Watching Guardians of Ga’hoole with my lil brother, it’s a beautiful movie but so many bird-feels, and so much desire to fly.
Before you ask a group of beings which includes many neuroatypical folks to act like “normal sane people”,
Stop.
Look at your choice of words.
Discontinue linguistically overvaluing neurotypicality (“sanity”) and devaluing neuroatypicality (‘insanity”, “craziness”).
Instead perhaps ask these beings to not act like assholes, or to not be rude and hateful, or some other suggestion which does not include the idea that being or acting “sane” is inherently better than being or acting “insane” or that sane beings are necessarily not assholes and/or insane beings are necessarily assholes/assholes are not sane. These ideas are ableist and othering and, well, otherkin are othered enough by our very natures - we don’t need to be using harmful language choices that further this, especially in the process of attempting to create or maintain a cohesive community.
We insane ‘kin are just as valuable as sane ‘kin and deserving of respect for all of our identities. Calling out abusive beings is great! Implying that they are being or acting insane by doing such abuse and saying that not doing abuse is sane is not. There are sane assholes and insane sweetbeings.
Just some things to keep in mind.
- Mor
Thoughts and Stuff
I want to write but all the thoughts in my head are mixed up, one moment I think of soaring above land and the next I’m pulled back down to earth with thoughts of my law essay.
Then there is this whole melted-snowflake thing. They seem to be causing quite a stir. I’m reading some of their posts, it seems like they believe what they say (of course my reading of intentions can suck) but like I don’t get how they can think that being nonhuman/therian/otherkin means that one does not help or care for others, human or not.
I found out about nonhumans after a person whom I followed mentioned it, this person was heavily involved with activism for various causes , non-one could accuse them of not caring. When I looked and found a name for all the things I felt I was ecstatic. Being nonhuman does not mean I don’t care about others, it hasn’t changed who I am, it gives me a name for the feelings. Said feelings don’t make me less caring or stop me from fighting for other causes (I know a few people who would argue that it would be better for me if they did, I have been told I have a tendency to try and fix all wrongs in the world and burn-out because of it).
I really can’t just stop fighting, being nonhuman is only part of me, I’m autistic, disabled, trans*, and a whole ton of other things that ultimately make me who I am. Being nonhuman does not override or change any of them. Not only that, I have friends who fight battles that I do not, and I will not just abandon them because I happen not to be human. Just because I am not human does not mean I am going to stop fighting for those who are, or for other causes. It does not mean that I will back down when I see others suffering.
I have heard so many times that because I am autistic must be cold an unsympathetic and that is crap. I feel and I care, and it really ticks me off to see someone imply the same thing about another group I belong to. One persons experiences do not cover everyone’s, and just because you found that you may have been wrong about yourself does not mean others are.
(and this is how a oops I’m inactive post turns into a super long rant about feelings and activism >.<)
are you ever holding an object, and either it starts to get smaller and smaller or your hands get bigger and bigger until youre holding a grain of sand, but not really because nothing at all changed. or you will be sitting in a chair, and it grows around you and swallows you up
i used to be able to do this when i was a kid, i’d make the whole world spin around me and i could concentrate on the dark or on a shape and move through it faster and faster and become very very small, so small that every motion i made was alien and surreal and orchestrated from a place very far away
When its windy out I can stand outside and just let go and I feel like the wind is swallowing my up, and I’m getting smaller and smaller, until the wind is just picking me up and I’m spinning through the air. When I was little I could do this anywhere and I would just fly away, now I need a wind to be able to fly away.
*poke* erm hello, I’m still here. I just kinda had a breakdown and then after a good friend of mine attempted suicide so I needed to take some time off n’stuff. Back now though.
And they pray for flight, for the wind under wings that have yet to sprout form their bodies. They dance and sing and jump as high as they can together. They leap off tall rocks, spread their arms out, breath in the air as it rushes past them.
It’s not flying but it’s something.
Their sermons are conducted outside, even in the rain. They sit under trees and talk to the birds that watch them. Of course not all of them are birds, or identify ass such. Some are other things, bats, dragons, angels, insects, fae, and yet more strange and beautiful creatures.
And some are simply humans, some are simply people that crave the sky more than the land.
They all know the pain that the others go through, the suffering and ache in their chests. They know the longing and desire and need to fly.
And it’s in those moments of grief, because sometimes there is no other word for it other than grief, they grasp each others hands and they pray. They pray to the birds and the bats and the bugs and everything else. They pray for those wings to emerge from their skin.
They pray for the sky to be a little bit closer.
You join them out of curiosity, out of wonder and because you’ve heard of them before, the Church Of Fight, those that honor the sky. You’re not sure what to make of them exactly but they treat you well, they understand your desires and you thin that maybe, just maybe, there’s a home to be made here.
So you stay, you dance with them, you spread your arms out, you sing songs of flight and you jump as high as you can. You sometimes feel like you’re not doing it right, like you’re worshiping the wrong way but the Church teaches you that there’s no wrong way to worship, that as long as you have the wind in your heart, the desire to reach out for the sky making your fingertips tingle, then you’re doing it right.
They don’t pass out pamphlets, they don’t preach the Word Of The Sky to strangers but sometimes, every now and then, you find yourself joining them, walking around the city and passing out feathers to strangers who keep glancing upwards.
“One day,” you say quietly before you walk away.. “One day you’ll touch the clouds.”
(Source: parisnotfrance, via fuckyeahchangeling)
Nest.
Haven, sancturary, home.
Wings.
Movement, joy, freedom.
Heart.
Speaking, fluttering, feeling.
Soul.
Hurting, laughing, being.
World.
Peculiar, diverse, mine.
Perfect. <3
I would love to tuck myself into a place such as this. To be away from the cards and the spinning for a little while. To be kept safe by a small home enclosing around me. I’m sure I could ask the pelican for help, if I desired.
Though I feel it is too much a luxury for such as I, a wounded soul who is supposed to not have any home but her madness.
Meena Alexander, “Nocturne”
We have come to Haifa where the sea starts.
The theater Al Midani floats by a tree.
I see this clearly though a dark filament twists round the moon.
I tiptoe through surf—
A rope someone left at the end of the jetty
I knot it to my ankle
Not wanting to be swept away by sudden longing.
Inside the theater, candles, a mountain of bloom.
Does Haifa have almond blossom?
Must they gather it from the edges of the sea?
Someone was shot point-blank and killed—
A man who kept waiting for the good life to occur,
For the mouth to speak what comes before speech,
Sap in the tree and firmament of flesh.A child approaches me in the darkened theater
And whispers in my ear—Yes we are waiting for Godot—
I am overcome by the scent of tuberoses
And cigarette smoke and can’t reply—
Yes, many friends of the dead man are smoking.
Six or seven take turns reading from a poem
They pass the pages from hand to hand—
I left my gloom hanging on a branch of boxthorn
And the place weighed less.
A woman in black jeans forces open the windows,
The moon uncorks herself and blows away—
So this is how the sea starts: increments of longing,
Mostly in half darkness
Then a white light as waves rush through.
[tw: discusses trigger warnings/not using them, guilt tripping, emotional manipulation, shock posts or images, mental health issues, ableism]
I am really, really tired of seeing all these “if you can do X thing, then you can (watch this video/reblog this post/whatever)” posts on…
