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mittensmorgul · 4 years ago

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As Above, So Below

I’m still trying to pinpoint exactly why the focus on “heaven is fixed and actually a paradise now!” is just so deeply unsatisfying to me. And I think I need to preface this with a bit of backstory about me, because I think that gives the rest of this essay some relevant context.

I know this isn’t relevant to my main point here, but this is a metatextual and thematically identical example of the exact thing I’m gonna lay out, because context is always helpful. So please forgive this seemingly irrelevant detour, because I promise it will be relevant by the end.

(plus, would it really be an Essay By Mittens™ without at least one baffling tangent? no, it would not!)

Tangent time!

I think everyone that follows me knows how skeptical I was... or should I say how WARY I was of the way Eileen was returned to the narrative this season. We were warned in the PREVIOUS EPISODE how much Chuck was attempting to interfere in their lives. I was accused of some very nasty things, of hating the ship, or hating the character of Eileen, or of hating Sam and not wanting them to be happy. No amount of pointing at obvious warning signs in the text, no amount of yelling about Sam’s God Wound or the absolute klaxon warning that the wound had become “quiet” and his Chuck-O-Vision Nightmares had apparently stopped seemed to matter. I was declared “wrong” and told to shut up.

And then 15.09 happened, and basically everything I’d been wary of was shown to be what actually happened, but there were still unresolved issues. Eileen doubted her own feelings and walked away. She doubted what was actually real. And at the time, I said many times that I would be thrilled to see those issues resolved by the end of the season, and for her to truly know that what she’d felt growing between her and Sam was real. And by the end of the season, despite my personal horror at her previous situation (and having that personal horror compounded by the fandom literally gaslighting me and attempting to bully me into ignoring this basic actual plot detail of this specific growth process which... in the context of what my personal objection was to accepting her return at face value in the first place having been personal trauma associated with gaslighting and manipulation...) by the time 15.18 aired, I was 100% convinced that Sam and Eileen had fully chosen each other, and felt the traumatic pain Sam suffered during that text conversation with her during the snap. She NEEDED to come back, because she had been set up to be part of Sam’s Win. They were clearly each other’s future.

The show literally put in all the work to make even *me* feel this to be True and Right and Good. And then after that point we never even hear Eileen’s name again. We never were told that she was even returned at the end of 15.19. Sam, who had been so entirely devastated by her disappearance in the previous episode that he couldn’t even process it was apparently hit with an amnesia hammer and just... never even thought about her again through a long greyscale life with a blurry baby Dean factory vaguely in the background of a single scene of his life. I can’t credit or justify how after an entire year invested in making us all truly care about Sam and Eileen and the happiness they found in each other if only the cosmos would allow them to choose each other in the end would just... erase all of that in the series finale.

Which brings me to the second tangent, which is specifically about *me,* and how I feel about the cosmic order in the television show Supernatural. Because I feel a lot about it. Probably more than most people ever did. And this is also important to understanding the main underlying point I need to make here.

Something I’ve been most looking forward to, for YEARS, about Supernatural eventually ending someday was writing a book, or a thesis, or even just organizing and compiling all my observations into a cohesive narrative specifically about the cosmology of the Supernatural universe. I’ve been cobbling together my observations and realizations about the nature of heaven, hell, purgatory, the empty, the alternate universes we’ve seen, and yes, even the cosmic function of the mundane level of the story as told by events that transpired on Earth. So of everyone watching this dumb show for the last 15 years, I don’t actually know anyone who cared more that I did about finding a satisfactory resolution and transformation of every plane of existence-- the mortal world AND the “afterlife realms” we’ve experienced on this show. And in the wake of the finale, I feel cheated out of that. Because in the end, it wasn’t about the triumph of free will and a flip of the script, it was just more of the same.

And now that I have those two preliminaries out of the way, I’ll finally get to the point. :’D

(hooray, it didn’t even take 1k words to get there for once!)

The “main stage” of Supernatural has always been Earth. It’s always been “Humanity.” At the very start, we meet two men whose lives had always been dictated to them by higher powers. At first, that “higher power” was their father who raised them in his vengeance mission, who trained them to hunt the supernatural. It was the inciting incident of the entire series, after all, their realization that forces outside of their control had irrevocably altered the course of their lives. It had forever torn down what they’d trusted in family, in personal safety, and would become something they couldn’t outrun or fight back against for long before another wave of cosmic discord would settle over them once more.

We watched this story play out in ever increasing spheres of cosmic significance, until Gabriel laid it out on the table for them in the simplest possible terms (in 5.08).

GABRIEL: You do not know my family. What you guys call the apocalypse, I used to call Sunday dinner. That's why there's no stopping this, because this isn't about a war. It's about two brothers that loved each other and betrayed each other. You'd think you'd be able to relate. SAM: What are you talking about? GABRIEL: You sorry sons of bitches. Why do you think you two are the vessels? Think about it. Michael, the big brother, loyal to an absent father, and Lucifer, the little brother, rebellious of Daddy's plan. You were born to this, boys. It's your destiny! It was always you! As it is in heaven, so it must be on earth. One brother has to kill the other. DEAN: What the hell are you saying? GABRIEL: Why do you think I've always taken such an interest in you? Because from the moment Dad flipped on the lights around here, we knew it was all gonna end with you. Always. A long pause. SAM and DEAN look down, then at each other. DEAN: No. That's not gonna happen. GABRIEL: I'm sorry. But it is. GABRIEL sighs. GABRIEL: Guys. I wish this were a TV show. Easy answers, endings wrapped up in a bow...but this is real, and it's gonna end bloody for all of us. That's just how it's gotta be. ***

And isn’t that all even 1000x more painfully ironic that it all still happened even 10 years later? It was always going to end with them. And lol, “I wish this were a TV show” because if it was then it wouldn’t have to end bloody.

But this… was a Major Acknowledgement that the meta level of this story was consistent, and was telling us something important. It demonstrated that the Cosmic Structure Itself was the cause for Sam and Dean’s “destiny” in this story. But that’s not what the point of this story has ever been.

Nobody (including me, who is literally obsessed with this aspect of the story) has ever invested themselves in the narrative of Supernatural because they cared about the fate of the cosmic order over and above the fate of the characters who had committed to overthrowing it all, to “tearing up the pages” and writing their own destinies. I mean, we became invested because Sam, Dean, and Cas as characters took us by the hand and invited us to come along with them as they battled against fate for the good of EARTH and HUMANITY.

And certainly, Heaven being a horrific sort of eternal replay of the “highlights” of individual souls greatest hits, where free will didn’t apply as everyone was just boxed away into their individual holodecks to serve as some sort of giant Heaven Battery powering the furtherance of this narrative, this “cosmic order” that had become so powerful it dictated the events and manipulated the lives of people who still existed in the ostensible realm of free will and human life on Earth… that couldn’t stand in the end. But what the narrative (and people I’ve seen attempting to justify the finale as narratively sensible) seems to have forgotten was that all of that was Chuck’s construct to begin with. That without Chuck holding his kingdom in Heaven together, the walls of all those soul cubicles ceased to even be relevant.

After spending their entire lives to this point constantly fighting their way to the absolute pinnacle of the As Above, So Below narrative and pulling the plug on the original creator himself, Humanity should’ve triumphed. And I’d argue that it DID, through Jack restoring the missing essential “humanity” to the divine condition. And, silly me, I thought they’d achieved the promise of “paradise” heralded by Jack’s birth at last, and truly “flipped the entire script of the narrative.”

Ever since they thwarted the original apocalypse, I had hope that they would continue to achieve the same result right up the ladder. Metatron trying to fill the role of Chuck Junior hit his own narrative wall in TFW, while Dean’s battle with the Mark of Cain, and Cain telling him he was “living my life in reverse” and would succumb to destiny by killing his loved ones in the “reverse order” to Cain’s own path to downfall cemented this for me. Dean not only failed to kill any of his loved ones (you didn’t kill your own brother. why?), he SAVED them. He didn’t fulfil the prophecy in reverse, he subverted it. He UNMADE it.

Perhaps I was thinking on too grand a scale, that the ultimate inversion wouldn’t be “God is overthrown and replaced by more of the same,” but “God is overthrown and the entire order of the universe is restructured from the bottom up rather than the top down.

I’d hoped against hope that the conclusion of the narrative would be “As below, so above,” with the fundamental power of human love becoming the new foundation of the cosmic order. It never even occurred to me that “taking back the narrative to rewrite it for ourselves” was not the ultimate goal of Team Free Will, or the ultimate expression of their biggest win.

This whole “well heaven really needed to be rebuilt, there was still work to be done!” seems… irrelevant to me if they’d truly won free of the cosmic narrative. The entire structure of the universe-- including Heaven and Hell-- should’ve defaulted to the paradise state that Jack was literally born to bring to fruition. Wasn’t that the point of his entire role in the story, ultimately?

And if that wasn’t the case in the end, why did we never learn the fate of Hell? Was it just… irrelevant and unchanged after this? Or just… abandoned as a concept entirely? It’s just strange to me to put such a focus on heaven being the sole sphere of import in the end that it undercuts the essential humanity of the narrative for me.

The story itself had kept Heaven on a back burner for years, only occasionally mentioning that the structure of the place was falling further and further into disrepair with a dwindling force of angels struggling to keep the walls in place at all, that it seems like it could’ve been an afterthought at the end of the series rather than a focus so large it required the death of both main characters to make sure we all understood that Heaven Had Changed Now. Because TFW had never been fighting to make Heaven right. They’d been fighting to save the world itself, for humanity to all have a chance to live their lives as their own.

And we didn’t need to see that in the final hope they might get their own lives on Earth to explore. In the end, the fundamental narrative that Life On Earth was dictated by the cosmic structure of creation was never fully subverted. And for me, that’s the main reason I just… can’t accept the finale. It wasn’t a victory of free will and humanity, in the end it was just more of the same.

I appreciate the attempts to take the essential bones of the story we did get and apply a different polish to the surface of the skeleton, but to me it still feels like we’re looking at completely different beasts in the end. Like… to me this was as jarring a revelation as those drawing of modern animals reimagined as dinosaurs entirely based on their skeletons. Like, all along the narrative told me I was looking at a swan. They told me this skeleton they’re building out from is definitely a swan, without a doubt. I know what a swan looks like-- a graceful feather-covered bird with magnificent wings. I trusted that in the end it would be at least remotely swan-looking. And then the finale ended up looking like this

and I just don’t even know where everything went so wrong. Or maybe all along I just assumed they actually knew what a swan looked like, but weren’t sure they could actually pull it off and settled for whatever the heck this is instead. Either way, I’m actually kinda grateful to the finale for being so entirely disappointing on every level, because otherwise I probably would’ve tried to adopt the monstrosity of it anyway. And I’m really, really glad I don’t have to.

#spn 15.20 #spn cosmology #heaven hell purgatory and the empty #and this is why no amount of narrative defense of the finale is capable of making me feel any better about it #i admit i thought too big... but it was all right there in the narrative to see #oh well at least all i have to do to hold on to my grandest notion of the universe is throw out the finale :'D

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everyonewasabird · 5 years ago

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@fremedon I’m going to move the conversation about Grantaire’s revolution rant to it’s own post! Hope that’s okay.

(beware, this got LONG, oh my god)

@fremedon said:

Coming back to Grantaire and “Preliminary Gaieties,” I’m thinking about that speech again in light of this post.

All the metaphors about God throwing a revolution to cover his bankruptcy are in service of a point that Grantaire also states in (for him) remarkably plain language–that as much as he would like for progress to occur smoothly and automatically, it doesn’t:

“What the rest of you call progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event, nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events, revolutions.”

He spends three pages circling back to the idea of revolution, and every time he lands on the same point–that it’s not only inevitable, but necessary; that the universe is badly made and God is unable to set it right without human action, which means revolution.

And then there’s this passage, which is kind of key to the whole thing (switching from Hapgood to FMA):

“Oh! By all saints of Olympus and all the gods of Paradise, I was not made to be a Parisian, that is to say, to richochet forever, like a shuttlecock between two rackets, from the company of loafers to the company of rioters!”

He introduces a list of loafers–the group he says he was born to be part of–ending with “a petty Germanic prince, furnishing the half of a foot-soldier to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure with drying his breeches on his hedge, that is to say, his frontier.” This list balances Floreal’s banker, from the start of the speech–another idler in this vein, whose conquest of the grisette is explicitly equated with Brennus’s sack of Rome.

Grantaire wants to be idle; he wants to enjoy the appearances that God is trying so hard to keep up, but he’s seen through them; he understands that even the illusion of smooth social functioning that revolution and riot disrupts is still violent at every level, from the sack of cities to the defense of micro-states to Floreal’s poverty. He gets it, he sees the violence inherent in the system and he understands that any action to change will, under the circumstances, necessarily also be violent.

Philosophically and politically, he pretty much agrees with the Amis about how the world is and what it would take to change it.

And then he finally says the thing it’s taken him three pages and a bottle of wine to say, and that no one in the book has really said outright yet:

“And it appears that they are going to fight, all those imbeciles, and to break each other’s profiles and to massacre each other in the heart of summer, in the month of June, when they might go off with a creature on their arm, to breathe the immense heaps of new-mown hay in the meadows!”

They all know that just their political association, let alone the kind of organizing they’re doing, could on its own get themselves killed. They’ve been part of a network amassing weapons with the full intention of taking to the streets with them. They all know that if–when–it does come to insurrection, their lives will all be on the line.

No one talks about it. No one, before this point, ever acknowledges it out loud.

And when Grantaire finally does–in front of Joly and Bossuet! Who watched the funeral cortege go by and decided to have brunch instead! Who are very much on the side of Yes Do Notice the Flowers and the Spring!–what’s the response?

“Speaking of revolution,” said Joly, “it appears that Marius is decidedly amorous.”

“Does anyone know who it is?”

“No.”

THEY ARE SO DESPERATE TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT. THAT THEY RESORT TO GOSSIP. ABOUT MARIUS.

They don’t even HAVE any gossip about Marius! “SPEAKING OF REVOLUTION… … … OH HEY COURFEYRAC’S ROOMMATE HAS A CRUSH. On someone. Allegedly.” This is not even the “How about that local sports team” of subject changes. This is just flat refusal to engage with anything Grantaire has said.

In my headcanon, about 80% of Grantaire’s position as Resident Skeptic* comes down to this: that he sees as clearly as any of them do that their ideals, if taken to their logical conclusion lead to violent revolution, and that the chances of that revolution accomplishing anything significant are slim compared to the chances of their all getting killed. And that aside from Enjolras, most of them deal with this through flat-out denial.

Grantaire’s a depressive. He is Very Bad at denying unpleasant truths. He is self-medicating very hard just to be able to ignore enough of the world’s unpleasantness to get up in the morning. He works really, really, hard to see the flowers and the spring and enough of a bright side to go on with this life that they are all so willing to throw away on such a slim hope.

He really can’t get on board with just…hoping that the suicidally rash inevitable endgame will work out for the best. But the only one of them who appears to have any other coping mechanism is Enjolras, who conceives of himself as an instrument of war trying to make himself obsolete–whose metric of success is self-annihilation. Which I think Grantaire understands very well and wishes he didn’t.

*The other 20% is tied up with his objectification of Enjolras. In the very literal, “what a fine statue,” “Je crois à toi” sense. Enjolras is an abstract concept? Grantaire’s a skeptic; Enjolras is a god? Grantaire’s an atheist; Enjolras is a statue? Grantaire’s an art school dropout. If he can make Enjolras something other than a person, then he doesn’t have to take him seriously; he doesn’t have to worry about letting him down.

everyonewasabird:

Ooh, you and I are reading a LOT of things differently! Interesting!

So I don’t think I disagree about what Grantaire is saying but about how it lands: he’s wrong. He sees the problems of the world--and in his bitterness invents extra problems, like women marrying bankers, which is not an actual problem, Grantaire--and despair makes him think nothing can be changed. And Joly and Bossuet know he’s wrong.

On the “new mown hay” line--firstly, oh my god, Hapgood’s translatation of that is a travesty. That passage is gorgeous.

Here’s Wilbour:

“And it appears that they are going to fight, all these idiots, to get their heads broken, to massacre one another, in midsummer, in the month of June, when they might go off with some creature under their arm, to scent in the fields the huge cup of tea of the new mown hay! Really they are too silly.”

...God, it’s so beautiful. Anyway.

It’s worth noting that this passage is not like the rest of the speech. Grantaire was being racist and sexist and gross like a sentence ago, and he undercuts his own eloquence with “Really they are too silly” a sentence after. I think the magic in his spark of sincerely expressed fear and regret here is real! And I think Hugo and the brick feel that regret and that loss. But I don’t think Hugo and the brick agree that therefore it would be better to just not have the revolution.

About Grantaire you said:

He works really, really, hard to see the flowers and the spring and enough of a bright side to go on with this life

I don’t agree. I think Grantaire is trudging on with a life that fills him with horror and which he barely tolerates, and the one good thing he has are the people he surrounds himself with who actually do pay attention to flowers and spring and the bright side--like Joly and Bossuet, who keep making jokes for exactly this purpose. Like the joke about Marius and revolution!

It’s not that Bossuet and Joly value their lives less or are paying less attention to the cost of the fight than Grantaire is--it’s that they value the world more. They love their lives--hence their last, joyous brunch instead of the boring, rainy parade--and they love the world, and they believe enough in hope for the world that they will willingly and joyfully give those lives to fix it. That’s not the same thing!

I don’t read “speaking of a revolution, Marius is amorous” as avoidance at all--handling catastrophe with good humor is Joly and Bossuet’s whole thing. Grantaire is spiraling into despair that Bossuet and Joly don’t share, since they’ve committed to this fight and made their peace with it. So they redirect Grantaire’s collapsing despair spiral with the joke that Marius--whom they must think of as a massive prude, given, well, them--suddenly caring about romance constitutes a revolution on par with the one they’re planning. Honestly, I thought it was pretty funny!

I don’t think anyone is facing the revolution with denial--I’m not following where that idea comes from. It seems to me the Amis are brave and selfless and committed and good, and they see revolution as worth doing, and if they die in the effort, they see that as worth it. I think everyone but Grantaire is fully on board with that.

A LOT of my feeling that the text of the brick is adamantly pro-revolution comes from this post from pilferingapples, ostensibly about the Waterloo digression. This post seriously upended how I think of the revolution plot of the brick versus its weird bourgeois ending--honestly, it completely changed how I think about this book and just...books in general. I can’t overstate what that bit of meta did to me.

On Enjolras... oh wow, we’re seeing very different characters!

You say:

Enjolras, who conceives of himself as an instrument of war trying to make himself obsolete–whose metric of success is self-annihilation.

I definitely see the instrument of war thing! And I think he always saw the (possibility? probability? certainty?) that the world he fought for would not include him. But I don’t think his metric of success is self-annihilation. That might be Valjean’s, but I don’t think it’s his. I think Enjolras’s metric of success is the world being saved.

I think of Enjolras as the great moral victor of the story. Inasmuch as he has flaws, they’re about being too absolute and sublime, to the exclusion of all else. That’s not a damning flaw, and in embracing Grantaire he transcends it. Far from tending towards self-annihilation, he seems to me a character of nigh-superhuman resilience, too full of love for his friends and humanity and faith in a better world ever to break, under any circumstances. I don’t think his willingness to die is abnegation--I think it’s genuine love for the world and faith that even in defeat, he and his friends have moved humanity closer to a better future.

(I hope that wasn’t too combative! I’m happy to argue further! :D)

#meta #long meta #enjolras #grantaire #joly #bossuet #oysters #feel like a weird choice to me if you're picking your last brunch on earth but sure #'huge cup of tea of the new-mown hay' hapgood how could you

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pdad58 · 5 years ago

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A Passover Unlike Any Other

Amid the Covid-19 pandemic, the Jewish holiday that begins next week will be celebrated in new ways—and gain new meanings.

ILLUSTRATION: RUTH GWILY

By Adam Kirsch

Updated April 3, 2020 12:25 pm ET

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How is this night different from all other nights? That question, which Jews ask every year as part of the Passover celebration, will get a new answer in 2020. When the holiday begins on Wednesday night, for many Jews it will be the first time in their lives that they cannot attend a Seder—the ritual meal that commemorates the Israelites’ journey from slavery in Egypt to freedom in their Promised Land.

According to a 2013 Pew Research Center poll, the Seder is the most widely practiced Jewish tradition in the U.S.: Only 23% of American Jews regularly attend a synagogue, but 70% go to a Seder. In the age of Covid-19, however, bringing together old and young people in a small space to share food is simply too dangerous. In Israel, where all gatherings of more than 10 people have been banned, the Health Ministry has urged Jews to limit their Seders to their nuclear family. Chabad, the international Jewish outreach organization, has posted a list of frequently asked questions on its website, including “Can I at least invite my neighbors?” The answer is “no, no and no!”

This advice is in keeping with the traditional Jewish principle that the preservation of life overrides almost any other duty. And a Seder is a religious duty, not just a chance to see extended family and enjoy holiday dishes.

SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS

How will you celebrate Passover this year? Join the conversation below.

Seder means “order” in Hebrew, and it involves an ordered series of ritual actions, prayers, songs and stories—15 steps in all, which are recorded in the Haggada, the Passover prayer book. The core of the Seder is a long script, usually recited by the guests in turn, which narrates the Exodus and draws out its meaning. One reason why Passover is the quintessential Jewish holiday is that you celebrate it by talking about it. As the Haggada says, “everyone who discusses the exodus from Egypt at length is praiseworthy.”

In fact, the Bible implies that while the purpose of Passover is to remember the exodus, the exodus took place in part so that Jews could celebrate Passover. “And this day shall be unto you for a memorial; and ye shall keep it a feast to the Lord throughout your generations; ye shall keep it a feast by an ordinance for ever,” God tells Moses and Aaron in Exodus 12, on the eve of the Israelites’ flight from Egypt. That Biblical passage is the origin of Passover practices that Jews still follow today—such as eating matzo, unleavened bread, in memory of the Israelites who had to flee before their dough had a chance to rise.

Over the last 2,000 years, Jews have managed to celebrate Passover in the face of far worse challenges than Covid-19.

Over the last 2,000 years, Jews have managed to celebrate Passover in the face of far worse challenges than Covid-19. In the year 70, the ancient historian Josephus reports, the Roman general Titus besieged Jerusalem three days before Passover, at a time when the city’s population was swelled by the vast numbers of pilgrims who came to offer a Passover sacrifice in the Temple. The result was pestilence—or as we would now say, an epidemic—and famine, which according to Josephus’s estimate killed 1.1 million people. Yet the holiday went on—as it did even in Auschwitz during World War II, where some survivors recalled clandestine Seders conducted without a Haggada.

By comparison, the Passover obstacles of 2020 seem minor. The internet is already full of guides for conducting a virtual Seder, in which guests can read and pray together while eating separately. Orthodox Jews ordinarily don’t use electronic devices on holidays, but this year may be different. Last week, 14 rabbinic authorities in Israel issued a statement permitting the use of Zoom or Skype to connect people during the Seder, provided that the app is turned on before the holiday begins and not turned off until it ends. Other rabbis disagreed, however, and practice will probably vary from household to household.

ILLUSTRATION: RUTH GWILY

However people connect on Passover this year, they will likely find new resonances in the Seder. Everyone is thinking about the importance of handwashing these days, as a way to prevent transmission of the coronavirus, but washing your hands has been one of the first steps in the Seder for many centuries, as a preliminary to handling food. One Passover meme making the rounds lately rewrites the order of the Seder so that instead of handwashing occurring once, it’s repeated between every stage of the meal.

Covid-19 also gives new concreteness to the section of the Seder dealing with the ten plagues. The Book of Exodus relates that, in order to convince the Pharaoh to “let my people go,” God sent Egypt a series of afflictions: water turned to blood, the land was inundated by frogs and locusts, cattle were killed by disease, day turned to night. Yet each time Pharaoh refused to relent, until the worst plague of all, when every firstborn child in Egypt died on the same night. In this way God requited the genocidal decree of Pharaoh, who had ordered all Israelite boys to be killed at birth.

But the Israelites were spared, since God had sent them into a kind of quarantine: “None of you shall go out at the door of his house until the morning,” he instructed Moses and Aaron. The name of the holiday commemorates this event, as the Haggada explains: “It is a Passover offering to the Lord, because He passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt when He struck the Egyptians with a plague, and He saved our houses.”

MORE IN IDEAS

A Passover Unlike Any Other April 3, 2020

The Science of Staying Connected April 2, 2020

Amy Compton-Phillips: A New Frontier for Medical Technology March 28, 2020

W. Bradford Wilcox: Marriage With Family at Its Center March 28, 2020

For most people alive today, the idea of a plague that strikes a whole nation—so that “there was not a house where there was not one dead,” as the Bible says—was until recently hard to imagine. Covid-19 is nowhere near that deadly, but it has given us an inkling of the fear of and vulnerability to disease that all human societies lived with until the 20th century. For the Jews of Europe, times of plague were doubly dangerous, since they were often blamed by their Christian neighbors. During the Black Death of 1348, hundreds of Jewish communities in Western Europe were attacked, despite the intervention of Pope Clement VI, who pointed out that Jews were dying from the plague just like everyone else.

The Seder acknowledges the horror of such afflictions with a distinctive ritual. When it comes time to recite the ten plagues, participants remove a drop of wine from their cups after each plague is named, either with a finger or by spilling it. The customary explanation for this practice is that it’s a way of symbolically decreasing the joy of the celebration, in acknowledgment of the suffering of the Egyptians. In the words of the Talmud, God “doesn’t rejoice over the downfall of the wicked.”

Throughout the Seder, in fact, joy and sadness are inseparable. Modern scholars have argued that the Seder is modeled on the ancient Greek symposium, a drinking party in which men would talk, joke and listen to music while reclining on couches. On Passover, likewise, Jews are supposed to drink four cups of wine and recline at leisure (a practice seldom followed today, when people are more used to sitting upright at a table). These are ways of demonstrating that Jews are no longer slaves, as in Egypt, but free people.

At the same time, one of the key ingredients of the Passover meal is bitter herbs—often represented on modern American plates by horseradish—which is eaten as a reminder of the bitterness of the lives of the Israelite slaves. Another dish, charoset, a paste made of fruit and nuts, is meant to resemble the clay used by those slaves to make bricks; and matzo is referred to in the Haggada as “the bread of affliction.” This year, for Jews separated from loved ones in the shadow of a pandemic, the chastened happiness of Passover will have a new meaning and relevance.

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rosecorcoranwrites · 5 years ago

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Thoughts on Twists

Every story ever told can be broken down into three parts. The beginning. The middle. And the twist!

—Goosebumps (2015)

Jordan Peele’s Us and M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village Spoilers ahead, so read with caution!

There's something about a good plot twist: the shock, the awe, the feeling of having your world turned upside down. A good twist might make you see a character in a new light, or rethink everything you thought you knew about the setting. A bad twist, on the other hand, can ruin an otherwise decent story. Bad twists feel cheap and stupid, and make what might have been good, even great stories into muddled and unbelievable messes. So what makes a twist good or bad?

First, some preliminaries: what is a twist? Although we all use the phrase "twists and turns", I submit that a plot twist is a little different than a plot turn. A turn might be defined as the plot taking a completely unexpected direction, like "Wow! Who would have thought that guy would end up becoming the villain!". On the other hand, a twist is when we learn an unexpected fact about the world or a character that had been there, secretly, all along: "Wow! Who would have thought that guy was the villain the whole time!".

Since we're on the subject, it should be noted that twist villains are not the only type of twist there is. Nor are twist endings, the quote from Goosebumps notwithstanding. Though twists tend to occur towards the latter part of narratives, they can be sprinkled throughout. I would love to give some examples of this, but one of the problems with talking about good twists is that you don't want to give them away, and talking about them almost invariably does just that.

Obviously, a twist ought to be unpredictable, but a predictable twist does not make a bad story. Erased, which is one of four perfect stories in existence, has a twist you can see coming from a mile away, and yet it remains perfect. Why? First, because the story doesn't hinge on the twist, for one thing; it's cat and mouse, so it's okay if we know who the cat is. Second, a twist that is predictable isn't really a twist. I mean, it is but it isn't; it's one of those weird gray areas of trying to be the thing, but failing. But that's okay. A failed attempt at being a twist is, in my mind, not the same thing as a properly executed but just plain bad twist. But maybe we're getting into the weeds a bit.

I would say that a bad twist is any twist that is not a good twist, and a good twist follows certain rules: it must be believable; it must make sense in retrospect; and, for double twists, the second one must make the story better as a whole. Basically, good twists are satisfying, and bad twists aren't, usually because they break one of the three rules.

Rule 1: A twist must be believable!

By this, I mean believable in whatever world the writer has set up. If supernatural elements are established, or at least hinted at, a supernatural twist is fine. If, however, there is not one hint or peep of the supernatural throughout the story, but it turns out that the killer is a wizard, or an alien, or a ghost, it's awful. Sure, it's unexpected, but in the dumbest way possible. Good twists should be like slight-of-hand; the audience should delight at being fooled. Unbelievable twists feel more like being lied to by someone who's really bad at lying. They feel like an insult.

And don't think that introducing random supernatural elements into a story is the only way to be unbelievable. Sometimes, making a "real world" twist can feel just as unrealistic. I'll say as little as I can, because it's still less than a year old, but I think that Jordan Peele's Us pulls this. I was really excited for that movie when I saw the trailers, and then I read the synopsis and got even more excited, because I hoped that he would try a certain twist. And he did, and I think it's brilliant! But he went for another twist as well (the one that occurs first in the film, actually), which kind of ruins the whole movie. Why? Because that first twist is logistically, financially, geographically, and hereditarily unbelievable (in particular, (SPOILER, obviously): it's idiotic that the child doppelgängers are the offspring of the cloned parents, and not clones of the normal kids. Even if the clone parents had sex at the exact same time as the normal parents, the sperm and egg that happen to unite would be totally random, even accepting the ridiculous idea that the mother clone would ovulate at the same time as the normal mother. Never mind the rest of the absurdity of a vast government(?) clone experiment that just leaves an unlocked exit in a beachside funhouse). It took what could have been a great movie and made it seem fake and silly. I know I wrote a whole post about not being harsh on the plot holes in horror movies, but this particular twist is based on real things in the real world, not monsters or spirits or what have you (and seriously, a mysterious, ever-changing-yet-always-present carnival funhouse that inexplicable spits out doppelgängers from time to time is way scarier than a poorly run scientific experiment). It strains the suspension of disbelief. It's too much to take. Quite simply, I don't buy it. And a good twist should never make the audience say "I don't buy it."

Rule 2: A twist must make sense in retrospect!

The best twists are those that are staring you in the face the whole time. Once you finally learn the truth, you should be able to look back and say, "I can't believe I didn't see that coming!". As an example of such a twist is M. Night Shyamalan's The Visit. Every time I watch that movie with someone who hasn't seen it, it strikes me just how obvious the twist is, and yet no one ever guesses it.

Bad twists tend to come out of left field, or else don’t mesh with what came before. They feel like the writers are cheating by not giving you anything to go off of, but still want you to cheer for them anyway. Hans being the villain in Frozen is one such twist. His early actions in the film don’t jive with his take-the-throne scheme, specifically in that he stops Weselton’s men from killing Elsa in her palace. Why does he do this? The only reason I can think of, given that he was just going to have her executed later anyway, is so the audience wouldn’t know he’s a villain. It’s not in character and doesn't make sense when you learn what he was eventually planning.

Part of making sense in retrospect is having clues to the twist throughout the rest of the story. These might be seemingly unimportant, mundane details that the audience passes over, or they might be red herrings that seem to indicate one thing but actually mean something quite different. Either way, once the twist is revealed, those clues should become obvious. The Ace Attorney games excel at this. There was a case I was playing, and, after finally eliminating one of the two main suspects, I was stumped. If it wasn’t one of those two, who was it? I pulled up the cast list and went one by one, slowly eliminating the impossible until I was left with one improbable suspect. “No,” I thought, “it can’t be them. But, it can’t be anyone else, so…Wait!” Like puzzle pieces falling into place, everything suddenly fit. That person not only had to be the killer because no one else could, it made sense for them to be the killer given all of their past actions.

A twist that I’m not a fan of is the one in And Then There Were None, by Agatha Christie. Before you grab your pitchforks and torches, let me explain for those people who have never read the book: ten strangers meet on an island and are killed, one-by-one, for their past misdeeds. While the book is entertaining and is the granddaddy of all such whittling-down-the-cast who-dun-its, the twist itself is kind of… meh. Yes, the killer’s motive makes sense, but there weren’t any clues or details one could look back on and say, “Ah! Of course! I was blind not to see it!” The little twist as to how they accomplished some of the killings was clever, but as for their identity, well… I feel like Christie could have chosen any of the ten and done the same thing with them. Nothing pointed to that one person in particular being the killer, and it made the whole twist a lot less satisfying.

Rule 3: Double twists must make the story better as a whole!

Double twists are those where one twist comes after another. The second twist can either build on the first one, or subvert it. As an author, I can tell you that double twists are a nice way of covering your bases, because even if someone sees the first twist coming, they usually won’t see the second one. As a reader, I’m crazy about double twists. And yet, people either misuse them by having them make the story worse or don’t use them to make the story better. Basically, a bad double twist is one of those that breaks rule 1 or 2. Sometimes, though, a really good double twist can salvage a single twist that breaks either of these rules, assuming that the story isn't too far gone at that point (Jordan Peele, I'm looking at you).

Let’s take at movie with a double twist, and see if it works or not: M. Night Shyamalan’s The Village. Shyamalan is quite...something, in that he soars to heights and sink to depths in terms of quality. On a scale of The Happening to The Visit (I don’t acknowledge the existence of The Last Airbender or After Earth; they're not Shyamalanian enough), I would say that The Village is just above Lady in the Water but below Glass. Don’t get me wrong, there are parts of The Village that were quite scary and interesting, but its twists? They're just not doing it for me.

SPOILERS, I guess, but this movie's been out for fifteen years, and the twists are nothing great, so, here we go: it turns out the monsters in the woods are actually villagers in suits who deter people from leaving the community, and—double twist—the movie takes place in the modern day, but the village’s inhabitants experienced loss and crime in regular society and formed their weird community in the woods in order to raise their children peacefully. This second twist was neither believable nor hinted at. For example, why do all the adults—all of whom presumably grew up in normal society—use a stilted, old-timey speech (other than to fool the audience on time period)? Also, though we know the elders have secrets they keep in black boxes, we’re never shown even a hint that these might be things from the modern era until the ending. Why not have a full color photo, or an anachronistic piece of technology? The audience would think these were goofs or sloppy filmmaking, until the reveal that it was all part of a carefully set-up twist.

I’m not a fan of the fake-monster twist either, because I’m always in favor of supernatural elements, but it’s not bad in and of itself. If it were the only twist in the film, it would be an okay movie. But that second one, well…It doesn’t make the film better—I think most people would agree it makes it worse—so it’s not a good double twist. How would I fix it? Add one more twist. The blind girl goes into the woods to get medicine, and is attacked by the murderer in a monster suit, just like in the original movie. Only this time, rather than luring him into a hole, she is saved by another creature. “Who’s that?” the audience wonders, until it rips the murderer apart with its claws and then gallops away on all fours or climbs up a tree or something, because—plot twist—there really are monsters out there in the woods! Like I said, I’m always in favor of the supernatural (Besides, the elders do say that they based the creatures off local legends). At this point, you can keep the modern-day twist or not (if you do, I would move the monster fight to after she’s coming home with the medicine). This new twist wouldn’t make it the best movie ever or anything, but it would make it a little better, a little scarier, a bit more unsettling. If the modern setting stays, this twists hits home the already-present-but-somewhat-undercut message that you can try to make a perfect, planned life, but there are still things out there you can't control. I think it would make for a more satisfying story over all.

And that, right there, is what should be at the heart of any twist (or, dare I say it, any story element): satisfying the audience. No one goes into a book or a movie or a game wanting to be lied to or cheated. We want to be dazzled, amazed, maybe even fooled but in a way that we can appreciate. We want a twist that will knock our socks off and change everything we thought we knew, while being right in front of us the whole time. But, honestly, we'll settle for a not-so-mind-blowing twist that at least satisfies our need for a good story. Heck, we'll even take a predictable twist, as long as the story itself is good. Why? Because surprising your audience is a bonus, but satisfying them is a necessity. And that is what a good twist does.

#plot twists #plot twist #us spoilers #us spoiler #the village spoiler #the village spoilers #the village #m. knight shyamalan #jordan peele #jordan peele's us #what a twist #twist ending #writelr #writeblr #twist villain

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your-iron-lung · 6 years ago

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No Shade in the Shadow of the Cross 10

aka ‘The House That Dripped Blood’; available to read on AO3 HERE

Story Synopsis: Some weird low-key occult parties start popping up that Steve can’t in good conscience ignore and takes it upon himself to investigate. Billy gets caught up in the consequences of his meddling, and isn’t it funny? For all the strange things the Upside Down has thrown his way, it’s werewolves that Steve has trouble accepting exist.

Chapter Word Count: 7927

Pairings: Eventual Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington

Genre: Supernatural/Drama/Horror-ish

Previous Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9

Next Chapter: 11

Notes: if you follow me you may have noticed i havent posted in a while- this is bc i spend all my time playing ffxiv instead of setting aside determined amounts of time to spend on writing/drawing and i have a bunch of artist alleys coming up that im ill prepared for and im terrible at budgeting UH YEP bad excuse but WHAT CAN YA DO here we are

(ive also set up a ko-fi account if you want to give drop me some tippy tips if u enjoy the word things i do) ((no pressure tho))

"Bigfoot."

Hopper leaned back in his chair; let it creak and groan under his weight until he knew it was at its limit, and then pushed it a little more. He studied the no-nonsense expression on the hunter before him, and intrinsically knew that the man was speaking truth.

"Bigfoot," the old man said again, speaking a little sterner than he had before once he recognized Hopper's amiable expression of disbelief. "I seen't him out in the woods just the other day."

The aging man had lumbered into the police station almost immediately after Hopper came in, bundled in some worn hunting gear that looked almost as old as he was. The deputies had offered to speak with him after hearing his initial claim, but they'd been refused when Callahan couldn't stop smirking. The old hunter had insisted on speaking with Hopper, who leaned forward now, taking the stress off of his chair to take a sip of the coffee Florence had brought in for him. He didn't look at the old man as he drank.

"So let me get this straight," Hopper began, setting his coffee aside to rub at his forehead, "you came in first thing in the morning worried about a missing friend of yours, but now you're telling me you're worried about Bigfoot."

"You know me, Jim," the hunter said, a slight hint of pleading desperation edging out of his voice. "You know I ain't some crazy old coot. I ain't seen Lamm in a long while, and yessir I'm worried 'bout him, but when I went out to his cabin to check on him I seen it: I seen Bigfoot!"

As incredulous as the claim was, Hopper believed him- not about it being Bigfoot, exactly, but he believed that the man had seen something out there in the woods, and it had the possibility of being that something he'd spent the last two weeks fruitlessly searching for.

Regardless, he didn't want to let the old hunter know he was taking him seriously. The last thing he needed was for his community to think he believed in this sort of nonsense, but people in town were going missing, and people he knew were getting hurt: if his only lead should turn up in the form of an old man believing he'd caught sight of an urban legend, then so be it. He'd follow it through, but he'd be subtle about it.

"You sure it wasn't just a trick of the light or something, Wes? You know your eyes aren't what they used to be," Hopper remarked casually, softening his voice to let him down easy. "And this isn't the first time Lamm's gone missing; you know he's one of those types of shut ins. Remember those weeks he was gone hunting 'vampires'? He's the kind of guy who lives in his own head more than he lives out here, he'll turn up again on his own time."

The hunter's lips twitched into a frown. "Alright, maybe Lamm is a little off kilter," he relented, averting his eyes for a second, "and maybe it weren't Bigfoot, but the tracks it left were huge 'n mighty, by God, and I ain't seen nothin' else like it before. If it weren't Bigfoot, then at the very least it had big feet, Jim, and I ain't never seen feet quite like 'em."

Interest piqued, Hopper became more attentive. "How's that?"

"Well, they was stretched out lookin', for one." The hunter paused, tilting his head slightly as he tried to recall the details of what he'd seen out in the woods. He held his hands up, spaced apart in an approximation of how long the prints he'd found had been. "Human lookin', almost, which is what had me thinkin' it coulda been Bigfoot. They weren't the tracks of somethin' native 'round here, and I only caught but the barest glimpse of it, but it was tall, Jim; taller'n you or I."

That sounded right; the prints he'd found and unsuccessfully tracked were, as the hunter said, 'huge 'n mighty' and matched the description of what he'd just been told. It didn't take an expert's opinion (though he had consulted one) to discern that the markings just weren't natural. Hopper set his mug of coffee aside and pulled out a notepad from one of his desk drawers. He uncapped a pen and held it to the page for a moment before writing down a few preliminary notes for himself on the top line.

The hunter cocked his head and leaned forward to look at what he was writing and said, "That don't look official."

"Because it's not; this one's just gonna be between us, alright?" Hopper said, looking up to meet Wesley's blue, watery eyes. He held the stare long enough to get his point across, waiting for a sign of affirmation before looking back to the notepad and pressing the tip of the pen to the paper. "Tell me where and when exactly you saw this 'Bigfoot' of yours."

The day was cold and grey at its start, with harsh, biting winds ushering in thick clouds that blocked out any hope of the sun ever making an appearance. Steve eyed the sky apprehensively as he made his way back to his car, wary of the way the clouds looked as though they might start dropping hail on him at a moment's notice. Billy feigned disinterest as Steve opened the rear passenger door and leaned in to shove the box of things he'd bought at the Hunting & Camping store into the backseat. Even with his vision obscured in part by the sunglasses he'd elected to wear, he didn't miss the strong look of annoyance that graced Steve's features when he came around to the driver's seat and entered the car with a pout.

"That guy give you a hard time or something?" Billy asked as Steve buckled in and put the BMW into reverse, turning in his seat to hastily jerk the car out of the parking lot. "Why do you look like someone shit in your cereal?"

Steve clicked his tongue. "He just kept asking what a 'kid like me' needed with a bunch of chains and rope and shit. My god, he just would not let it go, like he thought I was trying to build my own sex dungeon or something. Fucking annoying."

"You mean that's not what we're doing?" Billy asked, grinning a bit at the way Steve's face pinched up in disgust. "What'd you say?"

"I told him the truth; said it was to tie up a werewolf. 'It's a full moon tonight, y'know? Gotta tie 'em down or they go all crazy on you', I said to him, and you know what he said to me then?" Steve asked, speeding out of the little downtown shopping area Hawkins played host to and sounding every bit as gossipy as Carol did when she caught wind of a scandal.

"How the fuck would I?" Billy drawled, turning away from the conversation to watch the scenery pass by disinterestedly.

"He said, 'Damn fool kids will never learn'," Steve said, ignoring him. "'Damn fool kids will never learn', like, what the hell does that mean?"

Billy shrugged. "Who knows? As long as he accepted daddy's plastic then what does it matter?"

Steve clicked his tongue again in annoyance and rolled his eyes. "Fuck you."

Feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on, Billy declined to retort. They rode on in silence, the chains in the box Steve had bought clinking together softly in the backseat before the radio was finally turned on to mask the sound.

Regardless of whether or not Steve actually believed something was going to happen to Billy that night, he couldn't deny that the whole day leading up to that evening just felt… off. From meeting up with Billy earlier that afternoon to go by the camping store, to grabbing lunch together before heading over to the Henderson's house, it all felt wrong.

It was something Steve had difficulty pinpointing the origins of, but as they began work on clearing out enough space in the cellar for Billy to do whatever it was he thought he was going to do, he soon came to realize that the feeling of wrongness seemed to stem from Billy himself.

Few words could better describe Billy than 'annoying' or 'smart-mouthed', but he'd been uncharacteristically tight-lipped all day. He'd become a remarkably dull version of himself, and Steve wasn't sure quite how to handle that.

Usually one to argue and bite back at everything Steve said, when he'd begun dishing out instructions on how best to clear out some floor space in the cellar, Billy hadn't talked back to him a single time; merely lit a cigarette and blinked at him slowly, silently acknowledging what had been asked of him before getting on with it.

It was unsettling. Steve could almost say that he hated how submissive Billy was because of how used he'd gotten to the back-talk and smart-ass remarks Billy usually had ready for him, and though, yes, there were times he had wished for this kind of attitude from him, the silence and absolute subordination coupled with all of the other behavioral changes Billy was exhibiting were enough to set Steve on edge.

Billy kept tonguing the gaps in his teeth where they'd fallen out over the course of the week, and he never seemed to realize he wasn't alone. Sometimes he'd jump at the sound of Steve's voice, or shake his head and crease his brow in confusion when he turned around to see Steve moving stuff somewhere behind him, but arguably the worst part of it all was that he stank.

He'd tried to mask it with an overabundance of cologne that had nearly suffocated Steve when they began working in closer quarters, but buried beneath that was a hint of something that smelled awfully rotten. If he had to, Steve could liken it to the stench of the monster they'd encountered in the woods, but he chose not to, instead chalking it up to a severe case of nervous b.o. or something. The implications that the scents could be related bothered him too deeply to believe, and even then he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what the source of the smell was.

The stench of decay emanating from Billy's person was worrisome enough on its own, but with so much to do in order to get ready before sunset, Steve had a hard time figuring out where to primarily apply his focus: there were simply too many things going on for him to worry about one thing more than another.

The giant hole in the wall that Dart made to tunnel out of the cellar was his immediate concern, but Dustin had done a good job of hiding it from his mother by placing a tall shelf in front of it, essentially blocking it off. That didn't mean it wasn't entirely inaccessible, but Steve wasn't sure what more he could do about it. In all honesty, he'd forgotten about it until he'd tried to move the shelf aside and then found himself peeking into the eerie tunnel. He'd knocked over several things in his haste to put the shelf back in place, but Billy hadn't seemed to notice it, and if he didn't, maybe he wouldn't think to use it if- or when- he lost himself to whatever supernatural effects he was experiencing.

"Big if, though," Steve muttered aloud to himself. Turning away from the shelf, he looked over to where Billy was inspecting some old power tools, turning a nail gun over in his hands before setting it back in the box he'd pulled it out of. "So, are we good or what? This baby-proofed enough for you?" Steve asked, startling Billy out of whatever ruminations he'd been lost to.

Billy looked at Steve blankly, face impassive and emotionless. He frowned, and then looked around himself as though he'd forgotten where he was. When he spoke, his voice was monotone and devoid of his usual arrogance as he said, "I don't know, Harrington; is it?"

"You tell me, man, this was your idea." Steve watched as Billy returned his focus on the box of tools he'd originally been rummaging through. Picking up a hammer, Billy balanced its weight in his hands before gripping the handle tightly. Steve distrusted the look in Billy's eye as he held it. "What are you, a child? Quit rifling through their shit, put it back," he said.

Billy didn't reply or even acknowledge that he'd heard him. Ignoring Steve's demand, he stepped up to the abandoned work bench to splay his left hand out over the wood and lifted the ballpeen up.

"What the fuck are you doing? Put it down," Steve said again, his voice rising slightly in pitch when he understood what Billy was doing. He started towards him in an effort to stop him, but halted when the hammer was brought crashing down.

It missed his hand, but the force of the impact splintered the wooden table's surface. Steve gaped as Billy turned around, a cocky little smile turning up his lips.

"Someone could get hurt real bad down here if they weren't careful, huh, Harrington?" he said, a fierceness that Steve hated to admit he'd missed charging his voice. "But we've been real careful cleaning this shithole out, haven't we, pally?"

"You sick piece of shit, give me that," Steve snapped, snatching the hammer away from Billy's pliant grip. "Fuck you, Hargrove; you could've just said you wanted to move this shit out of here."

"Had you pegged as being more of a visual learner," Billy sneered as Steve threw the hammer back into the box of tools. "Your concern was touching, though, really."

"You're the one who came asking me for help, fuckface. Begged me, almost, if I'm remembering right. 'Oh, Steve, help me, I'm so scared of fake movie monsters!'"

Steve hadn't meant to rise to the taunt, but Billy's insufferable attitude had him stooping to his level as he hoisted the hefty box of tools in his arms and lugged them over to the stairway. Billy laughed dryly at Steve's mocking tone.

"We both wish that fucking thing had been fake," he said as Steve placed the box on the ground at the foot of the stairs beside the box of supplies he'd bought earlier. They were both quiet for a moment, their attempt at a conversation dying as quickly as it had been brought on.

"Only one thing left to do then," Steve said morosely.

Billy blinked and turned to face the stairway, eyes rising slowly up to where the cellar doors were propped open wide. Steve felt the guilt of having to lock him in prematurely and had to remind himself that he wanted to be locked in.

"Better hop to it then, Harrington," Billy said lowly, lips curling back into a familiar grin, but without all his teeth in place to flesh it out, Steve found the display to be more unsettling than annoying. "Let's get this sex dungeon set up."

Steve grimaced. "Not even in your wildest dreams, Hargrove."

"Nothing's off the table in my dreams, pretty boy." Billy breathed out a small laugh at the disgusted look on Steve's face, but the grin he'd been displaying slowly fell away. "Is it getting dark yet?"

"Uh, kind of, but the sun hasn't set yet," Steve replied, stepping up into the stairwell to check the status of the sky. It was as dull and grey as it had been all day, the overcast weather acting as a harbinger for the snowfall the local meteorologist had foretold was coming. "If you took off those fucking sunglasses you'd be able to tell."

"These are for your benefit as much as mine," Billy snapped, frowning suddenly.

"Yeah, okay, whatever that means," Steve said dismissively as he began to fish out the cords of rope from the box, letting them spool out onto the ground before gathering them into his hands. "How do you uh, how do you want to do this?"

"Aw, is this kitten's first time tying someone up?" Billy purred, not moving from where he stood in the middle of the cellar, directly under the light. "Who knew 'King' Steve's favourite flavor was vanilla."

Steve rolled his eyes as he brought the ropes over, wrinkling his nose at the mixed smell of rot and cologne that got stronger with proximity. "I've dated girls kinkier than you'd know what to do with," he retorted as he gestured for Billy to hold out his hands.

"Oh please," Billy said with a snort, "there are no kinky girls in Hawkins or I would've found them by now."

"You're obviously not looking hard enough," Steve muttered in response, gesturing again for Billy to hold out his hands.

Shrugging out of his leather jacket and tossing it over the work table he'd splintered, Billy held his hands up obediently and watched stoically as Steve wound the rope around his wrists, binding his hands together roughly.

"What's should our safe word be?" Billy teased, smirking as Steve wound another, longer length of rope over the original knot.

"There is no safe word because this isn't a sex thing!" Steve insisted angrily.

Flustered, he sighed irritably as he wound the long part of the rope around Billy's waist, hating how close he had to get in order to make sure the rope was tight enough, though Billy seemed to be enjoying how close he'd gotten. He kept shifting his weight around, trying, it seemed, to get Steve into a more compromising position. Annoyed, but determined to finish, Steve did his best to ignore Billy's constant movement and the disgusting, rotten musk that was wafting off of his person to finish tying him up.

"Why do you fucking stink so goddamn badly?" Steve finally asked with a scowl, repressing the urge to gag as he tied the ropes off into a clumsy knot. He stumbled away from Billy, reaching up to pinch his nostrils shut so he wouldn't have to smell the rot anymore, but the rancid scent seemed to have lodged itself deep into his nose. "You smell like a dead Calvin Klein model or something, holy shit, did you use a whole fucking bottle?"

The amusement Billy had held while taunting Steve left his face. His smirk shrunk into an awkward grimace as he looked away in embarrassment.

"I don't know, alright?" he admitted bitterly. "It doesn't matter how much I bathe, and between that and my eyes I have no idea what the fuck's going on with me."

"What about your eyes?" Steve asked hesitantly, unsure if he really wanted to know the reasoning behind why Billy had insisted on wearing sunglasses all day.

Billy faltered for a moment, hesitating briefly before reaching up and plucking the sunglasses off his face. With both hands bound together, he awkwardly folded the legs against the lenses and tucked them into the collar of his button up. He turned his gaze to Steve, who couldn't help but suck in a slight breath of surprise.

His eyes were so bloodshot they looked ready to start bleeding straight out of the sockets. There were hardly any whites left in the sclera to be seen as Billy winked at him, looking immensely uncomfortable at the way Steve was gaping openly at him.

"Do they- hurt? Or whatever?" Steve asked, unconsciously taking a few steps forward to get a better look. In the dim lighting of the basement, even the blues of Billy's eyes looked reddish.

"What's it to you if they do?" Billy snapped, suddenly irritable. He squared his jaw and looked away, unable to face the amount of concern Steve was showing him.

The worry Steve felt for the both of them in that moment grew stronger as he backed off, letting the matter of the changes in Billy's physicality drop, despite how alarming they were. "If I don't hear anything an hour after the sun goes down, I'll let you out," Steve said abruptly as he walked backwards towards the stairwell, grasping for the hand rail behind him blindly, unsure why he was so reluctant now to let Billy out of his sight. It was what they'd agreed upon earlier, and he said it meaning for it to sound reassuring, but the way Billy's lips twitched made it apparent he didn't interpret it that way.

Billy didn't respond.

"Well, uh, I guess that's it then," Steve said as he bent down, placing his box of chains atop the box of tools Billy had been messing around with before lifting them up together to carry them up and out of their man-made dungeon.

The cellar doors shrieked loudly as they were closed, a high pitched agony that erupted when the metal grinded against itself uncooperatively. Steve didn't mind that so much as he hated the sound the chains made as he wove them through the door handles, reminding him of what he was doing and who he was imprisoning as the steel rattled sharply against the doors. He winced at the commotion, but continued to loop them through the small door handles until no more could be fit between them. He tested their sturdiness by attempting to pull them open, and to his pleasure, they remained shut. The doors were secured; the cellar, as far as he was concerned, was now a suitable prison. All that was left of him now was to play the role of the jailor appropriately.

He stared down at his handiwork for a moment before the cold, blowing winds prompted him to seek shelter. Already a few snowflakes were fluttering out of the sky, flying into his cheeks as he turned away, re-gathering the box of tools in his arms and headed for the door Dustin promised he'd leave a key for.

Searching under the backdoor mat, Steve found the promised key, and true to the rest of Dustin's word, the entire home was empty, save for the cat that chirped a greeting for him from atop the kitchen counter. With a deep intake of breath Steve glanced at his watch, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him, wondering if he really was prepared for the worst. In the trunk of his car his bat waited for him, ready to be put to use just in case shit really did hit the fan, but he found himself questioning if he'd really be able to use it; bludgeoning monsters to death was one thing, but turning it on a boy he knew was only a monster figuratively was something else entirely.

For both his and Billy's sakes, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Shrugging out of his thick coat, Steve set it down beside him as he took a seat on the Henderson's couch. He glanced at his watch again, dismayed by the fact that time wasn't progressing as fast as he wished it was and sat in anxious worry about what the rest of the night might have in store.

But at least he was comfortable and warm.

The cellar was not.

It wasn't the cold that Billy minded, so much as it was the anticipation: when would the transformation start? Exactly at sundown? A little before? A little after? Would he actually end up transforming? And why the fuck did the word 'transform' make him so damn uncomfortable? The unknown factors surrounding his circumstances were almost worse than any of the physical symptoms he'd been experiencing as of late, and he'd been experiencing a lot.

Anxiety wasn't something Billy had a lot of experience with, but it was the only thing he could think of that explained why his heart had been beating oddly all day. It was running at a notably higher rate, as though he'd been playing basketball or working out extraneously, and brought on palpitations he wasn't used to dealing with at the elevated speed.

In short he felt terrible. His whole body ached like it was going through puberty again. Both his arms and legs were sore in ways that mimicked the aches that came with growing pains when he'd had them, but he couldn't understand why he would begin to hurt in that way again. He hadn't had the energy to work out in two days despite eating practically anything he could get his hands on, so the soreness in his limbs was unwarranted. Either his body was preparing itself for the coming night, or he was having an incredibly drawn-out heart attack.

Standing at the foot of the stairwell, Billy felt the cold permeating in through the closed opening and moved away to find a better spot to wait. He wanted rub his arms to bring some warmth into them, but couldn't with the way they were bound. Already the ropes were beginning to dig into his wrists, rubbing uncomfortably against his skin as he realized he wasn't actually that cold anyway, despite the frigid weather; his body temperature had been on a steady incline leading up to now, leaving him with a rosy complexion and a near constant fever, the long-term effects of which left him feeling severely disoriented.

He could barely remember meeting up at Steve's house only a few hours ago to carpool to his kid friend's house, riding with the windows down in spite of the severe wind-chill as they went into town to get lunch and buy rope. Even though they'd ridden together, he couldn't remember now if they'd actually talked about anything or not. All he could remember were the low tones of the radio and the resonating throbs of the wind as it swooped in through the open windows, rushing to fill the audial space between them. It was as though his mind had been steeped in a fog, and he couldn't accurately think through it: everything was clouded over, incomprehensible, like waking up the morning after a bender and being unable to remember everything he'd done the night before, but knowing all the same that he'd taken part in some memorable shit.

Would there be pain, he wondered, and would it come on as suddenly as it had to the character in the movie he'd made Steve watch? Even though 'American Werewolf' was just a movie, stories like that had to spawn from some sort of truth, didn't they?

The dim little lightbulb that hung overhead flickered briefly, drawing Billy's attention to it as he took a seat at the work table's bench, wishing his eyes weren't a dry and sore as they were.

Coming from above, he could hear the muffled sounds of a TV show permeating through the cellar's ceiling. He couldn't help but think ill of Steve in that moment, but if their situations had been reversed, he probably would have been doing the same thing; he couldn't fault Harrington for finding a way to pass the time, though he wished he had something similar to do for himself. There was nothing interesting to hold his attention, and time passed at a dreadfully slow rate.

Stretching out on the bench, he laid himself down slowly, mindful of which parts of his back hurt the most, and gazed up at the cement overhead disinterestedly. He listened to the muffled sounds of the distant television, trying to conjure an image in his mind that corresponded with what little dialogue he could hear, but the rapid beating of his heart overpowered the noises coming from the TV. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing in an attempt to lower his heart rate, but it just kept going, pounding in a determined rhythm that seemed to be quickening with each passing minute. A bead of sweat trickled down from his scalp and over his ear as he wondered if the tingling he felt in the tips of his fingers was because of the cold or from the ropes being tied too tight.

He flexed his fingers, opening and closing his hands into a fist to try and bring sensation back into his fingertips, but to no avail. They remained numb, and the cause of which eluded him.

Frowning, Billy stiffly sat up and began to pinch at his skin, belatedly realizing that the numbness was spreading slowly down the lengths of his fingers, a sensation that sent a chill running down the length of his spine.

"Oh," he said. "Oh shit."

The pain, when he finally did begin to feel it, started in his feet. There were still thirty minutes before the sun went down.

Billy licked his lips nervously as he tried to get his boots off, his numb fingers and bound hands fumbling uselessly with the laces as the pain centralized in his toes and grew in sudden intensity. He was no stranger to pain, but this was unlike anything he'd ever felt before: it was sharp and stabbing, with each throb of pain stemming from the bones in his toes, as though they were growing more pointed in an attempt to pierce their way through his skin as they elongated. He could feel them cracking; each joint slowly popping free of itself as the bones began to push themselves forward.

"Oh, shit," he repeated, and could hear the muffled sounds of a laugh track from whatever sitcom Steve had turned on upstairs roaring in delight as he struggled to finally pull his boots off.

The stabbing sensation didn't relent, even once his shoes lay discarded by his feet. He peeled away his socks with shaking hands and stared down at his toes.

They'd turned a bright, beet red and were bulging like they might burst apart, his skin bubbling up around toenails that were already starting to peel off. He couldn't help the whimper as he tentatively felt them, a pain like touching a freshly popped, skinless blister causing him to draw his fingers back.

It was real. It was happening.

Sweating freely now, he reached away from his feet to brush his dampened hair away from his forehead as sweat rolled down the sides of his face. He paused when he felt his hair pull free from his scalp, clinging to the back of his hand stubbornly. Billy stared at the loose, curly strands with a horrified expression and reached up with a shaking hand to grab more. When he pulled, a handful of his hair came away easily, eliciting another whimper from deep within his throat. Disgusted and frightened, he threw his hair away to the floor.

Breathing quickly, he hastily rubbed his hands free of the loose strands in a panic and tried to calm himself. His whole body trembled as he breathed in deeply through his nose, wondering if he should try to call out to Steve to alert him that the worst case scenario was indeed unfolding. Another laugh track from upstairs came through the ceiling as he felt a sharp, sudden stab of pain in his ribs, prompting him to gasp loudly and curl forward over himself. He could actually feel some part of his ribcage shifting inside his torso as he tucked his arms in to his sides. Any lingering thoughts of trying to remain calm left him as he transitioned from panic to full on fear.

He stood up not knowing what he was going to do, but regretted it instantly: as soon as he put weight on his foot, his ankle collapsed in on itself and brought him to the floor. A shout almost came out with his fall, but he managed to internalize the pain as he was used to doing and grit his teeth as his foot essentially broke itself in half.

The central part of his foot that arched snapped without warning. Billy swore loudly and reached for his foot instinctively, wanting to hold the break in place, but he couldn't bear the agony that came with the contact. Warm tears leaked from his eyes, and when his other lateral arch also split in half, he couldn't help but cry out.

From up above, the noises coming from the television ceased. Steve must have heard him and was listening for him now, trying to gauge whether or not he should intervene. Billy clenched his jaw tighter, determined to keep quiet, but gasped loudly when two of his molars gave out under the pressure, snapping to the side and coming loose of his gumline. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth as he spat the teeth out, shuddering uncontrollably when he felt the vertebrae in his spine begin to pop, one by one, pushing up against his skin that was quickly beginning to feel too tight.

Huffing in great breaths of air, he panted heavily as the bones of his tones finally pierced through his skin, causing most of the flesh surrounding them to burst open like little balloons. Blood splattered across the floor in gruesome, miniature arcs and Billy finally, finally became undone. He shrieked, unable to keep silent any longer as new appendages could be seen inside the flayed bits of bloody skin, slowly growing outward, already a part of him.

Warm tears of pain streaked down his face in thick lines as the skin of his feet continued to be ripped apart, making way for more muscle, new flesh. He wiped at his eyes helplessly and thought he could hear Steve's voice distantly calling out his name, asking if everything was alright.

He blinked, his vision blurred by the tears that would not clear away as he pulled himself over to the stairway.

Shaking wildly all over, Billy stretched out on the floor, realizing belatedly that the waistband of his jeans was growing tighter and tighter. Hissing sharply, he cursed himself for not having the foresight to undress himself as he hastily tried to undo his belt. A pain similar to the initial agony he'd felt in his toes was beginning to manifest itself in his fingers as both of his hands slowly began to turn red, swelling up under the bonds of the rope as he fumbled with the buckle, desperately trying to get it to come free.

"Fuck!" he shouted in frustration, his clothing growing ever tighter as his body continued to bloat. He felt like he was being pinched in half with his belt acting as an unneeded tourniquet. "Fuck! Fuck!"

"Hey! Talk to me Hargrove, what's going on?"

Steve's worried voice trilled down through the cellar doors as he continued vocalizing his frustrations. Billy felt an organ in his abdomen shift out of place before popping, prompting him to groan and curl in on himself before he threw up. His couldn't undo his belt as his vision began to darken.

"Hargrove!" Steve shouted, banging a fist against the steel door. "What the hell's going on? Talk to me!"

"Fuck you!" Billy screamed, unable to articulate anything else as he tried to rub the blackness out of his eyes, but the more he pressed his fingers to them, they more they began to hurt.

A pressure was building up behind them the more he rubbed, and as it increased, his vision grew ever darker. He kept blinking, over and over, feeling his eyes bulge out of their sockets and against his eyelids, trying now to keep his eyeballs in place. He was hyperventilating when he finally went blind, the pressure behind his eyes becoming intolerable eyes before it finally came too much, and his eyes popped free.

He felt them slide out onto over his checks and onto the floor, the slimy, blood-slick nerves leaving tracks of blood on his face as he became totally and completely blind.

"No," he whispered to himself, retching again on the floor as he scrambled across the cement, trying to find the stairs, unable to see. "No, no! This isn't real!"

Beyond the cellar doors, Steve had his ear pressed against the slight crack between the panels, desperately trying to understand what was going on. He wasn't sure what to make of the noises he was hearing, unable to determine if Billy was just trying to mess with him or if he was in actual distress.

"Hargrove," he said impatiently, turning his head to try and peak in through the crack to get a glimpse of what was going on, "you gotta start talking to me, man; what the hell's going on down there?"

"I'm fucking blind," he heard Billy shout, his voice rife with fear. "I can't see anything!"

His voice was shaking as he spoke, and Steve knew then that whatever was happening was legitimate; Billy wasn't one to openly show weakness.

"Okay, stay calm," Steve stammered, but he wasn't sure if that was actually sound advice or not. "It's- it's going to be okay, okay?"

Billy howled, and Steve understood that the pain that carried with his voice must have been terrible to get him to shriek like that. He licked his lips anxiously, not knowing what support he could possibly offer him. He continuously opened and shut his mouth, words of encouragement dying on his tongue before he could manage to speak them.

And then, all at once, the cacophony of agony ceased.

Steve couldn't hear anything over the rapid sound of his breathing for a moment before he finally spoke: "Hargrove? Is… are you okay?"

"Hurts." Billy's voice, quiet, strained, and barely audible over the sounds of things (flesh, fabric) slowly tearing, sounded disconcertingly like he was speaking with a throat full of water. It was gargling and grotesque; completely unlike the smooth, honeyed voice he'd become known for.

"Okay, what, uh, what… what hurts?" Steve whispered in response, fear quieting his previously urgent tone.

"Everything."

"Shit," Steve said to himself, backing away from the cellar door panels as the sounds of something large and heavy being knocked over made him jump. "Just, uh, stay calm," he said, though he wasn't sure if he was saying it to himself or Billy. From down below, he heard Billy groan loudly before going silent again.

Steve's heart was pounding as he hesitated, unsure of what to do. All the details of Billy's haphazardly concocted plan fled his mind as he tried to think back on what they'd agreed to do if something ended up happening, and his first instinct was to open the doors to go down and check on him. He looked at the chains wrapped tightly around the door handles and bit his lip before crouching down and pressing his eye to the crack.

The overhead light wasn't bright enough to reveal much, but at the base of the stairwell there was a small circle of illumination. Steve squinted, ignoring the cold of the steel as he pressed his face against the door, trying to see all that he could.

Blood stains. Torn bits of… something he couldn't quite make out. Dark masses on the stairwell; lots of evidence that pointed towards Billy transforming, but no trace of Billy himself.

"Hargrove," Steve whispered, and then shook his head to clear himself of his cowardice. "Hargrove," he said again, louder and with more emphasis, "dude, you have to talk me through what's happening down there."

He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as he waited for a reply. It was steadily growing darker as the sun slowly sank, making it all the harder to see into the cellar from the tiny slit. Frowning and unable to see anything, Steve turned his head and pressed his ear against the door. From somewhere in the depths of the cellar he could hear something breathing heavily. It was moving, too; he could hear something shuffling, moving around the floor space cautiously.

When he turned his head again to see through the crack, he caught a glimpse of... something large and hulking cross under the light, tall enough to set the lightbulb swinging. He couldn't help but suck in a sharp breath of air, his lungs and throat burning with the sting of the cold weather. The thing- whatever Billy had become- halted just outside the rim of light. Entranced, Steve found he couldn't move as it emitted a low, threatening growl that sounded more like a man impersonating a dog than an actual beast.

From his limited viewpoint, he couldn't see the way the muscles in its legs were tightening, or how it had begun to crouch; he didn't have time to react as it sprang forward, jumping up the stairs in a single leap to ram itself against the doors.

The chains held the doors shut, but the sudden impact smashed the metal against Steve's nose and soon all he could smell was blood as it drained out of his nostrils. He fell backwards, holding his nose as the Billy-creature growled again. Horrified, Steve could only sit in the snow and watch as the doors lurched forward when Billy rammed against them again, trying to escape. The second impact loosened the restraints, and all Steve could do in that moment was watch as they rattled uselessly in place, beginning to slip through the handles as they hadn't been properly locked into place.

Cursing to himself, staggered to his feet and rushed to grab the chains, but as Billy threw his body against the doors again it soon became obvious that even if the doors stayed shut, they were about to pop free of their hinges entirely. Blood dripped down over his lips and onto the metal panels as he tried to think of what he could possibly do to counteract the damage Billy had done. In an act of desperation, he threw himself against the steel and hoped that his added bodyweight would be enough to keep them in place.

If it managed to do anything, he couldn't tell. Almost immediately Billy was throwing himself against the doors again, nearly bucking Steve off.

"Stop!" Steve cried out, grasping for the chains to hold them in place. His fingers scrabbled against the cold steel links even as Billy let out another deep, throaty growl. With the doors as loose as they were, Steve was almost certain the doors wouldn't survive another body-slam. "Give it up, Hargrove!" Steve said again, desperately. "Just- fuck, Billy, stop!"

He braced himself for another impact, but it never came. Eyes closed in anticipation, Steve blinked them open and exhaled shakily, his fingers trembling as he let the chains go. Crystalized air puffed out in front of his face over and over as he rolled off the doors and stood up unsteadily, trying to wipe away the blood that had already frozen over and turned to crust on his upper lip. Somehow, miraculously, his pleading had worked, but before he could take comfort in that fact, other disturbing sounds began to creep back up to him from down below.

Things were being tossed around; the metallic clang of old paint cans being bounced off the floors and walls mixed with the hoarse, angry vocalizations of the creature Billy had become made his blood run colder than the air currently was. The noises Billy was making were at once both animalistic and human, deep and throaty and more akin to the bellows of a moose than a man or wolf.

Steve stood in front of the cellar doors not knowing what to do. Already their plan was falling apart, and he was quickly becoming aware of how vastly unprepared he was to handle the situation. He wanted the security of the bat in his trunk, but didn't trust himself to leave the doors unattended for the length of time it would take him to run back inside and grab his keys to get it, but he felt so weak without it.

Another loud, crashing noise came from within and Steve stilled, listening intently. Faintly, he could hear Billy snuffling about, and after the sun finally completely descended, all was quiet. His nose was throbbing as he stood attentively, but when nothing more could be heard, his stomach sank.

With trembling hands and his mind screaming at him to stop, he knelt by the doors and slowly unwound the chains from the handles. The fact that he couldn't hear anything coming from within didn't sit well with him; he had to make sure Billy was still down there.

He tried to shift the chains as quietly as possible, but with how nervous he was, he had a hard time keeping his hands steady. They rattled noisily against the door, grating on his already frazzled nerves as they slid free. Heart pounding madly, Steve carefully pulled the doors open and took the first step down into the cellar.

It was silent. He couldn't hear anything as he hesitantly took a second step, mentally berating himself over and over for being stupid enough to walk defenseless into the lion's mouth. He had no idea what Billy was capable of now, or if he'd even recognize him enough to (hopefully) have enough sense to not harm him. The lightbulb that dangled freely from the ceiling was swaying, throwing its light around erratically, showing him glimpses of the gore that lined the steps.

Eyes wide, Steve gagged at the sight of the flayed strips of bloodied skin that were splattered near everywhere. He had to avert his eyes as he took another step, making slow progress as he was careful not to step in any of the mess. At the bottom of the stairs he warily peered around the walls, hoping he'd only stuck his head into the lion's mouth figuratively. To his immediate relief, but long-term dismay, there was no trace of Billy to be seen in the space of the cellar.

Exhaling deeply, Steve tried to even out his breathing as he came to stand in the middle of the room, looking around to assess the damage. As the swinging lightbulb steadied, he turned towards where the shelf that was hiding the tunnel had been and found it on the ground, knocked to its side and several feet away from where it had originally been positioned. His shoulders drooped at the realization of Billy's escape.

He went and stood before the opening of the tunnel and felt all hope of remedying the situation vanish. A numbness overtook him as he recognized his responsibilities of keeping Billy captive had changed; he was the only one who knew about Billy's circumstances, and he was the only one who could do anything about it now. Distantly, and much further away then he would've liked, he could hear the muted, labored sounds of Billy's breathing as he escaped confinement through the underground system.

The burden of his responsibilities threatened to overwhelm him in that instant, but instead of letting himself be overtaken by despair, Steve took a deep, steadying breath and rolled his shoulders back. He hesitated for only a minute before he took charge and ran in after him, disregarding his urgent need to turn back and get his bat out of the car. There was no time, he thought; no time to get a weapon, no time to get a flashlight. If Billy was now as the werewolf in the woods was, then he was capable of speeds greater than Steve could muster, and every second mattered. If he lost his trail now, then it would be lost to him entirely. There was no time; he had to go now or he wouldn't go at all.

Alone and unarmed Steve ran, chasing after Billy into the dark, cold tunnel, hoping he would be able to catch him in time, and dreading the repercussions that would come if he couldn't.

#harringrove #harringrove fic #billy hargrove/steve harrington #billy/steve #steve harrington #billy hargrove #werewolf!billy #slow burn #long fic #stranger things #stranger things fic

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unabashedhonesty · 6 years ago

Text

Random Guy Following Me At 4:00 AM

Okay, so I'd probably be doing Humanity, Fate, and Karma gross injustice altogether if I didn't share this: So, I typically work twelve-hour shifts at a nightclub nearby the Las Vegas Strip. My husband and I live on the far side of the valley, up near the mountains. Since he's a cancer survivor, his energy still isn't what it used to be, so he doesn't pick me up at 3-5 a.m. from work anymore; I get Lyfts home instead. Or, if a coworker is leaving work around the same time, I'll occasionally be fortunate enough to get a ride. Anyways, one night, after a particularly torturous shift due to absolutely ZERO money flow, I was given the option of leaving early. I debated it at first -- on the one hand, I had made absolutely no tip money that night (it was AVN weekend) and I needed to at least leave with ride money so that I could get home. On the other, I was exhausted, frustrated, stressed, and just wanted to be DONE. Then one of the ladies I work with offered to give me a ride home if I left right then. I agreed and went about my clocking-out process. (We have to get a signature from three managers and changed out of our work clothes and into our street clothes before we are allowed to clock out and leave, so it takes several minutes.) I tried to hurry along so as not to keep her waiting, but she said to take my time. Good timing, too, because we had lots of feature acts performing that night and every manager was running nonstop all night, so it was hard to nab them in good time. Twenty minutes later, I return to the locker room, change, and clock out -- only to discover that my coworker had left me behind. And, now that I was clocked out, I couldn't clock back in. I could find no one else to get a ride from. I hadn't made enough that night money to pay for one. I couldn't wait until my husband was awake enough to come pick me up; the club would be long closed by then -- and I would be forced to leave anyways. I had no choice but to walk the eleven miles back to my house. At 3:30 a.m. Sunrise wasn't until after 7:00, this time of year. The walk was going to be AT LEAST three hours. So, with earbuds in, keys in my fist, and a 25-pound work duffel bag on my back, I set out to get myself home. Now, at first, I hardly spared a second thought to my "going for a walk" regimen; it's a routine I've had engrained since I was old enough to be on my own. It's almost Pavlovian, I suppose, to do certain, specific things that I normally wouldn't even think about if I were out with a companion -- yet, even as I was doing my usual 360-degree-casual-glancing-around tick to discreetly survey my surroundings, occasionally pretending to adjust the earbud that I'd purposely damaged so that I could keep one ear open at all times, it had never occurred to me before that night just how normalized the real terror women face everyday is. And nothing spelled it out clearer than when, about five or six blocks from my workplace, I noticed a man walking about 50 yards behind me. I tried to think nothing of it, but it's not a major street we're on, so there aren't many people(witnesses) around. Not that I'm paranoid, or anything. But, my mom always said "trust your gut first, your heart second," so I played it cool and casually began singing a little louder. I continued my idle glances around and noticed the guy still hadn't changed course -- and he seemed to be getting closer. I started to sing even louder and off-key, throwing in a few unflattering dance moves while I was at it -- because my entire skin is tingling with anxiety at this point. Finally, I hit an intersection. Because of the direction I was going, I needed to cross either way, so I hit both crosswalk buttons and prayed one would activate before that guy caught up with me. The guy caught up with me, so I kept up my nervous dancing around and pretended to be so engrossed in my music that I wasn't paying attention to anything around me. I readjusted my keys in my fist without really thinking about it. When at last the walk signal flashed, I started trotting as casually as I could. One of my earbuds had fallen out, so I was just putting it back when I suddenly heard a voice next to me, "So, you wear your sunglasses at night, too?" I glanced up and pretended to not really hear him, still adjusting my earbud. But, out of professional reflex from being in the food/bar service industry for so many years, I couldn't stop the, "I beg your pardon? Could you repeat that?" from leaving my mouth. But then I began to process the man now walking alongside me: His voice and tone was light, silky, and a little in the high register. His stride was long, laid back, leading with the feet -- akin to the way flamboyant men carry themselves. He was tall and appeared around his early thirties, with a full, trimmed beard. He was also sporting a pair of fabulous sunglasses that John Lennon would have been jealous of. I suddenly began to relax. Finally returning the friendly smile aimed my way, I chuckled and explained that, yes, I wear slightly tinted glasses because light gives me headaches. The next thing I know, I'm wrapped up in a surprisingly pleasant conversation with a random stranger as if we'd been lifelong friends. Then, he catches me off guard by eventually saying, "You know, when I saw you walking earlier, and you kept turning around, I was thinking, 'Oh, my god, this girl is probably so terrified right now. How do I make myself not-scary?'" Now, he laughed to dispel the tension -- and I laughed as well -- but then we began discussing the very real danger we were both so acutely aware of that we had to politely laugh about it. Let me say that again: THE VERY REAL DANGER WE WERE BOTH SO ACUTELY AWARE OF THAT WE HAD TO POLITELY LAUGH ABOUT IT. Then, suddenly, we were sharing horror stories about getting jumped, assaulted, and/or attacked on the street -- about how we got away by shear guts, ingenuity, and luck. I told him about the pocket knife I'd lost years ago, when my car had broke down and I had to walk to the nearest gas station and was jumped by a man who wanted a quickie instead of a "no." I'd had my left hand in my pocket. When he grabbed me in a bearhug and started to pick me up, I produced the knife and proceeded to slam it into the man's kneecap before running as fast as I could. (Oh, and this was in broad daylight, on the side of a busy highway at 9:00 in the morning, by the way. Guess how many people pulled over to help me...???) This young man seemed fascinated -- but not surprised -- when I told him my routine every time before I go outside. Even as I explained it to him, it began to truly dawn on me the amount of wrongness about the whole thing. This young man acknowledged how frightening that must be; that, yes, even he's had to deal with harassment before, but never to the extreme that women do. He also commented on how he can't imagine living with that constant worry, always having to suspect everyone just to be sure. I couldn't express to him enough how breathtaking it is to finally talk to someone who GETS IT. I didn't have to break it down into simple terms and examples to explain just HOW different the everyday world is for different individuals. I nearly wept with relief that -- FINALLY -- I met somebody who actually understood. This young man ended up keeping me company until we reached his neighborhood. He apologized for having to leave me, but we said our farewells and he wished me a safe remainder of my journey. I thanked him once again and I continued on. Out of instinct and habit, I was still aware of his presence until I was out of range. Before that happened, however, I noticed him answer his phone as he was walking away. I faintly heard his voice as he answered it. It was not quite the same voice with which he spoke to me; it had become a bit flatter than the tenor he'd used earlier. I glanced through the bars bordering his neighborhood as he walked towards wherever he was headed. His stride had changed; it wasn't airy and flamboyant anymore, but wide and a little heavy. The only words I caught before I lost sight of him was, "No, I'll be right there. I just had to..." A lot if things clicked into place as I finished the final two hours of my walk: 1) Yes, I had been initially wary of the strange man who had been walking in my direction. 2) I immediately acted on those feelings in a way that I hoped would deter him from me and/or draw attention to myself from other people -- JUST because he was walking near me. 3) I immediately relaxed when I took note of specific characteristics this man exhibited -- which I later realized I subconsciously filed under NON-THREATENING. 4) This young man opted to keep me company the rest of his way home so that I wouldn't have to walk alone -- without ever bringing attention to that. 5) Never once did he ask me any personal questions nor did he ever comment on my appearance. 6) Although I was harassed/followed by three other people that night, none of them came about until that young man was no longer at my side. And last, but not least..... 7) That young man consciously acknowledged the reality of my situation, took it upon himself to safely see me as far as he could, and purposely altered his demeanor and behavior to put me at ease to do so. Yes, I relied heavily on stereotyping -- both as a preliminary for my own safety as well as a guide for how to asses and handle my circumstance. But that's what it took in order for me to be safe and for a kind stranger to help me feel safe while he provided a buffer. Everyone, what bothers you about this entire picture? How many things about it bother you? Worse yet, how many can relate with this story? I just want to give a shout out to this gentleman who was a personal hero to me this day. You've restored a bit of my faith in humanity. You've shown me that there are people out there who hear our cries and see our struggle -- whatever they may be. You've proven people can understand and be conscientious of others. You've reminded me that there truly are good and decent people who do the right or considerate thing just because that's what they do. I hereby dub thee Sir Real-Man. Thank you for your kindness and empathy.

#Faith in humanity #walking home after dark #normalized terror #I didn't realize until later just how've messed up it is #people need to know this happened #it's not that people can't get it #it's that most of them WON'T #hope is out there my fellow ladies

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caltropspress · 4 years ago

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Notes on AKAI SOLO’s Eleventh Wind

Rhythm in poetry need not be “smooth” or “musical” (since that word has a questionable meaning). Be cautious of these descriptions as a so-called “good ear.”

—“Manifesto” from Russell Atkins’ Juxtapositions

I try to become really liquid with the shit—not even liquid. I try to become formless.

—AKAI SOLO

Always the same thing. A drop of hope glimmers, then a sea of despair begins to rage, and always the pain, always the pain, always the anguish, always one and the same thing.

—Leo Tolstoy, The Death of Ivan Ilyich

I've been robbing motherfuckers since the slave ships.

—The Notorious B.I.G., “Gimme the Loot”

There’s an “unfinished” aesthetic (I mean it gently, fondly) to AKAI SOLO’s work. His rhymes often start in medias res. The listener needs to become oriented to what he’s spewing, but he barely allows you to catch your breath. For anyone who’s ever been thrown [au]topsy-turvy by an ocean’s wave, you can respect the power of the primordial soup flow. Each verse is a wipeout. It’s Ron Wilson’s relentless drums on the Surfaris’ 1963 “Wipe Out” and the Fat Boys’ rollicking 1987 version all at once—joy pulled from despair.

2. “…a sunken system”

What is flow? In AKAI’s case, it’s something abrupt—both a step-up and a step-to. Is it free-form? Is it automatic writing gone horribly wrong? Is it asemic writing? Is it a Ouija-like push of the pen across the page? A flower doodled on scrap paper? Is it AKAI’s language acquisition happening in real time—a babbling? It’s not an infantile flow, though. Mannish boy? Man-child? It sometimes sounds like lips smacking of Mississippi mud. Think of AKAI on Shrine’s “Parables” (which begins with the lapping of waves—not the babbling brook): he takes “a deep sea soak in plasma.” The structure and borders of AKAI’s bars are liquid (formless); his words wash over.

3. “Pondering of the painter in between strokes.” (An Unknown Infinite, “Concrete Slides”)

Who’s out of pocket? Geochemistry tells us small pockets of water pulsate deep below the Earth’s surface. I find AKAI to be offbeat in both senses of the word. He’s both outré and outer space. Antediluvian and FEMA flood recovery plan. His bars rupture the very notion of time, of meter. To rap along with AKAI is to have an out-of-body experience—our neuroscience skitters and we gain an astral perspective on what the physical mouth is doing. Sheldon Pearce has called AKAI’s verses “impressionistic.” Plugging into AKAI’s music is to induce the Stendhal syndrome—beholding the sublimity of Claude Monet’s Impression, Sunrise, but—more accurately—Calida Garcia Rawles’ Singularity, seeing as how AKAI keeps it hyper-real. He “signs” nearly all his songs—another painterly touch.

4. The Earth is a great place to visit, but I ain't stayin’. (J-Ro, The Alkaholiks)

AKAI SOLO is for the antisocial kid who quotes Bruce Lee under their yearbook photo: Empty your mind. Be formless, shapeless—like water. Water is everywhere on Eleventh Wind, even if the album title suggests other elemental forces. AKAI sometimes slurs, but not drunkenly—this isn’t some stumbling and staggering likwidation: it’s a reflection of your own grogginess, your own inertia from sleeping on his flow. There are oceans between J.M.W. Turner’s The Slave Ship and the “Big Pimpin’” of Jay-Z, but AKAI’s poetics bridge the two. He comes at us, off-kilter, aslant, like the uneasy and queasy cover art for O.G.C.’s Da Storm.

5. “…a ship came, seeking harbour, fleeing from torture & swords” (from Kamau Brathwaite’s “Noom”)

The content often defies logical reasoning. He spits non-sequiturs in a literal sense, in that he does not follow. He machetes his own path (cutlass, more likely). AKAI is Cappadonna with his words—his slang is editorial, and it floods similarly. Zilla Rocca has called Cappadonna’s work “a waterfall of energy and creativity.” The same, seriously, could be applied to AKAI SOLO. I’ll call it logorrhea—and I don’t mean that pejoratively. It’s the seasickness you stomach so you can see the sunset from hundreds of miles off land.

The songs on Eleventh Wind are essentially single verses. There’s no middle eight, only an interminable Middle Passage. And water is everywhere.

AKAI’s lineage traces to the same cove you’d find Mr. Complex and Saafir washed ashore. Like those predecessors, his un-rhymes and rhythm-driven bars beat against the rocks, ebbing just when you think he’s flowing. He’s an H2O proof MC. He’s Black hydropower, and, like the ancestors, AKAI continues to speak of rivers, of swerve of shore to bend of bay.

On “An Ode to the Isolated,” argov’s production sounds submerged, certifiably Cousteau. We’re immediately in the deep, and the beat platforms AKAI’s aqua-lung breath control. He’s “in a den of dissonance dissolving,” which puts language to what’s happening sonically here better than a critic ever could. AKAI is “overwhelmed by your deep blueness”—the vast blue sea. These are pandemic blues. The Covid-minded lyric, “Masks donned as requested,” doubles as the masculine trap to swallow pain, smothering emotion in gritty sand, while still forward-facing a street persona. AKAI has acknowledged Eleventh Wind was, in part, generated from a depressive state.

[Testimony of John Cranston, a sailor upon the Polly, describing a slave woman hoisted down to sea from the mainmast in a chair after being isolated for small pox, June 15, 1791]

Q: Did you not hear her speak or make any Noises when she was thrown over—or see her struggle? A: No—a Mask was ty’d round her mouth & Eyes that she could not, & it was done to prevent her making any Noise that the other Slaves might not hear, least they should rise. Q: Do you recollect to hear the Capt. say any thing after the scene was ended? A: All he said was he was sorry he had lost so good a Chair. Q: Did any person endeavour to prevent him throwing her [over]board? A: No.

“Tetsuo” draws on Tsukamoto’s trilogy of cyberpunk perversity. How AKAI could feel “washed before the water touch the skin” is beyond me, as the skin crawls with maggots. The penetration of metal rods, but no tetanus—no lockjaw. Only body horror flow. He’s sketching futures—and all of them are nightmarish: “Surrounded by a blanket of ashes, / We all fall down like that one song said we would.” AKAI vaguely alludes to a plague rhyme of yore. And the uncertainties we’re living with come through even in his drafts, as the liner notes on PTP’s cassette release of the album provide a set of lyric options: “Surrounded by a sea/bed/blanket…” Choose your own misadventure.

9. From at least the sixteenth century onward, a major part of the ocean engineering of ships has been to...minimize the wake. But the effect of trauma is the opposite. It is to make maximal the wake. (Christina Sharpe, In the Wake: On Blackness and Being)

On “Tainted,” AKAI—young as he may be—identifies the foolishness of some of his peers: “N----s wanna toast on a slave ship / …sinking with the drink.” AKAI suggests they’re still on the slave ship, ignorant of the fact. When he goes off on a paranoid tangent full of what seem to be elementary internal rhymes, it’s anything but: “hitting a lark / in the dark / in the park / skill a shark / or a narc / ill a mark on his job every time.” This litany of monosyllabic rhymes sounds an alarm.

10. “Even though the vessels differ, we’re all still sailing. / …navigation through suffering.”

“Still Sailing” acts as a centerpiece for the water imagery on Eleventh Wind. It’s also a self-assessment of his style. The “wavelength irregular” puns on wave and owns the irregular flow; “my groove goofy,” he admits. His vulnerability is stunning, refreshing: “I was ensuring my work was worth something.” Such vulnerability is liquid, is flux, reflects reality:

In a dirt sea, all I am is a seed Reaching for what I mean to Rooted in what it is, galvanized by what can be.

Even AKAI’s other nature metaphors—like earth (be it rare-earth or “Real Earth,” no matter), seeds, and roots—are built on water ones (“dirt sea”). This is Wallace Stevens-level abstraction. “Flowing like katanas of grass / Landscaping through with blazing sound waves” does it again (“flowing”/“grass”). And, of course, the mention of flowing katanas invites a Liquid Swords comparison. With the even cuts of AKAI’s sharp lyrics, it’s warranted.

I want to feel like Vast Aire, “like Moses with a staff that parts the Red Sea,” but it’s not so simple. Meaning is slippery on the album—hard to get your footing, your sea legs. Listeners are pulled into rip-tides and torn asunder, repeatedly. AKAI’s songs are raw—not in a hardcore way—in a work-in-progress sense, the way some of the most sincere songs humans have recorded are at times unfinished ones. Like Dylan’s “Santa Fe,” for instance, where the words converge into a slurry.

11. “Your water heavier than it’s supposed to be and they know that.”

On “Candor,” AKAI speaks on the burden of family discord, a “dilemma with me and mines.” In venting, he channels and subverts LL Cool J: “Don’t call it a comeback / These are just preliminary steps / On your back like structural racism is.” Where LL foregrounded his pugnacious masculinity, masking his insecurities (all the while calling for his “Mama”), AKAI is more likely to allow his tears to rain down like a monsoon. Candor has its origins in kand, meaning “to shine.” AKAI’s words offer glimmers of clarity, of openness.

12. “Depression stirs me before the morning chirps.”

Eleventh Wind closes with “Nebula”—gases flow, dust is bathed in glowing starlight. Again, we’re persevering: “Sound like nil singing / Feeling like nebula unraveling / Feeling like infinity expanding.” The consecutive gerunds emphasize AKAI’s desperation. He’s nihilistic here, nonexistent (“nil”) and grasping for meaning. In that way, he’s not so different from us approaching his music. Whether people are hot or cold, irate or aloof, he turns to water for comfort: “When I want to feel the heat I don’t get from people, I resort to water. / When I want to feel the cold I know people for, I resort to water.” AKAI SOLO doesn’t just bless us, he christens us.

Images:

The Fat Boys & The Beach Boys, “Wipeout” music video (screen shot) | The Surfaris, “Wipe Out” 12” (Decca, 1963) | Fat Boys, “Wipeout!” 12” (Tin Pan Apple, 1987) | Jay-Z, “Big Pimpin’” music video (screen shot) | J.M.W. Turner, The Slave Ship (1840) | Originoo Gunn Clappaz, Da Storm cassette cover (Duck Down/Priority Records, 1996) | Claudia Garcia Rawles, Singularity (2018) | The Alkaholiks, Likwidation album cover (Loud, 1997) | James Neagle, Frontispiece for the Dying Negro (1793) | Screen shot from Tetsuo II: Body Hammer (Shinya Tsukamoto, 1992) | Hokusai, Feminine Wave (1845) | Carina Nebula, NASA, ESA, and the Hubble SM4 ERO Team | Claude Monet, Impression, Sunrise (1872)

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pedra-ring-blog · 6 years ago

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Taking a look at 'Us' By means of Black Id and Trump's America

movie 'Us' Should Be Watched Extra Than As soon as, Jordan Peele could have crafted the primary horror film to really dismantle the MAGA period and the way African-People match into it.

Claudette Barius/Common Studios We will’t escape us. They’re positioned across the fire, flickering mild and shadow obscuring their faces ever so barely, however not sufficient to masks the truth that these 4 figures, clad in crimson bodysuits, are doppelgangers of the Wilson household. “Who're you?” Adelaide (Lupita Nyong’o) asks. “We’re People,” her duplicate, Purple (Lupita Nyong’o), responds in a voice that feels like a wrestle in opposition to dying. Jordan Peele’s follow-up to his hit 2017 movie, Get Out, presents a fancy have a look at the duality of humanity, significantly that which exists inside ourselves (us) and the US (U.S.). Us, is extra bold and tougher to investigate than Peele’s first movie, although no much less of an amazing work. In consequence, there are a myriad of legitimate theories that may emerge from the movie. This feels by design, and absolutely Peele needs his viewers to depart with questions that result in their very own solutions. Us, like a lot of horror, is political. How we as people see our modern politics mirrored within the movie is the query, however I feel that it could be the primary horror movie of its form to really dismantle Trump’s America and the way we as individuals, particularly black individuals, match into it. Whereas Peele has acknowledged that this movie is not about race in a direct sense like Get Out, as a black viewer, I can’t assist however see that social horror mirrored by way of my very own blackness and that of the Wilson household. It can be crucial, as Peele has mentioned through the press circuit for the movie, to place black individuals as leads in a movie merely for the sake of recognizing their humanity and never due to how they are often utilized to interrupt down race relations. However our existence as black individuals, and the truth that we're by no means the default in terms of movie, particularly style movies, provides an extra layer of subtext, whether or not intentional or not, to the characterization and directorial impetus of Us. Collectively, the dual considerations of Trump’s America and black survival are mirrored again at one another in Us.

After the movie’s intro, which reminds us concerning the miles of deserted subway programs and tunnels beneath America, we see an advert for Palms Throughout America. This 1986 publicity occasion organized 6.5 million People, who donated ten {dollars} and held fingers in a series, in an effort to fight poverty, starvation and homelessness in America. It sounds nice, proper? It’s a reminder of an easier time when individuals may simply get alongside. However in fact, that notion is a fairy story. Palms Throughout America was met with controversy over the chosen route, which excluded New England, the higher Midwest, and Hawaii. Politicians and residents held protests in opposition to the motion, forming their very own separate hand holding actions in an effort to make their level about being People too. It’s key that this effort to alleviate American struggling was, not less than partly, overshadowed by this need to be seen and regarded part of American exceptionalism. Palms Throughout America and the following controversy it created is referenced in Purple’s plan. We see the occasion mirrored not solely in her motion to arrange the underground doppelgangers, the Tethered, above floor, however in her reference to the American fairy story too. When Purple tells Adelaide the story of her life, she begins with “As soon as upon a time…,” obscuring the normalcy of the Wilsons’ lives with the very fact their “fairy story” has left a household, a inhabitants, solely within the shadows. That has at all times been the story of recent America, a need to be higher or “Make America Nice Once more,” whereas ignoring the truth that it by no means was and that the nation was constructed on the backs of struggling and slaughtered individuals. However we wish to suppose by way of American innocence and heroism all the identical. Purple preys upon the notion of American innocence, of how even our greatest makes an attempt to dwell lives with out battle or in service of some subjective better good place us above others. Was the aim for Palms Throughout America really to point out our goodness fight poverty with out altering coverage, or was it an try to be seen and mirrored pretty much as good People? Both reply speaks to an id usual inside the notion of separate however equal, no matter what any regulation says.

Claudette Barius/Common StudiosLupita Nyong'o in Us. Rabbits and the Breeding Floor The title card for Us is superimposed over cages full of rabbits. These rabbits run free within the underground tunnel programs the place the Tethered have watched and waited. There are a few methods to contemplate these rabbits, past Peele’s personal admitted concern of the animals. The primary being that they're the preliminary take a look at outcomes of no matter means was used to create copies of individuals. That is the narrative reply, for which the dearth of a concrete rationalization, both scientific or supernatural, solely provides to movie’s basic eeriness. However the second reply is a thematic one. One of many first issues we consider once we think about rabbits is their breeding technique. They breed quickly, and if uncontrolled, give approach to overpopulation that may devastate an surroundings.

Field Workplace: Jordan Peele's 'Us' Scaring Up Enormous $67M-Plus U.S. Debut

Purple explains within the movie that the Tethered have been a failed try to regulate the people above, like puppets. One of the crucial environment friendly methods of making management amongst people is thru breeding. It’s the overrepresentation of a sure lineage, or overexpression of a shared ideally suited, that permits one group of individuals to supplant the opposite. “The place did all these individuals come from?” is a query requested in response to the most recent information of MAGA supporters. The reality is that they’ve at all times been right here, marinating of their united state of unrest and hatred of the opposite. America has created a breeding floor, by way of race, by way of class, and thru beliefs in-built concern, that has lengthy housed a inhabitants pushed by their darker impulses. For essentially the most half, these impulses have been saved beneath the floor and repressed. However they’ve by no means gone away. Now, beneath the group of leaders like Trump and his political supporters, this inhabitants has develop into uncaged. They vote. Peele has shunned offering too many concrete solutions concerning the nature of his movie. However with regards to the darker doppelgangers, he informed The Hollywood Reporter this week, “take into consideration this as form of the collective darkish facet of all of us and, that means, if you happen to’re trying on the issues of the world and pointing your finger out, then ask your self: 'What’s my half in it?'"

Our half in Trump’s election and the vocal MAGA supporters is an uncomfortable subject as a result of most well-intentioned and liberal-minded people don’t need to suppose they share a blame within the America we’re taking a look at now. We’ve discovered ethical safety in an “us versus them” mentality. However, I feel it’s essential to acknowledge that Trump’s base isn’t simply comprised of white supremacists or soulless people just like the Tethered consider themselves to be. It’s comprised of people that, like the reality of the Tethered, are the merchandise of their surroundings, and really feel that America has deserted them. They're a base made up of people who really feel that America has taken away their blue-collar jobs in factories and mines, and that the social rights that Democratic leaders and liberal voters have centered on have carried out nothing to assist their trigger in placing meals on the desk. This isn’t to say that one social justice is extra essential than the opposite, however slightly an examination of human considerations that at all times ends in one demographic being buried by the opposite. One thing to contemplate in terms of the Tethered or job-concerned MAGA supporters is that they're a dying class, not in dimension however in very actual phrases of survival, whose considerations are being utilized by a frontrunner who sees them as a method to an finish. For Trump, it’s ego and standing. Within the case of Purple, she’s attempting to get again to a place she as soon as had. Her group of the Tethered is in the end a egocentric aim, making her extra akin to the chief of a military than the chief of a motion.

Claudette Barius/Common StudiosWinston Duke and Shahadi Wright Joseph in Us. White Affluence and Double-Consciousness Peele’s resolution to make the Wilson household middle-class is purposeful. From the beginning, we see Gabe (Winston Duke) struggling together with his personal affluence. His measure of success is in relation to white success. He owns his blackness, sporting a sweatshirt proudly boasting Howard College, however he additionally needs to suit into the white sphere of affect. He buys a ship to point out up his rich white good friend Josh Tyler (Tim Heidecker) and his spouse Kitty (Elisabeth Moss), who discover methods to subtly jab on the Wilsons in a scene that mirrors the Armitage's occasion in Get Out. The argument may simply be made that the Tylers aren’t actually pals of the Wilsons, they usually use the Wilsons’ middle-class blackness as a approach to different themselves and relish of their upper-class whiteness. That is mirrored in a later scene wherein Kitty tells her husband that she sees somebody exterior. Josh jokes that it’s O.J. Simpson. That joke factors to a bigger social situation, one wherein a once-successful black man may be made right into a black boogeyman, and a drain on white security and peace of thoughts.

As a black man in America, Gabe is definitely conscious that he's one shadow faraway from being seen because the boogeyman, and should even hate the very fact. His son, Jason’s (Evan Alex) masks is a mirrored image of the truth that black males study that lesson at an early age. However Gabe is aware of that taking part in a task within the white success story by trying to reflect it's how he survives, and beneficial properties the required acceptance that permits him to maneuver freely in America above-ground, with out the specter of having to retreat again to touring secretly by Underground Railroad like his ancestors. Now greater than ever, inside the confines of Trump’s America, blackness is allowed to exist if we adjust to white guidelines, if we make it clear that we now have the identical objectives — the identical American Dream, that whereas so typically unattainable for us, lessens our otherness in white eyes. Gabe’s need to impress Josh alludes to W.E.B. Du Bois’ dialogue of double-consciousness, highlighted in his assortment of essays, The Souls of Black People (1903). In his essay titled “Of Our Religious Strivings,” Du Bois says, “the Negro is a form of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second sight on this American world- a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, however solely lets him see himself by way of the revelation of the opposite world. It's a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of at all times taking a look at one’s self by way of the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that appears on in amused contempt and pity.” Past Gabe’s must impress his white “pals,” double-consciousness can be a robust software in Adelaide’s case, a method to metal herself and her youngsters Zora (Shahadi Wright Jospeh) and Jason from the racism they may expertise. She will brace her household for the ache of being checked out in contempt, and whereas it doesn’t reduce the blow, it not less than doesn’t come as a shock. Maybe for this reason she fares higher at combatting her household’s doppelgangers than her husband. Adelaide succeeds by way of calculated ability and an consciousness of how she’s being seen, slightly than Gabe’s technique of survival by way of probability. Adelaide is more proficient at dealing with the duality of her personal nature, and never merely due to a repressed childhood reminiscence revealed within the movie’s finish. As Du Bois mentioned, “one ever feels his twoness, an American, a Negro, two souls, two ideas, two reconciled strivings; two warring beliefs in a single darkish physique, whose dogged power alone retains it from being torn asunder.” That dogged power so fittingly describes Adelaide and Purple. The double-consciousness of the Wilsons isn’t simply inside, however exterior and manifested within the type of their doppelgangers. Whereas everybody in Santa Cruz has a double, Purple and her household, comprised of Abraham, Umbrae and Pluto, lead the cost. Their blackness is their supply of power. Actually, Purple’s complete plot to take again the floor world displays Du Bois’ comment on his personal boyhood and fascination together with his personal place of otherness that saved him separate from the white world, “I bear in mind effectively when the shadow swept throughout me…I had thereafter no need to tear down that veil, to creep by way of. I held all past it in frequent contempt, and lived above it in a area of blue sky and nice wandering shadows.” Purple doesn’t need equality, as a result of she is aware of that the Tethered will at all times be separate, and separate however equal is a actuality she’d slightly not exist in. Reasonably, she needs to make use of her power to supplant her oppressor and take her place, a lot in the identical means that the doppelgangers in Peele’s reference level, The Twilight Zone episode “Mirror Picture” do. The movie leaves it open-ended as as to if or not the Tethered can succeed on this supplication and not using a chief. However no matter was uncaged can't be re-contained in its entirety, and regardless of Adelaide’s insistence, issues can’t return to regular. Us is the reflection of the breeding grounds for civil unrest that we’ve created that gave rise to the awful actuality of Trump’s presidency. It’s a actuality wherein the double consciousness of black people is each a curse and highly effective technique of survival that gives an intimate understanding that persons are at all times at warfare with themselves, because of striving to climb to the highest and witness these blue skies. However even when we attain it, the easy truth stays that our identities are mounted to this place and there’s no fairy story situation the place we are able to look out at this nation and its historical past and see greatness as an alternative of a shadow. We will’t escape U.S.

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zizekiandisciple-blog · 8 years ago

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“Ba-ba-ba.. dook-dook-dook…” and the Ethics of Traversing the Fantasy

I have probably watched horror movies counted by a number less than the total fingers I have with my two hands. Upon reading the reviews on Jennifer Kent’s Babadook, I decided to indulge myself in a genre I wasn’t quite used to. Many reviews stated it was the best horror film in a decade. I couldn’t resist.

To my great surprise, the Babadook not only was a splendid film, but contains intricately woven complex themes; of which a strong ethical and moral fibre shines through in the genre of the horror film. What was truly surprising was at the end, was that the terror I experienced while watching the film was gone by the end. I was left with a feeling of authentic catharsis after watching great art. In the aftermath there was no lingering anxiety, but a peace felt akin to being next to an ocean with calm waves. It is here that I wish to write about the profundity of its content.

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One of the popular and most interesting questions of the film is the question of the authenticity of the Babadook monster. Is the Babadook real? In what precise sense is the monster real? Before Amelia finds the Babadook book, her relationship with Samuel was tense. Her life as a working single mom was stressful, and furthermore, Samuel’s eccentric behaviour contributed to her anxiety. Samuel was an imaginative yet combative boy, a true challenge to a single parent. However, during this preliminary time, there isn’t anything out of the ordinary. It was simply a mother and an eccentric son taking on the daily grind of life.

After she finds and reads the disturbing Babadook book as a bed-time story, Samuel’s juvenile behaviour intensifies. His fear of the Babadook exaggerates his eccentricities to a violent threat to those around him: even to scary proclamations of murdering the monster. During the course of this phase, Amelia noticeably acts in both defending Samuel and reprimanding him repeatedly that the Babadook isn’t real. Samuel’s state leads him into a seizure of which he needed to be medicated. It was after Amelia’s one calm and quiet night of sleep when the Babadook gets stronger.

One of the recurring motifs of the movie is Amelia’s repeated insistence on the non-existence of the Babadook. Each denial marks the deeper progression of Amelia and Samuel’s into the Babadook’s world. Perhaps we can transpose lines of an analysis of Ridley Scott’s Alien to understand the Babadook monster:

“It is the Real at its purest: a semblance, something which on a strictly symbolic level does not exist at all but at the same time the only thing in the whole film which actually exists, the thing against which the whole reality is utterly defenceless.”[i]

The Babadook is an entity, of which, despite Amelia’s repeated denial still retains its power. Even in the deepest fits of Amelia’s insanity, she emphatically screams that the Babadook doesn’t exist. In the quote above, how do we read the statement as the Babadook monster is the only real thing that exists?

We can use Lacan’s notion of ‘The truth is structured like a fiction’ to understand why the Babadook’s existence per se is a paradox of something that doesn’t exist and the only thing that exists. The key thing to note here is that the Babadook is not a metaphor! It is a semblance; a fantasy in psychoanalytical terms, of which provides the coordinates for the subject to act and desire (to murder and abuse). It is not that the Babadook is Amelia’s grief, frustration and anxiety embodied, but the fiction which provides her the tools to sharpen these moods and provide the conditions of possible acts of abuse and murder. In other words, the Babadook is not her repressed truth ‘metaphorically embodied’, but the fiction that gives body to the way her truth can form in the world. Thus, the Babadook monster, as the only way the truth can manifest, is the only real substance. Without it, truth itself disappears without its fantasmatic support. The scariest scene for me was when Amelia found Samuel dead on the couch, only to wake up from her hallucination to a terrified Samuel holding the dog and realizing she was holding a knife… Let us not forget the important detail that this happened in front of the television: a key object in the film where we can see how Amelia, through fiction, attains the coordinates for her desire to murder.

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Samuel is spoken in many reviews as the problem child seen in the movie. However, I believe this statement is only (completely) true before the family encountered the book. Moreover, I think his insistence that the Babadook is real solidifies him as a Lacanian ethical subject par excellence. To understand why this is the case, let us look at a seemingly unrelated question of which the answer can be attained through analogy. Why was Socrates the wisest man of Athens? In a typical dialogue with Socrates, he usually doesn’t begin with skepticism, rejection or doubt. His standard approach is excitement and joy at finding someone who can explain to him what love, justice, piety, etc… is. His fundamental subjective position is that of someone who is already caught in transference. We should risk here the Lacanian ethic of ‘traversing the fantasy’ in understanding Socrates’ position of wisdom. Traversing the fantasy does not mean to let go of illusion or engage immediately in cynicism upon a conversation. Instead, it is the counter-intuitive notion that the more one acknowledges the fantasy, the more one is not subjected by its power. We have seen that Amelia’s opposite position of denial was a positive condition of the Babadook’s power. The great lesson of the film is a Lacanian one: the very person who says race doesn’t exist, or men and women are the same etc., are the ones who are most blinded by the efficacy of ideology’s structural power. Samuel then in his insistence that the Babadook exists is trying to accomplish this ethical step of traversing the fantasy. At the very end of the film, Samuel repeats statements that were once too brutal in the earlier parts of the film for Amelia (such as the death of the father), but were then transposed into the context of the normal goings-on in a peaceful family. This peace comes only on the condition that Amelia also traverses the fantasy and acknowledges the Babadook’s existence. Here I stand with my own personal question to the film: what does it look like in my(our) own life to traverse the fantasy?

[i] From Symptom to Sinthome p.86 in The Sublime Object of Ideology 1989

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#babadook #the babadook #jacques lacan #philosophy #Slavoj Zizek

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jacewilliams1 · 6 years ago

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737 MAX crashes raise questions about design, testing, certification – and training

It’s becoming more evident that the 737 MAX Lion Air and Ethiopian Airlines crashes implicate airplane design, flight testing, and certification. And regardless of how crew performance in these events is eventually adjudged, there’s a growing consensus that airline pilot training is an important issue that needs addressing.

Questions yet to be answered are how the 737 MAX 8 with such different handling characteristics got certified as just another 737 model and, whether during design, testing and certification, all failure modes were fully explored. Also why after more than two years in airline service didn’t the MCAS draw deep scrutiny because of its unusual malfunction pitching characteristics? How often did pilots resort to runaway stabilizer procedures to address such conditions? Hard to believe that, after all this time, a multitude of similar events wasn’t written up as post-flight discrepancies and flagged back to Boeing for a remedy.

The latest information is that the 737 MAX 8’s MCAS malfunctions cause much more pronounced pitch disruptions than the standard flight simulator runaway stabilizer scenarios. Yet, according to media reports, pilots on the previous flight before the Lion Air crash experienced irregular stabilizer activity and, after switching the stabilizer trim system off, trimmed manually and continued to destination.

There’s plenty of blame to go around with the Ethiopian Airlines crash.

But if the stabilizer was allowed to get very far out of trim, which is what appears to have occurred in the Ethiopian crash when stabilizer trim switches were re-engaged, air loads on the stabilizer might have been enough to prevent manual trimming. Old timer 707 and 727 pilots knew that in runaway stabilizer situations, hand cranking the stabilizer would be impossible if too much opposite force was simultaneously applied to the control wheel. The wheel had to be relaxed to unjam the stabilizer jackscrew. Findings are still preliminary.

First, a discussion about pilot training, which transcends even the last two 737 MAX accidents, then we’ll discuss airplane design. With airlines expanding around the world, staffing airline cockpits is a mounting challenge particularly in less developed countries. Airbus forecasts the need for more than a half million new airline pilots to accommodate airline growth and pilot retirements in the next 20 years. In a recent Aviation Week & Space Technology article, Airbus’s head of training, Michel Bigarre, expressed concern that the level of training and standards around the world needs to be reckoned with. According to the article, Airbus safety experts see “strange things in poor countries where air transport is growing fast and there’s suspiciously quick pilot qualification and fraudulent flight hour accounting.”

According to press reports, the Lion Air captain had about 5000 hours and the copilot had 6000. The Ethiopian Air Lines captain, according to the preliminary report, had 8122 and the copilot 361. That’s right, 361! But, hours in the seat are at best only a component of competence. Mastering flying basics academically and in the cockpit and building on that in more complex aircraft in a structured syllabus should be the minimum common denominator of every airline pilot. Hopefully, final accident reports will define how the crews performed and to what degree their experience weighed on events.

Airbus, to its credit, is the first major airliner manufacturer to acknowledge that new pilots coming to airlines, particularly in less developed areas of the world, do not necessarily have the basic competencies to operate their planes and that the burden to provide the training shouldn’t fall entirely on airlines. Accordingly, they’ve started affiliated ab-initio pilot training schools with about an 18-month ground school and flight syllabus focused on key pilot technical and behavioral skills. The first opened in Mexico last December; another is planned to open in May at the Airbus Flight Academy in France.

Military flight training programs use this approach, starting with a rigorous pre-admission exam and flight physical before entering the program. More than a half century ago when I went through naval flight training, the washout rate was about 30% for all reasons. It’s intense, compressed and demanding – and turns out young aviators with about 250 hours in 18 or so months who feel as comfortable flying upside down as right side up and can safely land a jet on an aircraft carrier.

As to how flight control design might have contributed to the two 737 MAX accidents, the conflicting philosophies of Boeing and Airbus are worth a discussion. Both manufacturers incorporate fly-by-wire (FBW) flight controls on their newest planes. The 737 MAX, a derivative of earlier 737s dating back more than 50 years, is the exception. It has the same basic analog direct control arrangement as earlier 737s except for the MCAS.

Boeing’s philosophy affords pilots full unrestricted control authority. There is a difference in control feel on Boeing FBW planes when limits are reached, but one has only to tug or push harder to go beyond those limits. Boeing acknowledges that pilots may not perform perfectly in those times when perfection is required. For example, on FBW planes like the 777, automation assists in engine failure emergencies with a thrust asymmetry compensation (TAC) system to automatically trim out yaw. Such a system would have prevented the 747SP high dive incident that will be discussed shortly.

But overall, Boeing’s logic is that engineers can’t anticipate all possible inflight irregularities and pilots need unrestricted ability to do what needs to be done, even if it exceeds basic transport certification design limits of -1g to +2.5g. A Boeing pilot could, if he or she wanted to, roll their plane 360 degrees. Done properly, it’s a perfectly safe 1g maneuver.

That’s exactly what happened at Seattle’s Boeing Field 64 years ago in front of Boeing’s chairman, Bill Allen, and a group of airline executives gathered to watch a fly by of the four-engine Dash 80 (precursor to the Boeing 707). To Allen’s horror, chief test pilot “Tex” Johnson came in low and fast pulling up into a shallow climb while gracefully rolling the Dash 80 360 degrees. Airline executives were impressed and awed at the Dash 80’s performance and maneuverability. The story passed down among airline executives is that Allen called Tex into his office and demanded to know: “What the hell were you doing up there?” Tex responded: “Selling planes!”

A more serious event occurred in 1985 which according to Boeing validates its design philosophy. A China Airlines 747SP en route from Taipei to Los Angeles cruising at FL410 had a number 4 engine failure accompanied by the autopilot disconnecting. The surprised crew failed to correct with left rudder and the plane rolled right, entering a steep dive. After descending over 30,000 feet in about 20 seconds, the captain was able to recover control at 9,500 feet.

During the high g recovery, horizontal stabilizer and elevator parts separated but enough of the stabilizer and elevators remained to permit the plane to divert and land safely at San Francisco Airport. Maximum vertical g’s were +4.8 at FL305 and +5.1 at FL 190! The NTSB concluded that the captain’s over-reliance on the autopilot following loss of the number 4 engine, and failure to monitor flight instruments, caused the loss of control and subsequent dive. Had the controls been flight envelope g-restricted, recovery wouldn’t have been possible.

Airbus takes an opposite view on flight control design, constraining maneuverability to structural (g) limits and aerodynamic stall limits. Lots of redundant flight control computers (FCC) do all the thinking and protect the plane’s normal flight envelope. For example, A330s and A340s have three primary flight control computers and two secondary computers, all dual channel, making a total of 10. They limit pitch to +30 and – 15 degrees and bank to 67 degrees (which equates to +2.5 g in level flight).

Single or multi computer failures are “voted out” by the remaining primary and secondary flight control computers. Computers control airplane response as a function of side stick direction, rate, g loading, and range of side stick movement. Airbus’s FBW FCC pitch and roll responses are uniform throughout the Airbus fleet from the A320 to the A380. There’s no need for something like the 737 MAX’s MCAS because flight control laws make pitch and roll response the same from model to model.

An A380 or A340 number 4 engine failure in cruise flight like the 1985 China Airlines 747SP event wouldn’t have progressed to a yaw-coupled rolling dive even if the pilots sat on their hands and watched. Thrust would have increased to maximum climb in an attempt to hold cruise speed while rudder trim automatically zeroed out yaw. If the plane was above its three-engine ceiling, speed would bleed off while the plane flew straight ahead in trim. If the pilots continued to sit on their hands rather than declaring an emergency and descending to a three-engine cruising level, speed would decrease to a minimum angle of attack value called Alpha Prot, at which point the autopilot would disconnect and the plane would descend at Alpha Prot angle of attack speed until reaching its three-engine service ceiling. Then, if pilots still didn’t react, it would level off and slowly climb as fuel burned off.

In an emergency requiring immediate and aggressive control response, such as avoiding a collision with an aircraft, or inadvertently flying toward rising terrain, maximum control deflection would yield a maximum airplane response up to the plane’s 2.5 g design maneuvering limit, without stalling. A pilot flying a non-envelope protected plane in similar circumstances would have to rely on experience to instantly decide how much control input was needed. Being unfamiliar with high g airliner maneuvering, he/she might not use all the plane’s available energy and control authority… or use too much and stall.

Just such an extreme event occurred December 20, 1995, when an American Airlines Boeing 757-200 en route from Miami to Cali, Colombia, struck a mountain while descending for landing. Multiple factors, from lack of ATC radar coverage to FMS navigational data irregularities, contributed to the plane being off course. Twelve seconds before impact, the plane’s ground proximity warning system activated. The crew responded immediately, pulling up steeply – intermittently activating the stick shaker – but forgot to retract the speed brakes. Impact occurred about 110 feet below the mountain top. Had the plane’s maximum energy been tapped and the speed brakes retracted, investigators believe the plane would have cleared the summit. With full back side stick, the Airbus FBW envelope protected system would have automatically retracted the speed brakes and pitched to maximum climb using the plane’s available energy.

But deficiencies in basic airmanship, over-reliance on automation, and just plain forgetting can flummox even the most creative FBW envelope protection systems. The June 1, 2009, Air France A330 crash into the Atlantic is an example. The Rio to Paris flight was cruising at FL 370 when it encountered icing in clouds that caused pitot tube icing which in turn resulted in erroneous airspeed indications and automatic disconnection of the autopilot. The captain was out of the cockpit, leaving two copilots in control.

The Airbus philosophy is quite different, including two side sticks that are not connected.

With the autopilot off, flight control computers reverted to what Airbus calls “alternate law” with pitch control computers providing neutral stability and the plane trimmed for 1 g level flight. Roll control is direct, meaning it’s just like an analog plane responding to side stick commands. In alternate law, the plane can be stalled.

Had the pilots been familiar with the plane’s cruise pitch attitude and thrust settings correlated with the plane flying level, they likely would have let well enough alone and pressed on flying manually. Instead, seeing high airspeed from the erroneous pitot system, the pilot pulled back hard on the side stick, pitching the plane up at 1.7 g until it stalled. It then descended quickly at about 15000 ft/min at low airspeed with engines spooled up at 100 % until impact.

In another case, on June 26, 1988, at Mulhouse-Habsheim Airport, France, a then-brand new A320 with an Air France captain at the controls crashed on a low level publicity flight demonstration. The plane had just been introduced to the public about a month earlier and this was a chance to show the plane to thousands of onlookers gathered at the airport. It came in low over the runway with thrust at idle and airspeed decreasing with the plane’s FBW system keeping the plane just above a stall.

What the captain apparently forgot was that the plane’s FBW low speed thrust protection cut out below 100 feet radio altitude in order to allow the plane to flare and make a normal idle thrust landing. As the end of the runway approached, the captain attempted to spool up the engines but they couldn’t accelerate fast enough. The plane continued ahead with engines accelerating through the 70% range and the FBW system keeping the A320 just above a stall, when, as a former test pilot put it, “The first bird strike occurred… but the bird was in its nest.” The A320 plowed straight ahead, wings level through the trees and crashed in flames.

Airbus’s FBW arrangement, artful as it is, has its quirks. For example, Airbus pilots can “help out” with “subtle assistance” on the side stick controls by giving a little nudge while the other pilot is flying but side sticks are not coupled! They move independently and if moved simultaneously their motions are algebraically summed. In such circumstances, a cockpit speaker loudly asserts “ DUAL INPUT” accompanied by illumination of glare shield lights. Such an action would be like differing parents simultaneously disciplining a child with the result that neither approach succeeds exactly as desired. Of course, it’s contrary to the way airliners are flown with strict protocols requiring pilots to announce who has the controls. But, on an Airbus, it’s important to know because a nudge on the controls by another pilot can be counter-productive.

Whether one control philosophy is better than the other is pretty much a wash in normal operations because cockpits are so highly automated and pilots do so little hand flying. My impression is that Boeing is moving more in the direction of Airbus to intervene with automation in emergencies, and that’s a good thing. It’s an ironic tragedy that the company advocating most for pilots being in ultimate control should have two loss-of-control accidents because an add-on automatic stall prevention system caused pilots to lose control.

The reality is that less experienced pilots are staffing cockpits today, especially in less developed countries, and well-designed automation to ameliorate inadequate or inconsistent pilot performance should make flying safer for everyone. The challenge for airline pilots is to keep hands-on flying skills sharp and not be dulled by automation. For airlines, it’s providing the ground school and simulator training so that pilots have the skills and a full understanding of their aircraft to safely fly the line. For manufacturers, it’s doing what needs to be done at every step of design, testing, and manufacturing so that passengers don’t have to anxiously ask what kind of plane they’re on. And also not nickel and diming airlines on cockpit warning systems.

The post 737 MAX crashes raise questions about design, testing, certification – and training appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2019/04/737-max-crashes-raise-questions-about-design-testing-certification-and-training/

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webart-studio · 6 years ago

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Do I Nonetheless Want a .com TLD For My Enterprise?

Selecting a site identify for your enterprise usually goes one thing like this:

1. After hours of brainstorming, you uncover the proper area identify solely to seek out out it was registered 20 years in the past.

2. After a couple of extra hours, you decide on one other selection solely to seek out out a fee of $50,000 was required.

3. After extra hours and extra iterations, you find yourself shopping for a .com area identify that you just don’t really feel nice about.

This usually occurs because of the restricted provide of top-level domains (TLDs) mixed with the advice that every one companies ought to select a .com or country-code TLD. However does having a typical area extension nonetheless matter? Ought to companies nonetheless purchase a .com area identify?

What’s a top-level area?

Earlier than digging into the professionals and cons of .coms vs. different TLDs, right here’s a short refresher on area identify terminology.

A top-level area or TLD is the final phase of a site identify. For instance, the commonest TLD is .com. Different in style TLDs embrace .gov, .web, .and .edu. There are additionally country-code top-level domains (ccTLDs) like .ca (Canada), .uk (United Kingdom), and .in (India).

One different notice is that top-level domains are generally known as area extensions or area endings. For brevity, I’ll name them TLDs going ahead. To study extra about different phrases like subdomains and second-level degree domains, take a look at our information on What’s a Area?

Per ICANN, there are at present 1,532 TLDs for companies to select from. That’s an nearly infinite variety of mixtures. However ought to companies use one which doesn’t finish with .com? Learn on to study extra in regards to the professionals and cons of non-dotcoms.

Do TLDs matter for website positioning?

One of the generally requested questions on new TLDs is whether or not they have an effect on website positioning. Right here’s a direct, 36-pixel sized quote from Google’s Information on Conventional vs. New Area Endings:

“Utilizing a brand new area ending won’t damage your search presence.”

This is sensible when you consider all of the other ways Google can analyze web page high quality like backlinks, content material evaluation, search metrics, site visitors metrics, and 200 different confirmed or theorized elements detailed by Backlinko. One other a lot easier method to affirm Google’s stance on new TLDs is to note that they personal and use many like https://abc.xyz/, https://docs.new, and https://domains.google.

In different phrases, .com domains don’t rank larger in search as a result of their TLD. Nonetheless, they could not directly rank larger as a result of Google’s desire for aged manufacturers.

An aged model is a web site or firm with an extended monitor document of high quality content material, frequent updates, and technical uptime. If most different elements are shut or equal, a web page on a longtime model will nearly all the time rank larger than a web page on a more recent, much less confirmed model. And seeing that .com domains nonetheless make up 46.8% of ranked TLD utilization per W3Techs, most aged manufacturers are more likely to be .coms.

So in case you’re trying to buy an present web site, a .com area identify would possibly not directly present extra search worth. Nonetheless, in case you’re shopping for a brand new area identify, the TLD you select won’t have an effect on your search rank.

Will a non-dotcom TLD assist or damage your organization’s model?

It is a very powerful, subjective query with three doubtless solutions:

1. A non-dotcom TLD will assist clients keep in mind your model and function a novel differentiator.

2. A non-dotcom TLD will make your model appear suspect and fewer respected.

3. Prospects gained’t discover your TLD or gained’t care about it.

Essentially the most frequent reply to your model in all probability relies on buyer demographics, site visitors sources, and different elements.

For instance, when you have a tech-savvy viewers, they’re in all probability extra more likely to be acquainted and cozy with a distinct TLD. Technical persons are steadily early adopters that perceive and gravitate towards new, rising traits. They may even be extra more likely to discover and care in regards to the TLD you select.

Alternatively, in case you’re promoting companies to companies in additional conventional industries, your viewers would possibly see a non-dotcom as questionable. Paul Graham, the co-founder of the startup accelerator and seed capital agency Y Combinator, believes that B2B companies, specifically, ought to favor a .com every time attainable.

As talked about in a Forbes article and accompanying tweet, Graham mentioned,

“All different issues being equal, .com domains are preferable, and issues are far more equal than folks connected to their present identify notice.” He additionally acknowledged that, “dot-com domains are in all probability extra essential for B2B, as a result of there you want the legitimacy.”

Lastly, it’s all the time attainable that your TLD gained’t have an effect on your model positively or negatively. In case your web site consists of a number of single-page, cellular site visitors, possibly your clients gained’t even discover what your area identify is. Total, as totally different TLDs turn out to be extra frequent, your clients will doubtless be equally comfy with no matter you select.

Will a brand new TLD value greater than a .com?

Hottest, new TLDs sometimes value about the identical as a .com. Per DomainNameStats, .xyz at present has a median value of $0.75, which is definitely lower than the common value of a .com. .membership additionally has a really reasonably priced common of $0.99. Most different choices have comparable, cheap costs however there are some exceptions.

In the event you’re trying to purchase a .make-up area identify, that can at present value you a median of $5,783.59. I suppose I’ll have to seek out one other place to share my in depth assortment of magnificence ideas. Different examples of pricey TLDs embrace .auto ($2,000), .wealthy ($1,596), .financial institution ($801), and .tickets ($389).

Costs may additionally change when it comes time to resume your area identify. The price of a site identify is primarily decided by the area registry (e.g., Verisign, Donuts, or Uniregistry) and the area registrar (e.g., Google Domains, Namecheap, or GoDaddy). The area registry first negotiates a value with ICANN, a non-profit that helps stop unfair value will increase. The area registrar then marks up that negotiated value a bit.

Worth raises throughout renewals are sometimes because of the area registrar. Some area registrars are infamous for bait and switching with a low, preliminary value that will increase upon auto-renewal. Questionable value will increase are one of many many causes that selecting a dependable, moral area registrar is essential.

Are there any dangers with a brand new TLD?

One small, nearly irrelevant danger is that some web sites or older software program gained’t be capable to acknowledge your URL is legitimate. For instance, if you create a social media publish that hyperlinks to your organization’s web site, Fb or Twitter acknowledges it’s a URL and is ready to convert it right into a clickable hyperlink. Some software program struggles to do that with newer TLDs.

This state of affairs is fairly uncommon as most main web sites shortly add assist for brand new TLDs, however you would possibly wish to register a .com area that redirects to your web site simply in case. You additionally would possibly wish to keep away from being an ultra-early adopter of future TLDs.

One other doubtless negligible danger is that clients can have a harder time discovering your web site once they manually sort in your area identify. This in all probability isn’t a giant deal as a result of most Web site visitors comes from both search, social, referrals, ads, or electronic mail.

A examine by Conductor utilizing 310 million web site visits discovered that solely 12-29% of net site visitors was really “direct” site visitors, and a a lot smaller share of that site visitors is folks typing your area identify into their browser.

As detailed by Moz, direct site visitors generally consists of quite a lot of eventualities like misattributed search site visitors, “darkish social” site visitors, non-web paperwork, and improper redirects. It additionally in all probability consists of some bot site visitors. A extra sensible estimate of precise direct site visitors might be anyplace from 0-5%.

Are there any oblique dangers with a brand new TLD?

One oblique danger of a brand new TLD is that some are solely accessible at a restricted variety of area registrars. Not solely might this result in the next value, however this would possibly make you extra susceptible to dropping your area identify in case you’re pressured to make use of an unreliable registrar.

It’s best to ideally attempt to buy a site identify from a registrar that you just imagine is moral and technically competent sufficient to take care of the safety of your area identify. An unreliable registrar can result in minor annoyances or main points like by accident transferring your area identify to hackers. A full vary of prospects is mentioned in a Stack Alternate thread.

With that mentioned, registrar horror tales are extraordinarily uncommon. Most prime registrars obtained their standing by offering moral, high quality service. However like all service supplier you do enterprise with, it is best to attempt to consider a site registrar’s competency, ethics, and different danger elements.

So ought to I nonetheless select a .com area for my enterprise?

As seen above, there’s a number of totally different questions to think about. Personally, I imagine that in case you’re proud of an accessible .com area identify, it is best to select that. However in case you’re not, it is best to strongly think about a distinct TLD.

In my view, having a model that you just imagine in is far more essential than deciding on a reputation as a result of an idea that’s shortly turning into out of date. Having a brand new TLD would possibly even make your model stand out.

In the event you agree and also you’re able to check out a brand new TLD, our information on How one can Select a Area Extension is a good place to start out.

source https://webart-studio.com/do-i-nonetheless-want-a-com-tld-for-my-enterprise/

#start up #entrepreneurs #new business #online marketing #wordpress websites #productivity #sm

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