Things I have done:
* Turned all video settings down to craptastic-but-fast
* Deleted Minecraft and did a clean reinstall
* Run without mods (since I hadn't gotten around to installing any)
* Made sure java was up to date
* Ran a virus scan
* Rebooted my computer
It still lags terribly, even looking around from the spawn point of a new Peaceful world.
(Also achieved: redcurrants removed from stalks, Ribiselkuchen, first batch of apples stewed, dinnerfoods, washing up, probably shortly taking the recycling out. Many thanks to fabbo housemate for company and conversation and assistance and all that good stuff. <3)
ps dear self: (1) some sunshine from April; (2) you started loratadine today.
I mentioned my enjoyment of music that sounds like a repeatedly kicked bin on twitter, while listening to Einstürzende Neubauten, and people were kind enough to give me listening recs.
( Einstürzende Neubauten, Godflesh, Kinothek Percussion Ensemble, Death Grips, Lydia Lunch and Arseny Avraamov's Symphony Of Factory Sirens )
Usually, if I want noise, I play the KLF's It's Grim Up North. I first heard this from my co-presenter when I did student radio and adored it from first listen.
It needs to be played loud enough so you can feel the driving, thunderous beat in your chest. It conjures up the industrial heartlands, the M62, abandoned warehouses, rain, illegal raves, lorries roaring past you on a wet road; the Norse names chanted over glitches and synths and crackling, claustrophobic and tight and dense. There's a tremendous sense of movement and barely controlled power, as if at any moment everything might break free into unimaginable chaos. And then, just as you're unsure whether it will hold together, Jerusalem emerges against the beat and screeches and sirens; stately and unhurried. At first the relentless beat and chant of "it's grim up north" is juxtaposed against the music; but the the other sounds die away as the hymn swells, as expansive and dignified as I've ever heard it. And at the end, all you are left with are the birds cawing and the sound of the wind sweeping over the desolate moors.
(If not, I highly recommend it.)
Don't mind me, I'll be over here trying to figure out what to nom for Yuletide. Someone already nommed one of the fandoms I wanted but none of the characters I wanted. Hmm.
Got there from this really interesting review of Our Declaration: A Reading of the Declaration of Independence in Defense of Equality by Danielle Allen, a book I'm looking forward to reading.
Oh, wait. Yes it did.
Sleepy Monday is coming and I am unspoiled, so I have decided it will be pure Happiness & Joy for all characters. And Katrina will find her Happiness &c somewhere else.
Thank you so much to everyone who donated, and especially to Socchan and Lance for also offering incentives to other donors. All of you helped so much. I am beside myself. ♥
They also want me to mentor, on the programming side at least.
I am torn between ♥_♥ (because omg it sounds like fun) and sheer terror (because impostor syndrome, mainly; because my familiarity with C, which is a lot of what they use, is rusty as hell, because I recognize github but don't have a lot of practical expertise, because I haven't had a job in ages and never did anything productive with my programming skills and was never that good at it anyway and augh what am I doing), but at least so far I think I've managed to only express the enthusiasm at them.
After nearly three weeks of trying everything, I was pretty solidly convinced she couldn't turn and that, specifically, her head was stuck on a loop of cord or just in my ribs. Everything else moved freely and often, but that giant baby head just didn't go anywhere (and, incidentally, contributed to all sorts of fun activities like waking up from a sound sleep choking on vomit. Isn't pregnancy beautiful?).
Anyway, ECV was a bit of a production – five hours in L&D, monitors, bloodwork, anti-contraction injections. And the consult beforehand contained such alarming pronouncements as, "we will probably have to try a couple different times. If nothing else, my arms will get tired!" O.O
However, when it came to it, she went around on the second try. Of the actual procedure I will say only: imagine what you think it feels like to have an OB grab one end of the baby in you, a resident grab the other end, and both of them shove as hard as they can, and then turn it up to about 8 on the weird/painful scale, and you've got it. Hogwart spent the next couple hours in what can only be described as outraged flailing, but seems to have settled in. There is a 95% chance she will stay put this time, which sounds comforting until you realize that there was a 97% chance she never would have been breech at this point. I've only had one bout of intense paranoia where I was convinced she'd flipped back, so pretty good all around.
And oh my God. If you ever want to genuinely appreciate the physical rigors of the late third tri, spend most of the trimester with a big, high breech. I am so much more comfortable now, I can't even. My ribs don't feel like they're going to dislocate. My diaphragm doesn't ache nauseatingly when I lie on my side. My left side uterine ligaments don't send out sparks of nerve fire when touched. Of course, Hogwart has, from her new perspective, been reminded of her mortal enemy also known as my bladder and has re-initiated hostilities. But in comparison? Bliss.
And now we wait for labor . . .
(Hopefully I will be back just before yuletide noms end. If not, somebody make sure that Number Munchers and Young Avengers and the Asher novels get nominated. ^_^)
THE STORY OF THANKSGIVING IS A SCIENCE-FICTION STORY, by Scott Alexander
It has come to my attention that people are woefully uninformed about certain episodes in the Thanksgiving narrative. For example, almost no one mentions the part where Squanto threatens to release a bioweapon buried under Plymouth Rock that will bring about the apocalypse.
As is becoming startlingly frequent for me, halfassed my Thanksgiving plans, but had a lovely time.
( Read more... )
Noticed a few posts on this subject tonight so let me step in and say something: shut up. All of you. This is not the Age of Asses nor the Decade of the Glorification of the Buttock or anything of the sort. It's the culmination of women spending decades selling out talent to sell their bodies instead. Don't believe me? Try this. That, my friends, is Mariah Carey's butt on the back cover of her album - the one that came out in 1999. She was and still is arguably one of the most talented singers in history, and was still at the top of her game and had no reason to undress for that album cover but she did, a smile on her face and a lollipop in her hand.
That cover marks the one and only time I seriously thought Mariah Carey should have her head examined. Apparently she divorced restrictive Tommy Mottola to get to her end game, which was to finally sell her back end. Did it sell well compared to past records where she strictly sold her voice? No. Does that matter? Of course not, because her butt.
I used to think Mariah and her butt were an anomaly (she never did do another album cover anything like that one) but then last summer rolled around bringing Miley and her butt (latest: it's now even desecrating the Mexican flag). And I felt that same rumbling pit of revulsion in my stomach at seeing yet another Famous Person trading the sale of her talent for the sale of her body and wondered why these women don't just all work at strip clubs if the titillation and shock value of not just disrobing but avidly thrusting their body parts at the camera/flag/human eye is the only thing they believe will sell their songs and/or the only thing that lights a fire under their, uh, asses? I mean, maybe they just get off on it. Like, sexually? So why don't they just go do that, already?
So I waited around hoping Miley was another anomaly but by then America had fallen in love with Kim Kardashian's butt (this is someone who became famous not for who she is - which is no one - nor for what she does - which is nothing - but for a sex tape she swears she didn't leak herself) and from there we just, uh, rolled right into Nicki Minaj's butt in her Anaconda video, with honorable mentions going out to Rihanna for walking around without a butt-covering whenever and Jennifer Lopez and Iggy Azalea for their butts (how many of you are now sitting here slack-jawed because I even know who Iggya Azalea is, in spite of advancing age and increasing use of moisturizer - and if you're reading this and happen to think I'm taking a personal shot at you for something you wrote about me by mentioning the moisturizer then yes, I am - this is a personal journal, after all, and I've been waiting years to work that in somewhere)?
I want to make something clear: I don't care if it's a white or black or mixed-race or Hispanic butt thrust up in our faces. I don't care if the butt possessor is young or old, big-butted or lacking in butt, smooth-butted or pock-mark-butted, has a but-her-face or is generally agreed to be gorgeous from head to toe. I care that it's a butt. That doesn't belong in our faces. Nor anywhere near our faces, not online nor off, not unless someone standing next to the butt possessor requests a peek and such request is, for some bizarre reason, granted. (And if you want bizarre, if the above-mentioned people weren't already walking around butt-revealing to begin with, do you think even one of them would grant such a request? Most likely never.)
I care that women still fall for the male patriarchal thing of "Show'em more, baby, it sells more records/TV shows/concerts/magazines/toaster ovens". I care that so many women can't keep their clothes on while they try to make sales, that men use personality and charm to sell things while women use body parts. I don't see a similar rush amongst the more testosterone-enhanced half of our population to sell everything from records to magazines to new cars donning only a pair of BVDs or the male equivalent of a G-string unless they're selling BVDs or working at Chippendale. I see men doing exactly what they've always done: staying pretty much attired unless their work specifically requires them to disrobe.
I care that women continue the trope that ours are bodies are made of mystery and wonder so they must be disrobed at all times as much as possible without breaking the law to show just how great their mystique is! That is pretty much what passes for feminism these days. I'm tired of artists trying to pass it off with excuses like, "It's part of my art" like Miley Cyrus has, to very loosely paraphrase her. So is part of her and Nicki Minaj's art to roll back on chairs and floors with legs spread wide open and only a tiny flimsy strip of something to protect their nether bits from all eyes on them? That's considered art now? (Oh, and BTW, you can thank Beyonce for first doing that over 20 years ago: it's not new, but it's still just as gross.)
Let's destroy the Mystique of the Butt for all time. A big butt is not an exciting thing for a woman to have - especially if its possessor is white, since white society doesn't support woman having big butts nearly as avidly as black culture does. I've had one since my teenage years - a big butt out of proportion to the rest of my body that resembles nothing so much as a cross between JLo's and Kim K's - and I am not and have never been one to show it off, though secretly I always kinda thought and still think maybe it's a great ass-et to have. In the 80s the few white girls similarly afflicted in white society's eyes had to cover their big butts up with sweaters tied around waists (yes, I did that, too, regularly, for years, if I felt my jeans, pants or shorts didn't make my butt seem "slim" enough; if that wasn't working I made sure the t-shirt, blouse or sweater I wore was long enough to hang below and completely cover my butt) and dream of the day we could all look like the "tits on sticks" that so many of us seemed to aspire to. It was awful. I'm certainly not agreeing with any of it. But that was then.
For a girl with a big butt, white, black or brown or purple, then or now, the problem is finding pants, jeans, shorts and dresses that fit because most women's clothes are cut for women with a much less generous butt. We can't get most store-bought articles of clothing over our thighs, or if we're putting them on the other way, as in donning a dress, can't get them to stretch over our butts or our hips. This makes pants legs too short, dresses too tight and clingy across our middles and backsides, and generally causes no end of grief as we watch less butt-endowed compatriots sail in and out of the stores we want to shop in with the clothes we want but can't have because clothes are designed for "them" - not "us".
I can speak for the Mileys of the world, too, because before I had a big butt? I was anorexic for a few years, sporting a great big fat size O. Everything fits when you're scary-thin (though I often had to shop at specialty stores because some clothes, even at the correct sizes, were just too big for me) but guys don't want you and everyone tells you to just go eat something already. It's even less exciting than having a big butt, which at least gets more looks, more drama in clothing stores as you infuriate every try-on room clerk by rejecting - out of necessity - huge armfuls of clothing every 10 minutes, and more drama with women in general as you're often told even when you weigh, say, just 127 pounds on a 5'3" frame as I once did, to get your "fat ass" out of their way because chances are they're jealous of a backside they will never have without major surgical reconstruction.
While I can't speak for why women feel compelled to show their asses, since regardless of their size, shape or color they're not as exciting to own as they seem (I'm as likely to chalk it up to lack of belief in their own abilities as anything else) I think our society's hunger to show off and view as many women's asses as it can - especially the bigger ones - stems from how it's mostly comprised of afraid-to-live prudes. I think it's because I'm not a prude (or at least, not in my private life) that you won't see me showing my ass anytime soon. And I'm just as bored with the idea of looking at any ass that isn't mine or my SO's. That's what romantic relationships featuring private interludes in private locations are for: looking at asses and anything else you want. Unless I suddenly decide I want to fuck everyone on Earth - at once - my ass is not happening, not online nor off, end of story. I wish more women would have the self-respect required to keep something - anything - even if it's just their own asses - as sacred.
Secondly, for most of my life I could not shield worth shit, which meant that it would all come in whether I wanted to or not, and my only recourse when things got too much, was to drown out the noise with music. Whenever I would try to shield, I would imagine this blue bubble that didn't fucking work and took too much energy to maintain, so it just made things worse. For years I have struggled with this problem, trying and failing time and again to shield, to no avail.
So imagine my surprise when, a week or so ago, I'm walking along trying to shield with the blue bubble and, without my even thinking about it, with literally no warning at all, this crappy blue bubble I'm attempting to shield with spontaneously turns the reddish orange color of Chaos Fire and becomes a mix of Chaos Fire, red-hot razor wire, and red-hot metal spikes. Like, one instant I'm struggling to keep the blue bubble from collapsing, and the next instant there's this burning iron sphere of razor wire and spikes around me, and magickal heat radiating from me. What's more astonishing, IT WORKS. It is doing precisely what a shield should do, which is to keep other emotions out. And I did not create it myself; I was literally startled by its sudden manifestation. I suspect Djao'Kain, AKA Shao'Kehn, did it.
Now, looking back, it seems obvious that this should be the solution. I know what I was doing wrong all this time! First, blue is not the color of my magick. A chaos magick book I read once talked about octarine, the color of magic, an idea borrowed from Terry Pratchett. It went on to say that what octarine looks like is a very personal thing, different for every magick user. Even before being introduced to that idea, I've long known that the color of my magick is the reddish-orange of Djao-Kain's Chaos Fire, because She and I are linked (I am one of who knows how many avatars She has). So naturally, something like a shield should be imagined in octarine, using the color of one's personal color of magick.
Secondly, bubbles are somewhat permeable, which is bad for a shield, as a shield is meant to keep stuff out.
Third, blue is the color of water, and even though I'm a water sign, my magick is fire magick.
Fourth, the best defense is a good offense, and nothing quite says "offensive defense" like a sphere made of red-hot razor wire and iron spikes. And fucking magickal heat like it's coming from a steel forge, just to emphasize the point.
That's not to say I'd never tried fire before that day. There were times I tried making the bubble out of blue fire. Why blue fire, I don't know, but that didn't work much better than simple blue light did. Also, I will admit that this burning sphere of red-hot razor wire and spikes did not come completely out of the blue; I've used that exact thoughtform in another kind of defense, the "there is another human being out here while I'm walking at night, so I will use this to make sure they leave me alone" kind of defense. So I guess some part of me was just like, "Seriously, girl, that blue bubble is fucking annoying and useless. Here, use this."
So yeah, fifth: the fact it was something I'd been using a lot for something else added to its power and effectiveness. It had already been made, so it just slid into place from within me like it had done on numerous other occasions.
And sixth, just because I love the number 6 so much: WOOT.
Anyway, I got reminded of this all because I used this new shield again today, on the bus, and holy SHIT it was effective. The shape of the shield was deformed by my proximity to other humans, but the instant it came up, I felt much better.
ETA: found it. In a small cardboard box full of detritus from the last hardware build, along with the two HDDs I didn't put back in yet after I installed the two SSDs, and forgot I still had. I guess I'll open the case up and put them back in... after I've installed everything and gotten all the antivirus/antimalware/security patches very up to date. Maybe I'll wipe them too. I guess I could pop them back in now and wipe them during the partitioning process. I'm so tired. I wonder if they take SATA cables or if their IDE cables are in the box too.