Always wondered why we trivialize childhood fears. Those potent, loaded and entirely understandable products of raw vigilant minds taking in the inexplicable randomness of the universe. For there might as well be monsters under our beds and creatures of the night wanting who’s to say what from us. The threat of harm to self and loved ones, the fear of potential violence lurking around corners, the dreaded possibility of familiarity being taken away, of losing toys and friends and favorite teachers deciding to switch schools, all legit in their own right. The fears of an adult on the other hand, are the stuff of laughable conundrums. We are petrified of the possibility of missing somebody, so much so that we’d rather not have them around in the first place. We break out in hives at the thought of a wrong decision, the consequences of which are just as unremarkable as most of of our lives. What should have been wonderful memories start lacing night terrors and early morning sweats. To be an adult is to secretly, fervently pray for the things we love to not turn on us - the people, the jobs, the food, the technology, our own bodies. And when they do, like they always do, we somehow feel equal parts guilty and equal parts wiser. As if we didn’t actively fear enough and here was a healthy reminder, a skipped dose to be be reincorporated with double potency. If ageing is being vehemently afraid of how shit makes us feel, then it might do us some good to channel childhood fears again. Maybe worry about what’s under the bed, leave our poor hearts out of scrutiny, if only for a night.
I read in the paper that my brothers are being thrown from rooftops blindfolded with their hands tied behind their backs for violating sharia law. I heard the crowds stone these fallen men if they move after they hit the ground. I heard it’s in the name of God. I heard my pastor speak for God too, quoting scripture from his book. Words like abomination popped off my skin like hot grease as he went on to describe a lake of fire that God wanted me in. I heard on the news that the aftermath of a hate crime left piles of bodies on a dance floor this month. I heard the gunman feigned dead among all the people he killed. I heard the news say he was one of us. I was six years old when I heard my dad call our transgender waitress a faggot as he dragged me out a neighborhood diner saying we wouldn’t be served because she was dirty. That was the last afternoon I saw my father and the first time I heard that word, I think, although it wouldn’t shock me if it wasn’t. Many hate us and wish we didn’t exist. Many are annoyed by our wanting to be married like everyone else or use the correct restroom like everyone else. Many don’t see anything wrong with passing down the same old values that send thousands of kids into suicidal depression each year. So we say pride and we express love for who and what we are. Because who else will in earnest? I daydream on the idea that maybe all this barbarism and all these transgressions against ourselves is an equal and opposite reaction to something better happening in this world, some great swelling wave of openness and wakefulness out here. Reality by comparison looks grey, as in neither black nor white but also bleak. We are all God’s children, I heard. I left my siblings out of it and spoke with my maker directly and I think he sounds a lot like myself. If I being myself were more awesome at being detached from my own story in a way I being myself never could be. I wanna know what others hear, I’m scared to know but I wanna know what everyone hears when they talk to God. Do the insane hear the voice distorted? Do the indoctrinated hear another voice entirely?
tumblr is such a bizarre kind of social interaction. like. the rules are so different here. I once unfollowed someone because they said prime numbers were ugly and that was simply the last straw for me. imagine hanging out with a friend and getting up from the table and never talking to them again because they told you they hated prime numbers. that’s what I did.
A favourite of the Fisher household, these biscuits are sweet and spiced. The perfect accompaniment to an afternoon tea in a sea green parlour.
Ingredients
2 tablespoons of butter
¾ of a cup of sugar 1 egg 3 dessertspoons of treacle 2 cups of plain flour 1 teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda 1 teaspoon of ground cinnamon 1 teaspoon of ground ginger 1 teaspoon of mixed spice
Method
Preheat your oven to 180c and grease your baking tray. Cream butter and sugar, then beat in an egg and treacle. Sift in flour, bicarb soda, and spices, and mix well. The mixture should be slightly crumbly but will hold when you begin to roll into balls. Place the balls on a prepared trays and flatten slightly with a fork. Bake for 15-20 minutes. Makes approximately 20-30 depending on how large you make your biscuits.
