#//like if i wanted to hear that i’d call my pastor or aunt or something

[lacuna-at-dawn]

dear christian influencers, you’re fucking annoying.

sincerely, a fellow christian

[axwalker]

If The World Was Ending: Even if he was wicked

Synopsis: When Bianca leaves her son without looking back, Drake has to live on the streets until he finds a home with Angelica Ortiz--Lexie’s grandmother and a foster mom. With the Ortiz, Drake finds a family and falls madly in love, until a tragic night changes everything, threatening the life Drake fought so hard to get.

To catch up (HERE)

Pairing: Drake Walker x Lexie O’Brien (MC) The Royal Romance.

A/N: This will be a very angsty, full of drama, small town romance.

Words: 4,120

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Pixelberry, except for Lexie’s grandmother and mother.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Child neglect, abandonment, sexual assault, prison and a very entitled, “evil” Liam

Due to the several trigger warnings and some of the subjects I’ll be dealing with, I will only tag people who actively asked for it. If you want to be tagged in the following chapters --or untagged, please leave a comment. 

Drake

2008

When I was 12 years old, my mother took off with my little sister leaving me in Cordonia with my father's best friend. I reminded her too much of my father, too much of a life she would do anything to forget. That "anything" included abandoning her oldest son. I'd like to say I was surprised, but the truth is I wasn't. Bianca Walker had never been a motherly woman. The only reason she had taken Savannah with her was that my Aunt Leona adored her. I was sure my mother would dump my little sister on her and never look back. I hoped that was the case, Leona despised me, but she was great to Savannah. 

A short time after that, Bastien passed away and my mother was nowhere to be found. That's when I started to go from one home to another. The first year and a half were the hardest ones. I lived with four different families, each one worse than the last. First, the Lockes, where the family barely talked to me. Then, the Ruiz that made me take cold showers and sleep on the floor. The Godwins where the “mother” used the check the state gave her to buy alcohol instead of groceries. And finally the worse, the Fields. They seemed nice enough when I met them. Not kind but polite. The first few weeks everything seemed normal. Then one day, I got in trouble at school, and Mr. Fields --the pastor of his community, beat me up to “teach me some manners.” His punishments became a usual thing after that. 

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I escaped. Better to be on my own than believe some family was going to love or adopt me. Obviously, there was something very wrong with me. My own mother had left me, and I had never found my place anywhere else. 

I lived on the streets for 6 months. I did all kinds of jobs. Not a lot of them were legal but there were few opportunities for a 14-year-old runaway kid. The most money I got was when I stole car parts that I got to resell to a gang called the Mercy Park Crew. The boss, Mr. Kaneko was fair and paid well enough. I could’ve kept living by myself if something hadn’t got terribly wrong at my last job. One of the boys from a rival gang decided to teach me a lesson and I ended up in the hospital with a concussion. A nurse called social services so here I am in a car with another social worker on the way for another foster home. It doesn’t matter, I know it won’t last anyway. 

When you’ve been in the system as long as I had, you learned to look for certain warning signs when placed in a new home. Drugs, ulterior motives, threatening fathers, drinking mothers. After an hour, we drove through a town looking like something straight out of a movie. Valtoria. I’d heard of it before. The family my dad had been protecting when he died lived there. The house we pulled up to, was a large two-story construction with dark brown siding and an immaculate green lawn. 

Joelle, my new caseworker had popped up out of nowhere in the hospital and told me I was coming with her. Just like that. From the way Joelle talked about the new place, I figured it was some sort of transitional home for rejects like me. Too old to get adopted and too troubled for anyone to voluntarily take on. I didn’t ask her anything else because I knew I didn’t have a fucking choice. Besides, I knew words don’t mean anything. I was a kid in the system. I went where they took me. Sometimes, I hated it. Sometimes, I really hated it. This time was different. In more ways than one. Usually, I was dropped off by my caseworker, and the people receiving me were about as excited as they were about junk mail. No one has ever come out to greet me before. As long as the woman at the door wasn’t sizing me up for a skin suit, it didn’t matter.

The social worker got out of the car as I grabbed the trash bag that I used to carry my shit around. She rang the bell, and a small, older woman opened the door. Joelle had told me in the car that the woman fostered several boys and I knew what that meant. She wanted the money the government gave her for keeping us. Well, I wasn’t going to make it easy for her. If she wanted to cash a check at the end of the month it was going to cost her. I’d make sure of it. 

I had seen it all, but I still was caught by surprise when the tiny woman opened her arms at me and gave me a one-sided hug. A fucking hug. 

“I’m very happy to meet you, mijo,” she said in a strong accent. “My name is Angelica Ortiz but everyone here calls me Abuela. Grandma in Spanish.” 

The woman was deluded if she thought I’d call her grandma. She was obviously trying to impress the social worker with her fake kindness, hugs, and stupid names. I wasn’t going to be fooled that easily. 

I didn’t even answer her as we stepped into the house. Another woman, a younger version of the one staring at me was waiting for us in the living room. 

“Hi, you must be Drake. I’m Elena. Welcome.” She gave me a smile. Fake, I was sure but at least she hadn't tried to hug me. The older woman was talking to Joelle about me. Probably about my problems with authority, anger issues, and lack of communication skills. I knew my file by heart. 

I barely nodded at Elena, and the three women exchanged a look. “Let me take you to your room, Drake. You’ll be sharing it with Maxwell. He’s doing his homework with my daughter in our house across the street. You’ll get to meet all the boys and my daughter Lexie tonight.” 

She walked me to a room on the second floor of the house. It seemed clean and comfortable. Another ploy for the social worker. Two bunker beds with blue blankets and a wooden desk full of books were the biggest pieces of furniture. The left side of the room was covered in posters of who I figured were famous boy bands. There were a few of David Beckham, the only guy I recognized. Other than that there were clothes everywhere. That Maxwell dude was a fucking slob. Great. 

“I told Max to take down some posters so you can decorate half of the room to your liking; This is your room as much as it is his. He's usually much more organized than this." I notice she speaks with a sort of fondness. "It was picture day for the school yearbook and he took hours getting ready. ” 

I shrugged. I wasn’t planning to stay long anyway. I couldn’t care less if that Max kid left his posters on the walls or not. 

She glanced at my garbage bag. “Are those your clothes, mijo?” 

I scowled at her. I knew what mijo meant and I was nobody’s son. “My name is Drake.” 

She smiled. “Of course, Drake. So, are they?”

I didn’t bother with an answer. A nod was enough. 

“I cleared you this part of the closet, so you can keep them there. When you’re ready come downstairs; my mom and I will show you the rest of the house. The boys are out but we’ll all diner together tonight. Do you like Mexican food?”

I shrugged.

The woman smiled. “Shrugging is not an answer, mij- Drake. Either you like it, you don’t, or you haven’t tasted it in which case I can tell you, you’re missing out. Especially when mami cooks.” She winked at me as if we were friends or something. The woman was insane. “So, what is it, Drake?”

I’d never had it before, but she wasn’t going to tell me how to answer a damn question. “I hate it.” 

She frowned --clearly disappointed, and I almost felt bad for her. Almost. “I’m very sorry to hear that. We already made Enchiladas for tonight and we don’t waste food. You can tell us your favorite dish though so we can make it for you.”

I shrugged again. Generally, that's when the person talking to me loses her patience but Elena Ortiz only smiled at me again. “Think about it. Every Sunday night, we pick someone’s favorite and cook it. It’s really fun. Next Sunday will be your first here, so you get to pick. Mami is a great cook and she can make anything from a mean chocolate cake to the best cheese pizza. See you downstairs, honey.” 

Great. I’ve only been in this house for a few minutes, and I already hated it. The only thing worse than a home where you were beaten up as a welcome was a home where people pretended to care. My third foster home had been like that. Ms. Godwin had been all kind and nice at first. I almost felt like she cared about us. A week later, she had gotten drunk. For two days, neither I or the two girls she fostered had anything to eat because she hadn’t bought any groceries. I had to steal a twenty euro bill from her purse to buy food. She got angry and called the social worker who had come for me and taken me to the Fields. The worst home I ever lived in. 

I wasn’t going to go downstairs but I decided that if I wanted a chance to escape it was better if I knew the house. Before I could explore a little, I heard my name from what I assumed was the kitchen. 

Elena was crouching in front of the oven. “Drake has such sad eyes, mami. He’s only 14.” 

The woman that had asked me to call her abuela, answered as she chopped an onion. “This boy has been living in the streets for more than a year. Do you realize it? Pobre angelito. So young and he has already seen more horrors than most people see in a lifetime.” 

“Joelle told me that he had escaped from his last foster home.”

The older woman scoffed. “Home? If that’s how you call people that foster kids only for the money, they get in exchange. I don’t want to imagine why he fled those places." She turned to her daughter who had finished whatever she was doing in the oven and was drinking a bottle of water. "Stop watching me work, Elena and help me with diner, por Dios.”

Why was she pretending she didn’t care about the money? It was obvious. No one did anything for free. There was always a catch. 

“Dónde está mi venadito?”

“Lexie and Max are at our house doing homework, mami. Be careful, though, if Lexie hears you calling her “your little deer” she’ll kill you. The boys called her Bambi for months after they heard you the last time.”

“Nonsense. She’s my venadito and that’s that. You two will come to eat here tonight. I want Drake to meet everyone.”

Elena rolled her eyes but patted her mom on the back. “Yes mami. Lexie is dying to meet him, she and Max made a chocolate cake for him. I’ll call her in a minute. Where are the boys by the way?” 

“Bertie is trying to teach Leo how to drive. Poor boy, I hope he makes it alive.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure Leo will be careful. Bertrand will be fine.”

“Oh, it’s not Bertie I’m worried about, it’s Leo. Bartie has no patience with him.” 

I left the kitchen before they said anything else. I was sure I was going to hate this stupid place. I was angry. More than angry. Furious. After a year of successfully running away, I was back in the damn system. Back in yet another home where people seemed to care about me in front of the social worker just to ignore me –or worse, once she left. I had to admit that my new foster “moms” played their part better than most. The old one had hugged me and the other one had given me a smile that seemed real. But I knew better. No one really cared for me. No one gave a shit where I slept, what I ate, or if I was ill or scared. Not that I was ever scared. I had seen everything. 

The front door was locked so I went to the backyard. I saw a small wooden house on top of one of the trees. I decided it was a good place to hide and be myself. 

I sat there for a few moments when I heard someone climbing the tree. 

“Hi!”

I looked up and saw a girl a couple of years younger than me. She had the biggest pair of brown eyes I’ve ever seen and was smiling at me as if I was her best friend. 

“I’m Lexie! I live across the street. I’m Angelica’s granddaughter. You’re Drake, right?” I didn’t think it was possible to smile more but the girl proved me wrong when her grin widened. I simply nodded. 

“Welcome! I know that it must be hard for you to feel at home because you like just arrived but you’ll love it here. I promise. Valtoria is great. We have lakes and the mountains and when it’s warm enough we can go camping all night. You’ll love the house too. I mean between you and me the boys are kind of a pain in the ass but they’re pretty great when they want to. Or when they're not teasing me. Especially Leo and Maxie. Bertrand is a know-it-all. He thinks because he’s sixteen he knows everything." She rolled her eyes clearly offended by the idea that someone could know more than her. "Abuela, that how we all call her because she’s Mexican and would murder us if we call her grandma, is amazing. I mean don’t get me wrong, she's super strict, and as my mom says the woman is never wrong but she’s the best person I know.” 

I blinked. I didn’t know a person could talk that much without taking a single breath. 

“Do you camp?” She asked as she folded her legs in front of her.

I did before. Before my dad died and my whole life blew up in a million pieces. Not that I would explain any of that to the chatty girl, so I just nodded again. 

“Great! It’s getting warmer and Leo wants to go to a new camping site next weekend. Don’t tell him I said this but he’s like the worst camper ever. I have to double-check everything he does but I don’t tell him anymore because my mom said it wasn’t nice.” 

I wondered how could someone carry a whole conversation by herself. I hadn’t pronounced a single word since the girl had shown up. 

“I want to be your friend but I can see we’re about to have our first fight.” She told me in a teasing tone. “You’re wearing a Liverpool t-shirt. We worship Barcelona in this house. Well, Abuela, Leo and I do. The others couldn’t care less about soccer.” 

I looked at the shirt she was wearing. It read "If they don't have soccer in heaven, I'm not going." 

She noticed I was looking at her shirt and beamed. "Abue said my shirt was disrespectful to God but mom thought that was dumb and bought it for me anyway." 

"Do you like soccer?" I finally asked. 

“Like it? I love it! Did abuela saw your shirt? She hates European teams. She thinks Tigres is the best.”

“Tirgues?”

She laughed, and the sound of it did something weird to my stomach. “Tigres. It’s a Mexican team. She goes crazy when they play.”

“What team you like?”

“Barcelona, obviously.”

“Liverpool made it to the finals of the last Champion’s league.” I pointed out. 

She shrugged. “They lost so it doesn’t count. Do you play?”

“Sometimes.” I tried not to show how much I loved it. It was something else my dad and I shared that had stopped when he died. 

“I play too. How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I'm twelve. Well, almost thirteen, my birthday is in May.”

I frowned. “It’s November.” 

“I know. I’m almost there.” She beamed. "I'm almost closer to thirteen than twelve anyway." 

“Do you always talk this much?”

She laughed and my belly did that weird thing again. “My mom says I was a parrot in another life. I talk more when I’m nervous.”

“You're nervous?” I liked that I could make her nervous but I didn't know why. 

She blushed and I liked it too. “A little. What happened to your eye?” 

“I got into a fight.”

“Wow. You can’t do that here. Leo is always getting into fights and abuela has to ground him.”

She sure mentioned that Leo guy a lot. “Is Leo your boyfriend?”

“Gross!! Leo’s is like my brother. He, Bertie, and Max live with abuela. We’re a family. You’re family too.”

Fuck that. No matter if the girl was sort of cute. I didn’t have a family. “No, I’m not. I’m not staying.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I don’t belong here.”

“Yes, you do; I swear. Plus, I need someone to coach me, so I can get into the school team next year. Leo promised he would, but he never has time.” 

“I suck.”

She shook her head and smiled at me again. “Somehow I don’t think you do.” Then she gave me a conspiratorial look as she pulled out something from her jacket pocket. "You can't tell my mom about this but I took this from her room." It was a white iPod. After scrolling a little through the screen she settled on The Beach Boys. She couldn't possibly know it but they were my dad's favorites. She passed me an earbud and we didn’t talk after that. We just sat together for a while hearing music until we heard our names being called. 

“That’s abuela. We should go. She hates to wait. Plus, I'm starving and we're having enchiladas. You'll love them.” 

Lexie ran to her house to --as she put it-- 'hide the evidence.' I went back to her grandma's house and stepped into the kitchen. 

“Drake, pass me the salt, mijo. It’s next to you on the counter,” Angelica said as she kept on turning the sauce she was making. “You like enchiladas?” 

What was with all these women asking me what I liked to eat? I leaned against the black counter while she opened the lid of another steaming pot on the stove, and stirred its contents with a long wooden spoon. I shrugged. I didn’t know if I liked it. But it smelled better than anything I ever tasted, so it couldn’t be all that bad. My mouth started watering, and my stomach growled. Come to think of it, it had been a while since I’d last eaten.

“You know, I know you feel weird now. And you don’t like to talk a lot. Soon, you’ll learn that this is a safe place. We aren’t gonna judge a single word that comes out of your mouth or any of them that don’t.” 

I suddenly felt like I owed her a verbal response in exchange for her kindness. Fake or not. Besides, I just knew the chatty girl I’ve just met wouldn’t be happy if I was rude to her grandmother. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiled at my verbal response. “But just so you know. We do have a few rules in this house.” 

Here it comes. The catch. Angelica put the lid back on the pot and leaned over the counter on her elbows. “You just need to go to school, find a hobby or sport you like, don't swear, respect the curfew and keep your room clean. Every child in this house has chores but it’s too soon to figure out yours. For now, you only have to get to know us.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled at me. At that moment the timer of the oven rang and Angelica took a huge dish out of it. She covered it with more steamy, tomato sauce, sour cream, and grated cheese and put it back in the oven. At least, I might get some good food while I figured what I was going to do next. Because no matter how nice and kind everybody acted, I was not going back to school. I used to be good at it without much effort; I had friends and a soccer team. But I had missed a lot in the last two years. I felt dumb and stupid. 

Suddenly, the front door slammed open. “Cuidado muchachos! Be careful with that door against the wall, or you’re going be spackling and repainting this entire house,” Angelica yelled out. Three teenage boys filed into the house, followed by just as many apologies. 

“Sorry.” “Oops.” “It was Max’s fault.” “

“These are Maxwell, Leo and Bertie,” Angelica introduced. “Boys, this is Drake.” 

“Hi, man!” The blond one said with a shit-eating grin. “Abuela, Lena, you guys didn’t tell me you were buying a Liverpool fan.” 

“Adoption is not a purchase of people, Leo” the oldest one --Bertrand, corrected. 

“Yeah, cause if it was, then you got Leo from the clearance rack,” the youngest one joked, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror, smoothing back an out-of-place dark hair. “I hope you kept your receipt.” 

“Fuck, off,” the blond one replied with a middle finger. 

“Watch it, Leo,” Angelica warned. “Boys.” 

Max kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry, abue.” She forgave him with a smile, then swatted at his hand with her spoon when he dipped his finger into the pot. 

“I’m glad you’re here, bro” Leo said. I stood, and he gave me a fist bump without touching my hand. 

“Me too! And we’re going to be roomies,” the kid named Max said. He grabbed a stack of plates from the counter. I followed him over to the long dining room table and helped set the table for seven people.

2020

I lost count of how many days I’ve been in the hole. It wasn’t my first time in here and it sure as hell it wouldn’t be the last. It was always the same routine. Days and nights blended into one making it impossible to know what day it was or how much time I had been in here. 

I have been in jail for six excrutiating years. I had known from the day I heard the sentencing that the only way I was going to survive was if I didn’t think about her. It was the hardest thing I had to do but after a while, my routine was running smoothly and when my head hit the pillow at night, I was too fucking exhausted. She haunted my dreams and my nightmares, but I didn’t think of her beyond that. Except for the hole. Locked up there, cold, hungry, and utterly alone her face, my memories of her were the only thing that helped me go on. 

I replayed in my head our first encounter, our first kiss, our first time. I obsessed about her full lips, her expressive brown eyes, her gorgeous smile. I could spend hours picturing every single corner of her soft delicate curves. Sometimes, I wondered if --maybe, I didn’t start fights in the hope of being sent to the hole where I could spend my time fantasizing about her. It was pure torture, but I couldn’t help myself. The memories I had of her, of us and our short time together were the only light in my otherwise bleak life. 

She still wrote me every week but I hadn’t open any single one of her letters. I didn’t want to know if she was moving on with her life or worst if she was waiting for me. Because that was what Lexie didn’t understand. Even if nothing happened and I was released in one year, I would never be that boy again. The Drake Walker she had known and loved was dead and she wasn’t going to like the man that had been left in his place. I was damn sure about that. 

Tagging:

@mskaneko

@burnsoslow

@kingliam2019

@kat-tia801

@petiteboheme

@tinkie1973

@twinkle-320

@thegreentwin

@forallthatitsworth

@marshmallowsandfire

@marshmallowsaremyfavorite

@princessleac1

@lilacsandwhiskey

@lovingchoices14​

@lovingchoices14​

@nomadics-stuff​

[kingdomkid]

Hey! I used to know you, and I just wanted to know if you were always religious but not super open about it, or did something so-called 'happen'?

Oh my goodness.. I truly suck at tumblr. This was sent last year how did I not see it, I’m so sorry 🙆🏽‍♀️

If you’re still there.... hi! I wonder who u are 🤩 I guess the answer to both of those is yes, haha. Let me explain.

I grew up with Christian values and always believed it to be the true religion, so I have always been religious in that sense. We just don’t like to use the word ‘religious’ because in a Christian context it usually means that we go to church because we have to, we don’t do bad stuff because that’s just the right thing to do, we have to earn our salvation and the love of God etc.. the truth is that people who live this way aren’t Christians to begin with.

So I believed in the existence of God, but I hated the church and Christians. I was cool with the idea of Jesus, but I didn’t really know much about Him more than that He was God, and believing in Him didn’t really affect my everyday life. I was ashamed of my family being Christians, so I never told anyone about it. My mum used to take me to church once a month and I would absolutely hate it with my whole being.. I swore to myself that when I moved out I’d make sure not to go to church anymore.

It was when I was fifteen that I saw how empty my life was. I had tried to escape feelings of loneliness and emptiness and depression with different things, but I always came back to the same place, ‘Is this all there is to know?’ I realised that I had been unhappy for years, all my youth at least. I remember even writing down “Am I miserable because I’m so distant from God?” on my notebook but not giving it another thought.

That’s when God saved me 🥰 Oh, Jesus. Seriously I can’t even explain the change that happened in me. It was through a sermon that my aunt had sent me, and I listened to it because she told me this was ‘Justin Bieber’s pastor’.. lol the perfect clickbait for a 15-year-old. That sermon wrecked me, it talked about God caring and protecting us like a shepherd tends his sheep. My goodness. And the most important thing he said was that not ‘liking’ other Christians isn’t a reason to dislike the faith because we are all imperfect, Christians included.. he called me out on everything. That was the day I got saved, even if I didn’t know what being saved meant. From that point on I decided to start going to church and from hating church and avoiding it I went to not missing one single Sunday, and I haven’t missed a Sunday (on purpose) since.

I don’t know how to describe it. I never want to go back to the old, empty, metallic, hopeless place I was in before I met Jesus. The difference between then and now is that now there is hope.. and joy. I still feel empty at times, but back then it was like a never-ending pit where you just kept falling deeper and deeper.. nowadays I have the truth of God’s word and the Spirit of God in my ear reminding me that ‘this is not the end, you have hope, there is so much good in your life that I have blessed you with, what you see isn’t all that there is to it and I am still good’. We hear those things from motivational quotes but they don’t help, it has to come from God Himself. The truth is so beautiful when revealed... so that’s my story. There is seriously nothing else in this life that’s good other than God. Absolutely nothing.

I pray that for you too ❤️ and here’s the sermon that I listened to: https://youtu.be/JaCH4brPdwo

[goodlookingforagirl]

Oc-tober Day 14: Cornered

Today’s prompt is takes places in my main storyline, but it’s a conversation that’s only ever referred to. I decided to actually write it out for today! This takes place in 1980, right after Randy is released from prison. I did as much research as possible on the legal process so I hope everything I mention is accurate. No specific trigger warnings, just that there are some heavy things mentioned. Thanks to @oc-growth-and-development for making this list! 

Day 14: Cornered

Mom dropped me off at the church’s back door and waited until I went inside to drive away. The door led to a short flight of stairs down to the basement, where the only light came from a few hallway fluorescents, spaced far apart. It reminded me of an empty elementary school, except that instead of crayon drawings on the walls, there were solemn religious portraits. One of the fluorescents started buzzing, and I quickly walked down the hallway, searching for the door that read “Associate Pastor”.

    I finally found it — the last door on the left — and knocked. There was faint shuffling from inside, and I wished I could run back to the car and make Mom take me home. After all I’d been through, it was stupid to be afraid of one old pastor, but I was. He would probably tell me what a bad person I was, and how I needed to “get right with God” without offering any real help, like all the chaplain’s used to do.

    The door opened to reveal a well-dressed man, barely middle-aged and smiling broadly. “Good afternoon,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Reverend Burke.”

    “Randy Nicholson.” I shook his hand and tried to smile back, but it came out as a grimace.

    “Please, come in.” He stepped back and gestured to a red leather chair in front of his desk. “Can I offer you anything to drink? I’m afraid all we have is water and tea — we cleaned out the coffee on Wednesday night.”

    “No, thank you,” I automatically answered, then immediately wished I hadn’t. I really could use some water. My mouth already felt like sandpaper, and we haven’t even started our meeting.

    He sat down in his desk chair, so I sat in the leather chair. He folded his hands, so I folded my hands. Finally, he spoke.

    “Your mother called me last month. She said you were in need of reintegration counseling.”

    “Yes, I am.”

    “I’ve worked with many ex-convicts before. Usually, the first meeting is for us to get to know each other. In subsequent meetings, we’ll focus on goal setting and progress.”

    “Okay,” I answered, having nothing else to say.

    He looked at me expectantly. “So, what should I know?”

    “I — I don’t know. What do you need to know?”

    He chuckled. “Well, I need to know your story. Your crimes, your arrest, your incarceration, and anything other pertinent information.”

    Pertinent information. What did that mean to him? Did he want my whole life’s story? He must have noticed my confusion, so he said, “How about we start with the arrest?”

    I leaned back and tried to detach myself from my words as much as possible. “I was walking downtown late one night — or, really early one morning — making a delivery for my dealer.”

    “What kind of dealer?”

    I cocked my head. Could he really be so stupid? “A drug dealer.”

    “I guessed that, but what kind of drugs?”

    “Oh. Well, he dealt a few different ones, but that night it was heroin.”

    “Were you using heroin at the time?”

    “Yes.”

    He nodded, and I continued.

    “So, I was carrying the heroin and a stolen gun. I didn’t steal it myself, but still, it was stolen. And then I ran into some guy, probably a bum, and got in a fight. Then the police rolled up.”

    “Why did you start fighting him?”

    “I don’t remember. I was high at the time, and he probably was, too. The police coming was just a coincidence. We weren’t going at it long enough for someone to have called.”

    “So you were arrested for fighting?”

    “Yeah, and it didn’t take long for them to go through my pockets, check the gun’s registration, all that. They charged me with unlawful possession of a firearm, unlawful possession of a controlled substance with intent to sell, and aggravated assault.” I winced at those words. “I mean, the other guy got charged with assault, too. We both hit each other pretty hard. But that doesn’t matter — it’s still on my record.”

    Reverend Burke nodded and wrote something down on a legal pad. “How did you plead?”

    “Guilty.”

    “On all charges?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Did they offer you a deal?”

    “They said they’d drop the firearm charge if I told them where I got it from, but I didn’t. I pleaded guilty because I didn’t want to lie. And I mean, they caught me in the act.”

    “And this was all how long ago?”

    “Five and a half years ago.” I still couldn’t believe it. All that time spent in a cell because the cops happened to drive by right at that moment. No, because I decided to break the law and I was rightfully caught. Okay, fine, maybe because of both reasons. And for what? So I could get a little extra smack for being a runner?

    “How did you cope in prison?” Reverend Burke asked so casually, like it was an everyday question.

    “I read a lot of the library books. Some religious ones, too. Those helped me a lot.”

    “Did you make friends?”

    “I was considerate, but I kept to myself. That’s the only way to stay safe, really, unless you get involved with all the prison politics, which I didn’t.”

    “A lot of the men I counsel tell me that,” he commented. “Did you keep in contact with family and friends on the outside? Did they visit you?”

    I subconsciously gripped the armrests of the chair, my knuckles turning white. We were getting close to the subject that I really didn’t want to talk about. My least favorite subject in the world.

    “My family in Texas wrote to me sometimes. That’s my mom, my grandparents, and aunts and uncles.”

    “Your father?”

    “I’ve never met him.”

     Reverend Burke looked sympathetic but not surprised. “Did he pass?”

    “Almost ten years ago, but I didn’t know him before he passed, either. He and my mom — it’s complicated. The last time they saw each other was when she was pregnant with me.”

    “I see,” he nodded. “Did your family ever visit you?”

    “Sometimes,” I said, my throat getting tight. “My brother did.”

    Reverend Burke raised his eyebrows. “You have a brother?”

    “Had a brother,” I corrected him. “He died three years ago.”

    His face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. You were still incarcerated then?”

    “Yeah.” I stared at the floor and tried to ignore the pain that was rushing in. “He visited when he was still alive. Everyone else wrote, and I called them sometimes, too.”

    “I see,” he muttered, writing something else down. “So, you made it through prison without any major issues, it seems like. Relatively speaking, of course.”

    “I didn’t join a gang, if that’s what you mean.”

    He chuckled. “I guess that is what I mean. When were you released?”

    “My mom picked me up on Wednesday. You’re the first person I’ve talked to since, besides her.”

    “She’s the only one who came up?”

    “Well...yeah.” What did he expect, my extended family holding up banners, welcoming me home with open arms?

    “Are there any people in the area you could reconnect with? Old friends, co-workers, classmates?”

    I half-shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t think of anyone right now.”

    Reverend Burke tapped his pen on his legal pad a couple of times, then stood up. “I have some reading that might help you.” He grabbed three books off of his shelf. “I need to run by the copy room and Xerox some pages for you. Forgive me, but I learned long ago not to loan my books out. They have a habit of never coming back.”

   “No offense taken,” I replied with an awkward laugh. He excused himself and left me alone in the office, tense and nervous and itching for a cigarette, the only habit I hadn’t kicked yet. I resisted, smart enough to know that I shouldn’t smoke in a church. But I craved any kind of relief — anything to stop me from feeling like a frightened animal, cornered by my own past.

    People to reconnect with. There weren’t any. I didn’t have friends in high school — not real friends that would remember me. Most of my “friends” were other addicts, and I didn’t want to see them again. My family was in Texas, and I didn’t want to move there. And Roland — Roland was gone. The one person I actually wanted to reconnect with, and I couldn’t.

    Reverend Burke came back in and handed me a small stack of warm paper. “Fresh out of the copier,” he grinned.

    I flipped through the pages and read the headers: Finding God in Grief; Convict Turned Convert; The Road to Recovery. I didn’t even have to read them to know that I hated them. Life’s darkest chapters reduced to cute, alliterative phrases. Reverend Burke didn’t know what it was like. He had no clue what it felt like to be cornered by your past, every day of your life, only for someone to write a pat little paragraph about how easy it is to overcome. And I wasn’t mad at him for it — I was jealous. I wished it were that easy for me. 

[soultosell13]

Welcome to Winston!

Population: 23.458

Creatures: 2.689

Likelihood of injury or death: 43%

We hope you enjoy your stay!

Winston is your average small town hiding in between the corn, with all it’s small lost town quirks. For starters, everyone knows eachother, you think you’ve “met” someone new? They’re either your cousin or one of your friend’s cousin. All the citizens have been here since, well forever. The road to get anywhere else is endless, so no one leaves often or for too long. It’s not necessary anyways, we’ve got all the essentials covered, plenty of home-grown food, a small but efficient hospital and someone always ready to offer a helping hand. We solve everything ourselves and then thank the Higher Being. Because of course there’s also an official religion with a picturesque white church set a little to far from the rest of the town. Somehow it manages to fit a good part of the town who goes every Sunday to listen to the Pastor preach about the divine and it’s morality. Ancient stories about a deity that’s older than the universe that were in fact created less than a century ago by the Pastor’s grandfather. He was the one who founded Winston, so it’s his descendants who now rule it. Although, nowadays there’s more players in the tug and war for the money, power and control. Like that weird family up in North Street, 13 mysterious women of varying ages who live in a huge gothic house, all known to be witches. They also have a say on every important decision. However, the creepiest place is the abandoned manor up in a hill on the outskirts of the town. The urban legends say it’s haunted. It’s definitely haunted, believe me I talked to the ghosts myself, and in fact they are quite lovely. And the place, even though it’s quite run-down and overall kinda terrifying has a certain charm to it. Especially the garden which is stunning but out grown and unattended, it gently brushes de edge of the forest, as if creepy things got along well. The forest is another story, you could even say it’s a town of itself, one whose inhabitants come alive at night. That’s why you only go for a walk there at noon. Although, perhaps the most unsettling thing that happens here is when the Visitors come to town.

The 9th of every month at 7:33 the whole town shuts down. A siren goes off ten and five minutes before and remains ringing for the last sixty seconds. That’s when you lock the doors, turn off the lights and shut down the blinds. For the next fifteen minutes no one is allowed to make any kind of sound, let alone look out the window or even dare to leave the house. Eventually you’ll hear a stumping noise aproching where you are, it’ll slowly get louder. They’re are getting closer, you might want to say a silent prayer by now. On one of the worse cases they’ll stop for a second, it won’t be long but i’ll feel like an eternity, they’ll keep moving though. At least most of the time. Before you know it’s over, everything goes back to how it was and everyone pretends it’s not as weird as it should be. We are used to it by now, it’s a habit, you don’t think to much about it. No one knows what happens exactly or what the Visitors are, but they don’t ask. The real danger there is with the kids, they are naturally curious and hard to keep quiet in the house. That’s when things go really really wrong. When I was in 3rd grade Molly Jenkins didn’t come to school on March 10th, but no ones said anything and the teacher dismissed the few questions about it. Her desk was just empty and we pretended it had always been that way, like she never went to our school, like she never even exsisted. That’s when I learned that things don’t go entirely back to normal after each visit, we just have to act like it does. No searchs are conducted for the people that go missing on 9ths, we know they won’t be found. That why no one wants to know what visits us every month, but today i’m gonna find out.

I put on my best running shoes and tied my hair in a tight ponytail, already anticipating what my fligh-or-fight response might be. I took one last breath before I left my room and went downstairs. The rest of my family was already locked away in their respective rooms, so I tried to not make any noise. I grabbed the box I had left by the entrance and opened the door with shaky hands. Before I knew it, I was out.

The streets were obviously deserted and silence ruled over the town. It felt so eerie, so wrong. I started walking, without really knowing where I was going. Truth is, I have no idea what to look for exactly. Eventually I reached the town center, but only stood alone surrounded by empty stores. At least five minutes had gone by and I still hadn’t seen or heard anything. However, I had to keep going so I did for a little bit. The fifteen minutes were almost up and I was starting to think that maybe they hadn’t come this month. Maybe I’d gotten lucky and I could just go home. But luck has never been on my side and it wasn’t long before I started hearing footsteps behind me. At first I hoped it was just my imagination but as they got closer and closer the thrumming sound became so loud it was impossible to ignore. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, I really did but chose to slow down my pace until i stopped completely instead. The footsteps ceased right behind me and i could hear a heavy breathing. For a few seconds we remained like that, I could almost feel my heart bouncing around in my rib cage and only picking up speed as time progressed. The tension was excruciating and I knew I was gonna have to turn around and face them at some point. So I gathered every no existant inch of strength I had and did so. At first I just saw a pair of boney legs with just some strokes of brown fur attached to it. Already I was regreating this, so I had to force myself to look up further. The creature in question was several feet taller than I, making me bend my neck in an uncomfortable position. First, i saw it’s ribs, similarly to the legs they stuck out horribly only covered by odd patches of skins. Then I focused on the arms, the were long and bony, and by it’s tips hanged sharp claws that were tinted crimson. Every cell in my body was begging me to run at this point, but I knew I had to stay. It’s not like my legs weren’t practically paralyzed anyways. Lastly, with much strength I diverted my eyes towards the head. Oh and how i wish I hadn’t done that. The mare sight of it made every single one of muy muscles tense and i couldn’t even move my head and look away. I was static, but wanted to desperately run. Only my heart was moving, picking up more and more spread by the second, so much that I thought it would stop when I saw it. Staring above me was what looked like a deer skull, yellowish in color and with huge but in places broken antlers. Although what had struck me the most were it’s eyes, or lack there of. The sockets were empty, though it looked like it could see perfectly fine. It even seemed like those pitch black hollows pierced right through my soul when they looked me in the eyes. Scared I broke my gaze away, even though what I saw then wasn’t any better. Behind the creature in front of me there were about five more, all identical and horrifying. However, those ones were too entertained to even notice me. They were agressiblly feasting on something on the floor, I thought it was some kind of animal maybe one of the cows, but then i saw the scraps of fabric. Red and gold to be precise, just like my high school’s color, just like the varsity jackets the football team wore. Then the memory of last Friday came to me, when I overheard Kyle and Russel talk about going out to see the Visitors while they were leaving practice. I didn’t think they were stupid enough to do it, but clearly I was wrong. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and looked back creature in front of me. Quickly I handed him the box like I was instructed to, hoping Icould get out of here as soon as posible. The Visitor opened it and upon further inspection decided it was pleased with it. Thank God. Before leaving it extended it’s hand, if you could call it that, which took me aback. Was it doing what i thought it was doing? I cautiously shook it’s claw, which was big enough to fit in my entire hand. The creature then opened it’s mouth, showing off it’s sharp crooked teeth, but it’s was almost like a smile. We’re we friends now?

I didn’t get an answer, right after this strange exchange the Visitor’s left. I watched them crawl back into the woods as the town came back to life. Walking back to my house I started seeing people come out of their homes and stores opening their windows. It’s like nothing had ever happened. As much as I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think about Kyle and Russel. How about now their friends and family should be finding out now they are gone. But then again, tomorrow morning it’ll be like they had never even exsisted. So like everybody else I had to forget them. Finally, I arrived on North Street, where I lived. My neighbors were already out and some of the children were even playing on the street. I went into my house, where my aunt and cousin were waiting for me.

“Lydia!!” My cousin Cali jumped out to hug me “I knew you’d make it”

“Of course she’d make it” Aunt Clementine said.

“I doubted it for a second there” I told her but she just laughed. After a few seconds I decide to finally ask about something that had been on my mind for a while. “What were they exactly?”

“Wendigos” My aunt answered casually “Get used to them, you’ll be seeing them a lot when you become the next Supreme”

I opened my eyes wide as plates. Again?!

“Don’t worry, to us they are more harmless than you think. There have been a few mishaps... but nothing to worry about!” She just shrugged it off. I mean she had been dealing with them for years, I guess they didn’t scare her anymore. Maybe the the same would happen to me eventually, but I can only hope. For now i’m just relieved to be home.

“Come on, we’re practicing spells in the garden” Cali changed the subject. I followed her outside laughing like any regular day. Like the last 15 minutes of my life had never happened. Like everyone does in Winston.

[ylimehuizenga]

NO ONE ASKED

WHAT BOOKS ARE ON YOUR NIGHTSTAND? 

Understanding Lorrie Moore by Alison Kelly (it is 190 pages and cost $40). Son of the Morning Star by Evan Connell. Billy Collins’ Sailing Alone Around the Room. Oval by Elvia Wilk. Stoner - John Williams. Plus a few more I just finished and a few more I just want close to me right now. 

WHAT’S THE LAST GREAT BOOK YOU READ?

American Pastoral. First time I’ve earnestly been inclined to describe something as “a masterpiece.” 

DESCRIBE YOUR IDEAL READING EXPERIENCE (WHEN, WHERE, WHAT, HOW).

On vacation. Everyone else is off doing something and it’s far enough into the trip that I don’t feel guilty or FOMO not. Trip residue (sand, wine, ashes) on the book and the preemptive luxurious glee of knowing I’ll forever associate the book with the location! 

Second best is when life sucks and the book you’re reading is your only joy/escape, and you get home and eat something dumb and wash your dumb face and brush your dumb teeth and finally get to get into bed and hang out with the only thing in the world you like right now: this book.

WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE BOOK NO ONE ELSE HAS HEARD OF?

Maybe Hearing from Wayne by Bill Franzen. A collection of bizarre, sweet, sad, funny stories. I listened to one on a podcast one time while driving home from a trip. My boyfriend was sleeping in the passenger seat (we’d been fighting all weekend) and I laughed and cried alone. 

WHICH PLAYWRIGHTS AND OTHER WRITERS - NOVELISTS, POETS, CRITICS, JOURNALISTS - WORKING TODAY DO YOU ADMIRE MOST? 

I think it’s cliche but Ottessa Moshfegh. She’s one of the few people I’ve read willing to poke holes in modern stereotypes, like the overweight tattooed girl who bosses everyone around and is actually a jerk but is riding high on societal shame for calling her out. Also Lisa Halliday. She listens to baseball games on the radio and drinks Luxardo after long days. She is cool and impresses me. 

WHAT BOOK WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO SEE TURNED INTO A MOVIE OR TV SHOW THAT HASN’T ALREADY BEEN ADAPTED? 

I was really looking forward to The Goldfinch movie - I thought that would be a no-brainer. But I heard it’s bad and I’ll probably watch it half-hearted and disappointed when it comes out on online. 

WHO IS YOUR FAVORITE FICTIONAL HERO OR HEROINE? ANTIHERO OR VILLAIN? 

He’s not a hero but Douglas Bridge in the Mr. & Mrs. Bridge books breaks my heart. I have a big crush on him. I always have a crush on funny, megalomaniac, wry boys in books, and they tend to be writers and be named Jake; Jake from The Sun Also Rises, Jake from Under the Net. But all-time favorite heroine is Dominique from Francoise Sagan’s “A Certain Smile.” She is me, but perpetually 20-years-old, and beautiful, and French. You could probably call her an antiheroine too. 

WHAT CHARACTER FROM LITERATURE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO PLAY?

Junie B. Jones.

HAS A BOOK EVER BROUGHT YOU CLOSER TO ANOTHER PERSON, OR COME BETWEEN YOU?

It’s nice to love a book your friend also loved and talk about that. It’s not great when someone tells you their favorite book and you’ve read it and you thought it was shitty. As far as admiring the person goes, I can never really recover from that. 

WHAT MOVES YOU MOST IN A WORK OF LITERATURE? 

A buoyant, efficient, consummately composed sentence. I am an underliner. Certain sentences can be total works of art. I would love to go to an exhibit that’s nothing but framed sentences that resonate out of context. Beyond that, literature that articulates life, like everyone else. 

DO YOU PREFER BOOKS THAT REACH OUR EMOTIONALLY, OR INTELLECTUALLY?

Emotionally. I can’t think of a case where something that reached me emotionally wouldn’t then reach me intellectually, though. 

WHAT’S THE BEST BOOK YOU’VE EVER BEEN GIVEN AS A GIFT? 

That same boyfriend I fought with all weekend gave me a used copy (my preferred type of copy) of Eudora Welty’s The Golden Apples for Christmas one year, because he read that Eudora Welty was my then favorite author Alice Munro’s favorite author. I thought and still think that was the most quietly ingenious idea for book-giving I’d ever heard, and if I ever use it I’m not going to give him credit.  

HOW DO YOU ORGANIZE YOUR BOOKS? 

Fiction vs. nonfiction, then subject/genre, then author by country. Sometimes it’s kind of a feeling, too. The feeling the books give me. 

WHAT BOOK MIGHT PEOPLE BE SURPRISED TO FIND ON YOUR SHELVES?

Maybe some modern feminist lit I have. 

HAVE YOU EVER CHANGED YOUR OPINION OF A BOOK BASED ON INFORMATION ABOUT THE AUTHOR? 

Once I read more about Salinger, I realized he wasn’t ironic and discerning, he was fragile and found life humiliating. 

DO YOU COUNT ANY BOOKS AS GUILTY PLEASURES? 

I’d put some modern “buzz-y” books in that category. Must-reads with winsome covers that signal wokeness and intellect on social media. Beyond that, Salinger, again. He pulls it off, though. He pulls it off. 

WHAT KIND OF READER WERE YOU AS A CHILD? WHICH CHILDHOOD BOOKS AND AUTHORS STICK WITH YOU MOST? 

I was consistent and avid. My mom, brother and I would go to the county library every week and check out stacks of children’s books, which Mom would read to us every night. Same deal for kiddie chapter books. I loved Junie B. Jones, Frog and Toad, Amelia Bedilia, and the Amelia’s Notebook series. When I read Anne of Green Gables, I only ate bread with butter and jam for two weeks, except mine wasn’t made from scratch in my adoptive aunt’s kitchen, it was purchased by my mom at County Market and was actually Italian bread and she also used it for garlic bread. My sisters and I were also obsessed with A Child Called It. In hindsight, morbid. And embarrassing. 

HOW HAVE YOUR READING TASTES CHANGED OVER TIME? 

In middle and high school I read a lot of classics, and I’m proud of and grateful to my younger self for that. I’m not sure I’d have the stamina now, too worn down. So less classics-classics, more Level 2 classics (e.g. Austen and Hemingway then, Roth and Connell now). But I still love the same books I always have. Novels about nothing extraordinary. 

HAVE YOU EVER GOTTEN IN TROUBLE FOR READING A BOOK?

No one stopped me from reading The Good Earth at age 11 I think because no one knew what it was. I wouldn’t have gotten in trouble, but someone probably should have raised an eyebrow. Who knows, maybe someone did.

YOU’RE ORGANIZING A LITERARY DINNER PARTY. WHICH THREE WRITERS, DEAD OR ALIVE, DO YOU INVITE?

Roald Dahl, Iris Murdoch, and e.e. cummings. If I could cheat and pick four I’d add Billy Collins - I really want to meet him. This is all purely selfish and short-sighted, though. I would just want writers who are incredibly talented but wouldn’t talk about themselves, and who’d have good stories and drink strong drinks and smoke cigarettes. Cummings would probably talk about himself but he’d also probably hit on me and take me to bed at the end of the night. This is just my honest answer, okay?

DISAPPOINTING, OVERRATED, JUST NOT GOOD: WHAT BOOK DID YOU FEEL AS IF YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LIKE, AND DIDN’T? DO YOU REMEMBER THE LAST BOOK YOU PUT DOWN WITHOUT FINISHING?

The Year of Magical Thinking - didn’t like and did put down. I’ve had multiple people tell me I should or assume I do read Didion, and I dread it. I just want to move on from that conversation, quick. Some books I thought were total flops/clearly blew, like Fleishman is in Trouble or Modern Lovers and definitely Bad Marie, but others loved. No way to talk about it without sounding like an uppity contrarian. 

WHOM WOULD YOU WANT TO WRITE YOUR LIFE STORY? 

Maybe Sinclair Lewis, because it’d probably have to be a midwesterner to get those parts right. And, well, I like the esoteric grandeur of that choice. But if not him then Roald Dahl because he would make my life seem nostalgic and wonderful (which is true of mine and all lives) and his grandparents were Norwegian so he’d still get the Minnesota stuff. 

WHAT DO YOU PLAN TO READ NEXT?

Finish this boring Berlin book about sustainability that doesn’t really apply to me and lower myself into something long and languorous over Christmas. All this talk about not reading classics has me wanting to read a classic. 

[fedtothenight]

People play quija in real life??? Like why??? They want to die or what? As an Spanish who was raised in catholicism but think the church is a sin but believe there's something more out there playing quija it will be the last I'll do in my life. We have a tv program every sunday night for years that talks about spirits and things like that and well I don't want a bad spirit to possess my body. I know better. Do you have any Italian cases about spirits?

I don’t know any ghost stories taking place in Italy, but I have a few personal stories I am willing to share – both first-hand stories and things that happened to relatives or friends, or that they witnessed. My aunt, for instance, witnessed a woman who had suffered from what looked like malocchio (the evil eye, a general state of unluckiness which you can cast by looking at someone or with food and drinks) for a long time, until she pleaded a priest for help. She told him it was, more or less, since a big family dinner she had attended weeks prior. My aunt was there, in the church. The priest started reciting prayers, until the woman screamed threw up perfectly shaped meatballs on the floor. I know a couple of people who attended spiritistic sessions, too.

There’s also a very unlucky area not far from my hometown. An entire neighbourhood so unlucky that people think it’s cursed. Houses cost nothing, but for a good reason. There was one road and a crossroads, in particular, which my godmother had to drive through every day: the crossroads was infamous for the number of car accident deaths. On the corner, there was an old, ratty, seemingly empty house which she tried to never look at, as on its balcony was a creepy doll with her left eye closed and the right arm up that gave her the creeps, until, one day, the lights inside were on, the doll was gone, the blinds were up, and there was the lid of a coffin placed against the window door. Whoever was inside was dead. Then, one day, she thankfully changed jobs. 

Months later, she ran into one of her old coworkers: he told her he’d found a new house with his pregnant wife that they were redecorating and gave her the address. It was in that cursed neighbourhood and she had a feeling it could be that house. She postponed visiting the pregnant wife until she gave birth and had to stop by: it was that house. She refused to go up, said she was late to a meeting, so her coworker’s wife came down with the newborn girl. She girl was blind in her left eye, like the doll. Her old coworker said, 

“The doctors never saw that. Actually, all the ultrasounds went well. She even had her right arm always up, as if she was waving.”

Now, my flat in Italy is on the first floor of a three-floor house. My grandparents live on the second floor, there’s just an attic on the third, and my grandfather rents part of our garage, right underneath my bedroom and the living room, to a local evangelical church. One evening in 2013, I heard a weird sound coming from - or so I thought - one of the other TVs in the house. They were faint animalistic noises, wailing, screeching, like something was in pain. I stopped the music I was listening to and listened intently, thinking it was a documentary of sorts. The noises became louder, more and more uncomfortable each passing second, hard to listen to, until I stepped out of my bedroom, marched into the kitchen and asked my mother what on earth she was watching. She looked at me with a weird look and said, ‘I thought the noises were the TV in your room.’ 

I checked the living room, but the TV there was on silent. She turned all TVs off, and we listened. I think we realised at the same time that the noises, which were still growing louder, and louder, and louder, were coming from the garage. I remember thinking, this is what it must be like to listen to a pig being gutted. It was screeching, howling, excruciating to hear; I looked at my mother, and she looked at me, as the horrifying screeching echoed, and we realised that it wasn’t an animal: it was a man. It was the shouting of a man. And it dawned on me, on the both of us, that it was an exorcism we were witnessing. 

My mother was terrified and she started praying, although she refused to call the police. I checked outside: the whole neighbourhood was eerily silent. I don’t know if you’ve ever watched exorcisms movies, but they do justice to the screaming. Imagine the sound of an animal being tortured, tore apart. It didn’t sound human. Amid the screaming, the yelling, the screeching, the man started shouting things that were not in a language I’d never heard before–the language didn’t sound human, either. It went on for half an hour. The pastor spoke in Latin. I am agnostic, but I remember thinking: Make it stop. Whatever that thing was, it was under my bedroom, and I could only think: Please, don’t let it remain where my bed is. My uncle happened to stop by while the exorcism was still ongoing – we met him by the stairs and he was pale, said you could hear the screaming and nothing else, echoing. It went on for half an hour, after which my mother prayed and my uncle stopped by a church and prayed there. We went up and told my grandfather, who told the church to never, ever do that again. I didn’t sleep well for weeks and then had my first sleep paralysis. And that’s my own personal supernatural story.

[jeannereames]

Happy Birthday to the real Amyntor: Ed Reames

9/11 is a day of mourning in the US. But for me, 9/11 means my father’s birthday. And with Dancing with the Lion: Rise coming out next month--which is dedicated to my father’s memory--I decided I’d post here the tribute to my father that I wrote shortly after his death in February of 2017. My father (and mother) provided the model for Amyntor in the novel. So if you’d like to meet the “real” Amyntor, here he is.

Calvin Edward Reames, c. 1944

As some of you are already aware, my father’s health—physical and mental—has been failing, especially since autumn. In late January, he caught pneumonia and was admitted to the hospital. He never regained conscious awareness and was placed on palliative care. At 3:15pm, Eastern time, February 10, 2017, he died, almost exactly 92 years and 5 months since he entered this world.

Social media has become the communication currency of our time, and supposedly nothing on the Internet ever really disappears. Ergo I want to tell you about my father so HE won’t disappear. This is my own reflection.  No one’s life can be understood by any single individual in it. We’re too multifaceted. The father I knew wasn't even the father my brother knew, as we were born almost 18 years apart--he at the beginning of the Baby Boom and me at the tail end. Yet my father raised a writer for a daughter, so I feel the need to eulogize him as I knew him. Others will have other stories, more or less flattering.

Born on the now-infamous date of 9/11, 1924, in Gorham, Jackson County, (Southern) Illinois, he survived the Tri-State Tornado at only 6 months of age. With him in her arms, his mother ran for the railroad tracks and got on the opposite side from the mile-wide monster bearing down on them, then laid her own body over his; the tornado leapt the tracks and spared them. Perhaps that was an omen for a charmed life. On the face of if, his life might not seem particularly charmed, but he survived the Depression, a world war, and mostly made good on the American Dream. He even lived long enough to see his Cubbies win the World Series.

Iva Mae Gregersen Reames & Daddy, 1925

The eldest of 13 children, he grew up in a family who were poor even by Depression-era standards.  It made him generous, occasionally foolishly so. Yet if he decided someone was “his” (family or friend), he saw it as his obligation to help. That conviction stemmed less from abstract ethics than from an innate kindness arising out of his recall of what it meant to be in need. Sometimes people say, “Well, I managed …” and expect others to suffer as they had.  Daddy could do that, too, but mostly he didn't.  If he could prevent someone from suffering, that made him happy.  He just wanted a “Thank you.” When he was in the war, he sent virtually his whole paycheque home to his mother each month to help care for his younger brothers and sisters. He kept $5.  Yes, $5 went much further then, but as an unmarried corporal in the US army, he made about $65 dollars monthly in 1944.  So he kept 1/13th of his income and gave away the rest.

US Army Corporal, 126th AAA Battalion, 1943

That, perhaps better than anything, exemplifies his fundamental nature. It’s in our actions and choices that, I believe, we reveal our true selves.

He liked to laugh, and kid, but never cruelly. For some families, a disparaging jest is meant as back-handed affection, but that wasn’t heard in the house in which I grew up. When I was younger, I was frequently teased because I walked right into comments with potential double meanings. Perhaps one of the values of getting old(er) is that I’ve aged out of being an easy target. Yet I never learned to hear what others said as an opportunity for ribbing because my parents didn’t find that sort of thing funny. My father's sense of humor was devoid of sarcasm, as he thought it mean-spirited. Some of that owed to his own mother, who—to hear him talk about her—should have been beatified immediately upon her death. But I also believe it owed to having lived through real struggle himself.

To his mind, the world is mean enough. He saw no need to make it meaner via our interactions with people about whom we should care. It's partly for that reason, and a basic aversion to drama, that he was a much-desired member of the pastor-parish relations committee at our church in Lakeland, Florida. His presence tended to tamp down exaggerated crises and occasional bouts of flailing (which is actually a bit funny, given his own tendency to worry).

My father had a will of iron, and a quiet ambition easily overlooked. For instance, when he decided to stop smoking, back before I was born, he’d just received a new carton of cigarettes for Christmas. He threw them in the trash and quit cold turkey because he’d decided he was done. He took up a pipe later (I think largely for image), but decided he didn’t want to do that, either, and just put down the pipe one day. That was it.

"The Lineman," Normal Rockwell

When Daddy decided to do something, he did it. “Failure is not an option”: Apollo 13’s motto. Well, the men (and women) who got Apollo 13 home are my father’s generation. When he returned from the war, he was one of millions looking for a job. He tried on several, but finally decided to work for the telephone company because communications seemed like the future. Before the war, he’d wanted to be a pharmacist, yet circumstance had curtailed the college degree required. So he began showing up regularly in the hiring offices of General Telephone Electric (GTE), asking for work. He made himself annoying. But squeaky wheel gets the grease, and finally they sent him north as a telephone lineman … in January … during a blizzard. He was a relatively little guy (wiry, but short), and they doubted he’d last 2 days. They figured it was a good way to get rid of his terrier persistence.

Daddy on right, GTE employee award

He persisted for 40+ years, and retired as a (self-taught) senior engineer in the mid-1980s. Never tell a Reames, "You can’t do that."

The guys who’d worked under him at the end liked him so much, they kept coming to visit him for years after. He had that effect on people, whether at work, at church, or as a ham radio operator ("This is K9RWP calling..."). They sensed he truly cared about them, and responded in kind. He wasn’t a boisterous or especially outgoing person, but he was still an extrovert. He’d strike up conversations with random strangers in lines at store check-outs.

Especially if there was a baby involved.

Daddy & his great-granddaughter, Leila

See, Daddy loved babies.  And babies loved Daddy. Maybe as a result of being the eldest of 13, but he could burp them, change a diaper pronto, or make them laugh. He so enjoyed watching little kids, especially as he aged; he’d break into a grin just to see them playing at a distance. He was never among the “Children should be seen and not heard” crowd. To his mind, children should be talked to and played with. They would inherit the earth. When my son was born just a few months after my mother's death, Daddy said, “He’s my little replacement.” At the time, I worried his words were fatalistic. But he went on to survive my mother by almost 20 years, and now, I see his words as an expression of continuity. We are our ancestors.

Daddy, Grandson Ian & Licorice as a kitten

So my son, Ian, is his replacement, in the larger sense. When we look forward, we also look back to where we came from. I tried to insure that Ian got to know his Grandpa, who was there just days after he came home from the hospital after birth, and was there when he graduated from high school, even paid his first bill for books at college. Because that’s who Daddy was. If he didn’t get to attend college himself, he made sure both his kids did, and his grandkids. For him, that was an achievement.

As I said…the success of others, especially friends and family, seemed to Daddy the same as his own.

Yet his generosity and empathy extended beyond just people. Daddy was a cat magnet. We used to joke that if he sat down and there was a cat within 50 feet, pretty soon, that cat would be on his lap. He liked dogs, to be sure, but dogs (and horses) were my mother’s favorites. Daddy liked cats, and they liked him. Dogs are forgiving. They’ll stay with even an abusive owner; but cats leave. They don’t put up with crap. Daddy? Even semi-feral cats trusted him.

Daddy, me, Ian, and a completely random barn cat who decided to adopt him for the day at my aunt’s farm

So while he was raised in a time when animals were tools and food more than family members, and he certainly went hunting from a young age to help put food on the table, I think he, more than my mother, had a soft spot for animals. I remember in the ‘70s, he decided we were going to raise rabbits for food, and bought a pair of does. Well, it didn’t take long for yours truly to make pets not only of the does, but of the first litter of babies. All of them had to go to homes where they’d be pets, not dinner. And while I’d made the pronouncement, it didn’t take much to convince my father. Shooting a wild squirrel for the stew pot (especially when hungry) was one thing; killing the rabbits one fed regularly and took care of was another. So our venture in home-grown meat failed miserably (to, I’m sure, the rabbits’ collective relief). Yet it wasn’t just due to my agitating. I don’t think Daddy could have killed a one of them, even if I hadn’t protested. They had names, after all.

He wasn’t a saint. None of us are. The cliche applies: we're a mix of vices and virtues, like shadows against the backlight of the sun. Age softened some of his, while exacerbating others due to a failing filter. Among other things he did well, Daddy was a champion worrier. He worried about anything you can imagine (and then some). Perhaps that owed to growing up in such an unstable era as the Depression when it seemed anything could happen, but for instance, he would remind me constantly to hold onto handrails while going up and down stairs. It seems trivial, but he genuinely angsted over me falling at home and hurting myself when nobody might find me for days. So I (mostly) hold onto rails, because I hear his voice in my head, telling me to.

The irony, of course, is that he was in much more danger of falling, yet he didn't tend to worry about himself. Before he moved up to be near my brother, I tried to get him to buy one of those Life Alert systems. I even employed the ultimate weapon: his grandson (Ian), to beg.  He refused. He’d be fine, because he’s of that generation when all a man should need was himself, a gun, a good job, and a driver's license. And oh, boy, getting him to relinquish that driver's license as he went increasingly blind from macular degeneration was quite the battle, one my poor brother largely had to face when Daddy moved north to Kentucky in his last years. Daddy never did let go of the worrying, though.

He could be impatient, and critical, too, sometimes overly so. I never wanted to sing in front of him because he, like many of his siblings, had an excellent ear and I was, well, usually a little flat. He could hear it, and would say so. But the one he was most critical of was himself, if he failed to live up to his (very high) standards of what he thought he ought to do. Some of that, I lay at the feet of his own father, at least as my mother told it to me. Yet in contrast, as noted earlier, he delighted in the success of others. As a child and young woman I wanted to succeed not because I feared his critique (except about my singing), but because I basked in his happiness when I did well. He could be downright embarrassing in his bragging. If failure, especially his, was not an option, he didn't feel the need to build himself up by tearing down others. He was happy to share the spotlight, or even to applaud from the sidelines--and mean it. Again, maybe that owed to being one of 13, but I think it went deeper, back to his fundamental worldview: “You and me,” not, “Me or you.” He was quietly ambitious, but not especially competitive. Except at cards. Then all bets were off (sometimes literally).

Daddy with Mama, Christmas, c. 1990

One of his most outstanding virtues was his loyalty. For instance, he fell in love with my mother and stayed married to her for 51 years, then never remarried. While it might have been nice for him to remarry, I don't think it was in him; it would have felt like "replacing" her, and to his mind, she had no replacement.

After her death in 1997, I recall going through old pictures of her with him, one from just after the war, which showed them out with friends. Keep in mind that my mother, from childhood until after the birth of my brother, was…pudgy. While on the shorter side, my father was never heavy in his youth. In fact, he got quite buff during WWII: broad-chested and slim-waisted. But as we looked at that picture of my mother next to her friends, he pointed to her with tears in his eyes, and said, "She was the most beautiful of them all." Yup, the "pudgy" girl.

Idalee Brouillette, c. 1944, the picture my father carried during WWII

But he was right: Mama was a stunner. I know that, now, people say I look a lot like her, and I’m honored it’s so. But I was never as pretty as she was, especially in her youth, and I think my father felt bedazzled that this beautiful, black-haired Brouillette girl decided she was going to marry him, and that was the end of it. Her family was better off financially during the Depression, even with Indian blood; they had a farm with a full section, and a car, and enough money for my grandfather to send my mother and her sisters into town to go to school when he thought the teacher at the school on Buttermilk Hill was unqualified. So I suppose you could say Daddy "married up." But to Mama’s mind, she’d won the deal, getting the determined, smart guy.

See, long before they met in person, Mama had gone with her best friend Annie to Gorham High School for a day, visiting. In math class, the teacher put a problem on the board and asked the class to solve it. Only one student could: my father. He got up and wrote the solution on the blackboard, and Mama was enchanted. She asked Annie, “Who is that guy!?”

Some years later, she married that guy.

March 8th, 1946, wedding picture

In many ways, my parents were quite different people. My mother was progressive in thought beyond her time, naturally empathic and perceptive, a bookworm introvert with a steel spine when she needed it and the amazing ability to keep 5+ people’s business in her head without forgetting anything. Everything I know about organization (and I’m pretty good at it), I learned from my mother. My father was conservative, protective, supportive, more intelligent (in sheer IQ), but less emotionally intelligent (EQ), more driven, but less philosophical. Yet they created a unique alchemy of spirit. They didn’t share common interests—Mama loved reading novels, Daddy never read fiction, Mama loved watching murder mysteries, Daddy preferred ball games or the news. Yet they looked out on the world in the same direction, and that’s what mattered.

Ed Reames in high school

In the end, what can I say but that Daddy was the epitome of the Greatest Generation. And now he’s gone. I won’t say we’ll never see their like again, because nobody knows the future. They weren’t perfect��racism was an institutionalized assumption enshrined in segregation, women barely had the vote, LGBTQ wasn’t even talked about—but we, in our current America, could take a page from those who survived abject poverty and economic collapse without government safety nets, then went on to save the world from fascism. They did it not by grand deeds, but by the simple heroism of young men and a few women storming a beach at Normandy or Iwo Jima, a lot of whom never came home. Daddy used to joke that he chased Hitler all over Europe but never caught him.

Daddy, you did catch him. You were part of the men and women who stopped him.

You are my hero.  You are the real Captain America.

I’m privileged and grateful to be your daughter, and I love you, forever.

[girlwithptsd]

I’m not going to guilt myself over all the things I’ve bought. 

Truth is, I SHOULD be able to buy myself something fun every once and a while, which is what I do. 

I need to be able to live my life and have some fun, buying crystals or tarot decks, or going out to eat or to the movies or coffee with friends, or even getting to go on a date!

I need to be able to spend that gas money to drive through the mountains and see the glory of this earth. 

Because otherwise, what is the point of living?

But often times I have ended up unable to afford those things, and even unable to afford decent food for myself, or gas to get to work. I have had to call in to shifts at work before because I simply did not have enough gas to make it. 

This is it, the apocalypse. 

It is one minute before midnight on a Friday night and I cannot sleep despite taking 50 mg of Trazodone because I am so disappointed that I may be moving back to New Hampshire.

Before now, I always considered suicide before the thought of moving back there. It shows major improvement that I can consider moving back there and actually handle it without those thoughts, and even more improvement that I can actually make plans for what I would do to make my life feel worth living out there. 

I am still afraid that I will end up back in the psych hospital at some point if I move back out there, but I also know that that is okay. Sometimes we need a reboot. 

And I HAVE to remember: I WILL move back to Colorado again someday. Maybe it won’t be for a year, but I WILL be back. 

Colorado is my home. It is my safety. 

I fit here.

I have a phone conversation with my parents on Sunday to go over my finances and see if they can think of anything that will keep me out here, or if not, to then make plans on how to move me back east. I want at least another month out here of trying to find a higher paying job or a lower rent situation. I’m currently looking into freelance writing or something to do with my English major that isn’t education. I sent a message to a friend of mine in NH that majored in English to ask exactly what she does and how she got into it. I sent it just a few hours ago, so hopefully I’ll hear back tomorrow.

My pastor gave me some money to at least make my car payment and get some food and gas until I am paid again. She is trying to find me a living situation I can afford. 

I think of a line from a Florence and the Machine song, “I’m not giving up, I’m just giving in.” I’m not giving up on life, but I’m giving in to what is happening right now, giving in to life’s flow. 

I keep imagining myself slumping onto my bed at my Aunt LL’s house, with disdain and yet relief at being supported more financially. 

I keep thinking about how I have a date tomorrow with a woman who seems awesome, but I can’t get excited about it because I’m worried that I may be leaving. I want to keep acting as if I’m staying, just in case I can stay, but it feels all so fake. 

And then there’s that matter of getting out of my lease. I mean, a former roommate of mine here was able to get out of hers in almost a month, so maybe that would happen for me too. Hopefully my landlord would be as understanding as he has been and let a sublease happen for me too.

Actually, hopefully I find a solution to this problem and can keep living in Colorado.

I am so afraid that all of this will feel like a dream if I move back to NH, and that I will start having PTSD nightmares again. I am so afraid of regressing. I know I will at least a little, that would be the nature of being in that environment again. 

I also want to keep my therapist. I keep thinking about asking her how much she would cost without insurance and if she would be willing to video chat with me while I’m out there. It’s not unheard of to do online counseling like that. And that way my care could stay consistent while I’m in NH and moving back to CO. Idk if she would go for that, though. Or maybe, more likely, she’d be willing to help me find a therapist out there. 

Ugh. Idk what would happen with my insurance either. I’m on Colorado Medicaid. Idk if NH has the same program that I’m on for CO for Medicaid, or if the requirements are different or what. 

I’d have to get my windshield replaced by the place I bought it at before leaving because that was included in the price. They were supposed to do it months ago, but I haven’t called them because I still need to get them the title on the Buick I traded in with them. So I’d have to do that before leaving too.

I have a client that would be devastated if I left. I know my friend E would miss me too. Idk if L would actually keep in touch or if it would go back to how it was before I moved here with so many unanswered calls... My church would miss me too, and my metaphysical store owner friend. I would keep in touch with everyone, of course, but I know from experience it is not the same. 

I don’t know where this leaves me. No decision has been made from writing this. Maybe I’ll call my parents tomorrow instead of waiting until Sunday. I guess it depends what time I wake up in the morning. I was going to go to the metaphysical store I like tomorrow for noon and then my date is at 3:00 and then tomorrow night is a church game night. 

[hypersensitiveheart]

Questions for fun

All about me  1: Full name: Duchess is the only name I give online 2: Age: 30  3: 3 Fears: Men, Pigs, bugs 4: 3 things I love: JJBA, sweet foods, Soda 5: 4 turns on: Intelligence, Common sense, Well Read, Sense of Humor .6: 4 turns off: Arrogance, Rudeness, Drug use, Drinking  7: My best friend: He-man ( My husband), And Wonder Woman (My mother) 8: Sexual orientation: Demisexual 9: My best first date: My first date with He-man, at our local mall 10: How tall am I: Tiny. Three inches over five feet. 11: What do I miss: My grandma. 12: What time were I born: 11 am. Which is weird considering I hate mornings and mostly sleep through them.  13: Favourite color: Blue  14: Do I have a crush: He-Man, Jotaro, Sabretooth, And many other fictional characters.  15: Favourite quote:  16: Favourite place: My sisters house.  17: Favourite food: Tacos  18: Do I use sarcasm: So often that I am always asked if I am serious or not.  19: What am I listening to right now: Motley Crue .20: First thing I notice in new person: Eyes. Height.  21: Shoe size: 9  22: Eye color: Greyish Blue 23: Hair color: Now, light brown, natural Blonde.  24: Favourite style of clothing: Comfy, or punk.  25: Ever done a prank call?: No.  27: Meaning behind my URL: Simply, my name for my blog.  28: Favourite movie: I have many so I’ll just pick one this time and say Boo York, Boo York.  29: Favourite song: True Colors- Cyndi Lauper, My idol.  30: Favourite band: Blondie 31: How I feel right now: Not great.  32: Someone I love: Opal.  33: My current relationship status: Married 34: My relationship with my parents: Great. We all love each other and live together.  35: Favourite holiday: Christmas.  36: Tattoos and piercing i have: 3 tattoos, 3 piercings. 37: Tattoos and piercing i want: I don’t want any more piecings, but many more tattoos.  38: The reason I joined Tumblr: My friend showed it to me, back in like 2009? 39: Do I and my last ex hate each other?: He didn’t love me, like at all, but I was crazy about him for years. I should have the word idiot tattooed on me.  40: Do I ever get “good morning” or “good night ” texts?: No.  41: Have I ever kissed the last person you texted?: Considering it was He-man, yes I did.  42: When did I last hold hands?: Walking with He-man Saturday 43: How long does it take me to get ready in the morning?: I’ve never timed it. I wake up, Brush my hair ETC. I don’t wear make up and usually just put my hair in a pony tail.  44: Have You shaved your legs in the past three days?: No.  45: Where am I right now?: My home.  46: If I were drunk & can’t stand, who’s taking care of me?: I don’t drink.  47: Do I like my music loud or at a reasonable level?: I do both depending on what mood I am in.  48: Do I live with my Mom and Dad?: Yes, and we couldn’t be happier to be together.  49: Am I excited for anything?: No.  50: Do I have someone of the opposite sex I can tell everything to?: He-man.  51: How often do I wear a fake smile?: Not very often. I’m not the best at hiding my emotions.  52: When was the last time I hugged someone?: Like 30 minutes ago.  53: What if the last person I kissed was kissing someone else right in front of me?: Probably immediately die from a broken heart.  54: Is there anyone I trust even though I should not?: No. I barley trust anyone. There’s a reason I don’t ever put my photo on the internet, and it is not what people would think it is.  55: What is something I disliked about today?: Everything. But I’m trying to turn a negative into a positive.  56: If I could meet anyone on this earth, who would it be?: A respectable Pastor, who is not a snake oil salesman like all the ones I’ve met, who I could actually talk to.  57: What do I think about most?: He-man, and Wonder Woman. Also I’m haunted. So that takes up a lot of time.  58: What’s my strangest talent?: I can bend my toes backwards.  59: Do I have any strange phobias?: Pigs. Bugs. Water, all sea life.  60: Do I prefer to be behind the camera or in front of it?: Behind. I refuse to have my photo taken.  61: What was the last lie I told?: I’m okay.  62: Do I perfer talking on the phone or video chatting online?: Neither. Texting or instant messenger.  63: Do I believe in ghosts? How about aliens? Ghosts, yes I’ve seen them. Aliens, I have no clue, and don’t honestly care. 64: Do I believe in magic?: Certain types of it yes.  65: Do I believe in luck?: YES! And I only say this with such assurance because I have the worst luck in the entire universe.  66: What’s the weather like right now?: Sunny. It’s disgusting. Where is the rain, and dreary days I love so much.  67: What was the last book I’ve read?: Mara Wilson’s book.  68: Do I like the smell of gasoline?: No.  69: Do I have any nicknames?: Yeah.  70: What was the worst injury I’ve ever had?: I’m having a complete hysterectomy, with removal of the ovaries and tubes so I’m assuming that will be it.  71: Do I spend money or save it?: I don’t have any to do either.  72: Can I touch my nose with a tounge?: The very bottom.  73: Is there anything pink in 10 feets from me?:Yes 74: Favourite animal?: Swan 75: What was I doing last night at 12 AM?: Reading 76: What do I think is Satan’s last name is?: Sample.  77: What’s a song that always makes me happy when I hear it?: Heart of glass- Blondie 78: How can you win my heart?: It belongs to He-man. Sorry. 79: What would I want to be written on my tombstone?: Finally Free. 80: What is my favorite word?: Pamplemousse  81: My top 5 blogs on tumblr: I don’t know.  82: If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?: Love each other. Be kind. Stop all the hatred.  83: Do I have any relatives in jail?: Yes, I also have quite a few that belong there, and have been in and out their whole adult life.  84: I accidentally eat some radioactive vegetables. They were good, and what’s even cooler is that they endow me with the super-power of my choice! What is that power?: Flight.  85: What would be a question I’d be afraid to tell the truth on?: What do you look like.  86: What is my current desktop picture?: Monster high 87: Had sex?: Yes 88: Bought condoms?: Yes 89: Gotten pregnant?: No 90: Failed a class?: Yes91: Kissed a boy?: Yes 92: Kissed a girl?: Yes 93: Have I ever kissed somebody in the rain?: Maybe? It wasn’t anything romantic.  94: Had job?: Yes .95: Left the house without my wallet?: Yes 96: Bullied someone on the internet?: No.  97: Had sex in public?: No 98: Played on a sports team?: yes 99: Smoked weed?: Yes 100: Did drugs?: No 101: Smoked cigarettes?: Yes 102: Drank alcohol?: I have before, but I really don’t like the taste 103: Am I a vegetarian/vegan?: No. I don’t like meat, but there is some certain types that I will eat.  104: Been overweight?: Yes.  105: Been underweight?: no. 106: Been to a wedding?: Yes 107: Been on the computer for 5 hours straight?: Yes, I’m a writer.  108: Watched TV for 5 hours straight?: Yes 109: Been outside my home country?: No 110: Gotten my heart broken?: Yes 111: Been to a professional sports game?: A college basketball game. 112: Broken a bone?: Toes 113: Cut myself?: Yes 114: Been to prom?: Yes 115: Been in airplane?:no 116: Fly by helicopter?: No 117: What concerts have I been to?: I saw ted nugent play at our county fair. 118: Had a crush on someone of the same sex?: No 119: Learned another language?:no 120: Wore make up?: Yes 121: Lost my virginity before I was 18?: no 122: Had oral sex?: Yes 123: Dyed my hair?: Oh god yes.  124: Voted in a presidential election?: Yes 125: Rode in an ambulance?: No 126: Had a surgery?: Yes 127: Met someone famous?: Locally famous, yes.  128: Stalked someone on a social network?: No 129: Peed outside?: No 130: Been fishing?: Yes 131: Helped with charity?: Yes 132: Been rejected by a crush?: yes 133: Broken a mirror?: Yes 134: What do I want for birthday?: I already had mine this year.  135: How many kids do I want and what will be their names?: None. 136: Was I named after anyone?: My grandmother and my aunt suzi and I all share the same middle name. 137: Do I like my handwriting?: no 138: What was my favourite toy as a child?: Polly pocket and my little pony toys 139: Favourite Tv Show?: Matlock 140: Where do I want to live when older?: Who knows. 141: Play any musical instrument?: No.  142: One of my scars, how did I get it?: I have one scar on my leg from when a dog ripped me open and took out a big hunk.  143: Favourite pizza toping?: Extra Cheese 144: Am I afraid of the dark?: Sometimes. 145: Am I afraid of heights?: Somtimes 146: Have I ever got caught sneaking out or doing anything bad?: Yup 147: Have I ever tried my hardest and then gotten disappointed in the end?: Story  of my life yo.  148: What I’m really bad at: Math 149: What my greatest achievments are: A happy Marriage.  150: The meanest thing somebody has ever said to me: There’s too many of these to pick. I get told something like this every single day of my life.  151: What I’d do if I won in a lottery: pay debt, buy a house.  152: What do I like about myself: I have good hair.  153: My closest Tumblr friend: Taima.  154: Something I fantasise about: Flying.  155: Any question you’d like?: No thank you. �㫲���kS�}

[andistillgetbutterflies]

to grief:

I haven’t written here in a while and I think it’s because I’ve felt less sad about life in general. Yea, there are still days where I feel like I’ll never find happiness, but those days don’t out number the ones where I truly feel content. That is until this week. 

I’ve loved watching glee since the beginning. The characters are the same age as me so as I went through high school, it felt like I really knew these characters and are going through it with them. At first, I really loved glee for the songs and the humour and even the teen drama that seemed so relatable yet far fetched to me. My high school had musical theatre, which I was very much involved in, and my friends and I weren’t bullied for it. In fact, we were praised. We were the cool kids and even got away with avoiding school work because the drama teacher loved us so much and would call our other teachers for us. 

Just like the glee characters, there were a lot of “incest” hookups and drama caused by who was dating who and who liked who and who kissed who. But it was a nice way to bond with people who are seniors and get invited to cool parties. 

During the time I watched glee, I realized more and more how much I enjoyed watching Santana’s character. She was witty, sarcastic, and had a no fucks given attitude that always kept her 100% real. I pride myself in trying to be as real as possible so she was definitely a character I drew towards. Throughout the years, even during the horrible season 5 and 6, I still kept up watching the show, mostly watching for Santana. I’d like to say she carried the show, but reality is I saw a lot of myself in her. The more I watched, the more I became interested in the actors. I’ve always wanted to be famous - I mean I did audition for Disney once. So I’ve found myself drawn to the actors, especially Naya Rivera who played Santana on the show. I’ve imagined ways I’d bump into the cast and how that’ll easily transition into a friendship. So I guess my imagination really brought us closer than we were. 

During COVID-19 and quarantine, I decided to rewatch glee again. The convenience of Netflix and me being laid off gave me insomnia and glee was the perfect fix. I get to sing along and relive my high school years and remember why I loved this show so much. I once again started imagining what it would be like if I moved to LA and how I’d be able to befriend them, even after all these years. My obsession came back as if no years has passed between high school and now. So when the news of Naya Rivera’s passing broke, that hit me hard. 

I’ve never understood why people mourned celebrities they’ve never met. I know people cried when Michael Jackson died or when Whitney Houston died. But I never understood it. How can you feel for someone so deeply if you’ve never met them and you don’t even know who they really are? I guess now I know how it feels.

During the days she went missing, I constantly refreshed every social media page I had and the other cast members to see if I would receive any updated news. I constantly had the gut wrenching feeling in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t shake it off no matter how hard I tried. 

When the press conference finally announced they found a body in the lake and it was her, I lost sense of reality. It was like time stopped and I didn’t want to believe this was real. I constantly felt sad, and every time I refreshed my social media, someone was mourning her which made me more sad. I couldn’t control the tears that were falling down my face and I couldn't, still can’t, grasp exactly why it hit me so hard. She will always be a part of my growing up and I will forever thank her for the excitement she brought me through her character. But that’s not the only reason why I’m sad. 

I’ve always been terrified of death. When I went to church as a kid, a youth pastor pulled each of us aside and explained the concept of heaven. I broke down crying and couldn’t understand what that meant and how that was guaranteed. “Will I see my mom and dad again?”, I asked. I couldn’t fathom that this life ends and that everything I know or have will disappear and I won’t even know or feel it. So to me, everything that means ANYTHING to me at all, I try not to think about it ending. Almost like everything related to me can escape death. So when I found out about Naya, my reaction was, what do you mean she’s gone? How can she be alive yesterday and gone today? I literally just saw her Instagram story and her tweeting. I didn’t, and still don’t, quite understand it. 

As you can probably tell, I haven’t lost a lot of people in my life, or at least people I remember losing. The closest to my memory would be my aunt who was battling cancer, but I was very young and the only grief I remember having is seeing my mother in the back seat of the car bawling her eyes out after hearing a certain song on our way to go fishing. I’d never forget that look. 

And as I continued my grief, silently of course, because my Asian parents would never understand, I thought I’d reach out to my best friend. He’s very special to me and someone that I really fell in love with. The last person I ever loved til this day. We always played phone tag and would check in on each other every now and then. We would always try to be happy for each other on whatever we’re up to and try to encourage each other to chase our dreams. We’re both Gemini’s so we’re ambitious like that. To my surprise, he responded “who is this”. This never happens, because he usually says its him and he knows my number since I haven’t changed it since 2012. That’s when I get a call from him. 

I was hesitant to answer at first because I was nervous. I always got nervous around him, even after all these years. But when I picked up, a woman answered. To be honest, I thought it was his girlfriend and she didn't want me messaging him. He always had a lot of girlfriends, some were crazier than others so I wasn’t too surprised. But, it wasn’t. I wish it was a crazy girlfriend. Instead, it was his mom. 

His mom remembered my name, I even met her once. I was happy to hear that he talked about me to her because it shows that I meant something to him. But I cannot believe what she said next.

“Carter passed away on July 3, we actually had a funeral last Thursday.”

What. The. Fuck. 

As I continue to stutter and apologize for having to put his mom in this situation, I can’t help but wonder what happened. So as I tiptoed around the subject I finally asked, “was it sudden?”

“He killed himself. I try to be honest about it. I don’t know if he told you about his mental health problems, but he’s been sad for a long time.”

I knew about his depression and mental health struggles. I knew that he had a rough childhood and he resented his dad for leaving him. He fought with his mom all the time, and she kicked him out on multiple occasions. But he found love from his grandparents, which are who he stayed with most of the time. I knew all this, but I didn't realize how bad it had gotten. I wish I had. 

Ever since we were kids, I’ve always tried to be a good influence to him. I even tried to convince him to come to summer school with me, which let’s be honest, he barely showed up for school during the year and that was mandatory so why would he ever go to summer school. But he entertained the idea for me, like he always did with everything I suggested. I guess he didn’t want to disappoint me. And as we grew up and grew apart, mostly because he moved and changed schools a million times and I went off to University in a different province, we still kept in touch. He has always struggled with finding a passion and what he wanted to do with his life. First he wanted to make music, which he did for a while, then he turned to art. I thought this would be his biggest break through, his art was amazing. I suggested he should be a tattoo artist since he loved tattoos and is clearly good at drawing. So when we chatted back in March of 2019, he had let me know he is restructuring himself and even went to an open house at OCAD and centennial to enrol if he doesn’t hear back from a tattoo apprenticeship. Then December 2019 came around and he let me know he was in a transitional phase with his art and might want to go into animation so he could work from home. He even suggested he’d come visit me in Montreal. I know he never would, but just the fact that he suggested made me so happy. We even tried to make plans to meet up, I really wish I had pressed him for these plans because maybe he needed to see me for a reason. 

Nothing until now had been a red flag for me. I tried to always be positive and whatever dream he was chasing after next, I tried to be supportive and reaffirm that he did have talent and he will figure it out. But in February, his art on Instagram had taken a darker turn. I didn’t notice at first because he posted sporadically and also the Instagram algorithm only gives you a piece a time so if you didn’t go on his profile you wouldn't see the full picture. But his Instagram story caught my eye. It was a post along the lines of if he died, no one would even care. I immediately messaged him letting him know I would. He said thank you and quickly changed the topic to visiting me again in Montreal. I should’ve said something more. I should've called him because he clearly wasn’t being honest. 

When I moved back home this summer thanks to COVID, something inside of me kept telling me to text him. If only I had texted him a couple of weeks earlier. If only I had reached out to him then. Maybe, this would’ve changed everything.

I always thought we would’ve found our way back into each others lives. I’ve played over a million scenarios in my head of how we’d be as close as we were back in high school. I even imagined the day I had the guts to tell him how much I’ve loved him and how long I loved him for. But now I’ll never get the chance. 

I wish he saw how much he meant to me. How I’d smile when I see his name come up on my blackberry messenger with an incoming text. Or when he’d call me babe even though we weren’t dating. A friend who read over my shoulder used to laugh at me because the way we texted sounded cheesier and more in a relationship than my friend and her actual boyfriend. He always thought he was a ball of darkness, but he never knew how much light he brought into my life. To me, he’ll always be that kid we spent hours in Toys R Us sitting in children couches, hiding from the staff and talking about life. The goofy guy who photobombed a family at the CNE, and when the family saw, they just laughed because that’s just how charming he was. The guy who my parents picked up from his house to drive us to the movies and they even caught us, you behind me with your arms around me while we waited to be picked up (my mother immediately decided to have the birds and the bees talk with me the next day at a Swiss Chalet, thanks for that). And as we got older, we promised to marry each other if we were still single by 30, it was one of those promises we made to each other prompted by a silly rom com. But he didn’t even hesitate. He even agreed to have a skydiving wedding with me and say “I Do” in the air. He was the first person I told about this crazy sky diving onto an island wedding idea and like always, supported me even when I’m out of my mind. To me, he was perfect. 

Right from the beginning he said to me “don’t fall in love with me”, at the time he had a few unfaithful relationships and a few toxic ones. He thought he wasn’t worth me loving him because he would ruin everything. 

Well Carter Avery Benitez, from the day I stalked your Facebook after only meeting you for an evening at your ex girlfriends house and messaged you, desperately wanting to get to know you, there was no way I wouldn’t fall in love with you. You’ll always have a special place in my heart. June 13, 1994 - July 3, 2020, rest in paradise my love. 

[chicagoindiecritics]

New from Every Movie Has a Lesson by Don Shanahan: MOVIE REVIEW: Little Women

(Image: vanityfair.com)

LITTLE WOMEN— 5 STARS

Not to borrow out of context from George Harrison’s Beatles lyrics, but, when it comes to Greta Gerwig as the director of Little Women, there is something in the way she moves. Scene after scene in the adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s beloved classic penned by her own hand, there is an enchanting manner by which the ensemble is allowed to carry on, as it were. For every segment where a performer is hitting a mark of precision to deliver their speech, there are four or five others where Alexandre Desplat’s sumptuous score will rise, mute the conversation, and lead the audience to simply watch. The characters commiserate and move freely within their relationships and surroundings. We too then live and become absorbed in the beauty of those moments.

The endearing brilliance of Little Women is earned in those quaint sways and movements as much as, if not more than, it is by its crests of high drama. With masterful leadership and bold thematic choices applied to well-worn ideals, Greta Gerwig continuously captures an uncanny vibrancy out of a literary setting that otherwise would be frozen in stagnant despair. Every fiber and morsel of this movie swells with this sense of spirit to embed radiance in resiliency.

The titular Chatty Cathys are the four March sisters of the 1860s at different coming-of-age stages. The two youngest, Beth (newcomer Eliza Scanlan of Babyteeth) and Amy (rising star Florence Pugh), look up to their older two sisters, Jo (three-time Academy Award nominee Saoirse Ronan) and Meg (the now nearly-30 Emma Watson) with shifting notes of reverence and jealousy. With a short-sighted “tired of being poor” feeling, all four lament living within their reduced New England means during the American Civil War. The family’s pastor patriarch (Bob Odenkirk) has been away for years with little contact while his dauntless wife Marmee (Laura Dern) cares for the rapidly maturing girls.

The Marchs are not alone with the tough times. With a shared “I know what it is to want,” they are in a place to tighten their skirts and give to help a poor and struggling single mother nearby. At the same time, they are supported from above by their huffy elder aunt (a perfect feisty Meryl Streep, well within her element) and the wealthy Laurence family next door comprised of Mr. Laurence (the kindly Oscar winner Chris Cooper) and his nonconformist son Theodore (Call Me By Your Name’s Timothée Chalamet). With an alluring young man like “Laurie,” as he is called, nearby, affections grow and hearts swoon.

Swinging the chronological narrative pendulum to and fro, the plight of the March family is being remembered in episodic portions by Jo. She has moved away years later to New York City with the uphill aspirations of becoming a published writer for the discerning editor Mr. Dashwood (Tracy Letts, with the right amount of curmudgeon). Jo is enterprising and determined to be taken seriously.

LESSON #1: GIRLS HAVE TO GO OUT INTO THE WORLD — Independence is highly valued and celebrated with “love my liberty” in Little Women. For our central guide Jo, fond reflection forms the confidence that her own story is compelling sort that will inspire others. Despite what society deems suitable and how they are kept from property and prosperity, women are fit for more than love and marriage. They deserve to play out their ambitions. Along the same lines, Alcott’s novel itself presents a great passage on wealth that is echoed in the film in its own way:

“Money is a needful and precious thing, — and, when well used, a noble thing, — but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

LESSON #2: NEIGHBORS HELPING NEIGHBORS — In many wonderful displays, these are noble and generous people who care to hear and tread in the stories and needs of others despite their personal wants. Furthermore, respectfully knowing the arduous realities present keeps them from being truly ungrateful for what they have. That level of empathy will remain in them into their own families. When rewarded, their own pulled-up bootstraps will transform how “pretty things deserve to be enjoyed.”

LESSON #3: TO PINE, OH WHAT IT IS TO PINE — Nevertheless, even with a giving heart, the longing for deeper wants is hard to truly curb. We have multiple characters in this melodrama that pine for love, marriage, position, dreams, or freedom within their unfortunate and trying situations. The definition of “pine” reads “to yearn intensely and persistently especially for something unattainable” followed by “to lose vigor, health, or flesh.” So much of Little Women, is this languishing pursuit towards personal and emotional fulfillment.

LESSON #4: THE STRENGTH OF FAMILIAL LOVE — To borrow this time from the Greeks and a dollop of The Bible instead of the Fab Four, the level of “storge” love in this saga is exquisite. When family is in need, the annoyances and competitiveness of these sisters go away and bonds are renewed. As they say in the dialogue, “life is too short to be angry at sisters.” Once again, thanks to Gerwig’s tonal choices, you see it, plain as day, in the way the cast in character interacts. The emotional wreckage that results is incredibly genuine.

The performances of this exceptional cast make this journey of pining sacrifices and kindred challenges palpable. Saoirse Ronan accomplishes the quick wit and stubborn strength of the lead role without making it a Katharine Hepburn imitation. Timothée Chalamet uses his smiling charm at full wattage where his piercing gaze and strong words can convey soulfulness under the rude, edgy, and volatile arrogance of his romantic catalyst. Laura Dern flips the privileged acid of her Marriage Story lawyer role to play uncompromising earnestness here with complete and utter grace. Lastly and hugely, Florence Pugh is the spinal cord to Ronan’s backbone. She makes the nerves and savage passion of her tug-of-war middle daughter position stunning.

More and more, there is a pep here higher in this eighth adaptation of Alcott’s novel compared to its predecessors. Springing its winter steps, this Little Women strolls rather than plods. French Cinematographer Yorick Le Saux (Personal Shopper, A Bigger Splash) captures the textured array of period ambiance created by production designer and veteran Coen brothers collaborator Jess Gonchor. Le Saux’s framing choices are absolutely perfect and the slow-motion occasionally employed to freeze time in happy, blissful moments adds even more impact to its ravishing cinematic layers.

LESSON #5: A WOMAN’S TOUCH IN ALL THINGS — This task to recreate Little Women for the 21st century landed in the right hands, namely HER hands. Greta Gerwig’s elevated her work from Lady Bird in sweeping, grander fashion without losing any of her keen and insightful voice for humanistic commentary. To have this epic tale of powerful gender-driven truths that still resonate in the present day move with such whimsy and gumption is extraordinary and important.

And there’s the best word of all: important. The timelessness of Little Women matters. Gerwig matches the dreams of Alcott’s quote stating “Writing doesn’t confirm importance, it reflects it.” Her stewardship and screenplay deserves every compliment that can be paid. She brings forth the full vigor possible of this story and now owns the poignant love it expresses as much as Alcott.

Not to borrow out of context from George Harrison’s Beatles lyrics, but, when it comes to Greta Gerwig as the director of Little Women, there is something in the way she moves. Scene after scene in the adaptation of Louisa May Alcott’s beloved classic penned by her own hand, there is an enchanting manner by which the ensemble is allowed to carry on, as it were. For every segment where a performer is hitting a mark of precision to deliver their speech, there are four or five others where Alexandre Desplat’s sumptuous score will rise, mute the conversation, and lead the audience to simply watch. The characters commiserate and move freely within their relationships and surroundings. We too then live and become absorbed in the beauty of those moments.

The endearing brilliance of Little Women is earned in those quaint sways and movements as much as, if not more than, it is by its crests of high drama. With masterful leadership and bold thematic choices applied to well-worn ideals, Greta Gerwig continuously captures an uncanny vibrancy out of a literary setting that otherwise would be frozen in stagnant despair. Every fiber and morsel of this movie swells with this sense of spirit to embed radiance in resiliency.

The titular Chatty Cathys are the four March sisters of the 1860s at different coming-of-age stages. The two youngest, Beth (newcomer Eliza Scanlan of Babyteeth) and Amy (rising star Florence Pugh), look up to their older two sisters, Jo (three-time Academy Award nominee Saoirse Ronan) and Meg (the now nearly-30 Emma Watson) with shifting notes of reverence and jealousy. With a short-sighted “tired of being poor” feeling, all four lament living within their reduced New England means during the American Civil War. The family’s pastor patriarch (Bob Odenkirk) has been away for years with little contact while his dauntless wife Marmee (Laura Dern) cares for the rapidly maturing girls.

The Marchs are not alone with the tough times. With a shared “I know what it is to want,” they are in a place to tighten their skirts and give to help a poor and struggling single mother nearby. At the same time, they are supported from above by their huffy elder aunt (a perfect feisty Meryl Streep, well within her element) and the wealthy Laurence family next door comprised of Mr. Laurence (the kindly Oscar winner Chris Cooper) and his nonconformist son Theodore (Call Me By Your Name’s Timothée Chalamet). With an alluring young man like “Laurie,” as he is called, nearby, affections grow and hearts swoon.

Swinging the chronological narrative pendulum to and fro, the plight of the March family is being remembered in episodic portions by Jo. She has moved away years later to New York City with the uphill aspirations of becoming a published writer for the discerning editor Mr. Dashwood (Tracy Letts, with the right amount of curmudgeon). Jo is enterprising and determined to be taken seriously.

LESSON #1: GIRLS HAVE TO GO OUT INTO THE WORLD — Independence is highly valued and celebrated with “love my liberty” in Little Women. For our central guide Jo, fond reflection forms the confidence that her own story is compelling sort that will inspire others. Despite what society deems suitable and how they are kept from property and prosperity, women are fit for more than love and marriage. They deserve to play out their ambitions. Along the same lines, Alcott’s novel itself presents a great passage on wealth that is echoed in the film in its own way:

“Money is a needful and precious thing, — and, when well used, a noble thing, — but I never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see you poor men’s wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace.”

LESSON #2: NEIGHBORS HELPING NEIGHBORS — In many wonderful displays, these are noble and generous people who care to hear and tread in the stories and needs of others despite their personal wants. Furthermore, respectfully knowing the arduous realities present keeps them from being truly ungrateful for what they have. That level of empathy will remain in them into their own families. When rewarded, their own pulled-up bootstraps will transform how “pretty things deserve to be enjoyed.”

LESSON #3: TO PINE, OH WHAT IT IS TO PINE — Nevertheless, even with a giving heart, the longing for deeper wants is hard to truly curb. We have multiple characters in this melodrama that pine for love, marriage, position, dreams, or freedom within their unfortunate and trying situations. The definition of “pine” reads “to yearn intensely and persistently especially for something unattainable” followed by “to lose vigor, health, or flesh.” So much of Little Women, is this languishing pursuit towards personal and emotional fulfillment.

LESSON #4: THE STRENGTH OF FAMILIAL LOVE — To borrow this time from the Greeks and a dollop of The Bible instead of the Fab Four, the level of “storge” love in this saga is exquisite. When family is in need, the annoyances and competitiveness of these sisters go away and bonds are renewed. As they say in the dialogue, “life is too short to be angry at sisters.” Once again, thanks to Gerwig’s tonal choices, you see it, plain as day, in the way the cast in character interacts. The emotional wreckage that results is incredibly genuine.

The performances of this exceptional cast make this journey of pining sacrifices and kindred challenges palpable. Saoirse Ronan accomplishes the quick wit and stubborn strength of the lead role without making it a Katharine Hepburn imitation. Timothée Chalamet uses his smiling charm at full wattage where his piercing gaze and strong words can convey soulfulness under the rude, edgy, and volatile arrogance of his romantic catalyst. Laura Dern flips the privileged acid of her Marriage Story lawyer role to play uncompromising earnestness here with complete and utter grace. Lastly and hugely, Florence Pugh is the spinal cord to Ronan’s backbone. She makes the nerves and savage passion of her tug-of-war middle daughter position stunning.

More and more, there is a pep here higher in this eighth adaptation of Alcott’s novel compared to its predecessors. Springing its winter steps, this Little Women strolls rather than plods. French Cinematographer Yorick Le Saux (Personal Shopper, A Bigger Splash) captures the textured array of period ambiance created by production designer and veteran Coen brothers collaborator Jess Gonchor. Le Saux’s framing choices are absolutely perfect and the slow-motion occasionally employed to freeze time in happy, blissful moments adds even more impact to its ravishing cinematic layers.

LESSON #5: A WOMAN’S TOUCH IN ALL THINGS — This task to recreate Little Women for the 21st century landed in the right hands, namely HER hands. Greta Gerwig’s elevated her work from Lady Bird in sweeping, grander fashion without losing any of her keen and insightful voice for humanistic commentary. To have this epic tale of powerful gender-driven truths that still resonate in the present day move with such whimsy and gumption is extraordinary and important.

And there’s the best word of all: important. The timelessness of Little Women matters. Gerwig matches the dreams of Alcott’s quote stating “Writing doesn’t confirm importance, it reflects it.” Her stewardship and screenplay deserves every compliment that can be paid. She brings forth the full vigor possible of this story and now owns the poignant love it expresses as much as Alcott.

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[pretendpapi]

No Apologies for Queer White Tears

By Faith Cheltenham

Delivered as a keynote address to the 2016 BlaQOUT Conference at UC Riverside on April 9th, 2016.

White tears is a term that has a startling effect on white folks. Developed over time to describe the phenomenon of white people being upset at the very act of discussing race, it’s evolved into a funny yet, extremely effective way to describe white people’s discomfort in discussing the very racism they perpetuate. One of the earliest articles available online about white tears written by a person of color is the 2007 College Student Affairs Journal article “When White Women Cry: How White Women’s Tears Oppress Women of Color” by Mamta Motwani Accapadi. In the article, Accapadi describes a case study of a white woman bursting into tears when being pressed by a woman of color about diversity resources at the college that employs them both. Instead of working on the issues affecting students, the case study states that the rest of the meeting was spent consoling the white woman about her white tears. So it’s white tears I immediately thought of last July, as I sat talking to Kathryn Snyder about white folks interrupting Black people to tell us about their own racism, when what do you know? A young Tearful White Woman (let’s call her TWW for short) interrupts us to ask, “Can we talk? Just talk as people? About race?” Her friends tried to pull her back and whisper in her ear but TWW was inebriated and loudly whispered back “No! I get to ask! I get to ask!” I told her, “You can ask, but I am not required to answer you.”See, I’d never met this particular TWW before, and neither had Kathryn Snyder, an amazing Black bi+ queer organizer everyone should know (that’s her on the right with the triangle earrings). We were all of us, tearful white people included, at the 2015 Netroots Nation convention in Phoenix, back in July where a whole bunch of Black folks experienced a whole bunch of racism. You know, like they do most months.The kind of racism where white liberals you’ve never met before are suddenly touching your face without asking in their best petting paternalism, or the kind where you repeatedly turn a corner to find a Black girl sobbing but surrounded in love by other Black people. #YouOKSis? It was the kind of space where Black people were openly targeted, in this case mostly by Bernie Sanders supporters who were reeling from recent reports that Sanders wasn’t scoring well with Black voters. Shit was going down, so it made sense that many white people would immediately turn to any Black person they could find to assuage their white guilt, express their privilege and stump for their candidate too. Like “Black voters” were a product to obtain, instead of listen to, and to harp on, instead of hear from.An older, respected white LGBT advocate invited a number of LGBT people of color to his suite party and made it clear that people of color were welcome. So me and Kathryn showed up, and with a bunch of other people proceeded to have a great time. At one point we went on an excursion looking for supplies, and the elevator was really slow. As we waited, the full elevators would open and we would pose in different forms, much like we used to do when I was a young’un at UCLA. Once when the door opened, I saw a few Black women I had seen before but not yet talked to. I called out, “Hey now, we’re up in Rm 512 if you want to hang with some queer people of color and some Black folks!” The women locked eyes on me, and that moment happened, the one where they were no longer surrounded by oppressive whiteness, discomfort, tone policing, and silencing. The moment when you’re not thinking at all about white tears?  You know, the moment when you’re free?#BlackLivesMatter co-founder Patrisse Cullors, Ferguson BLM activist Ashley Yates, and #NN15 QPOC Caucus co-organizers Faith Cheltenham, Eyad Alkurabi, Sommer Foster and Daniel Villarreal at Netroots Nation 2015. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamThe Black women in the elevator called back to us, “We’ll come back up” and we decided to skip going back downstairs.  We went back to the suite and chilled, and Kathryn and I started talking about our Netroots Nation experience so far, in particular the ability of white folks to interrupt her at every moment to “talk about race” or tell her what Bernie Sanders had done for Black folks (#BernieSoBlack has more details). I was just telling her some of the things that had unfolded for me when I got a tap on the shoulder from the aforementioned Tearful White Woman. Even after I expressed that it wasn’t my responsibility to educate this tearful white woman, she persisted. Kathryn raised an eyebrow at me and I decided that TWW did need to know something from me after all. As I finished a custom hand roll, I looked up from licking the paper and said, “Listen to me OK? This is really important.” TWW nodded bravely, visibly squaring herself for a barrage of statements she really needed to hear, but I only had one. “I want you to imagine that every time you walk up to Black folks and interrupt their conversation, you are interrupting a conversation about Black folks being interrupted by white people.” As she opened her mouth to reply, I held up my hand and went all “you shall not pass”. Stoic, I handed her my most recent hand roll. “Listen”, I said gently, “that’s all I got for right now, but you take this with my best wishes. Goodbye.” Her friends dragged her out my space and one stayed behind. Kathryn raised another eyebrow, and I sighed. TWW’s friend quickly said, “Listen, I am SO SORRY her white privilege got all over you when you were just hanging out. We were on the elevator just now and she became convinced you were talking to her and telling her to come to room 512. We told her you were talking to the other women of color and told her about the need for safe space in oppressive white spaces, but she’s really new to social justice.”I had tears of laughter in my eyes, at the ridiculousness of those white folks who ALWAYS insist that EVERYTHING in Black lives is REALLY all about them. And I had hope, simply because of the friend who had stuck behind to quickly explain, apologize, and make right. So I thanked TWW’s friend and wished them all a good night. As they walked away, Kathryn and I burst out into big ass belly laughs because sometimes racism IS good for a laugh. Faith Cheltenham in the San Luis Obispo Telegram-Tribune, age 9. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamWhite tears wasn’t a term I knew when I was in middle school and organized my first protest against my school’s “Jungle Fever” ball. See, I grew up in white town, white county, very white USA. My hometown of San Luis Obispo, California prided itself on its “slo-ness” in all things, from the ban on drive thru’s to its slow to evolve racial sensibilities. From a very early age, I withstood taunts of “Aunt Jemima”, pulls on my braids intended to show my “real hair”, and insults from students and teachers alike, with the favorite being “Buckwheat” due to my hair’s tendency to stand up so straight you’d think my follicles themselves were stressed. My daily school experience was of avoiding the kids who threw rocks at me only to come back from recess to fight with my teachers about their racist views. By the time I was in high school I was writing about my experiences of race, inspired by Nikki Giovanni, Richard Wright, James Baldwin, Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison. I won an honorable mention from a USA Today writing racial justice content as a high school freshman and kept writing, hoping to create an invisible ring of protection that would keep my hope (and self) alive. I battled race at school, but when I went home, I didn’t go home to a Black home that welcomed me, but to a biracial one ruled by a mentally unstable, racist, biphobic and homophobic white Pentecostal pastor. At home I faced abuse of a different kind, most of which I kept secret for many years until taking a hammer to my own wall of silence. And at home too, I protested. I protested and called the police. I protested and called CPS. I protested and called for help, and when I couldn’t get it, I called RAINN, a hotline that helped me find a teen homeless shelter to stay in until I could feel safe at home again. These are the experiences of so many Black people: the loss of safety at home and abroad in their everyday lives, all-the-while experiencing the colonization of our bodies, appropriations of our culture, and the fragility of white people who refuse to dismantle their own supremacy in a world where it’s far too difficult to tell the difference between the GOP and the KKK. My background led me to raise my voice consistently for those unheard, and those kept at the margins. I’ve done that with blogging, writing, slam poetry, reality show appearances, stand-up comedy, and Black and bisexual community organizing. Everywhere I go I’ve been standing up for oppressed people, because before I knew the words and the mechanism for my own oppression, I knew the feeling. I knew the feeling of crying alone, desperate to end my own life because I couldn’t take another adult yelling the N word at me at 9 years old. I knew the feeling of being patted down and frequently profiled by police because that’s what walking down the street in San Luis Obispo, CA any damn day entailed. I knew what it was like to be raped because a boy thought he knew what a big breasted Black ten year old girl like me wanted. I have always known what it is like to be treated as a second class citizen in comparison to my peers. Still, racism can always find new ways to surprise you.Photo of #TheBlackPanel at #LGBTMEDIA16 handouts with a love note from ForHarriet.com’s Ashleigh Shackelford. Photo Credit: Faith CheltenhamRecently, I re-experienced the phenomenon of gaslighting racism which Black LGBT YA author Craig Gidney defines as a situation "where (mostly) (some) white people will twist themselves into logic pretzels to deny racism, even when it is obvious."We were about to begin #TheBlackPanel at #LGBTMedia16, an annual gathering of LGBTQ journalists, bloggers and media professionals. Our panel featured a rising star in discussions of race, New York Times columnist Charles Blow, alongside NBCNews.com contributor Danielle Moodie-Mills, and Vox.com’s Race and Identities editor Michelle Garcia. The panel was developed by myself, Sharif Durhams of the WashingtonPost.com and Matt Foreman of the Haas Foundation with the support of Bil Browning, founder of bilerico.com. We were the 2nd panel to go and as we gathered to get everyone settled, I turned around to find a wonderfully styled white woman invading my personal space to whisper to me how beautiful Charles Blow was and how much she loved him and could she have her picture right now, before everyone else because she was such a fan. Since we literally were about to start the panel, I asked her to wait and sit down so we could get started, which she did. As we began the panel and started having a really good and profound conversation, from the podium I noticed a rise in concerning behavior from the wonderfully styled white woman (we can call her WSWW for short). After the panel had begun, she got up and walked over to the panel table and put her phone down to tape. After a few minutes, she began to look concerned for her phone and she began to quietly crawl forward. The whole time I’m watching her, like WTF, are you literally crawling slowly forward towards our panel? And she kept crawling closer and closer. I admit it, at that point all I saw was WHITE PEOPLE. I was furious with the general lack of respect and disregard for the panelists and for myself as a moderator. When, from the moderator’s podium, I asked her to take her seat because I found it distracting, instead of nodding and moving back to her seat she began to argue with me about why it wasn’t a big deal for her to be there, and why I should just let it go and why it’s OK to tape things because “look, we have a celebrity”. In those statements, I felt a disregard for my own work and a general slight to my own experience as a journalist and a person who’s worked with high profile institutions like the White House or Sarah Ferguson, The Duchess of York, a woman I’m proud to call a mentor. While it seemed like such a small thing, coupled with her previous invasion of personal space and her comments on her love for beautiful Black men, it just read racist and real racist at that. However, it won’t surprise you that the only support I felt in that room for my desire to stay on topic was from my fellow Black girl queers. As I struggled to “keep my eyebrows on”, I thought about  Black writer and The Nightly Show contributor’s Franchesca Ramsey’s run in with white queer women at The Sundance Film Festival and I took strength from looking Ashleigh Shackelford right in the face as she raised her eyebrows at Charles Blow for his apologies to the white woman of behalf of me, the Black woman who invited him to speak on the panel. In those moments of racial microaggressions, and in the moment when white tears threaten the ability for Black people to even discuss race, we all lose. All the LGBT people of color in attendance at #LGBTMedia16. Photo Credit: Cathy Renna/TargetCueI believe I pulled it together, and we were able to continue a meaningful conversation that multiple people later remarked being deeply impressed by during the public feedback session. As we ended the convening, I tapped WSWW on the shoulder and asked if we could speak. We went off to the side and had a difficult conversation, certainly for both of us. She, like myself, is bisexual and had been deeply influenced by Charles Blow’s discussions of sexual fluidity. She told me others had apologized to her for my “crazy” response to her being a fan girl, and she said she was worried for me since I had humiliated myself by bullying her.  Image of crying Peter Parker with caption, “White Boy Tears / I’m Offended Your Offended At that, a smile broke across my face, and I will never forget telling her “That’s OK, because you’re going to your grave having told a Black woman that she humiliated herself when she responded to your racism.” WSWW blanched at that, and swallowed hard when I followed up with a tearfully stated, “I call you racist to your face, and name your actions as racist”. As she teared up, she asked me how it could be racist just to bring her phone up to the panel. And I took her through the sequence of events from my perspective, and I asked her if she realized she had touched me, or if she realized she was in my space, attempting to lean across my body to reach Charles Blow, when we’d never even met before. Her eyes went WIDE, and she said, “Oh, my gosh. I totally invaded your space and I didn’t even think about it.” We talked about her “Black friends” in Oklahoma, and I told her that having Black friends doesn’t mean you’re actually invested in the movement for Black lives. We talked about her “love of Black people” and how that can be misconstrued into fetishization if one isn’t careful, especially when you begin crawling towards them with puppy dog eyes during a panel about race in America. We began to laugh with each other and I realized I really liked her even though I didn’t think she’d ever had the opportunity to learn how to respect a Black person like me, and culturally exchange with them instead of culturally appropriate from them. Image from Paying an Unfair Price: The Financial Penalty for LGBT People of Color report by the Movement Advancement Project.That’s a responsibility, I feel should be left squarely at the feet of a lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer community that’s doggedly refused to dialogue about race in favor of reinventing racism in new flavors. I had to wonder if WSWW had been influenced at all by the #LGBTMEDIA16 keynote address the night before that found gay legend and filmmaker John Waters telling jokes about Freddie Gray’s broken back alongside Bill Cosby rape stories. In a rare move, the convening had asked the attendees to refrain from taking photos or video of John Water’s “address”, which was probably for the best, as I feel like someone could have lost their job just for listening to the atrocities that dropped from Waters’ mouth like little white nuggets of gay racism. Experiencing that, even briefly since I walked out early, was a form of racial trauma visited upon the people of color in the space, and for what? Since you’re gay and white, you’ve been hurt and can hurt people too? Since you’re a white gay man, you know what it’s like to fear police so Freddie Gray’s broken vertebrae is a good punchline when you’re feeling salty? Since you’re a white LGBTQ person, you have no problem stepping into photos where people of color are already posed together, with nary a thought as to whether they want you in the photo too? Since you’re a white lesbian, you’re a “sister” to Black women? Since you’re queer, you can culturally appropriate Black culture with a “SLAY!” or “YASSSSS QUEEN!” or “GIRL, GET IT!”? The six openly LGBT U.S. ambassadors, all white, all gay and all cis. Photo Credit: WashingtonPost.com/ (Blake Bergen/GLIFAA) Oh no, I think not!!! I call that racist too, and long past time for an end. It’s time for all people of color to see some basic levels of respect in the LGBTQIA community for who they are. So that means no more “Namaste!”, and it means dropping the “No Blacks, No Asians” from your dating profile. It means fighting just as hard for clean water for Native people as it does for the residents of Flint, MI, and shouting #Not1More to amplify the fight of Latinx immigrants. It means fighting #pinkwashing in all it's forms and it ABSOLUTELY means acknowledging the existence of dozens of cultural experiences and peoples still fighting to be heard. It also means that LGBT orgs should quit touting the numbers of people of color on staff, until the management reflects those colors too. When all the coordinators, service providers, and facility people are of color and all the management is white, it still looks like a plantation in my book! #GayMediaSoWhite that LGBT publishers shouldn't bother counting the magazine covers with people of color on them, if they aren't also counting the number of people of color on staff writing and editing in them. Until the day comes that the rainbow really reflects all of us, I will stand up against racism in LGBTQIA communities with whatever tools I have at my disposal. I will keep telling myself, and telling you too, that it is OK to cry, and BE MAD. We should be mad that our community does not support us! It is OK to protest white LGBT people, in fact one might argue it is our duty as their fellow queer, bi+ and trans* community members. We must do what needs to be done to find some respect for our voices and our bodies, and make clear that the LGBTQIA community is one that supports freedom for everyone, and not just for some.

[noxpress]

Notes on The Argonauts

I finished reading Maggie Nelson's The Argonauts (2015). One down on the list of books I've set out to read this summer. It will very likely be the easiest of them all, I had no intentions for this one. I heard The Argonauts mentioned a few times by peers, I even had parts of it assigned in class, but I never bothered to look into it properly. I knew at a glance at a professor's scan that I liked the way Nelson incorporates quotes into her writing. I've always hated formal citation, cutting up my sentences with information. I also don't like compromising on others' ideas. If I could write only in a collage of block quotes, I would. I'm glad someone finally stuck it to them. It's Bluets I had actually intended to read, perhaps for silly reasons. First, simply because it wasn't The Argonauts, second because I like it when people have a thing and I thought the colour blue might be a thing, and third because the blurbs I skim-read announced a mix of prose and verse, which, in my experience of Anne Carson, is a great thing.I ended up with The Argonauts just because I wandered into a book store on a lousy day last month to indulge (a small few times a year I let myself buy a book new: on lousy days, or when there's really nothing else to go around). It was displayed right across the entrance. The shop had some kind of watery theme going. This edition has blue-purple waves for a cover, it's nice and simple. I did what I always do: opened to a page at random and gave it a glance to see if it looked palatable. There were lines of verse (good), they were about motherhood (this I wasn't so sure about, felt uneasy even). Either way, I walked out of there comfort-book under arm, without knowing anything about Maggie Nelson except her name, and completely forgetting about Bluets. I leave a trace in my books, so I can find my way again. The folded corners at the top tell me at what pace I read. The ones at the bottom tell me where I wanted to remember something the most. For Argonauts ,I tacked on a few other things: some blue post-it notes for further readings, three exactly, various pencil annotations, and a few words scribbled in the margins. I know I will came back to The Argonauts. The books I seem to refuse to preview properly are always such a surprise. I had that happen with The Bell Jar. I was 18 and had absolutely no idea what it was about and knew nothing about Sylvia Plath either. I was reading quite a few classic American novels that year (I know Why the Caged Bird Sings, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Catcher in the Rye, Post Office, Fahrenheit 541, Brave New World,  Lolita etc.) and, given such a list, the Bell Jar could land pretty much anywhere in terms of what it was about. For some reason I had it pegged as something pastoral, perhaps Southern, and coming of age. My guess is Plath's gender amongst all the men had me lump it with Maya Angelou and Harper Lee. Nonetheless, the modernity of it, the content of it, the sincerity of it... hit me like a ton of bricks. Argonauts didn't have quite such a jarring effect, but it was a definite experience in the un-anticipated. I've spoken to a few girls my age about the strange turn some things appear to have taken in recent years. No one thinks to warn you. It suddenly dawned on me one day that pregnancy was something that I couldn't quite get in trouble over anymore. For the longest time accidental pregnancy just had this death-factor reaction of "I'd be completely fucked". It meant shame, it meant secrecy, it meant incredible burden if uttered. But somewhere in the midst of my extended family growing larger – older cousins and siblings making babies – it struck me that mothers (my mother, my aunts, 'my many-gendered mothers'), that is the gyroscopes of opinion and permissibility, were anticipating the emergence of a new generation of care. Hints are dropped in the form of stored children's books and stuffed animals – carefully, quietly, pragmatically kept. A tattoo artist warned me about places not to get tattooed. It is my responsibility to anticipate my body. The irony, and I love it all the more for it, is the tattoo I have of my family motto: nunquam non paratus, or never unprepared. It's from this strange perch – discovering what it means to be a fertile body in the eyes of others, and tentatively in my own – that I read The Argonauts. It is also from a place of naming and recognising, for the first time realistically, what ordinary devotion to someone means. I know this book is a valuable reading, but I'm aware of my own prematurity. I can anticipate the need to return to it, for whichever reason, and I know the next times will be different. For now, I've gathered some passages that struck me now, as I feel, as I was reading, as I am writing. They might seem oddly selective, but I think this is only a sign of how versatile The Argonauts is. In its richness it offers a multiplicity of readings (and I feel sure its generosity of quotes have just this purpose). Here are the lessons I gathered from Nelson and from those she speaks through: Writing: "As I labor grimly on these sentences, wondering all the while if prose is but the gravestone marking the forsaking of wildness (fidelity to sense-making, to assertion, to argument, “however loose)—I’m no longer sure which of us is more at home in the world, which of us more free.” (65) "What other reason is there for writing than to be traitor to one’s own reign, traitor to one’s own sex, to one’s class, to one’s majority? And to be traitor to writing.” (Parnet, 122) "Over the years I’ve had to train myself to wipe the sorry off almost every work e-mail I write; otherwise, each might begin, Sorry for the delay, Sorry for the confusion, Sorry for whatever. One only has to read interviews with outstanding women to hear them apologizing.” (Wittig, 122) "Writing to him felt akin to giving him a name: an act of love, surely, but also one of irrevocable classification, interpellation.” (175) I've been thinking for a while now about an act of naming and how names arrest things in flux. Also, see Anne Carson's introduction to Autobiography of Red. "Ordinary words are good enough." (25) “What exactly is lost to us when words are wasted? Can it be that words comprise one of the few economies left on earth in which plenitude—surfeit, even—comes at no cost?” (Carson, 60) "You know so much about people from the second they open their mouths. Right away you might know that you might want to keep them out. That’s part of the horror of speaking, of writing. There is nowhere to hide." (Myles, 121) I concur, writing is horrifying. I've also learned that writing can be wilted (129). "I gained an outsized faith in articulation itself as its own form of protection". (154) Gender/sex/binaries: "As if I did not know that, in the field of gender, there is no charting where the external and the internal begin and end—" (64) "How does one get across the fact that the best way to find out how people feel about their gender or their sexuality—or anything else, really—is to listen to what they tell you, and to try to treat them accordingly, without shellacking over their version of reality with yours?" (66) "Let him stay oblivious—for the first and last time, perhaps—to the task of performing a self for others, to the fact that we develop, even in utero, in response to a flow of projections and reflections ricocheting off us. Eventually, we call that snowball a self (Argo)." ( 118) In-betweenness: Matter and liminality are two of my research topics. It's been so pleasing, uncanny, to see them flit in an out of sight. It's really what this is about: being, becoming passage. “How to explain, in a culture frantic for resolution, that sometimes the shit stays messy?” (65) “On the one hand, the Aristotelian, perhaps evolutionary need to put everything into categories—predator, twilight, edible—on the other, the need to pay homage to the transitive, the flight, the great soup of being in which we actually live. Becoming, Deleuze and Guattari called this flight: becoming-animal, becoming-woman, becoming-molecular. A becoming in which one never becomes, a becoming whose rule is neither evolution nor asymptote but a certain turning” (66) Matter: "Spirit is matter reduced to an extreme thinness: O so thin!” (Emerson, 41) "Empirically speaking, we are made of star stuff. Why aren’t we talking more about that? Materials never leave this world. They just keep recycling, recombining. That’s what you kept telling me when we first met—that in a real, material sense, what is made from where." (151) "Made of star stuff" reminds of Nostalgia for the Light. I think it's the first time I understood space as a material history. Dust to dust and all that. Argo-, ordinary devotion, revisiting: "It reminds us that there is difference right where we may be looking for, and expecting, communion." (116) The year I fell in love with theory, theory of all kinds, even though this course was called "anthropological", I was assigned 'difference' as a theme to explore for one semester. I hold onto the word dearly now, because it has so much to teach. Now I hear the word "difference" and it makes me think of Deleuze in a purple jumper, slouched in a chair, talking about refrains. Deleuze taught me about communion too. What it means when two refrains commune, when two different scales encounter each other. Anthropology is all about encounters. Encounters are only possible with difference, however large or small. A zine called Friendship as a Form of Life, which is as beautiful as its title sounds, divided its pages into the following chapters: Common, Commune, Communion. I think about this sequence a lot. “The Argo’s parts may get replaced, but it’s still called the Argo. We may become more used to jumping into flight, but that doesn’t mean we have done with all perches. We ought to say a feeling of and, a feeling of if, a feeling of but, and a feeling of by, quite as readily as we say a feeling of blue or a feeling of cold. We ought to, but we don’t—or at least, we don’t quite as readily. But the more you do, the more quickly you can recognize the feeling when it comes around again, and hopefully you won’t need to stare as long.” (68) Hello from my perch. "Privilege saturates, privilege structures." "The self without sympathetic attachments is either a fiction or a lunatic…. [Yet] dependence is scorned even in intimate relationships, as though dependence were incompatible with self-reliance rather than the only thing that makes it possible." (Philips/Taylor, 126) I am learning this. "That’s enough. You can stop now: the phrase Sedgwick said she longed to hear whenever she was suffering. (Enough hurting, enough showing off, enough achieving, enough talking, enough trying, enough writing, enough living.)" (128) Yes, I can stop. Please stop. I'v been spiralling a little lately. "But whatever I am, or have since become, I know now that slipperiness isn’t all of it. I know now that a studied evasiveness has its own limitations, its own ways of inhibiting certain forms of happiness and pleasure. The pleasure of abiding. The pleasure of insistence, of persistence. The pleasure of obligation, the pleasure of dependency. The pleasures of ordinary devotion. The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations, write the same notes in the margin, return to the same themes in one's work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again—not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life." (140) This quote means so much to me at this particular time: as I cease to recognise myself, as I come undone and remade (argo-), as I learn what it means to feel so easily, to be so ordinarily devoted to someone. I was so ready to feel confused about questions of loss and gain, whether it was something to feel self-conscious about, to lose oneself to, or to rebel against. But the pleasure is simply what it is. It seems so obvious that I feel naive. Of course it's about the knowing itself, about matter and touch. It's always about what hangs in the air. I have someone to learn ordinary devotion for and the shock of this is still wearing off. I thought of it as a thawing at first, but 'to revisit' will be my mantra instead. Revisit, revisit, revisit. I am not gone, I am not new, "I am made and remade continually". (Woolf) "But is there really such a thing as nothing, as nothingness? I don’t know. I know we’re still here, who knows for how long, ablaze with our care, its ongoing song." (178) Refusing the nothing has been part of my venture these past months. It started with Elizabeth Povinelli's suffix "-ish", and all other blurring of boundaries, like between the living and non-living. Tim Ingold also refuses the nothing of atmosphere. Nelson's quote brings me back to communion: line-making, care, drifting, song-making, correspondence. Mother: "If all goes well, the baby will make it out alive, and so will you. Nonetheless, you will have touched death along the way. You will have realized that death will do you too, without fail and without mercy. It will do you even if you don’t believe it will do you, and it will do you in its own way. There’s never been a human that it didn’t. I guess I’m just waiting to die, your mother said, bemused and incredulous...” (167) "But to let the baby out, you have to be willing to go to pieces.” (155) "It's a happiness that spreads." (176) "...save the sense, likely unconscious, of having once been gathered together, made to feel real." (176) The things I want to look further into: André Breton's Mad Love Deleuze/Parnet dialogues Barthes' The Neutral (No, my francophilic tendencies are not getting any better).

[professorpaquette]

Some Heavy IRL Stuff

Last week has been rather hard. My heavy duty computer broke down and my company was going to go through some hurdles, so I knew I would have a rough week ahead in terms of mental health. I don't game that much, but it's a nice way to break up the rest.

And don't you worry. I don't escape easily in my computer. Or rather, I can't, because I purposefully keep it on my standing desk. So I have a hard limit of two hours of gaming or drawing before I get restless.

But that's been absent for the past week during a time where that might be welcome. Something that I just have to tough out, that's okay.

Two other things happened this week, though and this is some heavy stuff that takes, well, thinking and confronting the realities of being flawed human beings. Don't worry, nobody died. In fact, if someone died, I think I'd feel more comfortable talking about it. Instead, this is stuff that hits close to home in other ways. So you've been warned.

[Editor's note: Apparently, the HTML code to collapse the text below doesn't work anymore on Tumblr. That sucks. I prefer not to front-load it. I hope it doesn't disturb your feed too much!]

Heavy Stuff

My dad's an alcoholic and he lives by himself. And I want to give you guys a life lesson that I learned from him.

If you have a problem, no matter how big or how small. Actually. Solve it. You probably know a few people in your life who seem to stumble from one problem into another. Or someone who can't accept any solutions, because every solution offered creates two new problems.

So this is my insight; that's because most people, even (or especially) smart people, live their lives engineering complex solutions to simple problems. My dad's knees are busted. His knees are busted because he's overweight. He's overweight because he doesn't drink or eat healthily. He doesn't drink or eat healthily because he's always in a hurry. The overarching problem is, his entire life is now engineered around him being able to drink, eat unhealthily, avoid standing, avoid walking, avoid sporting, avoid doing groceries, avoid accepting calls at the door.

So every time we offer a solution to one problem, it exacerbates some other problem. And you might think, 'that is not going to happen to me'. But be careful with that kind of thinking. Because I see it everywhere around me. My dad isn't stupid. He set up his own company and worked a full time job at the same time. These things haven't been a problem until right this week, because he's not been 60 before today. Suddenly, things catch up with him very fast and now it's like there's 60 years of unsolved problems that are all crashing down at once.

When my mom and I were going out, my dad called my mom (a phys therapist) to ask if she could tell him something about his knees. When my mom asked if there was anything that we could do, my dad asked us to buy 18 0.5L CANS OF 10% BEER. I managed to convince my mom not to actually go through with all 18 cans and instead opt for a six-pack, but she's been guilt-ridden ever since. Says that she feels so weak for having even accepted that much.

Later, I discovered that my dad dropped glass on the floor from my mom. Glass that he didn't remove, so he ended up walking through it. And he still didn't clean it up, because he couldn't bend his knees or get past his stomach. His feet were bleeding and he was so messed up that he didn't even care. Keep in mind, his company is at home. He receives at least 3 to 6 people there daily, some of whom are small children.

The situation is out of our hands right now. I can't do anything about this and it sucks. I can't do anything about it, because everything that I do sends my dad's life crumbling down like a house of cards. He's engrained that idea in me since I was 7, probably.

I wish that was all, but it is not.

It turns out my 17 year old adopted nephew has gotten his 16 year old girlfriend pregnant a month or so ago. He randomly texted me under an alias. I don't know why he did. I don't know why he assumes I know his alias. I don't know why he assumed this was the best way to contact me. All to say, 'hey, I'm going to be a dad! here, have some echos!' But apparently, he does this with everyone in thefamily with a facebook at random intervals.

I love my nephew, but this is a huge bomb to drop on someone that he sees maybe twice or three times a year. I didn't know what to tell him, but I put on a brave face and texted him back. Tried to figure out what he needed to hear. Turns out that it's, of course, a shock and that he's going to try and deal with it the best he can. And up until that point, I just feel bad for him in every way. But it's his life and he's clearly already made a few decisions here that he's discussed with his mother, my aunt, so I'm not going to go against the grain now.

But the last thing he said was something along the lines of, "I am so grateful that God is giving me the chance to be a father". To be clear, his mother is a pastor. It's not that it wouldn't make sense for him to say this. But it was dropped so randomly into the conversation that it felt almost like he was looking for me to validate that this was God's plan. I'm not a Christian.

You can guess how uncomfortable and distressed this made me. I'm still a spiritual person. I still am sensitive to ideas about a kind of destiny. And I love my nephew. And it didn't make me uncomfortable to put on a brave face. I do that happily, for his sake. It makes me uncomfortable to think he's seeking spiritual confirmation that this is his intended path in life. That he's asking me to support that comforting narrative that he's still going to have the best version of his life.And I don't know if I can do that.

I knew I needed to talk about that side of it. This is my way of doing it. Thank you for reading my thought process. Reading what I've written, I'm comforted at least a little that I don't think I'm being selfish by being so hung up about it. This is heavy stuff. I need to be kind to myself and acknowledge it's weight on me.

[fialleril]

Okay then, thanks Part 1: My parents are catholic and I have some aunts and cousins evangelicals, the catholic side of my family teach me some things that now I disagree, but they don't force into me and in general are great. My aunts and cousins trying to make me a protestant since my childhood, they used to take me to the cult, I like to go, as I like to go to mass, but after I discover they did that without my parents permission, they are very rude about the catholic church.

(Putting the rest under a cut)

part 2 I used to go always to their church, one time me and my little sister went for  a camp and in the time was good, but slowly and without us perceiving, they use psychological techniques of brainwash, I don't think they know they did it, and the suggestion think, they also lie about my mother and other things. My mom discover and ask for a year or teachings about the catholic church for refute all their lies. I see the logic, but I was so angry with everyone and with God...             

part 3 I was very confused, and the fact I always struggle with lust didn't help. I stay away for more than a year and I was so angry with my cousins and with the Protestantism in general, a traditional catholic group find me in my pain and anger, I learn a lot about the culture and traditions of the church, whose are beautiful, but I still was fragile, I start believe in everything they said, don't seeing they were using the same inducing, I absorve their radicalism... 

part 4: I start becoming a awful person, intolerant and full of myself, my struggles with lust making me thinking, I also noticed that I could be Bi, but I denied in that time. I noticed what I was turn and leave the group, sometimes I go to church, sometimes not and I don't know what more I believe, the God they describe to me was not a loving father, but a abusive one who only would love me if I wasn't like I am. I'm bi, I intenses desires, I'm intense.       

last part: now I'm so confused, sometimes I missed the mass and Jesus and the historys, I also find a more tolerant and supportive priest, but I don't know if I still can believe, I still angry sometimes. And I feel like even if I'm capable to come back, would be in my own way to believe, feminist, pro LGBT, embracing my sexuality and desires, just there are a voice in my head saying that this would be wrong. if I never can believe again I would be sad, becos catholicism is also cultural for me             

So first, anon friend, I just want to say that your story sounds pretty similar to mine, and that you aren’t alone. You absolutely aren’t alone and there’s nothing wrong or broken in you for feeling this way.

There’s also absolutely nothing wrong with you for embracing the person God created you to be. I’m gonna say this bluntly, because I think it’s hugely important: anyone who would try to make you feel fundamentally broken or wrong or less than human is not speaking for God. You are a person created in the image of God. You are not a sin. Knowing and owning yourself is not a sin. The first and cardinal sin is treating people like things - including yourself.

There is unfortunately a vocal stream of fundamentalism in the Catholic church. I’m a convert to Catholicism and I love so many things about this tradition that have been life-giving to me, and even so, there are certain Catholic spaces I will never feel safe in. There are certain elements of Catholic fundamentalism I’m probably never going to be able to argue rationally against, because they’re also triggers.

Fortunately for me, the church is quite huge and contains multitudes, and I can avoid those elements (as well as helping other people to find safe places within the Catholic tradition). But I will never tell anyone that they should do that, too. I understand needing to leave. I understand the anger, and the need to reject, and I am never going to try to convince anyone they should stay in, or return to, a place that has hurt them.

If you decide you do want to be involved with the Catholic church, I’m happy to talk about anything. If you decide you don’t, I’m still happy to talk. I can’t give you any certain answers and I would never presume to try. But I can tell you some things that I’ve found to be true for me.

One thing is this: anger with God is a valid emotion. It’s not wrong, and it’s not sinful. God desires friendship with us, and anger is a part of all friendships. Anger is a natural response to being hurt, and the deeper the hurt, the deeper the anger.

I’ve found for myself that praying my anger is actually very fruitful. Because, really, what I’m angry at is my image of God, the image of God that I was indoctrinated with and that for so long was both a tool and a perpetrator of abuse.

I remember once, when I was in college, going out into the garden around midnight and just screaming at God. I must have stayed out there for over an hour, angry and shaking. I went to the garden because I felt safe there. Because plants and trees and starlight have always been the places where I encounter the numinous. As a child I thought that was somehow wrong. That God should only be found in church and scripture and every word out of the pastor’s mouth. So I was angry at God, and even more angry at the entire concept of church, and I was feeling rebellious. So I went out into the garden and I gave God a piece of my mind.

I won’t tell you I heard words, or anything like that. But eventually I sat back against the bark of my favorite tree, and I felt...enfolded. Held. I closed my eyes and I could hear the tree’s heartbeat, and I felt, suddenly, that God was there, with me and around me and in me.

The next day I went and talked to one of the Jesuit priests in my school’s campus ministry department. I felt like I’d had some kind of revelation, like I understood something about the universe for the first time. But, at the same time, there was that old hateful voice in my head, the voice of my childhood pastor, telling me that I was deluding myself, that what I’d experienced must be some temptation from the devil because I was the worst of sinners for daring to be angry with God.

And to my shock, that Jesuit sat me down and smiled at me and thanked me for sharing something so wonderful and beautiful with him. He told me that we meet God in our daily lives, that our experiences are holy, that our emotions are holy. And then (because he was a Jesuit and if you’ve met any Jesuits you know how they are lol) he gave me a whole list of books to read and a lot of suggestions for how to sit with my anger and pray with it and meet God in it.

I tell that story for two reasons: because I want to emphasize that there is nothing wrong with being angry at God, that it can even be a deeply sacred experience which does have a long history in our Catholic mystical tradition; and also because I want to say that, if you’re like me, that voice in your head telling you all of this is wrong probably won’t go away. I still have that voice. But what you can do is name it.

That’s where I think that calling spiritual abuse “abuse” is important. Because that voice in your head? Those are intrusive thoughts. That’s the after-effects of brainwashing, of mental programming. You will probably keep hearing that voice, but if you can name it as intrusive thoughts, then it doesn’t have to have any power over you. You can fight it, because it’s not really you.