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Literature
PARIETAL: Chapter One. Forests
    We’re in a beautiful place, you and I. There’s a puddle on the concrete, just at our feet. Just where the curb meets the road; where there would be a gutter if this were a place where it rained past satiation. The first rain in months washed all of the detritus from the pavement a few days ago, and it's accumulated here, a little pool filled with decaying flora and unidentifiable muck (1). Oil left from the passage of a thousand cars slicks a rainbow across the surface, but if you look into it you can still see your own face; silhouetted against a clean morning sky, beset by sprays of winter daphne. If you watch, you can see a man cycle past, can see the water ripple in his wake as he pulls himself up the hill.  Sweat pins the man’s curls to the back of his neck; the late summer storm left a stupefying humidity in its wake. It's already muggy at half past 7. The man is pedaling slowly; he isn't in any sort of a hurry. He’s got all da
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Literature
Parietal: A Prologue. The Wall
    The human cerebellum is separated into four lobes. The most famous of these is, of course, the frontal lobe, as it contains the regions of the brain that are known to be associated with decision-making and personality. The lesser known lobes include the occipital, temporal, and parietal. This last is the focus of the current study.
WELL SUPPORTED ROLES
    One functionality that is classically attributed to the parietal lobe is that of sensation and perception, particularly of visual or touch stimuli. In academic texts this has been illustrated with the depictions of the homunculus, a map of the body which has been grossly distorted in order to represent the disproportionate number of neurons devoted to detecting inputs with our hands, mouths, and eyes. Our recent developments in understanding this region of the brain have led to increased clarity regarding the phenomenon of the mislocalization of sensory inputs, colloquially known as
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Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 9. Communication
Questions about Psych 1
Inbox
from: whelmar@gmail.com
9:32 PM (11 minutes ago)
to: watersj@gmail.com
6:15 tomorrow. Beth’s café.
On Wed, Sep 5, 20** , 11:06 AM James Waters <watersj@gmail.com> wrote:
No, it doesn’t.
On Wed, Sep 5, 20** , 10:39 AM Will Helmar <whelmar@gmail.com> wrote:
This doesn’t become a better idea if you do it more.
On Wed, Sep 5, 20** , 9:00 AM James Waters <watersj@gmail.com> wrote:
But why didn't you ever take notes?
On Fri, Aug 31, 20** , 10:12 AM Will Helmar <whelmar@gmail.com> wrote:
I’ll be at Skykomish park @ 5:30 PM on Tuesday. I'll explain, I guess.
On Wed, Aug 29, 20** , 3:32 PM C.J. Waters <cjwaters@upmb.edu> wrote:
I’m afraid that I don’t quite understand.
On Mon, Aug 27, 20** , 9:47 AM Will Helmar <whelmar@upmb.edu> wrote:
Hi Doctor,
I’ll swing by. See
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Mature content
BLOOM: Chapter 8. Witness: witness :iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
Literature
BLOOM: Boomerang
    "I may have misspoken during our last conversation." It's late August. Cyrus’ face is carefully blank but his left hand is clenched at his side.
    "Oh?" says Will, setting down his book. “Do tell."
    “You were right. Things have been strange."
    Will is polite when he says, "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.”
    Will is not polite when he smirks at Cyrus’ sudden fluster and says, ”Did I turn that red?"
   
Next:
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Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 7.
Chapter 7.
If you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will say,
"Fuck off if you know what's good for you.”
        Here on the cusp of summer, the light is simple and direct. Nothing is obscure and everything is in focus; you can still see how Doctor Waters' hair is a bit mussed from his walk through the humidity of downtown, can still see the frizz even though he’s tried to pat it down. You can see the way he’s sweated through the back of his starched collar, just a little bit. The doctor has got his shoulders squared and his chin up as he climbs the 36 steps to Atkins Hall. He's also got a bit of a tan. It makes his eyes stand out even more and he knows it. But it isn't the sun that's made him like this; he gleams on his own, crystalline and orderly and satisfied with it. In the sun you and I can see it because he splits the light out, prismatic, but it's still there in the dark.
    He likes hi
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Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 6. Syzygy
    On the seventh day after the exam, the man opens his eyes to a silent bedroom filled with grating light. He shuts them again. He keeps waking to the piercing light of dawn, flat and gray and insistent through the cloud cover. He needs more sleep than he's getting.
    Our academic doesn't want to be awake, but the thoughts snake into his consciousness with the sun. He scowls before sitting up; as if closing his eyes could ward off thought. As if one more night of sleep could clear his mind. But downstairs there is a distraction in a kitchen to clean. There are dishes to do.
    There are dishes downstairs, so he does them. The faucet’s heat is turned all the way up; the water begins to scald his fingers after a while and he lets it, for a moment.
    Then he turns the heat down. He isn't bored enough to relish the pain. He dries the dishes. He puts everything away. The sink drains while he moves around the
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BLOOM: Chapter 5 by philologie BLOOM: Chapter 5 :iconphilologie:philologie 2 0 Article III. Options by philologie Article III. Options :iconphilologie:philologie 0 0
Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 4. Hello, my name is -
     Have you read much about eye contact, Gabriel? I hadn't, until last fall. Wasn't really a focus of my PhD. But what I read was intuitive; eye contact permeates our interpersonal communication. They've done studies– there's that famous one by Argyle and Dean– that show that how much eye contact we make depends on intimacy. You'll look more at a lover than at a friend. There are other differences too, of course. The subject matter of your conversation, for one, and the physical distance at which you converse. How much you smile. If your friend is forced to be "too close" to you by circumstance– a crowded café, for example– you'll both compensate for it. You'll only talk about the weather, or you'll lean back, or you'll make less eye contact. If you're further away than usual, you'll make more. An equilibrium of intimacy.
    What about a perfect stranger? Well, it depends. If you were far apart when you met you p
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Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 3. Teeth.
    There's an art to a good steak that I've never mastered. Who cares, right? It's one of those things I figured out early on in college. I'm just not a grilling kind of guy. I don't drink IPAs in the evenings, I don't ‘hit the gym’ at six every Saturday, I have no idea what happened in ‘the game’. I'm not that kind of guy. I like cider. I only did the hundred meter dash to pay for college. I'm an academic, okay? I can buy a nice steak at a restaurant.
    Will, though. I don't know who taught the scientist to grill with such confidence– J109 can't cook, and Claude mostly eats out of cans. He must have taught himself. It's nice to watch a person do something that they're good at; look at how comfortable he is with the fire, how firm his hands are on the well seasoned cast-iron skillet. It's quiet in the garden for now, but that won’t last. You know how flesh spits and rages in face of the extraordinary.
 
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Literature
Anything to think anything different.
I know the question has been asked before by every poet + I know
the answer:
I’m never going to "write your name
out of my bones”. You're not a virus
and I'm not immune, anyways. Look,
I dump you out + you coat my hands
like chalk. I never had the luxury
of forgetting and I never had
the luxury of apathy. I can build you
out of paper. I can put the words back into your mouth. I know who you are.
It isn't interesting.
You're not interesting.
But homunculus, mysteries
are prions and they are my bread.
My solutions are never wrong but god help me
if I let them unravel
their riddles
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Literature
BLOOM: Chapter 2
The mirrored surfaces of a pomegranate seed glint and blind
When Will walks in
to the last class of the semester
he takes up the whole room.
The five hundred seats?
Those are his. He needs the space.
The dim lights, the stage lights?
They're nothing in his wake.
    I don't even think he's entirely conscious of it, of the way the students who catch sight of his face turn to look again, caught by his inexorable gravity. Even Syb, folded up at the back of the classroom as he is, finds himself taking a second glance. And who could blame them? I can feel his pull beating at the soft, vital places of my gut even now, devastating even in memory. Will, dressed as himself for the first time all semester; in his binder, the evening and morning star. He might've filled in his brows and darkened the shadows below his cheekbones and jaw, but in this moment he is nothing less than the beautiful youth of myth, the Tempter of Psyche. He comes with an uncon
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Mature content
BLOOM. Chapter 1. Snake. :iconphilologie:philologie 1 0
Literature
zero acquaintance
thank fuckin god i cant sleep
n thank god i only know
about that 1 secret necklace u wear everyday
n thank god i only know how its
blue+grey+black beads
lie across ur clavicle + mustve gotten
caught in ur hair back when u wore it long + not more
n thank god i only know u have a thing for ponytails + chokers + pretty girls
cursing like its no thing + not more n thank god i only know 1 version of
u in a t-shirt + not more n thank god I only saw you
unfold
the one time and when you did, thank god you only took me with you
for a couple of minutes n thank god u left me intact enough that
i could still fold myself back up when u were
done with me n thank god
u unfolded me too
n thank GOD i make u too nervous to make eye contact anymore
like somehow now that im closer in body im closer in mind n thank god i can pretend that ur only so tense cause i frighten u + not cause neither of us is sleeping 4 the sheer fucking terrifying cliff face of 30 seconds a week of awkward face time n thank fucki
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Literature
BLOOM: A Prologue. Ashes || Humus
Author's note: Trigger warnings at the bottom, as per the usual
    Eucalyptus (1). The sea breeze is strong here just before dawn, and it carries with it a shower of stiff, dead, clattering leaves and the queer pungent odor of their still-green siblings. The ground around the stump on which my Will is standing is carpeted with these leaves; when he takes a step down the scent of them will rise up around him in ecstatic fanfare. It will rise up to permeate his clothes, tangle itself around his blunt fingers, wreathe his curls in an enigmatic crown. He will be clear-eyed.
    Eucalyptus is not the only scent that swirls across the old, disused parking lot behind us. There is also the scent of fire, and the scent of smoke, and the scent of salt, and together they are almost overwhelming. In front of Will, to the east, a beach is bracketed by the ancient trees, a profusion of darkly blushing ice plants (2) giving way to tired grassy hillocks
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Literature
paint-thinner fingers
remember when I was the size of a pea?
you were a sunbeam dancing on my mother’s teeth.
waiting for me to kick but feeling
my heartbeat instead. I made mother swell
with joy. never pride. you, I don’t remember
ever holding with the right number of fingers.
always slipping— in & out of a ribcage
alienating the heart. we were never close
but you let me fly with broken wings
& wondered why I never quite came home.
I think home disappeared when it stops
being a single line away. I grew like redwood
broken & bruised, but sweeter for it. away
from the nest I was diligently thrown
far from. you are not home, father.
I outgrew you before I had the chance
to grow accustomed to your warmth.
you are the trains here— never on time,
bringing only the stale scent of disappointment.
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Literature
To be a Poet
It is easy to be a poet
when the ground rises up
to cradle my shoulder-blades
and the earth is whispering
love-notes.
Secret hymns pour from my
lips as I am naked except
for the terror that cloaks me,
compelling a flow of words from
my pen.
I can feel the wind blow
through my mind and
I realise that if you look straight
into the ocean you can’t see
the sky.
There are rain-clouds inside my
thoughts, carving their words into
my skin using only their breath.
I want flowers to grow from my skin
so at least then I’ll know
       I am here.
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:iconyuukon:Yuukon 61 21
Literature
Here be Monsters
The reading on Keelyx’ screen defies all probability.
There are no planets here, no stars. This is one of those deep stretches of space, never mapped in detail, marked on charts with here be monsters – but only because it’s empty, not worth the cost of exploration. Even interstellar traffic passes through here so rarely that Keelyx’ cargo of serum represents an entire system’s only hope against the Borna plague.
Still, somehow, there’s something out there. And it’s broadcasting an SOS.
Keelyx knows her duty. She knows that the lives of the Borna victims depend on her. She knows that unplanned detours are always dangerous – she’s alone, her fuel is limited, and no one will notice if she disappears – but the signal isn’t far, and the very thought of dying alone in the blackness of space is reason enough to respond. She twitches her claws against the pedals lined up before her feet, and the ship changes course.
There
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Mature content
A Hundred Tiny Threads :icondenlm:denlm 24 76
Literature
mouthfool
shouldn't have to
fragment into
amethyst and alcohol;
humanness is not
a stuck thesaurus
bleeding out.
when i am breathing out
and breathing in-
terrifying rhythm fraught with
whimpers, worry, weariness-
i can feel the waver;
jesus christ i feel
like i can find the words
despite it all.
does it have to be
a masterpiece of flaws?
can't a corpse just be
a broken body, not a cause
for art?
stitch my mouth shut;
will my throat
erupt in sweet gardenia
or simply rot.
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I Am Elliot Smith's Rose City by pansydiv I Am Elliot Smith's Rose City :iconpansydiv:pansydiv 22 17
Literature
Retroactive Futurism
Jodi pushed open Jane's door, knocking while it was already swinging inwards and waited until it had closed behind her before speaking.
"Next Tuesday at quarter past noon he'll have stopped Bob McKibbon's heart." The announcement was followed by a left-handed flick of fingers down her right forearm towards Jane's desktop, the bits of data that comprised the intel briefing making the leap across the office to the mid-air display where it hovered for review.
"Christ, that's the third one of these this quarter," Jane scanned the document top to bottom, making notes in an action plan as she went. "We're going to have to go back a few years on this one too, increase junk food intake, sugar, closet alcohol consumption, we can't bend the timeline in any way that will require affecting anyone else's," She pushed back from the desk, turning her attention to Jodi, "do you have any idea how much of a pain in the ass this guy's becoming?"
"As long as he's in the pole position, we retroactively jus
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Literature
the myths i'll tell my daughters
i like to think eve and pandora fall in love with each other.
and every god in every heaven is afraid of them,
the women who taught men to sin and then get to be
happy in the end. i like to think eve bakes apple pies
to celebrate long weekends, that pandora always opens
her birthday presents too early, that they get to grow
old and stubborn and surly wrapped around each other
with a fire in the living room and laughter just a breath away.
i like to think there’s an after to stories like theirs,
that the gods created them but couldn’t control them,
that we pass our expiration date and outgrow our
purpose but continue existing anyway.
i like to think eve ate the apple because it was the first
choice ever presented to her, that when pandora
opened the box, and death and sickness escaped
into the world, she kept hope to herself because she knew
she’d need it to survive the realization that her entire
existence was a lesson in subjugation. i like
to think hope led her to e
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Literature
i confess that i've been thinking about you.
    i.
    i confess that i've been trying not to think about you. 
    this morning i woke up to the sound of cold grey rain 
    on my windowpane. i didn't sleep all that well but 
    i got up early anyway to go to a yoga class filled with 
    people i'll probably never see again. they talked
    about clearing your mind and finding your breath but 
    lying on the mat i could only think about you and how 
    i was probably breathing too much and honestly 
    how dare you 
    make me feel 
    this way. 
    i once had a little pride, you know.
        ii.
        this morning i got in my car and
        drove
        into the ne
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Literature
Camp Spare
It was Prince Leo’s first time at Camp Spare, the summer camp for second in line royals. He was ten, short for his age, and just a little on the chubby side. Not like his older brother who was currently at Camp Monarch across the lake. His brother was everything a prince should be: tall, handsome, and brave. He would be a great king someday.
Leo would not. He was born only in case his brother died. Since it looked like his brother was going to make it, Dad told Leo it was time to start considering his other options. Camp Spare was the perfect place to start, Dad said.
Looking around the crowded parade ground, Leo considered his options. The camp was divided into paths for second borns to begin learning about.
There was the priestly path. It was common for second borns to become members of the church. Dad said that was a good life but Leo never had been that into church. Devoting his whole life to it seemed like torture at best. Most second borns must have agreed with him, Leo dec
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Literature
Moonsilver

Moonsilver

Every footstep was met with the crunching and shifting of the white sand below their wrapped feet. The navigator, at regular intervals, raised a compass to his face, briefly meeting his reflection in the glass; vacant and exhausted as the land they walked.
35 degrees South by South East. Directly on course. Normally, such extensive use of a compass was unneeded as the sun or stars allowed more accurate orientation, but the stone grey overcast necessitated its use. The navigator once again checked his compass, then raised his left arm directly to his side. The tailing caravan of work animals and their herders alike turned in unison to the left, until the navigator returned his arm into the resting position.
The land was as flat as the horizon, and landmarks were nearly identical; Tǔ-Gǔ, or earth-bones, the locals called them. Spires of white porous rock twisting and spiraling nearly 100 feet high and spread across the landscape in a perfect
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Literature
untitled #38
summer came with the cuts of stringy grass
kamikaze bees – 
dead, 
a graveyard on the corner of our street.
we buried our youth here,
somewhere.
where bees did not get graves
where we made space for childish 
hopes and dreams
of summer’s melt.
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Literature
ffm day 25 a boon
Drops on wet stone, the blood accents the gravestone nicely. A smoldering heat lies on the air, threatened only by the rumble of boulders and the sky-spanning grey of storm-hearted clouds.
Tasting pennies, the girl licks her palm clean.
Whatever rises from the dirt, she’ll be here to greet it. Tattoos of bones and names, of gods and games, she looks at the dice on her ankle and the angel on her thigh.
She doesn’t hear the thing behind her, so much as she feels it. It’s pointless to gawk; she doesn’t bother turning to face him.
“What games are you playing, little one?” the question is asked in a voice like silver bells singing  beneath a meat grinder.  
“Your kind,” she answers. “I have a wager to make.”
The thing behind her crouches, then sits just behind her, on the grave. She feels the heat radiating from its body.
“No one cheats me,” the thing said. It reaches for her, finger-bones clicking and popping
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Literature
Local 'Hobbit' Charged With Murder 556 Years Later
March 25, 3019th year of the Third Age

BREAKING
: Sméagol, better known by his alias “Gollum”, was sentenced to death by volcano just moments after an assault on a backpacking hobbit visiting Sammath Naur, a historical site within Mount Doom.
 
The sentence was met with overwhelming approval from the Council of Elrond, who had criticized Elvish security last year following Sméagol’s escape from Mirkwood Prison. He was being held there for unrelated charges of mischief.
 
In the 2463rd year of the Third Age, the then-tween Stoor Hobbit Sméagol was fishing in the Gladden Valley with his long-time friend and cousin, Déagol. Although there were no eyewitnesses that day, local Shirriffs pieced together the chilling sequence of events which concluded with the discovery of Déagol’s body.
 
Initial Shirriff reports suggested Déagol had drowned after being dragged into the water by a large fish, but furt
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Groups

Hey Fam (USAmerican and otherwise),

I've been real quiet the past few weeks, mainly because of my hand issues. But I figure it's time we had a talk. 


The United States is a cluster fuck right now. It is. Tomorrow is election day, as you probably already know. I know there are a lot of people who ‘don't like politics’, and who ‘don't want to argue’. I used to be one of you. But the thing is, that is a position of such incredible privilege: being able to avoid politics means that the way the United States is right now doesn't affect you at all, or at least not enough that you feel compelled to react. And that's not a bad thing! I wish everyone could say “I prefer to avoid politics”! That's like the ideal world.


But this is not the ideal world, and to behave as if it is is a disservice to those who cannot avoid politics. To those whose very selves have been politicized. If the time dilation of 45*’s administration hasn’t fucked with me too much, it was just two weeks ago that it was announced that trans people would be defined out of existence in governmental matters. To understate things, this is a problem: no acknowledgment of trans people means no healthcare (no transition, no therapy), no acknowledgment of hate crimes. Erasing the existence of people on paper makes it easier to erase their existence in reality. Trans people are already the targets of so much incoherent hate. This will make it easier to get away with.


It's not just trans people who are threatened by this administration, of course. There are also POC, women, LGB individuals, immigrants, non-Christians, I could go on. Fucking farmers? My housemate is a birthright citizen– they can't actually take that away via executive order, no matter what 45* says, but the very proposal is problematic. It's a threat. It's a symptom. 


My point is not to go on a political rant on an art website. My point is that if you think that anything that I have written is worth reading, then 


you need to go vote 


for people who will make it safe for me to keep writing. I won't say ‘keep’ it safe, because in the United States it's never really been safe to be trans or queer. If you are on the fence about voting, let this be the impetus to do so.


Yours always,

Gabriel

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philologie
Gabriel
United States
I'm a nomad, I’m a scientist, I’m a bad singer. I started to lead a very strange life in 2010, and it's only getting weirder.

Writing is not in my blood. I don’t sound like a poet (though maybe I look like one). My work trains me to write rationalism. My work trains me to see wonder in the small things and to translate that wonder into dense, mundane manuscripts.

So here I am: this is my growth mindset put to task.
Interests

Pride

I AM PROUD

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xlntwtch Featured By Owner May 1, 2019   Writer
:iconhappybirthdaysignplz:
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LadyLincoln Featured By Owner May 1, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Happya2 by Alimera

I hope you have a wonderful day, dearheart! :heart:
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:icondenlm:
denlm Featured By Owner Feb 4, 2019
Thanks for the +fav on "A Hundred Tiny Threads." Much appreciated.
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:iconxlntwtch:
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2019   Writer
Thanks for the fave! :iconredsparklesplz:
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comatose-comet Featured By Owner Jan 10, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you so much for the fave and watch :dalove::rose:
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