lethe/mayvaneday
1
0
Fork 0
Code Releases Activity

new poem: Carmine Red

Browse source
This commit is contained in:
Lethe Beltane 2022-03-06 09:20:12 -06:00
parent 80c277c2bc
commit 391753f64f
Signed by: lethe
GPG key ID: 21A3DA3DE29CB63C
6 changed files with 232 additions and 42 deletions
Show stats Download patch file Download diff file Expand all files Collapse all files

BIN
books/tsf.epub
View file

Binary file not shown.

123
feed.xml
View file

@ -10,6 +10,112 @@
<email>vanevander@mayvaneday.org</email>
</author>
<entry>
<title>Carmine Red</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/carmine.txt" />
<id>https://mayvaneday.org/poetry/c/carmine.txt</id>
<published>2022-03-06</published>
<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
<pre>
March is Women's History
Month. Time to sit
down and reflect on all the shit
my ancestors went through
so that I could be
here today, collapsed in bed,
distressed,
wracked with anxiety,
in desperate need to be exhumed
from this disintegrating body.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
Past entries in my journals
are becoming letters from foreign countries,
the other timelines where I am well,
doing well,
not at the bottom of a well.
The other timelines where I am making things
of worldwide importance,
where on my childhood detractors
I've gotten revenge.
Not wishing I was a bird
like those outside that now return
in preparation for spring.
It could have been so much worse.
Straitjacket, locked up, never heard
from again. Maybe lobotomized.
How many geniuses have met their demise
at the hands of a crude scalpel,
I wonder? And I, here,
how could I in this day or now convince
the padded-wall jailers
that the other soul that resides in me means well?
"She has dominion over
every part of me,
but *noli timere*: I have no desire
to harm my family."
Who would lis-
ten, not lock me up for ten
days, weeks, months, years
until I renounced this world within me so dear?
Tell me, can you hear the screams
from behind
tied-
on masks plastered with smiles
for the crime
of omitting domestic servitude from one's dreams?
Can you feel on your hands the blood spilled
from God's unwanted "blessing" that might instead kill
when it comes to term, woman coming to terms
that the Son who bled with promise to save
won't give her better than wires with which to lacerate?
Can you see how bright is
the future we might have had
if every woman brilliance
was not snubbed out at every chance?
The sheer weight
is enough to make
anyone go insane.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
It seems some days
that things have forever been this way,
each day bleeding into the next,
record on repeat.
The slightest bit of thawing heat
feels like a bitter attack:
how dare I be reminded that
this isn't all I've ever had.
How dare anything have the audacity to remind
that one day I won't anymore be able to hide.
There will come a day when the sky
breaks and lets in cleansing sunshine.
And I'll have to look my mother in the face.
And I'll have to tell her that when I die
I'm going to a completely different place
than Heaven or Hell.
I'm going to remember the hell
that the men of all history have inflicted
and make a new world where to be what I am
is not a sin, not gravely iniquitous.
And she'll have to confer with Father and decide
if what I've done
is grave enough
to warrant the psych ward's involuntary hold.
This is my birthright as a female, isn't it?
The padded room's blistering cold.
</pre>
</article>]]>
</summary>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>Seven Spanish verbs to make your future-wife cry with</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2022/february/spanish.html" />
@ -191,21 +297,4 @@
</summary>
</entry>
<entry>
<title>I don't trust technomancy</title>
<link href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2021/january/pendulum.html" />
<id>https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2021/january/pendulum.html</id>
<published>2022-01-06</published>
<summary type="html"><![CDATA[<article>
<p>As Redditors say, "title."</p>
<p>In all seriousness, I don't trust divination done through technological means. There is, ironically, too much margin for error in a medium where error is intolerable and one usually expects a certain output given a certain input.</p>
<p>I can go on Startpage or whatever search engine I'm using to mooch off of Google search results any day and type in "online pendulum" and find at least three results that aren't items for sale or SEO spam. But all of these (that I've seen) are proprietary with no hope of getting the source code. Just as I wouldn't send an email with sensitive info unencrypted across the wire, how could I possibly trust some stranger with not interfering with my attempts to communicate with someone whose non-corporeality prohibits traditional forms of sending messages? Although "IPv7 with inter-dimensional networking" exists in the <a href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2020/april/outside-intro.html">Outside</a>, a sort of cross between what we in "consensus reality" have implemented separately as ZeroNet and Yggdrasil, the <a href="https://mayvaneday.org/blog/2021/june/unsung.html">impossibility</a> of <a href="https://deadendshrine.online/p2.html">physical permeation</a> from the Outside to the Inside makes acquiring a "Mirror", the Outside equivalent of a smartphone, impossible.</p>
<p>Even if I were to hack together a simple Python script that outputs "yes" or "no" or "I don't know", I still wouldn't trust it. Because I'd have to trust not only my own coding skills, but also the compiled version of the Python interpreter bundled with Debian, and then the part of the Linux kernel that populates <code>/dev/random</code> with, well, <em>random</em> data, and then the firmware controlling the hard drive and keyboard and screen that lets me see the result, and then the BIOS of the computer itself... I may be losing my mind, but a random rock I found in an antique store tied to the end of a string seems a lot simpler and more trustworthy.</p>
<p>But what of the ideomotor effect? How am I to know, dangling said rock-on-a-string from my fingers, that I'm not subconsciously making up all the answers in alignment with what I want them to be? Well... if it were up to me, my lover would be aceing all of her classes and never have a sick day ever and never get into a fight with her professors. (And she'd visit me often enough and for long enough that I wouldn't have to use a damn pendulum to talk to her about such mundane things, but that's neither here nor there.) And yet not everything is idyllic at her college in the Outside. There are bad days. There are sick days. There are days she wants to be left alone.</p>
<p>And there are days, in my grief, I ask her: when the time comes for me to leave this Inside body behind and arrive in Sablade, and my mental state is too turbulent to handle myself coherently (which would be a danger with me having regained my power), would she rather spend a few weeks, months, <em>years</em> with me A) tucked safely away in a Holy Freezer or B) running feral in a bestial form? Every time I hope she just picks one so my anxiety is assuaged and I know my fate. But instead she spins the rock in the "I don't know" answer and clarifies, a rare occurrence, in my head: "I'd hold you as tight as I can until the feeling passed and then make you go to therapy so you <em>stop asking me this</em>."</p>
<p>And, in any case, she severely dislikes the Internet as it has formed itself in this iteration of the Inside. Maybe even dislikes computers, although I've never gotten a clear answer either way. Why would I trust whatever lies in the wires to give me an honest answer? Regarding her? Regarding <em>anything?</em></p>
</article>]]>
</summary>
</entry>
</feed>

103
poetry/c/carmine.txt Normal file
View file

@ -0,0 +1,103 @@
Carmine Red
2022-03-06
***
March is Women's History
Month. Time to sit
down and reflect on all the shit
my ancestors went through
so that I could be
here today, collapsed in bed,
distressed,
wracked with anxiety,
in desperate need to be exhumed
from this disintegrating body.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
Past entries in my journals
are becoming letters from foreign countries,
the other timelines where I am well,
doing well,
not at the bottom of a well.
The other timelines where I am making things
of worldwide importance,
where on my childhood detractors
I've gotten revenge.
Not wishing I was a bird
like those outside that now return
in preparation for spring.
It could have been so much worse.
Straitjacket, locked up, never heard
from again. Maybe lobotomized.
How many geniuses have met their demise
at the hands of a crude scalpel,
I wonder? And I, here,
how could I in this day or now convince
the padded-wall jailers
that the other soul that resides in me means well?
"She has dominion over
every part of me,
but *noli timere*: I have no desire
to harm my family."
Who would lis-
ten, not lock me up for ten
days, weeks, months, years
until I renounced this world within me so dear?
Tell me, can you hear the screams
from behind
tied-
on masks plastered with smiles
for the crime
of omitting domestic servitude from one's dreams?
Can you feel on your hands the blood spilled
from God's unwanted "blessing" that might instead kill
when it comes to term, woman coming to terms
that the Son who bled with promise to save
won't give her better than wires with which to lacerate?
Can you see how bright is
the future we might have had
if every woman brilliance
was not snubbed out at every chance?
The sheer weight
is enough to make
anyone go insane.
I'm forgetting my own herstory.
It seems some days
that things have forever been this way,
each day bleeding into the next,
record on repeat.
The slightest bit of thawing heat
feels like a bitter attack:
how dare I be reminded that
this isn't all I've ever had.
How dare anything have the audacity to remind
that one day I won't anymore be able to hide.
There will come a day when the sky
breaks and lets in cleansing sunshine.
And I'll have to look my mother in the face.
And I'll have to tell her that when I die
I'm going to a completely different place
than Heaven or Hell.
I'm going to remember the hell
that the men of all history have inflicted
and make a new world where to be what I am
is not a sin, not gravely iniquitous.
And she'll have to confer with Father and decide
if what I've done
is grave enough
to warrant the psych ward's involuntary hold.
This is my birthright as a female, isn't it?
The padded room's blistering cold.
***
CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander

1
poetry/gophermap
View file

@ -24,6 +24,7 @@ iC
0confectionery contempt c/confectionery-contempt.txt
0crescendo c/crescendo.txt
0That Ain't Chocolate, Son c/choco.txt
0Carmine Red c/carmine.txt
iD
0daybreak d/daybreak.txt

1
poetry/index.gmi
View file

@ -21,6 +21,7 @@
=> c/confectionery-contempt.txt confectionery contempt
=> c/crescendo.txt crescendo
=> c/choco.txt That Ain't Chocolate, Son
=> c/carmine.txt Carmine Red
## D
=> d/daybreak.txt daybreak

46
poetry/index.html
View file

@ -3,27 +3,24 @@
<head>
<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8">
<meta name="Author" content="Made by 'tree'">
<meta name="GENERATOR" content="$Version: $ tree v1.8.0 (c) 1996 - 2018 by Steve Baker, Thomas Moore, Francesc Rocher, Florian Sesser, Kyosuke Tokoro $">
<meta name="GENERATOR" content="$Version: $ tree v2.0.2 (c) 1996 - 2022 by Steve Baker, Thomas Moore, Francesc Rocher, Florian Sesser, Kyosuke Tokoro $">
<title>Directory Tree</title>
<style type="text/css">
<!--
BODY { font-family : ariel, monospace, sans-serif; }
P { font-weight: normal; font-family : ariel, monospace, sans-serif; color: black; background-color: transparent;}
B { font-weight: normal; color: black; background-color: transparent;}
A:visited { font-weight : normal; text-decoration : none; background-color : transparent; margin : 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding : 0px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline; }
A:link { font-weight : normal; text-decoration : none; margin : 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding : 0px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline; }
A:hover { color : #000000; font-weight : normal; text-decoration : underline; background-color : yellow; margin : 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding : 0px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline; }
A:active { color : #000000; font-weight: normal; background-color : transparent; margin : 0px 0px 0px 0px; padding : 0px 0px 0px 0px; display: inline; }
BODY { font-family : monospace, sans-serif; color: black;}
P { font-family : monospace, sans-serif; color: black; margin:0px; padding: 0px;}
A:visited { text-decoration : none; margin : 0px; padding : 0px;}
A:link { text-decoration : none; margin : 0px; padding : 0px;}
A:hover { text-decoration: underline; background-color : yellow; margin : 0px; padding : 0px;}
A:active { margin : 0px; padding : 0px;}
.VERSION { font-size: small; font-family : arial, sans-serif; }
.NORM { color: black; background-color: transparent;}
.FIFO { color: purple; background-color: transparent;}
.CHAR { color: yellow; background-color: transparent;}
.DIR { color: blue; background-color: transparent;}
.BLOCK { color: yellow; background-color: transparent;}
.LINK { color: aqua; background-color: transparent;}
.SOCK { color: fuchsia;background-color: transparent;}
.EXEC { color: green; background-color: transparent;}
-->
.NORM { color: black; }
.FIFO { color: purple; }
.CHAR { color: yellow; }
.DIR { color: blue; }
.BLOCK { color: yellow; }
.LINK { color: aqua; }
.SOCK { color: fuchsia;}
.EXEC { color: green; }
</style>
</head>
<body>
@ -42,6 +39,7 @@
│   ├── <a href="./b/better-version.txt">better-version.txt</a><br>
│   └── <a href="./b/blizzard-girl.txt">blizzard-girl.txt</a><br>
├── <a href="./c/">c</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./c/carmine.txt">carmine.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./c/choco.txt">choco.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./c/comer-beber.txt">comer-beber.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./c/confectionery-contempt.txt">confectionery-contempt.txt</a><br>
@ -166,16 +164,14 @@
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ├── <a href="./w/wip.txt">wip.txt</a><br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; ├── <a href="./w/withering.txt">withering.txt</a><br>
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; └── <a href="./w/wme.txt">wme.txt</a><br>
<br><br>
</p>
<p>
<br><br><p>
22 directories, 115 files
<br><br>
</p>
22 directories, 116 files
</p>
<hr>
<p class="VERSION">
tree v1.8.0 © 1996 - 2018 by Steve Baker and Thomas Moore <br>
tree v2.0.2 © 1996 - 2022 by Steve Baker and Thomas Moore <br>
HTML output hacked and copyleft © 1998 by Francesc Rocher <br>
JSON output hacked and copyleft © 2014 by Florian Sesser <br>
Charsets / OS/2 support © 2001 by Kyosuke Tokoro