#“skin of blackness” is almost certainly metaphorical for example

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Charmed [Episode 6]

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Following your explanation, the boys sat in silence as each of them took in the various blueprints and notes spread out before them. Processing it took them some time, and Eli took the opportunity to soothe his dry throat with the remnants of his drink.

“It’s complicated, to say the least.” Namjoon’s voice was distant as his mind wasn’t all that focused on the words coming out of his mouth.

Yoongi only snorted in response, but it was more of a reaction that he had given for the duration of the discussion so Eli considered it a win all in all and looked to the other members for their reactions. Seeing nothing else of note in their eyes, he reached for the papers to clean them up, planning on returning to his room and cleaning up, before going out for supplies. Sure, Hoseok or Jimin could probably hook them up with all that they needed but call it a con’s intuition for wanting to check out the equipment themselves.

Grabbing hold of the documents, he rifled through them and aligned the corners as he always did before getting up.

“I’m headed out for some of the basic equipment so yall can break it in before D-day.” Not waiting for an answer, he headed back to his designated room, barely sparing a minute to toss the papers onto his desk before heading to the bathroom. 

With the door locked and the hot water soothing your muscles, you had some time to yourself to think. Your relationship with the rest of the boys could be simmered down to two words: grudging acceptance. Neither side was about drop their pride and invite the other out to dinner, but at least Jungkook wasn’t lunging for your throat every time he laid eyes on you.

The heist was risky, and would take some real trust and teamwork, and “grudging acceptance” wasn’t exactly the best relationship to have with the people you would be trusting with your life while completing the mission. You still were damn sure that they wouldn’t hesitate to leave you behind if they needed to; their relationship was one where they looked out for each other and solid walls were drawn against those who weren’t inside when those walls were built.

In a way, you understood. Though you didn’t have the exact details, it was obvious they went through some trauma together, one that bound them together by something greater than blood ties or brotherhood. You were the same way; the only difference was that you were alone when you built those walls and they had each other.

Shutting off the water, you stepped out into the foggy bathroom, the heat blushing your skin red. The mirror was fogged up, and the metaphor almost made you snort. It seemed that even the world was trying to tell you that within all the personas and costumes, you had lost sight of your true self, even as it stood within reach, blurry but there.

The skin on your chest was red and irritated, most likely from the bandages you used to keep your secret. You needed to spend a night away from them, if only so you could let your skin breathe.

Getting your costume back on, you waltzed out of your bedroom towards the living room, most of the boys had disappeared, but Jimin was still where you had left him, albeit in clothes more appropriate for your shopping trip. In a way, you expected Hoseok to be there as well, but Jimin oversaw their equipment.

“Do you know the weights and heights of everyone,” Eli casually asked as he thumbed through a small journal filled with more of his chicken scratch trying to find the specific page he wanted.

“Don’t tell me you’re interested in us,” Jimin scoffed obviously getting the wrong impression from Eli’s words.

“Interested in keeping you all alive yeah.” Eli turned his back on the still lounging Jimin, who had somehow managed to get even more attractive as he leaned back invitingly on their soft couch. “Don’t fool yourself shorty. I doubt you have anything that would make me want to chase after you.”

Making his way to the foyer of the apartment, he didn’t even look back to see if Jimin was following him before he slipped out and towards the elevators.

The ride down was silent once Jimin joined him, each absorbed in their own devices to pass the time. Upon exiting the tall high-rise building, Eli was none too surprised at the sleek black SUV waiting for them. They needed to buy a lot of equipment and they would need a large car to hold it all.

While in the car, both still maintained the strict silence that they had started in the elevator. Eli’s eyes were focused on the passing scenery, letting out tiny grins at the snapshots of daily life he saw beyond the tinted glass windows. They were all so oblivious to the harsh realities of the world and even if they did know, their brains would probably cut out the information deeming it too harmful to remember. 

PJM

He seemed utterly uninterested in anything other than the mission. It really was odd to see how quickly his attitude adjusted when he explained the plan to us this morning. Not once did he let out his signature smile, all teeth and stupidity. It was long, complicated, and required a lot more trust than I felt anyone was willing to give him at this point in whatever relationship was forming between us.

Going out with him was most definitely not my choice, but Namjoon had insisted on it because apparently it was obvious that I was the one with the most prejudices against our new add-on. We all knew it was a blatant lie, but Jungkook had no qualifications to go shopping therefore here I am.

The car is surprisingly silent, and looking over at Eli, he’s focused on the outside world. There was longing in a sense, something we all felt from time to time; we wonder and dream of our lives with intact families and normality.

The car stops in front of a hotel, conspicuous and in the center of town; it’s perfect. Getting down, it’s no surprise that we make an impression on the surrounding people. Jimin’s face is common on the news channels and everyone knows the people he associates with, so everyone gives us a wide berth as we enter the hotel.

Walking to the front desk, the person manning the fort gives us the biggest customer service smile that I have ever seen. Jimin merely nods back before handing over a medallion and asking for, “Room 113 please” with the most conversational tone.

“Forgive me sir, but our staff is still cleaning the room for you. Please feel free to wait in our lobby and I will call you when the room is prepared.” When you enter this line of work, you should always be prepared to deal with word games and subliminal messaging. We both understood what his words meant, there was already someone shopping so we could not go in.

Most places like this did not worry about anonymity between guests, hoping that it would work as sort of a motivation to not betray the location; if someone got captured then they could name everyone else that they saw. It was more commonly seen in stores that had not gotten a footing in the black world of crime. Yet, the truly powerful locations did not need to rely on such childish motivations as that.

Jimin and I made our way to the couches a couple feet away from the receptionist. The world continued to move on around us. Initially, some were focused on our identities, but as they each needed to be somewhere else, we were left alone in the middle of the lobby. The hotel itself seemed to be the playground of the higher class based on all the brand names glittering around me and the large entourages that revolve around a single person.

In a way, that life seemed bland to me. What fun was there to have everything handed to you, sure it was novel for a little while but then it would lose it’s charm. Inherently, people get bored which is why you see celebrities always doing.

It wasn’t long before the receptionist approached us from behind the desk and informed us that they were ready for us. He motions us to follow him and we do.

The receptionist returns to behind the desk and programs a reader card to let us into our requested room. He faces us again and hands that card over with that same sickeningly bright smile. “I hope everything is to your standards.” He knows, though I do not know why I ever doubted it for a second.

Jimin nods and I follow his example of silence as he leads me down a hallway and to our room. Unlocking it with the given card, he lets me inside before shutting and locking the door behind us both. The space is small and not a room at all; it was an elevator.

Surveillance was full force as someone welcomed us to the store and instructed us not to touch anything as the decent began on its own. By my estimate, the level that we stopped at was one below the basement. The doors opened before us and we walked into a well-lit room, almost as big as a proper ballroom. Certainly, not as high but just a big in width and length. The rich vibe continued down here as well with the red walls and gold trimming on the walls and on the cabinets filled to the brim with guns and other equipment.

At the far end of the room, a man in a fitted suit stood relaxed in his posture. Not single strand of hair or muscle moved out of place as we approached him. “Welcome. Please take a look around at your leisure and feel free to ask any questions. We are here to assist.”  

Jimin jets off towards the far end of the room, firmly in the directions of some automatic handgun; they suited him. I had initially pegged him at a knife person, but then again he wanted efficiency more than any perceived bloodlust so I relented on my initial judgement. His steps were quick, barely holding on to the perception of calm, but he was like a child in a candy shop, no doubts about it.

Letting him satisfy his own curiosity, I turned to the tactical gear. I would worry about the boys later, getting their measurements from Jimin now would be impossible when he seems much more interested in the custom grips on an Italian classic.

Shopping for harnesses was ironically reminiscent to shopping for clothes; they were all on gold hangers and organized by size and prices. The boys (read: Big Hit) were paying for all this anyways so I’d take advantage of that; only I knew what was really needed for this.

Shifting through them all, I decided on one with multiple points of weight distribution that had multiple clip combinations so one could vary their support based on their preference or on the limits of rope. As I was looking, I felt a presence on my 6 or 7 o’clock; it was either Jimin or the attendant.

“Is this what you wanted the body measurements for?” Jimin.

“No,” I scoffed. “I needed that information to plant fake bodies when we all fail this and need to get the heck out of dodge.”

“The confidence you have in us is astounding.” He didn’t waste time is coming back for me with the same amount of sarcasm.

“I have as much confidence in you as I do in my own survival with the group of you.” Snatching the paper with the written measurements out of his hand, I didn’t bother to head his response as I pulled out different sizes of the same harness. They would cost a pretty penny, but you weren’t footing the bill.

“Take these to the table.” I was already searching for the ropes; something strong preferably suspension or paracord, but mountaineering might work.

“Do it yourself.”

“Like you know what we need for this. Just do what I ask and maybe my confidence that we’ll survive this increase by a tenth of a percent.”

“You’re difficult.”

“But I’m good and that’s what you really need right now isn’t it? Now go.”

Deciding on some dark colored SWAT rappelling rope in 200 feet lengths. It was double braided and would be more than enough to carry our weights at 9mm in diameter. However, ti was a hefty weight, but I’d leave that to the boys. Additionally, I picked up some paracord, just in the case of an emergency lashing or situation.

Next, some infrared googles. They were also a hefty price, but trusting the boys to already have their own, I waited until Jimin returned from his second trip from the far table to confirm. Given a OK, I think he had given up on arguing with me for the sake of it, I picked out some durable ones with a heat sensor attachment.

Last in terms of tacticals, would be body suits. These would go under our regular clothes, additional protection and heat without the bulk. Of course, some bullet proof clothes would be going on top, but still a good base is always necessary.

Now to the fun part, weapons.

Jimin had already beat me to it, having laid out some stuff that he wanted for himself or that he got at the request of the other boys. A computer chip, most likely for Yoongi, catches my eye. Having a computer for research and planning would be so much easier than having to piece together scraps of paper.

Grabbing a sleek laptop off the shelf, I added it to the ever-growing pile of supplies on the table under the raised eyebrow of Jimin. He reaches for it, but I smack his hand away and firmly state that “I like doing these things myself.” I hear no further argument.

Then comes the guns. Semi-automatics have a soft spot it my heart so I grab an all-American Hollywood classic, twin Desert Eagles, metal caps, and a spool of wrapping leather; custom grip can only be truly custom when you make them yourself. Snagging some holsters, I argue mentally between thighs and sides, before just getting both; no point wasting time. Then for knifes, I grab a classic butterfly, before grabbing some more practical Damascus hunting daggers that were lightweight so they could be thrown as well.

Nodding at Jimin, I let him take care of the payment as I continued to explore the room for anything else that we might like. Closer to the door, I see a locked cabinet with oddities that most would not look twice at; they sell information. A couple flash drives being bid off, probably filled with some military programs or governmental passwords. I wouldn’t put it pas them to have one or two automatic Trojans with a logic puzzle for those dolts that didn’t know how to use a computer. Then on the far side, something unexpected.

“They say that’s a charm from the Banshee herself.” Jimin, seemingly done with the purchase, came over towards the elevator as the store took care of sending our goods topside.

“The Banshee?” This was one I hadn’t heard before.

“Yeah. She’s an assassin with some sort of moral code apparently when she kills. And she takes or makes charms from each kill to remember them. Morbid, but then again anyone who’s that good ought to have a few screws lose to not go crazy.” He wasn’t wrong.

Even Master had told me it was odd when he saw the charms, but he got used to it. The box of filled bracelets I left with Master, the only thing of personal value that I really owned anymore so my wrists were naked and empty. Yet, the feeling never hit me until now, when I saw the only charm I ever lost (a round mosaic for a contemporary artist who also profited from fakes) for sale. The Banshee name had power and with power comes profit; the betting for the charm already past the million mark.  

“Don’t think to hard. You won’t ever meet her.” Jimin laughed, the kind that came from his belly and was not held back by propriety.

“And you have?” It was a good enough act, lovestruck youngster falling for a power girl he had never even met before.

“Nope. But I want to. Her story sounds interesting enough.” That was the most uncharacteristic thing I had ever heard come out of his mouth.

“Her story,” I snickered, my face trying very hard not to mock him with its expression. “A mafioso and an assassin on a coffee date. That sounds more like the first line of a joke.”

He didn’t respond, but looking back as he pushed me towards the elevator told me he was thinking. The cogs were turning either to make up a lie or to figure out how to put it in words.

“I want to know what made her this way. She is truly someone that does not care, and something must have happened to make her that way.” His voice was quiet and rippling under the surface I could hear some semblance of emotions from him. It was a change, and I let him talk. “Even you can agree with this; we didn’t just wake up one day and decided we wanted to be like this. We went through the ringer and decided that we never wanted to be that low ever again, so we went for the heights.”

“We braved the cliffs and grew wings.” Simple words, but with more meaning that even a full paragraph could hold. He simply nodded in response and the rest of the ride up was silent, each lost in our pasts.

The ride back to the apartment was no different, except for the back piled with our new supplies. Quiet and heavy, not even the driver disturbed us in our thoughts.

The boys were waiting for us when we went upstairs, all cleaned up and hair coiffed to perfection.

“How was it?” Namjoon, objective as ever wanting to make sure the boys hadn’t lost their biggest weapons source because the two of us butting heads.

“Uneventful.” Me, as I turned to the boxes.

“Normal.” Jimin, as he joined the boys on the couch.

“Did you bring us presents?” Taehyung, relaxed as always, stretching his legs on the coffee table as he watched me organize.

I put everything that I had bought for myself in one box, including my harness, a loop of SWAT rope, the extra paracord, and the body suit. The rest was laid out on the floor next to the boxes that Jimin had already organized the others’ stuff into, most likely at the store itself.  

“I bought all of you harnesses and new rope. I suggest getting used to wearing them around and working with the additional weight so break them in to your own comfort.”

Jungkook scoffed, “We have our own already.”

“Of course, you do. But do they have at least a 5-point weight distribution and at lest 10 hold holds for various roping combinations?”

He stayed silent.

“No? Then I suggest you break in the one I got for you or I won’t be responsible for you screwing this up for the rest of them. I didn’t bother holding back with him. Jungkook had started to get on my nerves. I was starting to get the feeling that no matter what I did, I would never get on his good side. I had reached a conclusion; it wasn’t me personally he hated, it was the idea of me; all fun and games when matched with his cold perfectionism. He thought I was stupid and infuriating, I thought the same of him; it worked out.

Walking back to my own room, I could practically hear Namjoon trying to figure out a plan to get me and Jungkook back on better terms. But that would have to wait for another day; I needed to get my stuff together.

Making it back to the relative haven of my room, I unpack and start customizing. First was the guns, taking the leather, I cover both handles in a primitive but more familiar imitation of custom grips, adding in the end the metal cap at the bottom of the grip because if you can’t shoot, you can at least swing. Sure, it does mess with the balance of the gun but you get used to it after a couple years of practice. Next, comes the computer. Booting up, I have never been more thankful for technology and resolve to ask someone to scan the document to upload, but after spending a couple hours with Jimin, I am ready to be alone.

Then again, when does the plan of the universe ever work in my favor? Just as I put away the rest of the gear, keeping the harness out to break in after I relax, I hear a knock on my door.

“Can I come in?” Taehyung. Lovely.

“Sure.” I didn’t bother to try to contain my annoyance, but this was Taehyung we were talking about; he was selectively blind, and deaf for that matter, to the world around him. He heard me say that he could come in but he somehow didn’t hear my annoyance.

He waltzed right in and seated himself on my bed as turned around from my desk. Glancing out the window, I could see the first signs of the evening clouding over the brightness of the day, so it was no surprise that he was dressed to go to work. Silk shirt unbuttoned just enough for anyone watching to get a peak of tanned skin tucked into tight denim. A lone silver chain hanging around his neck and thin rings of the same material making his fingers seem longer than you have ever thought was humanly possible.

Once again, he lounged. Looking back, you have never seen him as anything other than relaxed, except for that one time when you technically broke in so context matter with him. He didn’t even bother taking of his leather shoes which made you scowl.

“Any particular reason you’re hear or is it just to grind my gears?”

“Both, but mostly I have a question for you to answer for me.” He reached for his pocket and pulled out a swatch of white fabric that almost made my heart strop.

“A bandage? You want me to wrap something for you?” I didn’t let it bother me. The bandages I wore were a dime a dozen and he could have gotten it from any mom and pop medical store along the road.

“No I was wondering why you had these. If you’re hurt, that’s not good for any of us see?” Sitting up, he kept waving that bandage in front of me, taunting me like he knew all my secrets, but he didn’t.

“You went through my stuff?” Sighing, I relented. “Should have expect nothing less from a sneak thief. They are bandages for emergencies. I don’t trust for a second that Jungkook still doesn’t want to put a bullet between my eyes.”

“True. You and Jungkook really don’t get along. Though that is to be expected when the both of you have different ways of surviving.” Taehyung was smarter than you, and probably anyone else, gave him credit for. His mouth was working to distract while his eyes watched and learned from the people around him.

I didn’t respond, but I didn’t need to. Even Taehyung seemed to sense that our conversation was over as he left my room with some important parting word. “The most dangerous liars are the ones who give themselves to the lies, body, soul and heart.”

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Early use of the expression seems to be a lot more usual in Australia/NZ and UNITED STATES than England. The earliest clear reference I've found is for 'Goody Goody Gumdrop Ice-cream' which was marketed by the Baskin-Robbins ice-cream parlour shops in their early years, which was late 1940s/early 1950s in U.S.A.. Somewhere else it is recommended that Reward Goody Gumdrop Gelato first showed up in the USA in 1965. There likewise appears to be a typical use the expression for ice-cream consisting of gumdrop sweets in New Zealand. Using the reward gumdrop expression alike speech would almost certainly have pre-dated its usage as a branding tool for ice-cream.

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This is an adaptation of the earlier expression to be 'all over' something or a person definition to be obsessed or absorbed by. A similar expression to the 'affordable match' metaphor is 'around him/her like a breakout' which is flexible in terms of sex, and again likens individual interest to something certainly 'on' the sufferer, like a suit or a rash. I'm keen to find the earliest use of the 'affordable fit' expression - please tell me if you recall its use prior to 1990, or far better still can recommend a substantial renowned very early priced estimate example which could have established it. Chambers Thesaurus of Etymology differs a little with the OED in recommending that charisma replaced the earlier English spelling charism around 1875. The preference of the 1953 Much shorter OED for the words charism as well as charm recommends that prominent use charm came much behind 1875. Chambers says the Greek origin words are personal appeal and also charizesthai, from charis as well as pertaining to chairein, meaning rejoice. According to Chambers once again, the adjective charismatic appeared in English around, from the Greek charm, indicating favours given.

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Words likewise appeared early in South African English from Afrikaans - more evidence of Dutch beginnings. This table meaning of board is just how we obtained words boardroom also, and the popular very early 1900s furniture piece called a sideboard. See likewise the expression 'sweep the board', which additionally refers to the table meaning of board. Numerous recommendations have actually been mentioned in Arabic and also Scriptural writings to suggest that it was originally based on Center- and also Far-Eastern custom-mades, in which blood rituals symbolised bonds that were more powerful than household ones. ' The blood of the commitment is stronger than the water of the womb' is an explanation priced quote by some analysts.

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If anybody recognizes of any type of certain references which may support this concept and also to connect it with the Black Irish expression please inform me. This usage is more likely to be a misunderstanding and misuse of an earlier definition of the 'black Irish' expression, based upon black significance angry. for the birds - useless, unstable facts, unacceptable or trivial, implying that something is just for weaker, unintelligent or minimal individuals - American origin according to Kirkpatrick as well as Schwarz Thesaurus of Idioms. Decharne's Thesaurus of Hipster Jargon actually recommendations a quote from the Hank Janson novel Chicago Chick" 'It's insane man,' I informed him, 'Genuine insane. Strictly for the birds.'" - yet doesn't state whether this was the original usage. Maker's Dictionary of Expression as well as Myth definitely makes no mention of it which suggests it is no earlier than 20th century. The term alludes the small minds of birds, as well as expressions such as 'bird-brain', as a metaphor for individuals of limited intelligence. amateur - non-professional or un-paid, or much more lately an insulting term meaning unprofessional - the word stems from the same spelling in Old French 'amateur' significance 'enthusiast', originally meaning in English an enthusiast of a task.

Earliest use of break definition good luck was primarily U.S.A., very first videotaped in 1827 according to Partridge. boss - manager - while there are misconceptions suggesting beginnings from a particular Mr Boss, the actual derivation is from the Dutch 'baas', implying master, which was taken on into the United States language from Dutch inhabitants in the 17th century.

Incidentally Brewer also suggests that the Camel, 'ruch', became what is currently the Rook in chess. It seems that playing cards were initially called 'the Books of the Four Kings', while chess was called 'the Video game of the Four Kings'. Maker likewise mentions a reference to a specific Jacquemin Gringonneur having actually "repainted as well as guilded three packs for the King in 1392." Unassociated yet remarkably, French jargon for the horse-drawn omnibus was '4 banal' which equated after that to 'parish stove' - what a fantastic expression. Bottom likewise mentions a kick up the backside, being an additional technique of propulsion as well as ejection in such conditions. Partridge/OED suggests the luck element most likely originates from billiards, in which the initial shot breaks the initial development of the spheres and also leaves either possibility or difficulty for the challenger. This feeling is supported by the break meaning break or leisure, as in tea-break.

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resting duck - very easy target or something that is prone or defenceless to assault- an allegory from shooting field sporting activity, in which a resting or hatching duck, would certainly be an easier target than one flying in the air. Oddly there is extremely little etymological referral to the extremely typical 'sitting duck' expression. doolally - mad or crazy - initially an armed forces term from India. Soldiers at the end of their term were sent to Deodali, a town near Bombay, to wait to be delivered residence. The hot climate, aggravation and dullness triggered odd practices among the delayed soldiers, who were claimed to be dealing with 'doolally touch', which was the complete expression. In the late 1600s a domino was a hood, attached to a cape used by a priest, likewise a shroud used by a female in mourning, as well as later a domino described a cape with a mask, put on at masqueredes. This was from French, stemming initially from standard spiritual Domino references in priestly language.

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Interestingly the old Indo-European origin word for club is glembh, very similar to the origin word for golf. expat/ex-pat - individual living or working abroad - the contemporary 'expat' (as well as increasingly hyphenated 'ex-pat') expression is commonly believed to be a reducing of 'ex-patriot', yet this is not real. Around 1800 the migrant word came to be made use of as a noun to indicate an expatriated person, but still after that in the feeling of a banished individual, as opposed to one that had willingly moved abroad. The early use the expatriate word described the loss of citizenship from one's homeland, not a short-lived or relatively easy to fix situation. Making use of migrant in its contemporary interpretation seems to have actually begun around 1900, as well as was popularised by Lilian Bell's unique 'The Migrant', regarding rich Americans living in Paris, published in 1902. Purely talking for that reason, the proper type is deportee, not ex-pat.

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In 1968 the pop group 1910 Fruitgum Firm had a little UK graph success with a song called Goody Goody Gumdrops, and also there is no doubt that the expression was strongly developed in the UK, U.S.A. and Aus/NZ by the 1960s. There is some association with, as well as certainly some impact from the 'Goody Two Shoes' expression, in that the meaning is essentially buffooning or putting down a gain of some type. Golf is a Scottish word from the 1400s, at which time words gouf was also made use of. Related to these, kolfr is an old Icelandic word for a rod or blunt arrowhead. All these derive eventually from Proto-Germanic kulb, in turn from the old Indo-European word glebh. The primary point of view recommends that words golf perhaps entered Scottish language from Dutch, where comparable words were made use of specifically describing video games involving hitting a round with a club.

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dead end - dead-end road, a road shut at one end/blind alley - this extensively utilized English street indicator and also term is from the French, meaning the same, from cul and also cavity. By the way, calling someone a 'cul' in French equates to the disparaging English term 'arse', given that cul also means the bottom or behind of an individual. I am informed also that cul de cavity is regarded as a rather repulsive expression by the French when they see it on British street signs; the French use instead the term 'deadlock' by themselves dead-end street indicators. The orginal usage originates from the French créole, from Portuguese crioulo, related the Portuguese verb criar, to increase, from Latin creare, indicating produce. The name 'Socks' was instead pronounced the winner, as well as the feline properly named.

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A supposed John Walker, an outside staff of the firm Longman Clementi as well as Carbon Monoxide, of Cheapside, London, is one such individual referenced by Cassells vernacular thesaurus. scam - deceive deliberately - the hoodwink word is initial recorded in 1562 according to Chambers. It simply stems from the actual meaning and also make use of to describe covering the eyes with a hood or blindfold.

It particularly connects to individual enthusiasms and also feeling of fulfillment or fate. The fulfillment of personal objective - past academic and adult conditioning. A basis of analyzing whether you've maximized your life, when it's far too late to have an additional go. As at September 2008 Google lists 97 uses of this word on the whole web, yet most/very a lot of those seem to be typing errors inadvertently signing up with words life and also wishing, which do not count. I'm open to tips or insurance claims of first usage and also source. Occasionally you can see the birth or early advancement of a brand-new word, prior to virtually any person else, as well as definitely prior to the thesaurus. If you are reading this in 2008 or perhaps very early 2009, after that this is perhaps one of those events.

Words mews is in fact from Falconry, in which predators such as goshawks were used to capture rabbits and various other game. Falconry came to be exceptionally preferred in medieval England, and was a much-loved sporting activity of aristocracy till the 1700s. Mew was initially a verb which defined a hawk's moulting or losing plumes, from Old French muer, as well as Latin mutare, suggesting to change. Mew then came to be a name for the hawk cage, and also described the technique of keeping a hawk shut away while molting. The imperial stables, initially established in Charing Cross London in the mid-1200s, were on the site of hawks mews, which triggered the word mews to transfer to stables. lifelonging/to lifelong - something meaningful yearned for every one of your life/or the verb sense of longing for something for your whole life - a lately progressed portmanteau word.

Today's metaphorical expression as well as definition 'to trick' established in the early 17thC from the earlier use of words to indicate 'hide' in the late 16thC. Her change is qualified by her having just a single shoe when inadequate, and also being provided a pair of footwear, which marked the beginning of her brand-new discovered as well as obviously enthusiastically self-proclaimed pleasure. The expression could be from as much back as the mid-1800s, given that 'goodie/goody' has been used to describe yummy food since then, which would have lent extra relevance to the significance of the expression. Also, words gumdrop as a name for the range of chewy sugared gum desserts appears to have gotten in American English speech in around 1860, according to Chambers. Nevertheless it's more probable that prominent use of goody gumdrops began in the mid-1900s, among kids, when mass-marketing of the sweets would have increased.

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Charisma, which most likely grew from charismatic, which grew from charm, had mostly trembled its spiritual associations by the mid 1900s, and also progressed its non-religious meaning of personal magnetism by the 1960s. Even more information concerning the origins as well as interpretations of personal appeal is on the personal appeal web page. Maker's view is that playing cards were developed from an Indian video game called 'The 4 Rajahs', which follows the idea that the roots of playing cards were Eastern. In The Four Rajahs game the having fun items were the King; the General (referred to as 'fierche'); the Elephant (' phil'); the Horsemen; the Camel (' ruch'); and also the Infantry. Likewise Brewer claims that the Elephant, 'phil', was exchanged 'fol' or 'fou', indicating Knave, comparable to the 'Jack'.

What are the side effects of the Mona Lisa touch?

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Chambers in fact contains a whole lot even more information about the variations of the diet words relating to food especially, for instance that words dietician appeared as late as 1905. It is interesting that the original Greek definition as well as derivation of the diet - training course of life - relates so strongly to the modern concept that 'we are what we eat', which diet regimen is so very closely connected to how we feel as well as behave as people. The modern-day diet regimen word currently resonates plainly with its real original definition.

The images of a black cloak and also mask eye-holes subsequently gave the motivation for the dominoes video game to be so-called - in both languages the video game was originally called domino, not dominoes. Surprisingly, the name of the game showed up in Italy also later on, around 1830, from France, full circle to its Latin origins. So, while the lord as well as master origins exist and also no doubt aided the adoption of the name, the exact organization is to a black cloak as well as mask, as opposed to lordly supremacy or the winning objective of the game. Words came into the English language by concerning 1200, and 1450, from the Greek, via Latin, then French. The diet meaning assembly was likewise affected by Latin dies significance days, relating to journal as well as timing. cellulite treatments produced the German tag as it shows up in the words for assembly, Reichstag, Bundestag, and Landtag.

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The terms 'cookie collapsing' (pertaining to breasts as well as sexual intercourse - use your imagination), 'cookie duster', as well as 'cookie crumbs' (Bill Clinton's ruin) extend the the sex-related connotations into even more salacious region. The paradox is naturally that no-one would have been any the smarter concerning these significances had the Blue Peter monitoring not sought to shield all of us. Using words idea - as a metaphor based upon the round of thread/maze tale - referring to addressing a secret is initial taped in 1628, and also previously as clew in 1386, in Chaucer's Legend of Good Women. The allusion is to the clingy as well as apparent nature of an inexpensive suit, most likely of a tacky/loud/garish/ unappetizing layout. When it comes to adulation there may also a suggestion of toadiness or sycophancy.

[chaoskirin]

Sphinxcursed -- Chapter One, Part One

I’m not going to post the whole story, obviously, since I’ll eventually be publishing. However, I thought my long-time followers deserved a little bit of the story! This is the second pass after my beta readers gave me some ideas, but is still subject to change. After all, it’s still a work in progress! Enjoy. And please feel free to let me know what you think.

By this point, Benji believed he could do anything, which included the nigh-impossible feat of beating a sphinx at a puzzle-solving competition.

She lounged across the table from him, with her accoutrements spread out around her. Unperturbed and unruffled, she tapped her claws on the table as she pondered, her other paw scratching idly at her chin. Aeora had already won thirteen championships in her lifetime, and was well on her way to one more.

But Benji would be her undoing! He sat up straighter, clearing his throat. “You could yield,” he said, voice shaking and cracking.

She smiled at him and arched her eyebrows.

He tried to concentrate over the loud hammering of his heart, which not only filled his ears, but all his other senses, as well. Never before had he gotten this close to victory, nor summarily crushed every single one of his opponents with such ease. This close to winning, though, his nerves turned to mush and his concentration drifted away from him like grains of windswept sand.

Also, he was thinking in metaphors.

Rubbing his temples, Benji turned away from the table, staring into the Faun-ir forest, which surrounded the festival plaza. It was a risk, considering the looming endgame, but he needed to take in the scenery for just a moment to calm his mind. Without a break, he couldn’t think. Couldn’t solve. Couldn’t win.

The trees grew huge, with apartments grown directly into the branches, connected by bridges strung between them. Unfortunately, people stared down onto the plaza from their tall vantage points, watching the competition and chattering amongst themselves. Benji couldn’t hear them, even with his long ears, but he imagined at least some of them were talking about him–or about Aeora.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, a few dozen people watched from the benches directly surrounding the table, grating on his nerves simply with their presence. Benji often wondered why puzzle-solving competitions had spectators at all, given that they were one of the most boring sports on all of Erit.

And yet, this was a rather decent turnout for something so mundane.

He found Meadow among the audience, his head flopped over on his shoulder, his eyes closed. Even dozing, though, he occasionally waved a little pennant with Benji’s family crest on it, cheering in his sleep.

The sight was ridiculous enough to make Benji smile.

Meadow’s eyes blinked open. Catching Benji staring, he sat up a little straighter and tapped at his wrist, which lacked a watch.

But Benji had a feeling he didn’t have to hurry, because he’d either win or lose long before the others arrived. Then they could have a little celebration or a little pity party before they started their first week of dedicated rehearsals, and he’d feel much more at ease around his friends. If he didn’t turn around and try to figure things out now, though, it would almost certainly be a pity party.

No. Not this year. He had a competition to win.

The late afternoon sun streamed through the canopy, casting dappled light on the ground. Gauging the time by the pattern of shadows, Benji turned back around, gritting his teeth against the nonsensical clues. At best, he had half an hour. At worst, Aeora would solve the whole thing in a few more ticks and Benji would take home another silver trophy.

He was surprised to find her tapping her claws in boredom, as if she, too, had tuned out of the competition for a minute.

She offered a suspicious smile. Did she already have the answer? No, it wasn’t possible. She would have called the arbiter over already. But she must have been close!

Benji swore under his breath and shuffled through his papers again. The clues must lead to some logical answer, he told himself, and if he could figure it out, he could move his paladin to the stop-point on the map and claim victory. But where was the right place?

He stared at the holographic map, reaching into it to poke his avatar, slowly setting it to spin. Currently, both he and Aeora were at a dilapidated steel factory, where they each found a small com-pad containing either a hint for the final answer… or a red herring. Benji hadn’t decided yet.

Wondering if he’d missed something, Benji tapped the smooth black surface of the com-pad and brought up the projection again. It seemed to have some importance to it, considering that the sphinx kept looking at hers as well. She narrowed her eyes, sorting through a stack of pages with claws that were ill-fitted for the work required.

Benji picked up a pencil, chewing on the stubby eraser before jotting down a clue from a previous round. PIER. Like the com-pad, this word also seemed important, even though the country in which the mystery took place was completely landlocked. There were no rivers or lakes… Not even a pond where a dock could serve as a small wharf. PIER could be reconfigured into the word RIPE, Benji noticed, though he couldn’t think of a use for that, either. When he used one of his questions to ask if there was a grove in the city, the arbiter told him no.

He also had a piece of amber, won by defeating his opponent in the previous round. Rubbing his thumb on it, he stared into the com-pad’s holo-image again.

It was brick and mortar post of some sort, with a lantern atop that glimmered brightly with the aid of lightning magic. He couldn’t move the image or zoom out to see the building behind it, though, which was blurry even in the hologram. Frustrated, Benji ran his fingers through it, making the projection scatter like water for a moment before it re-coagulated above the black plate.

When it finally settled again, the view had shifted to look down into the garden. It was unkempt, littered with paper and dead plants and an empty glass stein.

That was the clue, Benji realized. That was the clue!

He stood up, stretching as far as he could over the map. Despite the lack of detail in the three-dimensional image, each of the signs had pictures on them, representing the purpose of the building behind them. One of them had a stein on it, and if he squinted, he could almost imagine a post underneath, set in a tiny, mis-managed garden.

The clues snapped together in his mind. Now they all made sense. Benji took a deep breath and typed his last question into his special contest terminal–If the answer to the question ended up being another negative, there was no way he could win.

His heart leapt when the answer came back to him a few seconds later.

With the other clues, including a sheet of unsolvable fractions which now made perfect sense, Benji could solve the whole thing. Without wasting a single tick, he scribbled the answer down, leapt up onto his bench, and waved the answer for the arbiter.

He couldn’t help a smug smile when the sphinx glared at him in surprise.

His smugness faded–and Aeora’s grin reappeared–when no one came to collect the answer. Looking over his shoulder, Benji glared at the snoozing arbiter as a few chuckles from the crowd reached his ears. Ears which were surely turning a deep, embarrassed crimson by now. Wonderful.

“Meadow!” Benji hissed, charcoal-grey hair falling into his eyes as he stomped one foot against the bench. The faun sat up and glared in confusion until he realized Benji’s plight, then he reached out a hoof and nudged the arbiter with gentle insistence. Once. Twice.

Then he aimed a rough kick, and the arbiter jerked forward, his forehead colliding with the table.

The chuckles became a chorus of laughter; Meadow puffed up with pride. Benji just rolled his eyes.

“So… Losing to an elf…” Benji said to the sphinx. He meant it to sound conversational, just to fill the silence with some pleasantries, but Aeora bared her teeth. “I mean, uh…” Benji fumbled, scratching his head. “It was bound to happen eventually?”

She growled.

He could see how she might be a little upset. “It’s just, you have like a thousand titles already, don’t you? And–And I–I’m going to stop talking.”

She narrowed her eyes as the arbiter, an old faun who’d been judging the contest for years, finally stood up and waddled over to the round table. He plucked the now-crumpled answer from Benji’s hand and adjusted his glasses as he read it.

As the arbiter’s stern expression relaxed into a smile, Benji forgot all about the angry sphinx behind him. A hush fell over the audience now as they waited to hear the verdict. Had he done it? Had he succeeded in the greatest upset in competition history?

Which wasn’t saying very much, of course. There was a reason these puzzle contests took place in the middle of a forest and not, for example, in a convention center with lights and electricity and a working central air system.

The arbiter tucked the paper into his pocket, cleared his throat, and said, “Benji moves his paladin to a distillery called ‘The Pier.’ He’s just in time to intercept the smuggler and prevent the–”

Aeora snarled. The screech sent a shiver up Benji’s spine. Before he could even turn, she was leaping across the table, batting the holographic map out of her way. Papers scattered into the air as various knickknacks clattered to the hard-packed earth.

He only had time to hold out his hands before she crashed into him. In an instant, he was pinned to the ground with her full weight against his chest, her claws digging into skin. With the wind knocked out of him, he couldn’t speak, even to beg for his life, as he stared into her menacing jaws. Her teeth snapped shut just an inch from his nose.

Please, he begged whatever god happened to be listening. Please don’t let me die.

She said nothing. Her golden eyes didn’t even leave him as she fanned out her feathered wings, knocking two associate judges into the surrounding trees.

“Help!” Benji rasped.

He tried to kick her off, but she sat on his legs, restricting his movement. He couldn’t even dig his heels into the ground to push himself free.

“I’m s–s–” He tried. But he couldn’t get the words out.

“You must be worthy of the prize,” Aeora finally snarled, smiling a dangerous grin. Her hot breath caused Benji’s stomach to turn, but he couldn’t look away.

He could hear the panicked crowd, Meadow’s voice among them. Benji craned his neck, trying to find him, but the only person he recognized was the arbiter, peeking out from his hiding place behind a tree.

The pressure on his chest increased until he heard something crack.

She was going to kill him.

But it wasn’t death that followed. As the pressure let up, he felt each of her claws so precisely, so clearly, as they punctured through his ribs. They were doing something to him; a jolt of magic reached his heart and it stuttered, beating as though it meant to explode. His vision faded, but the adrenaline kept him awake and fully aware as a scream worked its way up all the way from his toes. He lacked the fortitude to prevent it from bursting past his lips in an agonized wail.

“You’re hurting him” Meadow shouted, his hands working in the beginnings of some arcane motion. Benji reached out for him just before Aeora battered him, too, with one of her great, feathered wings. He tumbled to a stop, tail-up, next to the judges.

She pressed down again. For just a moment, Benji was sure he felt his heart stop.

In the moments that followed, he wished it had.

Rivulets of needles coursed through his blood, skewering every inch of him as the magic took hold. His back spasmed and distorted. His limbs cracked and stretched. He felt heavier now, even as Aeora backed away and gave him the freedom to flip over onto his stomach. It didn’t matter how he lay, though… The magic was tearing him apart.

He tried desperately to fight it, to hold himself together, but that only made the pain intensify. His body stretched, his ribs distending and pushing his chest outward.

Benji’s clothes tore at the seams, falling off him in strips. Realizing what was happening, he tried to free himself from his precious gold-inlaid vest before it, too, fell to tatters, but it was too late. He couldn’t shrug it from his ever-expanding shoulders before it pulled apart into mere threads and flitted to the ground around him.

What’s happening? He tried to scream, but the chain around his neck choked his words away. Even in the throes of torture, he somehow managed to work a single digit under the noose and snap it; liquid-platinum beads spilled to the ground around him like raindrops.

The misery abated for a moment, just long enough for him to feel himself–to realize that his thick, curly hair now completely enveloped his neck and chest, much like a mane.

“What–wha–” he managed, just before pain exploded from his shoulders. His vision flared white, and he saw stars. Strangely, someone saw fit to throw a blanket over him, but as he tried to shrug it off, he realized that the blanket was attached. His eyes focused on the shimmering, scaly membranes of his own wings.  

Wings.

He felt the muscles building around them, lifting them from the ground.

“Please be over,” he grunted. His fingers–now barely recognizable anymore–curled into the dirt, digging furrows into it.

As one last insult, the magic stretched his spine, the muscles painfully contracting as a tail curved up and over his back.

Finally, blessedly, the pain relented. Benji could still feel its echoes, though, seizing all his limbs, making him loathe to move even an inch. He saw Meadow’s hooves in front of his face, but lacked even the minuscule effort of strength it would have taken to look up and meet his friend’s eye.

Instead, he stared at those hooves, finding each scratch, each bump, each irregularity standing out in stunning, impossible detail. It was as if he was looking at them through a microscope.

And the whispers of the crowd… He could pick out actual conversation, even in the tumultuous din.

What did she do to him?

Is he dead?

He moaned as the sphinx paced in front of him. “Much better,” she said. “You’re quite handsome, you know. I expected something a bit more gangly.”

“You!” The arbiter peeked out from behind his tree, gesturing wildly, pointing at Aeora. “You’re disqualified!”

“I think I’ll live,” she said.

The red uniforms of the Enforcers were so bright, Benji had to close his eyes as they surrounded the clearing. They never seemed to glow so much before.

“She’s broken a law,” Meadow said. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet it thundered in Benji’s ears.

“R–remind me not to–” Benji muttered. Meadow hushed him, but that was okay. He couldn’t remember what he wanted to be reminded of, anyway.

When Meadow swore and scrambled away, Benji managed to force his eyes open, only to find Aeora’s face directly in front of his. She no longer wore a smile, but a rather serious scowl. Despite the fact that she should have been the one apologizing, Benji found himself eking out a rather strained, “I’m sorry.”

Without another word, she launched herself upward, into the trees. Leaves and branches rained down on him, and he covered his face with what seemed, for all intent and purpose, to be a paw. “No! No, come back!” he called, trying to scramble to his feet. For the first time, he realized that his center of balance was shifted. After managing to get to two legs like a proper person, he fell backward as the weight on his back dragged him back down.

Damn wings!

He collided with the dust again, gritted his teeth, and rolled over.

“Hang on, Ben,” Meadow said, giving his neck a pat.

“I don’t want to 'hang on,’” he muttered, petulantly staring at the ground. Little yellow flowers sprung up around Meadow’s hooves, their petals exhibiting such stunning detail that Benji couldn’t help but stare. Strange. Alluring. He reached out for them, seeing his hand for the first time and realizing that it was, indeed, a lion’s paw.

“Uh…” he started.

“Just… Don’t freak out, okay?” Meadow implored. “Don’t move for a tick. Get your bearings.”

“What am I?” Benji asked. “What’d she–I mean, how…?”

“You’re a manticore, I think,” Meadow said.

Oh, that made perfect sense.

Despite Meadow’s instructions to stay put, he tried to get up again, as if he could find a way to run away from this nightmare. And even understanding that he’d be stuck on all fours for the foreseeable future, his body wanted to walk on two legs. The dissonance made him sick, and he gagged. Thankfully, his stomach was empty.

“Shh.” Meadow crouched next to him again, running his fingers through his hair. Through his mane. Gods, he had a mane!

And all around him lay the remains of his clothing, which looked more like the scraps from the floor of a tailor’s shop at the moment. Even though he now lay completely naked in front of dozens of onlookers, they seemed to have their own fears at the moment, chattering among themselves and only throwing cursory glances in his direction. Besides, if he really was a manticore–and he had no reason to believe he wasn’t, while at the same time finding the very idea completely absurd–he’d be covered in fur anyway. He glanced back to check out his rather luxurious grey pelt.

“I dunno how to solve this one,” Benji muttered, while digging through the scraps. “Solve” seemed like an odd word, but it was the first one that materialized in his exhausted thoughts. It was, after all, a puzzle of sorts.

“Ben,” Meadow said.

“If I can figure out where she went…”

“Benji!” Meadow snapped. “What are you doing? There’s nothing left!”

“The crest. I need to find the crest.” His claws snagged in the torn fabric. When he shook his arm to rid himself of the cloth scrap, he caught a glimpse of pale pink pawpads where his fingers should have been. Then, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Are these my hands?” he asked, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice. Flexing his fingers he found that they were, indeed, his hands.

Sorting through the scraps, Meadow finally picked the moon-shaped pendant up out of the dirt. “It’s here, see? I got it.” A few more of the pearl-like, platinum beads fell from the chain before he doubled it up, tied it, and draped it over his shorter, broken horn. “I’ll hold onto it for you until later.”

“Look at my hands,” Benji said, wiggling his fingers again. He felt sick and curious at the same time. It wasn’t a great combination. “Look at my feet.”

Holding up a leg, he managed to unbalance himself again, and fell over onto his side. He caught sight of his wing, over which he had little control, which ever-so-slowly draped down across his face.

“C'mon, Benji,” Meadow said. His hooves shuffled across the ground, kicking dirt over the pretty little yellow flowers. “C'mon. We gotta get you… Somewhere. To my place! It’s just outside the plaza. Dunno how I’m gonna fit you through the door…”

Benji stood up, but despite his four-legged stature, he could still look Meadow directly in the eye.

No, he couldn’t think about that. If he let himself experience what he’d become, it’d make it too real. Ignoring his own thoughts, he looked past Meadow, toward the other fauns leaping through the trees. Some of them wore the red of Enforcement. They were looking for the sphinx, and when they caught her, they’d bring her back, and…

“Benji, look at me,” Meadow said. He took handfuls of Benji’s mane in his hands and stared at him with mis-matched eyes. One green, one blue. A mishap in his youth. A magical anomaly. A–

“Snap out of it!” Meadow gave his hair a sharp tug.

Benji recognized the fascinating symptoms of shock, but was frustrated that he lacked the capacity to take any mental notes on it. Instead, all he could manage was to say, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, definitely get out of here, I think,” Meadow replied. He glanced around, eying a gathering cavalcade of curious onlookers. Now that the immediate danger had passed, there would be people who’d want to see the fallout from the attack.

And Benji didn’t want to be seen.

He still wanted to stand on two legs, but the alignment of his back wouldn’t allow it. If he could just situate his wings properly…

Unbidden to his will, one of his wings lashed out and struck Meadow’s shoulder, sending him sprawling. Again.

“What’d you do that for?” Meadow demanded.

“I didn’t mean to! They’re–They don’t…!” Benji tried to tuck his wings in where they would be less likely to do damage, but his muscles didn’t seem to understand what he wanted. He smacked himself across the nose. “I was just trying to–”

If he could complete a sentence today, Benji would consider that a gods-blessed miracle.

“I was trying to walk,” he finally said.

Numbness set in as Meadow carefully took the outer edge of each wing and pushed it toward Benji’s body. He had wings. Wings. Wings.

Elves didn’t have wings.

“Is that better?” Meadow asked.

“Huh?”

“Can you follow me?”

It took Benji a tick to remember what they were supposed to be doing. “To your house.”

“Right. Can you do that?”

He could, he thought, if he let his mind wander into calm nothingness and just concentrated on trailing after Meadow. He took a step with one front paw, then another, then a back paw, until finally, he found himself walking. Not as he’d prefer to go, sure, but at least he was moving forward. Most disturbing was how his mind sort of floated along after him, like a balloon on a string, as if it had completely separated from his body.

In that moment, he couldn’t feel anything.

“I’m not a sphinx,” he said.

“Male liori are manticores,” Meadow said. “You know that.”

“Right. Right. I can’t think…”

“I don’t expect you to right now. It’s all right. We’ll get you settled, then you can think.”

They were so close to making their escape into the trees when the voice of the arbiter stung Benji’s ears. “Wait!” he called, turning from two Enforcement agents at the edge of the clearing. The old faun huffed and puffed on his hooves until he reached then. “Don’t you want your prize? You’ve won!”

Honestly, Benji couldn’t think of anything he wanted less than a fake gold trophy and a certificate of victory. Even if he spent the last few years training for this prestigious honor, and even if his dream finally came true, he couldn’t even think about accepting the prize from such an endeavor. Compared to what just happened, it was painfully insignificant. And a reminder of his curse. “No,” he said.

Stunned, the arbiter stood out of his way to let him pass.

One foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Meadow waited farther down the forest path, but Benji couldn’t bring himself to leave the clearing. Maybe he could solve this new puzzle if he stayed?

Ridiculous.

“C'mon, Benji,” Meadow said, returning and giving his shoulder a pat. “We’ll get you someplace where you can relax a bit, then we’ll figure out what to do.”

[midnightluck]

a very expensive vase (the trouble twins remix)

Marco taps his pencil on his desk and watches the clock, just like every other student in the class. Unlike them, however, he’s really hoping that it will somehow slow down.

No such luck, unfortunately, and the teacher is writing their assignment on the board. Two minutes left until school is over, and Marco dreads that final bell. He used to love it, but ever since a few weeks ago, it’s taken to signalling the start of his own private hell.

It rings anyway. He takes his time putting his notebook away and standing up, letting his classmates stream out of the room round him. There’s only so much he can delay, though, so he slings his bag over his shoulder and starts for the door.

It’s really a pretty campus, he thinks absently. Carefully manicured greenery out every window, high ceilings, pristine floors--it looks more like a mansion than a school.

If it were a mansion, the hallway he’s heading for would be the bedrooms, and he drops that metaphor the second he realizes it. It’s bad enough he’s even in this club without taking it anywhere else.

He slips past the fancy gilt sign with “Just a moment” written on it and heads for the third door on the left. He gives himself a single moment, with his hand on the knob, to close his eyes, breathe, and dread, then he cracks it open, slips inside, and opens his eyes.

Blue.

There’s blue everywhere, on the walls and the floor, which is odd because he’s fairly certain this room was yellow last week. There’s piles of blue satin and lace everywhere, and the effect is actually very nice, like waves. In fact, exactly like waves, Marco notices, taking it in; the whole room looks remarkably like an ocean.

“Marco!” someone shouts, and then something heavy and soft is dropped on his head, temporarily blinding him. “You’re late!”

“Sorry,” he says reflexively, reaching up and retrieving an oversized tricorn hat with blue and yellow feathers in it.

“Teacher kept you back?” a familiar voice asks, and he catches a heavy purple coat with his face.

“Or a pretty girl?” asks another as he fights his way free of it.

“No,” he says, shaking out the coat, “I just didn’t want to come.”

And there in front of him, is the reason. Blond and black, mischief and merriment, and both grinning at him. “Come on,” Sabo says, spreading his arms. “Welcome to the Grand Line! We’re gonna have fun this week!”

Marco looks at Sabo’s blue coat, knee high boots and ragged cravat. “Pirates, yoi?”

“You’ll love it,” Ace assures him, and he’s wearing--well. Not much at all.

Marco turns his eyes back to the purple greatcoat. “Pirates,” he sighs, and pushes between the two to head to the wardrobe room.

“Wear those lace-up sandals!” Sabo calls after him, and he wonders if he can get away with bare feet because he’s seen the heels on those things. Surely there’s something else.

There’s chaos in the back half of the wardrobe room, and Luffy pokes his head around a shelf, something oddly striped over half his head. “Hey, it’s Pineapple! Hey, Zoro, look, he came back!”

Another garment of dubious design goes fluttering over his head, and then he disappears back around the shelf. “Get back here and be careful taking that off,” comes the cool voice he knows is their treasurer’s. “If you tear it again, you’re buying the replacement. And Zoro, Marco came back! Pay up on our bet!”

“Namiiiii~” Luffy says, and Marco tunes them out as he ignores the pile clearly left out for him and goes through the racks. Purple’s not so bad, and there’s some blue capris he remembers from his first week here; that won’t clash, will it? Still, it looks more try-hard surfer bum than pirate, so he wanders to the accessory area and plucks halfheartedly at the containers and shelves until he finds a blue scarf. He doesn’t think about who it’s from, only ties it around his waist and tucks the top in.

The fabric, whatever it is, is light and slick and cool against his skin, and he doesn’t think about that either. He just keeps poking until he finds a pretty gold loop belt, and then tries to layer it over the scarf.

It’s too short, because of course it is. Everyone in this club is thin and lithe and tall and pretty, and it’s clearly not made for real people. He just tucks it in around half his waist, and calls it good enough.

He stands in front of the full length mirror, trying to guess what they’ll send him back for this time, and a grunt makes him look up in enough time to catch the silver mess coming at his face. At least, he thinks it’s silver. He hopes it is, because he does not put it past this group to have white gold or worse, platinum.

Whatever it’s made of, it’s too big to be a bracelet, and he glances up the way it came from. Zoro’s there, leaning against the wall, in greens that match his hair and only slightly more clothes than Ace. "Balance," he says, gestures vaguely.

"Balance," Marco repeats, and then his eye catches on the chain belt on one hip and he nods. You can get away with asymmetry, sure, but not unbalance, and he hates that he knows that now.

He hates that he’s here, dressing up and getting ready to put on a mask to cater to the whims of rich boys with nothing better to do than play around, but--

Well, whatever. He leans over and slips it up his calf until it sticks, just under the hem, and then looks in the mirror again. Yeah, sure, that’ll do.

He looks back to Zoro to be sure, and he’s got his eyebrows up.

“What?” Marco asks, only half defensively. Zoro’s pretty all right, most of the time.

“Nothing,” Zoro says, pushing away from the wall and walking off.

Most of the time, Marco decides, does not include now. Whatever, it’s good enough.

He heads back out into the main room and the chaos there. “Places!” Chopper shouts, waving his little arms. “Everybody, places! We’re open in three!”

Marco wanders over to the staging wall, staring blankly at the small wooden tables that almost look like they’re made of ship wood or crates. Still elegant, of course, but with just the right touch of rustic to lend to the sea-going atmosphere. A set-up like this clearly wasn’t cheap, and it was just for the sake for playing pretend pirates.

Speaking of, was that a bit of salt in the air? Franky was really getting creative with the sets, wasn’t he?

Chopper’s keeping a countdown going and Marco steps into his place, behind and to the right of the trouble twins. Sabo’s whispering harshly, jabbing a finger into Ace’s chest, and Marco fixes his eyes on the doorway and tries to avoid listening in.

“--all about you,” Sabo is saying, and then there’s a short scuffing noise.

“Maybe it should be,” Ace says back, and Sabo makes the most disbelieving noise Marco’s ever heard--and he has a lot of younger siblings.

“You’re just jealous--” Sabo says, and Chopper makes a loud noise and yells about one minute left.

“So what if I am?” Ace snaps back, and Marco’s eyes drift towards them.

“Of whom, Ace?” Sabo asks, and then Luffy comes bounding over.

“I’m a pirate!” he shouts, one hand on his ever-present straw hat. “I’m gonna be the best pirate ever! King of the pirates!”

Ace catches him when he jumps, and laughs as he sets Luffy back down, smile in place like nothing ever happened. “You certainly are,” he says, and scoots over to let Luffy have the middle of the formation.

“Thirteen seconds!” Chopper shouts, twirling in panicked little circles. “Places! Where’s Sanji?!”

“Here,” Nami says, shoving Sanji out of the wardrobe room. “Get to work! And Zoro, don’t forget my money!”

Zoro scowls and slides down to sit beside Luffy, leaning back on what looks suspiciously like actual sword scabbards. Marco counts three of them, probably because Zoro can. He really hates this rich-people school sometimes.

“We’re open!” Chopper shouts, and then dives forward to sit on Zoro’s outstretched leg. “Everybody smile!”

And they do. The door swings open, to gasps and chatter, and it’s only been two weeks but Marco knows, now, how to tip his chin and let his eyelids droop and chant “Welcome!” in perfect unison.

“Ooh, pirates!” someone says, clapping their hands, and the chaos begins.

Marco knows his role by now; he knows how to take the client’s hand and bow over it (but not kiss it) and welcome them softly and hand them off to their tables. He’s still the greeter here because this is their definition of both watching and training. Luckily, Marco’s always been a fast study.

Luffy’s the center of attention at his table as he bounces and talks about all the adventures he wants to go on, and, more importantly, all the meats he could try as a pirate. Zoro’s behind him, as usual, and Marco’s not at all worried about that table getting out of control.

Sanji spins past him with a tray full of delicate cups and petit-fours. He’s crowing about the beauty of flowers, and Marco tries not to look at the filigree metal towers of delicate sweets swaying precariously.

“Right this way, Princess,” he says instead, cutting his eyes back to...oh, Mary? Maria? Malina? Something with “ma”, certainly. She’s enough of a regular that he should know her name, but he knows her preference instead and that’s more important.

It’s a complicated dance, getting everyone set up at proper tables, because there’s a balance between small, intimate groups and making sure their guests get the best match. Here comes Belia, for example, and she prefers to sit at Luffy’s table, but Luffy already has three girls--he can seat her to the side and ask her to wait, but it’s too early for turnover, but Chopper’s got a free place and he’s hyper today, so maybe--

He’s already bowing over the next guest’s hand and murmuring, “welcome, princess,” as he calculates places, when he glances up to see which host their eyes are on and freezes.

He stares up, and Haruta who absolutely does not go to this school looks back, smile growing at the same speed as the dread in his stomach. Oh shit, oh shit, this is not good--

Sanji swirls past him and subtly kicks the back of his knee, and he grits his teeth and barely manages to turn the collapse into an awkward kind of dip that might be mistaken for a bow if you’d never actually seen one.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, standing up, and glances around; Haruta’s next to Whitey Bay, the second year pre-med daughter of the pharmaceutical zaibatsu, likes purples and camomile tea and--

And suddenly, out of nowhere, Sabo is right beside him. "Now, now," he says, taking Haruta's other hand. "That's not how you treat a lady, Marco," and he looks Haruta over and adds, "or a guest. What's your type?" he asks, leaning in and lowering his eyelids. "How can we please you today?"

Haruta, Marco notices, looks absolutely delighted, and is probably about to request Marco, he can just tell, so he cuts his eyes to the side and says, “Miss Bay, as I recall, you do quite enjoy the company of our resident doctor, don't you? Please, just this way.”

He offers her his arm and she takes it, letting him lead her over to Trafalgar’s table. He hands her down into her chair and leans in to murmur, “if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more pleasant, just say the word, yoi,” because scripts are scripts and guests are always the first priority.

She smiles at him and her dimples are adorable. He bows once more and steps back, turning at the last moment and cutting his eyes back towards her just once more. She smiles coyly, and he offers a tiny smile back before he’s finally free to look around again.

Sabo’s leaning in towards Haruta, still standing in the middle of the room, and Marco...doesn’t know what to do. He needs to resume his place as greeter, but he does not want to go back over there.

At just that moment, Sabo throws back his head and laughs, his perfect staged “real” laugh. It has all the hallmarks of proper amusement except it’s also attractive enough that Marco knows he practiced in a mirror, because Sabo’s real laugh is an ugly affair, full of flushed cheeks and awkward snorting noises.

Still, he doesn’t let go of Haruta’s hand; he just steps backwards and leads them both over to the large “ship deck” where Ace is holding court. He pulls out a chair and hands Haruta down into it, and Marco cuts his eyes away and gets back to greeting.

He makes it through the next two hours, somehow, by avoiding Sabo’s and Ace’s tables as much as he can. No one even notices because it’s not like it’s unusual behaviour for him, not really. He always tries to stay away from their tables while they’re working if he can.

Haruta leaves a bit before they close without any prodding from Marco, which is terrifying. He lets the last guest drag their fingers away from his hand with obvious reluctance, and he watches her leave, making sure his small smile is in place and his head is tilted just so. Body language may be subconscious, but, as Sanji says, it works.

Then the last girl’s gone, out through the door, and Chopper closes it and everyone sags in place. “Wow,” Ace says, running a hand through his carefully-styled hair. “That was worse than normal.”

“Everyone likes pirates,” Luffy says cheerfully. “Sailing! Meat! Freedom!”

“Mmm,” Sabo says and stretches, popping his spine. “Well? Are we in the black?”

“You know we are,” Nami says, counting a stack of cash. “Theme days always make bank. Hmm, this is a good start.”

“Start?” Marco repeats, eying the pile of bills stacked neatly across an entire table.

“Sure,” Nami says. “Looks like...hmm, you only have a few hundred thousand belli left on your debt.”

“But that’s--that’s what I started with, yoi!”

“Yeah, but now it’s 300 belli less.”

“Three--”

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Go home,” Zoro advises. “You’re not going to win this fight.”

And he’s not, Marco knows--no one wins a fight against Nami when money is on the line. His shoulders sag and he sighs, loud and long and depressed.

No one stops him as he heads back into the dressing room, but he rushes through getting changed anyway because--

“You did good today,” Ace says, and Marco whirls to find him leaning against the wall just inside the door.

Marco nods, swallows, and then eventually says, “Thanks, yoi.”

“You’re a fast learner, and a natural, too. We’ll have to get you on tables soon; the competent older brother type is always in demand.”

“I’m not--” Marco starts, but, well, no, he kinda is, isn’t he? Still, tables are a whole new level of fresh hell he is absolutely unprepared for.

“Hey,” Ace says, pushing off the wall to take a step towards him “Look, I know you think this club is dumb--”

“I don’t--” Marco says, even though he absolutely does.

“--and shallow--”

“It’s not--”

“--and that we’re contemptible and taking advantage of both the girls and ourselves--”

“I…”

“--but the thing is,” Ace says, taking another step, and the shadow in his eyes makes Marco shut up. “The thing is, is this is important. Maybe not to you, but to us, to me, to Sabo--there’s a reason that we do this. A lot of reasons, and...well.” He stops, and his eyes skitter away from Marco’s, who stares back. “Just--you can hate this if you want to. You can hate us if you need to. But at least...try to respect why we do it, yeah? Sabo--” and he cuts off and shuts up, standing there with clenched fists and red cheeks, and takes a second to just breathe. “We deserve that much, at least. Don't we?”

Well, and maybe they did, and maybe Marco has been judgemental, and maybe he hasn’t thought to try understanding them and this club and this school and this whole nightmare, but that’s because, “You’re blackmailing me to be here, yoi.”

Ace stares at him, then his eyes close and his hands go loose and his mouth crooks up. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, okay. I can see why you’d think that. Okay. That’s--that’s fine.” And he turns and walks away.

Marco stares after him. This club makes no damn sense, he swears--this club and this school and these boys and the thing in his chest that feels oddly like guilt. It doesn't make sense and he doesn’t like any of it.

But he can’t just stand here in the dressing room half-changed all day, so he finishes putting his shirt on, makes sure his tie is just the right kind of crooked--the kind he perfected by watching Law--and that his hair is the right level of wild fluff that looks barely tamed. Not that it takes much work.

Then he can leave this place and go home and lose himself in homework and family chaos and forget about this confusing place until tomorrow, at the very least.

He thinks it’ll work, too, but his hopes are dashed the second he steps out the front gate and finds Haruta and Whitey waiting for him.

He pins Haruta with laser eyes. “Why,” he says flatly, and his brother giggles and covers his mouth demurely, for all the world like any of the girls they serve.

“You should be grateful,” Whitey says, eyes dancing. “To have the privilege of escorting two such lovely young ladies home.”

“It’ll do wonders for your reputation,” Haruta says, and gloms onto his arm before he even offers it.

And shit, it will, won’t it? Everyone knows what club he’s a part of, and he can’t be anything less than perfectly gallant, not where people can see. His reputation is the club’s reputation.

So he grits his teeth and allows himself one short sharp “fine,” before he slides the elbow Haruta’s grabbed out and bows to Whitey. “Milady,” he says, and offers his other hand. “Please allow me to escort you home.”

Sighs and coos erupt around him and he fixes his face and waits until Whitey slides her fingers over his. Reputation, he reminds himself, then straightens up, turns Whitey out, and heads off towards home, head high.

“You really are good at this,” Whitey remarks as they walk. “And, apparently, good at keeping it secret.”

“You’re the only other Whitebeard who attends this school, and you don’t live at home anymore” Marco points out. “Besides. They know I’ve joined a club.”

“Yeah, but not which club,” Haruta says, dropping his arm and flouncing around to walk backwards. “You didn’t mention that.”

Thankfully, Whitey lives both close to the school and on the way home, so there’s no major detour, and even more thankfully, Haruta walks the rest of the way in silence. Marco counts his blessings and uses the time to make a to-do list. He still has to organize dinner and get started on the readings and there’s the math worksheet, and if they really are doing a cowboy theme next, he needs to brush up on his English--

And then they arrive and Marco realizes that maybe he ought to have paid more attention to Haruta after all. A quiet Haruta is not a good Haruta, and there’s a gleam in his eyes and evil in his smile when Marco opens the door and steps aside on instinct.

Haruta minces away through the front door ahead of him and calls out, “Hey, everyone! I just had the most fantastic afternoon!”

“Really?” comes Izo’s voice. “Oh, that uniform looks nice on you!”

“You’re such a brat, yoi,” Marco gripes, stopping to take off his shoes and line them up neatly.

“That’s not what you called me earlier!” Haruta carols back. “Hey, make some tea for us, Marco!”

“What I am, your servant?” he says, but he moves towards the kitchen anyway, because--well, because.

“Not a servant,” Haruta says, sitting daintily at the kitchen table next to Izo and watching him with gleaming eyes. “Consider it practice.”

“I don’t need practice,” Marco grumbles, getting himself a cup of water. His brothers can get their own tea.

“How about, if you don’t, then I’ll tell everyone exactly what club you’ve joined?”

“You know what club it is?” Izo asks, sitting up straight.

Ah, no. Okay, that--that’s not happening. “Two sugars, yoi?

Haruta grins, equal parts mischief and triumph. “Good boy.”

“Hey, no fair!” Izo says, leaning in. “What club is it? Tell!”

Marco gets out the teapot and sighs. This is his life now, apparently.

Well, Haruta’s right about one thing. It is good practice.

[enkelimagnus]

Shield (Future)

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1581 words, rated T

Jewish Bucky Barnes, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: Episode 5 Truth

Some thoughts as Bucky prepares to leave New Orleans to go back home.

TW: mention of Racism.

Read on AO3

Part 34 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

--------------

A bit more than a week into his stay at Sam’s family home, Bucky gets a phone call from work.

He knew it was going to come eventually. He’s been working without the SRT’s people and guidelines for too long, for over two weeks now. They want him back in his kennel where he belongs.

It’s a call he hates taking. He hates talking to these people in front of Sam. He hates how he agrees with everything so easily. It’s humiliating, to show himself folding this easily to those people, to show how tight of a hold they have on him, that he can’t say no even for a second. That Sam knows him as stubborn and contrary makes it even more humiliating.

The SRT doesn’t know that side of him. They know the side that will do anything he can to survive, the side that will strip himself of all dignity, reduce himself to nothing, so he can live another day, so he can avoid pain.

He listens to the suit on the other end of the line until he pauses for a response.

“Yes sir,” he says. “I’ll be there sir.”

He hangs up before them, and it feels like a small, stupid victory. It’s one insignificant act of defiance that he allows himself.

Sam’s pouring both of them coffee when Bucky comes into the kitchen. He thanks him and takes the cup. The handle is painfully hot. He sips on it anyway.

“You okay?” Sam asks, and how can he not? When he just saw Bucky metaphorically prostrate himself in submission.

“Work,” he explains. “They need me in for the day after tomorrow.”

Sam nods quietly, understandingly. From the little they’ve talked about it, he knows Bucky doesn’t love the SRT and the work they make him do. If it was up to him, Bucky would stay in Delacroix for a while longer, until Karli showed up, or until he really, actually, started to get homesick. But it isn’t up to him.

They work through the logistics quickly. He books a ticket quickly for a flight out of New Orleans the next morning so he can be home in the early afternoon. He’ll drive himself back to the airport with the rental car he arrived in.

He doesn’t like driving actual cars, but he doesn’t have a motorcycle license. The army made him get his driver’s license when he got out, just in case he needed to drive while on the job. Getting it updated for motorcycles should probably be in his plans for the coming months.

They finish their coffees and go out to train with the shield. Sam’s good with it, but he needs some extra work. He’s got the core moves down, but putting the more dexterous maneuvers together while he’s running is still weak point. And he’ll need that against supersoldiers. Bucky has first hand experience with getting the shield thrown in his face by someone with Karli’s abilities.

Training with the shield is repetitive enough that they get to talk some more. They decide to wake up early the next day, to get a final look at the water pump, which they are both certain is not working correctly. Sarah disagrees.

They have a couple hours up at the boat to prove her wrong.

The day passes way too fast for Bucky’s taste. He wants to hang on to the sun, to the warmth, to the air of family that hangs around this place. He wants to stay here a little longer, forget what the world is expecting of him. Forget that they’re tugging at his leash.

There’s a lot of talking in the few hours he has left with the Wilsons. AJ and Cass ask a thousand questions a minute, and he does his best to answer them without completely traumatizing them. His life is strange and fascinating to them. They ask about the thirties a lot, and he tells them what he can.

He talks with Sarah. They’ve kept their flirtation going the entire time he’s been here, and Bucky wants to know where he stands with her. She’s like him in a lot of ways, especially in that where she isn’t really looking for anything to come of this, but she enjoys it. She enjoys flirting, and smiling, and feeling wanted. They agree to keep it going, for as long as they’re both comfortable with it. Perhaps something else will happen there.

Bucky sleeps well on the Wilsons’ couch. He has slept a bit better than usual lately. The nightmares are still there; they’re not going to leave him any time soon. But it’s still nicer, somehow. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t slept on the floor for over a week.

The floor isn’t uncomfortable, but a couch is certainly better. One can only imagine what a bed is like.

As the clock ticks by the last few hours of his vacation in Delacroix the next morning, he and find themselves training again. The shield is thrown between the two of them, back and forth, back and forth. This time, they take much longer to start talking.

Bucky’s hands close around the leather handles inside the shield. They’re familiar. He knows that, if he looks, he’ll see where they’ve been patched up over the past twelve or thirteen years since Steve woke up, and where he patched them up during the war.

He’d spent years making dresses in a factory, years during which he’d steadily taken over the seamstress role in his family, eventually working faster than his mother and sisters. During the war, he’d helped patch up uniforms and fix leather gear. The straps on Steve’s shield, too. He stabbed his own fingers a couple of times with a needle doing it. There might still be some blood on there.

Sam’s still unsure about the shield, though he’s training with it now.

Somewhere out there, in between the fights with the Flag Smashers and Walker, Bucky realized something. Not only did he make it worse by his insistence on Sam taking on the shield, but… he’s wrong about a lot more than that.

Sam doesn’t have a choice to stop fighting the small fights to focus on what Bucky sees at the bigger picture. The world won’t let him.

Bucky’s no stranger to discrimination, but he’s very different from Sam. He could hide his heritage, he could hide his sexuality. There is no outward difference between a Slavic Jew and a white Protestant, not when you’re good at hiding your accent — and he was.

Sam can’t hide his skin, and the world won’t let him live in peace. They force him to fight, over and over again. The truth is, Sam’s a braver man than Bucky could ever be.

Giving Sam the shield was giving him another target on his back, adding to his struggle. It’s opening him up to the horror that would be being a black man in the public eye, a black man fighting for something.

Steve and Bucky were naive to think this would be the perfect solution. They should have included Sam in the conversation, even if they both believed he deserved it. Sam will always be deserving of the shield, but it should have been about him wanting it. Not about what Steve and Bucky wanted.

He has apologies to make. So he makes them.

When he walks away from Sam, he knows the shield is in good hands. He knows the next time he sees Sam, he’ll be Captain America.

Walking away is hard: Walking away from Sam, from Sam and the shield, from Sam and the comfort of his presence. He’s noticed that, since they started hanging out together and fighting together, Sam seems to have adapted to the little things Bucky does, to his paranoia. He tends not to touch him if he’s not in Bucky’s field of vision, for example. Bucky’s thankful. He doesn’t want to go back.

But he has to. Because of work. Because of Yori. He has actual amends to make. The second Sam started talking about it, he knew it would have to be Yori. He knows he’s going to lose something he considers precious, but that relationship is only fool’s gold.

He walks away from Sam and safety, towards hurt and a home he is almost afraid of seeing again.

Bucky makes it to New Orleans with an hour to spare. With Google and luck, he finds himself a small Judaica store that sells jewelry. The kind of jewelry he is searching for.

He pays cash, and refuses the little blue velvet box the lady behind the counter tries to put the necklace in. He hasn’t had a magen David in over eighty years. He had almost forgotten what they looked like. So small, in his grown-up, calloused palm, shining silver.

Sam’s got the shield now, and it’s not for Bucky to run after, not anymore. He still needs something to shield himself with though.

He takes off the necklace briefly when he walks through safety checks in the airport. He’s had it less than a day, but he still feels strange taking it off. It’s that small part of him that spent every day and every night with it growing up that slowly awakens.

His neck is starting to get quite busy, with the dog tags and his new metaphorical shield, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

[brotherseph]

Fruits for the Soul: DON’T be Judgmental on Others

"When people throw you stones, it's because you are a good tree full of fruits. They see a lot of harvest in you. Don't go down to their level by throwing them back the stones, but throw them your FRUITS so the seeds of yourself may inspire them to change their ways."

A simple thought. But a deep meaning. There's a Filipino saying; "Kapag binato ka ng bato, batuhin mo ng tinapay".

"Do not repay evil with evil or insult with insult. On the contrary, repay evil with blessing, because to this you were called so that you may inherit a blessing." (1 Peter 3:9)

These are the common words that we always hear if someone persecutes, discriminates or even misjudges you as a person. Even in all aspects of our lives, in the society or in your community, it is inevitable that there people who are really observant or even  judgmental against others. Even in social media, there lots of negativity that you've always read in comments or even seen on  posts from your news feed in your social media accounts.

As observed nowadays, people living in the modern day world are already open-minded on the things they've seen; from your physical appearance, your words and actions, down to your inner side of you.  

I would like to share this kind of example of a so-called "discrimination" on which I saw this on the news. A situation just happened almost two years ago when a deaf couple mocked, driven away by security guard in one of malls at the Metro. As they've entered the mall, a security guard inspects their personal belongings before entering. However, the zipper of the woman snagged and she found she couldn’t unzip it. She gestured for the guard to wait, but the latter kept pushing her bag with the stick. The security guard might not have understood the couple what they're saying cause they were signing/gesturing each other. The guard kept on saying something to them but they could not obviously hear. So his boyfriend informed the guard through his gestures that both of them were deaf and couldn’t hear what he was saying. Then the guard violently gestured the couple to go away from the mall. Both of them were in shocked and they've felt discriminated. They've felt ashamed because the people were looking at them as the guard kept on gesturing to go away and not allowed to enter the mall. It was just like they were like animals being told to go away. Because of shaming, his deaf boyfriend took a cellphone video, but the guard got angry and challenged him, continuing on with his profanities as he told them to leave. The couple proceeded to another gate instead to report the incident to the management.

The mall’s management took swift action and accommodated them. After making them write an incident report, the security guard was called to answer their complaint. They were given a chance to communicate with each other through writing and the security guard eventually apologized, but the deaf girl observed that they couldn’t see his sincerity because he was laughing. Both of them they cannot accept the security guard’s apology. They've left the office sad, depressed and discriminated.

This kind of situation or incident is one of the biggest examples of a so called "discrimination". Even in other countries such as United States, racial discrimination is definitely rampant. Where the black people living in the states always felt discriminated or even insulted by the whites due to their race and its color of their skin.

Many incidents in our society today experienced such serious situations on discrimination. Even on social media, "bashing" as the common term or called by netizens of a certain person (basher) judging or even criticizing someone's person or others due to his or her physical appearance, in words or even in his or her actions. In popular culture, majority of the Filipinos naturally have this kind of character trait so called: "CRAB MENTALITY". Metaphorically a kind of attitude of a one's person that simply describes if someone person or individual who is in the midst of success and achievements on his or her life, he or she may find ways to achieve it through his or her violent actions. It is a way of thinking best described by the phrase "if I can't have it, neither can you". The metaphor is derived from a pattern of behavior noted in crabs when they are trapped in a bucket. While any one crab could easily escape, its efforts will be undermined by others, ensuring the group's collective demise.

Indeed, we are all judgmental. Yes, even you. I certainly am, many times. I think it’s human nature.

And yet, while it is in our nature to be judgmental, I don’t think it’s always useful to us. We look down on others, as if we are so much better … and that creates division between people.

Think about it for a second: we see someone, and based on their looks or actions, we pass judgment on them. Not good judgment, either. Usually without even knowing the person. And that’s it — that’s usually the extent of our interaction with that person. We don’t make an effort to get to know the person, or understand them, or see whether our judgment was right or not.

And let’s consider what happens when we pass judgment on people we do know. We see something they do, and get angry at it, or disappointed in the person, or think worse of them. We judge, without understanding. And that’s the end of it — we don’t try to find out more, and through communication begin to understand, and through understanding begin to build a bridge between two human beings.

Can you build a bridge with every single person you meet? Probably not. That takes time and effort, two things we’re usually short on anyways. But I’ve found that taking that extra time, even just once a day, can make a huge difference.

Avoid passing judgment and instead build a bridge between two human beings.

Don’t pass judgment. If you find yourself being judgmental, stop yourself. This takes a greater awareness than we usually have, so the first step (and an important one) is to observe your thoughts for a few days, trying to notice when you’re being judgmental. This can be a difficult step. Remind yourself to observe.

Once you’re more aware, you can then stop yourself when you feel yourself being judgmental. Then move to the next step.

Understand. Instead of judging someone for what he’s done or how he looks, try instead to understand the person. Put yourself in their shoes. Try to imagine their background. If possible, talk to them. Find out their backstory. Everyone has one. If not, try to imagine the circumstances that might have led to the person acting or looking like they do.

Accept. Once you begin to understand, or at least think you kind of understand, try to accept. Accept that person for who he is, without trying to change him. Accept that he will act the way he does, without wanting him to change. The world is what it is, and as much as you try, you can only change a little bit of it. It will continue to be as it is long after you’re gone. Accept that, because otherwise, you’re in for a world of frustration.

Love. Once you’ve accepted someone for who he is, try to love him. Even if you don’t know him. Even if you’ve hated him in the past. Love him as a brother, or love her as a sister, no matter who they are, old or young, light skinned or dark, male or female, rich or poor.

I hope the situation experienced by the two deaf-couples that I've exampled a while ago will be an eye opener to all of us people. Discriminating & Judging others is a NOT good character trait to ponder. Let us make realize ourselves that these character traits we have are just only material things on this Earth. Try to think of it that when you wake up early in the morning from your bed, it's already a BLESSING. A new blessing that the LORD GOD gives you an another day to live life to the fullest. Every day is a BLESSING. And you should THANK of it. Be KIND. Learn to ACCEPT who you are. Learn to APPRECIATE yourself and others, on whatever any challenges and circumstances that may come into your life, take those criticisms by others as learnings, exchange negativity into a positive side. Cause "JUDGING someone does NOT DEFINE who they are; it DEFINES who you are."

[mozgoderina]

Stranger in America (Art in America) / Glenn Ligon

AS A YOUNG BOY, Glenn Ligon would get on the subway with his older brother, traveling from the South Bronx to Manhattan to go to school. On the way to the train, he walked through a burned-out neighborhood in which the only intact structure was a police station, mordantly nicknamed “Little House on the Prairie.” Emerging onto the leafy streets of the Upper West Side, he headed to the progressive Walden School, which Andrew Goodman, one of three civil-rights workers slain in Mississippi during the “Freedom Summer” of 1964, had attended some years earlier.

In 1972, when Ligon was 12, one Walden School teacher wrote in an end-of-year report, “Glenn has a good knowledge of slavery and black history, but finds standard social studies uninteresting and as yet has developed no social conscience. He tends to be politically apathetic about being black, which is a shame.” That report, remade in screenprint on handmade paper as one of eight End of Year Reports (2003), presently hangs on the walls of New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art in “Glenn Ligon: America,” the artist’s midcareer retrospective, organized by Whitney curator Scott Rothkopf. Now 51, Ligon lives in Manhattan’s Tribeca and works in a spare, airy loft near the Gowanus Canal in Brooklyn, down the hall from his longtime friends, the artists Paul Ramirez Jonas and Byron Kim.

Ligon’s relationship with the Whitney is longstanding. He graduated from the museum’s Independent Study Program in 1985, three years after he received a BA in art from Wesleyan University. The Whitney owns the largest collection anywhere of Ligon’s works, and it was the first museum to show him. He has appeared in two Whitney Biennials, in 1991 and 1993, as well as, in 1994, the museum’s landmark “Black Male” show. In the context of this retrospective, which demonstrates Ligon’s sustained and serious engagement with race-related issues over 25 years, that almost 40-year-old report strikes an ironic chord. Was Ligon just not acting militant or poor enough for the certainly well-intentioned teacher who was evaluating him?

Ligon’s contribution to the 1993 biennial, for which he won his first renown, was Notes on the Margin of the Black Book (1991–93), a dismantled and wall-mounted copy of Robert Mapplethorpe’s notorious tome [1], its 91 images of naked black men interspersed with quotes that Ligon gathered from scholars, writers, the subjects of the photographs and men in bars. The homoerotic Mapplethorpe images helped fuel the Culture Wars of the early ’90s. Ligon himself is gay, yet he most often discusses his work in the context of being African-American. He told French critic Marie de Brugerolle in 1995 that he found the images “very disturbing” when he first saw them.

I asked myself if those photographs were racist. I realized then that the question was too limiting, that it was more complicated. Can we say that Mapplethorpe’s work is documentary or fetishistic? Maybe, but at the same time he put black men into a tradition of portraiture to which they’ve never had access before.2

Ligon’s subtlety in staking a racial position with Notes on the Margin of the Black Book is a bold reframing of Mapplethorpe’s own defiance of norms. Yet the project fascinates, in part, because its complexities allow it to rise above a simple exercise in identity-oriented art. Today, the quotes Ligon gathered are like the voices at a raucous neighborhood meeting. “Color is not a human or personal reality; it is a political reality,” says James Baldwin. “I felt like a freak,” says Ken Moody, one of Mapplethorpe’s models. “People who look at these pictures become addicts and spread AIDS,” says someone named Rita Burke.

Almost all of Ligon’s paintings, prints and videos (the last medium is not included here, though a recent video is on display at New York’s Museum of Modern Art throughout the run of the Whitney show) are based on appropriation of some sort—mostly of text, but (as with Mapplethorpe) often images as well. A kind of polyphony is the result, even when Ligon is quoting just a single author. One of the most mysterious and magnetic qualities of his work is its capacity to be endlessly reread, its interpretations changing continually over time. This is very different from merely reflecting the era in which it was made. The voices in Ligon’s work sustain disagreement and argue gracefully among themselves. They make a virtue of uncertainty.

AMONG THE MOST POWERFUL pieces in the exhibition are three large paintings from the “Stranger” series, begun in 1996 and accounting for nearly 200 works produced over 13 years. The series appropriates excerpts from James Baldwin’s 1953 essay “Stranger in the Village.” Ligon has used texts by Zora Neale Hurston and Gertrude Stein, the critic Richard Dyer and the comedian Richard Pryor. Yet Baldwin has particular resonance for Ligon, not only because he was also black and gay but because he emphasized the role of language in creating the “legends” (a Baldwin term) that we make of one another. “Stranger in the Village,” for instance, relates the author’s experience in a small Swiss hamlet, where children, struck by his novelty, touched his hair with fascination or ran after him shouting “Neger!” Baldwin ruminates on what it means to be perceived as black in the village and in America, writing, “The root function of language is to control the universe by describing it.”

Some of the quotes taken from Baldwin’s essay are visible in the paintings—Ligon uses the first or last lines, or something in the middle—but most are not. The artist repeatedly stenciled the text in black oil stick, layering in coal dust. He proceeded in regular lines, from top to bottom. The letters rose from the surface and the text thickened until it was nearly illegible. Ligon has said he chose coal dust because he was looking for something with a literal weight. Catching the light and making the raised letters glint like gems, coal dust reminded him of Andy Warhol’s diamond dust. But coal can also be seen to have racial overtones, as in the phrase “coal black,” which in the early 20th century came to be used as a slur.

Ligon used the same technique, and text, in the diptych Untitled (Conclusion), 2004. Walking from one side to the other of this large (90-by-144-inch) painting, you can see letters, carved out through shadows from an overhead light, announce themselves even as they sink back into the oil and coal. Within the carefully built up and stenciled lines, you are able to decipher words here and there, even a phrase—“Americans have made themselves notorious,” for example. Ligon challenges viewers to see race, and to see beyond it, through a reduced palette of mostly black and/or white, and through his technique of erasing even as he writes. “There are a lot of things in our culture that seem clear,” said Ligon in an interview at his studio. “But I think what the paintings are trying to do is to slow down reading, to present a difficulty, to present something that is not so easily consumed and clear.” 3

The generous and judicious installation, proceeding mostly chronologically through 10 galleries, also organizes Ligon’s work by theme and series. From his earliest efforts, Ligon’s exceptional balancing of form and content, humor and wrath, and high and low is apparent. The show opens with a room of text-based paintings that the artist began in 1985, incising phrases from letters to gay porn magazines into layers of impasto. At the time, Ligon was working nights as a legal proofreader. Inundated with text, he made the imaginative leap of incorporating it into his paintings, which had previously been gestural abstractions.

A text in an oil-on-paper painting from 1988 echoes the tone of the teacher who wrote that end-of-year report on Ligon. In stencil, it quotes curator Ned Rifkin on Martin Puryear, as reported in a New York Times article that year: “There is a consciousness we all have that he is a Black American artist but I think his work is really superior and stands on its own.” Aside from its condescension, the statement gets under the skin because, in perhaps more veiled terms, similar things have been written about Ligon’s work over the years. Even recently, Peter Schjeldahl, writing in the Mar. 21, 2011, New Yorker, observed, “Ligon deserves honor for foregrounding, in the famously liberal but chronically lily-white art world, voices such as those of Hurston, [Gwendolyn] Brooks, and James Baldwin”—as if honor accrues to Ligon for merely representing his race. (Does he not deserve honor for quoting Stein?) Ligon is not simply transcribing these authors’ words and sticking them on museum walls; nor is he being “combative,” a term Schjeldahl uses earlier in his review.

In 1990, the artist began a breakthrough series of paintings on doors, undertaken after time spent contemplating an old door in his studio. Black all-capital oil-stick letters on a white-primed wooden ground read, “I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background,” taken from Hurston’s 1928 essay “How It Feels to Be Colored Me.” Ligon arranged the stencils freehand, guided only by horizontal pencil lines, and repeated the text across and down the 80-inch-high and 30-inch-wide door. Toward the bottom the letters crowd and bump up against one another, like thoughts in a busy mind. Ligon is a brilliant reader, selecting and reworking texts to shape his own interpretation of the world. “In the early door paintings . . . text goes from legibility to illegibility to black crisp words on a white ground, [serving] to metaphorically resonate with what the text is speaking about,” Rothkopf told me. “The form is really informing the content.” Ligon maintained the door format as he continued the series on canvas, using other quotes from Hurston, Jean Genet, Jesse Jackson and rapper Ice Cube. One work from the series, Black Like Me #2 (1992), now hangs in the Obama White House, borrowed from the Hirshhorn Museum. The repeating text, “All traces of the Griffin I had been were wiped from existence,” is taken from white journalist John Howard Griffin’s 1961 eponymous account of passing as a black man in the South.

The apparent simplicity of Ligon’s stencil paintings masks their depth. Ligon observed that while the “Stranger” and door paintings move toward abstraction, they speak more about how culture constantly modulates as time passes. “I think it’s thinking about things that go in and out of [cultural] consciousness,” he said, referring to the changing reception of Hurston’s and Baldwin’s writings. Although some time intervened between the door series and the “Stranger” paintings, they feel like close siblings.

Ligon grappled with the subjects of socially constructed identity and American racism more directly in Runaways (1993), a witty, deft, poignant rewriting of runaway slave broadsides. For this portfolio of 16-by-12-inch lithographs, 10 altogether, he had friends help him come up with descriptions of himself, which he then recast as the type of notices that 19th-century slave owners posted after a slave escaped. “Ran away, a man named Glenn. He has almost no hair. He has cat-eye glasses, medium-dark skin, cute eyebrows. . . . He talks out of the side of his mouth and looks at you sideways. Sometimes he has a loud laugh, and lately I’ve noticed he refers to himself as ‘mother.’” Also in 1993, Ligon produced a related suite of nine photoetchings (each 28 by 21 inches), Narratives, that likewise wryly mixes autobiography and history by drawing on the archaic voice and look of slave narratives. One sheet reads, “The Life and Adventures of Glenn Ligon/A Negro; who was sent to be educated amongst white people in the year 1966 when only about six years of age and has continued to fraternize with them to the present time.” In their adept, witty bending of genre, Ligon’s Runaways and Narratives take great liberties with the constraints of identity politics, even as they speak brutally and exactly about the legacy of slavery and the fear of difference.

Like so many of his contemporaries—artists such as Lorna Simpson, Janine Antoni and Byron Kim, who were also included in the 1993 “Biennial with a Social Conscience,” as the New York Times dubbed it, and “a saturnalia of political correctness” as it was deemed by Time’s Robert Hughes—Ligon and his work are often discussed in terms of identity, end of story. Yet the artist has also tapped into other traditions and concerns, exploring, for example, the seriality of Minimalism, the use of texts as found objects, and language-based abstraction. Rothkopf sees multiple links between Ligon and Jasper Johns. “If you look beyond the stencil as a vehicle for putting text on, it’s about how language and numbers can function within a work of art,” Rothkopf said. “Questions about the difference between reading and looking are very germane to Glenn’s work.” IN 1993, LIGON EMBARKED on a series of lush, chromatically rich, text-based paintings that seem to be equally about visual pleasure and the limits of speech. Quoting from sensationalist stand-up routines by the popular black comedian Richard Pryor, Ligon stenciled the words in bright colors against fields of contrasting hues. The paintings look a bit like Richard Prince’s joke paintings, a series of transcriptions of deadpan one-liners that Prince began in the mid-’80s. But Ligon’s joke paintings are more personal. Pryor was willing to make public, on prime-time television no less, the most outrageous, often highly sexual, private thoughts or in-jokes about African-American culture. This made him something like Mapplethorpe for Ligon, dramatizing socially taboo subjects. Ligon “performs” Pryor for museumgoers, who stare at the paintings in isolation, rather than, like the comedian’s audiences, laughing, cringing or blowing their noses in concert halls.

Several of the Pryor paintings, from 1995 and 2004, revisit the following quote by the comedian: “I remember when black wasn’t beautiful. Black men come through the neighborhood saying ‘Black is beautiful! Africa is your home! Be proud to be black!’ My parents go ‘That nigger crazy.’” Pryor’s anecdote exists as fiction and truth, joke and observation; it reflects on the contradictions of color pride. In a 2004 painting with a dark purple ground, the joke’s setup is stenciled in blue, while the punch line is in orange, which tracks into the purple, dissolving the clarity of the letters. As in the joke, it is complex, vibrant color—not just “black”—that is beautiful.

“Beauty was a complicated thing as we talked about identity and race. [It] wasn’t allowed in the critical dialogue, which often made beauty seem irrelevant or inappropriate,” said Thelma Golden in an interview. Director of the Studio Museum in Harlem, Golden was curator of the 1994 “Black Male” show when she was at the Whitney and has been a longtime friend of Ligon’s. “This retrospective lets us see how important beauty was as a strategy, device, tool, weapon for artists like Glenn, who were esthetic innovators and operated in that fine balance between content and form.” Ligon’s paintings from the ’90s allow the eye and mind to play with multiple levels. At the retrospective, they also lead directly to Ligon’s most recent work: the “Stranger” paintings and a final group of four neons.

The neon works were prompted by Ligon’s curiosity about whether it was possible to make “black” neon. The owner of a shop below his studio, Lite Brite Neon, said no, but suggested painting the front of a tube black, with the light cast onto the wall behind. Using this method, Ligon had Lite Brite craft several versions of the word “America,” in which the stencil-like letters glow on the wall or, in one case, only at their joints, which were left unpainted. The perception of “black” here depends on “white” light—a characteristic twist in keeping with Ligon’s career-long inflection of materials and meaning.

The latest neon, Warm Broad Glow II (2011) reads, in lower-case letters, “negro sunshine.” An understated yet loaded phrase, it is installed in the front window of the museum. The word “negro” challenges viewers to contemplate the ways that language carries with it the prejudices of the past. At the same time, the piece projects a qualified buoyancy of mood. The phrase is taken from Gertrude Stein’s “Melanctha” novella, one of her Three Lives (1909). In the novella, Stein’s language surrounding race seems decidedly retrograde—the dark-skinned character is dumb, coarse and promiscuous, while the light-skinned Melanctha is smart and brooding. Yet Ligon reads Stein as engaging in a knowing play with stereotypes and expectations, and offers both homage and critique.

From start to finish, the retrospective reveals Ligon to be true to his method, a devoted reader who repeatedly returns to a personal canon of texts. It also shows him to be a quintessentially American artist—in his humor, his delight in texts high and low, and his relentless mining of national history. Johns famously prescribed, “Take an object. Do something to it. Do something else to it.” With a keen ability to sustain contradiction and doubt, Ligon adopts this democratic tinkering spirit, fashioning a finely wrought syllabus of America.

1 The electricity of viewing these images in a museum has burned off a bit. Mapplethorpe published Black Book in 1986, and in 1989, his name became synonymous with shock art (for some) and censorship (for others) when the Corcoran Gallery of Art, under congressional pressure, canceled an NEA-funded traveling Mapplethorpe retrospective.

2 This and several other interviews, as well as Ligon’s own lucid writings, are collected in Yourself in the World, edited by Scott Rothkopf, forthcoming from Yale University Press. 3 Unless otherwise indicated, all quotes by Ligon and others are taken from interviews with the author conducted during February and March 2011. “Glenn Ligon: America,” which closes at the Whitney June 15, travels to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art [Oct. 23, 2011–Jan. 22, 2012] and the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth [February-May 2012]. It is accompanied by a 302-page catalogueby Scott Rothkopf, with contributions by Hilton Als, Okwui Enwezor, Saidya Hartman, Bennett Simpson and Franklin Sirmans, and a conversation between the artist and Thelma Golden.

  Source: Art in America / Carly Berwick. Link: Stranger in America Illustration: Glenn Ligon [USA] (b 1960) ~ 'Double Mirror', 2015. Ten-color screenprint on rag paper in graphite-wash frame (15 x 23 cm). Moderator: ART HuNTER. ✓ Facebook Page →  ✓ Pinterest board → 

[theamazingsallyhogan]

The History of Wonder Woman

Hey kid, wanna know the history of Wonder Woman? The whole messy lot of it, not just the very start?

Wanna know HOW her books ended up the biggest mess in the entire comics industry? Big clues as to why her movie took so long to make?

It has feminism, racism, sexism, blasphemy, infanticide, and bees...

Wonder Woman was created by Dr. William Moulton Marston, noted psychologist, inventor of the lie detector, writer, and feminist.  He secretly lived in a polyamorous relationship with two women who helped him come up with Wonder Woman: his wife, Elizabeth Marston, and Olive Byrne, daughter of the major women’s rights crusader Ethel Byrne (known for helping her sister, Margaret Sanger, to create Planned Parenthood). He was heavily influenced by early-twentieth-century suffragists,  birth-control advocates, and feminists.

Even putting aside how jaw-droppingly progressive his woman superhero was, the comics still stand out for how whimsical they were.  Wonder Woman/Diana had an invisible plane and a telepathic radio. She jousted on a giant battle-kangaroo, and, like all Amazons, enjoyed deflecting bullets with her bracelets.  She fought Nazis, mad scientists, valkyries, mole-men, tiger-ape hybrids, flying mer-sharks, a subatomic army, and her arch-enemy: Mars, the god of war. She regularly battled aliens well before it became common for her peers (including Superman, who in those days was usually taking on gangsters and corrupt politicians). When not kicking back with her mother and sister Amazons she hung out with a short and stout firecracker of a girl called Etta Candy, a slew of college girls, and an Air Force pilot named Steve Trevor that was as disaster-prone as Lois Lane. And while later writers said that gods gave her superpowers  under Marston everything she could do was just from training real hard.

Analysis often puts attention on some elements that are – let’s not beat around the bush – kinky as hell (like the “bondage” aspect of Wonder Woman typing people up and getting tied up), but just focusing on that is a massive disservice to Marston.  Early Wonder Woman comics were far ahead of the curve in sheer quirkiness and how progressive they were in their depiction of women (even stating there would be a woman President one day).  It certainly helped that s Marston was often helped by his assistant, 19-year old Joye Hummel (I’ll come back to her in a moment), particularly when his health began deteriorating.

Marston put thought into Wonder Woman’s origin. Diana was created when the Amazon Queen, Hippolyta, wanted a child and Aphrodite granted her wish by bringing a clay baby to life. The “artificial woman” is a common theme in religion and mythology, including the most famous examples of Pygmalion and Pandora. Pygmalion was essentially a living gift to a sculptor that the gods liked, while Pandora was clay brought to life by the gods that promptly unleashed all the evil in the world (much like Eve, created from Adam’s rib). Marston could have made Wonder Woman’s father a god (a dime-a-dozen origin for heroes), but instead made her into an inversion of the “artificial woman” trope. Here was a woman made from clay, but she was neither a blight nor a prize to be won; raised by women, she was a hero in her own right. After millennia of blame for all the world’s woes, Pandora got her revenge: Wonder Woman.

How Marston got into comics is a story by itself. At the time, there was a fledgling movement to censor comics (“Dick Tracy is too violent!”). Family Circle magazine published an interview with Marston on the subject, since he was a noted psychologist who had worked for Hollywood as a consultant (the interviewer was actually Olive Byrne, who lived with the Marstons by then and wrote under a pen name). Marston’s defense of comics attracted the attention of DC Comics, who offered Marston a job as an “educational consultant” (wanting to tell any would-be censors that the staff psychologist okayed everything). Marston had offered the opinion that what comics needed wasn’t to censor “violent” heroes but rather to offer nonviolent alternatives, and saw an opportunity to introduce that, as well as to create a prominent female hero. His pitch was a hit - in 1941 Wonder Woman appeared.

Wonder Woman’s use of a lasso tying people up (and getting tied up) certainly boosted sales by appealing to readers that liked seeing a little bondage (including Marston himself). For Wonder Woman to succeed (and for his feminist message to reach male readers), Marston didn’t shy away from titillation. But her heavy use of a lasso wasn’t just a way to attract readers. The frequent imagery of Wonder Woman escaping from ropes and chains provided a powerful image of women escaping their metaphorical bonds. Moreover, it also stemmed from Marston’s desire to offer a less violent hero – Diana lassoed bad guys and explained what they’d done wrong instead of breaking their jaws like Batman or Dick Tracy. Wonder Woman’s compassion was front and center in Marston’s comic, and her efforts to reform her foes were a major theme.

And she certainly had her fair share of foes! Marston came up with a colorful gallery of recurring villains, including Giganta (a gorilla-turned-into-a-woman), Cheetah (think a Kardashian that went crazy and started wearing animal skins while committing crimes), the fascist mad scientist Dr. Poison, the misogynistic mentalist Dr. Psycho, and plenty more.

Marston worked from 1941 to 1947, when he passed away of cancer.  Joye Hummel, his assistant, asked to continue writing the book, making an argument like “you know I was writing a bunch of the stories already, right? Marston had polio and cancer; I was doing most of the work near the end.”  DC heard her excellent argument and ignored her, giving the book to Robert Kanigher, the book’s editor (making him essentially his own boss), and there’s never been a more disastrous baton-passing between writers in all of comics history.

Kanigher’s Wonder Woman ran from 1948 to 1968. He had co-created The Flash and many other characters, and churned out scripts by the bucketloads, with particular impact on superhero and war comics (including that one with a real-life Confederate general as the hero).  But his 20+-year(!) run on Wonder Woman was an unmitigated catastrophe.  

The feminist underpinnings of the book were discarded (most egregiously, a section Marston had included in every issue celebrating great women in history was replaced with a section about weddings), and Diana seemed obsessed with Steve Trevor. As Dr. Fredric Wertham led a high-profile moral crusade against comics, DC kept Wonder Woman as inoffensive to 50s sensibilities as possible. Stories pitted her against monsters, mobsters, and aliens (with the occasional story about strange creatures falling in love with her), and while parts campily echoed Marston’s absurdist moments (Dinosaurs in a Department Store!), the core of the book withered. Steve became an “alpha-male” that felt threatened by Wonder Woman’s heroics… and she felt bad about it. While Steve and Hippolyta still showed up, the rest of the supporting cast were forgotten and nobody took their place. The idea that her feats stemmed from Amazon training was dropped – Wonder Woman was given superpowers by the gods (including flight, rendering her invisible plane obsolete).

Kanigher’s frequent time-traveling stories let Wonder Woman team up with her younger self. Thus, for a much of a 20+-year period, rather than building up a solid cast, Wonder Woman was left literally talking to herself. When Robin brought together other sidekicks to create the “Teen Titans,” nobody involved was paying enough attention to realize Kanigher’s "Wonder Girl” was just a younger Wonder Woman. After spotting the error, DC said the Wonder Girl in Teen Titans was a new character (“Donna Troy”), but attempts to retroactively connect her to Wonder Woman underwent so many rewrites over the years that she remains one of the biggest headaches in comics. When people read Teen Titans, they learn that Wonder Woman’s book is confusing.

Despite being on the book for over 20 years, Kanigher’s only notable new characters were Angle Man (a generic recurring mobster), Egg Fu (an evil egg/racist Chinese caricature, see below),  Nubia (“what if we made another Wonder Woman, only this time with black clay?”), and Circe (another character plucked from mythology).  Of the recurring villains that Marston had created, Kanigher used Dr. Psycho a few times, Cheetah twice, Giganta twice, and… that was about it.  At a time when heroes like Batman, Superman, and The Flash were building up villains, settings, and supporting casts, Wonder Woman’s world was shrinking as fast as her peers’ were growing.

When his run concluded, Kanigher had essentially left Wonder Woman with no notable villains and a supporting cast smaller than when he had inherited the book 20 years earlier. Worse, book’s feminist soul was in tatters.  The book was handed off to Denny O’Neil  in 1968.

O’Neil, a major Batman writer, was almost as mismatched for Wonder Woman as Kanigher, and his editor wanted drastic changes to improve sales. O’Neil killed Steve (a mercy at that point), depowered Wonder Woman, and gave her an elderly Asian martial-arts instructor – basically trying to turn her into a spy-themed 70s movie hero. 

Thankfully that run only lasted only a few years, and from 1974 to 1986 the book was thrown like a hot potato from writer to writer. Nobody stayed, little was built, Steve was brought back to life, Steve was killed again, Steve came back again, the setting was shifted to World War II (because the hot new TV Show was set in WWII), and then back to present day… it was clearly a book in serious trouble.

When Superfriends (the first Justice League cartoon) debuted in 1973, there was no clear major Wonder Woman villain in the books, so the show settled on Cheetah (who had racked up a paltry 9 appearances, including a reprint, in the 30 years that Wonder Woman had been around).

And when Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman live action TV show came out in 1975, it was a hit that cemented the character’s prominence in American pop culture, but it was set in World War II. Wonder Woman wasn’t the only hero to be created in WWII, but hers was the only comic with its glory days so clearly in the past.  

In 1986, DC rebooted their entire line of comics, wanting to start from scratch, updating and streamlining the best of what came before. Wonder Woman was given to George Perez (and Len Wein), and his brilliant run took the most iconic and well-known elements of the character, making it all work. He brought back Etta Candy and made Steve Trevor into a likable human being. The Amazons were fleshed out and given flaws and foibles. He plucked villains from the book’s distant past (Cheetah and Dr. Psycho, now revamped to be foes worthy of a Superman-level hero), and retooled a few of the more recent ones that had potential, like Circe. He showed that at least some Amazons were gay (in 1986!), and found a way to visually combine the classic Wonder Woman costume with more accurate Grecoroman soldier styles. If you’ve ever seen Wonder Woman dressed like a “warrior,” you have Perez to thank. 

And while Wonder Woman remained compassionate, Perez showed that when there were no other options his Amazon warrior was willing to use lethal force.

Hippolyta and the Amazons were reimagined with a greater emphasis on actual Greek mythology, but at the same time were presented as a mutiracial tribe (of particular note, Perez introduced the black Amazon general Phillipus, who would be presented as Diana’s teacher and Hippolyta’s closest friend). 

The difference between them and Amazons of myth was explained as being due lies told to make Hercules look good – in DC’s world the famous Greek demigod had actually deceived, raped, and enslaved the Amazons before they overthrew him and withdrew from the mortal world. In the “starting from scratch” new universe, Diana was written as having just left the Amazon island of Themyscira for the first time, finding a new home in Boston with Julia Kapatelis, Curator of the Museum of Cultural Antiquities (a great friend for an “ancient Greek” suddenly finding herself in the modern world!). Vanessa’s teenage daughter went on a few Wonder Woman-related adventures, and it looked like she was going to become a new (and less confusing) “Wonder Girl”. And Perez brought back the god of war (calling him Ares instead of Mars), who had been virtually absent since Marston’s run. That last bit’s incredible when you consider the villain was clearly her arch-enemy in the early days… imagine if Joker or Lex Luthor had been missing for decades. He also sought to end the cycle of writers not knowing what to do with Steve Trevor – Steve and Etta got engaged.

Then the book was handed to William Messner-Loebs (WML), who wrote it from 1992-1995. Sadly, it squandered almost everything Perez had done. Right at the start it threw her in space, abandoning the cast that Perez had introduced, and when she returned the Kapetalis family was nowhere to be seen. Perez had left one instruction when he left the book – Steve and Etta were to get married. WML had Etta appear a few times (long enough to make the always-comfortable-about-her-weight character bulimic), then wrote her and Steve out of the book without ever showing their wedding (a broken promise that resulted in Perez being furious with DC comics for years).

The Amazons of Themyscira were dropped into another dimension for years (and for most of that time the readers were led to believe Themyscira had been destroyed, so the reveal that it was in another dimension may have been a panic-driven last-minute change). A series of stories showed Wonder Woman trying to have a “normal” life, like holding a minimum wage job at a Taco Bell knockoff (bear in mind she had no secret identity – everyone knew she was Wonder Woman). Notably, he created a gritty new Amazon named Artemis that briefly became Wonder Woman, died, and came back because Wonder Woman desperately needed supporting cast members. Although he added little that was truly bad, WML had cost the book all the momentum and stability that Perez had given it.

He came up with a gritty new Amazon warrior called Artemis that briefly became Wonder Woman, died, and came back because Wonder Woman desperately needed supporting cast members.  Although he ADDED little that was truly bad, WML had cost the book all the momentum and stability that Perez had given it.  

John Byrne took over from 1995-1998, and set the tone by slaughtering half the Amazons at the start. His run had little good in it, but wouldn’t be too bad if not for a few things. First, he made a more confusing mess out of Donna Troy (the Teen Titans’ Wonder Girl). Second, he tried to make a flawed hero out of Hercules (established as a rapist in the Perez run). Third, he felt that since the Wonder Woman TV show had been set in World War II there needed to be a Wonder Woman in WWII, even though we’d already seen that the “start from scratch” Wonder Woman’s first adventures were in the modern days. Byrne had Hippolyta, Wonder Woman’s mother, go back in time to become the Wonder Woman of WWII, making her the first Wonder Woman and Diana the second, and if you think that seems really unnecessary then I hope you can go back in time to tell Byrne not to do it. Lastly, he shoved Steve, Etta, and the Kapetalis family even more firmly out of the book by having Diana move (to “Gateway City”), and came up with a “Wonder Girl” that was the teenage daughter of a museum curator specializing in Greek antiquities. Since she was a blatant photocopy of the character that Perez had created to become Wonder Girl, it’s unclear why he didn’t just use Perez’s character (the pattern of Diana’s supporting cast failing to get traction has never stopped).

The book was given to Eric Luke from 1998 to 2000. I’m not 100% certain why he got the axe mid-story, but I can guess - Wonder Woman met Rama, a major Hindu god (who was wearing a leather Korn jacket… a no-no for a Hindu god). They teamed up to fight the Greek god Chronos, who had already defeated the Greek and Hindu Pantheons and was waging war on Christian heaven. Furthermore, there were hints at romance between him and Wonder Woman, even though Rama is married in Hinduism. Perhaps someone in authority felt that the book had wandered into a religious minefield.

Phil Jimenez’s run lasted from 2001 to 2003. He liked the idea of Wonder Woman being the UN Ambassador representing the Amazons and tried to do something with that (for the first time since Perez), and fleshed out the Amazons by showing some of the conflicts between different groups. He implied that Phillipus (Wonder Woman’s Amazon mentor) was in love with Wonder Woman’s mom. He made an effort to draw from all eras of the book’s past (even Kanigher’s – the generic mobster “Angle Man” became a surprisingly enjoyable thief armed with a device that could turn his surroundings into an M.C. Escher drawing). The Kapatelis family from Perez’s run returned. Jimenez’s major new addition to the cast was a new boyfriend by the name of Trevor Barnes, who was killed by a fill-in writer the minute Jimenez left the book (Wonder Woman is not allowed have a consistent supporting cast). And due to the U.N. elements, Diana moved to D.C. (she’s not allowed get a consistent city either). He certainly made missteps - such as replacing Wonder Woman’s best-known original foe, The Cheetah, with a male character by the same name, so for a while this was a thing...

And for some reason Jimenez made a point of bringing up that Wonder Woman was a virgin. But overall, his run stands out for its sustained effort to build up Wonder Woman’s cast and villains, bringing back old favorites from all eras of the book.

Greg Rucka tried to build on the Perez-Jimenez idea of Wonder Woman as an Ambassador from Themyscira. She got an embassy staff as a supporting cast (complete with a Minotaur chef), and the embassy was given a teleportation portal to Themyscira, making it easier than ever to juggle the Amazon and non-Amazon parts of Wonder Woman’s world. Classic villains like Dr. Psycho and Cheetah (female) showed up, along with modernized takes of figures from Greek mythology. It was getting rave critical reviews and had stabilized many elements of her world, but DC decided they had an idea that would boost sales even more (spoiler: they were wrong) so they pulled the plug. The Amazons were yanked into an alternate dimension in a big crossover event and the embassy closed. Diana lost her supporting cast. Again.

DC’s big idea was a major overhaul by TV writer Allan Heinberg… whose run had so many delays that it started in 2006, ended in 2008, and was just five issues long. While Jimenez and Rucka had started to give Diana back stability in her supporting cast and made an effort to dust off and properly revamp some of her enemies, Heinberg went in the opposite direction, throwing villains at her without explanation for who they were, and giving Wonder Woman a whole new cast and a secret identity… as a superspy, drawing on O’Neil’s comics of the 70s of all things. Bear in mind that Wonder Woman had never had a secret identity after her 1986 reboot.  Also keep in mind that having a superhero’s secret identity be an adventurous government agent with high-tech gear gets redundant fast. Although Heinberg’s run was a mess and he basically decided that as a TV writer he didn’t need to hand in comic scripts, it’s worth nothing that he has the sole screenplay credit for the new movie. Clearly, he did have a blockbuster Wonder Woman story in him – it just took a while to get it out.

The book was handed to Jodi Picoult, an acclaimed novelist that had never written comics before. It was the first time a woman was (openly) assigned a lengthy stint on Wonder Woman. But rather than let her learn the ropes and give her a chance to show her own vision of Wonder Woman, DC started a multi-title crossover event headed someone else.  The event was called “Amazons Attack,” and Picoult was left to follow the lead of Will Pfeifer, a man who had never written Wonder Woman before, and whose knowledge of the character was apparently nonexistent. 

The Amazons returned, but Diana wasn’t given a chance to enjoy having her cast back, because they immediately started a nonsensical war.  It featured misandrist Amazons that killed defenseless children in cold blood for being male, plot-holes you could drive a truck through, the Amazons trusting Circe (think “Commissioner Gordon agreeing to make The Joker his deputy”), Batman being the one to (easily) defeat Circe, a wtf twist ending that told readers to pick up a non-Wonder Woman book, all leading up to the Amazons being taken out of Wonder Woman’s cast yet again – this time giving them amnesia and spreading them across the world where Diana could never find them (and in another book Pfeifer turned Angle Man from a likable rogue with interesting powers to a pathetic depowered misogynist – a good example of how Wonder Woman’s villains can’t catch a break either).  It literally lost track of where characters were and what they were doing from one issue to the next, lost track of characters’ motivations in the story, contradicted itself on what characters could do, and tarnished Wonder Woman’s cast like nothing written before. Amazons Attack was DC’s first (and to-date only) big multi-book event revolving around Wonder Woman, and it’s best remembered for being awful. And for this:

After being forced to work on that, Piccoult walked away from DC and likely comics as a whole (she’d been greeted by the very worst that the industry has to offer). The book was given to Gail Simone, whose run lasted from 2007 to 2010. She made an attempt to use the spy agency supporting cast left by Heinberg. While the book was often plagued by writers not using the supporting cast left by the previous writer, Simone may have been the only writer who probably should have dropped what she’d been left.  The pseudo-Agent of SHIELD secret identity failed to gel, even when Simone brought back Etta Candy.  Unfortunately, Etta was one of very few things that Simone brought back – her run made heavy use of characters from other books, including characters from Flash, Green Lantern, and an obscure sword & sorcery book from 1975.  Wonder Woman’s own supporting cast and villains remained in terrible shape. Simone started finding her footing (bringing back the Amazons and setting the stage for a wedding between two of them – Hippolyta and Phillipus, Wonder Woman’s mother and mentor!) when she was taken off the book in favor of another famous TV writer with his own vision.

J. Michael Straczynski rebooted Wonder Woman in an alternate reality where things had happened very differently (for one thing, Wonder Woman wore pants!), the Amazons were all but extinct, and there were a couple interesting things in his run aaaand The End. Less than a year in, DC reassigned him to things they thought would be more profitable.  

The book was turned over to hardboiled crime series writer Brian Azzarello, who rebooted it yet again. An argument can be made that his run is more accurate to Greek myths, but only in the most cynical ways. The most egregious moment in his run was when he “revealed” that the Amazons regularly sneaked up on boats, pretended to be helpless women lost at sea in order to get on board, seduced the men, slept with them, then massacred the defenseless crews in their sleep. If any male babies resulted from that, they were sold to Hephaestus to be slaves (with the story stating that if they didn’t have the slavery option, the Amazons would just throw the male children off a cliff).

Now say what you will about the Amazons of myth, but they didn’t go around seducing anyone. They just straight-up charged into a village and killed people – evil, yes, but completely honest about what they were. Azzarello seemed to have merged the myths of the Sirens and Amazons and tried to create something even nastier. He basically looked at two of the most misogynistic stories in Greek mythology and went “hold my beer”. To really put this in perspective, keep in mind that in all the decades that Wonder Woman has been around, the Amazons have basically been the only remotely stable element in her supporting cast. What Azzarello did was essentially the same as a new Superman writer declaring that the entire staff of the Daily Planet had secretly been in a child sex ring all along. He also turned the Amazons to stone because Wonder Woman doesn’t get a consistent supporting cast. Ever. Additionally, he decided that the whole “clay baby” thing didn’t work for him, so he redid Wonder Woman’s origin to say she’s one of those millions of kids Zeus sired – her powers, thus, were owed to her father (he also scrapped the idea of Wonder Woman’s learning her skills from Phillipus and the other Amazons, and had her learn from Ares, meaning that she owed both her power and skill to male gods). So, after several decades, Marston’s deliberate attempt to flip the script of Pandora was discarded in favor of making Wonder Woman into a she-Hercules or Percy Jackson. And, spoiler alert, the movie seems to use his idea. It’s possible the sequel will go “nope, just kidding!” (one can hope), although I wouldn’t put it past the company behind Superman v Batman to double down and put in Azzarello’s reimagining of the Amazons.

Azzarelllo’s 2011-2014 run has its fans, but whatever the merits of his tale as a self-contained story I would argue that it was very bad for Wonder Woman overall, by further tarnishing the Amazons and continuing an alarming trend of making nothing in her book consistent over time. Moreover, while he was focusing on his new characters and Greek Gods, he had no time for Wonder Woman’s other supporting cast or villains. Thus, in the new rebooted DC universe they ended up being rebooted in other author’s books, often in ways that made them far less compatible with Wonder Woman’s own stories. Last I checked, most of them are still twisting in the wind, lacking basic origins and motivations in their new incarnations.

While it’s fantastic that the movie makes people excited about Wonder Woman, I do have to worry that it compounds some of the problems Wonder Woman has. To be clear, that’s not knocking the movie. Most books wouldn’t be negatively impacted by tinkering in adaptations, but DC’s mismanagement has left Wonder Woman’s book uniquely unstable. The movie has Steve and Etta (two major supporting characters) alive in WWI, meaning they’d be absent from any Wonder Woman movies eventually set in modern times. It also uses an origin that’s six years old, that contradicts the one that had been in place since 1941, and is thematically at-odds with the character. There’s room for different interpretations with adaptations of course, but I’m certain that Marston would hate the new origin, and I don’t think the first ever Wonder Woman movie should include something as fundamentally at-odds with her creator’s vision (and the majority of her publication history) as having her powers come from a father.

I haven’t followed the books since Azzarello (really, DC couldn’t have driven me away harder if they’d tried), but from what I’ve gathered Wonder Woman is still Exhibit A for why these decades-old characters should really just be in the Public Domain at this point and not owned by corporations.

This isn’t a story with a happy ending, I’m afraid. It’s the story of how badly this industry has treated its favorite daughter.  Perhaps we’ll have to make a happy ending ourselves.

[machinevisionineverydaylife]

Hostile machine vision

One of our goals in MACHINE VISION is to analyse how machine vision is represented in art, stories, games and popular culture. A really common trope is showing machine vision as hostile and as dangerous to humans. Machine vision is used as an effective visual metaphor for something alien that threatens us.

My eight-year-old and I watched Ralph Breaks the Internet last weekend. I found it surprisingly satisfying – I had been expecting something inane like that emoji movie, but the story was quite engaging, with an excellent exploration of the bad effects of neediness in friendships. But my research brain switched on in the computer virus scene , towards the end of the movie, because we see “through the eyes of the virus”. Here is a shot of the virus, depicted as a dark swooshing creature with a single red eye:

And here you see the camera switch to what the virus sees. It is an “insecurity virus”, that scans for “insecurities” (such as Vanellope’s anxious glitching and Ralph’s fear of losing Vanellope) and replicates them. 

And of course it uses easily-recognisable visual cues that signify “machine vision” – a computer is seeing here. 

I noticed an almost-identical use of this visual metaphor at another visit to the cinema with the kids, though this time in an ad from the Australian Cancer Council. Here, the sun is presented as seeing human skin like an alien.

The way humans see skin is not the same way the sun sees skin. And each time the sun sees your skin, when the UV is 3 or above,  it’s doing damage beneath the surface. It builds up, until one day, it causes a mutation in your DNA, which can turn to skin cancer. Don’t let the sun see your DNA. Defend yourself.

The visuals are different. While Ralph Breaks the Internet uses an overlay of data, the ad shifts from a “human” camera angle to zooming in, black and white, fading around the sides of the image, a shaky camera, and then appears to penetrate the skin to show what we assume is the DNA mutating. The sound effects also suggest something dangerous, perhaps mechanic.

Certainly machine vision isn’t always represented as hostile. It’s often presented as useful, or protective, or simply as a tool. This year we are going to be tracking different representations and simulations of machine vision in order to sort through the different ways our culture sees machine vision. Hostile is definitely one of those ways.

If you have suggestions for other examples we should look at, please send us a message and tell us about them!

Text by Jill Walker Rettberg, originally posted on Jill/txt

[philaprint]

Invasion of the Body Snatchers: "Get Out" and the Everyday Horror Story for Blacks

MARCH 12, 2017

By Tre Johnson

Hollywood has been producing black horror films for awhile now. The 80s and 90s were replete with films with a horror bent. 1985 gave us “The Color Purple” monster “Mister”, a monster the movie positions as an almost tireless, ageless evil who terrorizes the women around him. Spike Lee pulled off horror twice; 1989’s “Do the Right Thing” felt like an urban “Twilight Zone” tale, where Bed-Stuy had everyone cooking underneath a magnifying glass, the setting gradually slimming down from a neighborhood to a pizza store murder. Two years later, he did 1991’s “Jungle Fever” where everyone was predator and prey, falling for the incurable desire for two white substances: women and crack.

There’s been lighter fare too, but even they have preyed upon psychological fears. Movies like 2014’s “No Good Deed” or 2015’s “The Perfect Guy” might be called thrillers, or 2009’s “Obsessed” another horror masked as thriller all playing different notes on the real-world fears of heterosexual black women finding “a good black man”, and being wary about who you do and don’t let into your home. In real life this has been a horror story for the black community; 1.5 million black men have been swallowed by everyday monsters like imprisonment or murder (Chicago recorded its 700th murder in December) or unemployment; nearly 50% of black men aged 20-24 in Chicago are unemployed. All of these films have origin points that can be traced back to the original horror story of slavery, and its likely why a lot of black people, even as Hollywood has continually held up films like “Birth of a Nation”, “12 Years A Slave” and “Amistad” as works of art, have often talked about avoiding or being weary of these same films. They are too real, too scary, and too relevant.

Now we have “Get Out”, a film by Jordan Peele that’s a welcome reversal on many of these narratives. While on the outside “Get Out” is about many of these same issues—the film touching on everything from the criminal justice, black bodies and the ever-simmering tensions of black-white relations—it’s actually squarely preying on white liberalism, a group that often views itself as harmless when it comes to racism and bigotry. This point comes across in many parts of this movie, which on the surface is about what happens when a young interracial couple, Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) and his girlfriend Rose (Allison Williams), travel to her parents’ home for the weekend.

“Get Out” has several set pieces worth discussing, but the film’s garden party scene might be the most essential, the gathering of Rose’s parents’ friends and acquaintances for an annual get-together in loving memory of her departed grandparents. Earlier Rose’s father offers a popular assurance and validation when he proclaims that not only was Obama the greatest president he’s known, but he would’ve voted for him a third time. As Chris wanders from couple to couple, we want a gauntlet with him that’s likely familiar to plenty of black folks traversing white spaces. There are the soft come-ons about your appearance (“aren’t you a handsome one” one partygoer remarks as she delicately squeezes his arm); the desire to validate blackness as a commodity (“black is in again”, intones another attendee as he curries favor); or as a means of intellectually engaging him, Chris is asked in front of a throng of the white guests to speak on the progress of African-Americans; have things gotten better or worse? As he makes his way through the crowd, you experience a lot with Chris: the exhaustion of literally navigating white spaces; the delicateness and calculations of how you choose to respond to commentary intended to be innocent and well-intentioned but ultimately still steeped in ignorance and, at times, fetishization.

The scene features Lakeith Stanfield, “Darius” from Atlanta and his inclusion in this particular section of the movie serves a couple of purposes. His presence actually evokes a call-back to Atlanta’s “Juneteenth” episode, which in many ways saw the realization of this movie’s social scene. As a collection of Jack-and-Jill styled fanciful black people mingle about the sprawling mansion of a high-minded black woman and her awkwardly liberal white husband who aggressively displays how “down” he is to everyone around him, especially Earn, who the husband likely senses is skeptical about his authenticity. The two parties present inverses of one another; as Earn and Chris both get sized-up, evaluated, chastised and patronized as much for what their blackness is and for what it isn’t, there’s the illusion of a gateway being opened to another world. Atlanta’s “Juneteenth” represents the illusion of a black bourgeois that feels like they’ve “made it” and the implicit message that they, if not have become “white”, have certainly escaped being “black”. On the other side “Get Out” has a phalanx of white people yearning for the cool side of the pillow of blackness; wanting to retain the power of their whiteness while acquiring aspects of blackness a la carte.

This sort of racial power bartering is the underlying horror at the heart of both pieces, as both make the case that one of the greatest fears of wading too far into a white world is the loss of identity, something made clear with Chris’ relationship, to blacks living in the suburbs, to a change in dress and language, to maintaining a sense of village or community whenever you come across another person of color—that silently telegraphed, telepathic two-word message we transmit in those moments: “you good?”. “Get Out” unearths this uneasiness, neurotically aware of a white culture that’s quick to consume aspects of the black culture, and the movie gets a lot of mileage out of the issue of appropriation as it looks at the most obvious ways that white mainstream culture steals things: entertainers, artists, athletes, and bodies. The black victims in “Get Out” are analogues for all these situations and it’s worthwhile to consider the real world examples and implications when it comes to this sort of continued white theft. There are the obvious ones: Three years ago on an MTV stage, Miley Cyrus, twerked on stage surrounded by black women props; months later, Macklemore wins over Kendrick Lamar at the Grammys.  

The movie also adds to the ongoing paranoia about black mobility and identity. Several times in the film, the issue of staying black is a literal and metaphorical dilemma. Chris’ decision to be with Rose, their decision to go to her parents’ house in the bucolic suburbs, and the roles of the landscaper, housekeeper and Andre (Stanfield) are all familiar echoes about the recurring nightmare of losing your black self in white settings and culture. It’s a familiar question of trespassing and authenticity that shares roots both historical in the “paper bag” tests and passing, and pop cultural, too.

“Get Out” was obviously made decades later, but “Chris” would have been the perfect role for a 90’s-era Will Smith to have played. As an actor whose work during that period often negotiated outing race and class identities in unpredictable spaces, this film would have been a natural inclusion to his resume then. In 1993’s “Six Degrees of Separation”, Smith plays the lead role in the true-story film of a black gay con artist who worms his way into a New York area white high society, by pretending to be the son of “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner” actor Sidney Poitier, likely in-joke for the con artist and certainly for an audience that gets the messages and paranoia in “Get Out”.

What makes him especially relevant to this film though is his six-year run on “Fresh Prince of Bel-Air” from 1990-1996. The entire series was about Will’s struggle to maintain his particular blackness in a community where he felt everyone around him had already been snatched, from rigid, authoritarian Uncle Phil, to Valley Girl Hillary, Smith navigated a fun house of black misshapen mirrors. The pinnacle was his sometimes foil; Ribero’s “Carlton”, the Tom Jones swaggering, uptight cousin was an everyday mirror that terrified and tortured Will with its galling feeling of whiteface at times. Much of the series positioned Will not only as a fish-out-of-water but an exorcist of sorts, too; constantly using his values, his culture, and his body to wake up the Banks family. To Will, his family wasn't just strange; they appeared to be brainwashed and inadvertently, the show took on this racial dilemma too, body-swapping the darker-skinned Janet Hubert-Whitten’s “Vivian Banks” for the fairer-skinned Daphne Maxwell Reid midway through the series to play the same character. That sort of swapping set-off age-old concerns and injustices around the penalties of being black in issues that “Get Out” also provokes discussion about: colorism, opportunity, mobility, and acceptance. Smith’s first movie after the “Fresh Prince” was 1997’s “Men in Black”; a sci-fi action series where he and Tommy Lee Jones took on cases to reveal the true identity of people living amongst us by using a device armed with a flash.

Yet our most complex example of this negotiation and the vampire-like nature might be the ongoing vexing saga of Rachel Dolezal, whose presence and journey serves as an embodiment of the angst, anger, and anxiety that “Get Out” is about. In Rachel, there’s everything ranging from appropriation to passing, privilege to theft, politics to intimacy. Her decision to identify as a black woman is steeped in a racially political American context that has a sordid history around whites finding ways to comfortably and conveniently adapt blackness as it suits them. Her own story is one of continued consumption; from altering her appearance, to her academic and career decisions, to most recently, her official name change: she is now “Nkechi Amare Diallo”. It’s Nigerian in origin. Her story is an example of both how true life is stranger than fiction and also how art imitates life.

Both Diallo and “Get Out” tread into the uneasy way we mine our racial traumas into devices and identities, becoming keys to get to the other side. Catherine Keener puts Chris under by first empathizing with and then manipulating his emotional trauma around a very personal loss, and the tumble to the sunken place becomes something Atlanta, “Jungle Fever”, Rachel/Nkechi, Kanye, “Do the Right Thing” and even the currently running Kalief Browder documentary “Time” all share in common: when you tumble into that dark space, no one can hear you scream.

https://www.philadelphiaprintworks.com/blogs/news/invasion-of-the-body-snatchers-get-out-and-the-everyday-horror-story-for-blacks

[whattoputonyourface]

Makeup Brushes: Sorry, You Need Them

I hate makeup brushes. They all seem more expensive than they should be and they're the least fun beauty item to buy. Buying brushes in sephora or the drugstore beauty aisle feels like going to the grocery store and only buying cutlery. It's so boring! Let me eat with my hands!! Unfortunately, like cutlery, using them is sort of a necessary part of being considered fuckable by polite society. Sorry, I don't make the rules.

The good news is, the average person wearing the average amount of makeup doesn't need that many brushes. I always disregard the descriptions of what they're supposed to be used for when I'm brush shopping. They always say every single one of them is for a really specific purpose to trick you into thinking you need 9000 different ones. To continue the food metaphors, buying a million brushes that each do one specific thing is like filling your kitchen with novelty waffle irons when you don't even have a refrigerator (can you tell I'm hungry?).

you don't need this.

There are two basic types of brushes: synthetic fiber and natural fiber. Synthetic fiber brushes don't absorb product, so they're perfect for cream and liquid products. Natural fiber brushes are pretty much just for powder. You can use a synthetic brush for powder, too, but don't use a natural brush for cream or your application will be patchy and your brush will be fucked up, since some of the product will get absorbed into the hair. You don't need both types of brushes for all of the categories I'm going to list, just think about which types of products you tend to use where. For example, I mostly use creams and liquids on my face, so most of my face brushes are synthetic, but my eye brushes are mostly natural since most of my eyeshadow is powder.

Anyway, here's what you need:

Eye brushes

#1. A dense brush to lay down color

any of these will work. don't think too hard.

The more densely packed the bristles of a brush, the more product it's going to pick up. You want something pretty dense and pretty small to place your eyeshadow exactly where you want it to go. Don't think too hard about it - just get something that puts a reasonable amount of eyeshadow on your face. This is one of the main areas the beauty industry likes to bleed us dry. There are literally dozens of brush shapes that all do exactly the same thing. I think it's a conspiracy to keep women poor. I am the Alex Jones of eyeshadow brushes.

#2: A loose, tapered brush to blend

this one is from sephora. I own it. It was 10 dollars. It's fine!

This is what you use to blend out the color you just put down. You want it to be tapered so it will fit nicely and precisely in your eyelid crease or in the outer corner of your eye to soften harsh lines. This brush is also useful for applying powder to small areas of the face, which I'll talk about below.

#3: A small, angled eyeliner/eyebrow brush (buy two if you don't want to wash it every time you put on makeup)

you could also get one this size that goes straight across, but I think the angled one is more versatile because you can use it if you get ambitious and decide to try to do a winged eyeliner (lol good luck)

You use this one to apply, smooth out, or smudge powder or cream eyeliner (or eyeshadow you're pretending is eyeliner, because you're a grown, independent woman who doesn't need to buy eyeliner just because the patriarchy and the teenage ulta employee wearing a cut crease at 10am say you should). I also use one of these to fill in my eyebrows. It's annoying to use the same brush for both because halfway through your makeup application you have to wash it, so I bought two. They go on sale at sephora for 5 bucks pretty often. The main thing to look for is that it's super thin. The thinner it is, the more control you have over where your eyeliner goes (even though no one except God can truly have control over where eyeliner goes. Sometimes it goes everywhere no matter what, and that's when you know you have fallen from His favor.)

And that's pretty much it for eyes! You can certainly buy more - tiny pinpoint brushes for detail work (if you get inspired by that ulta employee's cut crease, for example), angled fluffy brushes to distribute color progressively while blending etc, but there's really no need unless you want to.

Face Brushes #1. A Beauty Blender (not technically a brush, but way better than a brush)

fuck these fucking things.

Oh my God. I'm so mad about these stupid fucking things. I'm their slave. There really is nothing that works as well as a beauty blender to blend cream or liquid products, and they're 20 fucking dollars and only last three months. It's such a racket. I assume the beauty blender people own the only Pink Sponge mine in the world or something, because every other sponge kind of sucks. Sometimes when I'm poor I use this Real Techniques sponge that's like, 1/3rd the price but really only works about 1/2 as well. Anyway, you use this by getting it soaked with water, wringing it out, and then using it to blend liquids and creams with a patting motion. I basically punch myself in the face with it because I'm so mad about spending 20 dollars on a fucking sponge every time I use it. I will never be free from its tyranny. It's really good though. Sorry.

#2. A small multitasking blender brush

so boring. That's why it's good. Not too dense or too loose, not too big or too small. I use a brush like this to apply powder to concentrated areas, ie to apply powder blush, contour, or bronzer, or to put translucent powder under my eyes. If you need to put powder in an even smaller area, just use the loose tapered brush I talked about before (I also use that one for highlighting my cheekbones and doing a nose contour if I'm going full hoebag). If you need to put powder on a bigger area or blend something out more, you need...

#3. A big fluffy powder brush

This is the truth Big Powder doesn't want you to know This is what you use if you want a light application of powder all over the place, ie when using a setting/finishing powder. Get a medium sized one so you can use it just on your T zone if you want, and so you can use it to finish blending blush or (in particular) bronzer.

Again, there's a bunch of other stuff you can get if you want. Fan brushes are cool for putting on highlighter and contour. kabuki brushes are good if you use powder foundation. But this really should cover it.

How Gross Can I Let Them Get?

If you're just using them on yourself, are good about only appying makeup to clean skin, and aren't having breakouts, you can let them get pretty gross. I don't clean my brushes that much. When I do, I usually use shampoo, and then use conditioner on my natural hair brushes. I basically only ever wash my brushes when I've embarked on some doomed crusade for self improvement - they get washed on Day 1 of the juice cleanse, basically. I do wash my beauty blender every time I use it though, and I make sure to air dry it in open air, otherwise it can get moldy.

A neat trick I learned from some tween on youtube for getting color off an eyeshadow brush: buy a hair donut, and wipe the brush on it to get all the color off before dipping into your next eyeshadow. I'd never even heard of a "hair donut" until tweens, but they have much to teach us.

How much money do I have to spend on them?

The nicer the brush, the more easily you'll be able to apply your products, and the less time you'll have to spend blending. However, you can get cheap ones that work just fine with a little elbow grease. The e.l.f. pro line (the ones in the black packaging, skip the white ones) is cheap and you can buy it everywhere. Real Techniques and It Cosmetics are also good for the money, as is the sephora house brand (most of my brushes are from there). If you can afford it, buy your brushes one at a time rather than in a value set or kit. Sets are almost always lower quality than single brushes. Also, don't let youtube fool you - Morphe is a waste of money. They're just private labeled Crown brushes from China. You could spend several hundred dollars on beautiful handmade Japanese brushes from chikuhodo or hakuhodo if you want to, but please get me one for teaching you all of this if you do!

[duaneodavila]

The Unbearable Wrongness of Bazelon

Having long since lost Linda Greenhouse and Dahlia Lithwick to their private hysteria played out in public, the lone remaining female pundit of law was Emily Bazelon. I regret to inform you that Bazelon is gone, self-immolated in a blaze of whiteness.

Being white in America has long been treated, at least by white people, as too familiar to be of much interest. It’s been the default identity, the cultural wallpaper — something described, when described at all, using bland metaphors like milk and vanilla and codes like “cornfed” and “all-American.” Grass is green, the sky is blue and, until very recently, a product described as “nude” or “flesh-colored” probably looked like white people’s skin.

How often do white people talk about being white? Not often! So long as we aren’t hanging out with white nationalists, marrying into a family of color or chuckling over jokes about our dancing, we have endless opportunities to avoid thinking much about our own race.

When she puts it that way, it seems almost mind-numbingly ridiculous that white people don’t obsess about their racial identity by self-flagellating and rending their sack cloth. But Bazelon informs us that it’s over. 

The Trump era, however, has compelled an unprecedented acknowledgment of whiteness as a real and alarming force.

There’s no cite for this assertion. Rather, Bazelon turns to woke examples:

Politico asked: “What’s Going On With America’s White People?” The NPR podcast “Code Switch” debuted with an episode called “Can We Talk About Whiteness?” Since handing Trump 58 percent of the white vote, we have been the subject of newspaper and magazine analyses about our race-based resentment, fear of declining status and supposed economic anxiety. The satire “Dear White People” was picked up by Netflix, and the film “Get Out,” which turned self-proclaimed Obama-supporting white people into figures of horror, became the think-piece blockbuster of 2017.

That she left out all reference to the great legal philosopher, Samantha Bee, is surprising.

Suddenly it is less tenable than ever for white people to write our whiteness out of the story of race in America or define ourselves only in terms of what we are not.

This is why you lie awake in your beds at night, pondering how Gorsuch managed to manipulate the latest Supreme Court opinion to serve white supremacy. What? You don’t? Then you are in denial, which makes you racist.

This pyramid has been around for a while, and is likely out of date, but now that Bazelon tells us that we (us white folks) are obsessed with our whiteness, from its privilege to its offensiveness, it’s the paradigm within which everything must be judged. And, as should be plain from its context, we are basking in our privilege and racism, whether we try to hurt or help.

For a long time, many white people assumed it was our due, as the majority, to encounter various racial others and marvel at the exotic things they ate, built or wore. Now we can go online and find people of color doing the gawking, offering jokes and anthropological scrutiny about white people’s underseasoning food, mistreating potato salad or eschewing washcloths.

Putting aside the conflicting view of how white people don’t think about race at all and Bazelon’s contention what white people “assumed it was our due,” when one would have no reason to assume anything if one didn’t think about it at all, the question raised here, since Bazelon used to be a legal pundit rather than woke self-loathing racial scold, is what this has to do with law, the only subject on which Bazelon’s writing has ever mattered.

A majority of white Americans currently believe that their own race is discriminated against. News accounts fill with white resentment and torch-lit white-power marches. White Americans, who “seem lost,” are searching for something important: how to see ourselves without turning awful in the process.

Do we “seem lost”? My good buddy Elie Mystal drove this home in a post about the Supreme Court’s Mansky decision, holding Minnesota’s prohibition on wearing political attire to the polls unconstitutional under the First Amendment. So anybody should be able to wear whatever they want to the polls? To me, white guy that I am, this seemed exceptionally anodyne. Heck, even the Notorious RGB and her sidekick Kagen signed on to it. What could possibly be crackers about this decision? Elie explained: it’s the hat.

It’s unfortunate there’s no lefty equivalent to the MAGA hat. I would love to wear something that white people could take one look at and know that I’m not here for their BS and it’s dangerous to talk to me about it.

But there can be no lefty equivalent. Because people on the left don’t believe in ethnic cleansing or placing certain people’s children into concentration camps. And if we did believe in that, we certainly wouldn’t put it on a hat for everybody else to see.

I don’t have a MAGA hat. If I did, I wouldn’t wear it, but I wouldn’t have one to begin with so it doesn’t matter. It’s unclear to me if Elie is bitching about the left not having a cool hat, because if that was the gripe, then come up with a hat of your own. He was the left “certainly wouldn’t put it on a hat,” even if it’s pink and is intended to convey a vagina.

Until I read Elie’s post, I had no idea that an opinion that allowed anyone to wear a shirt, or a hat, that spoke to their political views was a racist thing. I checked the pyramid and there’s no mention of hats. But Bazelon says that I, as a white man, am now obsessed with recognizing how race influences every aspect of my being. My failure was unclear until Elie explained it to me.

Again, there is a universe in which Roberts’s reasoning makes a lot of sense. Damn near anything can be “political” these days. We live in a polarized nation where the very facts of our reality are debated in the political arena.

Again, Roberts is being reasonable, at least reasonable from the perspective of white man who need not concern himself with this country’s history of suppressing the vote to non-whites and women.

Having spent the better part of my legal career* representing black guys who show up at arraignment with the outline of a Glock on the left side of their head, I’m not insensitive to complaints Elie raises. But you only get equal protection, not the majority of a nation obsessing over the minority’s hat peccadilloes.

It may be that Emily Bazelon’s bubble is obsessed about the awfulness of the whiteness, but the rest of us have work to do trying to keep the law honest and fair for everyone, without regard to race. And I will do so without a hat.

*There was a time that the things I did over the decades was sufficient to overcome any foolishness about my questioning racial obsession in the age of social justice. This allowed me to say what others could not, at least without being called a white supremacist or Nazi. I suspect that’s no longer the case, that my non-racist bona fides are no longer adequate and that any challenge to the excesses of Bazelon’s myopic obsession will result in my dismissal as just another old white guy spewing at best white privilege and at worst racism.

The alternative (which is the point of efforts such as Bazelon’s) is to shame white guys into silence and obsequiousness, because anything else will evoke the fury of the woke. Because you may be unwilling to risk the attack, or lack the history that enables you to withstand the names, I do it for you. Racial harmony will not be achieved by the minority demanding the majority bend to its will, nor should it. I will fight tooth and nail for your equal protection, but not your hegemony. Nor mine.

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