Category: Non classé
haters will see you blogging and be like they cant afford a therapist
Medusa concept
(Just an exploration of Medusa’s story)
Since Medusa was a priestess who was raped in Athena’s temple and was given the “monstruous” gift of turning people who looked at her into stone…
What if Poseidon actually raped her while “being” a statue that was inside the temple? I mean, we know Greek gods love to transform into…… various things to rape women so….
This would explain how he got into the temple in the first place, and would shed a… terrifying light on her “curse” while being a pretty accurate metaphor of sexual trauma imo. Like – we know that Athena cursing Medusa for desecrating her temple is a misogynistic reconstruction of the myth and that it was actually bound to protect Medusa from future assaults (with Medusa’s head being a symbol for women’s houses & shelters). But what if Medusa misunderstood the curse or… somehow made it herself?
She would turn every person (cough man cough) who stared at her into a statue, thus reliving her trauma each time which is… something that happens to rape survivors and would be ironic because it would both make them unable to harm her and similar to her rapist (so, a case of both externalisation and retraumatization)
Now i know greek statues actually had eyes and not just the… blank unnerving white thing we see them having, but still – a statue’s eyes are just… chiseled void. Which means she had seen the statue’s blank stare becoming an actual stare and, after that, could turn any living stare into a blank stone one. Is it a good or a bad thing? I guess it depends on how you understand it
I find it pretty symmetrical this way because, after all, the gods are creative and their “curses” are usually just the cursed person’s behavior reversed into a punishment or gratification. So that would explain the fact she turns living breathing people into statues
Anyway. I’m done with mythology ramblings
I wanted to call it “Antigone” or something (but I didn’t)
We were walking – walking
Towards flaming
Bushes of knives…
.
(The ocean smelled
Of rotten eggs;
Mad dogs trod on
Its ghostly trees)
.
Light on metal
Blinded us, as
We tripped and trampled –
Walking, walking.
What drives me nuts about the whole “boomers vs. millennials” narrative is like – its construction depends entirely on the erasure of already marginalized people.
“Boomer”, in these arguments, always means “white, affluent, and able-bodied”. The existence of poor, nonwhite, or disabled baby boomers contradicts the oppressor/oppressed paradigm, so they are simply ignored. “40 years ago everyone had a house and a job and lived in harmony” is a fiction. It has always been a fiction. It’s post-WWII propaganda constructed to dismiss systemic poverty and racism. Hold up the smiling suburban ideal and no one will notice the slums. It has never been true for more than a fraction of people, and it drives me batty how many millennials wholeheartedly buy into it. I’m sincerely sorry you can’t afford a house, but for the love of god stop acting like systemic inequality was just invented because you hadn’t noticed it before.
Sometimes I’ll want to write characters sitting down for a lavish meal only to remember that I have… very little understanding of food. I have always had a rather limited palate, so my concept of what people might have at a delectable feast is like… raw fruit, some mushrooms, buttered bread… some, uh, salmon…?
People often seem to like sauces. There are probably sauces at a feast.
“Yo,” said the detective into the hidden microphone. “I’ve infiltrated the banquet. I wish you could see me now – I look right at home in this swanky establishment. Actually, hang on, I’ll take a selfie. Why don’t I wear suits more often? I’m incredibly handsome and dashing.”
“I had to help you tie your tie,” replied the secretary dryly. “That rather spoils the effect.”
The detective blew a raspberry into the mic.
“So, have you solved any murders yet, or have you just been peacocking around?”
“I’m working on it. Someone murdered a really large, delicious bird and left its corpse on a table, so I’ve taken a few samples for gastronomic analysis.“
“What did I tell you about tasting evidence?” said Ellen, the lilt of her voice betraying a smile.
“‘Only if you buy it dinner first?’” The detective glanced around, then withdrew a napkin from an inner pocket and unwrapped a damp lump of half-squished hors d’oeuvres. “Seriously though,” she said, carefully selecting a crispy, brightly-colored tube and popping it into her mouth. “I don’t know what most of this stuff is even supposed to be.” She chewed thoughtfully. “Lots of… pastes.”
Ellen shuddered on the other end of the line. “Augh! Mouth sounds! God God, woman, I can hear you crunching. How haven’t you been thrown out yet? You’ve got the manners of a wild boar.”
“Like I said,” replied the detective cheerfully, “I’m incredibly handsome and dashing. Man, why can’t rich people get murdered more often? I’d love to go to more fancy parties like this. You could come with me and identify pastes while I identify killers, and we’d both look very good doing it.”
“Shut up!” hissed Ellen. “Someone is going to hear you, you idiot. If you get yourself caught, I don’t want to scrape your body off the sidewalk.”
“Aw beans,” said the detective, scuffing her shoe against the marble floor and wiping crumbs from her lips with the back of her hand. “And here I thought we were ready to take our relationship to the next level.”
