#(i have never driven on narcotics to be clear. just that there are times where i'd be safer to.)

[moonlight-at-dawn]

Maybe now that I have adderall again I can get back to all the things I've left off....

[terramythos]

TerraMythos 2021 Reading Challenge - Book 6 of 26

Title: The Killing Moon (Dreamblood #1) (2012)

Author: N. K. Jemisin

Genre/Tags: Fantasy, First-Person, Third-Person, Female Protagonist, LGBT Protagonist, Asexual Protagonist.

Rating: 8/10

Date Began: 2/07/2021

Date Finished: 2/13/2021

Peace is sacred in the walled city-state of Gujaareh, and must be maintained at any cost. The Gatherers are a priesthood tasked with maintaining this goal. In the name of Hananja, Goddess of the moon, they walk the city at night and harvest Dreamblood-- the magic of dreams-- from Gujaareh's denizens. They bring the peace of death to those who need it... and to those judged criminal or corrupt.

But something else haunts Gujaareh's streets. A Reaper, a rogue Gatherer driven to endless madness and hunger from Dreamblood, is preying on the innocent, casting their souls into an eternal nightmare. Ehiru, one of the elder Gatherers, finds himself caught in the middle of a political conspiracy between his priesthood, the holy Prince, and the monstrous Reaper. An insidious corruption runs deeper than Ehiru knows-- and it may be too late to stop. 

The Gatherer’s eyes glittered in her memory, so dark, so cold--but compassionate, too. That had been the truly terrifying thing. A killer with no malice in his heart: it was unnatural. With nothing in his heart, really, except the absolute conviction that murder could be right and true and holy. 

Full review, major spoilers, and content warnings under the cut.

Content warnings for the book: Graphic depictions of violence, gore, death, warfare, and murder-- including death of children and mass murder. Discussions of p*dophilia/grooming (nothing graphic). Brief reference to r*pe. One character is a minor infatuated with a much older character-- not reciprocated. Rigid gender and social roles, including slavery. Magic-induced addiction and withdrawal. Loss of sanity/altered mental states/mind control/gaslighting.

Last year I read N. K. Jemisin's short story collection How Long 'Til Black Future Month?  One of my favorite stories was The Narcomancer, which explored a vibrant, ancient Egypt-inspired world with themes of faith, dreams, violence, and duty. I wanted to read more from the universe, and finally got to do so with The Killing Moon, the first book in the Dreamblood duology.

Jemisin's creativity in worldbuilding is, in my opinion, unmatched in the fantasy genre. I thought Gujaareh was super interesting and fleshed out. While the ancient Egypt inspiration is obvious, it's also clearly an original fantasy culture in its own right. Everything from religious practices to social castes to gender roles to the fucking architecture felt methodical and thought out. The base premise of assassin priests compassionately harvesting magic from people is a fascinating idea and totally gripping. The pacing is a little slow, but I didn't mind so much because learning about the world was so fun.

While there's a hefty amount of worldbuilding exposition in the story, Jemisin doles out information gradually. Bits and pieces of Gujaareen law, etc are introduced at the beginning of each chapter, and usually have a thematic connection to the events of the story. Information is sparing at times, meaning that one doesn't have a full picture of how everything ties together until pretty far into the story. Even something as crucial as the dream-based magic system isn't fully realized until near the end. I like the mystery of this approach, and I can appreciate how difficult it must be to keep the reader invested vs frustrating them with a lack of info. Jemisin consistently does a great job with this in everything I've read by her.

I did want a little bit more from the narcomancy aspect of the story, since dream worlds are such a huge part of Gujaareen religion and culture. In The Killing Moon we see just a few dreamscapes, and then only briefly. There's so much potential with narcomancy as a magic system, yet most of what we see is an outside, "real-world" perspective, which isn't terribly unique compared to other kinds of magic. Dreamblood being a narcotic (heh) with some Extra Fantasy Stuff is interesting, but I wanted more. Perhaps The Shadowed Sun expands on this. 

Characterization is the other Big Thing with this book, as it's very much a character-driven story. Overall I'm torn. There's some things I really liked, and others that felt underdeveloped. I'll go over my favorite things first.

Ehiru is probably the strongest of the main cast, and I really enjoyed his character arc. Here's a guy who is completely devoted to his faith, regardless of what others may think of it. Yet he's not a self-righteous dick. He sees Gathering as a loving and holy thing, so when he errs in the line of duty, it totally consumes him. And things just get worse and worse for him as the story progresses. Say what you will about the Gatherers and the belief system of Gujaareh; Ehiru comes off as intensely caring, devoted, and compassionate, and I genuinely felt bad for him throughout the novel. I'm not religious but these kinds of faith narratives are super interesting to me.

Looking at characterization as a whole, I appreciate The Killing Moon's gray morality. No one in the story is wholly good or evil. The Gatherers are an obvious example, considering they murder people in the dead of night in the name of their Goddess-- but do so to help those in need. Despite being a megalomaniacal mass-murderer, the Prince has believable reasons for his horrific actions, and they’re not wholly selfish. Even the Reaper is a clear victim of Dreamblood's addictive and mind-altering nature; it sometimes regresses into the person it used to be, which is sad and disturbing. There's a lot of moral complexity in the characters and the laws and belief systems they follow. This kind of nuanced writing is much more interesting to read than a black and white approach.

Beyond this, though, I struggled to connect with the other leads. Nijiri's utter devotion to Ehiru is basically his whole character, and while the tragedy of that is interesting for its own reasons, I kept wanting more from him. Sunandi is a good "outsider perspective" character but I had a hard time understanding her at times. For example, the two most important people in her life, Kinja and Lin, die in quick succession. Yet besides a brief outburst when Lin dies, this barely seems to affect her. I get people mourn in all kinds of ways but it seems odd. Her sexual tension with Ehiru is also weird and underdeveloped. Perhaps this is meant to be a callback to The Narcomancer, but it doesn't accomplish much in this narrative.

Another issue I had was emotional connection to minor-yet-important characters. Kinja dies offscreen before the story, yet is supposed to be a big part of Sunandi's past (and thus emotional arc). But he's never even in a flashback, so I never felt WHY he mattered to her. Una-une is the big one, though. It's pretty easy to figure out he's the Reaper by process of elimination, but he's barely in the story outside of a few early mentions. There's this part near the end that's clearly meant to be an emotional moment; Ehiru realizes his (apparently beloved) mentor Una-une is the horrific monster, and thus a foil to the situation between himself and Nijiri. But we never saw the relationship between Ehiru and Una-une, and nothing really established this prior... so there's no emotional payoff. It felt at times like this book was part of a much longer story that for whatever reason we never got to see. In some ways that can be useful to make the world and history seem vast, but here it made me feel emotionally distant from several characters. Perhaps flashbacks with these important characters would have helped bridge the gap. 

Credit where it's due, though; it's clear a lot of the dark, often brutal tone and stylistic flair in The Killing Moon was adapted into Jemisin's fantastic Broken Earth trilogy. Probably the most notable are the cryptic interlude chapters told from the perspective of a mysterious character whose identity is unknown until the end. We learn bits and pieces of the beliefs and lore of the world through excerpts of common laws and wisdom. I also liked the occasional stream-of-consciousness writing during tense or surreal moments. The Broken Earth is an improvement overall, but I can appreciate The Killing Moon for establishing some of these techniques early.

I enjoyed this book overall and am planning to read The Shadowed Sun. While I have some criticisms about The Killing Moon, I think it just suffers in comparison to other works I've read by Jemisin. It was still an entertaining and intense read, with a captivating and original world. It's not a story for the faint of heart, though, so please mind the content warnings.  

[erictmason]

The Road To “Godzilla VS. Kong”, Day One

KING KONG VS. GODZILLA (AMERICAN VERSION)

Originally Released: June 26th, 1963

Director: Ishiro Honda

Writers: Shinichi Sekizawa, Paul Mason and Bruce Howard

Starring: Tadao Takashima, Kenji Sahara, Ichiro Arashima, Mie Hama, Michael Keith, Harry Halcomb

“King Kong VS. Godzilla” is a movie whose reputation often precedes it amongst certain circles of Genre Film fans.  Even if one is unaware of the convoluted, more than slightly seedy story behind its creation (short version: the original “King Kong”’s special-effects artist, Willis O’Brien, was interested in creating a sequel that would have pitted Kong against a giant animalistic version of the Frakenstein Monster, but shady producer John Beck wound up stealing the idea and, when American studios balked at the project for fear that the use of stop-motion animation to realize the effects work would be too expensive, wound up shopping it to the more cost-effective Toho Studios in Japan, who reconceived it as a new “Godzilla” project in hopes of revitalizing interest in the character), it is still one of the most singularly important Giant Monster Movies ever made.  For one thing, it basically defined The Kaiju Movie as we know it today; sure, the original “Gojira” from 1954 (and by extension its Americanized adaptation, “Godzilla: King of the Monsters” in 1956) may have effectively created the genre, but you’ll notice the majority of such movies that exist today are more about Fanciful Title Bouts between two Clashing Monsters rather than somber moody Allegories about the horrors of Nuclear Weapons.  For another, it’s the movie that really put Godzilla himself on the map as a Big Star in his own right; at the time, he only had two prior films to his name, and while one of them was the aforementioned genre-creating watershed “Gojira”, the other was “Godzilla’s Counterattack” from 1956, which proved such a box-office disappointment that it put the character into retirement for the better part of a decade (and to give you a sense of just how much less weight the name “Godzilla” carried back then, when that movie was released in America in 1959, it was initially re-titled “Gigantis The Fire Monster”).  With “King Kong VS. Godzilla”, however, he would begin to star in more and more movies, building a film franchise that continues to this day.  

So it’s a bit of a shame that I’ve never liked it all that much.

To be clear, the “it” in question here is specifically the American version of the movie, which is the one most Western audiences would be familiar with since, until recently, it was the only one readily available to us (though Criterion finally corrected that back in 2019, when they included the original Japanese version of the movie as a bonus feature in their “Showa Era” collector’s set).  Certainly, it’s the one that I grew up watching as a kid, when my mom, ever so protective and knowing how easily upset I could be when Fictional Characters I Loved got hurt, made sure to watch ahead to see who exactly won the title match-up (and since it was Kong, I wouldn’t actually get around to finishing my viewing of the movie for a good long while).  Back then, of course, I viewed it very much through that childish prism of who I thought should win, and it was exactly the kind of Schoolyard Logic you’d expect: Kong was supposed to be a great deal smaller than Godzilla, and where Godzilla had his iconic fire breath, Kong had no extraordinary powers; Kid Me understandably concluded that this match-up really ought to be a shoe-in for Godzilla, which worked out well since Godzilla just so happened to be the one Kid Me actually cared about.  Kid Me was thus quite irritated to discover that, for the sake of this movie, Kong had in fact been significantly sized up and given random electricity-absorbing powers.  It felt like cheating to Kid Me, and it left me less than positively disposed towards the film proper.

These days, of course, I’m able to give the film a somewhat fairer shake, though I would be lying if I said that My Inner Childish Fan-Boy is completely quiet on the matter (in particular, it always bothers me that, to emphasize the advantage Kong’s electrical powers give him in their fight, the movie explicitly cites Godzilla’s “vulnerability” to electricity, despite one of the most singularly iconic images of the original “Gojira” being his ability to walk straight through a power-line barricade).  Indeed, my most recent re-watch for this very review honestly left me feeling fonder toward it than I was even on my last most recent re-watch (back in 2014, in preparation for the then-upcoming Gareth Edwards “Godzillla”, which we’ll also be getting to in this re-watch soon).  The portrayal of the title monsters themselves in particular left me much happier this time around than it has in the past; the design for Godzilla himself- thick around the center with big heavy-browed eyes and what appears to be a constantly self-amused grin, huge sharp claws that dominate the fingers and a tail that moves with a real sense of weight and purpose-took me a long time to warm up to, for example, but these days I would happily cite it as one of the very best of the original series.  Kong gets it a bit worse, sadly; the suit they design for him here (a fact that original “Kong” director Merian C. Cooper openly despised, incidentally; the idea of portraying Kong as just some guy in a gorilla costume was one of the things he explicitly set out to avoid in the original movie) has a distinctive enough face if not an especially memorable one, but the costume always looks and feels a bit raggedy, with the sagging pecs and ill-fitted arms (throughout the movie the suit switches between “regular” arms designed to allow the actor mobility, and extended arms to help give it a more ape-like gait; the result is that both versions feel weirdly out of place on the costume a lot of the time) looking especially awkward.  However, even beyond how they look, the way the monsters act is genuinely enjoyable, with Haruo Nakajima as Godzilla and Shoichi Hirose as Kong both putting in fantastic performances that imbue them with a great sense of personality that is just consistently delightful all movie long.  Whether it’s Godzilla hopping around, arms flailing in triumph whenever he manages to pull off another victory, or Kong drunkenly swallowing up giant pots’ worth of a narcotic usd to keep him docile, the movie very visibly delights in imbuing these creatures with fun foibles, and It’s no coincidence that the it’s at its strongest, not so much when the monsters are fighting, but when they are simply interacting as actual Characters: Godzilla here feels often like a particularly arrogant, boundlessly-energized child, while Kong is a bit more confused and subdued but quick to anger when irritated; their first meeting, when both these strong visible personalities most openly bounce off each other, is unquestionably my favorite moment of the movie.

The rest of it isn’t exactly bad, per se, but it is a lot less entertaining.  Some of that is simply what the American version inherited from the Japanese original, not least of all the noxiously racist portrayal of the Natives living on a remote pacific island with Kong (here named “Faro Island” for some reason instead of the usual “Skull Island”).  On top of the sins it recreates from the original “King Kong” (a fairly ooga-booga understanding of What Islanders Are Like, all of whom are portrayed by non-Native actors slathered in brownface make-up), it also includes a decently insulting bit wherein the initially-hostile islanders are pacified by the introduction of “magic” in the form of a hand-held radio and cartons of cigarettes.  There’s also the fact that the plot is driven almost entirely by Random Contrivance rather than anything that flows naturally from either the characters or the premise; Godzilla and Kong have no real compelling reason to meet, let alone fight, other than the pure coincidence of their both happening to be active at around the same time in the same part of the world (the American version attempts to ameliorate this somewhat by stating that the two are “instinctive rivals” who will be “naturally driven to destroy one another”, but that flimsy lip-service to Motivation just winds up making the otherwise-arbitrary plotting feel all the worse), and we are constantly bombarded by Total Coincidences as a way of shuffling the characters around from place to place with dizzying frequency.  But some of those troubles are only exacerbated by the approach the American version has taken to the material.  We’ll talk about this more tomorrow, but the Japanese “King Kong VS. Godzilla” is, at heart, a Satirical Comedy; this, unsurprisingly, was not an idea that went over well with Universal Studios in America, who chose to try and reshape that comedy into a more traditional Monster Movie.  An understandable objective, but not one the Japanese cut of the film made easy to achieve; to avoid the most overt Comic bits meant cutting almost all of the human characters in the film (most notably the eccentric executive Mr. Tako, played by Ichiro Arishima) down to only their most essential appearances, which in turn means that they all wind up feeling vaguely undefined and out of place in their own story (this feels especially true of our ostensible main character, Tadao Takashima‘s Sakurai, who is present enough to FEEL like a main character but has little left to do in this cut of the film). To make up the weight of all that cut footage, meanwhile, we get gobs of new footage consisting mostly of Michael Keith as a United Nations reporter talking at us in the most stultifying way possible, often joined by Harry Holcombe as an equally stultifying scientist (who apparently gets his knowledge of dinosaurs primarily from children’s picture books, which in fairness would explain a lot of the nonsense he ends up saying), though he also frequently talks with a fellow reporter played by James Yagi.  These scenes are not, perhaps, without their charms, but they also deaden the movie’s pacing, especially since nine times out of ten they exist mostly to reiterate stuff we already know because it literally just happened.  Given how much a faster pace seems to be one of the American cut’s top priorities (a sub-plot from the Japanese version about a submarine inadvertently encountering Godzilla is reduced to a single sequence for this version), that choice proves a counterintuitive one.

Because the other major problem with the American approach to this movie is that, to be frank, the Monster Action is nowhere near Epic enough to bear the weight this new cut puts on it.  Again, it’s not without its merits; Godzilla and Kong’s outsized personalities do a lot to lend even the less effective sequences a certain fun spirit, and there is still an unmistakably strong sense of craftsmanship to the miniatures used throughout the movie to create the appropriate sense of scale for our Monsters to play around in (the demolition of a recreation of Atami Castle shines a spotlight on that very fact).  But in terms of both their scope and their choreography, there’s just not enough There there; far too often, “King Kong VS. Godzilla”’s Big Marquee Action Scenes amount to the monsters just sort of lazily throwing rocks at each other, or else engaging in less-interesting recreations of their previous Iconic Moments (Kong especially goes through a truncated version of his original appearance’s third act, though here he ends up on top of the National Diet Building rather than the Empire State Building).  That’s slightly less of a problem in the Japanese version; again, there, the main thrust of the film lies in its comedy, and thus the Monster Action being relatively lightweight is less of a hinderance and more a spicy Flavoring to the main story.  But here, it is the main story, and while it’s pretty clear some real love went into the Effects Work (the puppetry especially is very solid; there are a few instances where the switch from Suit Actor to Puppet for Godzilla is borderline seamless, and I also enjoy the decently-animated feel of Kong’s facial puppet as well) it ultimately doesn’t have nearly enough substance to fill that role. This comes through especially clearly in the Final Showdown between the monsters; again, there is some deservedly iconic stuff here (Kong trying to shove a tree down Godzilla’s throat only to have it rebuffed in a puff of flames has become an impressively-enduring Meme for a reason) but, much like most of the story, winds up being driven far more by Contrivance than anything clever or satisfying (a bit where Kong knocks himself over feels especially annoying for how unmotivated it seems to be). It was always going to be a tall order to make a match-up with as much implicit weight to it (both metaphorical and literal) live up to the heightened expectations placed on it, maybe.  But even taking that into account, it’s hard not to feel like “King Kong VS. Godzilla” could have put a little more effort into things.

Still, I was saying, at the start, that I walked away from “King Kong VS. Godzilla” happier this time than in many of my past viewings.  And that is ultimately true: for as much as I find myself often wishing it could be a different movie, the movie it actually is already does manage to work decently well on its own terms.  The dub-work here in particular honestly deserves notice; in contrast to the standardized casts Toho would start using for most of its “Godzilla” movies moving forward, here we get a more distinctive sounding voice-cast who manage to put some real Life into their performances (the voice they give to Kenji Sahara’s Fujita stands out especially to me, nasally and over-earnest but capable of some real Fire when the moment calls for it, as befits the character).  And, again, whatever my beef with the Action Scenes, the actual portrayal of the Monsters really is uniquely fun (indeed, given how many other elements Toho would consistently crib from it, I’m often surprised that Godzilla’s distinctive body language throughout isn’t one of them), which winds up giving the movie enough Real Heart in the end to make it a positive Experience overall, even against the stuff that even now stands out to me as Not Up To Snuff.  At the very least, it’s a lot easier for me to recognize how and why this movie created the Legacy it did, even if the American Version makes a bit more of a mess out of it.  

[chlobenet]

– VIOLENT DELIGHTS  ☠️

Tensions were still high the morning after the ballet recital that had been held in Thomas Shelby’s grand home. Everyone was still reeling from the events of the evening; Linda’s dramatic arrival and subsequent shooting, Thomas’ less than sanitary or qualified removal of the bullet from Linda’s wound, Oswald Mosely’s rallying speech after the dramatic conclusion of the ballet and, of course, his subsequent propositioning of Genevieve Lock which struck chords of anger with just about every member of the extended Shelby family although none more so than Thomas Shelby himself.

The multitude of tensions came to a head when yet another family meeting was called - extended family included this time – at the Garrison Pub. Genevieve had been one of the first to arrive, having woken early the morning after the ballet and eaten breakfast in silence alongside Polly Gray. Although the two women had not spoken, a whole hoard of conversations had been had between the pair in glances alone. Perhaps it was the gypsy magic in Polly, the self-proclaimed gypsy queen, and perhaps it was rubbing off on Gennie Lock, but the more time she spent in the company of Shelby Company Ltd’s treasurer the less the pair spoke with actual words. They’d driven into the city together, parking directly outside the pub and relishing in the feeling of being back in the heart of Birmingham, back where they belonged, the moment they stepped foot outside the vehicle.

Other family members arrived in dribs and drabs, Charlie and Curly, Johnny Doggs, Aberama, Michael and his new American wife, Jeremiah Jesus and finally – at least twenty minutes after everyone else had been instructed to arrive – Thomas, Finn and Arthur Shelby pushed open the heavy double door and entered the pub. Arthur was already drunk, Gennie noted, or perhaps he had yet to sober from the night before. From the looks of things, he had drunk through the night, and it appeared to Genevieve as though he had no intention of stopping any time soon as he headed straight for the bar, grabbing a glass and a bottle of whiskey before pouring himself a large measure and downing it in one. He was pouring a second glass when Polly addressed him.

“Are you bearing up Arthur?” Polly asked.

“Bearing up for what?” Arthur took another gulp of whiskey and Gennie frowned. “Bearing up to be free Pol.” Arthur waggled a finger in his aunts’ direction as he polished off the last of the amber liquid from the glass. He was referring to his inevitable divorce from Linda, something that, whilst Gennie had always thought probably should happen, she never imagined that it ever would. Divorcing a Shelby man simply was not the done thing, or so it had been up until now.

Polly and Genevieve shared a glance, another of their silent conversations, before both women took a seat at the table where Michael and Gina were already seated. Arthur poured himself a third glass before he too sat down, offering Gennie a drunken smile as he did so.

“First of all…” Tommy spoke now, and all eyes shifted from his drunken older brother to Thomas himself, who stood at the far end of the room. “A welcome, to Mr Aberama Gold, he and Polly are to be married in three weeks with my blessing and so from now on, Aberama will be welcome at our meetings.” Gennie’s beaming smile stuck out like a rose amongst thorns in the dimly lit room. Despite the fact that she had already been told the news by both Thomas and Polly herself, it still filled her with such joy, an emotion that wasn’t often felt when in the company of the Peaky Blinders.

“Oh! How lovely,” Gen commented with a grin that the likes of Charlie and Johnny Doggs could not help but smile back at. How lovely indeed, they thought, to have someone as pure and innocent as little Gennie Lock around in times such as this.

“First item of business,” Thomas placed a hand on Gennie’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “A bereavement, Colonel Ben Younger, who may perhaps have become a member of this family was taken from us four days ago, by dark forced. We have made some investigations and we think we know who planted the bomb.”

Polly’s gaze was cast downwards as she reached for the bottle that Arthur had previously been nursing, she poured a small amount of whiskey into several glasses as Thomas spoke, motioning for those without glasses already to take one, which everyone did.

“In the meantime our thoughts are with Ada…and the baby inside of her, who may one day sit at these meetings but hopefully under happier circumstances.” He squeezed Gennie’s shoulder again, and she brought her hand up to rest atop of his, stroking her thumb gentle over the rough skin of his knuckles.

“Let’s drink to happier circumstances.” Polly suggested.

“Here, here.” Agreed Arthur.

“To Ada,” Gennie announced as she held her glass aloft. Around the room everyone else mirrored her movements.

“To Ada.”

Gennie threw the drink back in one gulp, grimacing slightly as the amber whiskey burned the back of her throat. Thomas drank too, though with much more ease than his wife who he watched frown as she placed her glass back down on the table.

“Item number two, an announcement,” Tommy gestured towards his cousin, “regarding Michael.”

At the sound of his name, Michael cleared his throat, placing his now empty glass on the table in front of him. “Before you go on, Tommy, there’s something I would like to say to the whole family directly. Regarding finances, and the future of this company.” Beside him, Gina did not meet a single persons gaze, instead she took a long drag from her cigarette and did her very best to look in any direction besides directly at Polly Gray who had taken to glaring so intently at her daughter in law that Gennie could swear that Pol’s eyes were boring a hole right through the petite American. “According to your own estimations,” Michael continued, “this new venture of the delivery and shipment of opium will bring into the company around two million pounds per year. Therefore, due to the amount involved, I think this company should be restructured -.”

“Michael.” Polly’s tone warned her son not to say another word. “I think this can wait until outside the family meeting.”

“Restructure in what way?” Thomas queried, his voice as calm as ever as he watched his young cousin carefully.

“Because of the amounts of money involved,” Gina spoke this time and Genevieve watched her through narrowed eyes from the opposite side of the table. “Shipment and dispatch will become the primary source of income for the company, it’s simple mathematics.” The American smiled, a small smug smile that caused a fire to erupt in the pit of Gennie’s stomach. Genevieve glanced up towards Thomas whose gaze was steely.

Michael stood, fixing straightening his suit and moving to stand behind Gina, both hands on either of her shoulders – a stance that mirrored Thomas and Genevieve on the opposite side of the table -before he spoke again. “With the help of my wife, I will organise an expansion into America where the narcotics business is just starting to grow. You see I have very good contact in Detroit…New York…Boston, who I’ve already spoken to about this. Gina has family who are very experienced in this kind of business, according to the conversations that I have had with them, with a regular supply of pure opium from China, within a short space of time, the American narcotics business will bring in twenty million dollars per annum. Enough money for you all to enjoy an easing of the burden that you now feel.” Around the room glances were exchanged, Arthur took another sip of whiskey but Thomas remained unmoving, his icy blue eyes never once faltering from his cousin who was trying his very best not to drop Thomas’ gaze. “You see I know that the scars and the wounds, they’re on the inside,” he tapped a finger against his head, “not on the outside. And as a member of the new generation, I am able to take that great burden off your weary shoulders, a new decade is coming there will be new opportunities in new territories, more money than we have ever had before. Tommy, you can still do the good work that you still want to do, you can be married, and live in that big house with your lovely wife…Gennie, you could finally start your own family.”

Thomas grip on Gennie’s shoulder tightened the moment Michael addressed her and Gennie simply frowned a response.

“Finn, you’ve proved yourself, you’re part of the new generation, you could come to New York with me.” Michael suggested, smirking at Thomas as he did so. After a moment he placed a neatly bound file of papers on the table in front of Tommy. “Here is my proposal, a full restructuring of the company, I will be managing director and you can be none executive chairman, but under an assumed name to protect your reputation. I found the name of a dead man, you will be registered as Mr Jones, you will each receive a percentage of the profits and you will no longer have to engaged in any of the associated activities.” He took a dangerous step closer to Thomas, an act which caused Genevieve to rise from her seat, partly in anticipation that Tommy might cut the younger man for his words, and partly out of sheer outrage at the complete lack of loyalty displayed by Michael Gray, despite everything the Shelby family had done for him. “Take a look at the future Tommy, at least read it with an open mind.”

Thomas retrieved the binder of papers, “It’s cold in here Michael.” He stated as he tossed the paperwork in the fire behind him, causing sparks to erupt and embers to float up the chimney, much to Curly’s delight who chuckled at the far side of the bar before being promptly silenced by Charlie. “Item number three…”

“Tell him the truth,” Gina Gray spoke coldly and both Gennie and Thomas’ gaze shifted from Michael to his wife. “Go on, he can take it.”

“Tell me the truth Michael…” Thomas’ words were a slow, dangerous, drawl.

“The American’s don’t want a deal with an old-fashioned backstreet razor gang, those days are done.”

“That same backstreet razor gang that gave you everything you have right now?” Genevieve spoke, and to her right, Arthur Shelby beamed a proud smile. “The backstreet razor gang who, without, you would be shovelling shit and working manual labour on a farm that you could never hope to inherit because you were nothing more than an orphan? That backstreet razor gang?”

“Gennie…” Michael’s use of her name was neither a caution, more a plea for her to stop talking. Instead, his words sounded confused, as though he was unsure why Genevieve Lock, a girl famed in Birmingham for her sweet nature and kindly disposition, was speaking to him in such a manner. “You know that I have no qualms with you Gen, you’re better than this family, you always have been.”

“This is my family.” Gennie spoke slowly, still dumbfounded by both her own bravery and Michael’s betrayal. “It was your family too, and you’d do well to remember that Michael.”

“Do you think John would have liked the woman you’ve become Genevieve,” there was an audible gasp in the room and Genevieve felt a lump rise in her throat so high that she thought she might choke on it. “Look at what this so-called family has turned you into.” As Michael spoke, Tommy snaked a protective arm around Gennie’s waist, instinctively pulling her closer to him, feeling her entire body trembling as he did so. He wasn’t sure if he was pulling her back, or stopping himself from lunging forward, perhaps it was both.  

“Tommy!” Isiah Jesus burst through the door, perhaps at precisely the right moment as Thomas Shelby wasn’t sure he’d have been able to restrain himself a second longer. “He’s bitten through the fucking rope, they’ve got him cornered but they need help.”

“Go and get him!” Tommy yelled, although he did not move. Around the room the various men lunged into action, standing from their seats and heading out the door to assist Isiah in restraining Barney. The pub was vacated by all by Michael, Thomas, Gina, Gennie and Polly in mere moments.

“I’m doing this for you Tommy.” Michael said slowly. “It’s time, and you know it. Mums leaving, John’s dead, Arthur needs help, Ada’s man was killed in your own back yard because you fucked up and your own wife…” In one quick movement Thomas grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and tossed it into the flames, the combustion of alcohol in the flames caused a small eruption and the fireplace glowed an angry orange for a second before the flames died down once more.

He squared up to Michael, despite Gennie clawing at him in an attempt to hold him back. Michael held a blade to his cousin, “Go on Tom, cut me, like the good old days.”

Thomas shook his head, no. “I gave you an opportunity Michael, you betrayed me, don’t be here when I get back.” He took a step backwards, holding a hand out to Genevieve which she gladly took. The pair didn’t spare Michael or his wife one last glance as they walked around him and towards the exit.

Gennie didn’t even look back as she heard the unmistakable sound of Polly Gray’s palm coming into contact with Michael’s cheek as she slapped her son hard across the face. 

[withastolenlantern]

The lobby to the Shinjuku police precinct was packed. A mass of bodies occupied the lobby, ebbing and flowing as uniformed officers dragged several men across the open area, their hands zip-tied together behind their backs, and many others stood or sat taking statements or arguing with Yokota assumed to be attorneys in a jumble of dialects and languages.

The hospital administrator hadn’t been particularly interested in the report of their findings. “It’s one old woman,” she’d cautioned Yokota. He protested, but to no avail. They were directed to destroy the sample and get back to more… productive pursuits. Midori was incensed, but the older doctor cautioned him to follow the directives. They autoclaved the remainder of the sample, except for the small remainder Yokota was carrying now.

The doctor approached the desk sergeant with confusion. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“What?” the sergeant yelled in response over the roar of activity.

“I said, ‘what’s going on?’ Is it always this busy here?” Yokota repeated, louder.

“Part of the refugee crisis,” the sergeant explained. He gestured toward the officers leading the handcuffed men. “Human traffickers. Port authority found an entire shipping container full of NorKs held in bond. These guys smuggled them out, but then were planning to sell them off to the Triad or boryuks. We’re having a hard enough time managing the regime collapse over there without having to deal with this crap too.” 

The banality of the officer’s explanation took Yokota somewhat aback. He supposed that the police eventually became inured to the plights of the common just as his profession had hardened him against some of the grotesqueries of human anatomy. It was an unpleasant if familiar thought.

“What are you here for?” he asked Yokota.

The doctor produced a sealed vial of what remained of the red fluid they had tested. “My name is Doctor Shinichiro Yokota with the Tokyo Medical University Hospital. I need to talk to someone about this. I think it’s a new kind of drug or something, and it’s very dangerous.”

The sergeant took the vial from Yokota’s hand and swirled it around slightly. “Don’t think I’ve seen this before. Where’d you get it?”

“I, uh…” the doctor stammered, suddenly realizing he’d purchased the drugs completely illegally. “We found it in the jacket pocket of a patient.”

The sergeant looked at him with brief skepticism, considering the situation carefully, until behind Yokota one of the zip-tied men kicked and struggled free of the two officers holding him at the arms. He sprinted toward the door, but collapsed quickly as three other officers drove him to the ground in a dogpile. “Baka,” the desk sergeant swore, clearly very tired. “Vice is on the third floor. Ask for Lieutenant Matsuzaki.” 

Yokota sighed with relief. “Thank you.”

He followed the sergeant's directions to the elevator bank and rode to the third floor. The doors parted and revealed an open floor layout of desks alive with a flurry of activity. Uniformed and plain-clothes officers milled about, carrying chipped ceramic mugs of coffee, holo tablets and paper folios, and wax cartons of noodles. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it reminded him of any regular office floor he’d seen before, with no jail cells or tattooed gangsters. He realized perhaps for the first time that unlike the drama and intrigue the police holo serials suggested, these officers were mostly just normal people going about what for them was a normal job. 

Yokota approached a man in a collared shirt and tie, a badge hung loosely around his neck. “Excuse me, I need to see Lieutenant Matsuzaki” he explained.

“You have an appointment?” the detective asked.

“I’m a doctor,” he explained, showing the man his hospital credentials. “It’s important.” 

The detective sighed, and then gestured for Yokota to follow. He led Yokota to an office near the corner of the building and paused in the doorway as the woman inside finished a call. She gestured them into the office as she terminated the call. “Somebody here to see you, ma’am. Says he’s a doctor.” 

“I don’t have any doctors on my schedule,” she replied, looking at the holo monitor on her desk.

“It’s urgent, ma’am,” Yokota insisted. “It’s about narcotics.”  

“You’ve got… five minutes,” she said, looking at the clock on her screen. “Thank you Tani, that’ll be all.” The detective left and the doctor took one of the two worn chairs in front of the lieutenant’s desk. The woman was middle-aged; perhaps in her early forties. Her jet black hair had started to go grey slightly at the temples, and she wore thin glasses in a navy cats-eye frame. The wall behind her was lined with commendations and photos of her shaking hands with other officers and dignitaries. Yokota felt he had come to the right place. He placed the vial onto the cracked formica surface along with his hospital ID. 

“Am I supposed to know what that is?” the woman asked.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me,” the researcher responded. “It’s some kind of new street narcotic. Opioid-based, from what I can tell.”

The lieutenant lifted the vial up to the light and peered into it. It sloshed thickly around the plastic as she rotated it. “Never seen it before. Where’d you get it?”

“An old woman came into the hospital a week ago. She expired quickly under strange circumstances. We found some in her jacket pocket.”

“What kind of strange circumstances?” she asked, putting down the vial. 

“She bled out, almost like she had some kind of hemorrhagic virus. I’ve never seen it before,” he explained. “We needed more information, so I bought this particular sample on the street.” 

The lieutenant arched her eyebrows in response. “You bought this?”

“For research purposes,” the doctor continued, ignoring the insinuation. “We did some more testing. There’s something strange in there. An enzyme that shouldn’t be. Some kind of… nano-mechanical structure. It kills people.” 

“Where did you get it?” she pressed.

“Abandoned warehouse of some kind, over in Roppongi.” He gave her the address, and she immediately went into a trance or fugue state. He couldn’t make out what she was saying, as she was subvocalizing into some kind of throat microphone, likely into a police-wide radio channel, but it was clear she was calling for officers to investigate the location. 

She returned to normality just as soon as she had left it. “Is this the only sample you have?”

“Yes,” the doctor half-lied. He’d kept the vial he found in his son-in-law’s bag, and stored it in the freezer in his apartment. He told himself that it was valuable to his investigation, and that it would only do more harm than good to drag his family into it. Those justifications did not come without shame; history was rife with disasters when those with power or knowledge chose to put themselves above the moral good. But his daughter was all he might have left, soon, and his selfish impulses outweighed all else.

“Okay. Walk me through this again,” she instructed with a healthy amount of skepticism. “Someone is selling these new opiates on the open market, and they’re cut with some kind of… chemicals?”

“An esterase. It’s an enzyme that breaks down polymers,” he corrected.

“...and some kind of nano-whatever…”

“Tungsten-based MEMS device.”

“...that you think is killing people? And this is all based on a theory from one old lady?” the lieutenant finished.

Yokota frowned. “When you say it like that it sounds crazy.”

“Okay, so you hear it too. I’ve worked vice for the metropolitan police for seventeen years. I’ve never once seen what you’re describing. I’m sure you’re an excellent researcher, but...” she trailed off back into her trance state.

“Lieutenant…?” he asked after a moment.

She snapped back instantaneously. “The uniformed officers we dispatched to the warehouse say it’s completely empty. No traces of anything illicit.”

“That’s impossible,” Yokota gasped.

The lieutenant sighed. She put her hands down onto her desk gently and sat up straight. She looked him in the eye with an expression he knew all too well; it was the same he’d given his grand-daughter and daughter before her when he was about to explain something he knew they’d rather not hear. “Look, Doctor, I understand your concern. But even if what you say is true, which I’m not convinced of, what would you like me to do about it? Drug cases are tough to pursue, and our resources are thin right now. I assume you passed through the lobby and saw our current ‘refugee’ problem. I just don’t have the officers to spare chasing a theory. Can you provide me a dealer, besides the one who ‘disappeared’? A source of supply?”

“...I cannot,” he replied sheepishly.

“Then I think we’re through here. I appreciate you coming forward with this, but if and until you have more concrete evidence, or something more than speculation, then come back to me. Leave the sample, if you want. We’ll certainly catalogue it for now.” Her tone wasn’t dismissive so much as it was one of pure disregard, and it told him there was no point in leaving anything here, lest he never see it again.

“Thank you for your time,” Yokota replied and got up to leave. He slid the sample back into his pocket, and exited the lieutenant’s office. As he walked to the elevator, he noticed the detective he’d spoken to earlier; he appeared to be eyeing the doctor closely as he spoke into an earpiece attachment for his mobile.

The doctor entered the elevator and pushed the button for the ground floor. The doors closed, and he slammed his fist against the wall in frustration. How could he have been so foolish? It was folly to assume he would be believed. This was not the same world he had been brought up in, one of order and morality. This was a new world, now, of chaos and imbalance. What was the value of one woman’s life, so old and frail and driven to desperation? Would his death too be so callously discounted? Perhaps that was why Tomoko had walked out into the bay and never come back; to spare herself this unbecoming. He resigned himself to toss away the sample when he returned to the hospital, and be done with this whole misadventure. 

He exited the police station and lit a cigarette.The Shinjuku precinct was only a half block across the Kita Dori from the hospital, and he wanted to steady his nerves before returning to work. He noticed a man directly across the precinct entry awning, hovering about, also smoking and half-heartedly staring at his mobile. Every once in a while he glanced up toward Yokota, careful never to make eye contact. 

The doctor stamped out his cigarette on the concrete and started to cross the street. As he waited for the pedestrian crossing indicator to turn, he saw the man similarly put out his butt and follow to the intersection. The light changed, and the doctor crossed rapidly, trying to appear nonchalant. Perhaps it was simply residual paranoia for telling half-truths to the police, but he felt suddenly very aware of his surroundings. 

The man hurried across the street behind Yokota, several meters back, and followed as he started up the street toward the hospital. The man was walking with purpose now, faster, and clearly staring at Yokota. The doctor quickened his pace, and he saw the man panic and break into a sprint. 

As they approached the hospital, Yokota cut right and ducked down the stairs into the Nishi-Shinjuku Metro station. He topped his rail pass to the turnstile and hurried through the terminal, looking behind to see the man fumbling in his pockets for his own IC card. Yokota spring across the platform and quickly squeezed through the throngs of other passengers into the Marunouchi Line train just as the doors closed. The train lurched into motion, and saw the man left stranded on the platform, huffing and pulling out his mobile.

[executive-geneticist]

Bad End?~

You’ve Met with a Terrible Fate, Haven’t You?

-You did it.

-After months of agonizing over it, weighing your options, looking down into yourself to map out the strength of your resolve and convince yourself that you even could, you did it. With hands that trembled with terror or excitement you couldn’t tell, you finally managed to take your own life.

-It had been insufferably easy, really. The soft spot that Petrel had for you made plying him with alcohol and slipping into his personal cache of narcotics so laughably simple, you wondered why you hadn’t done it months ago. You had the decency to leave his office, to go and hide in the shadows of your quarters and lock the door lest anyone interrupt you too early. You knew you would only get one shot at this and you didn’t want to run the risk of getting caught.

-You couldn’t bear the thought of him finding you. Of his hands wandering your limp, lifeless form. Of him injecting you with liquid life and stealing away the freedom you worked so long to take.

-In the pitch blackness of your room– as you rocked, teetered between this world and next– you heard the voices of long-dead friends whisper enticingly to you.

FORWARD

-Flashes of red hair and the smell of cinnamon and a low tenor promising you it would be alright.-

BACKWARD

-Crisp, cold pain that envelops your body and exhales through your mouth in shades of blue.-

FORWARD

-A fond, loving laugh that tells you to stop being scared; they’re waiting for you.-

BACKWARD

-Black and white splotches and so much red, too much red, you can feel the heat of it in your gullet.-

FORWARD

-Featherlight hands cup your face, a brilliant smile shines like stars in your blurry vision, and with a soft kiss, you let warm, familiar arms take you into the safety of their embrace.-

-For a time, you existed as nothing. Just a spec of scattered dust floating in a windless, starless night sky. It was beautiful and though it was equally empty, you were certain you were in Heaven. There was no beginning and no end. No life or death. Neither god nor goddess. You were alone in your afterlife but you were happy.

-For a time.

-In a place where time ought not have existed, you found yourself growing bored of it, restless. You could not gauge the endless nothing around you and were bound in your place as an aimless atom riding in the waves of some primordial sea. You wanted to stretch your arms, to swim against the current which held you anchored in place, but no matter how hard you tried, you were helpless to deny the weight upon your chest. You cried out in unending frustration, trapped in merciless motionlessness until your mind slowly began to unravel.

-You begged for forgiveness, begged for release. You entertained the thought of Hell, of being a prisoner in a sightless landscape as punishment for your misdeeds, for surviving where others had perished. You prayed in your desperation, offering everything you were for even a chance at escape, at freedom. The irony that death had become a prison no better than the life you lead was not lost on you.

-Silence answered your call for days, months, years. You felt the tightness in your chest press further down, suffocating you in your chains. You wanted to scream, but the feeling of being tethered stole the breath from you, adding silent voicelessness to your sentence.

-When the first instance of sound came thundering to yours ears, you cried out in shock and agony. The vacuum of silence was stolen and replaced with high-pitched, short, steady repetitions that at first made your ears bleed and your eyes weep with painful tears. In all your memories, you couldn’t place a single sound it reminded you of for it was too shrill for drums, too short for song, too rhythmic for sentences.

-It dawned on you too late what the noise really was.

-Beeping, rhythmic and strong, getting dreadfully stronger with each passing moment. The darkness around you faded in slow increments, shades of grey and pale white bleeding through the Great and Endless Nothing. You felt heavy at first, the anchor that once held you place struggling to fight against the sudden current. Slowly you began to fall, then all at once you were racing downward, barreling at top speed toward something like solidity and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

-The light of the hospital room burned your eyes and you tried to shield them with an arm that only made it halfway. The needles and tubes stuck to your hand kept your arm from rising to greet you but the other was locked firmly in a bracelet of iron tethering you to the bed lest you try to escape.

-Not that your attempts would have meant anything anyway, if the forboding figure of a tall white and blue man to your right told you anything. You didn’t want to look at him, to see the look on his face, but curiosity got the better of you and you turned all the same.

-You regretted your decision immediately.

-The cold, icy stare that met your own spoke volumes of your misdeeds. Not the ones that had driven your hand to suicide in the first place– no, he would scoff at you and call you weak for letting guilt and shame ruin what little value you had. No, it was the disappointment of the attempt itself that twisted his eyes and slowed his breathing. Archer Apollo could not be said to be an emotive man, but in your years together, you had come to recognize his tells all the same. At first glance, he might look only like a concerned family member staying at the side of your comatose form, but in reality… it was the way his pupils were dilated. The way his nostrils were flared ever so slightly.

-He was angry, well and truly angry, and you were certain you’d only ever seen him so once. Then, it had been the day you walked in with the hand of Giovanni’s son wrapped in yours. Then, it had been the last day you’d ever see Silver alive.

-You felt a shudder slide up your spine at the look, at the memory, and before you could utter a single word of apology, you threw up all down the front of yourself.

-He was up and away with such catlike grace you might have admired it if you didn’t feel the weight of your mistake holding you down. He looked down at you from his considerable height and you saw the way his upper lip curled in disgust. Whatever words might have threatened to spill over pursed lips had you ever seen him angry enough to slip the mask? were forgotten as he simply turned on his heel and left.

-His absence felt no better than his disappointed presence.

-Days passed and you recovered, a physician in Rocket’s employ explaining that you’d died– twice– before they managed to stabilize you, pump your stomach, and replace your self-inflicted poison with clean and revitalizing fluid. Archer, as it turned out, had overseen much of the procedure himself and you hated the way that conditioned Little Bird fluttered its wings in joyful adoration at the thought. Whatever care he had provided you when you were on the brink, however, seemed spent because you recovered in the solitude of the hospital wing, still cuffed to the bed.

-It was the middle of the night when you felt the strange sensation of floating. You thought at first it was only a dream, a lingering memory of whatever purgatory you’d been cast into. It was almost pleasant. Until you heard the clack-clack-clack of steps behind and above you.

-And you’d know the sound of those steps anywhere.

-You were surprised by how difficult it was to pry your eyes open to look at your surroundings. Warmth swam in your veins and made your head swim right along with it and you struggled to focus your eyes long enough to actually see anything. In the dimly lit hallway, you could just make out his shape and the shape of an IV drip dangling from its cradle. The florescent lights flicked dully through the plastic bags, making it apparent the fluid was clear.

-You had to close your eyes from the strain of looking too long. There was a low ringing in your ears and shutting off one of your senses seemed to strengthen the other because you realized it wasn’t ringing. Archer was humming. It occurred to you that you’ve never heard him do so before, not even so much as a simple drumming of his fingers or tapping of his foot. You were filled with equal parts undeniable dread and awe at the thought of being witness to something so rare from a man like him.

-The admiration melted into stone cold terror as you heard the unmistakable click of a door being opened and you realized where you were. The lab was silent save for the soft sound of Archer’s song, eerie in the quiet and yet somehow sad and melancholy and though you wanted to look longer at your surroundings, you were plunged into blinded darkness when the overhead lights burned to life.

-You could hear Archer step away in time with the feeling of teetering vertigo finally easing and you realize it had all been from him pushing your hospital bed. The cuff on your arm clattering against the rail told you that, yes, you were still bound to the bed even if you somehow managed to struggle against the lingering weightlessness that seized your body. With a moan, you tried to say something or move but quickly found yourself inching back toward unconsciousness.-

Oh? Are you awake? I rather thought the sedative I gave you would keep you knocked out longer. Ah, well. It doesn’t matter much in the end, does it?

-If he expected an answer, you didn’t have the strength to formulate one. Instead, you searched the room for him, desperate and pleading for answers with your eyes. As if reading your mind, he appeared at your side, one hand resting on the bed rail, the other running soft fingertips along the inside of your cuffed arm.-

I have to tell you, I don’t know if I’m more impressed or infuriated by that little stunt you pulled. I was convinced I had finally broken you to my will, that you were finally the obedient little bird I worked so hard to mould you into. That you managed to not only hide the truth from me, but even enlist Petrel in your schemes is so utterly delightful in hindsight, I almost considered letting you go as a reward.

-Hope and happiness leapt into your heart at those words, at the mere prospect that he might have considered it. You cursed at your inability to speak, for perhaps with the right words, you could convince him the rest of the way.

-That hope was dashed when your eyes met his and his fingers tightened painfully around your wrist.-

But then I realized what was at the heart of the issue: your disobedience, your duplicitousness, your desperate attempt to escape where you belonged.

-His eyes bored into yours and suddenly you realized you couldn’t close them or look away if you wanted. Your heart fluttered in terror in your chest and you wanted to thrash and resist, but your limbs felt a thousand miles away.-

Now, I must admit, it’s not entirely your fault. It was my training, after all, that failed to achieve the desired results. However, I fear I find myself at something of a loss. I’ve tried everything I know how to do to convince you of your place, to give you a life worth living from within the cage I carefully selected and erected around you. And yet nothing I’ve done has seemed to help you let go of those things that no longer matter. As it stands, I cannot let you go and simply accept the failure of this experiment and I can no longer trust you to exist peacefully in my care.

-Panic spread slowly, sluggishly from your fickly beating heart. It was like ice had settled in your ribcage and trickled out into your veins. You shook your head, or tried, and pleaded with your eyes for forgiveness. All you wanted was a second chance, but your tongue would not unstick from between your teeth.-

To kill you, of course, would be no different than letting you go and giving you what you want is too much of a reward for the punishment you so deserve. I spent the weeks you were laid up in the hospital devising some kind of response, some fitting consequence for your betrayal and still… nothing. My disappointment simply knows no bounds and I’ve grown… bored of this back and forth game.

-Tears flowed freely down your cheeks and you would have sold your soul to this devil for only a chance to apologize, to offer up anything and everything you have and are to make amends. He smiled as if to comfort you. It didn’t.-

Don’t worry, my little bird. I haven’t given up on you entirely. I simply lack the means to teach you… at this moment. Perhaps, in the future, I’ll learn something new or have some epiphany about your training and we can begin again. In the mean time…

-He heaved a sigh like a man whose infinite patience was being tested, disappointment laden in every measure of breath that left him.-

I have spent more time at your side, waiting for your recovery than I would like to admit. Operations have slowed with the need for my underlings to take up my slack and I simply cannot have that continue for your sake. And yet I cannot let you roam freely without knowing you are safely tucked away where I can find you at all times. As such, I believe I have found a happy medium to solve both our problems.

-You managed a low, gutteral groan, sorrowful and defeated. You lifted your hand, fingers clasping and grasping for his. The smile he turned on you might have matched your sorrow if you didn’t know better. He felt nothing more than inconvenienced, or perhaps restrained joy for the excuse to finally ‘play’ in the lab with you at long last. Whatever he felt or didn’t, the comforting strokes of his fingers along your jaw did nothing to alleviate the pit of despair in your gullet.-

I promise, it will be as simple and painless as going to sleep. You’ll feel a little stick, a little cold, and then you’ll just drift off to sleep. I’ve taken care of everything so there’s no pain.

-He stroked your cheek one last time before stepping from the hospital bed and turning his attention to a tray just beside where you lay. Frantic, your gaze darted from his back to the cuffs holding your wrist in place. You knew from the days spent in recovery that you couldn’t reach your free hand with the one stuck in the cuff but the IV drip made motion with that hand nearly impossible. The added lethargy from the sedative made everything feel like lead and you were certain your limbs wouldn’t respond to your commands.

-It appeared, however, that the adrenaline was quickly replacing the slowing sedative with jittery energy and your fingers flexed and curled when you tried to move them. Tugging on the lengths of tubes to reach so the cuffed one could yank you free was slow going, but you nearly wept with triumph when the outstretched fingers felt plastic and tugged. Pain ripped up the length of your arm, but you were free, you were one step closer to escape and nothing else mattered. For a moment, your victory felt hollow as you had no way of knowing how to escape the cuffs, but then a memory, sharp and crisp and clear, came to mind; Proton sat across a table from you, waiting to be interrogated. He’d been cuffed to the chair with his arms behind his back. A mistake, you learned, as he snapped the bones of his thumb and slipped free. The bruises he’d left you with were severe, the imprint of the chair back clearly outlined against your spine.

-It would be difficult, but so long as he kept his back to you, you had time. You could do this. Your wrist and palm muscles trembled as you grasped the digit in your hand and gripped sharply. It would hurt, God it would h u r t, but you’d be free. Perhaps you could take him by surprise. Lock him in the lab. Something, anything. You just needed a c h a n c e.-

Now, now, my little bird. We both know better than that, don’t we? The only one allowed to break your wings is me.

-He was standing over you before you’d even noticed that he’d turned and he was pulling your weak, grasping hand away from your cuffed thumb and you wept to see that your grip was barely tight enough to change the color of your skin. It wasn’t until after the panic subsided that you realized it: pain was seeping from a spot in your cuffed arm, trickling out along the length of the limb. You watched in horrified fascination as the pain spread, turning from sharp, invasive threads of agony to icy, chilling cold.-

There, now. No more struggling. Just a little ice bath and then we can begin the final step.

-His palm caressed your forehead, brushing clammy strands of brunette from your forehead. He stared for a long moment at your prone form, something like sorrow tugging at his lips, before he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your mouth.

-Under better circumstances, you might have thought about biting his lips. Under better circumstances, you might have recoiled. But under these circumstances, the only thing you could think about was the crawling spider’s legs of cold inching from your shoulder to left breast to your clavicle.

-It coiled, stretched, sought with predatory precision, spread out across to your other arm, the elbow, the wrist. You tried to move, intermittent shivers just beginning to take hold, desperate to fight this inevitability or somehow prove it wasn’t happening. A choked sob managed to slip past your lips, cracked and bluish as the cold took root in your face. It brought tears to your eyes, trickled cold drops of anguish down your cheeks as they lost all signs of warm, red life.

-Your breathing slowed and you realized, for probably the first time, he’d told you the absolute truth. There was only a slight prick, a bit of a cold sensation, and now… now you felt like going to sleep. Some meager, tired part of your brain sent up warning bells, reminding you that sleeping in the cold was the fastest way to die of hypothermia. For a moment, you found the will to fight again, but then you realized he was humming that song again. It was pleasant, soft and soothing and you thought you’d like nothing better than to listen to him hum you a lullaby every night for the rest of your life.

-The cold had reached your thighs now, you could tell because you were shivering all over and you could just see the way your toes trembled violently in your blurring vision. Every muscle in your body felt like they were seizing at once with each tremor that rocked you. You wondered briefly if this was what being trapped beneath fallen snow was like.-

Your body has started to cool. I’m sorry if the tremors are too much. They’ll pass soon enough. Now comes the tricky part. Don’t worry. I’ve done this before. You’re in good hands.

-He returned to a table in the same direction as the tray of tools he’d been to before. There was a long, deep plastic tray that was set on the floor just in reach of the bed. With a speculative hum, he considered the steps he would take next.-

You see, little bird, in order to preserve you and keep your body safe, I’m going to be draining the blood from your veins and replacing it with fluid. The fluid will keep you in a state of perfect sleep and preservation until such a time that I feel I can more successfully train you. Think of it like… Princess Aurora of Sleeping Beauty.

Have you seen it? No? Well, Unovan films have never been a favorite of mine either.

But fret not.

-He leaned in to whisper against your skin, cheek pressed to your forehead.-

I will be here to wake you with a kiss.

-Despite the cold, you could feel your heart clenching with panic once more, worsening as he stepped to the tray and plucked a thick needle from it. To it, he attached a long clear tube that fastened in place and stretched down the length between your cuffed arm and the container. Without warning or preamble, the needle was slipped into the artery which twined across the crook of the your elbow. The lack of pain surprised you, but your chest felt like it was being crushed beneath an invisible weight as blood poured from the needle, through the tube, and drip-drip-dripped into the long, rectangular bucket. Each swell of fresh terror thickened the droplets that fell and you watched them splash with increasing speed out from your body and gone forever.

-As you watched with sick fascination, you hardly noticed the prick of the IV being replaced in your hand or the sting of freezing fluid being fed into your veins. Now, despite that the beats of your heart slowed and lengthened between each repetition, the blood flowed freely without impediment, forced out by the replacement fluid. With every moment that passed, you felt your eyelids droop, your breathing slow. You fought against these feelings, desperate to stay awake, but each drop of blood that left you seemed to take your resolve with it. Tears flowed in time with the blood and further blurred your darkening vision, until, at last, sleep stole over you and the world slipped away. As you went, you could hear the quiet humming beginning to form into words that sang you off to sleep.-

Our wrongs remain unrectified…

And our souls won’t be exhumed.

-BAD END-

[themarielaalves]

war of the alves’.

date & time: tonight, the opening ceremony gala.

location:  ravenwood university, ofc.

tagging: @phoenixalexanders, @diego--cruz @nadinedahl @emoryjeffers  & mariela and her family.

notes: a para that’s been needed to come out.

Mariela Alves had arrived to the Gala that evening with a mission. She was going to declare her independence from her father. She would not be his eyes and ears to Ravenwood University anymore. She wanted nothing to do with his operation in Rosewood, as it went against everything she stood for. 

She’d worked hard to earn the respect of those around her. To not be seen as some giant fuck up or a mistake. And with her father back in Rosewood, she felt as if everything he was doing was leading to one big blow up. One she was not going to be apart of, one she’d never wanted to be a part of. 

So as she sat at the Alves table, her finger circling the top of her champagne flute— her mind just wandered. She just thought of all of the shit her father had put her through since his arrival. 

She’d been forced to move narcotics for him, she’d had to pretend to be the face of this great charity when really, he was just using it as a cover for his shady business and then, he’d tried his hardest to make her boyfriend a part of this world. The man who’d provided her an escape from this all, he could have easily become another... him.

Luckily Phoenix had come to his senses long before that came to fruition, but Mariela had overheard how furious her father had become when he knew he couldn’t use Phoenix as his little pawn. It was late and Mariela had just snuck into the house after a night out with Emory, one she’d desperately needed to clear her mind off of how her life was essentially the Godfather at this time. 

As she made her way towards her room, she heard her father. Anger in his voice, expletives leaving his mouth. But then she heard the voice of someone else, a voice she knew far too well. Nadine Dahl. That’s what caused Mariela to stay back as she needed to know why her father was upset and why Nadine Dahl of all people was consoling him. 

Her father vented out his frustrations. How his operation wasn’t moving as quickly as he’d wanted. He let Nadine know that she’d let him down. She was suppose to secure Diego Cruz and those who followed him. She was suppose to deliver him the perfect little army, the Greasers she assumed. But everyone knew Nadine hadn’t done that, but as she let it be known... she did manage to get Diego out of the way before letting him know he hadn’t come through on his end.

What was her father suppose to do?

She could see the anger in his face, before he threw his glass towards the wall. He let her know that he knew he’d fucked up. How was he suppose to know that Phoenix would quit on him. What she’d overheard next shocked her. Her father had wanted to bring up Phoenix to be a potential candidate at the next election. Sure, it would have been a long game but the rewards would have been well worth it. The hometown boy, made the most of his upbringing to be one of Rosewood’s brightest minds. Athletic, charming and in love with his daughter. It was perfect.

And what was worst, a third voice in the room spoke up. Her mother’s. Who suddenly appeared in Mariela’s view, consoling her father. Letting him know that nothing was set in stone. The young boy might have quit on them then but perhaps, they’ll find a way to bring him back around. Mariela would find a way to bring him back around.

Mariela’s attention returned to the glass in front of her, she watched as the bubbles fizzled and popped. She suddenly felt a pair of hands on her shoulders, Mariela didn’t have to look up to know it was her father. She looked up at him, he bore that charming grin of his. Through it, he spoke of what a disaster tonight had been. 

“Maybe we can turn it around with a dance?” Mariela asked him, nodding. “You and me, come on.” She smiled as she stood up from her seat and downed the contents of her glass. 

Her father agreed and he led her onto the dance floor. Once upon a time, Mariela would have been ecstatic at the opportunity to dance with her father. Not many people knew this, but it was her parents who’d inspired her to dance. They always appeared to be at their happiest when they danced. 

“Papai,” Mariela referred to her father as they swayed on the dance floor. “eu não posso mais fazer isso.” She told him, which translated to ‘I can't do this anymore‘. 

He asked her what she was referring to and she told him everything she knew, everything she’d seen and heard. She told him since he’d returned into her life, all he’d brought was chaos and destruction and she was no longer going to standby and let him do what he pleased. Not when it came to her life. 

Mariela had been expecting his well-known temper to flare up, but instead he smiled. He nodded, she was truly his daughter he said. She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering why he was so pleased with himself. She’d just told him that she didn’t want anything to do with him and he was smiling. 

Her father leaned in close to her ear and asked her if she’d checked up on Phoenix anytime soon. The hairs at the back of her neck stood up. He pulled back, the charming smile of his suddenly sinister. Mariela looked at him before stomping down on his foot, if her declaration hadn’t been driven home before. It certainly was now. 

Mariela made her way through the dance floor to get away from her father.  She knew her life as it’d been the last couple of months was now over. But she had more pressing matters, like where was Phoenix?

[sidpah]

Self-Portrait

I’m too late, ‘cause I’ve already given it all away… I would have you see a different man than the one who types in a foreign land touched by the meddling hands of a dozen different peoples, not looking to trade their culture’s wisdom but to strip the land of all that was of value… I’m as exhausted as these trampled streets, these thrashed jungles infested with foreign soldiers protecting their investments of ruby mines and narcotic crops… These filthy marketplaces mirroring the worst of the west… I feel this land’s pain, sweaty, asshole on fire from weapons-grade curry… Feet bare and stained black from disintegrating sandal felt smelling vaguely of stale vinegar…

One worn mala on left wrist strung from a seed whose name I’m too tired to recall... Night steals precious chemicals of communication… Ramakrishna? Ramirez? Rudraksha! Seeds are homage to a rival deity, Shiva. But he can’t be my rival because I’m a loner, no member of a team. I have no church, no faith, no dogmatic practice…

There are no gods left in Sidpah… they’ve all been driven into the sea… In their place is an amorphous web of beliefs constantly respun to create fresh, deceptively vibrant yet undeniably asymmetrical patterns… Sneezing. Spittle web strung from this bulldog face.

This is not how I would have you envision me. Not ten pounds overweight. Or twenty. Not greasy-scalped and hairy-shouldered. Not in boxers three days worn. Not with fresh semen dripping down inside of chaffed leg. Not delirious or deliriously lonely. Not a fermented berry of a man… Not wrung like a wrong number or my hands on a too-hot, two-handjob sleepless night of grey panel torture and anxiety whispers from the dark hollow faces cursing my room... There’s hardly a man to be seen. Sure, there’re fingers and hormones and tree sprouts of white matter, but this vacancy is my truest fingerprint…

Maybe I’m a long way from knowing anything of value – Maybe all these garish visions are only detours – Mara’s little tricks to keep me from realizing that he doesn’t even exist – From realizing how content I could remain, entwined in vines running tree cloud to packed sod – Kusa grass and prayers are sustenance – Filled with admiration for the holy, I feel lazy and defective. Unable to live up to my own nobility –

Body’s a common machine with subtly varied proclivities – This unit spins on tales of letters and adjectives – faulty electronics, broken strings, healed strangers expecting repetitious miracles… It refuses to sit on cushion for more than a few minutes of banal torture –

Who can I lie to but myself? I’m a bear born in the year of the horse who would rather be a bird cutting the sky over a tropical island free and clear. A bachelor, tried, tested and confirmed – Allow yourself to be there – The backs of my hands look offensively large and rough under this light. They’ll sink like a stone. Shatter a keyboard or a cheekbone. Split a vein down the middle. Play an ugly one-stringed melody. Too rarely thumb bodhi seed mala and chant for purity. Too rarely fold into mudra for health or circulation of prana. Never stroke her cheek, or twist knots in her auric hair, or slip surreptitiously beneath silk blouse... They’re always rough sand mortar and burlap, unwieldy bricks in a room of June bugs. And they are but one-twentieth of the whole… Our best features are sometimes the most ungainly –

Nothing can make you feel more self-conscious than an unsolicited portrait. Well here is my self-portrait whether I like it or not: My bones have turned russet from sweat and oil.  Tanned skin is painted to walls in gobs of brown and red…  Tribal tattoos – Whose tribe are they?  Hoary old stalactites…  I’m all moles and telengiectasia – Red spots threaten bloodletting – Black dots threaten melanoma – Porous brown bones contemplate fractures deprived of nutrients or forced upon by physical labor – Brain lies in wait for AVM to seize its chance – Colon responds same spastic way to grease, parasite or imaginary humiliation – Eyes grow longer causing me to see things closer and closer – Hair follicles poisoned by drugs, recreationally pharmaceutical, or maybe genetics, give up their will to push – Gums infected ruby red rather than healthy coral, so says dentist. Veins are thick with stony plaque – Torso (most dangerous place) thick with roll of collected fat – Heart overworked and underpaid – Adrenal glands jacked up, depleted, now wilted and suffering, unable to respond with proper chemical dialogue – Convenient codified diagrams of peptide sound – Sinuses full and swollen shut, fine steroid mist unable to penetrate packed cavity – Lungs full of soot and yellow phlegm –

Every cell now thriving, still dying – Skin losing elasticity – Will losing control over mind – Erection still works, though one testicle aches like it’s being tapped continually by a tiny spoon – Mandible muscles tight, jaw crunches clicks, teeth grind with stress or over-taught concentration watching repetitions of breath – Blood cells becoming ineffectual against infection – Antibodies awaiting a battle they will eventually lose – Thus far, all wars have been successfully fought – winning streaks can’t last forever – And still I manage to sit and laugh – this trivial life away –

I’m a fictional beast, leaden of feet and shaggy of back. Reptilian face and beady squint eyes size up each flickering movement for a taste of prey I pray never to taste. A pitiful mirror painted on fat chest reflects the vulgarities of the external world, ignoring the vulgar black tain of my own soul...

Disbelief in my own soul reflects the myopia of others that I live to destroy, condemning them to feel equally base – And I grin knowingly, all the while knowing nothing...

Fixating on microscopic sensation of flesh, the intangible workings of my own conscious thoughts… I dwell until they are their own universes, fashioning civilizations of bigotry, torture and carcinogens. I can see clearly with distaste every vile behavior yet reenact, reenact, justify and reenact them all until I swoon from degradation, frustration, stupidity and self-pity...

I can never be a martyr because I lack a cause. Mild disinterest, no more acerbic than a warm glass of soymilk. I’m neither political nor spiritual. Not even secular because I don’t believe in distinctions. I’m a realist who finds all phenomena to be thoroughly unreal... I will leave nearly all stones unturned and all books unread. The meager knowledge accumulated in my lifetime just so many dusty trinkets in a collapsing display case. One leg bound to give out and destroy the few items of relative value buried within... Whose gain? Whose loss? I’m a beggar for salvation. But I’m too proud to take a teacher’s charity... Lift my head to the warm eclipse of Sunrays, devastating in their splendor… And degraded I sigh, sheepishly grin, and turn away where my mind fondles something or someone else, distracting itself from the fact that I will never be attractive to society…

I’m a rare beast. I know what I want and also why I shouldn’t want it. It doesn’t curtail the cravings, but it makes me feel guilty and ridiculous for desiring them in light of this knowledge… Like lusting for a hammer when you have to drive a screw into the wall. Like lusting for a screwdriver when you have no walls or screws. I’m an unfortified mess…

What is a mess? These parts are not this man. There’s no man, but a mash of aggregates held in six-foot net – And these parts are not eternal. They are already replaced! Even this outer shell replaced every twenty-eight days! These transient parts are not even these parts! They are particles of energy with no essence to be ashamed of!

My atoms are shinier than your atoms! My electrons are faster than your electrons! My protons look better in a bikini! My neutrons have reached higher states of meditative bliss!

My anger is crimson and molten as your anger. My love as passionate and fleeting as your love, and my wisdom as deep and true as your wisdom. It’s only our learning, stilted and prejudiced that keeps us from knowing this. That keeps me from knowing that I am not these emotions. I am not these colors, melanin, blood, bile, iron…

I am not this face or hands or organs, not this beard, or these callused soles. I am not a brain running strings of 0s and 1s. I am not recollections of old escapades, not every movie watched or novel read with this body placed in role of protagonist – I am not a list of preferreds, a list of don’t-likes, a list of aspirations, a list of disappointments to be avenged, or sulked upon each day to keep their memories alive – flowers on their headstones… I am not the photograph friends, family, acquaintances carry in their tattered wallets – The image they try to bind me to expecting a scripted response to their own erratic behaviors… Unaware that they are not they as much as I am not I. And I am not an I – I am a We, I am an Us, I am a No! I am a Bah! I am infinitely manageable, malleable, fallible…

My mistakes are empty as all the things I ever got right and then wished like hell I hadn’t... All the battles I ever thought I won. All the dreams I ever woke from disappointed to be awake... Cravings repressed until the cauldron boiled over, and I binged night and day until the urges were sated –(Mara kicked back with a cigar and a smug grin…) All the technology I bought then broke, couldn’t find a use for, discarded or lost on dusty shelves in a cluttered basement – All those times I was inches from death, and relieved, died anyway, unbeknownst to this pathological brain – It can’t comprehend that I’ve already perished, that I’m eternally here, already in my final and only and everlasting incarnation as a sublime manifestation of life eternally creating itself – But if it can’t comprehend it, how was it thought, considered, written, embraced, known? I am more than any of us will ever understand. And maybe this is all there is to know –

[crstapor]

Why I am so Cynical

“I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”  - Zarathustra

Part 3

Let me stop shouting - sometimes I get carried away. Because it needs be clearly stated that my perspective on the matter at hand is not based solely on 'personal' experience (of course one can never deny the importance such datum possess!) but also 'phenomenological' experience, which is, clearly, a different animal altogether. That this menagerie has informed my thought will surprise no-one who's ever tried it; thinking, I mean. How else, if one is being as honest as possible, can one arrive at any conclusions whatsoever? While the first part of this essay waxed rather subjectively poetic, allow me to offer this third as a sort of empirical respite. Facts, good reader, let me proffer facts to further found my cynicism most severe.

But let me first define the scope these facts will express. The working title for this missive to minds who want to think was 'A Polemic against American Modernity'. Allowing that my interests, here, lie not north to Canada or south of Texas, the parameters of this diatribe should be well understood by all with even meager cartographic skill.  

Superficial perhaps I've structured these facts into three distinct phenomena; the surface, the self, and the symbol. I do so not to make any sweeping ontologic distinctions or assertions, rather, to help me think through them. System-building is not my purpose here - system-analysis is. The facets of modern America culture were well in place before I came along, and, unless I'm completely mistaken, I've done little to add to or enhance any of them. Apart from the clear truth of my having lived with and through them the vast majority of my mortal years. This 'truth', my citizenship and biography, allow me credence to present what follows as 'fact'; though of course it's still just one man's opinion!

Knowledge!

The Surface

Politics. Democracy. American Exceptionalism. Yeah right. So, help me out here, we have a great democracy because we vote for other people to get to vote on who actually becomes leader? Unless of course nine robes get that special privilege - based off of their admitted political preferences naturally! - like back in 2000. How the legislature is just a club for the privileged, connected, and the rich (which is almost redundant). How once 'money' became speech only those with 'money' had speech. The Founders are grave-rolling and Mussolini's having a laugh - fascism much? Let's remember Benito's definition of the term; which is when State and corporate interests converge (more or less). And we find that just about everywhere we look up in DC these days. Apparently we have the 'political will' to help banks, big oil, agribusiness, gun manufacturers, and all the other consolidated purveyors of terror, hate or control (sure, tobacco had to be sacrificed - occasionally you must throw the peasants a bone to keep the lie alive) but can't find the time to help out 'we the people': see continuing cuts to social programs; see the limp-dick governmental response to the housing/mortgage crisis of 2008 - ?; see the student loan pyramid scheme; see a 'minimum' wage that consistently fails to keep up with inflation; see a 'healthcare' plan that mandates private citizens purchase a product from non-governmental, for-profit companies - and taxes them if they don't; see how prohibition (here considered against natural, earth-born narcotics) continues to fuel a for-profit prison system and further erodes race relations; see how the gravest existential threat to the species (climate change, for realz) is perpetually laughed off and ignored; see how we lecture others on human rights while keeping Gitmo open and denying homosexuals equal protection under the law; see how NASA's (quite possibly, from a historical perspective, the greatest achievement of our modern society) budget keeps getting gutted while their priorities are schizophrenically re-ordered with each administration; see how children keep slaughtering children with weapons of war and no one can even attempt to do anything about it; see how voter ID laws are passed like Jim Crow; see how the innate sovereignty of the nation has been torn asunder now that private corporations can be 'to big to fail'; see an ever increasingly militarized police force; see the constitutional absurdity of 'free speech zones'; see democratic campaigns where one guy runs but once elected that guy's nowhere to be found and in his place is a carbon copy of the last guy who held the office ... See how our 'political parties' are two sides of the same coin ... But let's stop here and consider that last point in greater depth, as it is so vital to any understanding of 'democracy' in America ... Republicans, Democrats; Jefferson has been famously remembered, quoted, as saying once our (more properly his) democracy devolved into a two party system it would be a democracy no more. And I've certainly been a witness to that in my life. Sure, America isn't a dictatorship, but it sure as hell isn't the country Jefferson helped forge. And the main reason for that, to my eyes, seems to be the consolidation of power in the hands of politicians with more in common with each other than their constituents. R or D you can bet they're there for Wall Street or the military-information-industrial complex. Anyone else? Good luck with that citizen ... And while they're both complicit in gutting the middle class, let's take a moment to reflect, ethically, on that matter ... You can't blame the snake for its venom, but you can sure as hell blame the snake-oil salesman for shilling his bullshit wares. In case that metaphor wasn't clear enough allow me to decode it for you:

R = snake. D = snake-oil salesman.

Switching gears - though not by much! - let's shift to the state of modern American entertainment. To the uninitiated possibly a trite transition, any who've watched politics lately will surely see the connection. And just as our politics smell rotten, the main complaint with what passes as entertainment these days is how bad it tastes. Yes, it's a question of taste, as it seems most Americans have none. From 'reality TV' (which is surely anything but - though let's not forget Barnum's maxim!), to a pop-music ecosystem that's cannibalized itself to the point of parody, a movie industry that can seemingly fill ten months of releases with one script, the apotheosis of sport, the devolution of literature into a hobby for diarists, the way the performing arts are continually hoarded into smaller and smaller urban green zones, well, it's just hard to swallow most of that without gagging. Or throwing up. Yet a more concerted analysis along these lines is not called for here - we have much too much ground yet to cover.

Speaking of ground and covering it why not mention war? That old playground of glory now some video game where you might win many things; though honor's not among them. The full transition here is yet to occur, but we're definitely in the middle of it. Drones, air strikes, GPS targeting and bombs dropped from orbit (sure, not yet - wait for it!). The complete impersonalization of the other; that total objectification of the enemy (you better believe the pornographers have drone-envy). Let's not equivocate; it's one thing to look someone in the eye and take their life - quite another to push a button sixteen time-zones away and watch an image of indiscriminate carnage. How long will it be before we don't even let a homo sapien sapien push that button? How long before the machines are killing us on their own .?. Nothing to be cynical about here!

And if killing our 'enemies' has/is becoming so much more impersonal healing our 'own' has a fortiori. I'm not even going to start bandying about statistics but it's well known that of the 'first-world', 'post-industrialized' countries we're the only one that still considers healthcare a cash-grab instead of a human-right. And to what wonderful affect! Go ahead and try to ignore all the horror stories of your fellow Americans who lost it all because they couldn't pay their medical bills, or because they did. Pay no attention to record profit margins at insurance companies while the poor forgo all but emergency treatment and the wealth of the middle class is bled out and transferred to HMO executives. Sure, Uncle Tom tried to change all that - by passing a Republican plan even though the Ds had two branches of the federal government! - but when I tried to sign up for 'Obamacare' I still couldn't afford it even though I had $200 in the bank, no assets, and had been unemployed for over two years. If I lived in any other country where English is the primary language I'd be covered without paying a dime. My solution? To use the actual Republican plan - don't get sick!

But that should be easy since we all know of the three pillars of good health (diet, exercise, genetics) eating right is the easiest of all ... Hell. No, sorry, I was about to go all sarcastic and make it seem America knows nothing about sugar overload, HFCS, preservatives, the increasingly and horrifying inability of urbanites to access fresh foods (specifically the poor ones!), pesticides, pink slime, corn or corn or more corn or when will there ever be enough corn already, price gouging on foods that were produced the way they've been produced for centuries (read: organic, grass-fed, free-range), trans-fats, GMO proliferation in our breadbasket without an honest debate on the merits or looking at the science past what some corporation's panel has assured us is true, sodas, the food-gap, throwing away enough food daily to feed the world's hungry cuz it wouldn't make a dime, slaughterhouses like Auschwitz or Dachau ... That Quite Barbarism ... But that would be foolish - America knows all about that ... Why shouldn't it? America invented most of it …

And we invented the largest consumer-driven transportation system the world has ever seen to move all that food around. Sure, China will catch up with us eventually (if not already), but for the better part of three generations the US led the world in road-building and car-buying. Quite apart from the environmental effects this produced there was a profound psychological positive feed-back loop involved as well: one justifying the pre-dominate narrative of our consumer culture. Choice is sacred; you are special and unique and can reflect that through choice; so choose this product or this other one and express your uniqueness through possessing any one of these infinitely similar products; the choice is yours. Perhaps nowhere else in the market was this ‘story’ sold as diligently and aggressively than in the automobile industry. While it is true the US is, spatially speaking, a very large country, it is not true that every adult American needed or needs their own set of wheels to connect it. There are other options, other technologies that could’ve been employed to bring the masses together with more energy efficiency and communal cohesion. I admit it’s no Copernican Revolution, but the thought that Americans are so stubbornly self-interested and quick to discriminate opposed many of their European or native counterparts can not be divorced from the fact we all love to be in the driver’s seat. That commodified ‘freedom’ we are told awaits us on an open road with our very own internal combustion engine humming along in front of our feet; a freedom trains, buses, or carpooling can never provide. Again, notwithstanding the ecological impact of all this, the psychological dimension is impossible to ignore: even if we all owned Tesla’s that were powered by clean fusion charging stations it would still be me, me, me … which is quite naturally a completely uncynical disposition from which to hold a society together …

American’s fascination with their own value and freedom has of course been a dominate theme in the grand narrative of the country for some time; and while cars and roads were the major technological expression of that for much of the twentieth century, we have turned the corner here, in this regard, finding ourselves lost amid tiny little shiny screens that put the whole world inches from our eyes. With the advent of mobile computing the freedom so many seek isn’t conceived any longer by MPG rather MPBS. The new speed of information, and the promise of perpetual access, have enchanted the newer generations in much the same way vehicles did their antecedents. The technology is different while the story remains the same. It is still a self-centered freedom underlying the need, desire, to own the newest, quickest, coolest gadget. A freedom of information surely, yet one closely connected with the freedom cars brought their older relatives; it is as much economic as it is self-satisfying. The internet changed the game, naturally - and hail and well met etc. etc.! - but a claustrophobic observation remains … for a technology that has brought so many people together - and it has - it sure as hell does an awful good job sundering them as well … for you can’t find a public space anymore where a near-majority of your fellow citizens aren’t more interested in their precious little screens than those flesh and blood humans nearby. Perhaps this is just the necessary evolution of the social fabric - perhaps resistance is futile - though a social contract that has more to do with Facebook’s TOS opposed a Bill of Rights just (and forgive me for being so cynical) doesn’t seem like much of a society worth bothering with to this writer. Certainly not one worth the name.

Speaking of the modern technology we all now can’t live without, it seems to me a funny thing happened on the way to Google’s homepage … we now have access to all the information we can consume, on any topic, just a keystroke away, and look what we’re doing with it … I’m not just talking about social media or pornography, I mean the fundamental epistemological conundrum of an allegedly intelligent species that now has post-scarcity style access to information yet we’ve made of the web one colossal echo-chamber where the tribes huddle together in aggrieved resentment or ignorant bliss of the ‘others’ … look at it like this: in a day and age when the work of science (you know, that thing that made all this ((by which I mean ‘Modernity’ and all its toys)) possible) is more evenly, widely, and objectively disseminated than at any other time in history the public’s grasp and understanding of science and its work is at an all-time low. Basic data are disputed; empirical findings are called into question by anyone with a laptop, forget about a degree in the subject: what used to be considered non-issues, resolved subjects, are now argued over as if the Earth might actually be flat … all of which might just be good for a laugh if there weren’t actual existential threats to the species that only science can solve; yet we can’t even begin that discussion because some car salesman googled Glenn Beck and now we have legislatures that don’t think climate change is real; or they say the data doesn’t support an anthropogenic cause even though they never took a serious science course in their life; or that can’t be right because it doesn’t fit into our time-warp economy and a dollar today is obviously more important than our children’s future; or anyway shut-up idiot scientists just because you actually studied something other than law or business doesn’t mean you know any more than me because I have a high speed internet connection and I bookmarked the Drudge Report … how is it, philosophically speaking, tenable that the more information you have the stupider you become? I don’t know, but if you want a good example of the principle in action take a look at America today. Or just Google it …

Of course there is one thread that ties all these elements of ‘the surface’ together and that thread is consumerism as expressed by our current form of capitalism. The ascendancy of the dollar over all else (sorry God!). The desire to possess, acquire, consume. We are material creatures, we humans, and thus must consume to survive; fine: but do we have to do so in the manner we seem set on here and now? No, not at all, even suggesting that our’s is the only system, the only way to satiate the human hunger is absurd on its face as well as betraying an amnesiac’s conception of history. No, there are other paths, yet we have chosen this one, this ‘capitalism’ that mimics the terrors and rigors of the jungle at every turn. In the act of deifying money (more on that later) we have dehumanized ourselves. For the most part we are simple cogs in a vast machine that cares little or nothing for us; and so we care only for ourselves. The inherent egoism of the modern American psyche is spectacular to behold, certainly, in its primal vanity; at the same time giving the lie to any ethical system we still tenuously cling to as reminder of simpler days (sorry Christianity!). So we are, as a culture, no better than spoiled children grasping for another slice of pie. And while that’s certainly comical, it is also tragic, since such a system is not sustainable whatsoever (there is never enough pie). Neither history or science can provide any examples of such a system expanding into perpetuity (literature has given us a few but they are either satire or utopias ((same thing really))), and yet a sincere, concerted discussion on this issue has yet to percolate through the public sphere, or if so, only in the usual places and thus not given the sort of urgency it requires. But to have this conversation we all have to be ready to listen; it is not enough for the cynics and naysayers to keep shouting into the wild or the web: there has to be an audience, a receptive ear. Which brings us to our next section.

The Self

The problems elucidated in ‘The Surface’ are, to a great extent, symptoms of our sense of self, or, as is more often (if paradoxically) the case, our lack of one. While I am specifically referring to the modern American ‘self’, I’m going to be doing so with large brushstrokes; forming great swathes of colored splotches closer in kind to a rorscharch test than a pointilistic canvass. You may not see a reflection here so much as a sense of remembrance, or deja vu. That’s fine. I can’t be alone in thinking our lifespeeds have altered, and it’s just that alteration I want to discuss.

Lifespeed. Right. Let’s define that quickly so we can move on. By lifespeed I mean that facile quality of Being that tethers us to the ‘now’. Perceptually, our lives happen at a specific point in time, and I’ve conceived the word lifespeed to represent this point, as well as our conscious reaction to it. It’s just a word. Other than this meager definition it means nothing; has no other value. Right.

We were talking about choice earlier and there’s a clear connection between the act of choosing and the extant phenomena adjoining it. Just the relationship that lifespeed is meant to express. On its face, choice is neutral. Neither positive or negative, good or bad. The ‘designed’ choice of our consumer-driven society I find abhorrent, though not from some reactionary impulse, but a genuine longing for what it’s replaced. By making choices we define ourselves and I fear many of us are accepting a story that tells us we can only make this or that choice opposed to this that or the other. That we are told certain stories so many times we think we have no choice how they end; or wether to listen to them at all. In this way our lifespeeds have been damaged; like a bonsai pruned too severely.

Perhaps many are content defining themselves through ‘designed’ choice, or who ‘designed’ it anyway? Yes … there will always be sheep and lemmings in human form, and if that’s your angle you have my pity but nothing else. On the other hand, if you genuinely desire a leveling-up on the self-awareness front but have found this difficult to achieve thus far, you must realize two hard truths; the first that it is your business alone, none others - and the second, that it will be incredibly difficult to achieve because our society was not constructed to assist in this goal - quite the contrary! - it was designed to prevent it, at almost every turn. Here we return to the ‘designed’ component of American choice. Since the beginning the tiny tribes watching the throne have conspired to affect a marked class distinction in the land of the ‘free’. From the original agricultural workers of the new world, to the industrial workers who built a modern nation, to the current service sector workers slipping into poverty those with the firmest grip on the levers of power have continually strived to erect massive obstacles between those that labor for a living and those that live off that labor. Nor are these obstacles simply economic or aspirational in nature, no, due their pervasiveness through the generations they have percolated down into the most subterranean reaches of the mass conscious; into the very stories we use to define ourselves. Egads! a polite-hyper-modern-liberal-minded-triangulator might reply, don’t you know everyone has a TV! A refrigerator! Cheapest food ever! Why yes of course, there is an exception to every rule. While, for about thirty years in the middle of the last century, it seemed America was finally delivering on its promise, just look how long it took for us to devolve into another gilded age (the apparent default position of American society). It is foolish to define a thing based off aberrations, opposed its consistencies. In this way we clearly see the US for what it is … the second most successful marketing scheme in human history (naturally one must award Christianity top honors on that mark) … in the same way tobacco used to be good for you, that sodas were harmless, or how fast food is every bit nutritious as home-made, America cries ‘freedom’ when in so many ways the reverse is clearly the case. From ‘power’s’ perspective it’s nihilistically brilliant sure - give the people a semblance of freedom (in our case economic choice) and they’ll extrapolate that into a veritable cosmos of self-authorized-self-actualization - and you bet the monarchists, dictators, or petty politburos are jealous as hell at the level of control the political classes of America have been able to sustain generation after generation. A state of affairs that continues for no other reason than that an over-whelming majority of Americans keep believing the lies. We are forced to ask: why do they?

Let’s speculate wildly! Is it possible there exists some globe-spanning underground tributary of Lethe that constantly replenishes all the aquifers in the land? Or perhaps when we, on average a truly vain people, look into a mirror our historical consciousness is reset to zero? Or maybe we’ve all become so addicted to the stories we repeat about American Exceptionalism even the most destitute are content to sacrifice any chance they might have of another, better life, so as the stories can keep being told .?. the gyre is constricting at every turn, just like water flowing down the drain we’re becoming closer and closer to ourselves and ours; we’re losing a visceral sense of community and common cause through the ‘designed’ choices of a consumerist economy and specifically the newer technologies of self-absorption. So many of us don’t seem able to see past our own reflections, our problems, that even beginning to consider the larger problems facing our country seems as pointless as sending a manned mission to Mars.

The latent greed of the species is given free reign in America and this greed is destroying us. Making us sick. Stunted, withered, cloying little souls blighted with giga-myopia and eterno-amnesia. Greed. Most cultures have oft thought it a base emotion, one needing constant oversight - not the good ’ole US of A! We saw right through that ethical clap-trap - we saw that by harnessing the simmering greed of a people and putting them to work fulfilling that greed great things could happen … just absolutely amazing things … and we have accomplished quite a bit worth being proud over, and we sure have shown all those historical moralists just how wrong they were about the most solipsistic emotion … but this is a strange greed, our American one, one many may not even be aware of, so deep do its roots dive; a conniving greed that wraps in upon itself like a fresh burrito from Chipotle or those roller coasters you remember from Disneyland or Six-Flags … a greed that we have to learn to turn off, ignore, or quit seeing as so basic and benign in all our lives that there’s nothing you can do about it anyway - because it isn’t benign, it reacts to us and the environment as surely as we do it, and lately it’s been acting badly … yes, there are historical elements to this greed, there is also the question of personal responsibility, mutual complicity, systems of control and power as well - so many factors … I guess I’m nostalgic for another type of human being, one not fueled by avarice or beholden to the choices of others … qualities most seem to have lost somewhere on the way to Walmart … a human being that might never have existed except in a dream …

The Symbol

Human beings have long used symbols to represent value. Symbols are convenient, easy, and incredibly mutable. They can be transferred or translated almost infinitely. With a symbol ideas that might take an incredible amount of energy to explain or describe can be conveyed almost instantaneously. Logic and mathematics could likely not exist without them, nor, indeed, any language. And like any good thing, as is so often the case with any wonderfully useful thing, we humans have become dependent on them. Created for ourselves a world where we can not live without them. We are, in many ways, addicted to their utility. On its face there is nothing ethically challenging about this. Language and math are boons to humanity, practically describing our modern conception of ourselves. Symbols are naturally value neutral, like any high-level epistemological building block. And yet, we modern Americans have found ourselves in a tricky spot. We have crafted a society where one symbol is supreme. Where one symbol, and one symbol alone, holds all the power. A symbol that, if you find yourself without it, without access to it, without a stock-pile of it hiding somewhere, essentially makes you a non-entity. No longer part of the culture, the game. For it is certainly true that the only game in modern America is money. That collecting dollars has superseded all other activities; has supplanted any other endeavor as the only one with value. This state of affairs is the genesis of our cultural decline; of the death of the ideals that the Founders (who themselves were already playing the only game) attempted to instill in the New World: will in the end be understood by future historians as the single greatest crime of our time.

I say crime and I mean it. Don’t use the word for shock or awe. Nor do I want to dwell on this particular subject (not being the place for an extended analysis of this issue I will allow such a discussion its own essay, its own space, a place where it can be a bit more academic and dry, not so emotive or cynical) though we do have to mention a few more things before moving on. Crime. Yes. What was this crime? In short order here we go … it used to be the case that money was a symbol that referred to labor, actual work performed by one human that held value for another. So far as that is all money is, there is nothing ethically suspect about it. Then, at some point in the past, a few cunning paradigm-shifters saw an opportunity and changed the rules regarding what money was; they removed the labor as referent of value, replacing it with rare objects (typically gold) that few among any populace would ever see in their lives. Well, since the promise of alchemy was a lie, and the philosopher’s stone was never discovered, at least this money still referred to something real, something that couldn’t just be made up on the spot. Ah ha! the sons of the sneaky paradigm-shifters thought, that would just be the icing on the cake! Let’s remove the rare objects as value referent as well - let’s go all in on a communal mass delusion and see if anyone believes it … let’s just have money valued at whatever we say it’s valued at. Let’s create a massive shell game that only a very few will ever truly know the rules to, though the outcome, the results, will effect everyone … yes … let’s create the only game worth playing, and let’s give every live birth a turn … which leaves us with a system that, no matter how hard you work, no matter how industrious you are, if you don’t know the rules of the game (in modern America we can think of the Federal Reserve, Wall Street bankers, old money, select members of the Treasury Department etc. as the holders of the rule book) you will not win at it. You will play and play and play and keep losing and losing and losing all the while the rule keepers keep winning and winning and winning because for most players in this game the tokens of victory they collect (dollars) are bought at the hard price of actual labor, as if they never heard about how money grew up - no, they slave and slave for pennies without any chance of leveling up in this game and getting to that haughty echelon where money is no longer about work but having money make money off of someone else’s work … this little narrative I just outlined is a crime because there are clear stealers and victims (of course there are exceptions to every rule, but for every Bill Gates or Steve Jobs, there are a hundred and fifty million working at Walmart for a slave-wage). You see, the architects of the monetary symbol’s paradigm shift knew that by removing any referent to an actual act (labor) or object (gold) they were essentially hollowing out the natural relationship between the symbol and the symbolized, and in that empty space they would find their own El Dorado; their own little universe where they called the shots and none other. They essentially re-wrote the rules of symbolism, and clearly in their favor. And while symbols shift meaning all the time, especially in religious or political environments, these shifts are fundamentally harmless as neither religion or political discourse ever directly affects the physical well being of a human being as does their ability to acquire food, or energy, or health care, or shelter (I understand that by including ‘politics’ in this sense I might seem to be advocating a ‘post-history’ perspective; one where capitalistic-liberalism has won over all other political narratives, and while I hope that isn’t so, at the moment, and especially as an American author, one would be hard pressed to argue the point otherwise). To be clear, I’m not suggesting there was some shadowy cabal that gathered and planned out this great hollowing out of the monetary symbol; as is often the case it happened by fits and starts, here and there, as history would have it, propelled by the innate greed of the least amongst us. And yet they have scored a grand victory, these acolytes of avarice. Have pulled the proverbial wool over so many eyes - and in the process redefined a country that promised freedom into a vassal state completely enthralled to an ugly little strip of green denim that truly means nothing at all …

Of course this transformation did not just occur on American soil. But we sure as hell took the ball and ran it home. More than any other modern nation we are more readily defined by the empty symbology of the dollar than any others. This is not just an American problem; but we must be the first to address it …

America’s enslavement to the dollar is the singular cause of all the problems I put forth in ‘The Surface’, and, in many ways, ‘The Self’. We are a nation of suckers, rats, blind idealists, idiot sensualists, blatant thieves and the occasional dreamer … and knowing that, seeing my country in this way does nothing to alleviate my pathological cynicism … but allow me a query - do you still ask me why I am so cynical .?.  

[lumosinlove]

John goes over to Sherlock’s the morning after the wedding, wanting to thank him again for the waltz—or that’s what he tells himself the reason for his visit is. What he finds erases every other fight from his mind.

In which John finds his way to a new life, and Sherlock finds his way back to his old one.

John hadn’t realized Sherlock had left his wedding until probably hours after it was too late. He was dancing, sharing kisses with his new wife when cheers erupted, and having seconds on cake. He was too busy to notice the absence of his best friend—his best friend whom he knew this was hard for—and he’d felt guilt wash over him the second he’d realized. He had been itching to break for the door, for 221B. But he’d stayed. It was his wedding. He should have preferred to stay. Guilt washed through him for this too. So he stayed. And he wouldn’t know the consequences of this until the next morning, when he used his key that he hadn’t had the heart to give back.

Ms. Hudson didn’t seem to be awake yet, although he didn’t blame her. They’d all had quite a sum of champagne last night. He took the stairs two at a time as quietly as he could manage, and hesitated briefly outside the door to his now ex-flat. He should have guessed something was off right then. There was no sounds coming from within. No rustling of papers, no mumbling. No tea boiling, no nothing. Sherlock definitely hadn’t had anything to drink, in fact he probably had left before the party really even started. John couldn’t think of any reason as to why Sherlock would alter his morning routine… Well, he could, but Sherlock never was the lie in type. He shook his head a little, and opened the door, expecting—hoping—to find his friend out. He wouldn’t have minded waiting a bit for Sherlock to return. If he was out and about that meant he was doing alright, didn’t it?

But Sherlock was not out. He was not out and he was not doing alright.

“Christ, Sherlock-“ John was on red alert in a second, so much so that for a moment he felt army canvas against his skin and hot desert wind in his hair, “Sherlock.”

The name brought him back to present. He repeated it over and over again, keeping himself there, keeping himself away from pure panic, as he nearly tripped over himself to get to where Sherlock was, slumped low on the floor, back leaning against John’s chair, arm out, needle inches from his open palm.

John pressed his palms to Sherlock’s neck, “Sherlock, hey, can you hear me?” His pulse was slow, and so faint that John could practically feel it struggling to reach his fingertips from underneath Sherlock’s paled skin, “C’mon.” He glanced at the needle, then at the small bruised circles littering Sherlock’s forearm, “Jesus, how much did you take? Sherlock, c’mon,” John pressed his thumbs in slow caresses over Sherlock’s cheeks, not sure why he was doing it, knowing it wouldn’t help anything, “Wake up, please. Please.”

Finally, Sherlock let out a breath that broke his steady breathing rhythm, signaling his approach to consciousness.

“John…” His lips barely moved but the word was clear as day, ringing in John’s ears.

“‘m here. Right here.” He hadn’t noticed he was holding his breath until he spoke, seeing stars at the sudden flow of oxygen to his brain, “Can you open your eyes?”

“John.” Sherlock’s head rolled against the sofa like he was trying to pick it up and failing.

John felt his throat tighten at the dangerous lack of response he was getting from his best friend, “Yes, yes it’s John. Sherlock, do I have to call an ambulance? Can you open your eyes for me?” Sherlock just breathed evenly, making a sound that was less and less recognizable as John’s name every time.

The panic John had felt spiked, “Fuck,” he cursed. He pressed the cool cloth to Sherlock’s neck, taking his hand in his own with the other, “Can you squeeze my hand? Just a little, Holmes, just to show you can hear me.”

John didn’t get a squeeze.

~

John had called the ambulance with shaking fingers, fingers that were still shaking as he sat in Sherlock’s hospital room—very nice hospital room, courtesy of Mycroft. He couldn’t get Sherlock’s words out of his head. He’d come to on the way to the hospital, obviously not himself and desperately trying to rip away the solution the paramedics were trying to detox him with. He was practically delirious, snapping and cursing out everyone in sight… until he’d caught sight of John. His entire body had gone limp then, falling lax against the stretcher, eyes never leaving John’s face.

“Just experimenting…” Sherlock’s eyes slid in and out of focus, “Was thinking last night. Couldn’t sort it through. Patches weren’t enough.”

“Mr. Holmes, what did you take?”

John had wanted to push the paramedic out of the way, to let Sherlock finish his sentence. 

Couldn’t sort what out?

Why did you have to leave?

Sherlock had ignored his question, eyes focused now, on John’s.

“Approximately 39% of the people present were only there for the alcohol. Common thing at weddings. People get sad. Only… people don’t want people to know that they’re sad. Funny thing, happiness. How it can make someone sad.” His eyes had slid out again, he was somewhere else, somewhere caught between this world and the drugs, “Are you happy..”

John had just stared back at Sherlock, shaking his head, “Sherlock-“ The paramedic pressed a hand against his chest. John hadn’t even realized he had started to lean forward.

“Sir, please let us work. Do you have any idea what he-“

But John wasn’t listening anymore. Because Sherlock’s eyes, still staring blankly, were wet.

And no, John thought, no, Sherlock, I’m not happy.

John closed his eyes against the memory, squeezing his hands together, trying to ease the tension out of them. He’d already burnt himself twice with his tea, he wasn’t going to risk picking it up again, even if it would calm his nerves.

He played the words over and over in his mind.

People get sad. Only… people don’t want people to know that they’re sad.

Sherlock had been talking about himself. John felt the pinch of this realization in his heart. The man who had mastered the art of masking one’s feelings not only needed drugs to tell John how he felt, but he needed to translate it into a hypothetical situation with statistics and reasoning. But, then again, what good would have come out of the alternative?

What would have happened if Sherlock had been sitting there, waiting for John to arrive, and had simply told him, heart on his sleeve, that John marrying Mary made him…sad. John shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the notion that anything he did could make Sherlock Holmes something as simple and as terrible as sad.

Why was he sad? Was it why he had left? Mary had been so quick to pack it up to Sherlock being socially awkward. John had been quick to take that reasoning. It was easy. He knew better. Selfish. John pressed his thumb and forefinger into the corners of his eyes. This wasn’t how he expected the morning after his wedding to go. He knew he should have stayed in bed with Mary, with his wife, and yet, despite not having lived there for years, he longed for Baker Street. Maybe it was the fact that Sherlock’s presence now occupied it once again, maybe it was a wave of nostalgia… He’d needed Sherlock. Sitting here in the waiting room, he felt he’d always need Sherlock. Maybe more than anything else.

John closed his eyes, shaking himself. It’s the setting, he told himself. It’s the setting, and the shock and you don’t feel this anymore. You’re married and you haven’t felt this for two years-

“Dr. Watson?”

John stood, back straight, hands closing and opening fists at his side, “Yes. Yes? Is-“

“You’re here for Mr. Holmes, yes?”

John cleared his throat of the lump that had occupied it, “Yes. I- I am. Is he- how is he?”

The young nurse let out a breath, folding the clipboard she held against her chest, “Well, stable. But just barely. He really…” She pursed her lips in a concerned but soft way, “Dr. Watson, if he’s your friend, I’d recommend you urge him to get help. You’d told the paramedics that this was a one off, but… one offs don’t use drugs like that. That was a very precise concoction of narcotics he’d made there. Very… purposeful.”

John raised an eyebrow, shifting to pick up his tea, just to have something to hold. His hands had stopped shaking, every piece of nervous energy shifting to his pounding heart, “Right… I… Sorry, what do you mean by… purposeful?”

The nurse’s brows creased, and she gave him a sad, not smile, but her lips pressed together like if this was a happier situation it could have been. Instead the look was full of pity, of knowing, and of telling without words. John’s stomach dropped. He’d never felt more sick.

“Oh.” John set the tea back down, flattening his palm against the wall for support, “God. Are you sure?”

She tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “Well, only he can know his reasons. But whatever he was trying to do, it was dangerous. He probably knew it too. He either thought it was worth the risk or he just didn’t care.”

John closed his eyes briefly, inhaling sharply through his nose. He’d done this. He knew how this would effect Sherlock and he’d ignored it. He’d driven him to…

“I’d like to see him, please.”

She nodded wordlessly, and turned for him to follow.

Love these two. Just a little thing I did to get my brain in the zone for some Kitchens writing tomorrow! :) Feeling somewhat better!

[rolandfontana]

How Do Prosecutors Get Sentencing So Wrong?

James Doyle

In a recent New York Times op ed piece , James Forman, Jr. and Sarah Lustbader pose the question, “What can we do to shrink our prison population, the world’s largest?”

Their essay’s title, “Every D.A. in America Should Open a Sentence Review Unit,” provides one answer.

Forman and Lustbader don’t offer this step as a panacea.  They recognize that there is no “silver bullet” solution to the U.S. incarceration crisis.

But they do argue that building a Sentence Review capacity is one place to start.

When enlightened prosecutors are forming Conviction Integrity Units to reassess old convictions, initiating Sentence Review Units to re-examine distended sentences would save money, and lead to the release of prisoners who are no longer dangerous.

It’s a very good idea, even if the problem is not as simple as it might seem.

In many states a D.A. who has identified a grotesquely excessive sentence has no procedural avenue available for cutting the sentence. New legal tools will have to be developed.

There is also the question of what a different D.A. —one who is inclined to abuse the power to incentivize witnesses—might be tempted to do with a rich pool of inmate applicants who are serving life terms when that D.A. is handed the keys to the new process.

Neither of those problems is insurmountable; they are complications to work through.

But I do want to pose a question—as a supplement to Forman’s and Lustbader’s query, not as a challenge to it.

One More Question

If we cut the prison population by reviewing old sentences and releasing prisoners, how do we avoid quickly replacing them?

Don’t we have to work to understand why the horrific sentences were imposed in the first place? Why our predecessors zigged when we know that they should have zagged?

For me, the best way to approach this question is to take a few pages from the books of medicine and aviation and follow every finding of an unjust sentence with an all-stakeholders’ forward-looking, non-blaming learning review, focused on avoiding repetition.

When a D.A. uncovers a mistaken sentence it should be treated as a “Sentinel Event”—as an opportunity to learn by mobilizing the perspectives of all ranks, in all of the professional roles implicated: cops, prosecutors, defenders, probation offices and courts.

And we should hear from the victims, from the communities the sentences were designed to protect, and from the researchers who marshal the data relevant to the decisions and their aftermaths. (It wouldn’t hurt to hear from the defendants too.)

Justifying that effort requires clearing away some dead wood—shedding some simplistic answers to how we got to where we find ourselves today.

We’re Not Just Smarter Now

There is a tendency to see the recent bipartisan recognition of exaggerated sentences as just one more chapter in The Progress of Mankind.

But before we stop at “We are smart now; they were stupid then.” we should recognize that if they were stupid, they got stupid.

For once, my elderly defender’s memories of The Old Days are verified by the data.

When I first practiced in the District of Columbia in the mid-1970’s I immediately began representing people charged with serious, often violent, crimes.

If you did the work, you had a realistic shot at saving clients from lengthy prison sentences.

There were programs a judge could send them to in the community. The Federal Youth Corrections Act and the Narcotic Addicts’ Recovery Act presented nuanced (although not exactly attractive or effective) options, and it was several years before a client of mine was whacked with a substantial term. There was a mandatory minimum sentence for murder: that was about it.

A glance at The Sentencing Project’s compelling graphic representation of U.S. Sentencing Trends is all that’s needed for you to see that the people doing the sentencing then were doing better than most enlightened progressives are proposing to do now in avoiding mass incarceration.

Mass incarceration was something the system learned how to do. How did that happen?

The Laws Didn’t Make Us Do It

The media have agreed that we face a catastrophic crisis in mass incarceration, and we are being treated to a swelling chorus of ex-presidents, and remorseful prosecution agencies all agreeing that we have a disaster on our hands.

The ensemble harmonizes flawlessly on the anthem: “The Law Made Us Do It!”

Like Hell it did.

“The Law” gave you the tools to do it with, but you are the ones who choose to pick up the tools and to use them.

Unless we all face up to that fact and understand why the choices these actors made seemed like good ideas to them at the time, they (or their successors) will, after a fleeting interval, just do it all again.

My prediction is that we will find that there was a moment in almost every case that a new Sentencing Review Unit identifies when human actors in the criminal justice system had a choice about whom to arrest, what to charge, which forum (state or federal) to bring the charge in, or what sentencing provision to invoke.

The prevailing version of the etiology of mass incarceration imagines that some legislator, prosecutor, or judge sat and pondered the interaction of various substantive criminal law goals such as punishment, deterrence, incapacitation, and rehabilitation, and decided on a legislative scheme, a prosecutorial strategy, or a sentence.

Next, they picked a number based on a careful policy calculation, then put it in a mandatory guideline or minimum sentence.

What we actually face is the work product of hard-pressed cops, lawyers, probation officers, and judges trying to get through their days. They were not driven by ideological commitments or racist theories. But they were under pressure—from the politicians and the media, from their caseloads, the docket lists, their peers, and administrators thirsty for “outputs.”

They didn’t set out to do extraordinary harm to individual minority defendants; it’s worse than that. The fact is they didn’t care enough about any individual minority defendant to target one.

They barely saw them.

These players were seeking their own safety as much as they are seeking anything, and their strongest allegiance was to the path of least resistance.

They wanted to get to get rid of the damned case without a trial, and to move on to the next one. Then, tomorrow, they would be able to handle that next case in the same way, as long as they managed to preserve the “going rate” today.

Long prison sentences were a weapon in their daily struggles, not their goal.

Mass incarceration was not produced by a clap of legislative thunder; it was produced by a process of drift—even if that process was assisted by new legislative levers.

Each day’s longer sentence became the new departure point for the next day’s— which, in turn, was just a little bit longer. So, the new prisoner would be there to be counted next year too.

Who brought that about? Everybody.

The D.A. Didn’t Act Alone

There is plenty of social science indicating that prosecutors’ behavior was the most powerful driver of the incarceration trend. Put that together with the reality that prosecutorial initiative is the most direct way to get things moving now, and the Forman and Lustbader route makes pragmatic sense.

But unjust sentences were not the product of prosecutors working alone; they are system errors.

New Sentence Reviews will find individual cases where a prosecutor decided on an extreme sentence and rammed it through. But more often, an extreme sentence involves acts (and omissions) from across the range of criminal justice operators involved in a case.

Each participant in a sentencing—cop, probation officer, prosecutor, defender, judge—makes choices that affect everyone else’s work.

And all of these players are buffeted simultaneously by external environmental factors: caseloads rise, budgets fall, treatment programs close, spasmodic media pressure ratchets up, options narrow.

Sentences may be driven by prosecutors, but they are also influenced by defenders. For example, a recent study makes clear that the Bronx Defenders’ self-consciously “holistic” approach managed to significantly bend the incarceration curve downwards.

The barriers against delivering that sort of advocacy will face tomorrow’s defender even after the Sentencing Review Unit has corrected yesterday’s sentence.

In some jurisdictions, probation’s presentence reports might fill any information gap left by hard-pressed defenders: they could outline the “fit” between the defendant’s history, the available programs, and the community’s safety.

But even that report can be influenced by the absence of defender input, and the likelihood of a probation officer compiling a useful alternative to “longer is better” can be decimated by caseload and resource issues.

Any judges who might have been inclined to resist prosecutors’ extreme sentencing demands faced an asymmetrical risk. If the defendant was Kalief Browder, who would likely never have committed a future serious crime, no one would ever know that he should not have been locked up, and the judge was safe.

But if the defendant was released over the prosecutors’ objections and turned out to be Willie Horton, then the sentencing judge would be toast.

Recent attacks by “enlightened” media outlets such as the Washington Post (editorializing against sentence reviews) and the Boston Globe (attacking D.A. Rachel Rollins with individual horror stories) make it clear that threat will be a background condition of future sentencing proceedings too.

It will turn out that many of the horrific sentences uncovered by Sentencing Review Units were imposed without much thought at all. One function of the draconian sentence is to sustain the “going rate”—to project a credible threat that leverages guilty pleas in an overwhelmed system and keeps the line moving.

If tomorrow’s docket is the deluge that yesterday’s was, yesterday’s solutions will continue to exert their pull. Besides, how can we give this guy only three years when we gave yesterday’s five?

It Isn’t Fixed

No one is about to step forward and say “Let’s try mass incarceration again”; the strategy is renounced even by William Barr who did say it back then.

Because we now encounter the incarceration crisis as a genuinely mass phenomenon it is sometimes hard to remember that it was built one prisoner (and one prison year) at a time.

A Sentencing Review Unit can do crucial work in correcting injustices. But we ought to remember what is an axiom to the people who work in the field of public safety: Nothing is ever permanently “fixed”; your “fix” is under attack by its environment the moment it you put it in place.

Prosecutors’ Sentence Review Units will be most important if they can be harbingers of a cultural shift in criminal justice toward a new collaboration—toward a practice community in which everyone accepts individual responsibility for a just collective outcome and works continuously (and together) to reach that goal.

For D.A.’s to say “We made a mistake in this sentencing” will signal a new commitment to the recognition that longer is not better in sentencing.

For D.A.’s to say “We want to work together to learn how and why this mistake was made” will signal—to the staff, and to the community—a determined commitment to avoiding repeating the mistake tomorrow.

Learning reviews of bad sentences will show us that there are conditions to be changed, influences to be counteracted, things we can do differently. This would be a good place to get to work.

James M. Doyle is a Boston defense lawyer and author, and a frequent contributor to The Crime Report. He welcomes readers’ comments.

How Do Prosecutors Get Sentencing So Wrong? syndicated from https://immigrationattorneyto.wordpress.com/

[blockheadbrands]

The Longstanding Love Affair Between Cannabis and Comedians

Sara Weinshenk of High Times Reports:

From Cheech and Chong to George Carlin, comedians have openly experimented with cannabis for eons. As a comedian myself, I find that cannabis shifts my perspective by transforming mundane day-to-day activities into more colorful experiences. For me, it’s easier to see the peculiarities and ridiculousness that life brings after I smoke. If you want to make people laugh, you have to know how to laugh yourself. And with so much chaos and technological stimulation, sometimes it can be hard to see the humor in life. But weed makes it easier. That’s why I took a dive into the lives of comedians to gain a better understanding of the inherent connection between cannabis and comedians, and the role the plant plays within the comedy community.

Doug Benson

Who else is more fit than quintessential cannabis comedian, Doug Benson? From his show Getting Doug With High to his documentary Super High Me, Benson’s been a major cannabis advocate and has deeply contributed to the destigmatization of cannabis. But the herb didn’t become a part of his repertoire until later in life.

 “I was a late bloomer, not getting into cannabis until I was 28-years-old,” says Benson. “Other comics on the road turned me onto it. And after a few years of smoking whenever it was available, I started buying my own cannabis, talking about it on stage, and then, eventually, I’d get high before going on stage. Cannabis helps me to access my silly side, so I like to write and perform when high. And pretty much everything else I do is under the influence of cannabis.”

Benson’s view on the role of marijuana within the realm of comedy is unique because he’s been able to weave it into his creative identity in a way that’s genuine to who he is as a performer and human being. I asked Doug why he thought so many comics consumed cannabis, and he says that, essentially, they have the most fitting schedules for it.

“We’ve got the time for it,” he says. “We can get high all day because we work at night, then we can get high all night because we don’t have to get up in the morning unless we have to catch a flight, or do morning radio or tv. But I can do those things high, too!”

And if you’ve ever seen his stand-up (or Getting Doug with High) you’d know he’s a master at getting high and doing his job– a lifestyle many would consider a dream. When it comes to a crowd he’s performing in front of, however, he prefers them to be in the sweet spot: not too high nor too stoned. “The drunk audience is too loud and yell-y,” he says. “The high audience is more polite but can get a little too quiet. I think the perfect level of F-ed up for an audience member is to arrive high and have just one or two drinks. I like to assume that’s what most of my fans do.”

When it comes to consuming cannabis, Benson’s a versatile guy. His favorite method of consumption is taking bong rips. “[They] get me where I want to be the quickest,” he says. When that’s not available, he enjoys puffing blunts–but ones without tobacco (take note, people!)

 “That’s gross,” he says. “I’ve never smoked cigarettes or cigars.”

Benson doesn’t discriminate, though. He loves weed in its many forms. “I love that there are so many ways to consume cannabis!”

He says he enjoys dabbing if he’s going to sleep soon after, while vape pens are nice when you’re in places where smoking is prohibited (which comes in especially handy when you’re on the road and visiting places, like Texas). Edibles, Benson explains, are ideal for plane trips–just as long as you don’t sit in an emergency row. “If the aircraft goes down,” he says, “you don’t want to be high and responsible for logistics.”

Touché.

Jesus Trejo

Jesus Trejo is fairly new to cannabis and tends to gravitate towards CBDdominant strains, like Harlequin. Trejo prefers to minimize the effects of THC and finds that strains heavier in CBD put him in a happy mood with less paranoia and intoxication.

“For the longest time I stood clear of marijuana, but with time and research, I was able to find strains that help me instead of intoxicating me,” Trejo says. “CBD brings a level of focus and non-judgment to my train of thought as I convert premises to jokes. I try not to go on stage medicated because my performance is adversely affected when I’m under the influence. I move around a lot on stage, and if I smoke beforehand, it usually doesn’t go too well.”

Trejo says he prefers performing in front of a high audience rather than a drunk audience for a number of reasons.

“The major difference between performing for a drunk audience versus a high audience is the attention span, for sure!” he says. “With a drunk audience, you’re dealing with amplified versions of people’s personalities whereas with a medicated audience, you’ll find they follow the narrative of the jokes more but the laughs maybe a little delayed, but they are listening. Listening is a big part of stand up, which is why I’ll take a high audience over a drunk one any day.”

When asked why he thinks comedy and cannabis go hand in hand, Trejo, offered some useful insight regarding some of the struggles comedians face.

“I think a lot of comedians flock to cannabis because of its wide array of benefits including: medical reasons, a creativity boost, relaxation, or simply for the good o’ hangout,” he says.

But he also notes the social effects of the plant as another reason it’s used by so many comics.

“Cannabis has the tendency to bring people together, especially within the comedy community,” he says. “Comedians love hanging out with each other after shows, giving each other joke tags, recounting a good night of comedy, or just roasting one another over some good o’ puff, puff pass!”  

Trejo makes a valid point: so much of being a comedian involves being a member of a larger community of comics. And there’s truly nothing more fun than smoking weed with some of the most intelligent and highly entertaining people in the world.

Ms. Jessimae Peluso

Jessimae Peluso (MTV, Sharp Tongue Podcast) also turns to marijuana to unlock her silly side and jump-start her creativity. “Cannabis is my favorite ingredient for creativity!” she passionately exclaims. “It shuts out the negative narrative in my mind and allows the fun goofball some stage time. I can smoke and write but I cannot smoke and perform. I’d get too distracted by some lady’s furry jacket, and I’d probably stop doing comedy and start petting the jacket.”

When asked why she thinks comedians consume weed, Peluso says that it’s a way in which comedians–and people, in general– experience relief from life’s pains. “Most of my comedian friends have severely traumatic pasts,” she says. “A few of those people also suffer from addiction. I think cannabis provides some reprieve from the pain and allows the mind some calm in order to create without the side effects of pharmaceuticals or narcotics”.

In terms of consumption preference, Peluso is a flower-power love child. “I’m an old soul and old school lady who loves flower,” she says. “I recently smoked sun grown Strawberry Cough from Humboldt Farms. [It was] DEE-LISH-US! [I] love a nice j[oint], or a cute little-packed bowl. One of my favorite new ways to [get stoned in the morning] is with my Wake & Bake mug! You can simultaneously drink coffee and smoke kush.”

Watch Jessimae Peluso every Wednesday at 4:20PST. For Weedsday on Facebook live & Instagram Live.

Queen Wolfie

Rachel Wolfson, better known as ‘Wolfie,’ has been smoking since she was 19-years-old and is known for her cannabis-driven weed memes @wolfiememes. Wolfie explains that weed and comedy are compatible because, in essence, it gives comics the ability–and relief–to pursue their art.

“Comedy and cannabis go hand-in-hand,” she says. “It’s a substance comedians just gravitate toward naturally. I think the reason so many comedians consume cannabis is because a lot of us have anxiety, trouble sleeping, mental health issues, or just enjoy smoking weed”.

For Wolfie, cannabis is an integral part of the creative process– and sometimes a part of her performances. “ I think it helps with my writing,” she says, “and depending on the show, I think it helps with my performances. Some shows I don’t prefer to smoke right before because I think it affects my energy since I’m already low energy. However, if it’s a weed show, I’ll probably smoke like eight blunts before and one right on stage.”

The connection between cannabis, comedy, and creativity is so evident it’s tangible. Whether comics use the plant regularly, recreationally, or medicinally, one thing is certain: we aren’t going to stop using it anytime soon.

Follow writer/comedian: Sara Weinshenk/Shenk Podcast

TO READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE ON HIGH TIMES, CLICK HERE.

https://hightimes.com/culture/the-longstanding-love-affair-between-comedians-and-cannabis/

[theconservativebrief]

Many people view the call to abolish ICE, the Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency, as an irresponsible act of radicalism. Republicans certainly frame it that way.

But there is nothing inevitable — or even especially long-lived — about ICE. In 2003, Congress detached different components of immigration and customs functions from the Departments of Justice and Treasury to form ICE. Its new home in Department of Homeland Security dictated an institutional posture that all immigration to the United States posed a threat. That reorganization — including the startling proposition that supports it — is at least as radical as its unwinding would be.

Left unchecked, the egregious harms imposed by ICE — deportations that do more to disrupt than protect American communities; the ill-conceived preference for immigration detention executed via a system that is a human rights disgrace — will resolve into a “new normal.”

That is the fate of recent conservative state-building in the United States: Policies and offices do not survive scrutiny so much as simply evade it.

I can say this with confidence because five years ago, I published a book examining the history of the worst policy failure in modern US history: the government’s war on drugs. In light of drug prohibition’s abysmal results, I made several recommendations, including abolishing the Drug Enforcement Administration, the architect and emblem of the government’s war on drugs.

I did so not because I think illicit drugs present trivial dangers, but because I know they carry very real and distressing ones. When evaluated on the basis of its own selected benchmarks, the drug war has driven key performance indicators like illicit drug price and potency in exactly the wrong direction.

But conservative state-building is never judged on the basis of results — a simple point that bears closer inspection. Take, for example, the remarkably similar history and trajectory of ICE and the DEA. Like ICE, the DEA was formed by combining two offices — one from the White House, and one from the Treasury Department. Typically, executive departments are organized around a particular policy portfolio (like education), and they focus on overarching goals, weighing various tools and approaches to meet those goals.

Whether those tools work to advance an agency’s valued objective is a question that the officials in and out of the organization attempt to answer. If found wanting, tools can be modified or abandoned — unless they happen to belong to units dedicated overwhelmingly to enforcement, tucked into executive departments that dramatically misconceptualize the target of their intentions. In that case, no meaningful evaluation takes place at all.

The US government once construed drugs as a trade. The Bureau of Narcotics (the main predecessor agency to the DEA), seated in the Department of Treasury, was armed with sanctions that could diminish the flow of illicit drugs. The formation of the DEA crystallized a very different notion —namely, that illicit drugs were a crime.

In an analogous fashion, the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) once sat in the Department of Labor, on the supposition that people came to this country seeking work; it later moved to the Department of Justice. Before the creation of ICE, as the Atlantic’s Franklin Foer points out, “enforcement was housed in an agency devoted to both deportation and naturalization.”

Today these functions belong to an agency predicated on thwarting terrorist threats, and the instruments it deploys have not been shown to deter illegal immigration, nor do terrorist threats concentrate in the migrant communities most subjected to its punitive measures.

Tasked with Sisyphean chores and supplied with counterproductive tools, it is not surprising that the DEA and ICE share some dysfunctions. Their leadership rejects meaningful distinctions — whether between drugs, or between and among undocumented migrants — because drawing them would raise real questions about the implicit premise that resides in their institutional location. The workforce of both ICE and the DEA features agents who harbor a siege mentality, fostered by a culture of secrecy and resentment of oversight, and susceptible to corruption.

Neither is overseen by an official who must weigh the effectiveness, and decide the budget, of enforcement relative to a different approach to the same problem. Both are capable of moderating only the degree of the application of punitive enforcement, and incentivized in the direction of ever-greater amounts. To think differently, to drop one set of tools in favor of another, would amount to an act of institutional self-repudiation.

No matter how many indictments and interdiction efforts the DEA claims as a success, it has no measurable impact on the drugs wending their way through black markets. Inspecting the record, it’s surprising that these misplaced enforcement agencies command much approval at all.

A heroin user. Pictures Ltd./Corbis/Getty Images

That brings us to the second simple but crucial observation regarding conservative state-building: Agencies like the DEA do not draw political strength from defenders so much as they do from a kind of aggressive complacency — a Beltway mindset that treats change as an antagonist.

Unless faced with a committed opposition, an agency like the DEA will easily defeat critics, not because its proponents will mount superior arguments, but because those proponents won’t feel compelled to make any arguments at all. One of the most astonishing things about the DEA’s pervasive, passive support is the way in which policy discussions deemed “serious” omit drug prohibition from the very problems it is most implicated in.

Examinations of the falling rate by which US law enforcement makes an arrest in cases of homicide is one example of this “motivated” silence. Once more than 90 percent, the so-called “clearance rate” for homicides now holds steady at roughly 65 percent; in some places, like Chicago, the clearance rate for homicide in 2017 came in at 17.5 percent.

The reason for this collapse is well known: Other than forensic evidence, witness testimony remains the crucial factor in building a case against a suspect. But in the same neighborhoods that experience the most murders, witnesses have gone silent, unable or unwilling to confide in members of a police force viewed as adversaries.

Rather than consider why the police mission has been discredited in the places where it is most needed, we typically lament “community mistrust,” on the apparent belief that ordinary people have invented some suspicion that was too convenient to resist, too hard to dispel, yet without reason or rationale.

That’s simply not the case: As I discuss in my book, residents of urban black neighborhoods that had long gone unpoliced were first able to regard themselves as clients, not just targets, of law enforcement services in the 1950s. Yet this newfound status of “citizens worthy of service provision” was heavily conditioned by different agendas of social control: Arrests for loitering and public drunkenness were common, for instance.

Among the various police tactics of subjugation, by the 1970s, only the drug war toolkit survived challenges of civil rights jurisprudence and police professionalization. It nurtured a mode of policing that offended onlookers and alienated potential allies.

When combined with the profits made available to criminal gangs via drug prohibition — a policy enshrined in the Controlled Substances Act of 1970 — our drug war has produced a toxic combination: entrenched networks of crime sustained by gun violence, and a legacy of community suspicion of police. Yet we treat both phenomena as ex nihilo, sprung from nothing and out of nowhere.

Other conversations bear the imprint of a failed drug war, though we inspect the tracks as if laid by the mysterious Bigfoot. Drug prohibition drives but is inexplicably absent from analyses of the mounting lethality of the opioid crisis. Few who chide illicit opioid manufacturers for overprescribing opioids recall that a century ago, heroin was among the pain medications they sold.

As reports of misuse mounted, legislators responded by declaring heroin contraband, surrendering the drug to underground production and forfeiting the ability to regulate it in any way. The result is a drug many times more dangerous than its original formulation; with the recent addition of chemical synthetics like fentanyl, illicit heroin now regularly kills its consumers.

The drug war, a creature of our own creation, stalks us with its perverse consequences; still, we report being mugged by a stranger.

To be clear, illicit drug trafficking is now a fact of global trade, not a genie we can put back in the bottle. But to be equally clear, our refusal to acknowledge the drug war’s ever-present failure, including our refusal to consider abolishing the DEA, impoverishes analysis and blinds us to possible alternatives. Instead of trying to arrest and interdict our way out of the program, for instance, we might follow the advice of Sen. Rob Portman, who represents the heavily opioid-afflicted state Ohio, and prioritize the illicit production of fentanyl in trade talks with China.

Worse yet — and similar to a punitive approach to immigration enforcement — in perpetuating meaningless enforcement, we pathologize poverty, criminalize and imprison difference, perpetuate institutional racism, and degrade legal practices long considered essential to our freedom. We cheat ourselves of honest and productive relations with other countries, especially those in Central and South America.

Claiming the right to name and discuss these failures, and confronting conservative state-building of any sort, involves seeing the past in our present; it means grounding our analysis in the problem as it exists, rather than in the terms in which it is typically couched; it demands acknowledging something other than the white experience.

It has never been more important to enrich our perspective in precisely these ways. Typically institutions like the DEA and ICE loiter, like uninvited guests, at the margins of public discussion. Our post-9/11 world makes this neglect untenable. A war on terror, like the one waged against drugs, is both a mindset and a massive proliferation of enforcement policy and institutions — effectively a New Deal for the carceral and surveillance state.

Progressive approaches to recurring problems like terrorism, drugs, or illegal immigration do not suffer from poor evidence; they struggle for narrative context. Our political establishment caricatures progressive designs as extreme even when cautious: It appraises them as costly despite material savings; it judges them according to any failure, no matter how infrequent, unrelated, or trivial; it marginalizes these ideas as eccentric and irrelevant.

The opposite assumptions frame an approach of the “gun and the badge” (my phrase to denote enforcement-centric policy solutions): always treated as reasonable regardless of how radical; absolved of all sins, no matter the gravity or number; and received by serious people as indispensable and efficient, even when ineffective and expensive.

In this light, the call to “abolish ICE” has a place among efforts to expose other kinds of double standards in our world. It may well rank as among the most difficult. A progressive institutional and policy agenda is the ultimate outsider, a perpetual interloper who must do twice the work to garner half the credit. Meanwhile, the “gun and the badge” proves nothing to no one yet is accorded great deference.

And so, in league with other politics intended to challenge privilege, I say again: Abolish the DEA, and abolish ICE. Any redeeming aspect of their respective agencies can be transferred to a place where enforcement must demonstrate its effectiveness when judged against other approaches, operate under an appropriate executive mission, and show a return on investment based on outcomes that improve the lives of ordinary Americans.

Kathleen Frydl has examined conservative state-building in an award-winning book on the GI bill; a book on the drug war; and in articles on the FBI as well as the care of foundlings. Find her on Twitter @kfrydl.

The Big Idea is Vox’s home for smart discussion of the most important issues and ideas in politics, science, and culture — typically by outside contributors. If you have an idea for a piece, pitch us at thebigidea@vox.com.

Original Source -> Why we should abolish ICE — and the DEA too

via The Conservative Brief

[vitalmindandbody]

The center of darkness that still vanquishes within our 24 -hour cities

With technology man has subjugated the night. Yet walk wall street alone at 3am, and still the sorcery and whodunit ooze through

On some nighttimes, in the insomniac interims between roaring goods trains, and beneath the voice of ambulance alarms, I can hear owls announcing mournfully to one another from the trees that screen the rail lines flowing past the back of the house in which I live in inner London. On most nights, alongside the outcries of parties engaging or having sexuality, I hear the bag of cats and foxes screaming sporadically, as if they are being tortured. On some mornings, when a thin illumination firstly leaks through my dazzles, I can discover a cockerel croaking from a plot in which chickens are remained a couple of streets away. Rarely, when the mornings are resonantly still, the insistent tap of a woodpecker chiselling at a tree trunk wakes me.

The city at night is far eerier, far more feral than it is in the day. It is far harder to anthropomorphise, far more difficult to domesticate. In detail, the city doesnt necessarily sound and feel like a metropolis, a center of advanced civilisation, when most of its population is fast asleep. It can resound and experience a little bit closer to sort than culture. As Virginia Woolf once point out here that with a noticeable appreciation of frisson, we are no longer fairly ourselves after dark. She enjoyed the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight give. Our cities, like ourselves, can seem alien and unfamiliar at night. And if you listen to them attentively, as though through an echo sounder, they are able to sounds the including darkness give from its profundities the interferences and pulsates of the capitals pre-modern past.

The dins I sometimes hear from my bedroom, for example, are identifiably offsprings of those that the author and printer William Baldwin enumerated in his eccentric irony Beware the Cat ( 1553 ), one of “the worlds largest” suggestive evidences we have of London in the 16 th century. At one point, Baldwins protagonist, Gregory Streamer, ingests a narcotic drugs and lies in his assembly at Aldersgate listening with preternatural discovering to the commixed rackets of the nocturnal metropolitan. These include the barking of hounds, grunting of swine, shrieking of felines, thundering of rats; the ringing of bells, counting of coins, organizing of groins, moaning of suitors; also the scratching of owl, fluttering of poultry, routing of knaves, snorting of slaves. He might have added the tap of cobblers and the shovelling and scratching of nightmen, popularly known as Tom-Turd-Men, who were employed to clean the citys streets and privies after dark.

The night-time brooks our cities pasts. It channels their historical persistences and discontinuities with a clarity and vitality that our everyday lives, who the hell is influenced by an almost uninterrupted purposefulness, invariably obscure. It wishes to point out that we once shared these cities with innumerable swine, some of them tame, some of them not; and that to some extent we still do. It reminds us that, although we think about the 24 -hour city as a comparatively recent phenomenon if in the UK it is a phenomenon at all cities have always been hives of labour and leisure after nightfall. Baldwin, in his remarkable onomatopoeic prose poem, refers to the audible nocturnal activities of , among other things, grouting and rotating, baking and brewing. It reminds us, more, that we were once awful of the nighttime, and of the ones who colonize it, whether these expect the form of potential felons or the police; and that, to a astonishing level, especially if we come from socially marginalised radicals, we still are.

However efficiently artificial brightnes decimates the difference between night and day, the poet and critic Al Alvarez wrote, it never wholly omits the primitive suspicion that night beings are up to no good. Over the last four or five centuries, a series of social and technological changes have reshaped the city at night, progressively colonising it. The preamble of oil daylight, gaslight and electric light has, for example, successively reshaped it according to the needs of a diurnal territory. And the increase of working hours has reshaped it according to the needs of a daytime economy. But these changes havent entirely dispelled its pre-modern past. Cities encourage a centre of darkness that even the processes of industrialisation and electrification, the purpose of applying all-night plants and stores, all-night buses and instructs, have failed fully to conquer.

Gaslight earmarks high-jinks, circa 1820. Illustration: SSPL via Getty Images

In 1788, at the high levels of the Enlightenment, the Daily Universal Register triumphantly reported that not a single building in all London is perhaps now to be heard of which tolerates the repute of being an haunted house. Scientific rationalism, it was optimistically presupposed, had cleansed the citys darker, more strange targets with the coldnes, bright light-footed of reason, just as it had driven supernatural back to the dark ages. But, in the 21 st century as in previous ones, London abides, like all cities, a storehouse of archaic, if not primal, panics and anxieties at night. Anyone who has stepped through its empty streets alone at 3am, sensitive to the slightest flicker of motion in the darkness, knows this( not, of course, that these anxieties and nervousness are necessarily irrational, particularly if you happen to be a woman ).

Intellectual enlightenment and the practical illumination of wall street, both initiatives that sought to eradicate remnants of the medieval past, were closely complicit developments in the cities of early modern Europe. Arranged public street lighting had set in place in center regions of the British capital for a century by the time the newspaper report Ive repeated complacently declared that its constructs were finally free of ghosts. Paris, operating under the initiative of Louis XIVs council for the the process of reforming the policing of the city, spearheaded the policy in 1667. Other European metropolis, is cognizant of it was necessary to pre-empt petty crimes and forestall political schemes, are still in speedy succession: Amsterdam in 1669, Turin in 1675, Berlin in 1682, and London in 1684.

Replacing the lantern candles that private householders had formerly been required to erect outside their front doorways, most European civic authorities distributed petroleum torches, remain at public expenditure, to light-headed wall street on moonless darkness. The impression, is in accordance with contemporaries, was virtually overwhelming. The first report on the New Lights of the British metropolis, are presented in 1690 , noted in rapturous colours that they produced such a reciprocal thinking, that they all seem to be but one great Solar-Light.

Public illuminating had a decisive impact on Europes main routes, transforming them into places where, at the least when the condition was clement, beings could promenade and patronize after dark. The German novelist Sophie von La Roche, enraptured by Londons culture of intake, exploited a note of 1786 to describe the double sequences of brightly reflecting lamps that allowed pedestrians and people in tutors to gaze at Oxford Streets gorgeously lit shop fronts.

In some quite literal sense, the city at night in the late 17 th and 18 th centuries was flamboyant. As the rise of Londons coffee houses and pleasure garden-varieties expressed, nightlife became a distinct social phenomenon from this time. It was increasingly fashionable to stay up dancing, drinking, gambling and soliciting prostitutes all night and then be retained in berthed in all areas of the next day. This was in part because it dramatised an aristocratic repudiation of the protestant ethic and the minds of the capitalism. In populous, upwardly mobile societies like those pioneered in London and Paris, where separations of rank could all too easily be obliterated in the press of torsoes on the streets, the human rights of stray freely at night was a advantage. And at first light, when revellers careen home elapsed labourers marching to cultivate, it was once again unambiguously clear to which social class these people belonged.

A soul stops to talk to a polouse in the rain on the Thames embankment, 1929. Photograph: Fox Photos/ Getty Images

But if street lighting gentrified and glamorised the commercial and political centres of Europes municipalities in this period, it relegated other regions to no-go neighbourhoods. The French dramatist Louis-Sbastien Mercier conveyed comfort in 1780 that millions of lubricant reflectors had recently changed torches in the French capital. But, as well as demonstrating that this excellent innovation had been marred by misdirected economy, he pointedly have also pointed out that, outside the shallow puddles of astonishing lighter that the oil lamps radiated, wall street had been immersed into a mist that seemed deeper and more impenetrable than ever. Surely, in the poorer areas of Europes metropolis, the new technology moved little gap to folks everyday lives. At night, the serpentine streets, suffocating courts and labyrinthine slums of the city were quite as overshadow and poisonous as they had been in the middle ages.

The introduction of gaslight in the early 19 th century had much the same effects, transforming the areas frequented by the upper and middle classes but leaving those inhabited by the poor pretty much untouched. Even so, alongside the professionalisation of Europes police forces, it revolutionised metropolitans at night. In 1807, as part of an energetic campaign to acquire London the first metropolis to be chiefly ignited at night by gas, the expat German entrepreneur Frederick Winsor attached an exhibition of its benefits in Pall Mall. The Monthly Magazine praised the success of this experiment and the beautifully white-hot and brilliant flare it made. By 1823 more than 200 miles of streets in London were ignited by virtually 40,000 lamps. Light had been industrialised.

Not everyone was happy about this development. Like other Romantics, John Keats deplored that the insinuate different forms of illumination links with candles and oil lamps, which lighted small areas with an uneven, gently flickering kindle, and which consequently generated a kind of contemplative aura, were being delivered to the past. An impersonal artificial flare, especially in the regions where the retail marketers let loose the gas, was progressively repulsing all the powers of darkness. Keats deplored the facts of the case that the citys authorities and commercial-grade pastimes were exiling nighttimes magic, its mystery and its splendor, from the city. And his famed Ode to a Nightingale( 1819 ), which celebrates the embalmed darkness, was a carefully staged attempt to summon it back.

The decorating the consequences of gaslight were far more uniform than those of oil, but electric lighting, which emerged in the 1880 s, inundated rather than plainly pooled the streets in which it was installed with an intense, apparently grey brightnes. Caricatures and depicts from the period proudly depict parties countenancing about on sidewalks speaking newspapers beneath etiolated electrical lamps. Electric street lighting became the ultimate button of metropolitan modernity, and European municipalities rivalled with one another to be the pre-eminent City of Light. In the end, New York engulf all of them, including Paris. Meanwhile, metropolis that retained their medieval terrain, and that were slow to introduce the new technology, were relegated to the past. In an clause titled Against Past-Loving Venice( 1910 ), the Italian Futurist FT Marinetti thundered: Give the reign of pious Electric Light eventually come, to liberate Venice from its venal moonshine

Harrods in London, flooded with light in 1935. Photo: Fox Photos/ Getty Images

But, in spite of the unvarying glare of electrical street lights at the commercial-grade, industrial and residential centres, even the 20 th centurys most futuristic metropolis were shaped by socially peripheral, mainly working-class areas that remained plunged in darkness at night. The German astronomer Bruno H Brgel, echoing in 1930 the pride with which “his fathers”, who came from the days of lighting by oil-lamp, extended him through Berlins wealth of light-footed, drily find: A step into the side streets, and you seemed put over by centuries. It was not merely the is a lack of lighting, but the presence of the poor at night, and above all the homeless, that attained these regions seem like remainders of the pre-Enlightenment, pre-capitalist past. The houseless, as they used to be called, had been an endemic attendance in Europes municipalities after dark since the middle ages, when males and denizens of the street were criminalised as common nightwalkers.

The 20 th-century metropoli nonetheless staged the progressive colonisation of the night by the day, darkness by light-footed. Tables, cinema, golf-clubs, music halls, theatres and amusement parks catered ever more energetically to people appetite for recreation after hours. Indeed, the term after hours seemed more and more nonsensical, as mills, infirmaries, parts and supermarkets thrummed throughout the night. Even in what had for centuries been called the dead nighttime, roughly between 2am and 4am, the center of major metropolitan metropolitans situates like Piccadilly Circus and Times Square pulsated with beings. Electric light, Thomas Edison had insisted, necessitates darknes life, and darknes life represents progress.

In the early 1940 s, when the British uppercase was regularly immersed into darkness during the offensive, Edisons formula seemed all the more irrefutable. For at that time, conversely, the is a lack of electric light plunged London, and other European cities, into a government of cruelty. It was perhaps in part because of this traumatic know-how that the postwar generation redoubled its commitment to respect for obtaining the value of both labour and leisure from the darknes. The statement clubbing was first are applied to necessitate going to nightclubs in the mid-1 960 s, when the family of the individuals who been adults through the second world war set about overcoming this inheritance and regaining the night.

Since then, as the artistry historian Jonathan Crary lately wrote in his fine polemical 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep , the capitalist system has fostered the rise of national societies in which a position of permanent lighting is indispensable to the non-stop procedure of world-wide exchange and lighting. In the late 1990 s, to afford a magnificent sample, a Russian-European cavity consortium developed proposes to use satellites with paraboloid reflector to crystallize remote regions of Earth with sunlight and so enable work to be performed all over the clock. Promising dawn all darknes long, it also was suggested that entire metropolitan areas are likely to be crystallized after dark along these lines, rendering electric light itself anachronistic. Dreams of the elimination of the night can no longer be dismissed as science fiction.

In the 21 st century, electric lighting in advanced financier countries if not in innumerable developing nations is a uniform and universal facet of cities at night. So is travelling, browse, working and other activities that for much of the past seemed unimaginable taking place after dark. But in practice, as has been the case for millennia, some people have freer and fuller access to the city at night than others. Lone wives may experience excluded from it, for example, if simply because at certain times and in certain places they are made to feel unacceptably vulnerable. Black and Asian souls, for their segment, are far more likely to be criminalised in west metropolis than white-hot humankinds at night.

The 24-hour tube, “its probably” safe to prophesy, will not basically reform the facts of the case that for numerous people, if not for the citys person of cats and feral foxes, London stands, like other British metropolitans, at least partly off limits at night. We have a night-time economy; we need a night-time politics.

Matthew Beaumont is the author of Nightwalking: a Nocturnal History of London, 9.99, Verso. Click here to buy it for 8.19

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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Documentary Unveils America’s Pharma-Driven Opioid Crisis and the Heartbreak It’s Causing Families Dr. Mercola By Dr. Mercola The HBO documentary “Warning: This Drug May Kill You,” details the devastating effect America’s pharma-driven opioid crisis is having on families and the victims themselves. The film, made by Perri Peltz and Sascha Weiss, features the perspectives of four families whose lives have been ripped apart as a result of opioid and heroin addiction. Opioid and heroin addiction — which public health officials have described1 as being the worst drug crisis in American history — affects about 2.5 million Americans, nearly half a million of whom are addicted to heroin,2 a dangerous street drug that prescription pill addicts can quickly turn to because the cost is significantly less than that of prescription painkillers. The term “opioid” is used to describe a class of drugs that includes the illegal drug heroin, as well as the legal prescription painkillers oxycodone, hydrocodone, codeine, morphine, fentanyl and others. Ironically, the silent but deadly opioid epidemic often starts with some of society’s most trusted professionals: doctors. As noted in the film, a significant number of opioid addictions begin with a trip to the doctor’s office or a hospital as a result of an injury or medical problem for which addictive painkillers are carelessly prescribed. It seems no medical problem is too minor for powerful prescription painkillers to be prescribed. This is depicted in the film, which details the story of a young woman from Beach Park, Illinois, who became addicted to OxyContin after being prescribed the medication for kidney stones. Not only are opioid pain medications (also called narcotic prescription painkillers) wildly overprescribed, but they are also often given without warning of the potential risks for addiction and/or resources to help deal with the possible risk of addiction. Nearly 260 Million Opioid Prescriptions Are Written in the US Each Year The number of opioid prescriptions has increased substantially over the last few decades. “In 2012, 259 million prescriptions were written for opioids, which is more than enough to give every American adult their own bottle of pills,” according to the American Society of Addiction Medicine.3 The result? Drug overdose is now our nation’s leading cause of accidental death. In 2015, accidental drug overdoses accounted for 52,404 deaths, with 20,101 of those deaths related to prescription pain relievers, and 12,990 linked to heroin. However, 80 percent of heroin users start out on prescription opioids.4 Despite the fact that Americans are dying at unprecedented rates due to Big Pharma’s prescription painkillers, the pharmaceutical industry is rarely named by the establishment media for its deadly role in the growing opioid epidemic. Kidney Stone Pain Morphs Into Deadly Opioid Addiction for Unsuspecting Teen Stephany Gay should have been getting her license and learning how to drive when she first became addicted to prescription painkillers. It all began when, at the tender age of 16, she started suffering from kidney stones and was prescribed OxyContin and Vicodin. It didn’t take long before Stephany, who had never done illegal drugs, developed a full-blown dependency on opioids. The teen confided in her mom after realizing she had developed an addiction. Her mother urged her to see a doctor, but when she did she came home with another prescription: This time it was for Percocet. Stephany also got her younger sister, Ashley, addicted to opioids after offering her the medication for headaches and a better night’s sleep. Stephany’s doctor eventually stopped prescribing her opioids, causing the sisters to turn to heroin to get their fix. Stephany says: “It made me feel like I could do anything. I felt like superwoman. I didn’t have anxiety. I didn’t feel depressed. I felt happy. I felt warm. I felt like it loved me and I loved it back. I felt like I had a relationship with heroin.” The sisters snorted heroin for a year before experimenting with a needle. Soon after Stephany started injecting, she lost the three-bedroom home she owned and custody of her young daughter. Ashley, who once told her mother she was “too pretty to die,” overdosed on heroin and died alone in a hotel room. Eighty Percent of Heroin Users Start With Prescription Opioids Part two of the documentary, “Addicted to Pills,” details the heartbreaking story of a wife and mother of five children who became addicted to opioids after being prescribed the medication for a Cesarean section. Wynne Doyle, from Mill Valley, California, stopped getting out of bed just one and a half months after giving birth to her third child. She became addicted fast, says Britt Doyle Sr., who later divorced his wife following years of addiction. Like many opioid addicts, Wynne went in and out of rehab multiple times, only to relapse again. The second rehab she entered was three times as costly as the first, says Britt Sr. But 28 days later his wife returned home with a “whole bunch of pills,” and her addiction started all over again, he says. Wynne’s addiction grew so intense that she would purposely injure herself in order to get more pills. “I watched her slam her hand in the car door one time, just so she could go to the emergency room,” said Britt Sr., adding that the doctors would always give his wife more pain medication. At one point, Wynne had shattered both of her wrists, but as soon as they healed she would hurt herself again just to get more pills. My wife became a “totally different person,” says Britt Sr. “It was like Jekyll and Hyde.” Seven years into her addiction and on his wife’s 11th stint in rehab, Britt Sr. had finally had enough. He moved the children out of the house and filed for divorce. Sometime later, Wynne, suffering from kidney stones, was prescribed more painkillers. She had eight bottles filled to the top sitting on her nightstand when her children found their mother lifeless in her bed. “When I saw the pills on her bedside table when she had passed, that was probably the most anger I could feel, ever, because she’s been to that hospital easily like 50 times,” said Britt Doyle Jr., Wynne’s daughter. “They’ve seen her there unconscious and had to like [sic] pump her stomach so many times. And yet she comes in there and they leave her with more?” she asks angrily. Adolescents Are 33 Percent More Likely to Misuse Opioids as Young Adults Part three of the documentary tells the story of Brendan Cole from Allendale, New Jersey. The teen was prescribed opioid painkillers after having a cyst surgically removed. Four years later he died of a heroin overdose. Before his death, Cole overdosed on heroin but was revived with Narcan after his dad woke in the middle of the night to find his son lying in an unnatural position on his bed. His lips were turning blue and “we heard the air come out of his lungs when we moved him,” said his parents tearfully. Narcan, or naloxone, is an overdose-reversal drug. It’s made by Amphastar Pharmaceuticals, which began what appears to be a clear case of price gouging, raising the cost of Narcan by as much as 100 percent. Cole recovered from the overdose, but the hospital failed to warn his family that patients revived with Narcan may experience intense cravings and withdrawal symptoms. As a result, no plan was put in place to help Cole overcome the cravings that would soon follow. The very next day, Cole overdosed again, and this time he could not be revived. 5In people with little drug experience, scientists theorize that “the initial experience of pain relief is pleasurable, and a safe initial experience with opioids may reduce perceived risk.” Synthetic Opioids Sold Via ‘Dark Web’ Implicated in Growing Number of Overdose Deaths In addition to prescription opioids, another threat looms: synthetic (and illegal) opioids sold through the dark web — the secret underbelly of the internet, initially created by American intelligence agencies for encrypted communication purposes. A recent piece by The New York Times6 sheds light on an emerging illicit drug trade involving dangerous synthetic opioids that are being shipped into the U.S. via small packages in the mail. The report reveals “that most of the illicit supply of synthetic opioids is produced in labs in Asia and especially China, where many of the precursor chemicals are either legal or easier to procure.” The synthetic opioids are said to be so potent that they “have become the fastest-growing cause of the overdose epidemic, overtaking heroin in some areas,” reports the Times. Synthetic opioids being shipped overseas include fentanyl, the infamous drug responsible for pop icon Prince’s death. Fentanyl is so potent that two milligrams is enough to kill and, unlike prescription pills, “enough fentanyl to get nearly 50,000 people high can fit in a standard first-class envelope,” the report warns. Synthetic opioids obtained through the internet are responsible for the deaths of two teenagers from Park City, Utah. Grant Seaver and Ryan Ainsworth, both 13 years old, died after taking a synthetic opioid known as U-47700, or Pinky. The boys reportedly obtained the drug from another teen who purchased them on the dark web using bitcoin. While synthetic opioids account for a small portion of overall trafficked drugs, law enforcement says “that dark web markets have quickly assumed a more prominent and frightening role.” Opioids Actually Alter Your Brain Structure Studies also suggest that drugs for physical and emotional pain may change your brain. In a study by researchers at the University of Alabama, people with chronic low back pain received either morphine or a placebo daily for one month. Both groups experienced similar reductions in pain, but there was a major difference among those taking morphine — changes in the brain. Magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) scans showed the patients taking morphine had a 3 percent reduction in gray matter volume over the course of the study. The reductions occurred in regions of the brain that regulate emotions, cravings and pain response.7 Further, the morphine group had increases in gray matter volume in areas related to learning, memory and executive function. Lead study author Joanne Lin told Reuters,8 "Because we are seeing that opioids rapidly change the brain, our take-home message is that opioids should be reserved for cases when most other treatment options have failed." Millions of Taxpayer Dollars Used for Opioid Prescriptions The Centers for Medicare & Medicaid Services (CMS) is a branch of the Department of Health and Human Services. CMS runs the Medicare program and monitors Medicaid programs run by the states. According to the Office of the Inspector General (OIG), spending on opioids in the Medicare system, which is funded by U.S. tax dollars through Medicare trust funds, grew at a faster rate than spending for all drugs. Data from the OIG shows that between 2006 and 2014, the number of Medicare recipients on opioids grew by 92 percent, compared to 68 percent for all drugs. Medicare recipients are also receiving multiple prescriptions for opioids for reasons other than cancer pain or terminal illness, the traditional uses for these strong medications. Medicaid programs, supported by taxpayers but administered by states, also reveal excessive opioid use and probable fraud.9 In 2010, 359,368 Medicaid enrollees received an opioid prescription amounting to over 2 million prescriptions, and again suggesting many prescriptions per patient.10 While Medicaid programs likely provide generic combinations of the active ingredient in OxyContin, hydrocodone, to patients, which costs about $28 for a 120-day supply (compared with $632 for the brand name OxyContin),11 taxpayers are still paying at least $56 million for Medicaid opioid prescriptions. The cost of the opioid prescriptions does not take into consideration state-run drug treatment programs and services that are required if and when enrollees become addicted. OxyContin Manufacturer Pays One of the Largest Pharma Settlements in US History In December 2015, Purdue Pharmaceuticals, the maker of OxyContin, settled an ongoing lawsuit brought by the state of Kentucky for $24 million over presenting OxyContin as "nonaddictive."12 Purdue contended that the pill slowly releases the drug over 12 hours when swallowed, omitting the fact that, when crushed, OxyContin lost its time release protections and created an instant high. "State officials said that led to a wave of addiction and increased medical costs across the state, particularly in eastern Kentucky where many injured coal miners were prescribed the drug," reported The Associated Press. The 2015 settlement is similar to one Purdue agreed to in 2007 with the state of West Virginia, when it agreed to pay out $634 million because "fraudulent conduct caused a greater amount of OxyContin to be available for illegal use than otherwise would have been available."13 Despite the lawsuits, OxyContin remains on the market. FDA Orders Drugmaker to Stop Selling Opioid Painkiller Opioid manufacturer Endo Pharmaceuticals hasn’t been so lucky, however. In an unprecedented move by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), health officials have ordered Endo to remove the opioid painkiller Opana ER from the market due to the conclusion that “the drug’s risks outweigh its benefits,” reported CBS News.14 “It's the first time the FDA has asked a drugmaker to remove an opioid painkiller from the market,” CBS said. “The agency said it has seen a ‘significant shift’ from people crushing and snorting Opana ER to get high to injecting it.” If the drugmaker refuses to comply with the FDA’s request to pull the opioid from the market, the agency can begin a “formal process for rescinding its approval.” Drug Companies Try to Cash in on Opioid Epidemic While an increasing number of Americans suffer the devastating effects of opioid addiction, pharmaceutical companies are battling it out to become the top seller of addiction medications. As was highlighted in a recent NPR report,15 rather than working to make various effective treatments for opioid addiction more readily available to those who need it, the pharmaceutical industry is actively trying to stomp out its competitors by restricting access to important addiction medications. One example of this includes the global biopharmaceutical company Alkermes and its non-opioid addiction medication, Vivitrol, a monthly injection that costs around $1,000. Alkermes, based in Waltham, Massachusetts, is working vigorously to promote its drug at the legislative level as a solution to our nation’s growing opioid epidemic — and while doing so (in some cases) is restricting access to other opioid addiction medications through policy that makes it harder for doctors to prescribe alternatives to Vivitrol. “An investigation by NPR and Side Effects Public Media has found that in statehouses across the country, and in Congress, Alkermes is pushing Vivitrol while contributing to misconceptions and stigma about other medications used to treat opioid addiction,” NPR reports. Experts disagree about which opioid addiction medications are most effective. Some argue opioid maintenance drugs like methadone and buprenorphine — both of which contain opioids — are fueling the opioid crisis due to their street value and the idea that offering them to addicts means replacing one opioid for another. Others argue that opioid maintenance medications relieve painful withdrawal symptoms and reduce or eliminate intense cravings. Federal health agencies and the American Society of Addiction Medicine agree that “opioid abstinence can be dangerous,” says NPR. While there are no studies comparing Vivitrol to methadone or buprenorphine, Alkermes touts Vivitrol as the more effective, opioid-free solution. Alkermes has significantly increased its spending on federal lobbying, spending $4.4 million in 2016 compared to less than $200,000 in 2010. “Last year, Vivitrol's sales reached $209 million — up from just $30 million in 2011,” NPR reports, adding that Alkermes projects sales could reach $1 billion by 2021. Treating Your Pain Without Drugs While opioid painkillers may relieve pain temporarily, the addiction risks can quickly send you spiraling out of control down a dark and dangerous path. As shown in the film, many families touched by opioid addiction end up suffering for years before finally losing a loved one to addiction. The good news is there are many natural alternatives to treating pain. It’s particularly important to avoid opioids when trying to address long-term chronic pain, as your body will create a tolerance to the drug. Over time, you may require greater doses at more frequent intervals to achieve the same pain relief. This is a recipe for disaster and could have lethal consequences. Following is information about non-drug remedies, dietary changes and bodywork interventions that can help you manage your pain. ✓ Medical cannabis Medical marijuana has a long history as a natural analgesic and is now legal in 28 states. You can learn more about the laws in your state on medicalmarijuana.procon.org.16 ✓ Kratom Kratom (Mitragyna speciose) is a plant remedy that has become a popular opioid substitute.17 In August 2016, the DEA issued a notice saying it was planning to ban kratom, listing it as a Schedule 1 controlled substance. However, following massive outrage from kratom users who say opioids are their only alternative, the agency reversed its decision.18 Kratom is safer than an opioid for someone in serious and chronic pain. However, it’s important to recognize that it is a psychoactive substance and should be used carefully. There’s very little research showing how to use it safely and effectively, and it may have a very different effect from one person to the next. The other issue to address is that there are a number of different strains available with different effects. Also, while it may be useful for weaning people off opioids, kratom is in itself addictive. So, while it appears to be a far safer alternative to opioids, it’s still a powerful and potentially addictive substance. So please, do your own research before trying it. ✓ Low-Dose Naltrexone (LDN) Naltrexone is an opiate antagonist, originally developed in the early 1960s for the treatment of opioid addiction. When taken at very low doses LDN, available only by prescription, triggers endorphin production, which can boost your immune function and ease pain. ✓ Curcumin A primary therapeutic compound identified in the spice turmeric, curcumin has been shown in more than 50 clinical studies to have potent anti-inflammatory activity. Curcumin is hard to absorb, so best results are achieved with preparations designed to improve absorption. It is very safe and you can take two to three every hour if you need to. ✓ Astaxanthin One of the most effective oil-soluble antioxidants known, astaxanthin has very potent anti-inflammatory properties. Higher doses are typically required for pain relief, and you may need 8 milligrams or more per day to achieve results. ✓ Boswellia: Also known as boswellin or "Indian frankincense," this herb contains powerful anti-inflammatory properties, which have been prized for thousands of years. This is one of my personal favorites, as it worked well for many of my former rheumatoid arthritis patients. ✓ Bromelain: This protein-digesting enzyme, found in pineapples, is a natural anti-inflammatory. It can be taken in supplement form, but eating fresh pineapple may also be helpful. Keep in mind most of the bromelain is found within the core of the pineapple, so consider eating some of the pulpy core when you consume the fruit. ✓ Cayenne cream Also called capsaicin cream, this spice comes from dried hot peppers. It alleviates pain by depleting your body's supply of substance P, a chemical component of nerve cells that transmit pain signals to your brain. ✓ Cetyl myristoleate (CMO) This oil, found in dairy butter and fish, acts as a joint lubricant and anti-inflammatory. I have used a topical preparation of CMO to relieve ganglion cysts and a mild case of carpal tunnel syndrome. ✓ Evening primrose, black currant and borage oils These oils contain the fatty acid gamma-linolenic acid, which is useful for treating arthritic pain. ✓ Ginger This herb is anti-inflammatory and offers pain relief and stomach-settling properties. Fresh ginger works well steeped in boiling water as a tea, or incorporated into fresh vegetable juice. Dietary Changes to Fight Inflammation and Manage Your Pain Unfortunately, physicians often fall short when attempting to effectively treat chronic pain, resorting to the only treatment they know: prescription drugs. While these drugs may bring some temporary relief, they will do nothing to resolve the underlying causes of your pain. If you suffer from chronic pain, making the following changes to your diet may bring you some relief. ✓ Consume more animal-based omega-3 fats. Similar to the effects of anti-inflammatory pharmaceutical drugs, omega-3 fats from fish and fish oils work to directly or indirectly modulate a number of cellular activities associated with inflammation. While drugs have a powerful ability to inhibit your body’s pain signals, omega-3s cause a gentle shift in cell signaling to bring about a lessened reactivity to pain. Eating healthy seafood like anchovies or sardines, which are low in environmental toxins, or taking a high-quality supplement such as krill oil are your best options for obtaining omega-3s. DHA and EPA, the omega-3 oils contained in krill oil, have been found in many animal and clinical studies to have anti-inflammatory properties, which are beneficial for pain relief. ✓ Radically reduce your intake of processed foods. Processed foods not only contain chemical additives and excessive amounts of sugar, but also are loaded with damaging omega-6 fats. By eating these foods, especially fried foods, you upset your body’s ratio of omega-3 to omega-6 fatty-acids, which triggers inflammation. Inflammation is a key factor in most pain. ✓ Eliminate or radically reduce your consumption of grains and sugars. Avoiding grains and sugars, especially fructose, will lower your insulin and leptin levels. Elevated insulin and leptin levels are some of the most profound stimulators of inflammatory prostaglandin production, which contributes to pain. While healthy individuals are advised to keep their daily fructose consumption below 25 grams from all sources, you’ll want to limit your intake to 15 grams per day until your pain is reduced. Eating sugar increases your uric acid levels, which leads to chronic, low-level inflammation. ✓ Optimize your production of vitamin D. As much as possible, regulate your vitamin D levels by regularly exposing large amounts of your skin to sunshine. If you cannot get sufficient sun exposure, taking an oral vitamin D3 supplement, along with vitamin K2 and magnesium, is highly advisable. Research by GrassrootsHealth suggests adults need about 8,000 IUs per day to achieve a serum level of 40 ng/ml, but you may need even more. It’s best to get your blood level tested to be sure you're safely within the therapeutic range. Bodywork Methods That Reduce Pain Due to the inherent risks of addiction and the other unpleasant side effects of prescription painkillers, I recommend you pursue one or more of the following bodywork methods before taking a narcotic for pain. Each one has been demonstrated to be an effective treatment for lasting pain relief and management. • Acupuncture: According to The New York Times,19 an estimated 3 million American adults receive acupuncture annually, most often for the treatment of chronic pain. A study20 published in the Archives of Internal Medicine concluded acupuncture has a definite effect in reducing four types of chronic pain, including back and neck pain, chronic headache, osteoarthritis and shoulder pain — more so than standard pain treatment. • Chiropractic adjustments: While previously used most often to treat back pain, chiropractic treatment addresses many other problems — including asthma, carpal tunnel syndrome, fibromyalgia, headaches, migraines, musculoskeletal pain, neck pain and whiplash. According to a study21 published in the Annals of Internal Medicine, patients with neck pain who used a chiropractor and/or exercise were more than twice as likely to be pain-free in 12 weeks compared to those who took medication. • Massage: Massage releases endorphins, which help induce relaxation, relieve pain and reduce levels of stress chemicals such as cortisol and noradrenaline. A systematic review and meta-analysis22 published in the journal Pain Medicine, included 60 high-quality and seven low-quality studies that looked into the use of massage for various types of pain, including bone and muscle, fibromyalgia, headache and spinal-cord pain. The study revealed massage therapy relieves pain better than getting no treatment at all. When compared to other pain treatments like acupuncture and physical therapy, massage therapy still proved beneficial and had few side effects. In addition to relieving pain, massage therapy also improved anxiety and health-related quality of life. • Emotional Freedom Techniques (EFT): EFT continues to be one of the easiest and most effective ways to deal with acute and chronic pain. The technique is simple and can be applied in mere minutes, helping you to overcome all kinds of bodily aches and pains. A study23 published in Energy Psychology examined the levels of pain in a group of 50 people attending a three-day EFT workshop, and found their pain dropped by 43 percent during the workshop. Six weeks later, their pain levels were reported to be 42 percent lower than before the workshop. As a result of applying EFT, participants felt they had an improved sense of control and ability to cope with their chronic pain. In the video featured below, EFT expert Julie Schiffman, teaches you how to use EFT to address chronic pain.

[vitalmindandbody]

The mettle of darkness that still drums within our 24 -hour cities

With technology man has inhibited the night. Yet walk wall street alone at 3am, and still the occult and whodunit ooze through

On some nighttimes, in the insomniac intervals between reverberating goods trains, and beneath the audio of ambulance alarms, I can sounds owls calling mournfully to one another from the trees that screen the rail lines extending past the back of the house in which I live in inner London. On most darkness, alongside the wails of parties crusading or having fornication, I sounds the bag of cats and foxes screaming intermittently, as if they are being tortured. On some mornings, when a thin sun first reveals through my dazzles, I can hear a cockerel squawking from a plot in which chickens are prevented got a couple of streets away. Rarely, when the mornings are resonantly still, the insistent tap of a woodpecker chiselling at a tree trunk wakes me.

The city at night is far eerier, far more feral than it is in the day. It is far harder to anthropomorphise, far more difficult to domesticate. In reality, the city doesnt necessarily sound and feel like a metropolis, a centre of advanced civilisation, when most of its population is fast asleep. It can resound and find closer to nature than culture. As Virginia Woolf once pointed out with a noticeable sense of frisson, we are no longer quite ourselves after dark. She basked the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow. Our cities, like ourselves, can seem immigrant and unfamiliar at night. And if you listen to them attentively, as though through an echo sounder, you can hear the embracing darkness transmit from its depths the rackets and pulsates of the capital city pre-modern past.

The seems I sometimes hear from my bedroom, for example, are identifiably descendants of those that the author and printer William Baldwin enumerated in his eccentric satire Beware the Cat ( 1553 ), one of the most evocative accounts we have of London in the 16 th century. At one point, Baldwins protagonist, Gregory Streamer, absorbs a narcotic and lies in his chamber at Aldersgate listening with preternatural listening to the commixed rackets of the nocturnal municipality. These include the barking of puppies, grunting of swine, weeping of felines, thundering of rats; the ringing of buzzers, counting of coppers, organizing of groins, moaning of buffs; also the scratching of owl, flit of fowls, routing of knaves, snorting of slaves. He might have added the tapping of cobblers and the shovelling and scraping of nightmen, popularly known as Tom-Turd-Men, who were employed to clean the citys streets and johns after dark.

The night-time brooks our metropolitans pasts. It channels their historic persistences and discontinuities with a clarity and vitality that our everyday lives, who the hell is influenced by an nearly uninterrupted purposefulness, constantly obscure. It wishes to point out that we once shared these cities with innumerable swine, some of them tamed, some of them not; and that to some extent we still do. It reminds us that, although we think of the 24 -hour city as a comparatively recent phenomenon if in the UK it is a phenomenon at all cities have always been hives of labour and leisure after nightfall. Baldwin, in his remarkable onomatopoeic prose song, refers to the audible nocturnal acts of , among other things, grouting and rotating, broiling and brewing. It reminds us, very, that we were once terrible of the nighttime, and of the people who occupy it, whether these assume the form of potential felons or the police; and that, to a astonishing level, especially if we come from socially marginalised groups, we still are.

However efficiently artificial sunlight overpowers the difference between night and day, the poet and critic Al Alvarez wrote, it never wholly eliminates the primitive suspicion that night parties are up to no good. Over the last four or five centuries, a series of social and technological changes have reshaped the city at night, progressively colonising it. The preamble of petroleum lighting, gaslight and electric light has, for example, successively reshaped it according to the needs of a diurnal country. And the postponement of working hours has reshaped it according to the needs of a daytime economy. But these changes havent totally dispelled its pre-modern past. Metropolis nurture a nerve of darkness that even the processes of industrialisation and electrification, the purpose of applying all-night mills and shops, all-night buses and teaches, have flunked fully to conquer.

Gaslight earmarks high-jinks, circa 1820. Illustration: SSPL via Getty Images

In 1788, at the high levels of the Enlightenment, the Daily Universal Register triumphantly reported that not a single building in all London is perhaps now to be heard of which makes the repute of being an haunted room. Scientific rationalism, it was optimistically accepted, had cleaned the citys darker, more strange lieu with the coldnes, shining illuminate of reason, just as it had driven supernatural back to the dark ages. But, in the 21 st century as in previous ones, London remains, like all cities, a repository of archaic, if not primal, anxieties and nervousness at night. Anyone who has ambled through its empty streets alone at 3am, sensitive to the slightest glint of push in the darkness, knows this( not, of course, that these panics and nervousness are necessarily irrational, specially if you happen to be a woman ).

Intellectual enlightenment and the practical illumination of the streets, both organizations that sought to eradicate remnants of the medieval past, were closely complicit developments in the cities of early modern Europe. Coordinated public street lighting had set in place in center regions of the British uppercase for a century by the time the newspaper report Ive paraphrased complacently declared that its constructs were finally free of specters. Paris, operating under the initiative of Louis XIVs council for the the process of reforming the policing of the city, spearheaded the policy in 1667. Other European municipalities, is cognizant of the need to pre-empt inessential felonies and foreclose political conspiracies, are still in speedy succession: Amsterdam in 1669, Turin in 1675, Berlin in 1682, and London in 1684.

Replacing the lantern candles that private householders had formerly been required to erect outside their front doors, most European civic powers distributed petroleum torches, remain at public expenditure, to light-colored the street on moonless nights. The impression, is in accordance with peers, was virtually overwhelming. The first report on the New Lights of the British metropolis, published in 1690 , was reported in rapturous colours that they grew such a mutual thoughtfulnes, that they all seem to be but one enormous Solar-Light.

Public igniting had a decisive impact on Europes central avenues, transforming them into the locations where, at least when the condition was clement, beings could promenade and shop after dark. The German novelist Sophie von La Roche, enraptured by Londons culture of consumption, use a note of 1786 to describe the double rows of brightly glowing lamps that enabled pedestrians and people in coach-and-fours to gaze at Oxford Streets excellently lit shop fronts.

In some quite literal feel, the city at night in the late 17 th and 18 th centuries was ostentatious. As the rise of Londons coffee houses and pleasure gardens expressed, nightlife became a distinct social phenomenon from this time. It was increasingly fashionable to stay up dancing, booze, gambling and soliciting prostitutes all night and then be retained in bed throughout the next day. This was in part because it dramatised an noble repudiation of the protestant ethic and the minds of the capitalism. In populous, upwardly mobile societies like those pioneered in London and Paris, where differences of grade could all too easily be obscured in the press of torsoes on the streets, the human rights of wander freely at night was a advantage. And at first light, when revellers careen residence delivered labourers ambling to task, it was once again unambiguously clear to which social class these people belonged.

A gentleman stops to talk to a polouse in the rain on the Thames embankment, 1929. Photograph: Fox Photos/ Getty Images

But if street lighting gentrified and glamorised the commercial and political centres of Europes metropolis in this period, it relegated other regions to no-go orbits. The French dramatist Louis-Sbastien Mercier conveyed relief in 1780 that thousands of lubricant reflectors has only replaced lamps in the French capital. But, as well as protesting that this excellent innovation had been impaired by misdirected economy, he pointedly noted that, outside the shallow consortia of fascinating daylight that the oil lamps ejected, wall street had been thrown into a despair that seemed deeper and more impenetrable than ever. Certainly, in the poorer areas of Europes metropolitans, the new technology became little change to publics everyday lives. At nighttime, the serpentine streets, suffocating the tribunals and labyrinthine slums of the city were quite as obliterate and harmful as they had been in the middle ages.

The introduction of gaslight in the early 19 th century had much the same effect, transforming the areas frequented by the upper and middle class but leaving those inhabited by the poor pretty much untouched. Even so, alongside the professionalisation of Europes police forces, it revolutionised municipalities at night. In 1807, as part of an energetic expedition to stimulate London the first metropolis to be chiefly lit at night by gas, the expat German entrepreneur Frederick Winsor mounted an exhibition of its benefits in Pall Mall. The Monthly Magazine praised the success of this experiment and the beautifully lily-white and brilliant dawn it induced. By 1823 more than 200 miles of streets in London were lit by nearly 40,000 lamps. Light had been industrialised.

Not everyone was happy about this development. Like other Romantics, John Keats deplored that the insinuate forms of brightnes links with candles and oil lamps, which ignited small areas with an uneven, gently flickering flare, and which consequently generated a kind of contemplative halo, were being consigned to the past. An impersonal artificial flare, especially in the regions where the retail merchants let loose the gas, was progressively fighting all the powers of darkness. Keats mourned the facts of the case that the citys authorities and commercial-grade interests were exiling nighttimes magic, its mystery and its magnificence, from the city. And his famed Ode to a Nightingale( 1819 ), which celebrates the embalmed darkness, was a carefully staged is making an effort to summon it back.

The illuminating the consequences of gaslight were far more uniform than those of oil, but electric lighting, which emerged in the 1880 s, flooded rather than plainly pooled wall street in which it was installed with an intense, apparently grey light. Caricatures and covers from the period proudly depict parties digesting about on sidewalks reading newspapers beneath etiolated electrical lamps. Electric street lighting grew the eventual button of metropolitan modernity, and European metropolis rivalled with each other to be the pre-eminent City of Light. In the end, New York overtook all of them, including Paris. Meanwhile, cities that retained their medieval topography, and that were slow to establish the new technology, were delivered to the past. In an section named Against Past-Loving Venice( 1910 ), the Italian Futurist FT Marinetti pealed: Make the predominate of pious Electric Light ultimately come, to liberate Venice from its venal moonshine

Harrods in London, inundated with sun in 1935. Photograph: Fox Photos/ Getty Images

But, in spite of the unvarying glare of electrical street lights at the commercial, industrial and residential cores, even the 20 th centurys most futuristic metropolitans were determined by socially peripheral, primarily working-class areas that remained plunged in darkness at night. The German astronomer Bruno H Brgel, echoing in 1930 the dignity with which “his fathers”, who came from the working day of igniting by oil-lamp, produced him through Berlins wealth of lighter, drily find: A step into the side streets, and you felt put back by centuries. It was not merely the absence of sun, but the presence of the poor at night, and above all the homeless, that made these regions seem like remnants of the pre-Enlightenment, pre-capitalist past. The houseless, as they used to be called, had been an endemic proximity in Europes metropolitans after dark since the middle ages, when males and denizens of the streets were criminalised as common nightwalkers.

The 20 th-century city nonetheless staged the progressive colonisation of the darknes by the day, darkness by light. Tables, cinema, golf-clubs, music halls, theaters and amusement parks gratified ever more forcefully to people appetite for leisure after hours. Surely, the word after hours seemed more and more futile, as factories, hospitals, places and supermarkets thrummed throughout the darknes. Even in what had for centuries been called the dead night, roughly between 2am and 4am, the center of major metropolitan cities regions like Piccadilly Circus and Times Square pulsated with people. Electric light, Thomas Edison had contended, makes darknes life, and night life entails progress.

In the early 1940 s, when the British uppercase was regularly jumped into darkness during the course of its offensive, Edisons formula seemed all the more irrefutable. For at that time, conversely, the absence of electric light plunged London, and other European municipalities, into a commonwealth of cruelty. It was perhaps in part because of this distressing experience that the postwar generation redoubled its commitment to obtaining the value of both labour and leisure from the night. The word clubbing was first are applied to aim going to nightclubs in the mid-1 960 s, when the family of those who been adults through the second largest world war start out overcoming this inheritance and regaining the night.

Since then, as the artwork historian Jonathan Crary recently wrote in his fine polemic 24/7: Late Capitalism and the Ends of Sleep , the capitalist system has fostered the rise of a society in which a position of permanent radiance is indispensable to the non-stop functioning of world exchange and lighting. In the late 1990 s, to present a spectacular speciman, a Russian-European opening consortium developed programs to use satellites with parabolic reflectors to illuminate remote regions of Earth with sunlight and so enable work to be performed all over the clock. Promising daylight all nighttime long, it also proposed that entire metropolitan areas are likely to be illuminated after dark along these lines, making electric light itself anachronistic. Dreams of the elimination of the night can no longer be dismissed as science fiction.

In the 21 st century, electric lighting in advanced capitalist countries if not in innumerable developing nations is a uniform and universal feature of cities at night. So is commuting, store, making and other activities that for much of the past seemed unimaginable taking place after dark. But in practice, as has been the case for millennia, some people have freer and fuller access to the city at night than others. Lone girls may appear be exempted from it, for example, if exclusively because at certain times and in certain places they are made to feel unacceptably vulnerable. Black and Asian souls, for their component, are far more likely to be criminalised in west cities than lily-white humankinds at night.

The 24-hour tubing, “its probably” safe to predict, will not essentially vary the facts of the case that for numerous beings, if not for the citys person of cats and feral foxes, London abides, like other British metropolis, at the least partially off limits at night. We have a night-time economy; the work requires a night-time politics.

Matthew Beaumont is the author of Nightwalking: a Nocturnal Biography of London, 9.99, Verso. Click here to buy it for 8.19

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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