Flag Means Death Fails to Find New Home After Max Cancellation — Read Creator’s Statement

'End of the Road': Our Flag Means Death's Fate Confirmed by Creator

Our Flag Means Death Creator Addresses Chances of Series Return

‘Our Flag Means Death’ Creator Raises White Flag on Former Max Comedy

‘Our Flag Means Death’ Creator Says It’s “The End Of The Road” After Comedy Fails To Find New Home

Our Flag Means Death Is Officially Done After Not Finding New Streaming Home

Series creator: No new home found for canceled 'Our Flag Means Death'

Our Flag Means Death Creator Confirms The End Of Cancelled Max Show

Our Flag Means Death creator couldn’t find a new home for the series, which is now officially on its way to Davy Jones’s locker

Our Flag Means Death season 3 not happening, creator confirms

Our Flag Means Death creator “officially confirms” show cannot be saved

Our Flag Means Death Canceled After Two Successful Seasons

Our Flag Means Death officially over as the queer series fails to find a new home

El creador de ‘Our Flag Means Death’ dice que es «el final del camino» después de que la comedia no logró encontrar un nuevo hogar.

Our Flag Means Death creator says it's officially the 'end of the road' after show fails to find new home

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH IS OFFICIALLY OVER, CREATOR CONFIRMS SEASON 3 FAILS TO FIND NEW HOME

Unfairly cancelled show fails to find new home: ‘It’s the end of the road’

Heartbreak in the High Seas: Our Flag Means Death Officially Sails Into the Sunset

== Love Notes ==

Hey lovelies.

I know some of you found out the news later than others, and it's still very raw for you. I'm sending so much love your way, I know you had less support than some of us when you found out and that's got to feel terribly lonely. I've talked to some folks who were fine yesterday, and not okay today, and vice versa. Just know we are here luvs, we are here, and we're happy to talk. We're all going to be grieving for a while. So please be kind to yourselves. Give yourself some grace, it's okay if you can't do much right now. It's okay if you don't finish that gif set, or that artwork, or that fic. It's okay if all you do is get by today. You are doing enough. It's okay if you need to have distractions so you're doing twice as much as you did before. Distraction can help a lot with nervous energy. Give yourself room to be creative, and to let your mind wander, it could use a break. Take some time to laugh if you can. Laughter really can be healing. I wish I had some advice for tonight. I wish I had some better words of encouragement, I know it's all very hard right now for everyone.

Please just know a few things, and you've heard them before, but I need to hear them once in a while so I'm going to say them to you.

You are loved.

You are worthy.

You are enough.

You are beautiful.

You are kind.

You are exactly the way you should be.

You are loved.

== Daily Darby / Tonight's Taika ==

Just som giggle from our two guys to hopefully bring a smile to your face.

Daily Darby Courtesy of @fandomsmeantheworldtome

Tonight's Taika Courtesy of @IBrokeCharacter on twitter.

[transfloridaresources]

[Photo ID: Rainbow gradient background image of bowls of fruit and vegetables. Two color photos are on top of this image. One shows a table full of food on a sidewalk at night. Some people are visible standing nearby. The other shows the ground next to the table full of bottled water, pizza boxes, and sandwiches in a bag. Text around reads 'St. Pete Food Not Bombs. January 03, 2024' and 'transfloridaresources.' /End ID]

We're revving up for an election year so prepare for a lot of political theatre that is going to be aimed specifically at trans people. A tangible way that you can combat the feelings of grief and despair is to look to your community and see where you can help. I would actually especially advise that you seek to go outside the LGBT realm and (respectfully) involve yourself with other groups, hear about other struggles. Trans people are not the first group to be targeted by society/legislature & many trans people have identities that intersect from other oppressed groups. The more you learn outside of your personal struggle, the stronger you become, the better ally you can be to others as well. Of course, across the state of Florida, the spaces you have access to will differ. That's part of why these accounts also exist, to boost individuals and causes online that you can give to if you truly can't access anything in person (I will have some posts coming up in a moment for that too, actually!). However, there is usually something somewhere. Look to your libraries, community centers, there's so many places. I recommend seeking out a Food Not Bombs location, if you need a place to start. These photos are from the St. Pete branch & if you're local to that you can find more info at @stpetefnb & come out too! Otherwise, take a look at the map at http://foodnotbombs.net/info/locations/ and reach out to see what's active. I promise you, the kindness you can provide to unhoused people does not go unnoticed & you will meet some great folks as well. Look into the history of any of the community leaders we look up to and you will see them doing work like this. Community must be nurtured, people need to be fed and cared for, in order for us to make progress otherwise. Don't let your personal grief stand in the way of achieving connection with a neighbor. Do not isolate. We all are more understanding and loving than we are made to believe we are, because paranoia and isolation breeds the best followers. Don't listen to any of that. Go out and spread love and get love in return.

[tathrin]

Roughly what would a Mirkwood Ghost AU be?

From this prompt-meme.

EDIT: now with slightly longer more polished version on AO3 here.

Sorry for the delay in answering this one, I had so many ideas that I could not sort-out what I actually wanted to do with it, and I for the longest time thought it was going to be something where Legolas was an Unhoused Spirit trapped around Dol Guldur, or even one where all of Mirkwood had been dead for generations, but Gimli strayed into the forest one day and came out with an elvish ghost as his side etc etc...but what I actually ended up not being able to get out of my head was this thing, where it's not so much a Mirkwood Ghost AU but rather the opposite (sorry; I hope you like it anyway).

All the dwarves of Moria were dead—all save one, a bright-bearded dwarf who introduced himself to the Company as Gimli son of Glóin, at your service and that of your family. He helped lead them through the dark, and warned them as best he could (for he could not speak its name, of course; one of the rules of death is that one cannot name that which killed him) of the danger of fire that waited below; and when at last they broke past the last enemy and made to run out into the sun, Gimli stopped. Legolas turned back, his sharp elvish ears hearing the sudden silence where dwarven boots no longer rang upon the stone. "Gimli, come!" he cried. "The orcs will be on us soon, we must hurry!"

Gimli only smiled sadly and shook his head. "I cannot, Legolas. This is as far as was given to me to help the Fellowship, when I begged a boon of my Maker before I go to lay my head down in Dwarven Dreaming forever. You must go on from here without me; I am sorry."

"No," said Legolas. "No, Gimli, you are one of us now, and I will not leave you in this tomb; your kin are dead, and I am sorry for it, but you cannot help them now."

"I am dead too, Legolas. I am dead, and so in this tomb I must remain."

"No," the elf insisted stubbornly, a flare of anger kindling hot within him through the cold weight of grief. If he was surprised to learn that Gimli had been dead even before they met, he did not show it; but he was an elf of Mirkwood, and so perhaps he alone among the surviving Fellowship was not surprised. "No, Gimli, come away with us," he said, and his sad eyes were fierce. "Did you not pledge to aid the Fellowship when first we met you in the dark?" he challenged. "Would you be proved faithless now, when the road lightens?"

For a long time they stood there, living elf and dead dwarf, staring at one another across the dark threshold of Khazad-dûm. Legolas reached back into the shadows of the ancient dwarven halls and held his hand out: steady, waiting. His star-bright eyes did not flicker as he stared at the ghost before him.

Eventually, Gimli met that long hand with his own, and let the elf pull him forward into the light.

He had more than half-expected to dissolve the moment his feet left the stones of Khazad-dûm and his head stood out beneath the sun, able to endure the light even less than living orcs; but Legolas held firm, and Gimli endured his first breathless walk beneath the sun. When he looked into the Mirrormere, he could see the stars shining through the shadow of his face; but by the time they reached the trees of Lothlórien, he was solid enough to cast shadows of his own upon the ground, even if his feet made no footprint in the leaves.

The elves of Lórien were not keen to let a dead thing walk into their woods, but the Lady's power did not bar such a noble spirit from her lands, and so they could do naught to stop him; and so the ghost of Gimli walked forward with the Fellowship of the Ring beneath the golden leaves of Caras Galadhon. He bowed to the Lady there, and she wrapped a charm braided of her own gleaming hair around his wrist before he left—three strands of Tree-lit silvered-gold to anchor his dead spirit to the world so that his ghost might endure in places that were less forgiving to spirits than the Golden Wood.

Thus bound to the living world by the locks of the Lady Galadriel, the ghost of Gimli son of Glóin floated down the Anduin and soared across the plains of Rohan and dragged living orcs to their deaths on the cold stones of Helm's Deep; he shivered through the Paths of the Dead, the one dead-thing there not bound to Isildur's Oath, seeking refuge from the ancient spirits that saw him far too clearly in the warm and living hands of the elf that led him; joined the oath-bound dead as they assailed the living enemy at Pelargir and caught and bolstered the faltering steps of a living elf when the cry of white seagulls lashed the longing for distant shores like whips across his trembling ears; took the fields outside of Gondor alongside Isildur's Heir and marched with the living towards their doom outside the Black Gates.

And when the war was done, and the Dark Lord cast down, and the One Ring unmade, Gimli son of Glóin took the hands of the elf that had drawn him out of the black pit of Moria one last time and whispered his farewells at last, and—

And Legolas caught his dead face between his hands and pressed his living lips to the ghost of Gimli in a kiss, and whispered, "Stay."

And faithful Gimli, who could not bear to let even death break his promises to the living, lingered as he was bid; as he was begged.

He bound dwarven charms to the crystals of the Glittering Caves, creating in their gleaming beauty a space on the edge of life and death alike where a half-housed spirit could wander safely; he fashioned bands of mithril to hold the Locks of the Lady around his spectral wrists until the ghosts of his bones settled solidly into his spirit, as steady as the heartbeat of any living dwarf within his silent, breathless chest. And he walked, dead and devoted, at the side of his living elf, and if fearful superstitious whispers followed them wherever they want, Legolas did not seem to mind them—and so Gimli would not falter to them either.

And indeed, what cared Legolas for the whispers of fear that followed the spectral steps of his dead lover? Legolas was an elf of Mirkwood. He had ever lived among Shadow and Death, his people standing brave and doomed against the Necromancer, defiant to their last breaths and beyond. What cared he when people whispered about the ghost of Gimli now? They had ever whispered such things of Mirkwood, too, and Legolas had ever loved his dark and deadly forest.

Why not love a dead dwarf, too?

And when all of Legolas's mortal friends were dead at last, and only the ghost remained yet by his side, he built a grey ship and sailed for the Straight Road at last, following the call of the gulls to the elven-home that he had never seen. And when the ship crossed the rain-curtain between the mortal and immortal planes of the circles of the world, the shimmering ghost of a dwarf sailed with him, and none in Aman could stop them; for Aman was a place barred to living mortals, yes, but Gimli was no living mortal.

And so they walked onto those white shores together, and Gimli's dead feet made less impression in the sands than the light elvish tread of Legolas, but the grip of their hands entwined was as solid and firm as any living bond.

Mahal wept to see one of his dwarves so twined to an elvish soul that even death would not free him to seek the Dreams of the Dwarves that waited for all his kin beneath the stone—but Gimli held his dead head high in the face of his Maker's tears, and did not falter. He held Legolas's warm living hand within his dead one, and did not falter.

And the Lady of Lothlórien saw her golden locks still gleaming bright around his spectral wrists where he stood there translucent on the sands, and she smiled at them both, and Gimli was content. His Maker would understand someday, and see the love that bound Gimli's dead spirit to the world, and sorrow for him then no more; for was it not Mahal who had first forged his dwarves to be so stalwart in faith and in endurance?

And the heart of Gimli son of Glóin was ever faithful. Even in his death.

[nenyabusiness]

Namárië

Inspired by the @hellghoulweek prompt "hauntings". Galadriel visits Dol Guldur one last time. Read on AO3

In every language in Middle-earth, there is a name for the night when the waning fall meets the waxing winter. In every culture, there is a cautionary tale for why you should not stray too far from the light when the veil between the seen and unseen is at its thinnest. Stay away from the shadows, they all say, and stay away from the woods.

In Sindarin, the night is called Samhain.

When Galadriel crosses the border between Lothlórien and Mirkwood, the restless spirits that linger among the trees gather around her like a dark cloak. Three times, Sauron tried to pierce through the defenses of her domain. Three times, he failed. Elves and Orcs alike paid a steep price for the pointless assaults.  

It is the night when the waning fall meets the waxing winter, and the veil between the seen and the unseen is nothing more than a flimsy curtain. It flickers in and out of existence like the flame of a faltering candle, revealing glimpses of the horrors that once took place in the dark glades right outside her borders.

“Go to the Halls of Mandos,” she whispers to the tormented ghosts of her kin; the lives she sacrificed to keep Lothlórien safe. “Answer his call. Go home.”

The unhoused spirits continue to rage, fueled by hunger, fury, and pure malice. It is only when she lowers her mental shields that the ghosts lose their resolve, her light chasing them back into the shadows. Once she reaches the hill that was once called Dol Guldur, the only spirit left is him.

“I thought I would find you here,” she says, her voice soft. “No matter how many times I cast you out of this place, you always came back.”

He does not answer. He is too diminished to interact with the seen world. If it had not been for the weakened state of the veil, she might not have sensed his presence at all. She feels him, though. She feels his anger, his hatred, and a faint hint of relief.

“You did not think I would ever return here, did you?” she asks, her heart aching for the pitiful spirit that was once her equal. She does not regret the role she played in his downfall, but a part of her still remembers the man she once considered a companion. Her emotions are contradictory, but she has come to accept that internal dichotomy. She will never forgive him for his atrocious acts, but she still cherishes the memories of the man who supported her when she needed it the most.

“I came here to tell you that I am leaving Middle-earth,” she says. “The sea has been calling me for far too long. I stayed, because I believed it was my purpose to protect this realm from the peril I once let slip through my fingers. I stayed because of you.” She swallows hard. “I came here to let you go.”

The veil flickers, letting through a tidal wave of emotions. She stands tall as it washes over her, embracing his unspoken response. She feels his emotions as clearly as she feels her own.  

Grief. His, and hers.    

She wipes her misty eyes with the back of her hand, and then turns around.

“Namárië… Halbrand.”

[tanoraqui]

#necromancy is about coping with grief and about NOT coping with grief#and about screaming ‘NO’ at the universe so hard that the universe shakes…temporarily

in light of these interesting tags of yours: any thoughts on Celebrimbor and necromancy? (thinking of your ficlet about this!)

Celebrimbor does necromancy exactly 2 (or maybe more) times, 2.5 if you count guiding someone else through it.

1. (Some time in the late Third Age)

Veryawendë thudded her head down on the worktable, jostling the scattered crystals, composition drafts (paper and fixed-light), and one full-sized, Song-automatable crystalline cat.

Automatable. Fifty years of work, including this latest/current effort in which she hadn't slept for ten days, and all they'd achieve was Song-automatable.

"It's no use," she said into the tabletop. "We just can't layer the Music so much it starts to achieve real sentience and we can't awaken it to behave like a real creature, not just a rock...and I love you like a brother, but I am not getting pregnant just to usher a new fëa into the world for this... That wouldn't work anyway, it'd just be stuck in its own body..."

Celebrimbor sat up abruptly, inverse to her head-to-table. "Not necessarily."

Veryawendë turned her head to look at him, but she spoke without energy. "What."

Celebrimbor's eyes were bright with more than his usual Light. He, too, hadn't slept for ten days.

"I said, not necessarily." He reactivated the dormant fixed-light crystals and began sketching Music in mid-air, unlike any Veryawendë had ever seem. "I know how—I theoretically know how—Do you think Mr. Sniffles would enjoy being crystalline?"

-

1.5. (Some time in the late Third Age, 1 day later)

The soft nearly-light, nearly-Song of Mr. Sniffles's soul snapped back into his body as Celebrimbor fell back with an exhausted cry of defeat. He lay panting on the floor as Mr. Sniffles shuddered back to himself and leapt off Celebrimbor’s now non-sittable lap with a pained, indignant cry.

Veryawendë caught him and Sang a soft song of healing and comfort, and assured him that he was a good cat, the best cat, absolutely superlative and patient and going to get so many treats (and she got a jump on that by feeding him a few more crumbs of lembas and catnip, to keep him comfortably dazed and heart-whole through this ordeal).

"It's no use," Celebrimbor panted. "He just won't...sink in. I think even if I pushed harder, he'd slip out—and if I push harder, he'll be forced out of his natural body entirely, and unhoused.”

"Alright," said Veryawendë. She set Mr. Sniffles, once more wide-pupiled and content, in his workshop bed, and looked around for her coat and a good prism. "Then I'm off to Eärendil. You stay here and recover your strength, I'll be back in a couple weeks."

"What?" Celebrimbor pushed himself up on his elbows. "Why?"

Veryawendë chose a small polyhedral and gestured with it. "We need a spiritual adhesive. Your grandfather put overmuch of himself in the Silmarils, right? And those hold Treelight. So if I borrow some of the Light and we can fix Mr. Sniffles into the model with that..."

"That's....brilliant." Celebrimbor sat up, wavered like he was going to fall back again, then instead drank some water and started fishing around for his notes on fëa transferral and worse. "Don't go to Eärendil, though—we'll lose all our momentum! Take it from me. I'll teach you the Song."

Veryawendë felt her momentum, and her certainty, stumble anyway.

"Is that even possible?"

"'How did you think newer orcs are made, my dear?'" Celebrimbor quoted absentmindedly. "'We didn't just stop with the Unasked and Refusing.' Don't worry, I've had worse—most agony is endurable if it's fast."

-

2. (Not long after Elves figure out how to [temporarily] physically leave Arda without getting lost in the spiritual Eternal Darkness that surrounds it)

Curufin was dying, and it was significantly more painful than the first time, not to mention more embarrassing. A cave-in, even while exploring a strange, brand-new world, was so much less elegant than a well-thrust sword from a wrathful young king. He wouldn’t have minded so much, however, were it not distressing his son so terribly.

“Just hold on, Atya, just stay with me.” Celebrimbor shoved away more of the rockfall frantically but carefully, so as to not cause more collapsing, then knelt and took Curufin’s head into his lap. “I set off the emergency beacon. Help will be here soon.”

His hands brushed anxiously down Curufin’s body, feeling out the many cuts and deep, deadly bruises, too caring not to want to help and too clever not to know that he couldn’t.

Celebrimbor was unhurt, at least. Shaking, knocked by pebbles, maybe lightly bruised from where Curufin had shoved him to the floor, out of the way of the sudden rockfall. He could be proud of that, this time.

“Not soon enough.”

Curufin’s lungs were too thoroughly crushed to speak clearly. He switched to thought instead, and spent his remaining energy taking Celebrimbor’s hand (with the arm that could still move) and holding it until it stopped shaking.

I will return from Mandos as soon as I can, Tyelpë, he promised, and I will see you again then.

“You don’t know that!” Celebrimbor cried. “Last time, it took nearly seven-thousand years, and Aunt Findis had to ransom you. What if this time Mandos won’t release you at all? Or what if you can’t reach Mandos in the first place? We are outside Arda, Atya! Who knows what happens if we die on out here!”

Once, Curufin might have retorted that his son might not mind either of those scenarios, and been right. Now, he just felt tears digging trails through the dust on his face, and saw the matching tracks on Celebrimbor’s cheeks.

He reached up to brush them away…he tried and didn’t have the strength. Celebrimbor carried his hand the rest of the way, and cupped it against his damp and dusty skin.

Oh, my son! I will see you then, Curufin repeated. You will be fine as well—your uncle will be here soon, and there is no lack of air. Just stay away from the rockfall…

“Do not say such things!” Do not speak like you are leaving me alone! You will not die here, Atya, not now, not here!

Celebrimbor was weeping fully. Curufin could do little more than let his hadmns be held.

The last time he’d died had been in a cave, too, come to think of it, glorified though Menegroth had been. And Nargothrond had been it’s own disaster… Maybe he should just avoid caves. Or maybe pain, muffled though it was with a growing sense of distance from his hröa, was making him delirious.

He thought the trumpet-call tug of the Doomsman’s summons was real, though. He remembered that.

See? he said, though the fully living couldn’t. Curufin was very barely connected to his hröa at all, anymore. But he wrapped his fëa around his son’s one last time (for now) and whispered, Weep not, my heart’s-jewel. All will be well.

“No,” Celebrimbor gasped, then, “Yes.” He gripped Curufin’s hand (so, so far away) in a fist, and returned the embrace to hold his flightful fëa just as tightly. “Yes, because you will not die today. I– I know well how to do this. I will not let you.”

He shifted his grip somehow to the last threads connecting Curufin’s fëa to his hröa, and began to Sing of chains.

-

3 Or More. Dagor Dagorath

All bets are off in Dagor Dagorath.

(No further details are available at this time, but I do like to think that at some point in the Battle of Battles, the full, assembled Line of Curufinwë—Fëanor, Curufin, Celebrimbor, Curufinwen, [Celebrimbor’s OC daughter], maybe more if Curufinwen ever had kids—gets to beat the shit out of Sauron together.)

[sliebman10]

HP Fic Recs Day 21

A fic that made you think: I was definitely thinking about A Potter's Field by MsAlexWP (and podfic by @burningaurora) long after I read it. It is a beautiful mediation on life and death and grief. Sirius and Remus meet at a funeral that Sirius sponsors for an unhoused man who they both knew from the train station. At the same time, Sirius is grappling with the loss of James and Lily, and trying to get custody of Harry.

@hprecfest

[immortalsarcasm]

Went to the new to me local library for the first time and got a library card earlier today. The librarian that helped me was very sweet and did a little dance when I told her I was in to get a physical card and see what the place was like.

The building is lovely and has a large fireplace and chairs around it for sitting and reading, studying, etc, and they give every patron a weekly print fund on the card. The selection was good too, which I’m sad I can’t say about a lot of libraries I’ve seen in recent years that have decided to downgrade physical media and print in favor of digital. Both can and should coexist so more personal please can have access.

I was also really pleased to see that no one was giving the clearly homeless people* any grief for just existing in one of the few public spaces afforded to unhoused individuals.

Checked out this and can’t wait to settle in to listen:

*For anyone just tuning in, I work with the homeless population in my area and I have lived experience with homelessness (unfortunately a relatively common experience for queer/trans and disabled people in my age bracket) so this is not a judgement it’s just a factual statement.

[polutrope]

And Finwë said to Vairë: 'Dost thou hear the prayer and desire of Míriel? Why will Mandos refuse this redress of her griefs, that her being may not be void and without avail? Behold! I instead will abide with Mandos for ever and so make amends. For surely, if I remain unhoused, and forgo life in Arda, then this Doom will be inviolate.'

'So thou may deem,' answered Vairë; 'yet Mandos is stern, and he will not readily permit a vow to be revoked. Also he will consider not only Míriel and thee, but Indis and thy children, whom thou seemest to forget, pitying now Míriel only.'

'Thou art unjust to me in thy thought,' said Finwë. 'It is unlawful to have two wives, but one may love two women, each differently, and without diminishing one love by another. Love of Indis did not drive out love of Míriel; so now pity for Míriel doth not lessen my heart's care for Indis. But Indis parted from me without death. I had not seen her for many years, and when the Marrer smote me I was alone...'

History of Middle-earth Vol. X: Morgoth's Ring, The Later Quenta Silmarillion (II), 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar', Text A.

Women of the Silmarillion in HoMe, part 5/?

[Follows this.]

[chronicallycouchbound]

Unhoused Joy: Cardboard Sleds

So often are unhoused youth stripped of the simple joys of childhood. Even if we weren’t homeless at a young age, most of us never had the type of childhood where you sled for hours and come inside to a cup of hot cocoa. But Chris and I were young teenagers and both trying our best to stay sober as friends around us struggled to do so.

We were living in the teen shelter together. We had grown close. Not like friends close, but like siblings close. He always poked me and pushed my buttons and in return I steered him away from trouble. Just like any good brother would.

In the harsh New England winters, there wasn’t much to do. We were both in high school and had too much energy for the library. There wasn’t anywhere else indoors to hang out for people our age in this god awful small town.

So Chris and I went for walks. We liked to hang out at this random tiny gazebo next to the fairgrounds. I’d chain smoke and we’d joke back and forth. I’d give him advice about the most recent trouble he absolutely was at fault for.

One night I see stacks of cardboard at the nearby dumpster. We grab them and use them to take turns sliding down the small hill. Chris eats shit and I die laughing. We repeat until the cardboard boxes have disintegrated from the weight of us and the cold freshly melted snow.

We walk back laughing and shivering to the youth shelter. We come inside and staff asks if we’re high and we can tell them honestly, no. Chris sits in the kitchen, leaning back in his chair on the brink of falling. He did fall once or twice. I made us hot cocoa and fluffernutters.

I’m sure we talked for hours before heading off to bed, we often did back then. I miss those moments of innocence, a reprieve from the day-to-day traumas of homelessness.

Cardboard sleds didn’t grant either of us housing. But they did grant us hope and joy in a time we frequently didn’t have either. Thank you for those times, Chris.

[trippingthemoonlightfantastic]

Even if you lose everything, you still have you. And you are still a person of worth on your own, and it is possible to build your life up again even when you have nothing. It is a whole mountain to climb, but with small steps you can do it. You are now stricken with grief, it makes sense that you can not see any light with all the darkness, but there can be light again. Make a plan to save yourself.

What you are saying is nonsense. You've bought into a kind of athletic sports motivation, pseudo religion, and said too many affirmations. It doesn't matter if I have inherent worth, I will still encounter violence if I'm unhoused again. I will not be able to get housing again. I have zero credit in a city with a housing shortage.

[shootinwebs]

Some headcanons about Alastor's daughter Zuri (that aren't as horrific this time lol -- I'd put the links for the darker ones if tumblr's search function was actually a function)

( content notes: forced siring implied, child death )

She was born when Alastor was 15.

Her existence pretty much saved his life; it motivated him to escape his situation. After she was born, the first chance he got, he took her and ran, saving her life as well.

Escaping involved being unhoused, with an infant. He found shelter mostly in the woods, in abandoned cars, under bridges.

He finally settled in the safest place: an abandoned radio tower. The red light at the top of the rig didn't work, but Alastor could still follow it back to Zuri after he went out for supplies.

When Zuri started teething, Alastor cut out a piece of slash pine and carved it into a wooden alligator, buffing it for ages so there was no chance of splinters, scarring up his hands in the process. After she died, he always kept the alligator in his pocket, and felt over Zuri's teeth marks for comfort when he was struggling emotionally.

Her death (when she was 10 months old) happened almost a year after Alastor's mother had died, in a similar gruesome act of injustice. This collection of events sparked a serious downward spiral in Alastor's mind and spirit, that eventually grew into him repeatedly chasing an urge to kill.

He sees Zuri in his dreams pretty much every night -- and these dreams are most definitely not always pleasant. He also has dreams about dead fawns, and it's all the same to him: the immeasurable, ineffable grief of the unconscious mind.

Sometimes when he's really on his last fucking nerve, or extremely miserable, (or drunk) he'll look at Charlie and see Zuri's face. And, when Charlie does anything that gives him the urge to be protective and supportive. That started to soften him -- it wasn't all just entertainment or other selfish incentive for him anymore.

He does also see Niffty as a surrogate daughter, and had since before he met Charlie, but Niffty can handle herself. Charlie, not so much. Alastor genuinely worries about her. He sees her as someone who was shoved out of the nest much too early, still stumbling and never taught how to fly.

[firstumcschenectady]

“We Hope for What We Do Not See” based on Jonah 2 and Romans 8:18-25

Despite my enjoyment of the “Who Did” song1, I haven't preached about Jonah often. I may even have groaned when I looked at the texts for this week – even though I was the one to pick the essay from “We Cry Justice” and the accompanying recommended scriptures. I fear, though, that my avoidance of this text is unjustified.

Because, the issues I have are really quite silly. Here we go:

Whales don't eat people. Nor do large fish.

Stomachs have acid, but not a lot of air, making them uninhabitable

You know, stuff like that.

But it turns out that taking a story literally and objecting to the pragmatic details is a really great way to miss powerful symbolism and deeper meaning within a story. So dismissing this story has only had the impact of keeping me from attending to the wisdom it has.

Which I noticed when I actually read the 2nd chapter of the book of Jonah, which is rather surprising. You may recall that in the first chapter Jonah was asked to to to Nineveh and tries to run away instead, gets on a ship going in the other direction, a storm comes up, Jonah suggests that the storm is God's way of saying he isn't listening, he suggests he be thrown into the sea, the sailors try not to do so, but finally they throw him in hoping the rest of them will live, and the storm quiets and the sailors are converted.... and then the whale did swallow Jonah. Down. ;)

So, given that chapter 2 is a prayer of Jonah from inside the whale, I think there would be just cause to assume that the prayer is either a lament that God put him in this horrid situation OR a plea for help, a request for forgiveness that results in Jonah being released from said whale? Right?

But it isn't. The prayer of chapter 2 is a prayer of THANKSGIVING, whereby Jonah seems to have already concluded that the whale is a means of salvation, and is thanking God for God's gracious actions. And that's a place where I noticed that there is something useful in this story, because … well, I'm not sure I'd have gotten there.

I think that if I had a sense of God asking me to do something I vehemently didn't want to do, that resulted in my very near drowning, and then gasping for air inside an enormous beast I couldn't talk to or control, I'd have missed the memo that said enormous beast was a gift from God. Really. I mean, maybe, 3 days in, hungry, thirsty, and still wet but shockingly alive I might have figured it out, but that's even kind of doubtful.

But Jonah's prayer starts with “I called to the Lord in my distress and [God] answered me.”(NRSV 2a) So, it seems like he got it immediately. (We're working with symbolism here people, let go of any assumption of factuality and let a good story be a good story.) And, the prayer is even specific, “The waters closed over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head...yet you brought up my life from the Pit, O LORD my God.” (5,6d)

Wow. Jonah is sinking to the bottom of the sea, hopeless, and helpless, and then experiences God as lifting him up from the place of death, of bringing LIFE out of DEATH. And, I'm kinda familiar with THAT metaphor, right? But this is a different angle on it.

For me, the incongruities of life in the belly of the whale finally recede to make space for the questions of life and faith. When have we been floating down to the bottom of the sea, out of air, and out of hope? There are a lot of possible answers to that, right? And our lives are different, so our answers are different. Grief can feel like sinking to the bottom of the sea– anticipatory grief and the utter horror of waking up and realizing someone you love isn't there Depression can feel like sinking to the bottom of the sea. Job loss and financial hardship can feel like sinking to the bottom of the sea. Loss of relationship. Abuse. Illness. Injury. Car accidents. Becoming unhoused. Failing. Flailing. A lot can feel like sinking to the bottom of the sea.

And what was the thing that picked you and kept you alive when you could no longer do so for yourself? Who or what was the whale? Was a phone call from a friend who cared? The arrival of flowers? The long, hard, careful work of a therapist? An unexpected welcome? An offer you couldn't have anticipated? The life restoring work of first responded and medical professionals? Someone showing you the ropes you couldn't figure out on your own? A good Samaritan?

How long did it take you to realize that you weren't at the bottom of the sea anymore, and you could breath (if only a little bit), and there might be a hope for dry land again someday? Was it immediate? Did it take 3 days, 3 weeks, 3 years?

I wonder, if sometimes the darkness at the bottom of the sea is so scary that we block out the memory of it, but with it we then block the memory of being scooped up. Especially because being eaten by a whale does NOT immediately seem like rescue. Right!?! At the bottom of the sea, one condolence card can't really make a difference – except sometimes it can. Sometimes knowing that someone else grieves with you, or sees you, or can share a memory that gives you a new story about a person you loved – sometimes that can be the whale.

Several years ago during a stewardship campaign, I was gifted the task of asking participants in some of our ministries what our ministries meant to them. As previously mentioned, I have a problematic tendency to be overly pragmatic, and while I delight in our breakfast program, I'm aware that it offers 1 meal out of an wished for 21 for a week. However, our guests assured me that the 1 meal matters.

Similarly, at that time we had Sustain Ministry, where we gave out soap and toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, and diapers to those who needed them. (Note: other organizations now do this work – thank God – and the need we were responding to then has changed.) I asked those waiting if they'd be willing to be interviewed, and I asked them why what we did mattered. One woman said that the resources we offered made the difference for her between being able to take care of her kids on her own and being financially forced back into an abusive relationship.

I loved Sustain ministry, but I thought it just made things a little easier for people whose lives were really hard. I didn't know it was whale picking someone out of the bottom of the sea.

In the fall of 2021, after about a year and a half of ministry during a pandemic, while adjusting to being a new parent, and with a few other significant stressors in my work life, I was a hairsbreadth away from leaving ministry. Truthfully, I had been, on and off, for 2 years by that point. More so, I didn't really know it. I knew I was really tired. I knew I felt like my ministry didn't matter. I knew every day of work was a fight, and I didn't want to fight anymore. But I actually didn't know I was near the bottom of the sea in my work, until our District Superintendent looked at me and said, “what you've dealt with isn't normal, you need a break. How long do you want? I'll find coverage and money to pay for it.” She was the whale, or maybe the 8 weeks I took off were. Maybe both? Let's go with both.

Sometimes I still meet people who know that I took that break – the announcement of it was shockingly popular on YouTube- and I watch them carefully dance around asking me if I'm still a pastor, or still a pastor here, or really what I do in the world now. They're often shocked to learn I'm still in ministry and grateful for it. (That's fair, a whole lot of people have exited ministry since then.) I continue to think I have a lot to learn to be in ministry in life-giving and sustainable ways, but the way I knew I still wanted to be a pastor and YOUR pastor was that once the day-to-day pressures were relieved, I found myself dreaming of what we could do together, and missing you. I'm been in those weeds at the bottom of the sea, pastorally, but I just needed some gulps of fresh air to be able to find the dry land. I'm really thankful there was a whale. And, yet, I didn't know how important the whale was when it arrived.

Romans 8 speaks of hope particularly directly, reconsidering the struggles of people and the world as labor pains of the kindom of God being born. While I don't want to sanctify the pains or struggles of the world, it would be really great if they were productive like that. If they mattered, and made new things possible. The essay from “We Cry Justice” today talks about the pain of ecological destruction, and the power of the people to stop horrible decisions, EVEN when money is on the other side. That people, together, have power. Which is a good example of the ways that the pain of the earth can become motivation for healing the earth. It is a way that pains can be labor pains.

Romans 8 also speaks famously about hope. “Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what is seen? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.” None of us can see the whale coming when we're at the bottom of the sea. Nor, even, could we know it is a saving whale if we did. But hope involves knowing that God is with us, and God is creative, and there ARE whales sometimes, and we can BE whales sometimes, and no matter what happens, we know a God who brings life - again and again.

Dear ones, sometimes God sends whales when we are at the bottom of the sea. Thank God. Amen

1For the uninformed: https://www.lyrics.com/lyric/10499923/100+Singalong+Songs+for+Kids/Who+Did+%28Swallow+Jonah%29%3F

February 25, 2024

Rev. Sara E. Baron  First United Methodist Church of Schenectady  603 State St. Schenectady, NY 12305  Pronouns: she/her/hers  http://fumcschenectady.org/  https://www.facebook.com/FUMCSchenectady

[thewhumpcaretaker]

To the Whump Community: Against Isolation

CW: discussion of how whump relates to nonfictional people, real trauma, and social isolation.

Hey Caretakers and fellow hopeless romantics: Whumpee exists.

Somewhere, right now, there is a profoundly lonely person reflecting on traumatic memories that have fundamentally altered their mind.

Somewhere, right now, there is a community member being severely bullied by their community.

Somewhere, right now, there is an addict carrying the guilt of the people they hurt.

Somewhere, right now, there is an unhoused person who would do anything for a safe place to lay down.

Somewhere, right now, there is a person struggling with chronic pain.

Somewhere, right now, there is a domestic violence survivor learning to trust again.

Somewhere, right now, there is a widow dealing with the crippling grief of losing a loved one.

Somewhere, right now, there is someone with sexual trauma wishing for a lover with the patience to take things slow.

Somewhere, right now, there is a brave person confronting a phobia.

Somewhere, right now, there is a touch starved person who thinks they will be forever alone.

Somewhere, right now, there is a deeply isolated person contemplating whether to lash out in revenge.

Angry, depressed, pathetic, terrified, physically aching.

You know this, because you've probably been at least one of those people. And you've probably seen them in your community, being hurt, being neglected. At the very least, you know where to find them. But it's not cute when whumpee is real, right? When there's a chance of saying the wrong thing, of asking if someone needs help and being rejected, or worse, loving the "wrong kind," someone too dangerous, too unforgivable, too broken in the ways that aren't socially acceptable. Or, worst of all, doing more harm than good and making things harder for someone who is already suffering.

And that's fine. Everyone has a line, and some things should stay in fiction. But I would call you to reflect on where that line is drawn for you. Because when I reflected on that line, I realized that I use fiction as a substitute for the real love that I felt forbidden from offering, or inadequate to offer. And when I sought out real, lonely men with deeply traumatized backgrounds similar to my own, who wanted support in their lives, I was welcomed. I believe that I was just weird enough to genuinely help people get better. Most of us are.

Are we so distanced from each other that the longing to comfort a hurt person under tender, consensual circumstances is considered outrageously niche and unacceptable to try in real life? Am I crazy or is a large portion of whump just the perfectly natural longing for a human connection that acknowledges trauma as a part of lived experience? Maybe I'm an even more hopeless romantic than I realize, but isn't it a good thing to want to save each other?

[cookie-ookiemoon]

Ok, but how come is no one is talking about the fact that Wildberry threw hands with hollyberry cookie (despite not knowing it was her) as an unhoused, malnourished, scruffed up, little orphan boy during the bark flour war of all times. Like, all he had was the clothes on his back, not even a lump of lent in his pocket, his own two hands, and vibes and still went in for it.

The fact that it was likely he was on the streets during the dark flour war and it's likely the reason for he doesn't have a home or a family just adds so much to him. It would add so much to his relationship with hollyberry and why he is the way he is. Based on the time and what was happening, I can see him having a time where he was resentful of the culture of the hollyberry kingdom, especially the nobles, because of how they will won't bat an eye for those who were really effected during the dark flour war.

To add on it is implied that he was more likely to resort to fighting, which is were I can see some still being he only solves problems through brute force. And to be fair, due to his situation it's not like he had the luxury of many other options of solutions, plus it possibly being a trauma response. I think their is lots to explore around that time of his life and the trauma around it.

Also the implication that hollyberry disappeared when he was child or young teen, you can imagine the hurt of him building up trust in holly only for her to just disappear in his most vulnerable, yet informative years. For more personal takes after the whole fiasco and him being taken in.

Overall, I think wildberry cookie is very neat and just thinking of what he went through really makes me a bit sad, especially with my headcanon that he was actually sick for good chunk of time, which is connected to I'm not liking berry juice due to him having a complete intolerance to the point of a reaction and maybe even an server allergy to the yeast in it.

Also angst just for the wildberry and royalberry brothers real believers, The guilt and grief, royalberry felt when she disappeared hits different, if you really think of Hollyberry having him promise to take care of and raise wildberry in her stead, if she doesn't return from the battle from the vanilla kingdom. So, not only did he had the task of ruling a kingdom after war, the lost of his daughter, while raised this having to raise princess, and the takeover of pitaya dragon, but he was also tasked with basically raising his younger brother going through his own trauma and reopened wounds.