What is the March Meta Matters Challenge?

marchmetamatters:

Posted by: useryourlibrarian

As sites hosting art, text, music, and more continue to either close up shop or change their Terms of Service, there have been various efforts to save content on what is often very short notice. It would be even better if fans gave our works this attention before a crisis hits.

While creators have often used multiple sites to host their works, one type of work has generally been left out of fans’ efforts at archiving and preserving fanworks – meta. In many cases, meta posts have not been copied anywhere else other than the location where they were first posted, leaving them particularly vulnerable to loss.

So what if we can make a small dent in getting it saved? The March Meta Matters Challenge is focused on not just new meta, but making sure older meta gets a chance to be read and remain a part of fandom history. While new meta is also encouraged, the priority for Meta Matters is to make sure meta doesn’t vanish with sites or personal accounts when those get closed or moved.

That’s also why the challenge will be using the Archive of Our Own as a destination site.

A primary purpose for AO3 is to serve as a perpetual site for fanwork preservation – and this includes meta! It’s intended as a host of last resort, and it accepts all content and fandoms. Many people already have accounts there, and for those who don’t, they are free to get (and offer various perks). And for people who want to find meta, the site is designed for searchability (unlike, say, most social media sites).

This will be a month-long event and will function as follows: Read more… )

commentcount comments

source https://marchmetamatterschallenge.dreamwidth.org/581.html

 

definitelynotscott:

@watchmebitch @monstrous-hourglass I think I said before that some of your longer posts on the new lore/Noxus would be good on AO3 and I stand by that.

@olderthannetfic Hey, more about meta!

 

olderthannetfic:

I’ve just been looking at this!

It’s a great idea. I will indeed comb through my tumblr and see what should be transferred to AO3 for long term access. I am still dubious about the fandom purges one, but I have a number of actual essays that aren’t on there.

Who’s going to take the meta archiving challenge with me?

 

isaacsapphire:

I should dig out some of the meta I did a zillion years ago.


Tags:

#101 Uses for Infrastructureless Computers #signal boost #fandom #amnesia cw?

asexualactivities:

I want to hear more from people who dislike orgasms.  You typically only seem to hear about how wonderful they are, but I want to hear more about the flip side.

Why don’t you like them? How do they make you feel?  Do you think your asexuality plays a part?

( Ask | Submit

It feels foreign and invasive [link], something intruding into my mind rather than part of me, trying to re-write my desires. The new, stronger form of arousal that leads (or at least *can* lead) up to it is distracting, attention-grabbing in a way I don’t like, and that makes it harder to masturbate in a way that’s *truly* satisfying, truly *mine*.

(That bit seems like it needs a context link, but I’m not sure which one would be best: maybe this one.)

This has only been happening for about 1 – 2.5 years, depending on how you count. I miss when there were fewer pitfalls.


Tags:

#oh hey look *another* way my body has deteriorated over the last couple years #(even if most people wouldn’t conceptualise it that way) #sexuality and lack thereof #Possible TMI #I’ve been thinking about whether to maybe answer this for like a week #but the tie-in with my previous post seems to have convinced me #reply via reblog #is the blue I see the same as the blue you see

That post about writing motorcycle scenes I’ve been meaning to write

prettyarbitrary:

Riding a bike is one of those things that’s a very physical experience, so if you haven’t ridden, then there’s a lot you will naturally not be aware of.  I love motorcycle scenes in stories, but over the years I’ve noticed that scenes written by non-riders almost always make the same mistakes.  They’re ubiquitous in fact, to the point that if you haven’t been there to learn the contrary yourself, it’s natural to assume that’s how it actually works.

The first thing to know about motorcycles is that when driving, the motorcycle performs as an extension of you.  It’s almost cybernetic, the way your mass and balance fuse with the machine’s, the way it transmutes your sense of your surroundings and the surface you’re driving on, and the sense of the bike itself and how it’s performing.

Most notably, the driver’s center of gravity becomes the central steering mechanism.  At speeds faster than around 10 mph, the driver steers primarily through shifting their center of balance.  If you want to turn left, you lean your body left.  You’re actually tilting yourself and the motorcycle to take curves and corners.

When carrying a passenger, then, the passenger needs to shift their center of gravity along with the driver’s.  It’s like taking the ‘follower’ position in partner dancing.  You lean WITH them; not less, because then your weight counters theirs and they end up not turning (which can be highly bad if, say, the road does not go that way), and not more, because then the bike could tip right over.

Being a good passenger on a bike is not a huge learning curve for most people, but there is a learning curve.  And some people have more of a knack for it than others.  Some people are natural back-seat drivers, for whatever reason overly pushy, eager, demanding, or determined that they know better than you, and have a habit of making it hard on the driver.  I’ve had people tell me they hate riding pillion even if they’re good at it, because they don’t like how out-of-control it feels.  I detest it myself, in fact; I’d far rather be driving, and it’s a constant struggle for me to just follow along and behave myself.

This means, though, that carrying a passenger who weighs significantly more than you can be a tricky business.  I weigh about 110, and when carrying a rider weighing significantly more than that, it’s awfully easy to crash if the passenger tries to back-seat steer.  (A way to mitigate this, especially for new passengers, is to simply take 15 minutes or so to bump around quiet local roads at low speeds so that the driver and passenger can familiarize themselves a bit with minimal risk to themselves.)

Now, undoubtedly the #1 most-committed mistake I see from almost everybody who writes about motorcycles (and for that matter, a lot of unsuspecting new passengers try it in real life) is the ‘wrapping arms around the driver’s waist’ business.  It’s so common that this line is practically required by law when somebody’s writing a motorcycle scene, but seriously:  DON’T DO THAT.  <–The all caps there is not for shaming; it’s for emphasizing the safety issues.  It’s not only uncomfortable for the driver, it’s potentially dangerous.  It makes it hard to steer, hard to breathe comfortably, and easy to get jerked off balance and into a crash.

In a similar vein, holding onto the driver via grabbing their clothing is ill-advised.  This can lead to getting jerked off balance, having seams dig in painfully, and being choked by fabric.

What to do instead:  The rider sitting pillion should brace their hands on either side of the driver’s waist.  

I know, if you’re in it for the sexual tension, this sounds less sexy, but I’m here to tell you that’s a filthy lie.  A passenger who’s sitting properly is basically molded onto the driver’s back.  Riding with/being a passenger on a bike is a startlingly intimate experience.  There’s a lot of trust and teamwork involved, which takes place at a kinesthetic level.  It feels a lot like dancing, as I said before, or maybe partnered sports, where the collaboration is happening at a physical, bone-deep level that often skips right past the conscious intellect.

Now, sometimes (you may’ve seen this on the road) you’ll have passengers who prefer to hang onto a part of the bike–bits of the frame, maybe, or a ‘sissy bar’/seat back sticking up from the back.  It’s not uncommon, but it’s a bad habit because the passenger is never quite as in-tune with the driver this way, and if something happens–a tire slips in a puddle, for example–their weight moving in the wrong direction can end up jerking the bike out of the driver’s control.

Another thing I see a lot of writers do in stories that doesn’t work in real life:  unfortunately, helmets are NOT easily swappable.  They’re designed to clasp the head; a well-fitted helmet should not move on your head at all, even if you shake your head hard (though it also shouldn’t be tight enough to exert uncomfortable pressure).  A helmet that fits loosely is useless at best and dangerous at worst.  One that’s too tight is either painful or doesn’t go on at all.  It doesn’t take much difference in the size of two people’s heads for one person’s helmet to not fit the other person properly.  (And even if they’re the same size, that doesn’t necessarily mean it’ll be comfortable for more than short-term wear, but hey.)

Also, the stupid things are ridiculously expensive–especially the full-face models–so most bikers aren’t lucky enough to have a bunch of extras just laying around.

Another tip, both for writing and riding: riding pillion on a sports bike (those sleek ones where the driver’s crouched and leaning forward like a race jockey) is a miserable freaking experience.  On a lot of models, you’re perched up there on something that barely counts as a seat and leaves you constantly feeling like you’re about to slide off the back; your legs are pushed up into a crouch; you’re hunched like a monkey over the driver; and possibly you’ve got a scalding-hot muffler pressed up against your calf.  

(Pro tip: if anybody ever invites you for a ride on their bike and you’re wearing shorts, pay attention to where the muffler’s located in relation to the foot pegs.)

Now, what is it about motorcycles that makes some of us bikers go into a lathered-up frenzy at the idea of riding?  It’s because it FEELS SO DAMN ALIVE.

Look.  It’s like…life these days is, well, canned.  We spend a lot of our time in pods–houses, cars, subway trains–breathing tinned air, walking around on pavement or carpet…  But when I’m on a bike, it’s me and a 360 degree panorama of the world, and there’s nothing between me and it.  Some people get off on the risk of that, but for me it’s a matter of immersion.  When I ride, I can feel the cool humid air rolling down from under a forested hillside.  I can smell the road dust, the oil, the exhaust, the herby scent of weeds and wildflowers on the roadside, the river I’m driving near, the shady scent of a forest, the roadside fruit stand…and I’m not talking in that wafty, broken-up way you get if you roll the car doors down.  It’s like driving into a wall of scent, crashing through one bubble after another of temperature changes and smells and sounds and sights, and I have this bike underneath me that’s rumbling and vibrating and moving like it’s part of me, and it’s just the most powerful sense I’ve ever had of being in charge of my own life and not hiding from the world.  I can see it, and it can see me, and yeah, that’s a bit dangerous, but it’s also real.

God, that last paragraph particularly gets to me, as someone with an [airborne environmental sensitivity NOS that is apparently not technically an allergy] [link].

I fucking *flinched* at the description of the scents of the outdoors, because to me those scents have come to mean “your mask seal has failed and you’re gonna be paying for it later”. I miss outdoor scents, but I’ve also grown to fear them.

That paragraph is even better at expressing the intertwining of realness and danger than OP intended.


Tags:

#interesting #the more you know #motorcycles #reply via reblog #tangents #allergies #(haven’t found a better tag yet)

april:

one time a cold caller tried to open with “we are calling about your recent car accident” and i asked him what a car was and he hung up


Tags:

#anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #embarrassment squick?

Anonymous asked: What medicine do you use to breastfeed someone else’s baby?! I tried to combo breastfeed and formula feed my own baby, and my milk supply dried up, and now he gets only formula. I’m wondering if there’s the same medical intervention would help me start breastfeeding him again.

theunitofcaring:

I took hormonal birth control (Zovia 1/35; I think the progesterone/estrogen balance is important but it doesn’t have to be this specific birth control) to imitate pregnancy progesterone levels, and domperidone (20mg, four times a day) for six months, then went off the hormonal birth control and started pumping every four hours for two weeks. By the end of those two weeks I was producing about 4oz a pumping session, and gradually grew that to about 7. 

I did this in consultation with a lactation consultant and I recommend that if you can afford it/access it, but hormonal birth control has well-understood relatively limited risks and domperidone is a safe medication you can order online at inhousepharmacy so I can imagine doing it yourself being the right choice for some people who don’t have meaningful access to a lactation consultant. 

Sam did this too and got some milk but lower milk supply than me, so results definitely vary, and of course the most important thing for thriving kids is parents who are not stressed and miserable, not whether they’re fed breastmilk or formula. I hope it works for you if you end up deciding to try it but I am sure your baby will be totally fine either way.


Tags:

#I have less than no desire to do this myself #but I’m very glad to hear it’s an option for people who want that #lactation #fertility cw #medical cw #proud citizen of The Future #the more you know

thestuffedalligator:

On a small farm outside of a small town in Canada, a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback rode out through a hole in time and space.

One of them had a thick leather glove, on which a golden eagle perched. Its handler reached up, slipped the little hood off the eagle’s head, and flicked his wrist. It took off, caught a thermal, soared in a lazy arc, dove, spread its talons forward, and then hit a window with a thunk.

Daniel DiSebastian, who was fifteen and on the other side of the window, stared. The eagle had managed to sink its talons into the mesh of the window screen before it stunned itself. It was hanging upside down. Over it, Dan saw a horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers standing in formation in his neighbour’s field.

He stared for a moment longer. Curiosity won over self-preservation, and he walked out onto the porch of the house for a better view.

There was a ripping noise, the sound of panicked flapping, and something huge and tawny swooped low over Dan’s head. He ducked and only just managed to see the golden eagle fly in a wide circle back towards the horde of waiting soldiers. He heard a distant shout. Then two-hundred-and-forty of the soldiers drew their bows and fired into the air, creating a screaming cloud of arrows that blotted out the sun before raining down in a lethal shower.

Eighty-seven of these arrows hit Dan.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. When he did, the horde was already gone.

*

Eleven months later, Dan was mostly sure that whatever had happened that day eleven months ago had not, in fact, happened.

He was very happy to accept that it hadn’t happened until he walked into a Tim Hortons for a coffee and a donut and walked out to find a golden eagle perched on the sign for the drive-through.

Dan blinked. The eagle blinked. It took off with a heavy thump of wings, and Dan noticed the four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers on horseback in the parking lot.

There was a whistling noise. Dan was hit by one-hundred-and-seventy-nine-arrows.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. The horde was gone again. One of them had stolen his donut.

*

It was already dark when Dan and Cameron Burnaby walked out of the theatre.

“God, what a bad movie,” she laughed. Her breath came out in puffs of vapour in the November air.

“Like not even so bad it’s good,” Dan said. “It’s so bad it goes all around the world and crosses back into bad.”

“It’s supposed to be the last one, right?”

“That’s what I heard?”

Another puff of laughter. “Hope,” Cameron Burnaby said, grinning. “That’s what you hope.”

A huge bird took off from the sign over the theatre. Cameron Burnaby oohed at the sight and watched as it flew away.

Dan looked at her. This was nice. It was slow, but it was nice. It was nevertheless slightly spoiled by the little anxious voice that banged around in his hindbrain. It had been a year since his last attack. It was bound to happen eventually, and he had no idea how to bring it up in conversation. ‘So, I see you like the Mongolian beef and broccoli. Speaking of Mongolia, have I ever told you that I’ve been killed by Mongols four times?’

He had to tell her. But maybe he didn’t. Maybe they were done. It had been a whole year. Maybe killing him four times was enough for them. Surely killing somebody once was enough for most people, right?

Cameron Burnaby turned back at him and grinned. “So!” she said. “Was it the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen?”

He shook himself out of a vision of archers on horseback. “Nope, not even,” he said, walking forward again. “There was this one movie that came out last year. It’s about a guy who kidnaps tourists and turns them into walruses, it’s amazingly—”

Dan slipped on the ice. His leg flew up from underneath him. He felt sudden weightlessness and there was a crack as he landed on the sidewalk.

Everything hurt. Stars flashed across his vision. They faded to reveal the face of Cameron Burnaby, mittens clasped over her mouth. “Are you okay?” she asked.

No, Dan thought. “Yep,” Dan groaned. He pulled himself up onto his elbows. “Trust me, I’ve had worse.”

Cameron Burnaby offered him a hand. He took it, she pulled him up to his feet, and the two were suddenly standing much closer than he had expected.

Dan swallowed. He was suddenly aware of a thousand tiny details. The snowflakes that hung in her hair. The freckles on her nose. The shape of her lips. The terror in her eyes which were looking at something just over and past his shoulder.

He was briefly aware of seventeen arrows hitting the back of his skull.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Cameron Burnaby was retching in the snow.

“What the fuck was that?!” she finally said, wiping the corner of her mouth with a mitten.

Dan considered a variety of responses. He decided that they all sounded stupid. He settled for the only one he knew was accurate. “A horde of four-hundred thirteenth-century Mongol soldiers,” he sighed.

“They – you—” She gestured wildly. “Your face.”

Dan winced and eased himself onto the sidewalk. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he said.

There was a pause. “Has this happened before?” Cameron Burnaby asked.

Dan thought. “Yeah,” he said. “Five times, counting this one.”

“So this is just a thing that happens.”

“It – yeah,” he said. “I think so. It is.”

Cameron Burnaby nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

Another pause. A car drove past. Cameron Burnaby stood up. “I’m going to go.”

Dan nodded. “Right,” he said. “Some other time?”

There was no answer. Dan closed his eyes. He laid down on the sidewalk and listened to the crunch of snow under boots until they died away. Snowflakes landed on his face, tiny pinpricks of cold which stung and faded almost instantly as they melted.

There was a thump. Dan opened his eyes and looked over. There was a golden eagle standing there, twisting its head to glare at Dan.

Dan glared back. “I hate you,” he said. “I really, deeply hate you.”

The eagle, apparently satisfied with the answer, took off.

Another two-hundred-and-forty arrows sprouted from the sky.

Dan died instantly.

He got better. Physically, at least.

Keep reading


Tags:

#storytime #death tw #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #time travel

etirabys:

On China’s transition from disdaining the English language to considering it very important for individual success:

“English fever” settled on waiters, CEOs, and professors, and elevated the language into a defining measure of life’s potential—a force strong enough to transform your résumé, help attract a spouse, or vault you out of a village. Men and women on Gong’s dating site often included their English proficiency in descriptions of themselves, alongside mention of cars and houses. Every college freshman had to meet a minimal level of English comprehension, and it was the only foreign language tested. In a novel called English, the author, Wang Gang, a teacher in a rural school, says, “If I rearranged the words in the [English] dictionary, the entire world would open up before me.”

This was a sharp reversal from the past. In nineteenth-century China, English was held in contempt as the language of the middlemen who dealt with foreign traders. “These men are generally frivolous rascals and loafers in the cities and are despised in their villages and communities,” the reformist scholar Feng Guifen wrote in 1861. But Feng knew that China needed English for diplomatic purposes, and he called for the creation of special language schools. “There are many brilliant people in China; there must be some who can learn from the barbarians and surpass them,” he wrote. Mao favored Russian for the country, and he expelled so many English teachers that, by the sixties, China had fewer than a thousand high school English teachers nationwide. After Deng opened China’s doors to the world, English fever took hold. Eighty-two percent of those polled in 2008 thought it was vital to learn English. (In America, 11 percent thought it was vital to learn Chinese.) By 2008 an estimated 200 million to 350 million Chinese were studying English.

On Li Yang, a celebrity English teacher

Li peered at the students and called them to their feet. They were doctors in their thirties and forties, selected by Beijing hospitals to work at the following summer’s Olympic Games. But like millions of English learners in China, they had almost no confidence speaking the language that they had spent years studying by textbook. Li had made his name with an ESL technique that a Hong Kong newspaper called English as a Shouted Language. Shouting, Li argued, was the way to unleash what he called the “international muscles.” Li stood before the students, his right arm raised in the manner of a tent revivalist, and launched them into English at the top of their lungs. “I!” he thundered. “I!” they thundered back.

“Would!”
“Would!”

“Like!”
“Like!”

“To!”
“To!”

“Take!”
“Take!”

“Your!”
“Your!”

“Tem! Per! Ture!”
“Tem! Per! Ture!”

One by one, the doctors tried it out. A woman in stylish black glasses said, “I would like to take your temperature.” Li gave a theatrical shake of his head and made her do it again. Her cheeks flushed, and in a sudden burst, she bellowed, “I would like to take your temperature!” Then came a thickset man in a military uniform who needed no encouragement—“I would like to take your temperature!”—followed by a tiny woman, who let out a paint-peeling scream. Around the room we went, each voice a bit more confident than the one before. I wondered how a patient might react, but before I could ask, Li was out the door, and on to another group in the adjoining classroom.

… 

He favored flamboyantly patriotic slogans such as “Conquer English to Make China Stronger!” On his website, he declared, “America, England, Japan—they don’t want China to be big and powerful! What they want most is for China’s youth to have long hair, wear bizarre clothes, drink soda, listen to Western music, have no fighting spirit, love pleasure and comfort! The more China’s youth degenerated, the happier they are!”


Tags:

#language #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #(”I wondered how a patient might react”) #China #interesting #this probably deserves some warning tag but I am not sure what