𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 ‹𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑥𐑱 𐑖𐑪𐑒 𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑧𐑛𐑦𐑑 𐑿› 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑛𐑨𐑯𐑾𐑤 𐑤𐑨𐑝𐑼𐑦 | from Something That May Shock and Discredit You, by Daniel Lavery (2020)

𐑗𐑨𐑐𐑑𐑼 1: 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑿 𐑢𐑻 𐑘𐑳𐑙𐑜𐑼 𐑯 𐑿 𐑜𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑴𐑥 𐑻𐑤𐑦 𐑯 𐑿 𐑢𐑻 𐑞 𐑓𐑻𐑕𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑴𐑥 𐑯 𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑧𐑤𐑕 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑬𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑰𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑿 𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑢𐑳𐑮𐑦 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑿? 𐑲 𐑛𐑦𐑛.

CHAPTER 1: When You Were Younger and You Got Home Early and You Were the First One Home and No One Else Was Out on the Street Did You Ever Worry That the Rapture Had Happened Without You? I Did.

𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑼𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑜𐑮𐑴𐑟 𐑳𐑐 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼 𐑩 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑 𐑛𐑰𐑤 𐑹 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑨𐑑 𐑷𐑤. 𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑛𐑴𐑯𐑑, 𐑲 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑒, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑩𐑥𐑳𐑙 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑣𐑵 𐑛𐑦𐑛, 𐑞𐑺𐑟 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑞 𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑣𐑬, 𐑦𐑓 𐑨𐑑 𐑷𐑤, 𐑑 𐑚𐑮𐑦𐑙 𐑳𐑐 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑥𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑 𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑦, 𐑢𐑧𐑞𐑼 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑣𐑴𐑐𐑕 𐑝 𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑲𐑞𐑼 𐑤𐑨𐑓𐑑𐑼 𐑹 𐑖𐑪𐑒, 𐑓𐑪𐑤𐑴𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑮𐑰𐑜 𐑥𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑐𐑦𐑑𐑦. 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑰𐑟𐑦 𐑦𐑯𐑳𐑓 𐑑 𐑕𐑧𐑤 𐑬𐑑 𐑩𐑯 𐑰𐑝𐑨𐑯𐑡𐑧𐑤𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑒𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯 𐑗𐑲𐑤𐑛𐑣𐑫𐑛, 𐑯 𐑐𐑤𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑦 𐑝 𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑟 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑑 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑢𐑧𐑞𐑼 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑩 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑲𐑛𐑾 𐑑 𐑮𐑱𐑟 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑕𐑢𐑧𐑐𐑑 𐑳𐑐 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 ·𐑮𐑱𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑚𐑮𐑨𐑯 𐑕𐑒𐑵𐑐 𐑝 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯; 𐑲 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑦𐑖 𐑑 𐑛𐑢𐑧𐑤 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑢𐑧𐑞𐑼 𐑲 𐑷𐑑 𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑑𐑷𐑑 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼. 𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑳𐑤𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹𐑣𐑨𐑯𐑛, 𐑯 𐑲 𐑒𐑭𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑰 𐑢𐑲 𐑲 𐑖𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑰 𐑨𐑕𐑒𐑑 𐑑 𐑐𐑮𐑩𐑝𐑲𐑛 𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑘𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑯𐑬.

One generally grows up thinking about the Rapture a great deal or not at all. Most don’t, I think, but among those who did, there’s always the question of how, if at all, to bring up the subject in mixed company, whether in the hopes of eliciting either laughter or shock, followed by sexual intrigue mixed with pity. It’s easy enough to sell out an evangelical Christian childhood, and plenty of other pens have been given over to the subject of whether it’s a good idea to raise children in the expectation of being swept up by the Raisin Bran scoop of heaven; I have no wish to dwell on the question of whether I ought to have been taught about the Rapture. No one consulted me beforehand, and I can’t see why I should be asked to provide an opinion on the subject now.

𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑮𐑳𐑓𐑤𐑦 𐑨𐑟 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛 𐑝 𐑞 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼 𐑨𐑟 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑞 𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑣𐑵 𐑤𐑧𐑓𐑑 𐑞 𐑚𐑱𐑕𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑨𐑑 𐑯𐑲𐑑𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑑 𐑑𐑻𐑯 𐑞 𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑕 𐑬𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹 𐑲 𐑢𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑳𐑐 𐑞 𐑕𐑑𐑺𐑟 – 𐑦𐑑 𐑓𐑧𐑤𐑑 𐑝𐑺𐑾𐑕𐑤𐑦 𐑮𐑾𐑤 𐑯 𐑮𐑦𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑘𐑩𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑪𐑯 𐑣𐑬 𐑒𐑤𐑴𐑕 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑑 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑩𐑤𐑴𐑯. 𐑨𐑓𐑑𐑼𐑯𐑵𐑯𐑟 𐑢𐑺 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑞 𐑓𐑻𐑕𐑑 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑣𐑴𐑥 𐑩𐑓𐑑𐑼 𐑕𐑒𐑵𐑤 𐑯 𐑞 𐑯𐑱𐑚𐑼𐑣𐑫𐑛 𐑕𐑰𐑥𐑛 𐑕𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑑𐑦𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑿𐑠𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑢𐑻 𐑲𐑛𐑾𐑤 𐑓 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼 𐑐𐑮𐑨𐑒𐑑𐑦𐑕, 𐑓 𐑕𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑓 𐑲 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑡𐑦𐑯 𐑳𐑐 𐑕𐑩𐑓𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑐𐑨𐑯𐑦𐑒 𐑯 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑹𐑕 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑐𐑮𐑪𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑒𐑵𐑐𐑑; 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑦𐑙 ·𐑛𐑰 𐑕𐑰 𐑑𐑷𐑒’𐑕 𐑒𐑳𐑝𐑼 𐑝 «𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑖 𐑢𐑰𐑛 𐑷𐑤 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑮𐑧𐑛𐑦» 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑑𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑐𐑑, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑥𐑹 𐑪𐑓𐑩𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑡𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑥𐑰 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑥𐑹 𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓–𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑖𐑩𐑕 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑑 𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑒 𐑥𐑲𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑜𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑥𐑵𐑛.

I was roughly as afraid of the Rapture as I was of being the last person in the house who left the basement at nighttime and had to turn the lights out before I went up the stairs – it felt variously real and ridiculous depending on how close I was to being alone. Afternoons where I was the first person to come home after school and the neighborhood seemed slightly emptier than usual were ideal for Rapture practice, for seeing if I could gin up sufficient panic and remorse at the prospect of being unscooped; playing DC Talk’s cover of “I Wish We’d All Been Ready” sometimes helped, but more often than not just made me even more self-conscious of having to trick myself into getting in the mood.

𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑩𐑢𐑺, 𐑑𐑵, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑥𐑲 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑔𐑷𐑑𐑓𐑩𐑤, 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑔𐑦𐑪𐑤𐑩𐑡𐑦 𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑮𐑵𐑥 𐑓 𐑞 𐑒𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑝 𐑜𐑧𐑕𐑦𐑙–𐑜𐑱𐑥𐑟 𐑯 𐑒𐑮𐑪𐑕𐑢𐑻𐑛–𐑐𐑳𐑟𐑩𐑤–𐑕𐑑𐑲𐑤–𐑩𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑗 𐑑 𐑧𐑕𐑒𐑩𐑑𐑪𐑤𐑩𐑡𐑦 𐑐𐑪𐑐𐑘𐑩𐑤𐑼 𐑩𐑥𐑳𐑙 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑢𐑲𐑑 𐑰𐑝𐑨𐑯𐑡𐑧𐑤𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 1990𐑟, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑓 𐑲 𐑢𐑻 𐑑 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑕 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑓 𐑛𐑰𐑑𐑱𐑤𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑧𐑯𐑛 𐑑𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑝𐑾 𐑲 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑩𐑚𐑟𐑹𐑚𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑝𐑻𐑗𐑵 𐑝 𐑜𐑮𐑴𐑦𐑙 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑻𐑚𐑩𐑯 ·𐑥𐑦𐑛𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑨𐑑 𐑚𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑥𐑦𐑕 𐑦𐑑 𐑯 𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑻𐑕𐑑 𐑨𐑕𐑒 𐑢𐑺 𐑪𐑯 𐑻𐑔 𐑲𐑛 𐑐𐑦𐑒𐑑 𐑳𐑐 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑟. 𐑲 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑩 𐑖𐑸𐑐 𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑕 𐑓 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑒𐑰𐑐𐑦𐑙 𐑩 𐑕𐑰𐑒𐑮𐑩𐑑 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑮𐑦𐑟𐑳𐑤𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑐𐑤𐑧𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑼 𐑬𐑑𐑒𐑳𐑥, 𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑻𐑛 𐑑 𐑩𐑒𐑱𐑠𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑐𐑤𐑱 𐑬𐑑 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼–𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑕𐑦𐑯𐑸𐑦𐑴𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑲𐑞𐑼 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑓𐑻𐑥𐑛 𐑹 𐑛𐑰𐑚𐑳𐑙𐑒𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑬𐑑𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑩𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑘𐑩𐑯. 𐑲 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑩 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼 𐑩 𐑛𐑱 𐑦𐑓 𐑲 𐑤𐑲𐑒𐑑, 𐑨𐑟 𐑤𐑪𐑙 𐑨𐑟 𐑲 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑨𐑕𐑒𐑑 𐑥𐑲 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑐𐑼𐑥𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑜𐑴 𐑮𐑨𐑐𐑗𐑼𐑦𐑙, 𐑯 𐑛𐑧𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑩 𐑯𐑳𐑥𐑚𐑼 𐑝 𐑨𐑓𐑑𐑼𐑯𐑵𐑯𐑟 𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑥𐑲𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑦 𐑦𐑥𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑞 𐑛𐑱 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑻𐑕𐑑 𐑯 𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑐𐑵𐑤 𐑦𐑑𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑦𐑯 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑛𐑦𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯, 𐑯 𐑷𐑤 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑐𐑼𐑓𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑰 𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑜𐑮𐑲𐑯𐑛𐑕𐑑𐑴𐑯 𐑝 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑤𐑦 𐑑𐑧𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑲𐑦𐑙 𐑮𐑹.

I was aware, too, that my parents’ thoughtful, tender theology did not have much room for the kind of guessing-games and crossword-puzzle-style-approach to eschatology popular among many white evangelicals in the 1990s, that if I were to press them for details about the End Times trivia I had absorbed by virtue of growing up in the suburban Midwest they would at best dismiss it and at worst ask where on earth I’d picked up such things. I had a sharp sense for when keeping a secret would result in a pleasanter outcome, and preferred to occasionally play out Rapture-like scenarios in private than have them either confirmed or debunked by outside opinion. I could have a Rapture a day if I liked, as long as I never asked my parents’ permission to go Rapturing, and dedicated a number of afternoons to making myself dizzy imagining the day when time would burst and unspool itself in every possible direction, and all those willing to be perfected would be milled down by the grindstone of heaven in a lovely terrifying roar.

𐑨𐑑 𐑤𐑰𐑕𐑑 𐑐𐑸𐑑 𐑝 𐑞 𐑮𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑲 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑨𐑕𐑒𐑑 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑓𐑽𐑟 𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑲𐑼𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑐𐑮𐑰𐑪𐑒𐑘𐑩𐑐𐑲𐑛 𐑥𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑩 𐑐𐑦𐑒𐑿𐑤𐑽 𐑕𐑻𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑝𐑲𐑑 𐑛𐑰𐑑𐑱𐑤𐑟 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑶 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑲 𐑣𐑴𐑐𐑑 𐑓𐑹; 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑤𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑪𐑮𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑛𐑩𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑩𐑜𐑱𐑯𐑕𐑑 𐑜𐑪𐑛𐑟 𐑣𐑸𐑑 𐑯 𐑥𐑧𐑤𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑮𐑦𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑘𐑩𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑓 𐑩 𐑕𐑑𐑸𐑑 𐑛𐑱𐑑 𐑢𐑻 𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑩𐑯𐑬𐑯𐑕𐑑. 𐑯 𐑲 𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑓𐑽 𐑦𐑑, 𐑪𐑓𐑑𐑩𐑯, 𐑓 𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑨𐑟 𐑲 𐑤𐑪𐑙𐑛 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑕𐑰𐑟𐑛, 𐑕𐑢𐑧𐑐𐑑 𐑳𐑐, 𐑯 𐑗𐑲𐑯𐑡𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 { 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑜𐑱𐑯𐑕𐑑 𐑥𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑲 𐑷𐑤𐑕𐑴 𐑛𐑮𐑧𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑦𐑑. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑐𐑩𐑟𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑝 𐑩 𐑮𐑵𐑑𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑣𐑴𐑥𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑒𐑢𐑲𐑑 𐑯𐑰𐑑𐑤𐑦, 𐑓 𐑩 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑡𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑤𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯-𐑘𐑽-𐑴𐑤𐑛, 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯-𐑤𐑪𐑙𐑦𐑙; 𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑼 𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑤𐑱𐑑 𐑒𐑢𐑲𐑑 𐑯𐑰𐑑𐑤𐑦, 𐑓 𐑩 𐑯𐑻𐑝𐑩𐑕 𐑔𐑻𐑑𐑦–𐑢𐑳𐑯–𐑘𐑽–𐑴𐑤𐑛, 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦.

At least part of the reason I never asked anyone questions about the fears and desires that preoccupied me was a peculiar certainty that to invite details would destroy anything I hoped for; that the loveliness of being pressed directly against God’s heart and melted down into holiness would become ridiculous if a start date were ever announced. And I did fear it, often, for as much as I longed to be seized, swept up, and changed without or even against my will I also dreaded it. I was possessed of a rootless homesickness that translated quite neatly, for a religious eleven-year-old, into heaven-longing; later it would translate quite neatly, for a nervous thirty- one-year-old, into transsexuality.

Excerpt published in NY Times

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 «𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦: 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑾𐑯» 𐑦𐑯 ‹𐑭𐑤 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑤𐑳𐑝: 𐑯𐑿 𐑝𐑦𐑠𐑩𐑯𐑟› 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑚𐑧𐑤 𐑣𐑫𐑒𐑕 | From 'Community: Loving Communion' in All About Love: New Visions by bell ho...

𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑖𐑫𐑼 𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑼𐑝𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑤 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑺 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛, 𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤𐑟 𐑯 𐑥𐑱𐑤𐑟 𐑹𐑜𐑩𐑯𐑲𐑟 𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟. 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑑𐑱𐑯 𐑤𐑲𐑓 – 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑯𐑵𐑒𐑤𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑟, 𐑹 𐑞 «𐑒𐑳𐑐𐑩𐑤», 𐑯 𐑕𐑻𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑳𐑜𐑩𐑛 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑕𐑑. 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑴 𐑚𐑧𐑑𐑼 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕 𐑑 𐑤𐑻𐑯 𐑞 𐑸𐑑 𐑝 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦. ⸰𐑥 𐑕𐑒𐑪𐑑 𐑐𐑧𐑒 𐑚𐑦𐑜𐑦𐑯𐑟 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑫𐑒 ‹𐑞 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑛𐑮𐑳𐑥: 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑥𐑱𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑯 𐑐𐑰𐑕› 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞 𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑓𐑬𐑯𐑛 𐑛𐑧𐑒𐑤𐑼𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯: «𐑦𐑯 𐑯 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑤𐑲𐑟 𐑞 𐑕𐑨𐑤𐑝𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛». ·𐑐𐑧𐑒 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑨𐑟 𐑞 𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑦𐑙 𐑑𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑞𐑼 𐑝 𐑩 𐑜𐑮𐑵𐑐 𐑝 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑟 ‹𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑤𐑻𐑯𐑛 𐑣𐑬 𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑒𐑱𐑑 𐑪𐑯𐑩𐑕𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑰𐑗 𐑳𐑞𐑼, 𐑣𐑵𐑟 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑖𐑦𐑐𐑕 𐑜𐑴 𐑛𐑰𐑐𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑥𐑨𐑕𐑒𐑕 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑐𐑴𐑠𐑼, 𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑧𐑤𐑩𐑐𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑕𐑦𐑜𐑯𐑦𐑓𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑦𐑑𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑶𐑕 𐑑𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑞𐑼, 𐑥𐑹𐑯 𐑑𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑞𐑼, 𐑯 𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑰𐑗 𐑳𐑞𐑼, 𐑯 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑰𐑗 𐑳𐑞𐑼𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑬𐑼 𐑴𐑯». 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑷𐑤 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦.

To ensure human survival everywhere in the world, females and males organize themselves into communities. Communities sustain life—not nuclear families, or the “couple,” and certainly not the rugged individualist. There is no better place to learn the art of loving than in community. M. Scott Peck begins his book The Different Drum: Community Making and Peace with the profound declaration: “In and through community lies the salvation of the world.” Peck defines community as the coming together of a group of individuals “who have learned how to communicate honestly with each other, whose relationships go deeper than their masks of composure, and who have developed some significant commitment to ‘rejoice together, mourn together,’ and to ‘delight in each other, and make other’s conditions our own.’” We are all born into the world of community.

𐑮𐑺𐑤𐑦 𐑦𐑓 𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑛𐑳𐑟 𐑩 𐑗𐑲𐑤𐑛 𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑲𐑕𐑩𐑤𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯, 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑹 𐑑𐑵 𐑪𐑯𐑤𐑫𐑒𐑼𐑟. 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑸 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑫 𐑩 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 𐑕𐑳𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟. 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦, 𐑛𐑪𐑒𐑑𐑼𐑟, 𐑯𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑟, 𐑥𐑦𐑛𐑢𐑲𐑝𐑟, 𐑯 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑛𐑥𐑲𐑮𐑦𐑙 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑼𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑟 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑛 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑟, 𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑥𐑹 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑥𐑩𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑳𐑞𐑼𐑟.

Rarely if ever does a child come into the world in isolation, with only one or two onlookers. Children are born into a world surrounded by the possibility of communities. Family, doctors, nurses, midwives, and even admiring strangers comprise this field of connections, some more intimate than others.

𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑝 𐑞 𐑑𐑷𐑒 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 «𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑝𐑨𐑤𐑿𐑟» 𐑦𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦 𐑣𐑲𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑕 𐑞 𐑯𐑵𐑒𐑤𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦, 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑳𐑐 𐑝 𐑥𐑳𐑞𐑼, 𐑓𐑭𐑞𐑼, 𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑚𐑤𐑦 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑹 𐑑𐑵 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯, 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑿𐑯𐑲𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑕𐑑𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑞𐑦𐑟 𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑟𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑨𐑟 𐑞 𐑞 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑥𐑼𐑦 𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑹𐑜𐑩𐑯𐑲𐑟𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑓 𐑞 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯, 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑦𐑯𐑖𐑫𐑼 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑟 𐑪𐑐𐑑𐑦𐑥𐑩𐑤 𐑢𐑧𐑤–𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙. 𐑝 𐑒𐑹𐑕, 𐑞𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑓𐑨𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑕𐑦 𐑦𐑥𐑦𐑡 𐑝 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦. 𐑣𐑸𐑛𐑤𐑦 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦 𐑤𐑦𐑝𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑝𐑲𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑞𐑦𐑕. 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑣𐑵 𐑸 𐑮𐑱𐑟𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑯𐑵𐑒𐑤𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑟 𐑿𐑠𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑽𐑾𐑯𐑕 𐑦𐑑 𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑽𐑤𐑦 𐑩 𐑕𐑥𐑷𐑤 𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑤𐑸𐑡𐑼 𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑝 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑒𐑦𐑯. 𐑒𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑥 𐑯 𐑐𐑱𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑸𐑒𐑦 𐑑𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑞𐑼, 𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑳𐑒𐑗𐑼𐑟 𐑝 𐑛𐑪𐑥𐑦𐑯𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯, 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑢𐑻𐑒𐑑 𐑴𐑝𐑼𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑥𐑲𐑯 𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑶 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑤𐑸𐑡𐑼 𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑝 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑒𐑦𐑯. 𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑞 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑩 𐑥𐑹 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑑𐑲𐑟𐑛 𐑯 𐑕𐑥𐑷𐑤 𐑷𐑑𐑩𐑒𐑮𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑒 𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑐𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑮𐑰𐑕 𐑱𐑤𐑾𐑯𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑯 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑩𐑚𐑿𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑐𐑬𐑼 𐑥𐑹 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤. 𐑦𐑑 𐑜𐑱𐑝 𐑨𐑚𐑕𐑩𐑤𐑵𐑑 𐑮𐑵𐑤 𐑑 𐑞 𐑓𐑭𐑞𐑼, 𐑯 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑦 𐑮𐑵𐑤 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑞 𐑥𐑳𐑞𐑼. 𐑚𐑲 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑳𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑦𐑙 𐑞 𐑕𐑧𐑜𐑮𐑦𐑜𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑯𐑵𐑒𐑤𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑟 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦, 𐑢𐑦𐑥𐑦𐑯 𐑢𐑻 𐑓𐑹𐑕𐑑 𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑥𐑹 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑥𐑨𐑯, 𐑯 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑥𐑹 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑢𐑫𐑥𐑩𐑯. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑱𐑥, 𐑯 𐑦𐑟, 𐑞 𐑚𐑮𐑰𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑜𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛 𐑓 𐑩𐑚𐑿𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑐𐑬𐑼.

Much of the talk about “family values” in our society highlights the nuclear family, one that is made up of mother, father, and preferably only one or two children. In the United States this unit is presented as the primary and preferable organization for the parenting of children, one that will ensure everyone’s optimal well-being. Of course, this is a fantasy image of family. Hardly anyone in our society lives in an environment like this. Even individuals who are raised in nuclear families usually experience it as merely a small unit within a larger unit of extended kin. Capitalism and patriarchy together, as structures of domination, have worked overtime to undermine and destroy this larger unit of extended kin. Replacing the family community with a more privatized small autocratic unit helped increase alienation and made abuses of power more possible. It gave absolute rule to the father, and secondary rule over children to the mother. By encouraging the segregation of nuclear families from the extended family, women were forced to become more dependent on an individual man, and children more dependent on an individual woman. It is this dependency that became, and is, the breeding ground for abuses of power.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤𐑟, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑩𐑯𐑛𐑮𐑾 𐑤𐑪𐑙 𐑗𐑵 | from Females, by Andrea Long Chu (2019)

𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤, 𐑯 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑦𐑑. 𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑑𐑮𐑵, 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑝𐑧𐑮𐑦 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑦 𐑞 𐑓𐑹𐑥 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓–𐑤𐑴𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑑𐑱𐑒𐑕 𐑦𐑯 𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑒𐑱𐑕. 𐑷𐑤 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑟𐑛 𐑥𐑦𐑕𐑪𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑦. 𐑩 𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤 𐑦𐑟 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑰𐑑𐑩𐑯 𐑞 𐑤𐑴𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑞𐑼, 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑥𐑰𐑚𐑩 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑜𐑪𐑑 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑯𐑿𐑒𐑤𐑾𐑕 𐑚𐑲 𐑕𐑢𐑪𐑤𐑴𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑯𐑱𐑚𐑼. 𐑹, 𐑑 𐑐𐑫𐑑 𐑩 𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑼 𐑐𐑶𐑯𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑦𐑑: 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑡𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑞 𐑥𐑦𐑕𐑪𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑒 𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑩 𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑟𐑩𐑟, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑕𐑧𐑕 𐑝 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑟𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑑𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓, 𐑞 𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓𐑕 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑫𐑦𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑯𐑱𐑥 𐑝 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑧𐑤𐑕𐑧𐑟 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑲𐑼𐑟, 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑧𐑤𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑯𐑸𐑕𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑥.

Everyone is female, and everyone hates it. If this is true, then gender is very simply the form this self-loathing takes in any given case. All gender is internalized misogyny. A female is one who has eaten the loathing of another, like an amoeba that got its nucleus by swallowing its neighbor. Or, to put a finer point on it: gender is not just the misogynistic expectations a female internalizes, but a process of internalizing itself, the self's gentle suicide in the name of someone else's desires, someone else's narcissism.

𐑞 𐑒𐑤𐑱𐑥 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑴𐑖𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑳𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑮𐑳𐑙 𐑣𐑪𐑤𐑴 𐑓 𐑛𐑧𐑒𐑱𐑛𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑪𐑟 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑑𐑮𐑵, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑪𐑟 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑢𐑲𐑤𐑛𐑤𐑦 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑰𐑑. 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑰𐑛, 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑝𐑾𐑤𐑦 𐑑𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑩 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑸 𐑕𐑴𐑖𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑳𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛, 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑥𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑑 𐑤𐑷𐑟 𐑑 𐑠𐑭𐑯𐑮𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑼𐑩𐑗𐑼. 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑒𐑕 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 – 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑚𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑝 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼, 𐑨𐑟 𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑻 – 𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑓𐑨𐑒𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑕𐑩𐑟, 𐑦𐑯 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦 𐑒𐑱𐑕, 𐑞 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑲𐑼𐑟 𐑝 𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑞𐑼. 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑞𐑺𐑓𐑹 𐑩 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑦𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑼𐑦 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑹𐑾𐑯𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯: 𐑦𐑓 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑹𐑾𐑯𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑱𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑤𐑦 𐑞 𐑕𐑴𐑖𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑟 𐑴𐑯 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦, 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑱𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑤𐑦 𐑞 𐑕𐑴𐑖𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑧𐑤𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦. 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑓𐑹𐑥𐑼 𐑒𐑱𐑕, 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑑𐑱𐑒𐑕 𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑; 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑤𐑨𐑑𐑼 𐑒𐑱𐑕, 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑. 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 𐑐𐑼𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑦𐑝 𐑝 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼, 𐑞𐑧𐑯, 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑷𐑤 𐑛𐑳𐑥 𐑚𐑤𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑟.

The claim that gender is socially constructed has rung hollow for decades not because it isn't true, but because it's wildly incomplete. Indeed, it is trivially true that a great many things are socially constructed, from money to laws to genres of literature. What makes gender gender -- the substance of gender, as it were -- is the fact that it expresses, in every case, the desires of another. Gender has therefore a complimentary relation to sexual orientation: if sexual orientation is basically the social expression of one's own sexuality, then gender is basically the social expression of someone else's sexuality. In the former case, one takes an object; in the latter case, one is an object. From the perspective of gender, then, we are all dumb blondes.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑨𐑛𐑳𐑤𐑑𐑣𐑫𐑛 𐑮𐑲𐑑𐑕, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑪𐑒𐑑𐑱𐑝𐑾 𐑦 𐑚𐑳𐑑𐑤𐑼 | from Adulthood Rites, by Octavia E Butler (1988)

«𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑓𐑽 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕» ·𐑤𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑔 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑑𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑣𐑦𐑥 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕. «·𐑴𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑭𐑤𐑦 𐑒𐑮𐑱𐑝 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕. 𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑿𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑟, 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑞𐑱 𐑯𐑰𐑛 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑑 𐑜𐑦𐑝 𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑛𐑧𐑓𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑯 𐑕𐑑𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑕. ·𐑴𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑭𐑤𐑦 𐑕𐑰𐑒 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑯 𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑦𐑑. 𐑞𐑱 𐑯𐑰𐑛 𐑦𐑑 𐑑 𐑒𐑰𐑐 𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑜𐑯𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑯 𐑴𐑝𐑼𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑖𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑟𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯. 𐑦𐑓 𐑿 𐑛𐑴𐑯𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑞𐑦𐑕, 𐑿 𐑢𐑦𐑤. 𐑿𐑤 𐑐𐑮𐑪𐑚𐑩𐑚𐑤𐑦 𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑚𐑴𐑔 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑻𐑓𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑯 𐑘𐑹 𐑴𐑯 𐑚𐑦𐑣𐑱𐑝𐑘𐑼.» 𐑯 𐑖𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑐𐑳𐑑 𐑣𐑻 𐑣𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑣𐑺. «𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑿 𐑓𐑰𐑤 𐑩 𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑓𐑤𐑦𐑒𐑑, 𐑑𐑮𐑲 𐑑 𐑜𐑴 𐑞 ·𐑴𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑭𐑤𐑦 𐑢𐑱. 𐑧𐑥𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑕 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑕.»

"Human beings fear difference," Lilith had told him once. "Oankali crave difference. Humans persecute their different ones, yet they need them to give themselves definition and status. Oankali seek difference and collect it. They need it to keep themselves from stagnation and overspecialization. If you don't understand this, you will. You'll probably find both tendencies surfacing in your own behavior." And she had put her hand on his hair. "When you feel a conflict, try to go the Oankali way. Embrace difference."

·𐑩𐑒𐑰𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑕𐑑𐑫𐑛, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑖𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑕𐑧𐑛, «𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑷𐑤 𐑮𐑲𐑑. 𐑡𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑧𐑥𐑚𐑼.» 𐑯 𐑝 𐑒𐑹𐑕, 𐑣𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑧𐑥𐑚𐑼𐑛 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦 𐑢𐑻𐑛. 𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑓𐑿 𐑑𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑖𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑳𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑛 𐑣𐑦𐑥 𐑑 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑕 ·𐑴𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑭𐑤𐑦 𐑒𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑒𐑑𐑼𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑒𐑕. 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑯𐑬…

Akin had not understood, but she had said, "It's all right. Just remember." And of course, he had remembered every word. It was one of the few times she had encouraged him to express Oankali characteristics. But now...

𐑣𐑬 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑣𐑰 𐑦𐑥𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑕 𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑣𐑵, 𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕, 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑣𐑦𐑥 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑣𐑦𐑥 𐑢𐑦𐑖 𐑣𐑰 𐑢𐑻 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑪𐑙 𐑦𐑯𐑳𐑓 𐑑 𐑣𐑻𐑑 𐑞𐑧𐑥?

How could he embrace Humans who, in their difference, not only rejected him but made him wish he were strong enough to hurt them?

𐑯𐑱𐑥𐑟

Names

·𐑪𐑒𐑑𐑱𐑝𐑾 𐑦 𐑚𐑳𐑑𐑤𐑼

𐑦 𐑦𐑟 𐑓 «𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑤», 𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑲 𐑑𐑱𐑒 𐑩𐑟 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑼 𐑑 «𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑰𐑥» 𐑯 «𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑧𐑤»

·𐑤𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑔

𐑤𐑲𐑒 «𐑤𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑟» 𐑹 «𐑟𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑔»

·𐑴𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑭𐑤𐑦

𐑚𐑱𐑕𐑛 𐑪𐑯 ·𐑷𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑦𐑗 𐑚𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑑'𐑕 𐑐𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 ·𐑷𐑛𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑝𐑻𐑠𐑩𐑯. «𐑴𐑩𐑯» 𐑮𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑞 «𐑮𐑴𐑩𐑯»

𐑩𐑒𐑰𐑯

𐑚𐑱𐑕𐑛 𐑪𐑯 ·𐑷𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑦𐑗 𐑚𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑑'𐑕 𐑐𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 ·𐑷𐑛𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑝𐑻𐑠𐑩𐑯

Octavia E Butler

E is for "Estelle", which I take as similar to "esteem" and "excel"

Lilith

like "lilies" or "zenith"

Oankali

based on Aldrich Barret's pronunciation in the Audible version. "Oan" rhymes with "rowan".

Akin

based on Aldrich Barret's pronunciation in the Audible version.

𐑤𐑦𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑕 𐑝 ‹𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙›, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑚𐑴 𐑚𐑻𐑯𐑩𐑥 | Lyrics of 'That Funny Feeling', by Bo Burnham (2021)

𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑱𐑑–𐑒𐑱 𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑩𐑤𐑵𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑥𐑧𐑛𐑦𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑨𐑐
𐑦𐑯 𐑪𐑯𐑼 𐑝 𐑞 𐑮𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑤𐑵𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑣𐑭𐑓 𐑪𐑓 𐑨𐑑 ·𐑞 𐑜𐑨𐑐
𐑛𐑧𐑛𐑐𐑵𐑤𐑟 𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓–𐑩𐑢𐑺𐑯𐑩𐑕, 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑕, 𐑣𐑸𐑥𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑓𐑳𐑯
𐑞 𐑚𐑨𐑒𐑤𐑨𐑖 𐑑 𐑞 𐑚𐑨𐑒𐑤𐑨𐑖 𐑑 𐑞 𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑑𐑕 𐑡𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑚𐑦𐑜𐑳𐑯

Stunning 8K-resolution meditation app
In honor of the revolution, it's half-off at the Gap
Deadpool's self-awareness, loving parents, harmless fun
The backlash to the backlash to the thing that's just begun

𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙

There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling
There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling

𐑞 𐑕𐑻𐑡𐑩𐑯 𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑼𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑐𐑪𐑐–𐑳𐑐 𐑖𐑪𐑐, ·𐑮𐑪𐑚𐑼𐑑 𐑱𐑜𐑼𐑟 𐑓𐑱𐑕
𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑬𐑯𐑑 ·𐑧𐑑𐑕𐑦 𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑑𐑐𐑮𐑪𐑐, ·𐑚𐑿𐑜𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑑𐑱𐑒 𐑪𐑯 𐑮𐑱𐑕
𐑓𐑰𐑥𐑱𐑤 ·𐑒𐑻𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑟, 𐑰𐑟𐑦 𐑨𐑯𐑕𐑼𐑟, 𐑕𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑤 𐑢𐑹
𐑞 𐑣𐑴𐑤 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 𐑨𐑑 𐑘𐑹 𐑓𐑦𐑙𐑜𐑼𐑑𐑦𐑐𐑕, 𐑞 𐑴𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑨𐑑 𐑘𐑹 𐑛𐑹
𐑞 𐑤𐑲𐑝–𐑨𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯 ·𐑤𐑲𐑩𐑯 𐑒𐑦𐑙, 𐑞 ·𐑐𐑧𐑐𐑦 𐑣𐑭𐑓–𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑖𐑴
𐑑𐑢𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑦 𐑔𐑬𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑘𐑽𐑟 𐑝 𐑞𐑦𐑕, 𐑕𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑥𐑹 𐑑 𐑜𐑴
𐑒𐑸𐑐𐑵𐑤 𐑒𐑨𐑮𐑦𐑴𐑒𐑦, ·𐑕𐑑𐑰𐑝 𐑱𐑴𐑒𐑦, 𐑤𐑴𐑜𐑩𐑯 𐑐𐑷𐑤
𐑩 𐑜𐑦𐑓𐑑 𐑖𐑪𐑐 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑜𐑳𐑯 𐑮𐑱𐑯𐑡, 𐑩 𐑥𐑨𐑕 𐑖𐑵𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑥𐑷𐑤

The surgeon general's pop-up shop, Robert Iger's face
Discount Etsy agitprop, Bugles' take on race
Female Colonel Sanders, easy answers, civil war
The whole world at your fingertips, the ocean at your door
The live-action Lion King, the Pepsi Halftime Show
Twenty-thousand years of this; seven more to go
Carpool Karaoke, Steve Aoki, Logan Paul
A gift shop at the gun range, a mass shooting at the mall

𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙

There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling
There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling

𐑮𐑰𐑛𐑦𐑙 ·𐑐𐑹𐑯𐑣𐑳𐑚𐑟 𐑑𐑻𐑥𐑟 𐑝 𐑕𐑻𐑝𐑦𐑕, 𐑜𐑴𐑦𐑙 𐑓 𐑩 𐑛𐑮𐑲𐑝
𐑯 𐑴𐑚𐑱𐑦𐑙 𐑷𐑤 𐑞 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑓𐑦𐑒 𐑤𐑷𐑟 𐑦𐑯 ·𐑜𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑔𐑧𐑓𐑑 𐑷𐑑𐑴 𐑓𐑲𐑝
𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑩𐑜𐑹𐑩𐑓𐑴𐑚𐑦𐑒, 𐑤𐑵𐑟𐑦𐑙 𐑓𐑴𐑒𐑩𐑕, 𐑒𐑳𐑝𐑼 𐑚𐑤𐑴𐑯
𐑩 𐑚𐑫𐑒 𐑪𐑯 𐑜𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑚𐑧𐑑𐑼 𐑣𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑛𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑝𐑼𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑩 𐑛𐑮𐑴𐑯
𐑑𐑴𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑴𐑕𐑦𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯, 𐑓𐑫𐑤𐑦 𐑬𐑑 𐑘𐑹 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛
·𐑜𐑵𐑜𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑛𐑦𐑮𐑾𐑤𐑦𐑟𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯, 𐑣𐑱𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑿 𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑛
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑩𐑐𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑼 𐑺 𐑦𐑯 𐑻𐑤𐑦 𐑓𐑷𐑤
𐑞 𐑒𐑢𐑲𐑩𐑑 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑣𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑞 𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑦𐑑 𐑷𐑤

Reading Pornhub's terms of service, going for a drive
And obeying all the traffic laws in Grand Theft Auto V
Full agoraphobic, losing focus, cover blown
A book on getting better hand-delivered by a drone
Total disassociation, fully out your mind
Googling derealization, hating what you find
That unapparent summer air in early fall
The quiet comprehending of the ending of it all

𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑦𐑙

There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling
There it is again, that funny feeling
That funny feeling

𐑣𐑱 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑿 𐑕𐑱? 𐑢𐑰 𐑢𐑻 𐑴𐑝𐑼𐑛𐑵
𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑚𐑰 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑕𐑵𐑯, 𐑿 𐑢𐑱𐑑

Hey, what can you say? We were overdue
But it'll be over soon, you wait

𐑤𐑦𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑕 𐑝 «𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽» 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑥𐑬𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑯 𐑜𐑴𐑑𐑕 | lyrics of "This Year" by The Mountain Goats (2005)

𐑲 𐑚𐑮𐑴𐑒 𐑓𐑮𐑰 𐑪𐑯 𐑩 𐑕𐑨𐑑𐑼𐑛𐑱 𐑥𐑹𐑯𐑦𐑙
𐑲 𐑐𐑫𐑑 𐑞 𐑐𐑧𐑛𐑩𐑤 𐑑 𐑞 𐑓𐑤𐑹
𐑣𐑧𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑯𐑹𐑔 𐑪𐑯 ·𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑨𐑝𐑩𐑯𐑿
𐑯 𐑤𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑑 𐑞 𐑧𐑯𐑡𐑦𐑯 𐑮𐑹

I broke free on a Saturday morning
I put the pedal to the floor
Headed north on Mills Avenue
And listened to the engine roar

𐑥𐑲 𐑚𐑮𐑴𐑒𐑩𐑯 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑚𐑦𐑣𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑥𐑰 𐑯 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑩𐑣𐑧𐑛
𐑩 𐑜𐑻𐑤 𐑯𐑱𐑥𐑛 ·𐑒𐑨𐑔𐑦 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑩 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑝 𐑥𐑲 𐑑𐑲𐑥
𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑕 𐑕𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑟 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑯𐑰𐑔 𐑞 𐑣𐑫𐑛 𐑒𐑮𐑨𐑖𐑦𐑙 𐑯 𐑒𐑦𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑨𐑣𐑨𐑣𐑨! 𐑤𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑞 𐑧𐑯𐑡𐑦𐑯 𐑢𐑲𐑯

My broken house behind me and good things ahead
A girl named Cathy wants a little of my time
Six cylinders underneath the hood crashing and kicking
Aha! Listen to the engine whine

𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰
𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me
I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

𐑲 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑛 𐑝𐑦𐑛𐑦𐑴𐑜𐑱𐑥𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑛𐑮𐑳𐑙𐑒𐑩𐑯 𐑣𐑱𐑟
𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑕𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑰𐑯 𐑘𐑽𐑟 𐑘𐑳𐑙
𐑣𐑻𐑑 𐑥𐑲 𐑯𐑳𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑐𐑳𐑯𐑗𐑦𐑙 𐑞 𐑥𐑩𐑖𐑰𐑯𐑟
𐑞 𐑑𐑱𐑕𐑑 𐑝 𐑕𐑒𐑪𐑗 𐑮𐑦𐑗 𐑪𐑯 𐑥𐑲 𐑑𐑳𐑙

I played video games in a drunken haze
I was 17 years young
Hurt my knuckles punching the machines
The taste of Scotch rich on my tongue

𐑯 𐑞𐑧𐑯 ·𐑒𐑨𐑔𐑦 𐑖𐑴𐑛 𐑳𐑐 𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑣𐑳𐑙 𐑬𐑑
𐑑𐑮𐑱𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑕𐑢𐑦𐑜𐑟 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑩 𐑚𐑪𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑷𐑤 𐑚𐑦𐑑𐑼 𐑯 𐑒𐑤𐑰𐑯
𐑤𐑪𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑲𐑟, 𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑣𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑟,
𐑑𐑢𐑦𐑯 𐑣𐑲 𐑥𐑱𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑥𐑩𐑖𐑰𐑯𐑟

And then Cathy showed up and we hung out
Trading swigs from a bottle all bitter and clean
Locking eyes, holding hands
Twin high maintenance machines

𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰
𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me
I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

𐑲 𐑛𐑮𐑴𐑝 𐑣𐑴𐑥 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 ·𐑒𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑓𐑹𐑯𐑾 𐑛𐑳𐑕𐑒
𐑲 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑓𐑰𐑤 𐑞 𐑨𐑤𐑒𐑩𐑣𐑪𐑤 𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑝 𐑥𐑰 𐑣𐑳𐑥
𐑐𐑦𐑒𐑗𐑼𐑛 𐑞 𐑤𐑫𐑒 𐑪𐑯 𐑥𐑲 𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑐𐑓𐑭𐑞𐑼𐑟 𐑓𐑱𐑕
𐑮𐑧𐑛𐑦 𐑓 𐑞 𐑚𐑨𐑛 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑑 𐑒𐑳𐑥

I drove home in the California dusk
I could feel the alcohol inside of me hum
Pictured the look on my stepfather's face
Ready for the bad things to come

𐑲 𐑛𐑬𐑯𐑖𐑦𐑓𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑨𐑟 𐑲 𐑐𐑫𐑤𐑛 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑞 𐑛𐑮𐑲𐑝𐑢𐑱
𐑞 𐑥𐑴𐑑𐑼 𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑰𐑥𐑦𐑙 𐑬𐑑 𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑒 𐑦𐑯 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑜𐑽
𐑞 𐑕𐑰𐑯 𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑚𐑨𐑛𐑤𐑦 𐑨𐑟 𐑿 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑦𐑥𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑯
𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑒𐑨𐑝𐑩𐑤𐑒𐑱𐑛 𐑝 𐑨𐑙𐑜𐑼 𐑯 𐑓𐑽

I downshifted as I pulled into the driveway
The motor screaming out stuck in second gear
The scene ends badly as you might imagine
In a cavalcade of anger and fear

𐑞𐑺 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑚 𐑓𐑰𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑯 𐑛𐑨𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑯 ·𐑡𐑼𐑵𐑕𐑩𐑤𐑩𐑯 𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑑 𐑘𐑽

There will be feasting and dancing in Jerusalem next year

𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰
𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑜𐑪𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑘𐑽 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑦𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑰

I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me
I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me

𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑢𐑲𐑼𐑟 2.1 ‹𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑘𐑧𐑤𐑴 𐑛𐑹›, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑡𐑧𐑓𐑮𐑦 𐑒𐑮𐑱𐑯𐑼 𐑯 ·𐑡𐑨𐑯𐑰𐑯𐑩 𐑥𐑨𐑔𐑿𐑕𐑩𐑯 | Within the Wires 2.1 'House with Yellow Door', by Jeffrey Cranor and Janina Ma...

𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑖 𐑲 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑕𐑰 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑓 𐑥𐑲𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓. 𐑦𐑑 𐑕𐑰𐑥𐑛 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑕𐑴 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑹𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑑 ·𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛𐑾, 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑑𐑷𐑒𐑑 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑐𐑱𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑙.

I wish I could see this house for myself. It seemed to be so important to Claudia, when we talked about this painting.

𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑝 𐑒𐑹𐑕, 𐑞 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑛𐑳𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 i𐑜𐑟𐑦𐑕𐑑 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑥𐑹, 𐑹 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑛𐑳𐑟, 𐑦𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑛 𐑚𐑦𐑘𐑪𐑯𐑛 𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑜𐑯𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯. 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕 𐑞 𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑲𐑛𐑾 𐑝 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑚𐑮𐑴𐑒𐑩𐑯 𐑛𐑬𐑯, 𐑯 𐑮𐑰𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑑 𐑨𐑟 ·𐑞 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦, 𐑞𐑺 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑯𐑰𐑛 𐑓 𐑣𐑬𐑟𐑩𐑟 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑞𐑦𐑕 – 𐑣𐑬𐑟𐑩𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑲𐑚𐑛 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 ‹𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑣𐑴𐑥›.

But of course, the house does not exist anymore, or if it does, it has changed beyond recognition. Once the old idea of family was broken down and rebuilt as The Society, there was little need for houses like this - houses that once would have been described as a ‘family home.’

𐑞 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑦𐑟, 𐑝 𐑒𐑹𐑕, 𐑞 𐑣𐑬𐑕 ·𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑧𐑯𐑴 𐑜𐑮𐑵 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑯, 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑣𐑻 𐑥𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑯 𐑣𐑻 𐑑𐑵 𐑕𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑼𐑟. 𐑢𐑲𐑤 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑛𐑰𐑐𐑤𐑦 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑐𐑦𐑒𐑗𐑼, 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑷𐑤𐑕𐑴 ·𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑧𐑯𐑴𐑟 𐑓𐑻𐑕𐑑 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑮𐑦 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑕𐑒𐑱𐑐 𐑝 𐑬𐑼 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛. 𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑛𐑲𐑦𐑙 𐑛𐑱𐑟 𐑝 𐑞 ·𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑 𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑦𐑙, 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹 𐑞 ·𐑯𐑿 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑑, 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑮𐑵𐑤𐑟 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑒𐑴𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑲𐑛.

The house is, of course, the house Atieno grew up in, with her mother and her two sisters. While it is a deeply personal picture, it is also Atieno’s first commentary on the changing landscape of our world. She was born in the dying days of the Great Reckoning, before the new Society had been built, before its rules had been codified.

– 𐑒𐑬𐑯𐑑 𐑞 𐑢𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑴𐑟 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑣𐑬𐑕. 𐑣𐑬 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑛𐑵 𐑿 𐑕𐑰? 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑼𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑭𐑯𐑕𐑼. 𐑣𐑬 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑢𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑴𐑟 𐑛𐑵 𐑿 𐑯𐑰𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑘𐑹 𐑣𐑬𐑕? 𐑛𐑵 𐑿 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑴𐑯 𐑩 𐑣𐑬𐑕? 𐑣𐑬 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑚𐑧𐑛𐑮𐑵𐑥𐑟 𐑛𐑳𐑟 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑱𐑯? 𐑣𐑬 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑖𐑺 𐑩 𐑚𐑧𐑛? 𐑣𐑬 𐑛𐑳𐑟 𐑞 𐑲𐑛𐑾 𐑝 𐑩 𐑣𐑧𐑑𐑼𐑴𐑯𐑹𐑥𐑩𐑑𐑦𐑝 𐑯𐑿𐑒𐑤𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑿 𐑓𐑰𐑤? 𐑤𐑰𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑒𐑤𐑴𐑕𐑤𐑦 𐑑 𐑦𐑜𐑟𐑨𐑥𐑦𐑯 ·𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑧𐑯𐑴𐑟 𐑒𐑺𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑚𐑮𐑳𐑖 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑴𐑒𐑕 𐑩𐑤𐑪𐑙 𐑞 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑦𐑖–𐑚𐑮𐑬𐑯, 𐑢𐑫𐑛𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑲𐑛𐑦𐑙. 𐑛𐑵 𐑿 𐑓𐑰𐑤 𐑕𐑱𐑓𐑼 𐑣𐑨𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑕𐑰𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕?

Count the windows on the house. How many do you see? There is a correct answer. How many windows do you need on your house? Do you even own a house? How many bedrooms does this house contain? How many parents share a bed? How does the idea of a heteronormative nuclear family make you feel? Lean in closely to examine Atieno’s careful brush strokes along the grayish-brown, wooden siding. Do you feel safer having seen this?

·𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑧𐑯𐑴 𐑤𐑦𐑝𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑕𐑱𐑥 𐑣𐑬𐑕, 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑣𐑻 𐑚𐑲𐑩𐑤𐑪𐑡𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑐𐑺𐑩𐑯𐑑, 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑢𐑱 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑛𐑼𐑛 𐑯𐑹𐑥𐑩𐑤, 𐑯 𐑖𐑰 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑓𐑼𐑜𐑪𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑑 𐑣𐑻 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹 𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑑𐑧𐑯, 𐑞 𐑢𐑱 𐑷𐑤 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑓𐑼𐑜𐑧𐑑 𐑯𐑬𐑩𐑛𐑱𐑟. 𐑬𐑼 𐑒𐑳𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑨𐑙𐑜𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑐𐑱𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑸𐑒𐑦, 𐑥𐑱𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑸𐑒𐑦, 𐑯 𐑑𐑮𐑲𐑚𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑥 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 𐑒𐑰 𐑛𐑦𐑝𐑧𐑤𐑩𐑐𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑑𐑱𐑡𐑩𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑨𐑛𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑢𐑪𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑓𐑫𐑤𐑦 𐑦𐑯 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕 𐑳𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑤 ·𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛𐑾 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑔𐑻𐑑𐑰𐑯, 𐑕𐑴 𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑩 𐑤𐑧𐑕 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑕 𐑝𐑻𐑠𐑩𐑯. 𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑳𐑮𐑩𐑡𐑛 𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑰𐑕 𐑣𐑻𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 𐑲𐑛𐑦𐑪𐑤𐑪𐑡𐑦𐑟 𐑯 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑰𐑓𐑕 𐑝 𐑣𐑻 𐑥𐑳𐑞𐑼, 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑒𐑹𐑕𐑢𐑻𐑒 𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑑 𐑑𐑿𐑑𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑪𐑯 𐑯𐑪𐑯–𐑝𐑲𐑩𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑑, 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑘𐑫𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑜𐑮𐑴𐑔 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦𐑟 𐑜𐑮𐑴𐑦𐑙 𐑯𐑧𐑑𐑢𐑻𐑒 𐑝 𐑕𐑒𐑫𐑤𐑟. ·𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛𐑾 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑑 𐑓𐑼𐑜𐑧𐑑, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑕𐑻𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑻𐑡𐑛 𐑩𐑢𐑱 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑣𐑻 𐑓𐑩𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑾𐑤 𐑚𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑟.

Atieno lived in this small home, with her biological parent, in a way that once was considered normal, and she never forgot what happened to her before she was ten, the way all children forget nowadays. Our current system of disentangling patriarchy, matriarchy, and tribalism from the key developmental stages in adolescence wasn’t fully in place until Claudia was thirteen, so she was given a less-intense version. She was encouraged to release herself from the ideologies and beliefs of her mother, given coursework and private tutoring on nonviolent, communal growth through one of the Society’s growing network of schools. Claudia was not made to forget, but she was certainly urged away from her familial bonds.

‹𐑣𐑬𐑕 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑘𐑧𐑤𐑴 𐑛𐑹›, 𐑞𐑺𐑓𐑹, 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑢𐑰 𐑤𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑧𐑓𐑼𐑑𐑕 𐑑 𐑮𐑰𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑬𐑼𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟, 𐑨𐑟 𐑢𐑧𐑤 𐑨𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑩 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑤 𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑗𐑲𐑤𐑛𐑣𐑫𐑛.

'House with Yellow Door', therefore, is a comment on what we lost in our efforts to rebuild ourselves, as well as being a simple recollection of one person’s childhood.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑹, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑕𐑫𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑪𐑯𐑑𐑨𐑜 | from Illness as Metaphor, by Susan Sontag (1978)

𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑯𐑲𐑑–𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑝 𐑤𐑲𐑓, 𐑩 𐑥𐑹 𐑴𐑯𐑼𐑩𐑕 𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑖𐑦𐑐. 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑟 𐑛𐑿𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑖𐑦𐑐, 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑦𐑙𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑞 𐑢𐑧𐑤 𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑦𐑙𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑞 𐑕𐑦𐑒. 𐑷𐑤𐑞𐑴 𐑢𐑰 𐑷𐑤 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑻 𐑑 𐑿𐑟 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑞 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑐𐑨𐑕𐑐𐑹𐑑, 𐑕𐑵𐑯𐑼 𐑹 𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑼 𐑰𐑗 𐑝 𐑳𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑤𐑲𐑡𐑛, 𐑨𐑑 𐑤𐑰𐑕𐑑 𐑓 𐑩 𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑤, 𐑑 𐑲𐑛𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑓𐑲 𐑬𐑼𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑝 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕.

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.

𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑲𐑚 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑮𐑾𐑤𐑦 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑑 𐑧𐑥𐑦𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑 𐑑 𐑞 𐑒𐑦𐑙𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑞 𐑦𐑤 𐑯 𐑑 𐑤𐑦𐑝 𐑞𐑺, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞 𐑐𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑝 𐑹 𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑨𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑕𐑰𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑒𐑪𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑦𐑗𐑫𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯; 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑮𐑾𐑤 𐑡𐑪𐑜𐑮𐑩𐑓𐑦, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑮𐑦𐑴𐑑𐑲𐑐𐑕 𐑝 𐑯𐑨𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑒𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑒𐑑𐑼. 𐑥𐑲 𐑕𐑳𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑓𐑦𐑟𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑑𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞 𐑿𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 𐑓𐑦𐑜𐑼 𐑹 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑹. 𐑥𐑲 𐑐𐑶𐑯𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑹, 𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑑𐑮𐑵𐑔𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑢𐑱 𐑝 𐑮𐑦𐑜𐑸𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑤𐑯𐑩𐑕 – 𐑯 𐑞 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑔𐑦𐑩𐑕𐑑 𐑢𐑱 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑤 – 𐑦𐑟 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑐𐑘𐑫𐑼𐑦𐑓𐑲𐑛 𐑝, 𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑟𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑑, 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑪𐑮𐑦𐑒 𐑔𐑦𐑙𐑒𐑦𐑙. 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑣𐑸𐑛𐑤𐑦 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑑 𐑑𐑱𐑒 𐑳𐑐 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑟 𐑮𐑧𐑕𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑦𐑙𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑞 𐑦𐑤 𐑳𐑯𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑡𐑩𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑤𐑵𐑼𐑦𐑛 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑹𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑦𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑤𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑕𐑒𐑱𐑐𐑑. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑑𐑩𐑢𐑹𐑛𐑟 𐑨𐑯 𐑦𐑤𐑵𐑕𐑦𐑛𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑞𐑰𐑟 𐑥𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑓𐑹𐑟, 𐑥 𐑩 𐑤𐑦𐑚𐑼𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞𐑧𐑥, 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑲 𐑛𐑧𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑱𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑧𐑯𐑒𐑢𐑲𐑼𐑦.

I want to describe not what it’s really like to emigrate to the kingdom of the ill and to live there, but the punitive or sentimental fantasies concocted about that situation; not real geography but stereotypes of national character. My subject is not physical illness itself but the uses of illness as a figure or metaphor. My point is that illness is not a metaphor, and that the most truthful way of regarding illness—and the healthiest way of being ill —is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking. Yet it is hardly possible to take up one’s residence in the kingdom of the ill unprejudiced by the lurid metaphors with which it has been landscaped. It is toward an elucidation of those metaphors, and a liberation from them, that I dedicate this inquiry.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 ‹𐑩 𐑒𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑥𐑩𐑕 𐑒𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑤› 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑗𐑸𐑤𐑟 𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑦𐑯𐑟 | from 'A Christmas Carol' by Charles Dickens (1843)

"Humbug, I tell you! humbug!”

At this the spirit raised a frightful cry, and shook its chain with such a dismal and appalling noise, that Scrooge held on tight to his chair, to save himself from falling in a swoon. But how much greater was his horror, when the phantom taking off the bandage round its head, as if it were too warm to wear indoors, its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

Scrooge fell upon his knees, and clasped his hands before his face.

“Mercy!” he said. “Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?”

“Man of the worldly mind!” replied the Ghost, “do you believe in me or not?”

“I do,” said Scrooge. “I must. But why do spirits walk the earth, and why do they come to me?”

«𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑢𐑲𐑼𐑛 𐑝 𐑧𐑝𐑼𐑦 𐑥𐑨𐑯» 𐑞 ·𐑜𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑛, «𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑕𐑐𐑦𐑮𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑦𐑯 𐑣𐑦𐑥 𐑖𐑫𐑛 𐑢𐑷𐑒 𐑩𐑚𐑮𐑷𐑛 𐑩𐑥𐑳𐑙 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑓𐑧𐑤𐑴𐑥𐑧𐑯, 𐑯 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑝𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑸 𐑯 𐑢𐑲𐑛; 𐑯 𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑐𐑦𐑮𐑦𐑑 𐑜𐑴𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑓𐑹𐑔 𐑦𐑯 𐑤𐑲𐑓, 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑛𐑧𐑥𐑛 𐑑 𐑛𐑵 𐑕𐑴 𐑭𐑓𐑑𐑼 𐑛𐑧𐑔. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑛𐑵𐑥𐑛 𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 –– 𐑴, 𐑢𐑴 𐑦𐑟 𐑥𐑰! –– 𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑑𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑨𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑖𐑺, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑖𐑺𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑻𐑔, 𐑯 𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑛 𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕!»

“It is required of every man,” the Ghost returned, “that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellowmen, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. It is doomed to wander through the world—oh, woe is me!—and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned to happiness!”

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

“You are fettered,” said Scrooge, trembling. “Tell me why?”

“I wear the chain I forged in life,” replied the Ghost. “I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?”

𐑕𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑑𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑸𐑑 𐑩𐑟 𐑐𐑸𐑑 𐑝 ‹𐑒𐑦𐑛𐑟 𐑸 𐑛𐑲𐑦𐑙, ·𐑢𐑧𐑟› 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟 𐑒𐑦𐑛𐑟 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑻𐑝 𐑚𐑧𐑑𐑼.

Seasonal protest art as part of 'Kids are dying, Wes' by Trans Kids Deserve Better.

𐑩 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑦 𐑓 𐑕𐑼𐑝𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑤, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑷𐑛𐑮𐑦 𐑤𐑹𐑛 | A litany for survival, by Audre Lorde (1978)​

𐑓 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑝 𐑳𐑕 𐑣𐑵 𐑤𐑦𐑝 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑖𐑹𐑤𐑲𐑯
𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑳𐑐𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑧𐑡𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑠𐑩𐑯
𐑒𐑮𐑵𐑖𐑩𐑤 𐑯 𐑩𐑤𐑴𐑯
𐑓 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑝 𐑳𐑕 𐑣𐑵 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑳𐑤𐑡
𐑞 𐑐𐑨𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑛𐑮𐑰𐑥𐑟 𐑝 𐑗𐑶𐑕
𐑣𐑵 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑦𐑯 𐑛𐑹𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑦𐑙 𐑯 𐑜𐑴𐑦𐑙
𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑬𐑼𐑟 𐑚𐑦𐑑𐑢𐑰𐑯 𐑛𐑷𐑯𐑟
𐑤𐑫𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑯𐑢𐑼𐑛 𐑯 𐑬𐑑𐑢𐑼𐑛
𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕 𐑚𐑦𐑓𐑹 𐑯 𐑨𐑓𐑑𐑼
𐑕𐑰𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑩 𐑯𐑬 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑚𐑮𐑰𐑛
𐑓𐑿𐑗𐑼𐑟
𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑚𐑮𐑧𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑥𐑬𐑞𐑟
𐑕𐑴 𐑞𐑺 𐑛𐑮𐑰𐑥𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑑
𐑞 𐑛𐑧𐑔 𐑝 𐑬𐑼𐑟;

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;

𐑓 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑝 𐑳𐑕
𐑣𐑵 𐑢𐑻 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑓𐑽
𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑩 𐑓𐑱𐑯𐑑 𐑤𐑲𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑼 𐑝 𐑬𐑼 𐑓𐑹𐑣𐑧𐑛𐑟
𐑤𐑻𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑬𐑼 𐑥𐑳𐑞𐑼𐑟 𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑒
𐑓 𐑚𐑲 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑧𐑐𐑩𐑯
𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑦𐑤𐑵𐑠𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑕𐑱𐑓𐑑𐑦 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑓𐑬𐑯𐑛
𐑞 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑦–𐑓𐑫𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑣𐑴𐑐𐑑 𐑑 𐑕𐑲𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑳𐑕
𐑓 𐑷𐑤 𐑝 𐑳𐑕
𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑑𐑮𐑲𐑳𐑥𐑓
𐑢𐑰 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑕𐑼𐑝𐑲𐑝

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

𐑯 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑯 𐑮𐑲𐑟𐑩𐑟 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛
𐑦𐑑 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑱𐑯
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑯 𐑕𐑧𐑑𐑕 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛
𐑦𐑑 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑮𐑲𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑥𐑹𐑯𐑦𐑙
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑥𐑩𐑒𐑕 𐑸 𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛
𐑝 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑡𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑬𐑼 𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑥𐑩𐑒𐑕 𐑸 𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑑𐑦 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛
𐑢𐑰 𐑥𐑱 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑰𐑑 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑛 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑝𐑨𐑯𐑦𐑖
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑤𐑴𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑮𐑦𐑑𐑻𐑯
𐑯 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑕𐑐𐑰𐑒 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛 𐑬𐑼 𐑢𐑻𐑛𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑣𐑻𐑛 𐑯𐑹 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑛
𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑕𐑲𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑑
𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑤 𐑩𐑓𐑮𐑱𐑛

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

𐑕𐑴 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑧𐑑𐑼 𐑑 𐑕𐑐𐑰𐑒
𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑧𐑥𐑚𐑼𐑦𐑙
𐑢𐑰 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑕𐑼𐑝𐑲𐑝

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.

𐑚𐑲 ·𐑧𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑩𐑯 | by Emily Dickinson (1890)

𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴 –– 𐑞 𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛𐑟 𐑸 𐑥𐑰𐑯
𐑩 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑝𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑓𐑤𐑱𐑒 𐑝 𐑕𐑯𐑴
𐑩𐑒𐑮𐑪𐑕 𐑩 𐑚𐑸𐑯 𐑹 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑩 𐑮𐑳𐑑
𐑛𐑦𐑚𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑜𐑴 ––

The Sky is low — the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go —

𐑩 𐑯𐑩𐑮𐑴 𐑢𐑦𐑯𐑛 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑯𐑟 𐑷𐑤 𐑛𐑱
𐑣𐑬 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑑𐑮𐑰𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑣𐑦𐑥
𐑯𐑱𐑗𐑼, 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑳𐑕, 𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑑𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑒𐑹𐑑
𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑣𐑻 𐑛𐑲𐑩𐑛𐑧𐑥

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him
Nature, like Us, is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.

𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑕𐑒𐑲,
𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑕𐑩𐑮𐑰𐑯 𐑯 𐑓𐑺,
𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑕𐑳𐑯𐑖𐑲𐑯,
𐑞𐑴 𐑦𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑛𐑸𐑒𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑞𐑺;
𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑓𐑱𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑓𐑪𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑕, ·𐑪𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑯,
𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑕𐑲𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑛𐑟 –
𐑣𐑽 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑪𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑑,
𐑣𐑵𐑟 𐑤𐑰𐑓 𐑦𐑟 𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑜𐑮𐑰𐑯;
𐑣𐑽 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑚𐑮𐑲𐑑𐑼 𐑜𐑸𐑛𐑩𐑯,
𐑢𐑺 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑣𐑩𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯;
𐑦𐑯 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑳𐑯𐑓𐑱𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑓𐑤𐑬𐑼𐑟
𐑲 𐑣𐑽 𐑞 𐑚𐑮𐑲𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑣𐑳𐑥:
𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑞𐑰, 𐑥𐑲 𐑚𐑮𐑳𐑞𐑼,
𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑥𐑲 𐑜𐑸𐑛𐑩𐑯 𐑒𐑳𐑥!

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

𐑤𐑦𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑕 𐑝 𐑴𐑚𐑳𐑛𐑽, 𐑚𐑲 𐑐𐑘𐑫𐑼𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑮𐑦𐑙 | Lyrics of Obedear, by Purity Ring (2012)

𐑲 𐑒𐑱𐑥 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑞 𐑕𐑤𐑰𐑐𐑦 𐑥𐑬𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑢𐑺 𐑬𐑼
𐑢𐑲𐑛 𐑛𐑴𐑟 𐑐𐑤𐑳𐑯𐑡𐑛 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑞 𐑢𐑰𐑐𐑦𐑙 𐑖𐑱𐑤 𐑑 𐑑𐑺 𐑬𐑼
𐑕𐑒𐑦𐑯 𐑳𐑐 𐑪𐑓 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 𐑚𐑪𐑑𐑩𐑥 𐑤𐑰𐑝𐑟 𐑬𐑼 𐑨𐑯𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑚𐑺
𐑛𐑴𐑯𐑑 𐑘𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑚𐑩𐑒 𐑯 𐑓𐑹𐑔 𐑯 𐑤𐑰𐑝 𐑦𐑑

I came down over the sleeping mountains where our
Wide toes plunged into the weeping shale to tear our
Skin up off from the bottom leaves our ankles bare
Don't just wander back and forth and leave it

𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑯 𐑖𐑮𐑲𐑯𐑟 𐑝 𐑕𐑳𐑥
𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑜𐑩𐑕𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑛𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑝 𐑥𐑲𐑯 𐑿𐑤 𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑛
𐑒𐑰𐑝𐑟 𐑳𐑕 𐑐𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑𐑼𐑛 𐑑𐑵 𐑩 𐑚𐑧𐑛 𐑪𐑓 𐑣𐑺𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑞
𐑥𐑰 𐑷𐑤 𐑗𐑶𐑤𐑛 𐑳𐑐 𐑯𐑽 𐑞 𐑚𐑪𐑑𐑩𐑥 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑥𐑲 𐑗𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑚𐑺𐑛

Build it into pinnacles and shrines of some
Some ghastly predicament of mine you'll find
Leaves us plastered to a bed of hairs with
Me all coiled up near the bottom with my chest un-bared

𐑴𐑚𐑳(𐑑)𐑛𐑽 𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴
𐑜𐑨𐑞𐑼 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑣𐑸𐑥 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑷𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑔 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑸𐑥𐑟
𐑴𐑚𐑳(𐑑)𐑛𐑽 𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴
𐑜𐑨𐑞𐑼 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑣𐑸𐑥 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑷𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑔 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑸𐑥𐑟

Obedear [oh but dear] the sky is low
Gather up it's harm in gauze with grateful arms
Obedear [oh but dear] the sky is low
Gather up it's harm in gauze with grateful arms

𐑴𐑚𐑳(𐑑)𐑛𐑽 𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴 𐑢𐑪𐑗
𐑓𐑤𐑵𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑱𐑤𐑼𐑟 𐑮𐑦𐑜 𐑞𐑺 𐑮𐑳𐑛𐑼𐑟 𐑕𐑴 𐑞𐑱𐑤
𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑟 𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞𐑺 𐑢𐑦𐑯𐑛 𐑨𐑮𐑴𐑟
𐑑𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑓𐑨𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑–𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑱 𐑚𐑮𐑳𐑖 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑴–𐑤𐑴

Oh but dear the sky is low watch
Fluent sea men rig their rudders so they'll
Graze it with their wind arrows
Tis in the fathoms that-that they brush below-low

𐑴 𐑥𐑲 𐑛𐑮𐑰𐑥𐑟 𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑑 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑑 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑑
𐑴 𐑥𐑲 𐑮𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑪𐑥 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛 𐑪𐑯

Oh my dreams come back to me, back to me, back to...
Oh my wrinkles build on me, build on me, build on...

𐑴𐑚𐑳(𐑑)𐑛𐑽 𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴
𐑜𐑨𐑞𐑼 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑣𐑸𐑥 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑷𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑔 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑸𐑥𐑟
𐑴𐑚𐑳(𐑑)𐑛𐑽 𐑞 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑟 𐑤𐑴
𐑜𐑨𐑞𐑼 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑣𐑸𐑥 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑷𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑔 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑸𐑥𐑟

Obedear [oh but dear] the sky is low
Gather up it's harm in gauze with grateful arms
Obedear [oh but dear] the sky is low
Gather up it's harm in gauze with grateful arms

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 '𐑥𐑲 𐑢𐑻𐑛𐑟 𐑑 ·𐑝𐑦𐑒𐑼 𐑓𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑲𐑯', 𐑚𐑲 𐑕𐑵𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑑𐑲𐑒𐑼 | From 'My words to Victor Frankenstein' by Susan Stryker (1994)

𐑲 𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑼 𐑞 𐑮𐑧𐑤𐑥 𐑝 𐑥𐑲 𐑛𐑮𐑰𐑥𐑟. 𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼, 𐑕𐑢𐑦𐑥𐑦𐑙 𐑳𐑐𐑢𐑼𐑛𐑟. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑛𐑸𐑒. 𐑲 𐑕𐑰 𐑩 𐑖𐑦𐑥𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑩𐑚𐑳𐑝 𐑥𐑰. 𐑲 𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑒 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑞 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼𐑟 𐑕𐑻𐑓𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑥𐑲 𐑤𐑳𐑙𐑜𐑟 𐑚𐑻𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑙. 𐑲 𐑕𐑳𐑒 𐑓 𐑺 – 𐑯 𐑓𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑥𐑹 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼. 𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑯 𐑬𐑑 𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑕𐑳𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑦𐑑. 𐑢𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑲 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑛𐑧𐑛 𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑴 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑚𐑦𐑑𐑢𐑰𐑯 𐑥𐑰 𐑯 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑦𐑯? 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑯𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑕𐑻𐑓𐑦𐑕 𐑩𐑚𐑳𐑝 𐑥𐑰 𐑯 𐑲 𐑕𐑢𐑦𐑥 𐑓𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑑𐑩𐑢𐑹𐑛𐑟 𐑦𐑑. 𐑲 𐑕𐑰 𐑩 𐑖𐑦𐑥𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑲𐑑. 𐑲 𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑒 𐑞 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼𐑟 𐑕𐑻𐑓𐑦𐑕 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑯 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯. 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼 𐑩𐑯𐑲𐑩𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑥𐑰. 𐑲 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑚𐑰, 𐑯 𐑭𐑧𐑑 – 𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑵𐑖𐑦𐑱𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦 – 𐑲 𐑨𐑥. 𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑛𐑵 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑣𐑽.

I enter the realm of my dreams. I am underwater, swimming upwards. It is dark. I see a shimmering light above me. I break through the plane of the water’s surface with my lungs bursting. I suck for air – and find only more water. My lungs are full of water. Inside and out I am surrounded by it. Why am I not dead if there is no difference between me and what I am in? There is another surface above me and I swim frantically towards it. I see a shimmering light. I break the plane of the water’s surface over and over and over again. This water annihilates me. I cannot be, and yet – an excruciating impossibility – I am. I will do anything not to be here.

𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑕𐑢𐑦𐑥 𐑓𐑼𐑧𐑝𐑼.
𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑛𐑲 𐑓 𐑦𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦.
𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑤𐑻𐑯 𐑑 𐑚𐑮𐑰𐑞 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼.
𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑞 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼.
𐑦𐑓 𐑲 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡 𐑥𐑲 𐑕𐑦𐑗𐑫𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡 𐑥𐑲𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓.

I will swim forever.
I will die for eternity.
I will learn to breathe water.
I will become the water.
If I cannot change my situation I will change myself.

𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑨𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑥𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑓𐑼𐑥𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯.
𐑲 𐑮𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑲𐑟 𐑥𐑲𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑓 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯.

In this act of magical transformation
I recognize myself again.

𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑜𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑯 𐑚𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑥𐑵𐑝𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑.
𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑩 𐑓𐑿𐑮𐑾𐑕 𐑓𐑤𐑴.
𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞 𐑛𐑸𐑒𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑯 𐑞 𐑢𐑧𐑑.

I am groundless and boundless movement. I am a furious flow. I am one with the darkness and the wet.

𐑯 𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑧𐑯𐑮𐑱𐑡𐑛.

And I am enraged.

𐑣𐑽 𐑨𐑑 𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑒𐑱𐑪𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑲 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑛 𐑨𐑑 𐑚𐑱.
𐑞𐑽 𐑨𐑑 𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑥𐑲 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑧𐑙𐑔.
𐑲 𐑨𐑥 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑞 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼 –
𐑲 𐑩𐑥 𐑞 𐑢𐑱𐑝,
𐑯 𐑮𐑱𐑡
𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑓𐑹𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑥𐑵𐑝𐑟 𐑥𐑰.

Here at last is the chaos I held at bay.
Here at last is my strength.
I am not the water-
I am the wave,
and rage
is the force that moves me.

𐑮𐑱𐑡
𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑟 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑥𐑲 𐑚𐑪𐑛𐑦
𐑨𐑟 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑴𐑯 𐑓𐑤𐑵𐑦𐑛 𐑥𐑰𐑛𐑾𐑥.

Rage
gives me back my body
as its own fluid medium.

𐑮𐑱𐑡
𐑐𐑳𐑯𐑗𐑩𐑟 𐑩 𐑣𐑴𐑤 𐑦𐑯 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼
𐑩𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑲 𐑒𐑴𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑕
𐑑 𐑩𐑤𐑴 𐑞 𐑓𐑤𐑴 𐑑 𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑔𐑮𐑵 𐑥𐑰

Rage
punches a hole in water
around which I coalesce
to allow the flow to come through me.

𐑮𐑱𐑡

𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑑𐑿𐑑𐑕 𐑥𐑰 𐑦𐑯 𐑥𐑲 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑥𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑹𐑥.

𐑦𐑑 𐑔𐑮𐑴𐑟 𐑥𐑲 𐑣𐑧𐑛 𐑚𐑨𐑒

𐑐𐑫𐑤𐑟 𐑥𐑲 𐑤𐑦𐑐𐑕 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑲 𐑑𐑰𐑔

𐑴𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑥𐑲 𐑔𐑮𐑴𐑑

𐑯 𐑮𐑽𐑟 𐑥𐑰 𐑳𐑐 𐑑 𐑣𐑬𐑤:

𐑯 𐑯𐑴 𐑕𐑬𐑯𐑛
𐑛𐑲𐑤𐑵𐑑𐑕
𐑞 𐑐𐑘𐑫𐑼 𐑶𐑢𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑝 𐑥𐑲 𐑮𐑱𐑡

Rage
constitutes me in my primal form
It throws my head back
pulls my lips back over my teeth
opens my throat
and rears me up to howl:
: and no sound
dilutes
the pure quality of my rage.

𐑯𐑴 𐑕𐑬𐑯𐑛
𐑧𐑜𐑟𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑕
𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑤𐑨𐑙𐑜𐑢𐑦𐑡
𐑥𐑲 𐑮𐑱𐑡 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑕𐑲𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑮𐑱𐑝𐑦𐑙

No sound
exists
in this place without language
my rage
is a silent raving

𐑮𐑱𐑡
𐑔𐑮𐑴𐑟 𐑥𐑰 𐑚𐑨𐑒 𐑨𐑑 𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑
𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑥𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑱𐑯 𐑮𐑦𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦
𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑕𐑓𐑦𐑜𐑼𐑛 𐑓𐑤𐑧𐑖
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑯𐑟 𐑥𐑰 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞 𐑐𐑬𐑼 𐑝 𐑥𐑲 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙

Rage
throws me back at last
into this mundane reality
in this transfigured flesh
that aligns me with the power
of my Being

𐑦𐑯 𐑚𐑻𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑥𐑲 𐑮𐑱𐑡
𐑥𐑲 𐑮𐑱𐑡 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑮𐑰𐑚𐑻𐑔𐑑 𐑥𐑰.

In birthing my rage,
my rage has rebirthed me

𐑚𐑲 𐑢𐑦𐑤𐑾𐑥 𐑢𐑻𐑛𐑟𐑢𐑻𐑔 | by William Wordsworth (1802)

𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑛 𐑤𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛
𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑓𐑤𐑴𐑑𐑕 𐑪𐑯 𐑣𐑲 𐑴’𐑼 𐑝𐑱𐑤𐑟 𐑯 𐑣𐑦𐑤𐑟,
𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑷𐑤 𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑕 𐑲 𐑕𐑷 𐑩 𐑒𐑮𐑬𐑛,
𐑨 𐑣𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑝 𐑜𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑩𐑯 𐑛𐑨𐑓𐑩𐑛𐑦𐑤𐑟;
𐑚𐑦𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑞 𐑤𐑱𐑒, 𐑚𐑦𐑯𐑰𐑔 𐑞 𐑑𐑮𐑰𐑟,
𐑓𐑤𐑳𐑑𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑯 𐑛𐑭𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑚𐑮𐑰𐑟

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑘𐑫𐑩𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑞 𐑕𐑑𐑸𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑖𐑲𐑯
𐑯 𐑑𐑢𐑦𐑙𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 𐑥𐑦𐑤𐑒𐑦 𐑢𐑱,
𐑞𐑱 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑧𐑗𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼–𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑲𐑯
𐑩𐑤𐑪𐑙 𐑞 𐑥𐑸𐑗𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑞 𐑚𐑱;
𐑑𐑧𐑯–𐑔𐑬𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑛 𐑕𐑷 𐑲 𐑨𐑑 𐑩 𐑜𐑤𐑭𐑯𐑕
𐑑𐑪𐑕𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑺 𐑣𐑧𐑛𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑭𐑯𐑕

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

𐑞 𐑢𐑱𐑝𐑟 𐑚𐑦𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑛𐑭𐑯𐑕𐑑; 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞𐑱
𐑬𐑑𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑞 𐑕𐑐𐑸𐑒𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑱𐑝𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑤𐑰:
𐑩 𐑐𐑴𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑜𐑱,
𐑦𐑯 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑩 𐑡𐑴𐑒𐑳𐑯𐑛 𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑦:
𐑲 𐑜𐑱𐑟𐑛 – 𐑯 𐑜𐑱𐑟𐑛 – 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑔𐑷𐑑
𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑔 𐑞 𐑖𐑴 𐑑 𐑥𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑚𐑮𐑷𐑑

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

𐑓 𐑪𐑓𐑑, 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑪𐑯 𐑥𐑲 𐑒𐑬𐑗 𐑲 𐑤𐑲
𐑦𐑯 𐑝𐑱𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑹 𐑦𐑯 𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑝 𐑥𐑵𐑛,
𐑞𐑱 𐑓𐑤𐑨𐑖 𐑳𐑐𐑪𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑯𐑢𐑸𐑛 𐑲
𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑚𐑤𐑦𐑕 𐑝 𐑕𐑪𐑤𐑦𐑗𐑵𐑛;
𐑯 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑥𐑲 𐑣𐑸𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑐𐑤𐑧𐑠𐑼 𐑓𐑦𐑤𐑟
𐑯 𐑛𐑭𐑯𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞 𐑛𐑨𐑓𐑩𐑛𐑦𐑤𐑟

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑥𐑩𐑑𐑽𐑦𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟: 𐑑𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑟* / 𐑥𐑨𐑑𐑼 / 𐑮𐑦𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦​ 𐑯 𐑒𐑢𐑽 𐑐𐑩𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑥𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑙𐑟, 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑒𐑨𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑚𐑼𐑨𐑛 | Transmaterialities: Trans*/Matter/realities and Queer Poli...

𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑮𐑰𐑗𐑦𐑙 𐑑𐑩𐑢𐑹𐑛, 𐑩𐑯 𐑸𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑡𐑳𐑯𐑒𐑗𐑼, 𐑩 𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑲𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑐𐑪𐑯𐑕 𐑑 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑛 𐑘𐑻𐑯𐑦𐑙𐑟.

𐑩 𐑛𐑸𐑒 𐑕𐑒𐑲. 𐑛𐑰𐑐 𐑛𐑭𐑒𐑯𐑕, 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑩 𐑜𐑤𐑦𐑯𐑼 𐑝 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑑 𐑕𐑧𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑞 𐑲. 𐑬𐑑 𐑝 𐑞 𐑚𐑤𐑵, 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑿𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑒𐑧𐑗𐑩𐑟 𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑤𐑦𐑒𐑢𐑦𐑛 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑩𐑐𐑽 / 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑐𐑽 𐑓𐑨𐑕𐑑𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑞 𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑲 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑑𐑧𐑒𐑑. 𐑓𐑤𐑨𐑖𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑐𐑩𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑖𐑩𐑤, 𐑣𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑝 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑤𐑲𐑯𐑟 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑯𐑬 𐑯 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯. 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑲𐑼 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑟, 𐑩𐑟 𐑞 𐑺 𐑒𐑮𐑨𐑒𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑨𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑐𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯. 𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑚𐑴𐑤𐑑𐑕 𐑸 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑝 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑗𐑸𐑡𐑛 𐑘𐑻𐑯𐑦𐑙𐑟. 𐑚𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑗𐑦𐑙 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑤𐑴𐑠𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑝 𐑐𐑮𐑩𐑤𐑪𐑙𐑛 𐑤𐑪𐑙𐑦𐑙, 𐑚𐑺𐑤𐑦 𐑝𐑦𐑟𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑦𐑤𐑩𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑼𐑦 𐑡𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑼𐑟, 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑡𐑶𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑑𐑦𐑝 𐑤𐑵𐑥𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑛𐑵𐑛𐑤𐑦𐑙𐑟 – 𐑰𐑗 𐑓𐑱𐑯𐑑 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑲𐑑𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑛𐑦𐑟𐑲𐑮𐑦𐑙 𐑓𐑰𐑤𐑛 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑯 𐑕𐑳𐑡𐑧𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑝 𐑦𐑙𐑒𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑞 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑖𐑴 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑑 𐑒𐑳𐑥. 𐑯𐑴 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑿𐑩𐑕 𐑐𐑨𐑔 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑑 𐑜𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑕𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑕𐑓𐑲 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑢𐑲𐑤𐑛 𐑦𐑥𐑨𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑙𐑟, 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑕 𐑪𐑯 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑑, 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑦𐑙 𐑨𐑑 𐑷𐑤 𐑥𐑨𐑑𐑼 𐑝 𐑧𐑮𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑝𐑻𐑗𐑫𐑩𐑤 𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑤𐑼𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑛𐑲𐑝𐑻𐑕 𐑓𐑹𐑥𐑟 𐑝 𐑒𐑳𐑐𐑤𐑦𐑙 𐑥 𐑛𐑦𐑕 / 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑩𐑤𐑲𐑩𐑯𐑕. 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯𐑕𐑑 𐑩 𐑛𐑸𐑒 𐑕𐑒𐑲 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑦𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑑 𐑒𐑨𐑗 𐑜𐑤𐑦𐑥𐑼𐑟 𐑝 𐑞 𐑢𐑲𐑤𐑛 𐑧𐑯𐑼𐑡𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑒𐑕 𐑝 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑑𐑻𐑥𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑩𐑒𐑖𐑩𐑯.

Lightning is a reaching toward, an arcing dis/juncture, a striking response to charged yearnings.

A dark sky. Deep darkness, without a glimmer of light to settle the eye. Out of the blue, tenuous electrical sketches scribbled with liquid light appear/disappear faster than the human eye can detect. Flashes of potential, hints of possible lines of connection alight now and again. Desire builds, as the air crackles with anticipation. Lightning bolts are born of such charged yearnings. Branching expressions of prolonged longing, barely visible filamentary gestures, disjointed tentative luminous doodlings — each faint excitation of this desiring field is a contingent and suggestive inkling of the light show yet to come. No continuous path from sky to ground can satisfy its wild imaginings, its insistence on experimenting with different possible ways to connect, playing at all matter of errant wanderings in a virtual exploration of diverse forms of coupling and dis/connected alliance. Against a dark sky it is possible to catch glimmers of the wild energetics of indeterminacies in action.

«𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑» 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑟𐑴𐑦 𐑤𐑧𐑯𐑼𐑛 | "I want a president", by Zoe Leonard (1992)

𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑛𐑲𐑒 𐑓 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 ⸰𐑱𐑛𐑟 𐑓 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑. 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑓𐑨𐑜 𐑓 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑯𐑴 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑔 𐑦𐑯𐑖𐑫𐑼𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑜𐑮𐑵 𐑳𐑐 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕 𐑕𐑴 𐑕𐑨𐑗𐑼𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑑𐑪𐑒𐑕𐑦𐑒 𐑢𐑱𐑕𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑱 𐑛𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑜𐑧𐑑 𐑩 𐑗𐑶𐑕 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑜𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑵𐑒𐑰𐑥𐑾. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑩𐑯 𐑨𐑚𐑹𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑑𐑰𐑯 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑒𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑑 𐑣𐑵 𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑞 𐑤𐑧𐑕𐑼 𐑝 𐑑𐑵 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑣𐑵 𐑤𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑤𐑨𐑕𐑑 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑼 𐑑 ⸰𐑱𐑛𐑟, 𐑣𐑵 𐑕𐑰𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑱𐑟 𐑧𐑝𐑼𐑦 𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑞𐑱 𐑤𐑱 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑑 𐑮𐑧𐑕𐑑, 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑛 𐑞𐑺 𐑤𐑳𐑝𐑼 𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑸𐑥𐑟 𐑯 𐑯𐑿 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑛𐑲𐑦𐑙. 𐑼 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑑𐑫𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑤𐑲𐑯 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑒𐑤𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑒, 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 ⸰𐑛𐑰𐑧𐑥𐑝𐑰, 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑓𐑺 𐑪𐑓𐑦𐑕, 𐑯 𐑣𐑩𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑳𐑯𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑶𐑛 𐑯 𐑤𐑱𐑛 𐑪𐑓 𐑯 𐑕𐑧𐑒𐑖𐑫𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑣𐑼𐑨𐑕𐑑 𐑯 𐑜𐑱𐑚𐑨𐑖𐑑 𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑹𐑑𐑩𐑛. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑞 𐑯𐑲𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑑𐑵𐑥𐑟 𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑩 𐑒𐑮𐑪𐑕 𐑚𐑻𐑯𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑤𐑷𐑯 𐑯 𐑕𐑼𐑝𐑲𐑝𐑛 𐑮𐑱𐑐. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑩𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑯 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑣𐑻𐑑, 𐑣𐑵 𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑕 𐑕𐑱𐑒𐑕, 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑱𐑛 𐑥𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑱𐑒𐑟 𐑯 𐑤𐑻𐑯𐑛 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞𐑧𐑥. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑚𐑤𐑨𐑒 𐑢𐑫𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑓 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑚𐑨𐑛 𐑛𐑰𐑔 (𐑯 𐑩𐑯 𐑨𐑑𐑦𐑑𐑵𐑛), 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑰𐑑𐑩𐑯 (𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑯𐑨𐑕𐑑𐑦) 𐑣𐑪𐑕𐑐𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑵𐑛, 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑒𐑮𐑪𐑕𐑛𐑮𐑧𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑛𐑳𐑯 𐑛𐑮𐑳𐑜𐑟 𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑔𐑧𐑮𐑩𐑐𐑦. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑕𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑤 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑴𐑚𐑰𐑛𐑾𐑯𐑕. 𐑯 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑲 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑢𐑺 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑔 𐑤𐑲𐑯 𐑢𐑰 𐑕𐑑𐑭𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑤𐑻𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑩 𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑟𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑯: 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑩 𐑡𐑪𐑯 𐑯 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑩 𐑣𐑫𐑒𐑼. 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑩 𐑚𐑪𐑕 𐑯 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑩 𐑢𐑻𐑒𐑼, 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑩 𐑤𐑲𐑼, 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑩 𐑔𐑰𐑓, 𐑯 𐑯𐑧𐑝𐑼 𐑒𐑷𐑑.

I want a dyke for president. I want a person with AIDS for president and I want a fag for vice president and I want someone with no health insurance and I want someone who grew up in a place where the earth is so saturated with toxic waste that they didn’t have a choice about getting leukemia. I want a president that had an abortion at sixteen and I want a candidate who isn’t the lesser of two evils and I want a president who lost their last lover to AIDS, who still sees that in their eyes every time they lay down to rest, who held their lover in their arms and knew they were dying. I want a president with no air-conditioning, a president who has stood in line at the clinic, at the DMV, at the welfare office, and has been unemployed and laid off and sexually harassed and gaybashed and deported. I want someone who has spent the night in the tombs and had a cross burned on their lawn and survived rape. I want someone who has been in love and been hurt, who respects sex, who has made mistakes and learned from them. I want a Black woman for president. I want someone with bad teeth and an attitude, someone who has eaten that nasty hospital food, someone who crossdresses and has done drugs and been in therapy. I want someone who has committed civil disobedience. And I want to know why this isn’t possible. I want to know why we started learning somewhere down the line that a president is always a clown. Always a john and never a hooker. Always a boss and never a worker. Always a liar, always a thief, and never caught.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 «𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦 𐑪𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑕» 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑕𐑺𐑩 𐑭𐑥𐑧𐑛 | from "Happy Objects" by Sarah Ahmed (2010)

𐑲 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩𐑕𐑿𐑥 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑒𐑷𐑤𐑛 𐑨𐑓𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑩𐑐𐑸𐑑 𐑹 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑷𐑑𐑪𐑯𐑩𐑥𐑦, 𐑨𐑟 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑪𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑐𐑪𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑑 𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑤𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛, 𐑹 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑒𐑷𐑤𐑛 𐑨𐑓𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑚𐑰 𐑖𐑺𐑛 𐑨𐑟 𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑚𐑡𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑛𐑦. 𐑦𐑯𐑕𐑑𐑧𐑛, 𐑲 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑦𐑜𐑦𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑞 𐑥𐑧𐑕𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑝 𐑞 𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑽𐑦𐑧𐑯𐑖𐑩𐑤, 𐑞 𐑳𐑯𐑓𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑚𐑪𐑛𐑰𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛𐑟, 𐑯 𐑞 𐑛𐑮𐑭𐑥𐑩 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦, 𐑣𐑬 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑑𐑳𐑗𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑢𐑰 𐑸 𐑯𐑽. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑿𐑕𐑓𐑫𐑤 𐑑 𐑯𐑴𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑥𐑪𐑤𐑩𐑡𐑦 𐑝 ‹𐑣𐑩𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕› 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑲𐑕𐑤𐑦 𐑑 𐑞 𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦; 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑞 ·𐑥𐑦𐑛𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑙𐑜𐑤𐑦𐑖 ‹𐑣𐑨𐑐›, 𐑕𐑳𐑡𐑧𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑙 𐑗𐑭𐑯𐑕. 𐑞 𐑩𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑥𐑰𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑟𐑻𐑝𐑟 𐑞 𐑐𐑩𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑖𐑩𐑤 𐑝 𐑞𐑦𐑕 ‹𐑣𐑨𐑐› 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑹 𐑚𐑨𐑛. 𐑞 ‹𐑣𐑨𐑐› 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑜𐑧𐑑𐑕 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑵 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑜𐑫𐑛. 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑮𐑦𐑤𐑱𐑑𐑕 𐑑 𐑞 𐑲𐑛𐑾 𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑤𐑳𐑒𐑦, 𐑹 𐑓𐑱𐑝𐑼𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑓𐑹𐑗𐑩𐑯, 𐑹 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑓𐑹𐑗𐑩𐑯𐑩𐑑. 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑱𐑯𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦 𐑝 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑟, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑕 ‹𐑢𐑪𐑑› 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑳𐑥𐑟 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑞𐑦𐑙 𐑜𐑫𐑛. 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑥𐑰𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑥𐑱 𐑯𐑬 𐑚𐑰 𐑸𐑒𐑱𐑦𐑒: 𐑢𐑰 𐑥𐑱 𐑚𐑰 𐑥𐑹 𐑿𐑟𐑛 𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑙𐑒𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑩𐑯 𐑦𐑓𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑿 𐑛𐑵, 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 𐑮𐑦𐑢𐑹𐑛 𐑓 𐑣𐑸𐑛 𐑢𐑻𐑒, 𐑮𐑭𐑞𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑦 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑑 𐑿. 𐑦𐑯𐑛𐑰𐑛, ·𐑥𐑦𐑣𐑲 𐑗𐑰𐑒𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑥𐑦𐑣𐑲 (Mihály Csíkszentmihályi) 𐑸𐑜𐑿𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 «𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑟. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑦𐑟𐑳𐑤𐑑 𐑝 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑓𐑹𐑗𐑵𐑯 𐑹 𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑗𐑶𐑕, 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑥𐑳𐑯𐑦 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑚𐑲 𐑹 𐑐𐑬𐑼 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑭𐑯𐑛. 𐑦𐑑 𐑛𐑳𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑬𐑑𐑕𐑲𐑛 𐑦𐑝𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑕, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑮𐑭𐑞𐑼 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑣𐑬 𐑢𐑰 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑻𐑐𐑮𐑩𐑑 𐑞𐑧𐑥. 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑧𐑕, 𐑦𐑯 𐑓𐑨𐑒𐑑, 𐑦𐑟 𐑩 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑥𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑺 𐑓𐑹, 𐑒𐑳𐑤𐑑𐑦𐑝𐑱𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑯 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑝𐑩𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑚𐑲 𐑰𐑗 𐑐𐑻𐑕𐑩𐑯.» 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑩 𐑢𐑱 𐑝 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑒𐑳𐑛 𐑚𐑰 𐑮𐑧𐑛 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 𐑛𐑦𐑓𐑧𐑯𐑕 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯𐑕𐑑 𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑡𐑧𐑯𐑕𐑦. 𐑲 𐑢𐑪𐑯𐑑 𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑑𐑻𐑯 𐑑 𐑞 𐑩𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑤 𐑥𐑰𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑩𐑟 𐑦𐑑 𐑮𐑰𐑓𐑴𐑒𐑳𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑬𐑼 𐑩𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑪𐑯 𐑞 «𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛𐑤𐑦» 𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑕𐑗𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑦𐑙𐑟

I do not assume there is something called affect that stands apart or has autonomy, as if it corresponds to an object in the world, or even that there is something called affect that can be shared as an object of study. Instead, I would begin with the messiness of the experiential, the unfolding of bodies into worlds, and the drama of contingency, how we are touched by what we are near. It is useful to note that the etymology of "happiness" relates precisely to the question of contingency: it is from the Middle English "h a p ," suggesting chance. The original meaning of happiness preserves the potential of this "hap" to be good or bad. The hap of happiness then gets translated into something good. Happiness relates to the idea of being lucky, or favored by fortune, or being fortunate. Happiness remains about the contingency of what happens, but this "what" becomes something good. Even this meaning may now seem archaic: we may be more used to thinking of happiness as an effect of what you do, as a reward for hard work, rather than as being "simply" what happens to you. Indeed, Mihály Csíkszentmihályi argues that "happiness is not something that happens. It is not the result of good fortune or random choice, it is not something that money can buy or power command. It does not depend on outside events, but, rather on how we interpret them. Happiness, in fact is a condition that must be prepared for, cultivated and defended privately by each person" (1992, 2). Such a way of understanding happiness could be read as a defense against its contingency. I want to return to the original meaning of happiness as it refocuses our attention on the "worldly" question of happenings.

​𐑚𐑲 ·𐑤𐑷𐑛 𐑚𐑲𐑮𐑩𐑯 | by Lord Byron (1832)

𐑖𐑰 𐑢𐑷𐑒𐑕 𐑦𐑯 𐑚𐑿𐑑𐑦, 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑞 𐑯𐑲𐑑
𐑝 𐑒𐑤𐑬𐑛𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑒𐑤𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑥 𐑕𐑑𐑸𐑦 𐑕𐑒𐑲𐑟;
𐑯 𐑷𐑤 𐑞𐑨𐑑𐑕 𐑚𐑧𐑕𐑑 𐑝 𐑛𐑸𐑒 𐑯 𐑚𐑮𐑲𐑑
𐑥𐑰𐑑 𐑦𐑯 𐑣𐑻 𐑨𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑯 𐑣𐑻 𐑲𐑟;
𐑞𐑳𐑕 𐑥𐑧𐑤𐑴𐑛𐑑 𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑤𐑲𐑑
𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑑 𐑜𐑷𐑛𐑦 𐑛𐑱 𐑛𐑧𐑯𐑲𐑟

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑖𐑱𐑛 𐑞 𐑥𐑹, 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑮𐑱 𐑞 𐑤𐑧𐑕,
𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑣𐑷𐑓 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑺𐑛 𐑞 𐑯𐑱𐑥𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑟
𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑢𐑱𐑝𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑧𐑝𐑼𐑦 𐑯𐑱𐑥𐑤𐑩𐑕 𐑑𐑮𐑧𐑕,
𐑹 𐑕𐑪𐑓𐑑𐑦 𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑴𐑼 𐑣𐑻 𐑓𐑱𐑕;
𐑢𐑺 𐑔𐑷𐑑𐑕 𐑕𐑼𐑰𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑕𐑢𐑰𐑑 𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑐𐑮𐑧𐑕,
𐑣𐑬 𐑐𐑘𐑫𐑼, 𐑣𐑬 𐑛𐑽 𐑞𐑺 𐑛𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑦𐑙–𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

𐑯 𐑪𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑗𐑰𐑒, 𐑯 𐑴𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑚𐑮𐑬,
𐑕𐑴 𐑕𐑪𐑓𐑑, 𐑕𐑴 𐑒𐑷𐑥, 𐑢𐑧𐑑 𐑧𐑤𐑩𐑒𐑢𐑧𐑯𐑑,
𐑞 𐑢𐑥𐑲𐑤𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑦𐑯, 𐑞 𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑜𐑤𐑴,
𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑑𐑧𐑤 𐑝 𐑛𐑱𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑜𐑫𐑛𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑑,
𐑩 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑑 𐑐𐑰𐑕 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑷𐑤 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑴,
𐑩 𐑣𐑸𐑑 𐑣𐑵𐑟 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑑!

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

·𐑕𐑨𐑥 𐑝𐑲𐑥𐑟 «𐑚𐑵𐑑𐑕» 𐑔𐑽𐑦 𐑝 𐑕𐑴𐑖𐑦𐑴–𐑧𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑪𐑥𐑦𐑒 𐑳𐑯𐑓𐑺𐑯𐑩𐑕, 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 ‹𐑥𐑧𐑯 𐑨𐑑 𐑸𐑥𐑟› 𐑚𐑲 ·𐑑𐑧𐑮𐑦 𐑐𐑮𐑨𐑗𐑦𐑑 | Sam Vimes’ “boots” theory of socio-economic unfairness, from Men at...

𐑞 𐑮𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑮𐑦𐑗 𐑢𐑻 𐑕𐑴 𐑮𐑦𐑗, ·𐑝𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑮𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑛, 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑪𐑟 𐑞𐑱 𐑥𐑨𐑯𐑦𐑡𐑛 𐑑 𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑛 𐑤𐑧𐑕 𐑥𐑳𐑯𐑦.

The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.

𐑑𐑱𐑒 𐑚𐑵𐑑𐑕, 𐑓 𐑧𐑜𐑟𐑷𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑤… 𐑣𐑰 𐑻𐑯𐑛 𐑔𐑻𐑑𐑦–𐑱𐑑 𐑛𐑪𐑤𐑼𐑟 𐑩 𐑥𐑳𐑯𐑔 𐑐𐑤𐑳𐑕 𐑩𐑤𐑬𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑩𐑟. 𐑩 𐑮𐑾𐑤𐑦 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑐𐑺 𐑝 𐑤𐑧𐑞𐑼 𐑚𐑫𐑑𐑕 𐑒𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑓𐑦𐑓𐑑𐑦 𐑛𐑪𐑤𐑼𐑟. 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑨𐑯 𐑩𐑓𐑹𐑛𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑐𐑺 𐑝 𐑚𐑫𐑑𐑕, 𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑢𐑻 𐑕𐑹𐑑 𐑝 𐑴𐑒𐑱 𐑓 𐑩 𐑕𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑹 𐑑𐑵 𐑯 𐑞𐑧𐑯 𐑤𐑰𐑒𐑦 𐑩𐑟 𐑣𐑧𐑤 𐑢𐑧𐑯 𐑞 𐑒𐑸𐑛𐑚𐑹𐑛 𐑜𐑱𐑝 𐑬𐑑, 𐑒𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑑𐑧𐑯 𐑛𐑪𐑤𐑼𐑟. 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑢𐑻 𐑞 𐑒𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑝 𐑚𐑵𐑑𐑕 ·𐑝𐑲𐑥𐑟 𐑷𐑤𐑢𐑱𐑟 𐑚𐑷𐑑, 𐑯 𐑢𐑹 𐑳𐑯𐑑𐑦𐑤 𐑞 𐑕𐑴𐑤𐑟 𐑢𐑻 𐑕𐑴 𐑔𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑣𐑰 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑑𐑧𐑤 𐑢𐑺 𐑣𐑰 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑦𐑯 ·𐑨𐑙𐑒–𐑥𐑹𐑐𐑹𐑒 𐑪𐑯 𐑩 𐑓𐑪𐑜𐑦 𐑯𐑲𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑓𐑰𐑤 𐑝 𐑞 𐑒𐑪𐑚𐑩𐑤𐑟…

Take boots, for example. … A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an affordable pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. …

𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞 𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑜𐑫𐑛 𐑚𐑫𐑑𐑕 𐑤𐑭𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑓 𐑘𐑽𐑟 𐑯 𐑘𐑽𐑟. 𐑩 𐑥𐑨𐑯 𐑣𐑫 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑩𐑓𐑹𐑛 𐑓𐑦𐑓𐑑𐑦 𐑛𐑪𐑤𐑼𐑟 𐑣𐑨𐑛 𐑩 𐑐𐑺 𐑝 𐑚𐑵𐑑𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑𐑛 𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑤 𐑚𐑰 𐑒𐑰𐑐𐑦𐑙 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑓𐑰𐑑 𐑛𐑮𐑲 𐑦𐑯 𐑑𐑧𐑯 𐑘𐑽𐑟 𐑑𐑲𐑥, 𐑢𐑲𐑤 𐑞 𐑐𐑫𐑼 𐑥𐑨𐑯 𐑣𐑵 𐑒𐑫𐑛 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑩𐑓𐑹𐑛 𐑗𐑰𐑐 𐑚𐑵𐑑𐑕 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑩 𐑣𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑛 𐑛𐑪𐑤𐑼𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑕𐑱𐑥 𐑑𐑲𐑥 𐑯 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑤 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑢𐑧𐑑 𐑓𐑰𐑑.

But the thing was that good boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that’d still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while a poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and would still have wet feet.

«𐑐𐑲𐑤𐑩𐑑» 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑑 ·𐑯𐑲𐑑𐑝𐑱𐑤, ·𐑡𐑴𐑟𐑩𐑓 𐑓𐑦𐑙𐑒 | "Pilot" Welcome to Night Vale, Joseph Fink (2012)

𐑩 𐑓𐑮𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑧𐑟𐑼𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑿𐑯𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑢𐑺 𐑞 𐑕𐑳𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑣𐑪𐑑, 𐑞 𐑥𐑵𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑚𐑿𐑑𐑦𐑓𐑩𐑤, 𐑯 𐑥𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑻𐑾𐑕 𐑤𐑲𐑑𐑕 𐑐𐑨𐑕 𐑴𐑝𐑼𐑣𐑧𐑛 𐑢𐑲𐑤 𐑢𐑰 𐑷𐑤 𐑐𐑮𐑦𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛 𐑑 𐑕𐑤𐑰𐑐. 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑑 ·𐑯𐑲𐑑𐑝𐑱𐑤.

A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.

𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑴 𐑤𐑦𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑼𐑟. 𐑑 𐑕𐑑𐑸𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑙𐑟 𐑪𐑓, 𐑲𐑝 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑩𐑕𐑒𐑑 𐑑 𐑮𐑰𐑛 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑚𐑮𐑰𐑓 𐑯𐑴𐑑𐑦𐑕. 𐑞 𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑒𐑩𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑤 𐑩𐑯𐑬𐑯𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑞 𐑴𐑐𐑩𐑯𐑦𐑙 𐑝 𐑩 𐑯𐑵 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑒𐑹𐑯𐑼 𐑝 ·𐑻𐑤 𐑯 ·𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑼𐑕𐑧𐑑, 𐑯𐑽 𐑞 ·𐑮𐑩𐑤𐑓𐑕. 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑤𐑲𐑒 𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛 𐑧𐑝𐑼𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑛𐑪𐑜𐑟 𐑸 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩𐑤𐑬𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒. 𐑐𐑰𐑐𐑩𐑤 𐑸 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩𐑤𐑬𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑿 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑕𐑰 𐑣𐑫𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑓𐑦𐑜𐑼𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒. 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑗 𐑞𐑧𐑥. 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑩𐑐𐑮𐑴𐑗 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒. 𐑞 𐑓𐑧𐑯𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑲𐑛 𐑯 𐑣𐑲𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑼𐑩𐑕. 𐑑𐑮𐑲 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑑 𐑤𐑫𐑒 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒 𐑯 𐑧𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑖𐑩𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑤𐑫𐑒 𐑓 𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑐𐑽𐑾𐑛 𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑣𐑫𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑓𐑦𐑜𐑼𐑟. 𐑞 𐑛𐑪𐑜 𐑐𐑸𐑒 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑣𐑸𐑥 𐑿.

Hello listeners. To start things off I’ve been asked to read this brief notice: The City Council announces the opening of a new Dog Park at the corner of Earl and Somerset, near the Ralph’s. They would like to remind everyone that dogs are not allowed in the Dog Park. People are not allowed in the Dog Park. It is possible you will see hooded figures in the dog park. Do not approach them. Do not approach the Dog Park. The fence is electrified and highly dangerous. Try not to look at the Dog Park, and especially do not look for any period of time at the Hooded Figures. The Dog Park will not harm you.

𐑯 𐑯𐑬 𐑞 𐑯𐑵𐑟. ·𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑢𐑫𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑡𐑪𐑟𐑰, 𐑬𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑒𐑸 𐑤𐑪𐑑, 𐑕𐑲𐑟 𐑞 𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑤𐑟 𐑮𐑦𐑝𐑾𐑤𐑛 𐑞𐑧𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑑 𐑣𐑻. 𐑕𐑧𐑛 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑑𐑧𐑯 𐑓𐑰𐑑 𐑑𐑷𐑤, 𐑮𐑱𐑛𐑾𐑯𐑑, 𐑯 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑝 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑢𐑪𐑟 ·𐑚𐑤𐑨𐑒. 𐑕𐑧𐑛 𐑞𐑱 𐑣𐑧𐑤𐑐𐑑 𐑣𐑻 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑝𐑺𐑾𐑕 𐑣𐑬𐑕𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑗𐑹𐑟. 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑝 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑛 𐑩 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑚𐑳𐑤𐑚 𐑓 𐑣𐑻, 𐑞 𐑐𐑹𐑗 𐑤𐑲𐑑. 𐑖𐑰𐑟 𐑪𐑓𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑑 𐑕𐑧𐑤 𐑞 𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑤𐑲𐑑 𐑚𐑳𐑤𐑚, 𐑢𐑦𐑗 𐑣𐑩𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑑𐑳𐑗𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑨𐑯 𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑤 (𐑦𐑑 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑞 ·𐑚𐑤𐑨𐑒 𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑩𐑤, 𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑢𐑰𐑑𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑞 𐑐𐑪𐑑 𐑓 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑢𐑳𐑯). 𐑦𐑓 𐑿𐑼 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑼𐑧𐑕𐑑𐑩𐑛, 𐑒𐑪𐑯𐑮𐑨𐑒𐑑 ·𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑢𐑫𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑡𐑴𐑟𐑰. 𐑖𐑰𐑟 𐑬𐑑 𐑚𐑲 𐑞 𐑒𐑸 𐑤𐑪𐑑.

And now the news. Old Woman Josie, out near the Car Lot, says the Angels revealed themselves to her. Said they were ten feet tall, radiant, and one of them was Black. Said they helped her with various household chores. One of them changed a light bulb for her – the porch light. She’s offering to sell the old light bulb, which has been touched by an Angel. It was the Black Angel, if that sweetens the pot for anyone. If you’re interested, contact Old Woman Josie. She’s out near the Car Lot.

𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑼, ·𐑡𐑱𐑥𐑟 𐑚𐑷𐑤𐑛𐑢𐑦𐑯 | James Baldwin, The Giver (2014)

𐑦𐑓 𐑞 𐑣𐑴𐑐 𐑝 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑙
𐑦𐑟 𐑑 𐑤𐑳𐑝 𐑞 𐑤𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑙
𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑼 𐑮𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑕 𐑥𐑨𐑛𐑯𐑩𐑕
𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑨𐑒𐑑 𐑝 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑙

If the hope of giving
is to love the living,
the giver risks madness
in the act of giving.

𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑤𐑧𐑕𐑩𐑯 𐑲 𐑕𐑰𐑥𐑛 𐑑 𐑕𐑰
𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑓𐑱𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑳𐑮𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑥𐑰

Some such lesson I seemed to see
in the faces that surrounded me.

𐑯𐑰𐑛𐑦 𐑯 𐑚𐑤𐑲𐑯𐑛, 𐑳𐑯𐑣𐑴𐑐𐑓𐑳𐑤, 𐑳𐑯𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑑𐑩𐑛,
𐑢𐑳𐑑 𐑜𐑦𐑓𐑑 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑜𐑦𐑝 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑓𐑑 𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑜𐑦𐑓𐑑𐑩𐑛?
𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑼 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑴 𐑤𐑧𐑕 𐑩𐑛𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑑
𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑣𐑵 𐑸 𐑒𐑤𐑨𐑥𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑓 𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑓𐑑

Needy and blind, unhopeful, unlifted,
what gift would give them the gift to be gifted?
The giver is no less adrift
than those who are clamouring for the gift.

𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑱 𐑒𐑨𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑒𐑤𐑱𐑥 𐑦𐑑, 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑞𐑺,
𐑦𐑓 𐑞𐑺 𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑑𐑦 𐑓𐑦𐑙𐑜𐑼𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑑 𐑞 𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑑𐑦 𐑺,
𐑯 𐑞 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑼 𐑜𐑴𐑟 𐑛𐑬𐑯 𐑪𐑯 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑰𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑐𐑮𐑺,
𐑯𐑴𐑟 𐑟𐑨𐑑 𐑷𐑤 𐑝 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑣𐑨𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑯 𐑓 𐑯𐑷𐑑,
𐑯 𐑑𐑻𐑯𐑟 𐑦𐑯 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑜𐑦𐑤𐑑𐑦 𐑚𐑧𐑛 𐑑 𐑕𐑑𐑺
𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑕𐑑𐑸𐑝𐑦𐑙 𐑥𐑳𐑤𐑑𐑦𐑗𐑵𐑛𐑟 𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑙 𐑞𐑺
𐑯 𐑮𐑲𐑟𐑩𐑟 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 𐑚𐑧𐑛 𐑑 𐑒𐑻𐑕 𐑨𐑑 𐑣𐑧𐑝𐑩𐑯,
𐑣𐑰 𐑥𐑳𐑕𐑑 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑑 𐑣𐑵𐑥 𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑦𐑟 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯,
𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑢𐑦𐑤 𐑚𐑰 𐑑𐑱𐑒𐑩𐑯, 𐑯 𐑡𐑳𐑕𐑑𐑤𐑦 𐑕𐑴;
𐑲 𐑒𐑨𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑑𐑧𐑥 𐑣𐑬 𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑲 𐑴

If they cannot claim it, if it is not there,
if their empty fingers beat the empty air
and the giver goes down on his knees in prayer
knows that all of his giving has been for naught
and that nothing was ever what he thought
and turns in his guilty bed to stare
at the starving multitudes standing there
and rises from bed to curse at heaven,
he must yet understand that to whom much is given
much will be taken, and justly so:
I cannot tell how much I owe.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 <𐑞 𐑢𐑹 𐑓 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛𐑟>, ·𐑣 𐑡 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑟 | from 'The War of the Worlds', H.G. Wells (1898)

𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑢𐑫𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑚𐑦𐑤𐑰𐑝𐑛 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑤𐑭𐑕𐑑 𐑘𐑽𐑟 𐑝 𐑞 𐑯𐑲𐑯𐑑𐑰𐑯𐑔 𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑗𐑼𐑦 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛 𐑢𐑳𐑟 𐑚𐑰𐑦𐑙 𐑢𐑪𐑗𐑑 𐑒𐑰𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑯 𐑒𐑤𐑴𐑕𐑤𐑦 𐑚𐑲 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑧𐑤𐑦𐑡𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑𐑼 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑥𐑨𐑯𐑟 𐑯 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑹𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑨𐑟 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑴𐑯; 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑨𐑟 𐑥𐑧𐑯 𐑚𐑦𐑟𐑦𐑛 𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑝𐑺𐑾𐑕 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑻𐑯𐑟 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑵𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑲𐑟𐑛 𐑯 𐑕𐑑𐑳𐑛𐑦𐑛, 𐑐𐑼𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑕 𐑷𐑤𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑨𐑟 𐑯𐑨𐑮𐑴𐑤𐑦 𐑨𐑟 𐑩 𐑥𐑨𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑩 𐑥𐑲𐑒𐑮𐑩𐑕𐑒𐑴𐑐 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑵𐑑𐑦𐑯𐑲𐑟 𐑞 𐑑𐑮𐑨𐑯𐑟𐑾𐑯𐑑 𐑒𐑮𐑰𐑗𐑼𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑕𐑢𐑹𐑥 𐑯 𐑥𐑳𐑤𐑑𐑦𐑐𐑤𐑲 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑛𐑮𐑪𐑐 𐑝 𐑢𐑷𐑑𐑼. 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑦𐑯𐑓𐑦𐑯𐑦𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑱𐑕𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦 𐑥𐑧𐑯 𐑢𐑧𐑯𐑑 𐑑𐑵 𐑯 𐑓𐑮𐑴 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑜𐑤𐑴𐑚 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑩𐑓𐑺𐑟, 𐑕𐑼𐑰𐑯 𐑦𐑯 𐑞𐑺 𐑧𐑥𐑐𐑲𐑼 𐑴𐑝𐑼 𐑥𐑨𐑑𐑼. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞 𐑦𐑯𐑓𐑿𐑕𐑹𐑾 𐑳𐑯𐑛𐑼 𐑞 𐑥𐑲𐑒𐑮𐑩𐑕𐑒𐑴𐑐 𐑛𐑵 𐑞 𐑕𐑱𐑥. 𐑯𐑴 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑜𐑱𐑝 𐑩 𐑔𐑷𐑑 𐑑 𐑞 𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑼 𐑢𐑻𐑤𐑛𐑟 𐑝 𐑕𐑐𐑱𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑹𐑕𐑩𐑟 𐑝 𐑣𐑿𐑥𐑩𐑯 𐑛𐑱𐑯𐑡𐑼, 𐑹 𐑔𐑷𐑑 𐑝 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑥𐑦𐑕 𐑞 𐑲𐑛𐑾 𐑝 𐑤𐑲𐑓 𐑩𐑐𐑪𐑯 𐑞𐑧𐑥 𐑨𐑟 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑮𐑪𐑚𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑹 𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑪𐑕𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤. 𐑦𐑑 𐑦𐑟 𐑒𐑘𐑫𐑼𐑾𐑕 𐑑 𐑮𐑦𐑒𐑷𐑤 𐑕𐑳𐑥 𐑝 𐑞 𐑥𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤 𐑣𐑨𐑚𐑦𐑑𐑕 𐑝 𐑞𐑴𐑟 𐑛𐑦𐑐𐑸𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑛𐑱𐑟. 𐑨𐑑 𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑑𐑼𐑧𐑕𐑑𐑮𐑾𐑤 𐑥𐑧𐑯 𐑓𐑨𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑛 𐑞𐑺 𐑥𐑲𐑑 𐑚𐑰 𐑳𐑞𐑼 𐑥𐑧𐑯 𐑩𐑐𐑪𐑯 ·𐑥𐑸𐑟, 𐑐𐑼𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑕 𐑦𐑯𐑓𐑽𐑽 𐑑 𐑞𐑩𐑥𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑝𐑟 𐑯 𐑮𐑧𐑛𐑦 𐑑 𐑢𐑧𐑤𐑒𐑩𐑥 𐑩 𐑥𐑦𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑼𐑦 𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑼𐑐𐑮𐑲𐑟. 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑩𐑒𐑮𐑪𐑕 𐑞 𐑜𐑳𐑤𐑓 𐑝 𐑕𐑐𐑱𐑕, 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑸 𐑑 𐑬𐑼 𐑥𐑲𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑩𐑟 𐑬𐑼𐑟 𐑸 𐑑 𐑞 𐑚𐑰𐑕𐑑𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑐𐑧𐑮𐑦𐑖, 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑑𐑕 𐑝𐑭𐑕𐑑 𐑯 𐑒𐑵𐑤 𐑯 𐑳𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑔𐑧𐑑𐑦𐑒, 𐑮𐑦𐑜𐑸𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑻𐑔 𐑢𐑦𐑞 𐑧𐑯𐑝𐑾𐑕 𐑲𐑟, 𐑯 𐑕𐑤𐑴𐑤𐑦 𐑯 𐑖𐑫𐑼𐑤𐑦 𐑛𐑮𐑵 𐑞𐑺 𐑐𐑤𐑨𐑯𐑟 𐑩𐑜𐑧𐑯𐑕𐑑 𐑳𐑕. 𐑯 𐑻𐑤𐑦 𐑦𐑯 𐑞 𐑑𐑢𐑧𐑯𐑑𐑾𐑔 𐑕𐑧𐑯𐑗𐑼𐑦 𐑒𐑱𐑥 𐑞 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑦𐑤𐑵𐑠𐑩𐑯𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑.

No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite complacency men went to and fro over this globe about their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire over matter. It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbable. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise. Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us. And early in the twentieth century came the great disillusionment.

𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 «𐑞 𐑢𐑳𐑯𐑟 𐑣𐑵 𐑢𐑷𐑒 𐑩𐑢𐑱 𐑓𐑮𐑪𐑥 ·𐑴𐑥𐑩𐑤𐑭𐑕», ·𐑻𐑕𐑘𐑩𐑤𐑩 ⸰𐑒 𐑤𐑩 𐑜𐑢𐑦𐑯 | from “the ones who walk away from Omelas”, Ursula K. Le Guin (1973)

𐑡𐑶𐑩𐑕! 𐑣𐑬 𐑦𐑟 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑑 𐑑𐑧𐑤 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑡𐑶? 𐑣𐑬 𐑑 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑲𐑚 𐑞 𐑕𐑦𐑑𐑦𐑟𐑩𐑯𐑟 𐑓 ·𐑴𐑥𐑩𐑤𐑭𐑕?

Joyous! How is one to tell about joy? How describe the citizens of Omelas?

𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑴𐑒, 𐑿 𐑕𐑰, 𐑞𐑴 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦. 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑢𐑰 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑕𐑱 𐑞 𐑢𐑻𐑛𐑟 𐑝 𐑗𐑽 𐑥𐑳𐑗 𐑧𐑯𐑦𐑥𐑹. 𐑭𐑤 𐑕𐑥𐑲𐑤𐑟 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑚𐑦𐑒𐑳𐑥 𐑸𐑒𐑱𐑦𐑒. 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑩 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑨𐑟 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑑 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑕𐑻𐑑𐑩𐑯 𐑩𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑐𐑖𐑩𐑯𐑟. 𐑜𐑦𐑝𐑩𐑯 𐑩 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑕𐑳𐑗 𐑨𐑟 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑢𐑳𐑯 𐑑𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑟 𐑑 𐑤𐑫𐑒 𐑯𐑧𐑒𐑕𐑑 𐑓 𐑞 𐑒𐑦𐑙, 𐑥𐑬𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑛 𐑪𐑯 𐑩 𐑕𐑐𐑤𐑧𐑯𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑕𐑑𐑨𐑤𐑘𐑩𐑯 𐑯 𐑕𐑼𐑬𐑯𐑛𐑩𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑣𐑦𐑟 𐑯𐑴𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑯𐑲𐑑𐑕, 𐑹 𐑐𐑼𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑕 𐑦𐑯 𐑩 𐑜𐑴𐑤𐑛𐑩𐑯 𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑼 𐑚𐑹𐑯 𐑚𐑲 𐑜𐑮𐑱𐑑–𐑥𐑳𐑕𐑩𐑤𐑛 𐑕𐑤𐑱𐑝𐑟. 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑞𐑺 𐑢𐑪𐑟 𐑯𐑴 𐑒𐑦𐑙. 𐑞𐑱 𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑿𐑟 𐑕𐑹𐑛𐑟, 𐑹 𐑒𐑰𐑐 𐑕𐑤𐑱𐑝𐑟. 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑚𐑸𐑚𐑺𐑾𐑯𐑟. 𐑲 𐑛𐑵 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑯𐑴 𐑞 𐑮𐑵𐑤𐑟 𐑯 𐑤𐑷𐑟 𐑝 𐑞𐑺 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑲𐑩𐑑𐑦, 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑲 𐑕𐑩𐑕𐑐𐑧𐑒𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑺 𐑕𐑦𐑙𐑜𐑘𐑩𐑤𐑼𐑤𐑦 𐑓𐑿. 𐑨𐑟 𐑞𐑱 𐑛𐑦𐑛 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑥𐑪𐑯𐑼𐑒𐑦 𐑯 𐑕𐑤𐑱𐑝𐑼𐑦, 𐑕𐑴 𐑞𐑱 𐑷𐑤𐑕𐑴 𐑜𐑪𐑑 𐑪𐑯 𐑢𐑦𐑞𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑕𐑑𐑪𐑒 𐑦𐑒𐑕𐑗𐑱𐑯𐑡, 𐑞 𐑩𐑛𐑝𐑻𐑑𐑦𐑟𐑥𐑩𐑯𐑑, 𐑞 𐑕𐑰𐑒𐑮𐑩𐑑 𐑐𐑩𐑤𐑰𐑕, 𐑯 𐑞 𐑚𐑪𐑥. 𐑘𐑧𐑑 𐑲 𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑰𐑑 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑞𐑰𐑟 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑕𐑦𐑥𐑐𐑩𐑤 𐑓𐑴𐑒, 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑛𐑳𐑤𐑕𐑩𐑑 𐑖𐑧𐑐𐑼𐑛𐑟, 𐑯𐑴𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑕𐑨𐑝𐑦𐑡𐑩𐑟, 𐑚𐑤𐑨𐑯𐑛 𐑿𐑑𐑴𐑐𐑾𐑯𐑟. 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑤𐑧𐑕 𐑒𐑪𐑥𐑐𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑕 𐑞𐑨𐑯 𐑳𐑕.

They were not simple folk, you see, though they were happy. But we do not say the words of cheer much any more. All smiles have become archaic. Given a description such as this one tends to make certain assumptions. Given a description such as this one tends to look next for the King, mounted on a splendid stallion and surrounded by his noble knights, or perhaps in a golden litter borne by great-muscled slaves. But there was no king. They did not use swords, or keep slaves. They were not barbarians. I do not know the rules and laws of their society, but I suspect that they were singularly few. As they did without monarchy and slavery, so they also got on without the stock exchange, the advertisement, the secret police, and the bomb. Yet I repeat that these were not simple folk, not dulcet shepherds, noble savages, bland utopians. They were not less complex than us.

𐑞 𐑑𐑮𐑳𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑟 𐑞𐑨𐑑 𐑢𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑩 𐑚𐑨𐑛 𐑣𐑨𐑚𐑦𐑑, 𐑦𐑯𐑒𐑳𐑮𐑦𐑡𐑛 𐑚𐑲 𐑐𐑧𐑛𐑩𐑯𐑑𐑕 𐑯 𐑕𐑩𐑓𐑦𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑒𐑩𐑑𐑕, 𐑝 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑕𐑦𐑛𐑼𐑦𐑙 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦𐑯𐑩𐑕 𐑨𐑟 𐑕𐑳𐑥𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑮𐑭𐑞𐑼 𐑕𐑑𐑿𐑐𐑦𐑛. 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑐𐑱𐑯 𐑦𐑟 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑩𐑤𐑧𐑒𐑗𐑫𐑩𐑤, 𐑴𐑯𐑤𐑦 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑤 𐑦𐑯𐑑𐑮𐑩𐑕𐑑𐑦𐑙. 𐑞𐑦𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑞 𐑑𐑮𐑰𐑟𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑞 𐑸𐑑𐑦𐑕𐑑; 𐑩 𐑮𐑦𐑓𐑿𐑟𐑩𐑤 𐑑 𐑩𐑛𐑥𐑦𐑑 𐑞 𐑚𐑩𐑯𐑨𐑤𐑦𐑑𐑦 𐑝 𐑰𐑝𐑩𐑤 𐑯 𐑞 𐑑𐑧𐑮𐑩𐑚𐑩𐑤 𐑚𐑹𐑛𐑩𐑥 𐑝 𐑐𐑱𐑯. 𐑦𐑓 𐑿 𐑒𐑭𐑯𐑑 𐑤𐑦𐑒 ‘𐑩𐑥, 𐑡𐑶𐑯 ‘𐑩𐑥. 𐑦𐑓 𐑦𐑑 𐑣𐑻𐑑𐑕, 𐑮𐑦𐑐𐑰𐑑 𐑦𐑑. 𐑚𐑳𐑑 𐑑 𐑐𐑮𐑱𐑟 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑐𐑺 𐑦𐑟 𐑑 𐑒𐑩𐑯𐑛𐑧𐑥 𐑛𐑦𐑤𐑲𐑑, 𐑑 𐑦𐑥𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑕 𐑝𐑲𐑩𐑤𐑩𐑯𐑕 𐑦𐑟 𐑑 𐑤𐑵𐑟 𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑛 𐑝 𐑧𐑝𐑮𐑦𐑔𐑦𐑙 𐑧𐑤𐑕. 𐑢𐑰 𐑣𐑨𐑝 𐑷𐑤𐑥𐑴𐑕𐑑 𐑤𐑪𐑕𐑑 𐑣𐑴𐑤𐑛; 𐑢𐑰 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑯𐑴 𐑤𐑪𐑙𐑜𐑼 𐑛𐑦𐑕𐑒𐑮𐑲𐑚 𐑩 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦 𐑥𐑨𐑯, 𐑯𐑹 𐑥𐑱𐑒 𐑧𐑯𐑦 𐑕𐑧𐑤𐑩𐑚𐑮𐑱𐑖𐑩𐑯 𐑝 𐑡𐑶.

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain. If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em. If it hurts, repeat it. But to praise despair is to condemn delight, to embrace violence is to lose hold of everything else. We have almost lost hold; we can no longer describe a happy man, nor make any celebration of joy.

𐑣𐑬 𐑒𐑨𐑯 𐑲 𐑑𐑧𐑤 𐑿 𐑩𐑚𐑬𐑑 𐑞 𐑐𐑰𐑐𐑩𐑤 𐑝 ·𐑴𐑥𐑩𐑤𐑭𐑕? 𐑞𐑱 𐑢𐑻 𐑯𐑪𐑑 𐑯𐑲𐑰𐑝 𐑯 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯, 𐑞𐑴 𐑞𐑺 𐑗𐑦𐑤𐑛𐑮𐑩𐑯 𐑢𐑻, 𐑦𐑯 𐑓𐑨𐑒𐑑, 𐑣𐑨𐑐𐑦.

How can I tell you about the people of Omelas? They were not naive and happy children – though their children were, in fact, happy.