Neil Gaiman Explains Freyja's Chariot

give me someone surprising their primary partner with brunch in bed and snuggling up to their side as they share all the details about the night they spent with their secondary partner 

give me a married couple struggling to handle their new open arrangement and dealing with all the jealousy and possessiveness that they never expected themselves to feel 

give me a life-long straight dude starting to question his sexuality seemingly out of nowhere and nervously asking in his long-term girlfriend if he can explore those feelings on the side and work out what’s going on (or vice versa)

give me a quad going out for dinner acting like it’s a double date and confusing everyone around them by switching “partners” halfway through for shits and giggles 

give me two points of a vee becoming besties and having sleepovers where they get drunk and share embarrassing stories about their mutual partner

give me a monogamous person inviting their poly partner’s other partners over for a birthday dinner and enjoying their company far more than they expected

give me a little kid telling their friends about their mommies and daddies and their friends thinking their family is the coolest freaking thing no matter how much their parents frantically try to trick them into thinking that the kid just meant that they lived with their uncles and aunts

give me an unplanned but welcomed pregnancy and the frantic “is it mine is it his who looks after it whose name goes on the birth certificate how does this work holy shit” that follows

give me a tacky YA love triangle all crushing on each other like crazy and realising one day that it doesn’t have to end with one of them getting hurt when they can all just love on each other instead

give me a couple that married for money and reputation striking up this unexpected friendship and encouraging each other’s so-called “affairs” with their respective high school sweethearts 

giVE ME POLYAMORY

It is super hot today, and it’s days like this one that I can’t wait for fall! So here is a little something in anticipation of cooler weather! The lower left and middle right photos are mine. :)

What's the difference between asking for advice (Bird) and asking for help (Badger)? I see them as kind of the same, especially since a lot of my problems (medical stuff, writing, etc) aren't ones people can really directly help with. I usually ask for help/advice and then handle the actual task myself. If someone does offer to directly help, it's an unexpected bonus, like my friend offering to help get something from IKEA. I was just asking if she thought it would fit in my car.

There's some overlap, but it sounds like you're more on the Bird end of that Venn diagram.

"Do you think this would fit in my car?" -> asking for advice

"Will you come with me in your pickup?" -> asking for help

It's possible that you don't usually think of ways people can help you directly, because that's not how you usually do things! I can think of ways people might directly help with the writing process, for example (beta readers being the most common example of your friends/peers giving hands-on help), but there's actually a book I wanna dig up and quote for this so bear with me.

From Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear

I’m friends with Brené Brown, the author of Daring Greatly and other works on human vulnerability. Brené writes wonderful books, but they don’t come easily for her. She sweats and struggles and suffers throughout the writing process, and always has. But recently, I introduced Brené to this idea that creativity is for tricksters, not for martyrs. It was an idea she’d never heard before. (As Brené explains: “Hey, I come from a background in academia, which is deeply entrenched in martyrdom. As in: ‘You must labor and suffer for years in solitude to produce work that only four people will ever read.’”)

But when Brené latched on to this idea of tricksterdom, she took a closer look at her own work habits and realized she’d been creating from far too dark and heavy a place within herself. She had already written several successful books, but all of them had been like a medieval road of trials for her—nothing but fear and anguish throughout the entire writing process. She’d never questioned any of this anguish, because she’d assumed it was all perfectly normal. After all, serious artists can only prove their merit through serious pain. Like so many creators before her, she had come to trust in that pain above all.

But when she tuned in to the possibility of writing from a place of trickster energy, she had a breakthrough. She realized that the act of writing itself was indeed genuinely difficult for her . . . but that storytelling was not. Brené is a captivating storyteller, and she loves public speaking. She’s a fourth-generation Texan who can string a tale like nobody’s business. She knew that when she spoke her ideas aloud, they flowed like a river. But when she tried to write those ideas down, they cramped up on her.

Then she figured out how to trick the process.

For her last book, Brené tried something new—a super-cunning trickster move of the highest order. She enlisted two trusted colleagues to join her at a beach house in Galveston to help her finish her book, which was under serious deadline.

She asked them to sit there on the couch and take detailed notes while she told them stories about the subject of her book. After each story, she would grab their notes, run into the other room, shut the door, and write down exactly what she had just told them, while they waited patiently in the living room. Thus, Brené was able to capture the natural tone of her own speaking voice on the page—much the way the poet Ruth Stone figured out how to capture poems as they moved through her. Then Brené would dash back into the living room and read aloud what she had just written. Her colleagues would help her to tease out the narrative even further, by asking her to explain herself with new anecdotes and stories, as again they took notes. And again Brené would grab those notes and go transcribe the stories.

Isn't that the most Badger secondary workflow you've ever heard? 😂

What is a nice guy? 

 I have met many, or so I was told. They sat across from me on first dates, deeply sniffing a wine and commenting on the forenotes of fruitiness before asking if I “read much?” They tell stories about their love of Kafka; pausing only to look at me with this sad little knowing smile. To a child, they tell me much about the books I have already read. They explain words I learned and used well before them. When I try to interupt, to explain that, yes, I read, and as a matter of fact Kafka is right next to Dante on my bedside, I am talked down. Talked over. 

 The nice men don’t understand why being nice isn’t working. Women, I guess, are strange creatures to them. When we are approached on the subway and told we are pretty; when we only flash quiet tight smiles, it is an affront. They were only trying to be nice, it’s not their fault that our bodies are ships that others want to pirate. We should know by the smell of your rose lips that nice men - they exist. It is my fault for being so goddamn difficult. Nice men decide for me it is their duty to inform me of my physical accommodation to their pleasure. That compliments have never come as knives, a cage to suffocate the bird in. That because they used “pretty” and not “hot,” We should be sure that we are safe, that nice men only want us to hear what’s best for us. We’ll miss it when we’re older. Nice men are doing us a favor, until we don’t smile for them. Then they are nice men telling us we are bitches, sluts. 

 The nice men are only trying to help. Women won’t take it, because we are all dumb wild animals bumping our blind eyes against “jerks” who don’t know what we really need. We don’t even know what we really need. What we need is a nice guy, and the nice men are there for that; to force her into situations where she stands to lose a close friend again because he couldn’t stop seeing her as a sex object. She doesn’t know it, but she needs him. Nice men tell me a lot about myself; without my mouth ever opening. Nice men tell me I’m too stupid for my own good and need to be explained every little thing, that I don’t know if I’m worthy until I cause attraction, that I can’t even make my own sexual decisions. 

 Nice men, I am told, are not like other men. Nice men sometimes even call themselves feminists and then write poems about how hard it is to be a male feminist. Nice men are artists with their dark disney princesses, are pleasantly amused by the efforts of queer girls, offer shading advice to someone with headphones in. Nice men tell you while you’re buying roof tiles to go get your boyfriend. Nice men don’t understand why we flinch when the label “nice guy” explodes in our faces. 

 We are silent in all of this, an active object that they fondle with their meaty mitts. They assume our little chickadee brains can’t conquer poetry. They teach without being asked for a lesson. They insert their opinion. They know better than we do, about our bodies, about what is best for us. We are a curious thing to them, that does not bend, that talks back on other frequencies, says silly girly things like “I read,” “Of course I knew that,” “I saved a life once,” “I don’t feel comfortable with a strange man approaching me,” “I am able of knowing who I should be dating,” “I am a human and I have my own life, am not hive mind, have my own experiences and values and feelings and you should stop assuming things about me.“ 

 Who told the nice men they are nice? What did they do to deserve that label? Was it be a decent person to that poor underclass of women? Did you deign to find them human? What does a nice man do that is nice besides tell me he is nice? What do the nice guys do? Did they ask us if we felt comfortable with the type of nice they offer? Did they ask us how to be nice or did they just all talk in one big group until some rules appeared, some “nice guy” guide. Is there a ceremony where nice girls and nice guys all sit around while the nice men sip wine and talk about how nice it is to be nice, did you know they once held a door and didn’t spit on her? The whole time us silly girls with our silly wildflower wilting hearts, we melt as these nice men glisten. 

Maybe the reason they think they are nice men is because they don’t ever stop to listen.

Rest stops on highways are liminal spaces where the veil is thin and nobody can tell me differently

Pinnipeds (seals and sea lions) sometimes rotate themselves in a counterclockwise fashion in order to hypnotize predators or prey. So confused by the perfect upright circles, animals are quickly distracted and are unable to focus on anything else. 

Hey Neil, due to a certain British author saying some stupid things again... Could you please quickly say something supportive for trans people? Would be really comforting right now

I’ve missed this (I’ve been taking a Twitter holiday for the last month, for my own mental health), but I can imagine. I’m sorry. 

Trans women are women. Trans men are men.  Trans rights are human rights. I’m sorry that some people have such a hard time getting their heads around that. But the world is changing, and history is with you.

Bard

“QUICKLY EVERYONE, SET YOUR SELFS ON WATER!!”