#''and i feel like using those other labels and/or discarding the father-son one does MORE justice to their relationship AND its importance''

[incomingalbatross]

...Yeah, this could definitely be an Entire Literal Essay, actually. This is...not the short version, but it is the shortest I can manage.

So my main thought is that Friendship is the hardest form of love for our culture to see as distinct and important in its own right, and “found family” often (though not always) ends up as a sort of...middle ground between that point and the “Only Romance Is Important” idea. In a ship-dominated culture, Friendship is often reduced to Level 1 Romance, and—at least in some ways—a found-family-dominated fandom culture can end up reducing Friendship to Level 1 Family.

In practice, I think that....even when we know that we don’t see or want to see an important relationship as Romantic, a lot of us still struggle with the idea of Friendship by itself being equally valuable or important. So we equate “familial” with “important” (because family is undeniably as important as romance, right? Or at least it’s a lot easier to make that case—and also, there is the not-at-all-insignificant benefit that it marks your view of a relationship as CLEARLY platonic!), and then we try to fit every relationship we love into a clearly-labeled Family-Shaped Box, in order to affirm its importance and give it legitimacy that “just friendship” might not.

...which is, ironically, what shippers are sometimes doing when they seem to be putting every relationship they love into a Romance-Shaped Box for the same reason. That’s the highest-status box there is! Don’t you think this relationship deserves the highest Relationship Rank??

But Friendship—philia, using the Greek word (or at least using it as C. S. Lewis uses it—isn’t a weaker form or “first stage” of other loves. It’s its own form of love. Not lesser, but different. And if we keep following our instinct to “legitimize” it by conflating it with family/storge, we end up doing both kinds of love a disservice.

(And I am definitely including myself in the group of people with this instinct! There’s a fandom I’ve gotten into recently that—as not infrequently happens—has a central relationship you could easily consider “father-son,” “best friends,” or a mixture of the two, and there’s variance within the fandom. I personally view this relationship pretty much purely as “best friends” in my own interpretation, but...a few years ago, I would have been much closer to the “father-son” camp. And even though I’ve consciously changed my approach to character relationships over those last few years—mainly due to a variety of other fandom exposures over the past few years, and the pro-friendship opinions I‘ve formulated while thinking about them—I still have some of those pro-familial instincts I entered fandom with! They’re very much what I came here with, and even though I now like other approaches better, they’re still in my brain.)

The disservice to philia comes in the fact that we are still not celebrating it as a non-romantic, non-familial form of love in its own right—which stinks, because it’s great!! and important to humans!! and we should all appreciate how wonderful Friendship is without feeling like we have to turn it onto another kind of relationship once it passes some Importance Threshold. It’s also a less-important disservice to specific fictional relationships that we try to fit into a Family Box and maybe end up misrepresenting or oversimplifying in the process.

The disservice to storge comes in the fact that, with the label of “Family” so highly valued in itself, it tends to get overused and slapped on everything until it’s started to lose all distinctively familial meaning. It becomes harder for us to explore the depths and beauties of distinctively familial love when we’ve lost the verbal distinction between “relationships founded upon specifically familial roles, a strong shared background, and/or an unchosen yet unbreakable connection” (which is how I would identify storge relationships just off the top of my head) and the “found family” definition of “any group of people who love each other not-exclusively-romantically and aren’t related.”

Personally, I kinda miss alternative labels like TVTropes’ “True Companions” or “Platonic Life Partners.” Characters don’t need to be spouses or siblings to be important to each other. They can be solely and purely—though not “just!”—friends.

Thesis statement: The popularity of "found family" is a great thing, especially as it celebrates the importance of non-biological, non-romantic relationships. However, an overemphasis on this relationship model can lead us to undervaluing philia in favor of storge, in much the same way that an overemphasis on shipping can lead to undervaluing philia in favor of eros. It can also lead to an erasure of the differences between philia and storge, treating these two types of love as interchangeable instead of celebrating the distinctive aspects of each.

[hamliet]

I think your blog is one of the best out there. Maybe becuase of this , maybe because of your awesome takes... I find it hard being in the fandom. And I wanted to share this very unpopular opinion. The more it goes on the more I wonder : how did Enji turned into this? Most of all in fandom tends to justify touya because he’s the result of Enji’s abuse. However Enji isn’t a natural born abuser. I’ve read and saw plenty: he has not manias of control. He accept easily his wife to leave him (he wanted to build an house for her and since Shoto’s accident he hadn’t forced himself on her). He wanted an heir, true and he was more neglecting (which is a form of abuse). But many time were found evidences in studies neglecting parents have issues of their own. Which can be found in their original family and / or society (if no mental illnesses are implied).

This made me wonder. I love Japanese culture , novels and society. And one of the most recurrent theme , especially some decades ago, is the high pressure people are exposed. It was and sometimes still is a nichilist model in which you die or fly and sometime you can’t hope to Rise once again when you fail. For example the concept of “you need to go at a go prek to get in a good university and find a good job” is often depict and put to extreme in many media. This inspire even books in which families are up for anything to push their children and they are under great pressure. Since Enji seems a not so bad man per se, has no mental illnesses , the only thing left is his immense obsession that must come from something. And the fact that in society a man must be successful... I think here it is.

The fact he can’t express his feeling correctly for the most of MHA , neither he can’t read them at the point of being perceived “with no compassion at all” comply the stereotype of the father with way too high standard , this can’t come from nothing. It’s not hard unreasonable thinking he was most likely pressured as much when younger , and that broke him at some point (which is a recursive theme in many others novels). This doesn’t justify him, but it might explain why he ended up like this.

But while everyone seems to be able to... forgive dabi , justifying his doings becuase of how he was raised while condamning 100% Enji. However the lingering theme of my hero’s villains is that they aren’t a monster , they’re turned into one; and society played a huge role. I don’t stand for Enji’s actions (who would) but ultimately? If all villains were broken by society at some point (being AFO the only exception for now) why can’t be him too? Broken by a society that demands from heroes to be perfect , to never be weak, even through total desperation? Society even made a joke of all might who gave his life entirely and part of his organs for Japan. Rather than only condemning Enji for his doings , much like is doing with Dabi, the spotlight should be society again.

He did wrong. Terribly wrong. and now everyone is ready to crucify him. But how society taught him better ? How society perceive heroes as humans , how far they can be weak and fails and not be blamed? Like father , like son. Touya is the result of his family , I think it should be considerated Enji was the product of a corrupted society. Which never correct itself , never tries to change... they just discard heroes and villains alike just for not being “perfect”.

Hi! Aw, thank you for your kind words <3

So, I’ll break this down a bit, because I think this discussion needs a lot of nuance. I agree society affected Enji, but I don’t quite think that a victim of society is remotely comparable to being a victim of parental abuse.

To start with, I fundamentally disagree with the notion that abusers are born, and hence don’t buy that Enji is somehow different (or better) because he wasn’t born that way.

To note, I talking specifically about physical/emotional/spiritual domestic abuse, not about sexual abuse (and I don’t wanna talk about that because it’s not relevant here, so no one send me asks about it, thanks).

Abuse is a description of an action and its affects. I’ll quote @linkspooky’s meta on Hawks last week: abuser is not a bad word, it’s not just something that bad people do. It’s an unhealthy relationship dynamic that even good people, even sympathetic people can participate in. It’d be great if we could just do a genetic test and determine if someone is an abuser (actually it wouldn’t be great; it’d be dystopian and terrifying), but that’s not how people work.

However, “abuser” is seen as a bad word, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing (nuance/abuse is horrific and takes such a toll on people that I’m glad it is given serious weight in some respects, although imo it’s overemphasized in fandom places and underemphasized in real life) and I’m not getting into good/bad/pluses/minuses of linguistic connotations here.

Hence, I would actually categorize what Rei did to Shouto as abuse, and I do think the story indicates she was neglectful towards her other children. However, I have never labeled her an “abuser” because of the negative connotation as is clear she is not a repeat offender and Shouto doesn’t even blame her--he blames Enji, and I don’t think that’s an incorrect assessment either. It’s complicated. Abuse victims can be abusers at the same time as they are victims (ask many a kid of an abusive dad what their mom was like; at best if they didn’t intervene it’s usually neglectful and often people go no contact with both parents). People we love and care for can participate in abuse.

Mental illness is also complex in its relationship to abuse. Mentally ill people are far more likely to be victims of abuse than perpetrators, and  mental illness doesn’t make someone predisposed to being a bad person. Mental illness does affect how I see Rei’s actions, because she was clearly out of her mind at the moment she burned Shouto’s face; at the same time, mental illness doesn’t erase harm done even if the person can’t be held super culpable. Enji on the other hand was not mentally ill in the same way; he was able to think logically and separate right from wrong even within society (because society clearly still views beating your kids as bad).

It’s actually not really accurate to say that Endeavor didn’t try to control Rei and just let her go--he put her in the institution to keep her away from Shouto, which may have been motivated of course by trying to protect Shouto, but was more likely “trying to protect his masterpiece.” Rei instantly regretted what she had done; Enji didn’t show regret until after Kamino. Also, Shouto himself views it as taking their mother away, not as protecting him. In fact, he sees it as removing his protector and leaving him with just the abusive dad. Plus, Rei’s doctors probably wouldn’t have let him see her. So I absolutely do think Enji is a control freak.

For Enjii, there’s no indication of prior trauma besides just not getting what he wanted. But, as you say, I do think Enji was absolutely a product of society--culturally, though I’m not qualified to comment on that, and within the manga’s own framing of that culture. However, while Enji is a product of society, he is not framed with the child framing that is present around Touya; hence, why he’s not a victim in the same sense. He was an adult when he started doing bad things, capable of reason, as far as we know and there’s no indication this isn’t the case. He was ~20 when Dabi was born, so that means he was looking for a quirk marriage at the very latest by 19. That’s like starting your career as an administrative assistant and being pissed you’re not CEO like, a year after starting! That implies that he had a sense of entitlement at a very young age, entitled to the point of believing kids were not full people but instead extensions of himself to ignore, beat up, and cast aside as he pleased. Every aspect of Enji’s personality screams of toxic masculinity as well.

Also, almost every person who has ever done something wrong (and those who haven’t!) is a product of their environment as well as of their genetics, but I wouldn’t classify everyone as a victim--even though technically I suppose they would be, but the connotations are just not particularly fitting--and I wouldn’t call Enji one. Enji might be a product of society, but his kids are victims of a deliberate choice he had to be a terrible parent. Society sucks, but we don’t choose it and it doesn’t choose us in the same sense a parent chooses to treat their kids a particular way.  So, rather than saying Enji’s a victim of society, I think it’s more of society reaping what they’ve sown in terms of their #1 being revealed as a mass abuser; it’s karmic.

So to return to his character and Enji is also a representation of toxic masculinity--that is why for me personally, his crying this chapter  actually resonated. Like, I think it was well-framed in that his victims didn’t feel sorry for him and he cried before he knew they were coming, and while I get that people think he has no right to cry (as Rei and Natsuo said!). I see why people interpret that as manipulative, and while I absolutely think it was self-pitying, I also personally see it as human and realistic, and perhaps as a slight chipping away of the toxic masculinity that he embodies. We’ll see. I’m still no fan but that was the first moment in his redemption arc that struck me as sincere.

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

“Fine!” yelled Damian. “I quit!”

Bruce watched as the boy— his son— ripped the ‘R’ off his uniform, threw it to the ground, and slammed through the bunker door, out into the hallway. It was dramatic, in Bruce’s opinion, but Damian always was. The little time Bruce had spent with the boy had shown him that. 

Of course, all that time had been last year, before Darkseid’s Omega Beam sent Bruce back in time. His family thought he was dead. In his absence, Dick became Batman, but Bruce had expected that. He was proud of Dick: of his efforts as Batman and of the man he had become. 

He had not, however, expected Dick’s choice of Robin. 

Damian’s angry footsteps retreated down the hallway. Damian? Really? He was Bruce’s son, yes, but who was his mother? Who was his grandfather? He was a weapon created by the League of Assassins. 

A threat. Dick didn’t seem to think so. He swore the boy had changed, but after one mission together, Bruce wasn’t sure. Damian did not follow orders. He and Bruce did not work well together. He did not respect Bruce, and he made that very obvious.

And when presented with those facts, he stormed off. 

Bruce turned with a sigh to Dick, expecting sympathy; surely Dick was used to Damian’s tantrums by now. Instead, he found Dick sitting at the bunker table, hands over his eyes. Dick took a deep breath and dragged his fingers down his face. He finished by staring towards the heavens with his hands steepled under his chin, like he was praying for patience. 

“I need you,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “to fix that.”

“What?”

“Fix it,” Dick repeated, making eye contact. He was furious, Bruce realized— barely keeping his temper. There was fire in his eyes. “Find him. Apologize.” 

“For what? He ignored my instructions, and I—”

“Apologize,” Dick ground out, “for treating him like an enemy.”

“I don’t—”

“You do! And you’re wrong! You don’t know him, and you aren’t trying to! He’s Robin, and you’re going to get used to that, not take it away from him.”

“I don’t plan on taking anything—” Bruce began, but Dick cut him off again. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” He stood up from the table, walked across the bunker, and pulled a pair of files from a drawer. He slapped them onto the table, then marched out the door, yelling for Damian as he went.

“What are—?” Bruce tried to ask, but Dick was already gone. “Fine.” He pulled the first file from the stack and examined it for himself. 

It was an old file, the type Bruce used back when Batman was new, before everything went online. It was labeled “Dick Grayson.” Bruce opened it and read:

I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s difficult for me to admit that Dick and I aren’t connecting, but that is the reality of this situation. We have so much in common that I assumed I could help him. I assumed I knew how to handle this responsibility. I was wrong. Despite my best efforts, his condition has worsened since he came to the manor. Instead of the slow recovery I imagined, he seems to be moving in the opposite direction. 

I have to conclude that his regression is my fault. I do know what he’s going through; I can see the same emotions in his behavior that I remember feeling— that I still feel— after my own parents’ deaths. 

I should have predicted we would grieve differently. I found peace and motivation in solitude, and because I assumed he would do the same, I left him alone. I see now that it was a mistake. He doesn’t need solitude. He needs companionship and warmth. 

Unfortunately, he has me. Alfred assures me that I can learn to be a guardian, and I suppose Alfred would know. I am, however, aware of my own weaknesses. If this is possible, it won’t be easy.

I promised I would help him. I intend to keep that promise.

Bruce remembered this file. He took Dick’s discarded chair at the table and stared down at it, thinking that Dick was never supposed to see it. Then again, Bruce had been gone from the Batcave for a year. He shouldn’t be surprised.

The file was almost twenty years old— Bruce’s first thoughts on Dick Grayson, recently orphaned. He wrote the first entry two weeks after Dick arrived at Wayne Manor. 

If he dislikes the manor, read the second entry, he dislikes school even more: he looks relieved every time he comes home, and he changes out of his school clothes immediately. Obviously, he has negative associations with the place. It can’t be the work that bothers him. He doesn’t seem to mind homework, and he’s always interested in my investigations, even if they involve lab work or extensive research. He likes to learn.

Why then, does he dislike school? Several hypotheses: first, he does not enjoy being around other children. This seems unlikely. Dick enjoys people. He follows Alfred and me around the manor in a way that makes it clear that he prefers company. Second, the particular children at his school are unpleasant. Perhaps he is being bullied. This option also seems unlikely; Dick is more than capable of defending himself. I will, however, investigate to be certain. If he is being bullied, I will remedy that problem. 

I find my third hypothesis most persuasive. Because he has lived his entire life at Haly’s Circus, this is Dick’s first experience with school, and it reminds him of the changes in his life and the reason for that change. By association, school becomes emotionally difficult. That problem will be harder to remedy. 

The only solution is to associate school with something Dick enjoys. Maybe the theater? He did enjoy last week’s performance of Les Miserables. A school play would give him the chance to perform again, something his life now lacks. 

As far as I know, the school does not have a theater program for students Dick’s age. An anonymous donation should fix that gap. I can have Alfred suggest that Dick become involved— the idea will seem better coming from Alfred, a former performer himself. Maybe I can convince Alfred to direct the play, to give Dick the opportunity to work with someone he knows. The situation could also provide an outlet for Dick’s natural leadership skills. 

It’s as good a plan as any. I will initiate it first thing tomorrow morning. 

Bruce smiled at the memory of Dick at eight years old, center stage at the very first Gotham Elementary School play. Alfred still directed that play every year, and Bruce always went to watch. He had missed this year’s… 

Bruce scanned through accounts of Dick’s adventures as Robin, a table of notes on his closest friends, and a record of the Ainsworth incident— there had been a bully, but Theodore Ainsworth quickly learned his lesson. There was a list of things Dick liked paper clipped into the file, followed by a list of things Dick hated. Bruce flipped to the back to verify that the list of Dick’s triggers was still there. It was. 

His guitar string snapped today. The sound set him off. He hid in his bedroom closet for hours, inconsolable…

I thought he might enjoy Professor Miller’s lecture on corporate formation, but he did not. Alfred says young children do not find lectures interesting. He also says I was not an ordinary child, and therefore do not count. We went out for ice cream after the program, which Dick did seem to enjoy. Perhaps I should let him pick activities from now on… 

His friends are obsessed with the Batman. They  constantly argue over whether he exists. Dick is having another sleepover at the tower tonight, and he wants me to swing past the windows to prove that Batman is real. If I can find the time, I will. It will make him happy…

He came to Wayne Enterprises today and charmed the entire building. Maybe one day it can be his business…

He says he misses the circus. Haly’s in on international tour in Prague this week. We can fly out this evening…

He likes to travel. We can extend the trip to the rest of Europe if he wants to. Gotham City can last a few more days without us…

One page from a year in was spattered with tear marks:

…I love Dick more than I ever imagined possible…

Those were not Bruce’s tears on the page. Dick was never supposed to find that file, but he had— while he believed that Bruce was gone forever. Bruce felt like he had been punched in the chest imagining it. He did love Dick more than he ever imagined he could. The beginning had been hard. Bruce didn’t know how to raise a child. He didn’t know how to engage Dick, how to heal him, or how to have a family. He did now. 

He suspected that was Dick’s point. The second file was labeled “Damian Wayne,” and Bruce knew what his notes must look like in comparison: DNA results, a photograph, battle records, and a half page of personal observation. “Assassin. Attempted murderer. Al Ghul.” 

So why was the file so thick? Bruce opened it and found his own notes exactly as he expected them, followed by pages and pages in Dick’s handwriting. 

I don’t know what I’m doing either. All I know is that Bruce gave me a family after I lost everything. He gave me a chance to rebuild and to move on and to become something special. I’m going to do the same for Damian if it kills me.

I don’t know what he likes, but I guess I know what he hates: pretty much everything, including me. I know he wants Robin more than anything. He says it’s his birthright, and in a way, he’s right— not because he has Bruce’s DNA, but because his father is dead, and this is all he has left. Haven’t we all been there? All he wanted was a place by Bruce’s side. That isn’t possible anymore, but Robin is the closest thing I can give him. He needs it. If I’m going to be Batman…

He hates the city. I think he spent a lot of time outside while he was growing up? I’ll ask him…

He draws amazing maps and schematics, and while he draws, it almost looks like he’s happy. Should I get him art supplies? That sounds like something Bruce would do. I could leave them in his room without saying anything. That way he wouldn’t have to accept a gift…

It worked. He spent all day in his room drawing. He told us not to bother him, but he left a portrait of Alfred out in the kitchen. I think it was a thank you…

He hasn’t killed anyone since he started, but God it’s been a struggle. I don’t know whether to be horrified or proud of him for trying. I talked to Cass about it last night. She says she understands. I guess she would. I, on the other hand, can’t even imagine the hellhole they grew up in. What turns a child that cold? He won’t let his guard down. I’m guessing every time he did growing up, he got hit… in the metaphorical sense. I’m sure the literal was much worse. 

I don’t know how to show him that he’s safe with me… 

He got shot today rescuing Sasha. He can’t move from the waist down. Talia says she can take care of it. I don’t think I want to know how…

He’s back at the Tower, in a brace but moving fine. Thank God. I didn’t realize how scared I was of losing him until it almost happened…

Talia tried to force him to kill me. He wouldn’t do it. He broke her mind control to stop himself. He says she offered him a choice: come back to the League or be disowned forever. He says he made his choice, and it’s Robin. He wants to be better. He is so much better. I hope he knows how proud I am…

He loves the houseplants we bought him…

He held the baby for hours while we looked for her mother. I think I heard him singing to her…

He would have enjoyed those stupid lecture series Bruce used to drag me to. He reminds me of Bruce so much. I should tell him. He’ll want to know. It’s all he wants to be…

He saved the kids…

He helped her find her cat…

He cried when we found the body…

He has to know I love him, right? He has to know. In one year, I watched him learn how to love and how to be part of this family. Does he have work left? Sure. But the progress he made is incredible…

Now that we know Bruce is coming back, he’s terrified that he’ll have to leave. He says Bruce never accepted him before, so why would he now? I told him he has nothing to worry about. He earned his place. I’ll do whatever it takes to help him keep it…

Bruce winced at that one. Despite Dick’s uncertainty in the first entry, the file was full of lists: likes, dislikes, triggers, birthday presents, friends… There were drawings that must have come from Damian: Dick and Alfred laughing in the kitchen, birds on the Tower rooftop, Tim by the light of his laptop screen, bats in the Cave with tiny, labelled names, Cassandra and Stephanie grinning as they sparred. The drawings were beautiful. Damian was very talented. 

And, if Dick was to be believed, completely changed. That’s what his file said— both in Dick’s words and the actions he reported. Damian was a different person now. 

Bruce found Dick in the Tower penthouse, washing dishes. He switched off the water as Bruce approached. 

“Where is he?” Bruce asked.

“On the roof.”

“Will he… want to talk?" “I don’t know. Last I checked he was pretty upset.”

“I see.” 

Dick dropped a pile of dishes into the sink. “He’s a child.”

“I know.”

“He’s your child.”

“I… know.”

“He’s different now.”

“I see.”

“But even if he wasn’t, he would still deserve to be here. He will be here, Bruce. I’m not asking.”

“Understood. Batman.” 

Dick half-laughed at that one. “I meant to say,” he said, gesturing to the files in Bruce’s hand, “thank you.” 

Bruce nodded. 

“I mean it. I didn’t… realize how much effort you put into making me feel at home.”

“You needed me.”

“So does he. Put in the effort.”

Bruce nodded, then headed for the roof. 

*some portions of Damian’s file describe the events of Batman and Robin (v1)

*this fic is loosely based on a scene from Batman: the Return-- just the way I would have written it

Merry Christmas!

[nathanhsantos]

The Demarcation Line: Before and After Bitches Brew

On August 19th, 1969, the day after Jimi Hendrix’s legendary performance at Woodstock, Miles Davis entered Columbia Records Studio B and over 3 days recorded what would be named Bitches Brew. These sessions were mostly experimental—merely governed by occasional audio gestures, finger snaps, and a few rehearsed musical signals. The bulk of the music representing the project was spontaneously invented by carefully chosen musicians who were afforded complete liberty to react in the moment.  Some participants now admit that there were moments that they were unaware they were even being recorded.  

After these three days had ended and the musicians exited the studio, producer Teo Macero waded through all of the amorphous material and demonstrated his own creative virtuosity with a pioneering use of the studio effects and editing techniques by assembling it into the final product.  Once released on March 30th, 1970, it spread like wildfire becoming Davis’s first gold record, selling more than half a million copies.

But this financial success often is used to upstage the Pandora’s Box that it opened.  From the vantage point of fifty years later, we can plainly see the demarcation line that is represented by this bold project.  On one side are those who contend that progress must be embraced—technological advances allow vocabulary to expand, but at what cost? Does progress also mean that perhaps that which is then rendered obsolete ought to be discarded from conversation altogether? What of those who prefer to strive for preservation and precise, authentic emulation of past masters, do they deserve scorn for defending what may be outside of conventional definitions of their craft?   

This is the vigorous debate that continues to take place evidenced by the spirited conversation in 2009 by Davis sideman James Mtume and critic Stanley Crouch in a criticism of Ken Burns’s 2000 documentary series, Jazz (accused of giving post-1959 developments short shrift in favor of detailing the end of Louis Armstrong’s and Duke Ellington’s lives), and even the separation of the music into two separate channels on satellite radio: Real Jazz (and doesn’t that moniker clearly expose the controversy?) vs. Watercolors (a channel featuring music given the pejorative label, Smooth Jazz).  

Fortunately for Miles, unlike his fallen peers, he lived long beyond 1970 and provided his own commentary on the events of this revolutionary time in cultural history.  Embellished with a tone of narcissistic self-importance, Davis, in his 1990 autobiography appropriately titled Miles, The Autobiography, is not shy about details of his life, both laudable and reprehensible.  

He adamantly defends his race and his freedom at any cost, and enthusiastically acknowledges those figures enduring similar struggle without compromise of their integrity. He was born in 1924 and raised in East St. Louis as Miles Dewey Davis III, son of Miles Dewey Davis, Jr., a respected dentist who raised his son to view the world with Marcus Garvey–like suspicion. 

Dr. Davis would forever support his second of three children as his son ventured to New York to enroll then quit Juilliard School of Music to pursue an insecure gigging career with Bebop groups, acquire a debilitating heroin habit, and even endure the misadventures with women—Davis (the son) was already responsible for two children who, unlike their father, were never financially supported even after his successful life ended in 1991.

Miles describes the dynamic of the mid-1950s Civil Rights Era as a time that he also was finding his stride and becoming recognized along with others in his generation:

“When this group was getting all this critical acclaim, it seemed that there was a new mood coming into the country; a new feeling was growing among people, black and white.  Martin Luther King was leading that bus boycott down in Montgomery, Alabama, and all the black people were supporting him.  Marian Anderson became the first black person to sing at the Metropolitan Opera. Arthur Mitchell became the first black to dance with a major white dance company, the New York City Ballet.  Marlon Brando and James Dean were the new movie stars and they had this rebellious young image of the “angry young man” going for them.  Rebel Without a Cause was a big movie then. Black and white people were starting to get together and in the music world Uncle Tom images were on their way out. All of a sudden, everybody seemed to want anger, coolness, hipness, and real clean, mean sophistication. Now the “rebel” was in and with me being one at that time, I guess that helped make me a media star. Not to mention that I was young and good looking and dressed well too.” (Davis, 197-198)

The group that was drawing celebrities such as Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Dorothy Dandridge, Lena Horne, Sugar Ray Robinson, and Marlon Brando was his first remarkable Quintet featuring the tenor saxophonist John Coltrane. This group, just three years following King’s Montgomery Bus Boycott, recorded the album Kind of Blue, a masterpiece remaining the most important Jazz recording in history. This project was among the first to explore Modal composition:  the idea of improvising melody above an accompaniment of a static harmonic foundation.  The compositional approach was introduced to Davis and codified by theoretician George Russell in his Lydian Chromatic Concept of Tonal Organization in 1953. When turntablism emerged in the 1970s as a means of maintaining a static accompaniment to support the emcees and breakdancing, it was merely updating the textures created by Miles Davis and his contemporaries in 1959 whose experiments began paving the way for Hip-Hop.

[wildstrandsblog]

I am an Empath. I am an HSP.

I am an Empath. I am a Highly Sensitive Person. I live with Kundalini. If these words sound foreign to you, I can understand. I was in that same boat a year and a half ago, too, just after my thirty-seventh birthday. If someone had said these psychological terms, “Empath,” “Highly Sensitive Person,” “HSP,” or “Kundalini,” to me I might’ve said, “That’s interesting. What does that mean?” Now, I cannot afford to be so cavalier. Aside from my work as a wife and mother, my life revolves around understanding the meaning behind these words because the quality of my life and the life of my family depends on it.

I had no idea I experienced an aspect of my life so differently than others. I walked the same and talked the same as others, ate the same food producing the same amount of energy my body needed to keep running the same as others, but there was and is something inherently different in the way I received, or felt, information beyond the five senses normally attributed: sight, smell, sound, touch, and taste. This extra sense or ability I have is strongly rooted in the way I perceive the world and allows me to “sense” or “feel” the world beyond the physical with something we have all come to know as intuition.

What is intuition? I can tell you what it means to me. I came into it strongly in my mid-twenties when it guided me out of a mental health crisis that neither myself nor any family or friend around me knew. The year was 2005 when women still remained publicly silent about abuse and were threatened by being labeled “crazy.” I was stricken with a panic attack after an intense two-week study of my young life and the world around me. I was working to make sense of the injustice that had come to me as a little girl who had been sexually abused, and not just me but so many young girls and women who fall victim to sexual abuse repeatedly only to have had societal norms heavily suggest they remain silent. The pain I felt for all those who suffered silently, women in my family, women whom I never met, their stories lost to history, was unlike anything I had experienced before, falling to my knees, crying out in agony, and gripped by an intense energy as if in a night terror where the dreamer is half asleep and half awake and powerless to stop their intruders.

By the end of this self study turned compulsion where I only thought I was gathering information, I found myself laying on a couch, close to death, hooked to my father’s at-home blood pressure monitor registering my heartbeat at 45 beats per minute. I was unable to move out of a paralyzing fear that someone or something was going to take me. What eventually released me from the psychological torment was prayer.

After having gone through the toughest of the psychological battles, I scheduled a visit to see my family doctor a few days later, trying to seek an answer from the medical community when others had no answer and facing my fear that I would be diagnosed with insanity. The doctor ended the exam saying, “Everything checks out. You look great. I don’t know what you experienced but maybe you hold the key to unlocking people’s brains,” said rather sarcastically though it stuck with me. There was no referral to see a psychologist or any type of counseling, and loved ones encouraged me with a lack of wisdom saying, “Well, you can’t be crazy if you think you’re crazy. Only people who think they’re not crazy are the crazy ones.” I did nothing more to pursue the mystery of what caused a low level of psychosis, frankly because all my energy was now devoted to acclimating myself back from this strange, new world I came into as if I were a child again, having been reborn into something just as real, if not more, as the world around me.

The event itself I never spoke on much again, tucking it away as something others would see as strange and largely discomforting, resting on the habitual tendency to remain silent. What I did do, though, was place a lot of stock in this unknowable instinct that emerged, guiding me from nothing I knew or created, but had an intelligence far more adept at knowing me than I knew of myself, and in a way I was never taught before. It became known to me as the one thing, more than people, more than family, even more than friends, I could count on, yet, I still had no language or words to identify the force that guided me into the perilous jungles of the inner, unconscious, world and was there, again, guiding me back. It provided solace from a harrowing experience and put me back on the path to what would become future transformations.

My whole world has changed since then, again and again, going through the cycles of life like a Ferris wheel offering different views from the top and then again from the bottom but always in the same place. I was brought to my knees a second time when I became a mother, fearful of imparting this cycle of abuse onto my children like I had seen repeatedly in my family. After a second mental health scare, I came out with a new identity and the words I needed to empower myself and family back to the path where abuse no longer needed to be written into a future history. From there came a place where talking about thoughts and feelings were honored, and openness encouraged from the beginning becoming like a bridge to a life where unconditional love without ignorance was the currency. And it all started with me, the Empathic mother, who finally chose to feel all her feelings, all the pain, so much pain, over and over again, in silence, aching for an end to the misery.

Armed with tools now that help guide my empathic gift that has always given me the innate ability to feel others feelings, I have begun teaching my children the lessons I’ve learned from my own experiences. I have discarded the idea that I “feel too much” or “too deeply,” as I’ve been told in the past having the standard of the culture’s stunted emotional intelligence applied to me. I feel on the level that was always intended for me and others, though different than most who have not opened up to their intuition, to all its possibilities, and the compassion we could all possess on an innate level.

It wouldn’t be fair for me to conclude this story with a fairytale ending where everything suddenly became sunshine and rainbows. It doesn’t work that way if you’re a real person who sorts through real pain and real life lessons. We still live in a world that is largely controlled by habits & societal norms that don’t place a high value on empathic and emotional intelligence just yet. However, I am encouraged by the future. I am encouraged seeing my own sons, one perhaps on the same empathic spectrum as I am. When I see his acts of compassion towards me, towards his brothers, and his father, beyond his three years of life, I feel blessed that a child with his gifts will be raised by a mother who knows the power he holds in every act of kindness he shows. And I have been given the opportunity to love a remarkable child in the ways I always longed to be loved.

What is on the other side if the world turned more towards empathy? I like to think it would look more like the world so many of us have dreamed. The world would slow down, the image of nature would come back into its full view, and people would see the value they hold by adding to the beauty of the Earth. Those of us who are Empaths, HSPs, and live with Kundalini are the gateway, telling our stories to the future generation, and offering hope from lending a helping hand. Through the power of intuition when it is followed, pathways are made plain to the gifts we cannot see just from using the five senses. We let go of the insane reality that we have any control over life by using the tools developed by humans and move towards a change in perception and our innate ability to use the tools developed by an intelligence greater than ourselves, moving with the harmony of the universe.

Like George Carlin said, “Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, ‘Holy shit, what a ride!’” This is for all those that don’t THINK they know, but KNOW they know what it’s like to walk in someone else’s shoes. The road has been tough, very tough, but I’m here to say I’m with you. I hope you’re with me, too.

___________________________________

📸 taken on my solo journey to London, 2010. A picture of The London Eye.

[sochews]

2019: a year of grace

* I like to begin every year with a word or phrase that rings in my heart, and serves as a guide for the year ahead. In 2010, the phrase was “a year of gifts”. In 2011, it was “a year of remembrance”. In 2012, it was a year of courage. In 2013, it was a year to believe. In 2014, it was a year of seeing. In 2015, it was a year offorgiveness. In 2016, it was a year of listening. In 2017, it was a year of bravery. Last year, it was a year of hope. Thanks to some amazing people who taught me this, it has become a practice I’ve cherished at the dawn of every new year.

“Mary said, I’m bursting with God-news; I’m dancing the song of my Savior God. God took one good look at me, and look what happened —  I’m the most fortunate woman on earth! What God has done for me will never be forgotten, the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others. His mercy flows in wave after wave on those who are in awe before him…

When Elizabeth was full-term in her pregnancy, she bore a son. Her neighbours and relatives, seeing that God had overwhelmed her with mercy, celebrated with her…

Then Zachariah was filled with the Holy Spirit and prophesied… Through the heartfelt mercies of our God, God’s Sunrise will break in upon us, Shining on those in the darkness, those sitting in the shadow of death, Then showing us the way, one foot at a time, down the path of peace.” (Luke 1: 46–50, 57–58,78–79)

Elizabeth and Mary each received the grand surprise of their lives: a baby, sheltered in two wombs that were both forsaken, cast aside. It was a gift: completely unexpectedly, joyfully embraced.

They sang. They shouted. They gave thanks for this most undeserving of favours, an unmerited hand of life upon their lives. What does it feel like to be touched by God, to be given a chance at new birth, new hope? This was mercy. This was love.

I stand at the passagio of two years, in awe, in trepidation. I look back, and can’t put into words the absolute gift that was 2018. At the start, I labelled it “the year of hope.” I would give myself over to hope, and the myriad of questions I had about her.

What is hope? What does it mean to hope? What do I hope for?

Hope didn’t just visit me like a night breeze. Hope blew open every idea, dream and thought I had about my self, my home, my work, and led me on the most thrilling journey of all. I learned to hope badly as a first prerequisite to learning to hope at all — I put my hope in people, relationships and friendships that were never mine to own. I learned to feel the crunching weight of disappointment, and then, to still perform the insane act of hoping again, in spite of, but now, to hope in deeper and higher truths, to find out what those really were.

I saw my country transform on one election day. I saw my country feel the rejuvenating presence of hope like an intravenous infusion, and then to see how the work of hope doesn’t end in birth, but continues in its awkward, failing first steps.

And in the magical journey of The Bee, The King and I and Forgotten, in the company of unique, frail, inspiring human beings, hope became the sustenance found in conversations, the thread that bound all the nerves and excitement, the idea that made every single day of work such a joy to face.

The year of hope will be one that will leave a deep imprint in me. Thank you, for letting me hope badly, for teaching me that what I hope for is vitally important. To let go of what I can’t control, to trust in roads that beggar logic or belief. Only because I’m learning to place my hope in You.

Now, I stand at the entrance of a new year. And 2019 feels very different to the year before. The canvas is empty. The horizon is unclear. Over the last week, God has been sharpening a word down to its most potent, basic force. A word that, it seems, will form the foundation upon which this year will be built upon.

I sense God saying, let 2019 be a year of grace.

Grace, I’ve always thought, has been a core part of who I am. Even my name, in its essence, means “God has given.” Yet, at the mention of this word, I find myself feeling reduced, cowered.

That’s because grace is a big, big idea. Grace acknowledges that all is a gift. My relationships, my work, my history, my mistakes. More than that, grace says all are gifts I do not deserve. Grace says I am loved — no, that I am accepted. I am accepted in the face of my triumphs and failures, and nothing I do will change this. It is why it is the core of gratitude, thanking the heavens for our stars.

It is like a gift bestowed upon wombs thought too old or too young, too over-used or too un-used, too discarded or too untried. It is a love that, as Robert Farrar Capon writes, “wild, outrageous and vulgar. Any God who would do such a thing is a God who has no taste. And worst of all, it doesn’t sell worth beans. But, it is Good News.”

When Grace knocks, how will I respond? What Grace seeks is nothing less than a transformation of my being, and a capitulation to that transformation. It means kindness to myself, to those closest to me, because we’re all kept afloat in the same hole-ridden boat by an unimaginable ocean of grace and love. It wipes away the need for entitlement, for possession, because all I have, all I am, may never be mine to begin with. It produces an antiphony of gratitude between Grace and the grace-e, that we are blessed because we have been given, daily, immeasurably, without fear of shame or guilt.

That is why I tremble. Because how can anyone, least of all I, ever respond to the immensity of Grace? My pride, my pains, my ego, my dreams, my weaknesses are too much to let go of. In a world that tells me I only get and give what is deserved, how will I ever be grace-full?

It is why the ordinary stories of Elizabeth, Mary and Zechariah are very much extraordinary. On the receiving of their gifts, they let go, and celebrated, sang, danced, exclaimed, worried not about what they were missing out on. To them, the gifts and mercies of God shone upon them like the brightest sun, and they were saved. Nothing else mattered.

Grace requires me to surrender. I give up my ideas and my rights, in work and in bonds, and rely on His gifts. As Paul writes, grace becomes enough. She’s all I need. The weaker I become, the stronger I become. And in turn, it becomes a celebration of one simple truth: God has given.

Father, I am so, so grateful for 2018. It was indeed a gift. There were so many things I couldn’t have made happen by myself, so many lessons you brought me through. Thank you. Thank you so much.

I am weak. But you say, when I am weak, I am strong.

I dedicate 2019 to you. Let 2019 be a year of grace. That in all I receive — the work, the relationships, the things I’ll need to learn — all are gifts.

I ask that grace fill me like water into every room, every habit. That I will let grace change me. Change my relationships, change my work, change my dreams. That I will show grace, to myself, then to others.

That I will be broken by grace, wrestle with grace, sing by grace, that grace will shine in all my darkest days, be the reason for all my unexpected glories, light up the path ahead, and take all my fears and use it to wash me white as snow.

That, at the end of 2019, I will look back and say, God has given.

Amen.

“Grazie signore, for your lips twisted in love to accommodate my sinful self, for judging me not by my shabby good deeds, but by your love that is your gift to me, for your unbearable forgiveness and infinite patience with me, for other people who have greater gifts than mine, and for the honesty to acknowledge that I am a ragamuffin. When the final curtain falls and you summon me home, may my last whispered word on earth be the wholehearted cry, “Grazie signore.” — Brennan Manning, “The Ragamuffin Gospel”

[antibodykrp-blog]

   — your name was more powerful than any empire, but it could not stop your fall.

war has little to do with how people go about their lives. this is about thirty-two year old lee jinho, better known as the north side's family head.

canon: the father part of: the golden Triangle and lotus Anma

freeform: There exists a timeless debate between the environmental and biological impact on the human psyche. 

Experiences string together action and reaction, personal ideologies, and familiar values accepted or rejected by its society. Relationships between people surrounding a child grossly impact the shape of their young mind as they age. Biologically, there are predetermining conditions; restless habits, personality traits, inherited disease, intelligence, natural skill. What becomes of those factors, which are cultivated, and which are left idle– it entirely depends on the individual.

“INTELLIGENT BUT ARROGANT…”

A television buzzes in the background and a chess board sits between two children. The carpet under his bare knees scratches against his skin and the AC hums on its highest setting to combat one of south korea’s hottest summers to date. Subtitles slide across the bottom of the screen, and Jinho is distracted by the appearance of his father’s name.

[President criticized for allowing foreign occupation by the Chinese…]

[Rise in crime rate across all provinces…]

[Public disapproval directed at military and police…]

He stops listening after the announcement of a celebrity’s birthday and stares down at his opponent’s move. The other is smiling, grin full of teeth and eyes shining. It’s one of the rare times Jinho had been allowed to bring home a classmate. But the sight of his cornered king piece leaves him unsettled.

“I won.”

Jinho continues staring at the board. 

A clock on the wall ticks, ticks, ticks– then small hands are flipping the chessboard over and unraveling the peace. Ceramic knights and pawns scatter cross hardwood floors and his hand is in their hair, tearing, pulling, shoving their face against the floor.

“You cheated. I wasn’t watching you.”

Jinho lets go immediately, perfectly calm, composed.

Then blinks, finally notices the blood on their neck from his nails. Blinks again as they are carted away by someone from security. There are dry tear streaks down their face. Hesitant fingers play with a chess piece and a small white pawn sits curled in his fist. 

“Did you lose?.”

His sister had arrived home. She’s wearing her hair up, and leans against the entryway to the library. Jinho stares back at her hard gaze.

“Why don’t you go apologize to your friend?”

He says nothing and looks away first.

 “UNNECESSARILY PARANOID…”

“What do you remember?”

There’s a needle being taken out of his arm. It’s connected to a IV drip hanging beside his bed. He grits his teeth but maintains an unreadable expression in front of his father. Eyes are still spider-webbed with red and purple veins. His lips are chapped, and he wets them. The nurse at his side offers him water, but his father hands him the glass first. It’s sweating and cold against his skin.

If he stares at own room walls long enough, he remembers the rooms his captors shoved him into for over two weeks. The air had always been hazy, light through the window behind him exposing clouds of dust floating around his head. Most of the time they had kept his vision blacked out. He memorized the time it took to drive from place to place blindfolded, the way pebbles cracked underneath his shoes as opposed to flat concrete. Sometimes, the soft touch of grass as they let him piss with a gun to his head.

The routine was always the identical, day after day, hour by hour, second by second. Blindfold, dirty rag in his mouth tasting like metal shoved between teeth, forced inside a van, taken to a new building and tied up inside a foreign room by the end of twenty four hours. It was fairly simple to plan an escape with a methodical mind. He is not stupid and he was trained.

But details of the kidnapping is not what his father wants to know. His father wants to know what he might have revealed about their family.

“Nothing.”

Jinho stares at the ground. His father stands up, and the chair creaks. It’s the only sound aside from the television turning on. Minsik flips through channels, one hand tucked inside their pants pocket and the other on a remote control.

“I think you do remember.”

The grainy image of Jinho on the ground in a warehouse sits broadcasted on the screen. His hands are free from bonds in the image, face bloodied but body alert and prepared. He clutches something in his fist that cannot be singled out by the camera image.

Minsik motions to the object.

“A knife.” Jinho focuses, silent and motionless as his father plays the recorded video tape. They both watch as Jinho holds his own against the first assailant, dressed in black and face blurred out. Jinho has the blade against the soft flesh of a jugular, prepared to cut. His father’s gaze is hard, and they pause the image again. “Here.” He turns back towards his son, bedridden from dehydration and a healing stab wound. “You hesitated to take control of the situation and spared his life.”

Jinho stares blankly ahead. His lips close and open noiselessly.

“You staged my kidnapping.”

The recording continues without his father’s response. Jinho shuts his eyes at the sound of his own scream when the knife is turned on him. A gunshot follows, and the tape ends with his retrieval by The Outfit’s own members.

“I had concerns about your ability,” Minsik explains, but not with the intention to assure his son. “I also instructed them not to harm you in a lethal manner. We reacted accordingly.”

Jinho focuses on the crumpled form of the hired abductor. He thinks the man is lucky, and can only wonder what his father subjected the other to. His hands tighten into fists until nails cut into skin when Minsik’s attentions falls upon him.

“You had every chance to save yourself, and you did nothing.”

“BUT APT AT COMMUNICATION…”

He has no real reason to attend school. The Outfit survives on the legs built by his father and his father before him. Money is never a concern, but the desire for an education and a broader worldview rather than one controlled by a censored media is what Jinho seeks.

The relationship between his political science T.A. and him is simple. Neither of them expect more than what it becomes. A comfortable, easy relationship between two people that have always been defined by labels. She is expected to marry after college to pass along her family’s fortune and help run the country with her fiance-to-be (right-wing policies backed by criminally funded lobbyists). He understands that world. Criticizing her for flirting with him while taken is not an option he considers. It would turn her own accusations on himself.

This works because they use each other.

He is young, impressionable, and carrying an even richer family name with him. She humors his brief, unexplained interest in traditional art, photography, literature, and music. They talk, and pretend. Flipping from one pass time to the next, never settling. Everything is temporary. That’s what she likes, because he is not a permanent man.

They both know what they are meant to do.

“You don’t want to be an artist.”  

“No.”

There’s a knowing smile on his face as he draws a smooth half-circle to create her shoulder. She’s in his bed, clothes discarded. He has not laid a finger on her.

“You don’t want to be a businessman.”

His charcoal breaks in half, black dust smearing when he turns the page. He adjusts his glasses and looks at her.

“You don’t want to be a politician’s wife.”

She watches him, chin propped up on her knee and dark hair spilling out across sheets. Her smile is tight-lipped. 

“What do you want, Jinho?”

His sketchbook is always full of half-done ideas and poorly conceived thoughts.

She leaves him because he never really touches her the way she wants him to. He allows it because she says the relationship feels more like having a brother, and a friendship built beneficial ties between their families already. She was using him the same way he used her as a facade for what people expect him to be. There’s a part of him that’s relieved she left, but now he is without someone to hide the fact he’s never slept with a woman.

His father is too concerned with politics and shift in business ties when he graduates, Jinho on the brink of inheriting The Outfit and its enemies. His early twenties take place during a period when war is talked about instead of parodied in art and television. People are afraid, and people are quiet until a new presidential candidate echoes their own thoughts.

His sister has never waited for him to lose interest in being a leader. She will always be ready for a title he never deserved, and a title she will never receive. 

He wonders when she will finally take it.

“IT DOES NOT MATTER THAT HE IS NOT GREAT…”

They tell you to pull out fingernails and teeth for disloyalty, but they do not tell you what it sounds like. Actions have far worse repercussions in this world, and for every consequence, he pries a fingernail away from flesh until he tastes blood in his mouth from cutting into his own cheek with teeth.

“How old are you?”

Bloodshot eyes stare up at Jinho. His security is with him, and almost stuff a rag back in the ex-con’s mouth after speaking directly to The Outfit’s new leader. Jinho stops them with a sharp glance.

He’s wearing gloves over perfectly clean hands. It feels almost like a sloppy caricature of a gruesome situation. The former Outfit member must be able to sense he does not quite fit the role of an interrogator. The way they look at him with fearless eyes and crushed fingers– it’s not the way a man should look at another man holding the threat of death overhead.

“A kid,” they rasp, struggling to speak. Their voice is hoarse when they focus on Jinho carefully as he’s fitting pliers underneath a dirty thumb nail. “I remember when you were five years old. Your father let me meet you on your birthday. We were close then… friends. Our wives would talk to each other like young girls do.” Jinho hesitates, just for a moment. They breathe through their nose and spit. “You’re still a fucking kid– you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Bloody pliers clatter away to a dark corner. Their scream barely drowns out pitched laughter that follows him like a mocking shadow when he fights the urge to vomit from the sound of tearing skin. Hands are pressed over his mouth, trembling fingers, legs barely kept upright and standing. He leans against a wall for support and retches dry air until acid from his stomach burns his throat.

“You can’t even kill for your family, or yourself. What exactly is yours?”

They laugh, and laugh, choking when fabric wrapped around their bruised throat steals the ability to breathe. Dirty spit runs out of the side of their mouth, gaping holes in gums bloodied and torn. They chuckle at Jinho on the ground, now leader of The Outfit, no longer afraid of dying. He stares at the floor until the only sound is the deafening echo of a gunshot that settles inside his ears and never leaves.

A dead man he had no hand in killing is not how it starts.

A dead man he did not kill is how it begins.

[hollyhark]

old CWU notes and outtakes Part I!

I thought I could fit all this into one post... haha. More to come! This stuff isn’t magical or fascinating so much as funny, so keep that in mind if you want to see the dark underbelly that is MADAM JEDI and other scrapped and rough content!!

~

From a doc beautifully entitled “Kylo Ren Master Notes, Updated 1-4-15” (one of about 10 CWU ‘master notes’ docs I kept throughout the year, behold my organization skills, including labeling this doc with the wrong year. This doc was 37 pages long! It picks up with notes on what became the second chapter of Life Sentence):

Begin with Hux meeting UT-5278. Hux is worried about the bite mark on his neck, annoyed that Ren placed it in the highest spot possible, so that it peeks out, just a bit, over his collar. Hux knows he's partially to blame for egging Ren on by pulling his hair. He's pleased when Uta mentions that UT-5278 is honored to the point of being a bit flustered since she's been given an audience with Hux, though he worries that someone who can complete this task will need nerves of steel. He's pulled UT-5278′s file and has reviewed it prior to the meeting. According to the file, she was abandoned as a baby and selected from a FO orphanage for trooper training because of her obedience and intelligence. Uta's note: “UT-5278 would have been an officer if she'd been born to an upstanding FO family.” Under misc. notes Uta has also noted that she allowed UT-5278 to personally eject a fellow trooper who tried to sexually assault her into space. Hux remembers giving Uta clearance to allow this punishment; he didn't realize that incident involved the same candidate Uta is volunteering for this suicide mission. The troops started calling her Airlock after that, affectionately. UT-5278 is not what Hux expected, but she remains calm in his presence and he thinks she just might do, though he is second-guessing his own judgment thanks to Ren's eerie warning. He does think that something about UT-5278's face suggests a sort of trusting innocence that the Resistance will arrogantly assume only they can appreciate and nurture; she looks young and could pass for a teenager, though her profile lists her age as 26. He assigns her a code name that she can also use as her “name” when mixing among the Resistance: Pella. On Hux's home planet it's a common name for girls that translates roughly to 'innocent flower.' He asks her if she's completely confident that she will not be actually swayed toward the Resistance the way that Finn was, including a threat about how bad it will be for her if they find out she has. She tells him confidently that one of the reasons she wants this job is that she would like to kill Finn herself for what he's done to the stormtroopers.

Hux runs across Ren in the hall and Ren is cold to him and now seems disinterested in the merit of Hux's plan to infiltrate the Resistance. He is carrying a bag full of what sounds like clanking metal parts. Ren reaches into it at one point, pulls out Hux's hat and shoves it into his hand, saying 'You dropped this.' Hux is enraged by this. He asks 'what else have you got in that bag?' and Ren says 'it's none of your concern' and storms off.

Hux is called to communicate with Snoke-- alone. He reports his plan, says he's met with a candidate and that he sees no reason not to proceed with it according to his design. Snoke is approving of the plan as well, and even gives Hux a rare compliment for coming up with it. Still unsettled, Hux says 'Ren had some concerns.' As soon as it's out he feels a kind of guilty panic for having betrayed Ren to Snoke when Ren appeared to be going against Snoke's wishes to warn Hux-- but he can't think about that now, here, with Snoke staring down at him, seeing him. Snoke blinks, which Hux can't even remember him doing before, though possibly he's just never paid this much attention to Snoke's every tension before. Snoke explains that Ren's concerns stem from meditation, which can be useful but also confusing for an undisciplined trainee like Ren. He says that too much attachment to certain things can cause false alarm visions, and he will be training Ren to drop those attachments so that he will see more clearly in the future. Hux feels exposed: he's the attachment Ren will learn to discard. Is Ren really so attached to him?

**

Notes re: the final sex scene in this part:

They both last a long time, maybe a little too long; Hux is close but can't quite finish, until (perhaps) Ren prompts him to say the name Ben. Afterward, Hux clings to Ren, they talk about Henry, etc. Hux is annoyed at first, but then he tells Ren about how Henry tried to comfort and help him, saying that he would go with Hux to tell his father what had happened/was happening if he wanted him to, and Hux allowed Henry to see him cry, to hug him and tell him it would be okay, but then rejected him and his proposal when he pulled away. He talks about how it was a pointless fight: even with one ally, they were still two people up against an unstoppable shitstorm of greater authority, and the boys who attacked Hux knew that even if Hux told his father what they’d done to him they might be reprimanded or even punished but not expelled or otherwise inconvenienced, because if they were word would get around that this had happened to the headmaster’s (right word?) son and Brendol Sr. wouldn’t want that, so the boys were protected and getting Henry involved would only make things worse & make Henry a target as well. Ren says, confused, as if he’s read something in Hux’s memories but can’t interpret it, ‘Did you kill him? Henry, I mean?’ Hux says no, but that’s not true. He did, the other day. Henry was a governor on one of the planets that was destroyed.

At some point Hux steps on a tiny shard of glass in the bathroom, one that Ren missed when he cleaned up the bits of mirror. It seems like a sign not to trust his earlier concerns: Ren is sloppy, after all. Hux has his terrible dream about being betrayed and exposed by Ren, and Ren wakes him from it, angry. Hux says 'must you spy on my dreams?' and Ren says 'yes. That was the loudest dream I've ever heard. I couldn't ignore it.' Then turns his back, puts on his robe, and says, angrily, 'I wouldn't do that.'

**

From the same doc, some of my first Snoke Notes:

Snoke is a Force user who ‘defeated death’ but in order to do so he must occasionally possess a powerful young host, once he has used up the body he’s currently in. This one is dying, and his episodes of possessing Kylo are like ‘practice,’ fusing his persona with Kylo’s so that eventually Kylo will be weakened and confused enough to be willing give Snoke his body, which is the only way Snoke can make it work longterm (completely erasing the prior owner of the body)

Snoke did the whole stunt with Hux because he knew Kylo would only bring himself to a low enough place to want to allow Snoke to take over his body if Kylo was convinced that he killed Hux, who was the strongest point of Light in Kylo’s body at that point. (Whereas if Snoke had arranged for Hux’s death at anyone else’s hands, Kylo would have been moved toward the Light in grief)

**

from same doc, lol:

Potential Titles: Ceasefire [editor’s note: BOLDED IN ORIGINAL!], The High Road, Detour to [Location], The Treaty at [Location]

**

from the same doc, the earliest description of Ceasefire:

He is training with Snoke, locked in a lightless soundless chamber when he senses a disturbance in the Force: Hux has been captured by some rebel faction that is more radical than Leia's Resistance, splintering from the First Order itself. They were able to entice Hux to make himself vulnerable by suggesting that Kylo Ren needed his assistance (as they remembered him fetching Ren personally last time). Ren leaves the chamber and searches for Snoke, needing his counsel on how to best ignore the pull to help Hux. But Snoke has disappeared, and with him goes Kylo's food and water supply. He knows this is a test and holds out for as long as he can, but finally he pilots an old shuttle away from the planet and goes to the nearest space station to recuperate, telling himself that he will simply secure sustenance and return. But he cannot resist the temptation to save Hux from torment (despite what he knows about Anakin Skywalker's downfall, and the feeling that this could be a trap), so he justifies his rescue mission as something Snoke would want: after all, losing Hux to this rebel faction would be a huge blow to the First Order (when in reality he's already sensed the truth: that Snoke is behind this splinter faction, testing him by torturing Hux).

Ren infiltrates the splinter group's base and massacres them before rescuing Hux, who is starving and badly hurt. When he first sees Ren, Hux says ‘Have they sent you to finish me off? That’s a clever touch.’ [en: also bolded in original :B] Ren takes him to a safehouse (a cottage on a rocky island on a rainy planet, a special, Force-protected place where the Skywalker family used to vacation, now closed up and dusty with disuse). Ren tells Hux that he's awaiting orders from Snoke, not mentioning that Snoke disappeared from his training suddenly and completely. When Ren heals Hux's wounds he reaches for a cut that splits the left side of his bottom lip and Hux says no, leave it. He wants it as a reminder. (Later, Kylo reflects that he wants to kiss and suck on that little scar more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life.)

**

my first note about the narrative structure of this part, I think! (“is weird” haha):

Kylo's thought process is weird, such as when he's trying to justify bringing sick Hux some hot soup, feeling like he can't believe he's doing THIS instead of his training, but he tells himself that he must take care of the leader of the First Order because he was once chosen by Snoke to lead, just as Kylo was. Kylo thinks 'we need him,' and then:

Mental adjustment: Snoke needs his General. Kylo needs to serve Snoke's wishes. Especially now, in this unbearable silence.

**

From the same doc, I read this a billion times before posting it:

Ren asks Hux to speak his name because he feels like a he needs a powerful talisman to help him choose-- to help him fight this, he wants to fight this, he can't do it, he must-- the Light, or the Dark. He needs a sign from Hux.

"Tell me your name. Your first name."

Hux's eyebrows twitch. "You know my first name."

"Yes, but. Say it, I want you to tell me."

Hux hesitates. He's always hated this name, maybe even more than Kylo came to hate the one his parents gave him.

“Tell me,” Kylo says. “Please.”

“Elan, it's-- Elan.” Hux pronounces his first name with a soft bite of indignance, as if he's still not sure he wants to give up the secret syllables that he's already passed from his palms and into Kylo's. General Elan Bartram Hux's name is on all his First Order documentation, easy enough for anyone to look up. But out loud, offered up for Kylo to hear, it's a tiny, sacred thing, quivering and alive. Hux presses his lips together when they shake. Kylo can't wait any longer to put his mouth on that little scar.

**

First part of my initial description of Under the Ruins:

This is the fic about the fall of the First Order. Ren and Hux are both imprisoned, on the same planet but at opposite ends. Rey is counseling Ren, who is being tormented by Snoke. Ren is questioned about how Snoke possessed him and seduced him, and he feels like he's reliving it, re-traumatized and at times regressing. It's hard for him to look into his mother's eyes and they mostly keep apart at first. Ren wants comfort, though not from Leia or Rey; he feels immense guilt every time he looks at them and tries to fight their familial connection. He wants Hux, who can't see him and wouldn't even if he could.

[…]

The POV is split, and Ren attempts to get the traumatized Hux to speak to him again, first by writing letters about how Snoke introduced himself and indoctrinated him. Hux doesn't answer the first five. After the sixth, he sends a short reply indicating that he knows what Ren is plotting (he mentioned going away and promised to come back, in a coded fashion): “Give Supreme Leader my regards.” Ren is both jarred by this and heartened. Hux still has his sense of humor after all. Finn demands to know what this means, and Ren makes up a story saying that Hux thinks he’s still working for Snoke and trying to hurt him, that Hux is paranoid. In fact, this information from Finn is what tips Rey off; she says ‘let’s see how this plays out,’ planning to follow Ren if he tries to go alone. She doesn’t tell Finn this part, knowing he will want to come. To Rey, this seems like a fight that the remaining Solo and Skywalker must face alone.

**

[Pretty sure I typed this part on my phone while riding the trolley after work:]

Hux kills an attacker in prison

He feels amazing, his hands dirty now

Gets put in solitary, reeling

While there, Kylo reaches out through the Force

This is how they initially reconnect, just before Kylo goes after Snoke

**

The rest of this doc is a hot mess of stuff that was changed, but this made me laugh because I remember being really excited about this idea:

HUX RECONNECTS WITH HIS MOTHER!! Maybe after the book?

**

Here’s the scrapped MADAM JEDI scene I’ve referenced before:

Rey goes to see Hux to ask him if he would be open to having a visit from Ren (post defeat of Snoke, when Ren has that cred to lend)

Hux has a daily walk on the track on the roof of the Tower. He’s always there alone, as he’s an isolated prisoner, and he walks slowly and smokes cigarettes while the guards stand near the door to the roof stairs. Rey comes to stand at the edge of the Tower with him.

“He asks about you,” Rey says. “And when he’s not asking, he’s thinking about you, always. It’s exhausting. He’s-- Got a rather obsessive personality.”

Hux says nothing.

“Do you think seeing you would bring him some kind of closure?” Rey asks.

Hux gives her a disbelieving stare. Her gaze is steely, unmovable Jedi stone. Obnoxious.

“There’s no closure for us,” Hux says, looking toward the mountains again. “Not on this planet. Not in this life.”

“So,” Rey says, sharply, “You don’t want me to bend over backward to bring him here? Well, that’s a relief. Just say so and you won’t see or hear from me on this or any other subject ever again. That would suit me fine.”

She’s getting worked up a bit, which Hux enjoys. He opens his mouth to give her what she’s looking for: a verbal denial that he wants to see Ren. Permission to leave the subject closed.

He doesn’t say it. She’s in his mind anyway, seeing the truth. Having her there-- It doesn’t feel like it did when Ren read his thoughts. This feels like a blithe, almost glib intrusion, like it’s too easy for her and not because he’s made it that way.

“Well,” she says. “It appears you have some interest.”

“It’s not going to bring anybody closure,” Hux says. “But I suppose it would be amusing. To see him.”

“He might break down. He’s very-- You would have to be kind to him.”

Hux turns to her, his mouth falling open. She actually blanches a bit, the corner of her mouth quirking, one shoulder lifting.

“Please?” she says, suddenly girlish again.

“The last time I saw him he was trying to kill me,” Hux says. “But I’m expected to be kind?”

“You know it wasn’t him who wanted you dead. He wasn’t trying to kill you, the last time-- He was saving you.”

“By bringing me to you people, where he would have impunity and I would be locked away? Well, typical Ren, it all worked out swimmingly for him and I’m--”

“He’s very unhappy,” Rey says, tightly. “You don’t understand what he’s been through. I thought maybe-- But you don’t.”

“Look.” Hux throws the stub of his cigarette over the edge of the building. His favorite part of the day: his one tiny chance to say ‘fuck you’ to the surrounding environment. “If you’re worried about me stomping on Ren’s delicate feelings-- if they’re that fucking delicate --maybe don’t bring him to me.”

“You’re the only one-- He needs your forgiveness. The rest of us can’t forgive him the way you can.”

“Because you haven’t had his hands around your throat?”

“No, because we’re still angry about the things he’s done. You-- You’re indifferent. There’s only the one thing you’re angry about.”

“The trying to kill me bit, yeah.”

“No.” Rey says this sharply, and she’s got that steely look when Hux turns to her again. “That’s not why you’re angry with him, really, is it?”

She sends the rest into his head, to salt the wound perhaps:

You hate him for making you care about something beyond yourself. About him, namely.

“Just go,” Hux says, sneering and waving her away. “Bring Ren back with your or don’t. I have little say in the matter at the end of the day, I suspect. Just another act in the Skywalker family drama, me as scenery onstage.”

“You’re very dramatic,” Rey says with a sniff. “You remind me of him in that way, actually.”

“Get lost,” Hux says, and, when she stares him down like she’s thinking about pitching him over the edge of the Tower, “Please, Madam Jedi.”

**

IMPORTANT RANDOM NOTE:

At one point, Hux sadly remarks that they’ll never shower together again.

**

((And then there are six more pages of Finn/Rey, Pella-centric and other Kylux fic ideas lol, I haven’t forgotten these but I forgot they were originally in this doc. I’m gonna stop here for the night, since this doc is already six pages long in Word! More soon~~))

[brihadabombast-blog]

Parables on Recycling

This one is from the Buddha’s life.

 “One day, as the Buddha sat in deep thought about the world and ways of instilling goodness in human beings, he was approached by one of his disciples.

The disciple said humbly, “Oh teacher! You are so concerned about the rest of the world! Why don’t you also look into the welfare and needs of your own disciples?”

The Buddha: “Tell me, how can I help you?”

Disciple: “Master! My attire is worn out beyond the limits of decency. Could I get a new one, please?”

The Buddha looked at him closely and found that the robe did, indeed, appear to be in bad condition and needing of replacement. He asked the store-keeper to give the disciple a new robe. The disciple thanked the Buddha and retired to his own room. A little while later, the Buddha visited his disciple and asked him if his new clothes were comfortable and whether there was anything else that he needed.

Disciple: “Thank you, Master. The new robe is indeed very comfortable. I need nothing more.”

The Buddha: “Having got a new one, what did you do with your old robe?”

Disciple: “I have begun using it as my bedspread.”

The Buddha: “I hope, then, that you have disposed of your old bedspread?”

Disciple: ” No, no, Master. I am now using my old bedspread as my window curtain.”

The Buddha: ” And what about your old curtain?”

Disciple: “That is being used to handle hot utensils in the kitchen.”

The Buddha: “Oh, I see. Could you tell me what they did with the old cloths they were already using in kitchen?”

Disciple: “Those are being used to mop the floor.”

The Buddha:” Then… the old rug that was being used to mop the floor…?”

Disciple: “Master, since the rug was already tattered, we could not find any better use for it but as a source of wicks for the oil lamp which is right now lighting up your study ….”

The Buddha smiled in contentment and walked out of the disciple’s room.

_________________________

The Buddha’s approach to conservation may sound extreme to the present ‘buy-use-discard’ generation that is living in an era of rapid innovation and even more frenetic consumerism.

But this approach of using things to the last thread, so to say, rings a bell with me, as I am sure it does with many of my generation in India, wedged as we were into the tail-end of a pre-industrial culture during our childhood and growing up years. In fact, it was one of my friends of my generation who sent me this story.

Reading it brought back to me that my earliest and most vivid childhood memories of recycling and conservation was watching my mother. We didn’t use words like “recycling” and “conservation” then. It was simply everyday behaviour. And through ordinary practice, it got communicated across the generational divide.

My mother never wasted anything. Nor did she hoard things that were not useful to her. From time to time she gave away a lot of things to known and unknown people… relatives, families of her domestic staff, institutions and causes that worked in the name of the poor and needy such as jumble sales, earthquake or flood relief efforts, etc. The things she gave away were always in good shape, the kind of stuff that could be immediately put to use, the kind of stuff that she would readily use for herself. One of her mottoes was, when you give things away let them be from the best that you have; if you cannot bear to do that, it is better not to give at all.

Which meant that whatever became old or torn was not given away but stood around forever in our house, asking to be dealt with. Every loft and cupboard in the house had at least one or more bundles of what she dramatically labelled “RAGS” in bold letters… Stuff for recycling. Discarded pillow cases became dusters. Old towels became floor mops. The sturdy hems of discarded sari petticoats or cast-off window curtains became string for tying up bundles of stuff (anything that needed to be bundled would be first neatly wrapped in a discarded sari length and then tied with these adapted “strings”). My father’s torn dhotis (white sarongs worn by men) were cut into squares and folded away neatly to serve as polishing cloths for silver and brass objets d’art, and to shine glassware to a high gloss. And the tornest bits of torn material became use-once-and-dispose rags for cleaning the oil lamps in the puja (worship) room, or mop up accidentally spilt anything in the house, or keep the floor or table tops clean when we lit the hundreds of earthenware oil lamps at Diwali to decorate the house… Leftover scraps from material bought for making dresses, shirts, curtains would be transformed into tote bags for vegetable and grocery shopping, shoe bags, inside-liners for cushions and pillows … The list of uses that she found for ‘waste’ was endless.

I realize now that it had nothing to do with being rich or poor, or the ability or inability to afford to buy new things. We were an affluent family, and lacked for nothing. What my mother was doing was to practice a traditional approach to resources whether natural or man-made… to stretch their lives by careful use… to put them through multiple lives.

The winds of change began to creep in when I was into my late teens. Plastic had recently become big time in India, and a lot of affluent urban middle class folks began to start feeling defensive or  ashamed  about looking “traditional”… this was called being “behenji-ish”, if you lived in north India, and “mami-ish” if you lived in the south of the country…The change started in upper middle class homes, with discarding the ubiquitous use of stainless steel tableware and switching to porcelain, and included discarding old styles of reusing and recycling, and the products associated with them, like cloth carry bags, stainless steel mobile water containers (koojas in Tamil) meant for long train journeys, stainless steel mobile food containers called “tiffin carriers”… And so on.

How liberating it felt, when one travelled in the West, to set forth on shopping trips without carrying one’s own cloth bags! And how treasured the sturdy plastic bags that one brought back home,  bulging with purchases. People returned from foreign trips with huge stacks of plastic shopping bags (because you couldn’t get them in India then!)…You could see plastic bags tumbling out of ladies’ suitcases when customs officials looking for dutiable goods (India was a highly State-controlled economy in those days and the import of foreign goods of every kind was prohibited, or heavy duties needed to be paid on them) found plastic bags instead.   As part of this new modernism, eating in restaurants or off the street, and drinking whatever water was available without checking the source,  became the preferred option to carrying one’s own food and water, something that was now seen as being very old fashioned and middle class, indeed.

It had to come back to us from the West. Like many other “progressive” ideas! By the time the modern environmental consciousness of the 1970s matured into the alternative individual life styles in the 1990s, educated Europeans could be seen walking to the market carrying their own cloth bags. And the first generation of those bags were pretty ordinary looking too…They had none of the frills and embroidery and other embellishments, so lovingly put into cloth bags that fell out of every cupboard of an Indian household! 

I, of course, was charmed by this new turn of events. I realize today how much of my mother’s practices I still hold on to, things that I never gave up even when they had become very unfashionable in the metropolitan India of the 1960s and 1970s. Today, at home, I get dubbed “kabaadiwala” – waste collector – by my husband for my pains!  But I persist. Imagine my delight when my young son – now in his mid 20s – who left home when he was 16 to go abroad for higher education told me that he continues with many conservation practices he had seen me and my mother follow!

I am going to send him this Buddha story. And I hope that you, dear reader, enjoy it too.