#America's Cup Fever

[a-solitary-sea-rover-backup]

No offense to Bob Bavier, but not respecting someone’s name change comes off as a lot ruder today than in 1980.

[splickedylit]

i've never read Eyeshield 21 but I took one look at this spiky sharp bastard and I've decided that I love him

so spiky

AND YOU'RE CORRECT lmao. That's Hiruma Yoichi, he's a menace and I love him. Every manga should have a dangerous weirdo with a book full of blackmail who drives the plot forward by being an absolute crazy person. Eyeshield 21 is a football manga, and he's just out here blackmailing and scheming and being an audacious chaos gremlin.

ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE IN THIS MANGA MIGHT HAVE OUTLANDISH PROPORTIONS OR FEATURES BUT AT LEAST THEY LOOK LIKE HUMANS!! Hiruma why are you like this?!?!

[abiiors]

here to request some ross hurt/comfort but like reader comforts ross…i feel like he’s always the big guy who everyone leans on but sometimes he just needs to be taken care of it could be like sick!fic or really anything idk god can you tell i wanna baby the fuck out of a grown man sorry if this isn’t specific enough or you’ve already done it before ily bye

a/n: this is so so so so tremendously sappy and sickly sweet, and also ridiculously tiny. hope you enjoy!!

cw: none

wc: 1k

ross can feel his head throbbing to the beat of the music. pounding, incessant headache that won’t go away no matter how many times he’s rubbed his eyes or drank water or tried one of the myriad of other things you always recommend, and yet, nothing. 

he know why it’s happening too—he has gone from europe to america and back to the uk in a span of ten days, subjected himself to shitty airline food and even shittier coffee. he’s exhausted; absolutely weary at this point. and listening to the same song on repeat isn’t helping. there’s no way he’s useful to anyone at the studio like this, when he’s just so prone to snapping. 

so ross silently picks up his coat, shoots the sound engineer a message and makes his way to the car. 

—

his house smells of jasmine and lemon verbena—a sure sign that you have just left the shower, walking around the house, rubbing your favourite body butter into your skin like you always do. it calms him a little but the headache is still there. if anything, it’s gotten worse in the last twenty minutes. 

“ross…?” your confused voice gets his attention. 

ross smiles at the sight of you, almost drowning in his giant jumper. your hair, still wet from the shower, is held loosely on top of your head with a clawclip. it’s a welcome sight. 

“don’t feel too hot,” he frowns, lip tugging downward. “just a headache, love.”

your frown mirrors his as you make your way to stand in front of him. ross watches your face screw up in concentration, placing the back of your hand on his forehead. “no fever,” you murmur and look up at him. 

“what’s wrong?”

“just a headache,” he repeats, “nothing to worry about. it’s been a long week. just wanna nap.”

your confusion melts away, giving way to a soft pout. “aww, baby,” you coo at him and ross almost melts. the jasmine and lemon scent hits him now that you’re this close. it’s mellow, soothing. he closes his eyes and breathes it in. 

when he opens them again, your face comes into view, except this time there’s a little smile pulling at your lips as you take a hold of his hand. 

“come on,” he feels a tug; you, trying to drag him to the bedroom, “i have just the thing…”

he doesn’t protest, silently following you through the house and into the bedroom that still smells of your various skincare products. there’s a little wet splotch on the bed—no doubt from you sitting there in your towel, scrolling through your phone as water from your wet hair drips onto the bed. ross smiles at your little embarrassed giggle that’s followed by a barely audible “oops”. 

“sit,” you instruct, watching his face for any signs of pain. 

he hides it well, or tries to at least, only wincing when a particularly sharp twinge of pain slices through his temple. he should have had another coffee but now it’s too late for that. unless he can plead you to make him a cup. 

but he’s fairly certain he’d rather have you here than getting a cup of coffee. 

“close your eyes.” and so he does, curious about why he hears a little laugh in your voice but he follows the instructions obidiently when you tell him to scootch back and get comfy against the pillows. 

he waits, resisting the urge to peak when he feels the bed dip below your weight, when he feels you getting closer and sitting right in front of him. and oh how grateful he is for that. because a moment later, he can’t help but let out a soft moan as your fingers run through his scalp. 

he hears a small giggle. “that sounds like it feels nice.”

“mmm, it does–wow.” he can barely bring himself to finish the sentence as your fingers press against all the achy points in head; untangling the knots and getting rid of his hair tie that might just have been half the problem. he sighs happily. 

“c’me here, baby,” he opens his eyes to grip at your waist and pull you onto his lap—the closer, the better. “perfect.”

once you move around to settle yourself, you’re back at it again, this time adding a hair brush to the mix. ross hums contently, enjoying the way it feels, enjoying the tension that slowly leaves his body and how his limbs get heavier. 

through half-lidded eyes, ross stares at your focused face—the little crease between your eyebrows, tongue slightly poking out and he can’t help but press a small kiss on your jaw. 

his beard must have tickled because you let out a sharp laugh. 

he takes advantage of it—of your head thrown back—and presses three kisses down your neck in quick succession, savouring the little giggles. 

“oh, you’re a menace!” you tease. 

he grins back, stiffling yet another wince at the sharp pain in his head. but you still notice it anyway.

“how about we nap…” you offer, setting the brush aside and getting off his lap. he has half a mind to protest this decision but then he sees the offer on the table—you laying down just enough for him to snuggle into you and squish his face into your tits. that’s it, the final comfort. 

“perfect,” he mumbles, closing his eyes once again. ross snickers when he hears you whisper something that suspiciously sounds like god, you’re such a man. but you don’t move. instead you go back to threading your fingers through his hair. 

as his eyes grow heavier and heavier, ross realises how much he’s looking forward to this, proper sleep for the first time in a long time. and how he plans on being lazy with you all day once he finally gets rid of this headache. 

[adobealmanac]

Appalachian Traditions from my Father

My dad and his relatives came from the Netherlands, however, when they arrived in America they settled in the Appalachia's. Many of my relatives on his side still remain in those mountains, and thus, continue practicing the rich traditions of one of the oldest mountain ranges. Here I will document some of those old-fashioned remedies and superstitions:

Remedies:

To cure a fever take a bulb's worth of garlic, and a few layers of the largest onion you have on hand and wrap them in a cloth as if you were rolling up dough to cut fresh linguini. Sinch each end with a piece of twine. Take a hammer and with all your rage beat the cloth into a pulp. Once the contents are sufficiently mashed tie the cloth around the wrists, right over the pulse. Leave the poor man's poultice in place until the fever reduces. It should take effect in around an hour.

Headache bandages were one of my great-grandmother's go to remedies to enjoy during a nice warm winter night after a long day of hard work. It would take away any symptoms of a sore head swiftly. First, grab one or two paper bags and cut them widthwise into long, thick strands of brown paper. They should be long enough to stretch across the front of your forehead and onto the sides of your temples. heat up some apple cider vinegar so that it is warm but not hot. Drench the strips of paper in the vinegar like you are making paper mache. Then, apply the strips onto your forehead so that it is thoroughly covered and pat them down with a washcloth. Cover the strips with a headband or bandanna so that they do not drip onto your hair or face, and leave in place until the soreness is gone.

Throat salve is a cozy drink we used to make to sooth a soar throat. First, combine the juice of one lemon with a cup of water. Boil the lemon water on the stove. Once it is boiling add a tablespoon or two of honey depending on your own preferences. I typically add two as it cuts the sourness of the lemon, plus the honey is good for you. Boil the mixture until it is all combined and serve hot in a mug. You may garnish it with a lemon slice to make it feel fancy.

Sunburn Soother is a simple thing to make. Begin by picking some fresh sage, and lavender if it is in bloom from your garden. Get about two cups of water boiling, and add the herbs. Boil it until a strong tincture is made. Make a similar tincture out of black tea too. I usually leave both boiling until there is just a bit of liquid left in each. Get about a cup of fresh aloe (or bottled, either works so long as it doesn't contain alcohol) and combine it with your tinctures. Once thoroughly mixed apply to the sunburn liberally as needed.

Vicks Vaporub is a cure all as my granny says. Got a cough? slather it on your feet and cover them with socks before going to bed. Anoint yourself with Vicks while doing the sign of the cross to cast out and protect from evil. Congested? Rub it under your nose and on your chest. Going near a decaying animal carcass? shove some in the openings of your nostrils to prevent that god awful scent. Need to fake cry at your enemies funeral? Dab some of that good ol' Vicks Vaporub underneath your eyes. It can even be used to oil a squeaky door. If you don't have a jar that is older than you and somehow still full, go buy one on amazon! Vicks is the gift that keeps on giving.

Superstitions:

Minding your own business is a powerful thing in the dusk draped skies of the Appalachian forests. Whether you hear your name called out on your evening walk, or seeing your neighbor walk to his barn late at night, keep your head down. It don't involve you now, does it? Whether you believe it's a cryptid out there ready to strike, or the moonshiners up to their hobbies, leave them be. Live and let live is the word of the wind, and thus is the virtue of Appalachian life.

Is your ear itching? That means someone has spoken your name. Pay attention to which ear is tingling. If it is your right, they are speaking truthfully about you. They may even put in a good word. However, if it is your left, they are spreading gossip and speaking ill of you. If this is the case, carry a sprig of rosemary on you until five days have passed since the last tingle of your left ear. This will protect you from any ill will sent your way.

The pillows of the dead often contain a wreath of feathers known as an angels crown. Often, it is believed that they signify your loved one being allowed into heaven. However, if you find one in the pillow of a living soul it may signify that their time is near. That is why it is so important to fluff your pillows each night, as you want to break up any budding wreaths before they lay claim to your life.

Drinking alone is never acceptable. Whether it is tea or scotch, be sure to pour a little out on the ground to quench the spirits. I always keep a small clay figurine by the kettle to give a drop of tea to in the morning. Drinking without offering some to the nearby spirits could upset them.

Iron nails can be strong protective amulets. Whether you nail them into the corners of your bedroom or fashion a cross out of them, they provide strong protection against malevolent spirits and evil forces. Superstitions around iron from Appalachia are quite similar to those spoken about in my post the magic of scissors.

Witches marks are said to protect your home from malicious spells and witchcraft. They can be easily fashioned out of sticks by making a five-pointed star with sticks and strings. Place this above the entrance of the home to ward off evil.

While many of these superstitions and remedies are shared around the world, my dads family from the Appalachians continue to practice these folk practices, and thus they remain a strong part of the culture in such an isolated and harsh environment. Many folks from the Appalachian mountains continue to practice folk healing and magic due to the isolated nature of many parts. They take care of their own, you know? The mountains provide a unique environment where the woods truly have some unique powers. While I myself do not reside in those hills, my ancestors on his side did and I continue to practice their ways to connect to them and their homeland. I fondly remember my trips to visit family in the region and the unique culture that fosters there.

[seriouslysam8]

What's the favorite fic idea or plot you've gotten from a reader

If I’m being completely honest, right now, this fucking one-night stand Hinny where Harry’s a healer and finds out he has a kid years later. I’ve been thinking about it all day and even made a mood board instead of writing what I’m supposed to be writing.

Check it. Sirius never goes to Azkaban and takes Harry to America. Harry never goes to Hogwarts. Never meets the Weasleys. Voldemort never comes back. At 19 and going through Healer training, he and Sirius go to Wales on holiday. Maybe Remus’ dad died and they’re there to help him out. One night they go to a pub where the Holyhead Harpies happen to be celebrating the new recruits. It’s a Muggle pub so nobody is bothered. Harry meets Ginny and they hit it off immediately. Drunk and having the hots for one another, sleep together. Harry goes back to America. Ginny starts taking training seriously.

She’s pregnant. Keeps the kid. Only knows the father’s first name and assumes he’s a Muggle since nobody knows what Harry looks like as an adult.

Two years later, Harry sees Ginny is a raising star on the Harpies. He remembers her from that night but doesn’t think much of it. He’s a pediatric healer in America afterall.

Two more years pass, Ginny makes the English team for the World Cup that so happens to take place in America. Ginny’s kid gets really sick, high fever and the whole shebang. She takes him to the wizarding hospital. Harry walks in and stops dead. A small 3 year old with messy black hair, bright green eyes, and glasses looks up at him miserably. Harry can’t move. Ginny can’t move.

Dun. Dun. Dun.

[swallowedbyfandom]

He genuinely never understood why his siblings's watched him with such bewildered eyes throughout Penelope and Debling's courtship. Why they all looked really to bundle him off at a moments notice at her wedding ceremony or why his mother looked so wistful at the wedding breakfast. He didn't understand why mother cried so hard when Penelope moved away or why she was so defeated when Pen wrote to announce her pregnancy. He didn't understand it until the summer of 1817.

In the summer of 1817, Earl Debling had to travel to the Americas for business. Over protective husband that he was, he worried about leaving his wife during her delicate condition with their twelve month old daughter, without emotional support for what would amount to almost ten months of time. His family and surrounding neighbors were still getting over a winter fever outbreak that he worried could still be contagious, so he arranged Penelope's and little Agatha's stay with Violet and the Bridgerton clan in Aubrey Hall.

He is standing with his family on the steps of their ancestral seat, to greet Penelope and her family while his sibling's chattered on excitedly. His first thought upon seeing her after two years is that she has always been radiant, but motherhood has truly turned her into something ethereal. Her husband gently lifts her out of their carriage and Colin can clearly see the gentle curve of her second pregnancy showing already.

God, Colin nearly cries when he sees how happy his mother and Pen are to be reunited. Really he and all his siblings watch misty eyed how his mother tearfully cups Penelope's face and whispers," Welcome home, my darling girl." while complimenting how wonderful motherhood looks on her. Penelope just melts into mother's arms babbling about how much she missed her and her excitement to share her daughter with her. Then he and his siblings watch as James grandly introduces Mother to their little Miss Agatha Violet Debling. Penelope looks so proud handing her little girl over into mother's arms as James just watches her indulgently, while gently supporting her small baby bump.

Dinner that night is a lively affair the entire family is at Aubrey hall this year. The Bassett and Stirling families included as Pen had written to Francesca warning her about the outbreak of Winter fever and she recommended they visit England for safety while the outbreak was ongoing. Frannie had confided in mother that she and John have been trying to start a family since they first married and were struggling to conceive, so she had written to Penelope for support and advice. That Penelope had always been something of a big sister to her but these last two years had cemented it. Pen had been her support system of candid advice and hilarious gossip to keep her spirits up. So they thought it best to retreat to Aubrey hall and leave Kilmartin in Michael's hand's until the outbreak passed.

It had warmed his heart knowing how even if Eloise and Pen's relationship never quite recovered, Pen still maintained a close relationship with the rest of his family. Personally he thought Fran and Pen's personalities suited better anyway. It helped that their estates were only an hour and a half carriage ride away and that John and James were such good friends they were able to visit each other at least once a month. Perhaps it made him disloyal but he understood why Penelope never trusted Eloise again. She forgave her but she didn't forget all El's betrayals. Pen treats El as a distant childhood acquaintance. Penelope is all polite formal civility and It drives El crazy, but she took things too far and has to live with the consequences.

He realizes he is in love with Penelope the second he lifts her daughter into his arms. He looks upon on a tiny perfect little face that is the exact replica of his dear Pen and feels his whole soul cry. He can suddenly see it so clearly, all the missed opportunities, that led to this moment. This glorious, perfect miniature of his beloved friend held in his arms should have a head of wild chestnut curls instead of the head of golden curls she has. He has been in love with Penelope for years and everyone in his family knew it except him. He finally understands all the looks and the whispers his family exchanged in 1815 and after. They were all waiting for him to realize the fact that he helped marry off the woman he was in love with.

He handed off the love of his life to another man, to another family. He can see now how much his entire family missed Penelope. His blindness deprived his siblings all of a beloved family member they had all counted on. He can also see now that Pen is seated here with his family once more he also deprived her of the comfort and love she has always found among the Bridgertons. He knows James has a minuscule amount of remaining family. That illness and bad luck has reduced the once great Debling family to only James, Pen, Agatha, his elderly mother and infirm elderly aunt.

Penelope had written to mother that her and James hope to fill their estate with half a dozen children at least. She loves him and the life they are building but she gets lonely sometimes out in the Scottish countryside so far from all she has known. He knows Penelope hoped to marry into a large family so her children could grow up with an army of cousins and family around them. Were he not stupid she would have that.

Later that night after everyone is in bed he sits at his Father's graveside and cries his heart out. He allows himself just this one night to wallow in grief for the life he gave up unknowingly. It hurts because watching her with her husband he realizes that she was in love with him once. Once but no longer, she moved on. He claimed he would never court her and broke her heart, so she let him go. His strong, clever girl learned to love again. He is the dumbest bastard in the world.

Truly James is a good man, who treats Pen like the queen she is, so he can make his peace with it. Tomorrow he will comfort himself with Penelope's joy and the knowledge that he has the next ten months to spend with her, Agatha and his family. He will get to witness her bloom with new life and meet her newest child while they are still a newborn. Yes he is sad but he will not be selfish with Penelope. Her happiness comes first.

He spends the next six months watching his family and Penelope reveling in mischief and chaos together. He watches everyone fall head over heels in love with little Agatha, who Penelope calls her little dragon flower. He wraps himself up in the happiness of all the babies and toddlers at Aubrey Hall.

He watches entranced one day as Penelope sits on one of the loungers with little Edmund in her arms fast asleep on her bosom. His mother sits across from her on a rocking chair with Miles in her arms listening with a gentle smile on her face as Penelope sings a beautiful French lullaby. He had no idea Pen had such an angelic voice. He notices after that Daf is passed out on the sofa with Aggie napping and Fran is fast asleep with Belinda. Kate is passed with Agatha and Newton on a chaise. He wishes he had Benedict's talent for sketching to capture this idyllic scene, perfectly.

He hides away with his brothers and the children when the combined hormonal, pregnancy barrage that is Penelope at eight months, Francesca at seven months, Kate at six months, Daphne at five months becomes too overwhelming. Their mother's euphoric crowing about all her new grand babies can be heard non stop, Eloise hilariously, has taken to hiding away from all the females on the estate and insisting that Portia Featherington was correct all along and pregnancy was in fact something you can catch. She had declared that Penelope is clearly fertile enough to have infected all of Aubrey Hall with it.

Overall it is the liveliest Aubrey Hall has been since their father passed away. He soaks it all up in glee. He blushes with guilt when Agatha's and Miles' first sentence is "where my biscuit?" Then he spends a week dodging Kate and Pen's killing rage, over the knowledge that he had been sneaking the children biscuits, while his siblings mock him mercilessly over the debacle.

Little Thomas James Debling is born in Aubrey Hall on the first of January 1818, with a full head of wispy strawberry blond curls that looked like dandelion fluff. Colin spends that night once more seated at his father's Gravesite weeping with heartbreak. He had heard his Pen crying out for James in fear during her labors. There had not been any correspondence from James in the last 3 weeks they were all worried about it. Aubrey Hall usually received post from him at least once a week and yet there has been no word for almost a month. Ant and John had been making subtle inquiries but they didn't want to worry Pen or Fran so far along in their prenancies are they.

Their peace is shattered 4 days later when Michael shows up at the break of dawn looking exhausted and full of grief. Penelope was already awake from nursing little Thomas so she received him first. They all rush from bed to find Penelope collapsed into Michael arms keening and wailing a familiar bitter melody. Mother looks so stricken by it all seconds before she mobilizes everyone into action.

James much like Ant was paranoid about dying young so the estate and all legalities pertaining to it are already taken care of. Penelope Anne Debling becomes the Dowager Countess Debling at age 21. The slew of legal protections in place for Penelope and the children are to be finalized once Thomas's birth records are filed.

[theboarsbride]

Faerie Book Recommendations🧚✨📚

So reading Sarah J Maas and her very, very shitty interpretation and (under)utilization of fae lore is inspiring me to create a personal list of books I've read that I feel like have like... ACTUAL faeries and folklore in them (not the normal-looking-hot-folks-with-pointy-ears-and-MAYBE-wings brand of faerie SJM popularized), and are actually worth your time

And if you've any books, stories, comics, etc. that you'd want to add to this list, feel free to add them in the comments, reblogs, tags, or my DMs!!

House of Hollow by Krystal Sutherland

Very eerie fairytale vibes that center on the aftermath of the disappearance, and even more mysterious return, of three sisters when one of them goes missing again almost 10 years later. And also the writing is legit just B E A U T I F U L!!!

Emily Wilde's Encyclopedia of Faeries by Heather Fawcett

This is chock-full of classical faeries and folklore, and almost reads like a textbook about them since this is about a woman, the titular Emily Wilde, traveling to a Scandinavian country to complete her own encyclopedia about the fair-folk. It also features some lowkey cottagecore vibes and an academic rivals-to-lovers romance!

Gilded (Gilded #1) by Marissa Meyer

A retelling of Rumpelstiltskin that reads like its own dark Grimm's fairytale, and it's as eerie and grim as a YA fantasy novel can get. It also centers on themes of telling stories and folktales since the main character, Serilda, is infamous for spinning wild tales - which is what leads to her encounter with the famed, and feared, Earlking (who, as a villain, is so sinister and creepy - and utterly FAE!). Personally, this book wasn't really my cup of tea and I'm unsure if I'll read the sequel, Cursed, however it still has some classic fae vibes that SJM's work lacks, so it deserves a place on this list!

The Changeling by Victor LaValle

I'm using the term 'faerie' very loosely here, as the idea of changelings (and trolls), for me, is more of a narrative device to help us look into grief in fatherhood. But there is still a very strange, vaguely Pans Labyrinth-esque urban fantasy vibe playing in the background throughout!

Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery by Brom

Not necessarily FAERIES but more of mischievous and distrustful woodland folk - and also forest gods. Very heavily steeped in early colonial America era folk horror vibes... if you love media like Robert Eggers' The VVitch then you will ADORE this book! Also Brom's accompanying artwork is so, so beautiful! This is honestly such a perfect fall-time read once Halloween season rolls around.

Legendborn Cycle series by Tracy Deonn

Ok no faeries but... mixes classic Arthurian legends with southern Black beliefs while also telling an epic urban fantasy story centering on themes of grief, trauma, and prejudice. So no fae, but LOTS of great urban fantasy vibes (which I mean... if you're looking for more series to put on your shelf instead of Harry Potter......) Just... Please... just... this series... it's so GOOD!! IDK what else to add that hasn't been said about this series!

Direwood by Catherine Yu

Once again, not necessarily faeries in this book but instead vampires that have a very fae-like quality about them! (as well as blood-hungry butterflies and caterpillars hee-hee) The story as a whole feels like a whimsical fever dream that is STEEPED in tasty Gothic vibes! It sort of has the feeling of being in a late '90s/early '00s Goth music video.

Like Falling Stars by Avalon Roselin (@roselin-books-official)

A story about a girl who's forgotten her past and comes to develop a sweet friendship with a brooding ice faerie prince, and is brimming with so many cozy fantasy vibes!! Also all the fae characters in this novel are so colorful and lively, and they're all very heavily tied to elements and the seasons. Also ALSO!! The main relationship focuses primarily on platonic love as opposed to romantic, and is just as endearing! A perfect cozy winter/fall-time read.

Netvor: A Retelling of Beauty and the Beast by @rosesnwater

Both a completed novel and an in-progress webcomic available to read on Tapas and Webtoons. Again, another story where major themes center on storytelling and fairytales, but also recovering from trauma and grief! There are so, so many classic faerie vibes, and even featuring pinnacle figures from classic fae lore like the Goblin Market, and it manages to feel equal parts nostalgic and unique in its use of faerie lore!

Dandies in Danger podcast by @dandiesindanger

A table-top RPG podcast instead of a novel! It features four queer men that are dragged into a world of fae and horror, all while set against the backdrop of Regency era London. It starts as a VERY eerie fae mystery (featuring figures like Titania and Oberon), but it slowly becomes a dark, horror historical-fantasy, and it's great! Also art by the podcast's creators is so good!

So these are the recs I have to offer for now!! As always, feel free to add more recommendations!!!💛

[themculibrary]

Sick Tony Stark Masterlist

and the tough guys tumble (ao3) - CSHfic, VSfic steve/tony T, 18k

Summary: “You’re not getting better, are you?” Steve asked, reaching out to stop him.

“No, I’m not.”

What-if in which Tony doesn’t just simply reboot to get rid of the Harvester at the end of Captain America and Iron Man: One Night in Madripoor.

Arc Tremors (ao3) - MountainRose T, 125k

Summary: Tony's light had flickered out in the aftermath of the fight with the Chitauri, but his team was there and, hey, he'd just been to space, give a guy some slack. The next morning they accepted, but when he collapses weeks later, they're not going to let him brush it off again, and neither is JARVIS.

Babysitting Clint Barton (ao3) - SailorChibi steve/tony, clint/phil T, 7k

Summary: Clint came to terms with his daddy occasionally babysitting Tony a long time ago; sometimes it was even fun. What's a lot less fun was admitting that he might need a babysitter when his daddy's away too.

It helped a bit that Tony was feeling just as sick and little, even if he refused to admit it until he wet his pants while sneezing.

emergency contact (ao3) - whumphoarder G, 4k

Summary: It’s not that James disliked his roommate, it’s just that they didn’t exactly get off on the right foot.

Or, in which fifteen-year-old college freshman Tony Stark needs a ride to the ER and James Rhodes is too responsible for his own good.

In the Company of Friends (ao3) - DarkestSight (Daylight) T, 6k

Summary: Tony wakes up feeling like crap and finds himself longing for the time he lived alone and it was a lot easier to get a simple cup of coffee.

i think he knows (ao3) - twenty3 tony/stephen T, 7k

Summary: “You’re going to be fine,” he repeated. “But I need to give you something that’s going to make you even sicker. Your body needs to purge the spores, so you’re going to get sick to your stomach. A lot. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, but I swear to you, it’s going to get better. Do you understand?”

All Tony really understood was he was sick, and Stephen was going to help him.

He didn’t really need to know anything else.

“I trust you,” Tony replied.

Tony gets sick after a mission. Stephen takes care of him. Rhodey notices a few things.

it only hurts (when i breathe) (ao3) - Ocean_Born_Mary steve/tony T, 6k

Summary: Tony could see the mass of scar tissue built up around the reactor, could see the little pieces of shrapnel in his lungs, and he wondered, even now, how he was able to Not-Breathe so well with his heart and his ribs and his lungs all squished out of place.

Me through Him to You (ao3) - sahiya bucky/steve/tony T, 18k

Summary: “You’re sick, you need someone to look after you. This mission could take a couple of days, and I want you in one piece when I get home.”

Tony sighed. “Why do you care?”

Steve’s mouth twisted unhappily. “I hope that’s the fever talking.” He stepped closer. “When I get home,” he said, so quietly that Tony didn’t think even the nosiest of their nosy friends could hear it, “we’re going to talk, all right? Until then, please let Bucky look after you. Consider it me looking after you, through him.”

moderate to severe (ao3) - reona32 steve/tony G, 7k

Summary: Jarvis just thinks Sir would rest better in his own bed. It goes downhill from there.

of rescues and rashes (ao3) - Codee21 tony/stephen T, 2k

Summary: When Tony Stark-Strange doesn’t come home from an Avengers meeting one day, Stephen gets worried and decides to go after him.

Of course, what would a rescue mission be without a screaming toddler?

One of Those Days (ao3) - kerravon G, 21k

Summary: The arc reactor, despite being a technical marvel, is quite invasive. There have to be side effects to its presence in Tony's chest beyond the now-resolved Palladium poisoning. The team are about to find out just how debilitating it can be. This would be easier if Tony didn't feel the compulsion to hide the fact that he's sick. Misunderstandings all around, especially given Stark's reputation.

presenteeism (ao3) - Veldeia steve/tony T, 9k

Summary: Tony thinks piloting the armor remotely while letting the others believe he’s wearing it is a good plan, until he realizes he’s not hung over, but actually quite ill.

Steve thinks something’s off with Tony today, but he has no clue what that might be, and since Tony says he’s good to go, they’ll proceed with the mission anyway.

(Basically, that trope where Tony is sick but is too stubborn to admit it, with a slight twist. Fill for my Stony bingo prompt “armor”.)

shut up (ao3) - InkDippedFingertips tony/stephen G, 1k

Summary: Tony is sick and Stephen had his own way of handling him.

sick days (ao3) - aven_garde bucky/steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: Tony gets sick and Steve and Bucky take care of him. Cue worried cuteness.

thank god for natasha romanov (ao3) - roguewidow97 G, 1k

Summary: Tony gets a migraine before the Maria Stark Foundation Gala but tries to power through anyway. Natasha helps him when he can’t.

the arc ain’t all that (ao3) - MountainRose bucky/steve/tony G, 4k

Summary: Tony doesn’t know why they make such a fuss.

the new (new) normal (ao3) - copperbadge steve/tony T, 9k

Summary: Tony has a thing about germs. Steve understands it a lot better after seeing him sick. Though he could still use some help understanding why he’s so annoyed that Rhodey’s the one who got to bring Tony soup….

the tchotchke cha cha (ao3) - Arukou steve/tony T, 7k

Summary: What started off as one impulse buy souvenir snowballs into a constant flow of knickknacks from all over the world, and Steve is starting to wonder if it’s more than just Tony being nice.

urgent matters only (ao3) - humanveil tony/stephen T, 1k

Summary: “The internet says he’s dying,” Peter says, glancing at his phone screen and skimming the search results. “Something about ca—”

“I’m not dying,” Tony interjects, cutting Peter off before he can finish. “It’s just a headache.” He sits up, sends a glare toward the kid. “This is why you’re banned from Google.”

you’re not dying (ao3) - tonystarkssnipples steve/tony G, 1k

Summary: Steve comes home and finds a sick Tony curled up in bed.

[midwestbramble]

Anemone Folklore

Anemone spp.

Ruled by ♂

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Contents:

Overview

Folklore

Uses in Witchcraft

Safety Notes

Conclusion

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Overview

Anemone quinqufolia (the wood anemone) is native to Europe and has many closely related cousins in the Americas. These flowers are also known as “windflower.” One of the earliest plants here, flowering May through August, and smallest of the woodland anemones with flowering stems growing to only about nine inches tall. A basal leaf develops after flowering in the spring and the outer leaves being so deeply cut that the casual observer may think it’s a five parted leaf instead. Each stem has a single flower on top with four to nine white to purplish sepals, having no true petals. The sepals are narrow ovals surrounding a knob covered in stamens and pistils.

A common variation found in North America, Anemone canadensis, flowers a few weeks later and grows up to two feet tall. It prefers moist soil appearing in thickets and open areas. Leaf bracts part way up the stem and are without petioles, unlike the wood anemone. The solitary flower is white and sometimes tipped pink or lavender. It also has no true petals, and the sepals measure 1 1/2 inches across whereas the wood anemone is only 1 inch. This makes this anemone look more cup-like than the star shaped flowers of the wood anemone.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Folklore

-The Death of Adonis-

In the tenth book of Metamorphosis, Ovid recounts the tale of Adonis’ death. in the tale, any time Adonis is not spending in the underworld with his adoptive mother, Persephone, he is spending with Aphrodite and the two are thought to be madly in love. One day, Adonis is pierced by the tusk of a boar he is hunting. Aphrodite, hearing his moans, rushes to his side to try to help. Unfortunately, she is too late and through her grief she creates a flower from his blood, the anemone.

-First of the Year-

According to The Folk-Lore of Plants, the Romans believed the first anemone of the year was helpful to prevent fevers if gathered while saying “I gather thee for a remedy against disease.” Recorded along with this information is the English ballad originating from this idea: “the first spring-blown anemone she is in his doublet wove,/ To keep him safe from pestilence wherever she should rove.”

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Uses in Witchcraft

Anemone is a wonderful plant to use to protect those you love from harm. Make a charm bag to put in their pocket, sew into the hem of their clothing, or add to dressed candles for workings to that aim. May also make a good offering for the ancestors.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Safety Notes

Wood anemone (the species mostly found in the wild here in North America) has a chemical that can severely irritate the skin, stomach, and intestines. Do not take by mouth or try to make salves or oils with it.

⸙༄𓆤𓆩𓆪❁𓇢𓆸🏵

Conclusion

Even the smallest of flowers may be helpful in certain situations. Anemone's simple beauty can hold so much meaning in the right contexts. How will you work with this plant?

References:

Wood Anemone on WebMD

Images

Title image made on Canva

Death of Adonis (1684–1686) by Luca Giordano.

[mariana-oconnor]

The Yellow Face pt 1

Now and again, however, it chanced that even when he erred, the truth was still discovered. I have noted of some half-dozen cases of the kind; the Adventure of the Musgrave Ritual and that which I am about to recount are the two which present the strongest features of interest.

Aha, so Sherlock isn't going to solve this one. Interesting. I feel like ACD uses this device specifically to make his audience want to beat Holmes at his own game.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who seldom took exercise for exercise’s sake. Few men were capable of greater muscular effort, and he was undoubtedly one of the finest boxers of his weight that I have ever seen; but he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy, and he seldom bestirred himself save when there was some professional object to be served.

This is the most relatable Sherlock Holmes has ever been, and he's been pretty damn relatable. Well, not the boxing thing. But the wanting exercise to have a purpose thing.

Save for the occasional use of cocaine, he had no vices

Just the cocaine. 'He didn't do any drugs - except the cocaine, obvs' feels a bit like saying 'He never drives - except for the drag racing'

For two hours we rambled about together, in silence for the most part, as befits two men who know each other intimately. It was nearly five before we were back in Baker Street once more.

Wow... I'm trying very hard not to do queer readings of these stories (idky, I just feel like it's obvious) but sometimes things come up and I know phrases have changed in meaning. But is there any doubt as to why people romantically link these characters?

“This is Grosvenor mixture at eightpence an ounce,” Holmes answered, knocking a little out on his palm. “As he might get an excellent smoke for half the price, he has no need to practise economy.”

We get to see his encyclopaedic knowledge of tobacco ash in action. Not just a reported skill.

Then he has bitten through his amber. It takes a muscular, energetic fellow, and one with a good set of teeth, to do that.

When I was a small child who had just graduated to glass rather than plastic cups, I used to bite bits out of them. I wasn't particularly strong, although I did have quite good teeth back then. I was just quite stupid and didn't understand the consequences of my actions. However, I have never smoked a pipe, so don't know if biting down on it is a traditional part of the experience.

“It’s a very delicate thing,” said he. “One does not like to speak of one’s domestic affairs to strangers. It seems dreadful to discuss the conduct of one’s wife with two men whom I have never seen before. It’s horrible to have to do it. But I’ve got to the end of my tether, and I must have advice.”

Is this going to be another story where Holmes tells people to talk to their spouses?

From every gesture and expression I could see that he was a reserved, self-contained man, with a dash of pride in his nature, more likely to hide his wounds than to expose them.

Hey, Watson. Look at you reading people. Good for you.

And now, since last Monday, there has suddenly sprung up a barrier between us, and I find that there is something in her life and in her thought of which I know as little as if she were the woman who brushes by me in the street. We are estranged, and I want to know why.

Oh yeah, they need to talk to each other. Communication problems.

She went out to America when she was young, and lived in the town of Atlanta, where she married this Hebron, who was a lawyer with a good practice. They had one child, but the yellow fever broke out badly in the place, and both husband and child died of it.

Well this is already tragic and we haven't even got to the mystery yet.

"I have seen his death certificate."

That's weirdly specific, while also being vague pronoun use - the husband or the child? - and also a totally normal thing to say. I guess it's the husband because... that would be necessary for the marriage? But why bring that up? Like, from a Doylist perspective it makes sense to provide that information to the reader, but it's such a weird sentence to just slip in. I'm sure this information won't be at all important later on.

“There’s one thing I ought to tell you before I go further. When we married, my wife made over all her property to me—rather against my will, for I saw how awkward it would be if my business affairs went wrong. However, she would have it so, and it was done. Well, about six weeks ago she came to me."

That is... definitely a choice she made. It doesn't seem like the best choice, especially since apparently it was all her idea. I suppose there must have been a reason for it, but Effie... not sure it was your best idea.

“’And you won’t tell me what you want it for?’ “’Some day, perhaps, but not just at present, Jack.’ “So I had to be content with that, though it was the first time that there had ever been any secret between us. I gave her a check, and I never thought any more of the matter.

OK, he's already one of the most respectful husbands we've seen in these stories just for this. He agreed to look after her money, but to give it to her with no questions asked if she needed it. She asked for a large sum of money, so asking 'what for?' is genuinely a reasonable question, but when gently reminded of his promise he agrees to give her the money with only a little more curiosity. I'm not going to quibble about him questioning her slightly. According to the Bank of England, she asked for the equivalent of £10,000. If your spouse asks for £10,000 randomly one day it's pretty natural to ask what it's for... or you're a billionnaire I guess.

Now, she's a bit sus right now. That's a lot of money on no notice. I guess she has some skeletons in her past she has to pay off in some way.

But also, if you 'never thought any more of the matter' then why were you thinking of it enough to bring it up now? Clearly you definitely thought more on the matter... It strikes me that I may have praised you too soon. You don't seem to be being entirely truthful.

"I could not tell if the face were that of a man or a woman. It had been too far from me for that. But its color was what had impressed me most. It was of a livid chalky white, and with something set and rigid about it which was shockingly unnatural."

Mask? We're all agreed it's a mask, right? livid white, set and rigid? That describes a mask. Or a robot. But if it's a robot, then this is not the story I was expecting and I've really forgotten a lot about these stories since I last read them.

It's not a robot, right?

In the alternate universe where the 5 orange pips killer is the restless ghosts of the murdered, this is a robot.

She was deadly pale and breathing fast, glancing furtively towards the bed as she fastened her mantle, to see if she had disturbed me. Then, thinking that I was still asleep, she slipped noiselessly from the room, and an instant later I heard a sharp creaking which could only come from the hinges of the front door. I sat up in bed and rapped my knuckles against the rail to make certain that I was truly awake. Then I took my watch from under the pillow. It was three in the morning. What on this earth could my wife be doing out on the country road at three in the morning?

Night running? Probably not. Stargazing? Moonbathing? Ancient rites and rituals? Dancing skyclad?

Probably not any of those things. I agree, it is a strange time to go a-wandering. And she is being super sneaky about it. This is another tick against the 'sus' box. Although I do suspect this is going to be something like her being blackmailed by her former husband who didn't actually die at all or something like that. Not that she doesn't have the right to go walking the country lanes at 3am. She can do whatever she wants. Bit weird though.

Was it usual to keep pocket watches under pillows? I used to keep books under my pillow when I was younger - and stuffed down the side of my bed. And hidden in my duvet cover. But that was because I stayed up too late reading and had to hide them quickly when I needed to pretend to be asleep. Did bedside tables not exist in the 1890s? Internet tells me they became popular in the Georgian period. Why not keep your watch beside your bed then. This is entirely unimportant, I'm just surprised that anyone would keep something like a pocket watch under their pillow. He must have a really good pillow.

"I had sat for about twenty minutes"

That's not very long. So it's either not an affair or her affair partner has some stamina issues. I jest, I jest. That wouldn't really be a Sherlock Holmes kind of mystery.

"Where had she been during that strange expedition? I felt that I should have no peace until I knew, and yet I shrank from asking her again after once she had told me what was false. All the rest of the night I tossed and tumbled, framing theory after theory, each more unlikely than the last."

Well, it's less than 10 minutes walk away, so that narrows down your answers somewhat. Probably the neighbour's house, given your narrative so far, Mr Munro.

“’Ah, Jack,’ she said, ‘I have just been in to see if I can be of any assistance to our new neighbors. Why do you look at me like that, Jack? You are not angry with me?’ “’So,’ said I, ‘this is where you went during the night.’"

I mean, yes. But also that's a perfectly good reason for her to be coming out of the cottage. Visiting neighbours, particularly in more rural areas, particularly during this time period, would have been entirely normal. Unless women still had to be introduced by their husbands/fathers at this point, but I don't think that was the case by the end of the Victorian era like it was in Austen. I get that she's being sus, but this is the least suspicious thing she's done. You're right, but your logic is faulty.

“’How can you tell me what you know is false?’ I cried. ‘Your very voice changes as you speak. When have I ever had a secret from you? I shall enter that cottage, and I shall probe the matter to the bottom.’ “’No, no, Jack, for God’s sake!’ she gasped, in uncontrollable emotion. Then, as I approached the door, she seized my sleeve and pulled me back with convulsive strength.

This is also an entirely reasonable reaction to your husband deciding to invade the new neighbours' house while angry.

Maybe it's her kid?

"'If you come home with me, all will be well. If you force your way into that cottage, all is over between us.’ [...] ’I will trust you on one condition, and on one condition only,’ said I at last. ‘It is that this mystery comes to an end from now. You are at liberty to preserve your secret, but you must promise me that there shall be no more nightly visits, no more doings which are kept from my knowledge. I am willing to forget those which are passed if you will promise that there shall be no more in the future.’

Oh dear, no one's coming out well from this. On the one hand, that's quite the ultimatum she's making. On the other hand... that's quite the ultimatum he's making.

So far nothing she's done has been particularly terrible. I mean... a twenty minute walk in the middle of the night isn't bad. Visiting the neighbours isn't bad. All he's got is suspicions that she's lying to him. Meanwhile, she's emotionally blackmailing him with their relationship. I know this is all going to turn out to be very dramatic, because it's a Holmes case, but at the same time, Mr Munro is definitely overreacting right here.

“On the third day, however, I had ample evidence that her solemn promise was not enough to hold her back from this secret influence which drew her away from her husband and her duty."

Oh no... you're being a dick, Mr Munro. The promise you made her give was completely unreasonable. There is literally no way she can tell you everything she plans to do and even if she could, that's a dick move. And now, based on one night time walk and visit next door you're claiming that her leaving the house is drawing her away from her duty? I believed in you, Mr Munro. She is being a bit weird, yes, but you're being controlling and for absolutely no good reason.

“My mind was instantly filled with suspicion. I rushed upstairs to make sure that she was not in the house."

These are not the actions of a rational human being. This is paranoia. If your wife thinks she needs to collude with the servants against you, then your marriage is nowhere near as happy as you seem to think.

"Tingling with anger, I rushed down and hurried across, determined to end the matter once and forever. I saw my wife and the maid hurrying back along the lane, but I did not stop to speak with them. In the cottage lay the secret which was casting a shadow over my life."

What fucking shadow? The only thing casting a shadow over your life right now is you. You have 0 evidence that your wife is doing anything wrong. And the more you talk, the more convinced I am that she could absolutely have needed to take a walk at 3am just to get away from you. I don't think that's going to be the solution to the mystery, but I wouldn't blame her at this point.

And you did so well with the money! Although I suppose we only have your word for any of that, so who knows what actually happened there.

If it turns out that her child didn't die of Yellow Fever at all, but was just left disfigured and/or disabled and now she's visiting them, it's not going to go well for you, my dude.

"I did not even knock when I reached it, but turned the handle and rushed into the passage."

Fucking rude.

That's how you get a poker to the head, btw.

"The furniture and pictures were of the most common and vulgar description, save in the one chamber at the window of which I had seen the strange face. That was comfortable and elegant, and all my suspicions rose into a fierce bitter flame when I saw that on the mantelpiece stood a copy of a full-length photograph of my wife, which had been taken at my request only three months ago."

Mr Monro is kind of a snob, huh? If I liked him more, I might suggest that he and Watson get together for judging sessions.

FINE the picture is weird and evidence of some sort of weird secret. Congratulations, by trespassing and being a controlling dick you have uncovered one (1) piece of evidence that your wife is embroiled in some sort of secret relationship. But I really do think it's going to be maternal.

"It is the first shadow that has come between us, and it has so shaken me that I do not know what I should do for the best."

Well you sure have handled it well so far. /sarcasm.

If this is the first problem in your marriage and your first instinct was to fly completely off the handle and barge into someone else's house and search it from top to bottom just because your wife *checks notes*... went for a short walk in the nighttime and... visited the neighbours? then you are not stable enough for marriage. Oh and she wanted some money a little while before this, but you specifically said that you'd all but forgotten about it (which I doubt since it was the first thing you brought up) and you didn't know if it had any bearing on anything else.

Again, I have only vague recollections of this one. The only thing I really remember is the face in the window, everything else is a blur.

Current theory: her child didn't die, but survived the yellow fever with serious lasting effects. She couldn't support them alone, so she set them up with someone to look after them and when she was properly settled down with a comfortable a life, a (supposedly) loving husband and enough money, she used that £10,000 to bring the child to her and settle them in the cottage across the way so they would be close to each other.

Why all of that would need to be such a secret, I don't know, however. There must be some scandal involved somehow. If we didn't already know she'd been married before, I would have said the child was born out of wedlock, but even if that were the case surely she could just say it was the child of her first husband anyway and in this time with no internet, no one would have been any the wiser?

[tgarnsl]

hm, perhaps 5 and keith and ewen, for those kiss prompts?

5.  Can’t Let Go Yet Kiss - The type of goodbye kiss when you keep leaving quick pecks on each other’s lips, but end up pulling each other back for more, which could go on for hours if one of you don’t finally pull away.

Farewell

Having sent the last of the baggage off to the ship, Ewen returned to the room and found Keith standing before the speckled mirror on the wall, retying his stock. Gone was the man Ewen knew and loved; in his place stood a redcoat soldier, stern and unyielding.

“Your mails are away,” said Ewen, unsure of what else to say. “Angus will see to it that they are stowed properly aboard your ship.”

“Thank you,” said Keith, straightening the knot around his throat, and as the collar was adjusted Ewen spied a faint red mark where, in his fevered state the night before, he had set his teeth to Keith’s neck. At any other time, it would have made him colour with shame, but on this, the morning of Keith’s departure to America, it caused his heart to ache fiercely. How many months — how many years — would it be before he touched his beloved friend again? It was a question with only pain as answer.

“I must take my leave of you, Windham,” said Ewen, not wishing to delay the inevitable any longer than was necessary. The sooner they parted, the sooner he might take comfort in the quiet solitude of Loch na h-Iolaire, where the silvery birches would keep his confidence and never speak of his sorrow to any, save the wind.

Keith’s frown made itself evident in the mirror “Will you not watch the ship depart?” he asked, turning to Ewen. The same nervous anxiety Ewen felt could be seen echoed in his fine hazel eyes.

“Of course,” said Ewen hastily, crossing the room to take Keith’s hands in his. “Forgive me, I know not what I say.”

Keith glanced down at their clasped hands. “When I return it will be for good,” he said, in a quiet voice. “If you will consent to have me at Ardroy, of course.”

Ewen pressed his hands. “Do not make such promises, Windham,” he urged. “For I fear you will call an ill-wish upon yourself if you do so in earnest.”

Keith frowned once more. “We should make our farewell here,” he said. It would not do for a redcoat officer to be seen kissing a known Jacobite farewell on the docks, no matter if it was merely a kiss shared between friends. Ewen pressed Keith’s hands hard and Keith winced. “Ewen,” warned his friend, pulling his hands free and shaking them. “You have a grip like a vice.”

“Forgive me,” said Ewen once more, and Keith looked up at him, a fond and weary smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“There is nothing I will not forgive you,” he said, cupping Ewen’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb. “You are all that is dear to me in this world. I…”

Ewen stopped him with a quick, hard kiss. It was only a brief brush of lips, but it was enough to revive the fire within his chest that had burned so strongly the night before. Keith must have felt it too, for no sooner had Ewen pulled back did he return the favour, his affection free and unrestrained, as if every kiss he took could be stored away in readiness for the months and years of loneliness to come.

When they parted at last, Ewen’s cheeks were damp, and he wiped his eyes, ashamed. But Keith caught him once more and kissed him, soft and slow, as though they had all the time in the world left to them. Ewen held him close, trying to memorise the way Keith’s body fit against his, the warmth of his mouth, the smoothness of his newly shaven skin — the way Keith touched him, hesitant, almost reverent in his touch, as though Ewen were something precious that could only be handled with utmost care. Ewen would never tire of it.

“We must go,” said Ewen at last, though it broke his heart to say it.

“Yes,” said Keith, stepping back, though his hands did not stray from where they lay on the breast of Ewen’s coat. He glanced away, unaccountably shy. “Would you— that is to say, could I…?”

Ewen searched his face, memorising it as best he could. The fine lines around Keith’s eyes and mouth, the ridge in his nose where he had broken it as a young man, the small scar above his lip. He had thought Keith’s features harsh at first: now he loved them as he loved no other’s. “Yes?” he asked.

“Your hair,” said Keith, flushing a little, and Ewen understood at once. He reached up and untied his hair, letting it fall loose over his shoulders. He had thought to make such an offer the night before, but had hesitated, afraid that his gift would be refused.

“Take what you wish,” said Ewen, reaching into his pocket and producing his pen-knife, the only weapon he was permitted to carry. He gave it to Keith, who with unsteady hands and unfocused eyes carefully cut a lock from behind Ewen’s left ear, wrapping up his trophy in a clean handkerchief and stowing it away in his inner pocket.

“Thank you,” said Keith, his voice thick, and as Ewen accepted the pen-knife he saw a bleak and lonely expression cross Keith’s face.

“Keith?” asked Ewen, putting the knife away. “What is it, mo chridhe?”

“An old memory, no more,” said Keith. He took a steadying breath. “Ardroy, there is something I must say.” His mouth twisted. “If I am gone too long, and you see fit to take a wife—”

“I will see you again,” said Ewen fiercely, taking Keith’s face between his hands. “And may Loch na h-Iolaire run dry before I break faith with you.”

Keith gave a little laugh. “You must be certain, to swear such an oath.” But doubt still remained in his eyes.

“Had I the iron I would swear upon it,” said Ewen. “I am yours, Windham, in body and soul, as surely as if I had sworn myself so before a priest.”

“As I am yours,” said Keith quietly. “You are my greatest love.” And with those words, he reached up and drew Ewen into a kiss, bittersweet in its finality.

“We must go,” said Ewen, when they stepped apart at last.

“Yes,” agreed Keith, picking up his hat. “You know, my dear, that if your limp worsens I am obliged to offer you my arm.”

Ewen smiled, and did as he said, and arm in arm they made their way to where the ship waited, conscious of the tie between them that distance could never hope to sever.

[wanderingthedesertalone]

Corona Alone a Diary Revisited: An American’s Experience of the Covid Lockdown in Mumbai 

Lockdown In Retrospect

Mediocre Graces: In any case, by the end of the Pandemic, I had somewhat been restored to good graces, not that I was ever greeted in Anand Nagar(8) at least with the Atithi Devo Bhava(11) spirit, I got on the good side of the local gang and befriended a Muslim woman who sells fish in a roadside stall, but it was too late, lonesomeness and faithlessness in humanity had grabbed a hold of me. Sadly, I am no longer able to speak to the fish merchant. She married, her husband is conservative and doesn’t allow her to speak to men.

On Lonesomeness: It’s worth noting that many endured the Corona epidemic in complete isolation. According to The Wall Street Journal, 35.7 million Americans, including myself, lived alone (Byron) around the time of writing the first journal entry. However, not just did I live alone, I was an expat, I lived alone in Mumbai, India. Regardless of the negative stigma that goes along with living alone, solitude never bothered me, in fact, ever since I was divorced, in 2012, I’ve preferred to be alone. Besides, I could always grab a cup of coffee and talk to strangers, I have the gift of gab when needed, but the double-whammy of isolation and becoming a pariah had pushed me to the brink of insanity. I’ve come to believe that those things that don’t kill us make us weaker and since the Covid outbreak I’ve become impatient, nervous and have lost faith in humanity, as I’ve already said.

Too Much Fluff: In all, the NPR article is woefully misguided and simply tried to make a buck off of Covid lockdowns, like so many other news outlets were doing at the time. A better story would’ve been on those who live alone before the Pandemic, whether for reason of mental health, a willful solitude or social ineptitude, that chronicled each persons’ descent into madness; I despise fluff journalism, maybe because it reminds me of the way that Bollywood paints India as an endless serene landscape of humorous follies in love that can easily be overcome when it’s something else all together, not easily, or that I would like to, put into words. This isn’t just fluff, there’s comedy for sure, there’s humor in all tragedy but there’s a reason for sharing the gritty details of lockdown in India, I feel it’s important to share these stories lest we live them again! In the past year, I’ve filled 6 volumes with recollections of lockdown, I hoped to get them published by a newspaper, that failed.

Diary Excerpts and Commentary

A Note to the Reader: The following excerpts are from the journal of an expat living in Mumbai (recorded between Feb 2019 and Feb 2021), during Covid lockdown(1). Dates have been replaced with titles because, unless indicated in commentary or prose, they’re irrelevant:

It Begins: There’s a few cases of Covid in China and other places but I’m not too worried, this will have as much effect on me as the 2003 SARS outbreak(6), there’ve been many such scares in my lifetime. Besides, I caught the virus from a wedding party in Sri Lanka, it was like the Flu, high fever, mild delirium and a little trouble breathing. Interesting thing about Sri Lanka, all of the land and wealth seems to be in the hands’ of the Nords, the locals have very little and the price of food is like that of America or Europe. Also, airport authorities took a child’s Queen Conch shell away right before boarding, she was clearly enamored by her seemingly magical wave machine. After they took it from her, she cried all the way back to Mumbai.

The Flasher: A few Covid cases have been confirmed and I’m beginning to feel like an unwelcome guest in a foreign land, an unusual notion in a land where the locals say “Atithi Devo Bhava(11).” Typically, Indians are hospitable, on my travels to the South they were, of course, taxi drivers tried to scam me there, but cabbies the world over are a special breed of scum, you should’ve seen the way they took me to the wringer in Hong Kong, hospitality is a source of national pride here. This afternoon, there was a knock on the door, it was my landlord. I found myself baffled by what he said. I opened the door and he began to speak, timidly and slowly in broken English: “there’s been a complaint,” he said. “What’s wrong?” “A man is walking around outside naked.” “Oh, I see. Thanks for informing me,” I said and shut the door, believing that he was telling me of a dangerous predator lurking among this slum’s numerous tightly knit alleys at night. Later, I came to find that the landlord was attempting to tell me that the neighbors had accused me of going on moonlit strolls in the buff, I was the predator. I was shocked and enraged when I found that I was, according to gossip, a flasher, but consoled myself by telling myself that none of this is the landlord’s fault, he just wants to prevent other tenants from rioting. People are scared and looking to point a finger at an invisible assailant. This will be forgotten quickly and my name restored, I guess it’s not contradictory to be both hospitable and two-faced. Why do I care about my reputation in a slum? I don’t want any trouble.

Last Days of Freedom: Worry has set in, even chain restaurants no longer accept cash, not from me at least, I tried to buy something to eat with good ol’ paper money at McDonald’s and they refused to serve me. Worse luck, as the Chinese say. I’m working on a project here and I’m paid in cash, so credit isn’t something I have access to. This doesn’t just affect me, a large portion of the population is paid, untaxed of course, in cash and most likely doesn’t have a bank account. Also, everywhere I go my temperature is taken.

Days of Optimism: Lockdown began, I went to get groceries for the 2 days that we are told we must shelter in place and plan to go to bed early. There was hoarding and ransacking of shelves at the local grocer, but I’m sure that it’s just hysteria and this whole thing will end soon. Another interesting thing happened at the store today, two women got in a fight over the last box of cookies, the first woman, a pudgy mother with a bad attitude towards everyone that I had had the bad luck of having a few encounters with before, used to admonish me saying “smoking is a bad addiction,” I wagged my finger and said “sugar is a bad addiction,” laughing my way out of the store. It was the first time I’ve laughed in days, I’ve been in a daze, everything is quickly changing and feels so dire. The fowl woman, she lost the battle and the box of cookies. A word about change, I’m often told that nothing changes in this little hamlet and I believe it. It’s hyperbole, things change here, but slowly, there’s digital gadgets for sale, but there are also oxcarts that sell food and other remnants of the past. It’s not that nothing changes, It’s that time seems to go by slower here, like the locals heartbeat at a slower pace. I always feel rushed but they take as much time as the seasons.

Two Days In: The two days passed, but lockdown continues, the food I bought didn’t last. Even worse, I wasn’t informed that lockdown part 2 had begun without the first installment ending, I slept through the grocery shopping time, 6AM. I snuck out for an evening walk despite lockdown, 2 interesting things happened on my covert walk, I saw many others outside as well, they all spoke of the cow that wandered into the open air temple that’s adjacent to my apartment complex, some are feeding here, even the Muslims, having taken up many of the folk traditions of the Hindus they live among, agree that a sickly heifer wandering into the temple is a good omen, the other interesting thing, The Green Eyed Lady (an Indian with green eyes) made me some Khichdi(24). There were also Chinese in Haiden, Beijing, a district home to many Russians, who have green eyes. Isn’t genetic splendid? In any case, the woman asked me if I had eaten, usually more of a salutation than invitation here, I said “no,” so she brought me a bite to eat. The food supposedly heals the sick.

Big Changes in a Little Town: Since implementation of the Janata(5) Curfew, many continue to sit along alleys in large groups or participate in sports, not wearing masks(4). Yet, as I walk enroute to purchase groceries, these intrepid individuals say “here comes Corona” and cover their faces with their dupatta(7) or a handkerchief. This change of attitude towards me is, although slight, I’ve always had my fans and detractors here, is palpable. Maybe it’s just my nerves. Before lockdown, I sometimes played Teen Patti(19) with neighbors at least, never understood the rules though. Anyway, the shelter-in-place decree will be lifted on Passover, this must be a good omen, not that I sincerely believe in such things, I think to myself and reiterate my resolution to weather the storm in Mumbai. One concern about the transmission of Covid, Indians don’t have a sense of proximity, they always crowd.

One Good Deed: The endless bad news has left me exhausted. A few thoughts before bed, having lived in other parts of Asia and meeting many people from Europe, India is like America in one way, heterogeneity. It’s a type of melting pot, not a melting pot of strangers from far off lands but a mixture of old kingdoms, who have their own languages and cultures, forced under one, possibly too small, umbrella. Adding it up, Indian society, due to its long history, caste system and numerous religions is exceedingly complex, for example Muslims created the first free public institutes of higher learning, yet in some regards they’re treated like would-be separatists (Khurshid). Thinking about the day’s event, I sit on the small broken cot that’s my bed, I have to get this fixed soon, it’s interesting, the cost of handwork is very cheap here, in the US, anything that artisan might do is expensive and it’s more cost effective just to throw the old away. I’m reminded of this Chinese woman I met in Beijing, she told me “I’m not Han(23).” “Interesting, which ethnic group do you belong to?” “I’m Miao.” “Is there anything unique about the Miao?” “We don’t eat dogs. All Chinese people are the same, we are one people, the only difference between Han and Miao is that we don’t eat dogs.” I was teaching adult English at the time for extra income. India is more like America than China or Europe, diversity is endless.

Anand Nagar Has a New Song: The decree wasn’t lifted. Another day, thousands more Covid cases and locals have begun to shout “go home Corona!” Despite the taunts, I’m staying where I am. I don’t have much of a choice, there aren’t any flights anyway, the airports, in a panic, have shut down, everything, with a mere 2 day warning, has come to a grinding halt. I guess this isn’t merely more sensational media. Besides, the situation is becoming bleaker in the US and airports are havens for communicable diseases, they pack people in, from all over the world, like sardines. Have you ever seen the projected distribution of an epidemic? It all starts with airports. Resolute that this virus will blow over, I buckle down for the Summer of Corona in India.

Foreigners Have it Too: Nothing good has come from lockdowns so far, it has fostered hysteria, mob mentality, greed and anti-foreigner sentiment. This “City of Dreams,” has become a nightmare! The nation has fallen into the clutches of fear of contracting the virus from a foreign national. Hysteria, I tell you! I only hope that this all ends soon. Despite an anti-foreigner hysteria, according to The World Health Organization there are a total of 1637 people infected by Covid-19, a mere 49 of which are aliens(3) (The WHO). Yet, the locals blame it all on Tablighi Jamaat(13)(BBC), why not? Trump is calling this outbreak “The China Virus.” The borders have closed, looks like I’m staying here for a while, I didn’t plan on leaving anyway. Besides, there’s talk of easing restrictions. Back to the human condition, I had always been considered an outsider here, I had always been greeted with mocking and mistrust, to some degree, but there were those who accepted me. The first day I arrived the children called me names and adults mimicked the way I speak with derisive tones and gestures, I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery? I despise epigrams, I really do.

Nostalgia for Slightly Better Days: Before lockdown, there was a woman with a fish tattoo on her arm who often invited me to play cards but I shied away from her after neighbors had told me that she “accuses people of rape to blackmail them for money.” I don’t usually listen to gossip but wanted to play it safe. Other than that, I was at least invited to weddings, funerals and dances during the Graba(22) celebration. Funny story, the first year I refused to dance, a man jokingly told me that if I dance with a girl I have to marry her. I didn’t actually believe him, I’m not that gullible, I’m just not fond of Indian music. Back to the present, it’s not the time for nostalgia, although I can’t think of a better pastime right now, maybe if foreigners in India practice social distancing, unlike the locals, they won’t catch the virus and the stigma will dissolve. The other night I went for a walk just to break the monotony of watching time go by and hoping the world would heal. This morning, I was again accused of perverse behaviors by my landlord. I wasn't walking the alleyways naked, but I am being watched. On the walk, locals barred the alley and told me “no foreigners allowed.” Yet, they daily gather to play Cricket while sentinels watch for cops so that they can quickly disperse.

There’ Gestapos In This Movie Too: I guess I should mention something good too. Lockdown has caused a sort of hush here and now daily I can hear the sound of an infant being bathed through the one tiny window my studio apartment has. Through the 4 foot square aperture I can hear the infant laughing as warm water rushes over it. I now hope that things will return to the way they were before, just subpar not “holy crap the world is on fire and we are all going to die!” A combination of police and concerned citizens, working with the police, now stand along the main road with bamboo canes in hand. They remind me of stories my grandfather told of the Gestapo. Both are poised for violence. The police, they resound the sentiment of the concerned citizens, ridicule the foreigner. Now, I usually get an escort, something that is only afforded to me, to stop “roaming” as I go to get essentials. There are now dots painted on the sidewalk, we are supposed to stand on them to ensure social distancing, the locals don’t obey this. If I do the same, I’m informed, thwack would go the cane. I’ve begun to see in black and white, not metaphorically but literally, I feel as though I’m watching a movie about a distant authoritarian time. The brutalist architecture(24) is reminiscent of Russia and North Korea, it doesn’t take much imagination for the arabesque attributes to obscure. I haven’t slept much.

Building a Wall: This hamlet is bluffed by a river by a river on one side with a small foot bridge for crossing into Neilam Nagar. The police have blockaded the entrance to the crossing and are building a wall to, I believe, keep the several hundred thousand impoverished residence of this hamlet trapped like mice on a sinking ship. I truly fear the wall, perhaps it’s because of my education, having been forced to read the line ‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall(20),’ throughout school, it’s almost a national anthem. Walls and golf courses have always seemed as despicable things to me. Neither the rich nor the influential politicians are suffering the same as we are in the slums. They play golf in their gated communities…

The First Stone Tossed: As the situation in India worsens, so do the jeering. Now, a few individuals throw rocks at me, a tactic usually reserved for thwarting the region’s menacing wild dogs, as I venture into the ever more dangerous streets at the permitted time, 6AM, to get essentials, in an attempt to diffuse their frustrations over the region’s spreading epidemic. Yet, returning to the political quagmire that is America keeps me hopeful that sheltering in Mumbai will become easier. Rocks tossed or not, I’m staying in place. Oddly, despite not eating much, I’m gaining weight, it must be stress. Supplies have run thin, some are hoarding and there’s talk of a 2 week prohibition on supply trucks entering Anand Nagar.

Insomnia: Depression has set in and money has mostly ran out. Immediately before lockdown, I was given a promotion but as of yesterday, the company I worked for has permanently shut their doors. I’ve just now realized that I haven’t left my house, let alone gotten out of the broken cot for days. I look at the clock, it’s 5:50 AM, the allotted time for shopping. Getting groceries at dawn isn’t a matter of waking at dawn; I haven’t slept in days either, just sat on this cot watching time go by. Insomnia is starting to take a toll, I’m beginning to hallucinate, time has lost all meaning, at times days go by in minutes yet other times, minutes last for a small eternity. It has been days since I’ve had a face to face conversation with another human.

Home Invaders: Somewhat dazed, I sit on my bed contemplating the meaninglessness of time when there’s nothing to do. Jolted from my daydream-like state, there’s a pounding sound on the door. The sound is getting louder. I hear shouting. The words come into focus, “foreigner, we’re coming in! We’re breaking the door down,” says the unfamiliar voices. I spring to my feet and bolt the door. The pounding becomes more and more rapid and fear takes a hold of me. But then I hear a familiar voice, the voice of my neighbor, she shouts something in Marathi and the marauders leave. I fall into a sleep and don’t wake for 2 days. Food was cut off for 2 weeks, I had to get a bite to eat from the Hanuman Mandir(18). They handed out plates of rice and lentils.

Vigilantes: Days go by and panic worsens among residents of this Mumbai chawl(8). Due to rising fears, vigilantes begin to safeguard the streets from “roaming.” These sentinels attempt to impose restrictions of their own device on me: they inform me that I am not permitted to walk along certain roads because they are afraid that I carry the virus, this happened once before on a late night walk but now it’s the norm, although I’m merely in search of a store to buy necessities and wearing a mask. In the end, these vigilantes won’t cause a reduction in hanging out on the street, this I know, but a few of this slum’s inhabitants get to feel empowered because they are the new sheriff in town. I guess we all need a whipping-post and there’s good among the wicked, a local temple and a few individuals are handing out grains to the needy. We are all needy here. At this point, the lockdown has gone on for months.

The New sheriffs in Town: Currently, there’s two police along Mumbai’s backstreets, those who were given authority by the Mumbai Municipal Corporation (MNC) and vigilantes. Feeling harassed and completely rejected by society, loneliness takes hold of me, I begin to search for a way out of this “city of dreams,” maybe returning home while a buffoonish leader (Trump) who makes a mockery of the US isn’t so bad, I think to myself. All things considered, it’s nearly impossible to abide by laws set by both the government and a hysteric mob anyway.

No Payment Until April: At least I have a roof over my head, I think to myself, an article in Aljazeera, Foreign Tourists Face Hostility in India Amid Coronavirus Panic informs that an Israeli woman was evicted from her home in Goa due to locals fear of contracting COVID-19 and others were forced out of their hotel (Purohit), I can go a day without milk, but not without a bed, not to mention, the police had recently found tourists living in a cave because they are trapped in India and have ran out of money (NBC). I haven’t yet been evicted, but am also out of funds and live under constant threat of eviction. Rent payment is suspended until April (Delhi High Court). I lay on my broken cot, I will try to get it fixed on the black market, and continue to doom-scroll taking note of the day’s death tally and searching for any sign of things getting better. Passover has passed but Covid hasn’t.

Nobody Goes Home for That Price: I do some research and come to find that the US Department of State is offering “repatriation flights,” these flights carry a $2000 price tag (a promissory note for the aforementioned amount must be signed before boarding the plane) and a random port of arrival is where I’ll end up if I choose to return home through the ever so benevolent government, how can anyone pay this price during a Pandemic (this thing has been upgraded to a Pandemic, how lovely words are). Upon arriving at this port, the returning expat must find their way home through barricades and the threat of being infected by Corona (Genter). I harden my heart and again resolve to weather the storm in Mumbai. Besides, if the promissory note isn’t paid, I will be banned from international travel. I’m a Digital Nomad. I travel, work at an incredibly low rate and can only afford to survive in developing countries.

August’s Heat: The death toll jets upward and 75 degree angle, it’s updated daily. While bombarded with an endless stream of bad news, jeering has morphed into threats of violence, sleep is still a rare occurrence, heat rash has caused the parts of my body covered by clothing to become as freckled as Little Orphan Annie, I’m as poor to boot, my field of vision is filled sprawling geometric patterns and my temper is quick.

Worse Than the Daughters of Temperance: As the situation thickens, stores begin to deny me service. A shopkeeper refuses to sell me certain items that are in stock and we aren’t barred from sale, I have just been informed that liquor and tobacco have become contraband. The more than nagging need to satiate addictions during lockdown aside, this proprietor allows Indian nationals to purchase products, but denies me the same goods. He’d have me starve to death! I, like all outsiders, have become the face of a faceless virus that has ruined lives, in fact “Muslims were initially blamed for the spread of infection (Siddiqui),” a group that is no less a part of India than Sikhs(10), yet, like Jews anywhere in the world, are perpetual outsiders. All things considered, this is mass hysteria! Nobody I know has died from Covid yet. A sampling error? Perhaps. Nonetheless, I sit in my room without a breeze (I don’t have A/C) and ponder what society has come to, Freud’s mob mentality.

They’re Trying to Starve Me Out: That shopkeeper has changed his mind, I returned to him to buy groceries but he yelled “go away foreigner white face.” He then insisted that a clerk not give me an old box, although I was carrying a heavy load and had no tote. The hypocrisy of people here is an in the face classism, a rule for me and a rule for them. The Covid cases are increasing exponentially! So are my headaches. They’re not headaches as much as a feeling that every nerve ending in my body is being prodded with a needle and the inside of my brain shrinking. Now, I sit at home alone, the rats scurry across the floor, the heat comes in waves, time stands still and there’s nothing to laugh about, Covid cases are in the hundred thousands and the death toll is staggering as well.

Befriending the Gang: August’s heat, insomnia, constant dread and lack of nutrition are getting to me, I don’t know how much longer I can go on. Even local pharmacists have begun to convey a fear of me and insist that I have a cough when I go in to ask for something for heat rash. Unlike the grocers, the pharmacists sell me goods, but with great hesitation and suspicion in regards to my presence in this chawl. Finding tobacco is now the chief task of every day. It’s sold on the black market, along with chocolate, alcohol and meat, at exorbitant prices. So, like a heroin addict, I slink up to a back alley leant-to and buy a pack of smokes. It’s just like buying illicit drugs: there’s an obligatory period of making small-talk, ambiguity over whether or not the man actually has tobacco, razzing, phone calls and scurrying about to find it. In the end, I walk away with cigarettes at European prices and a dirty feeling.

Suicide Among Death: Lockdown continues and most in this chawl have lost morale. The neighbor sent her son over to tinker on my electric piano. She told me of what has been dubbed The Flower House Girl. A young woman hung herself from rafters due to endless confinement to her home and the bleak picture of tomorrow that the daily news paints. What a shame! I had wondered what the fire department was doing on the main street. They took her out of the third story window with the truck’s ladder.

Another Year Another Onion: Did I mention it’s a New Year? I didn’t even notice that the year had changed, the date passed unceremoniously and with festivities. Again, the police have rebuilt the wall that surrounds this chawl, tightening the perimeter, I’m not sure if it’s to keep Covid out or us in. In any case, food has scarcely made it through the makeshift wall and news is that food supplies will be cut off for 2 weeks, again. In any case, that which makes it in is mostly sequestered by the gangs, anyhow. It’s that I’ve got the most onions mentality(12). Despite rarely eating, I continue to gain weight. Speaking of onions, there are now over nine million confirmed Covid cases and farmers are protesting the price gouging of seeds, stating that “We are the ones who have provided food, milk, vegetables when the whole country was in lockdown, we were still toiling in the fields. It is the government” not gathering in New Delhi “that has put us at risk by introducing these laws during Covid (Hollingsworth et al).” My heart is with these brave men and women and if I had the strength I would be beside them. All things considered, despite the news and friends’ proclamations that a new year brings new hope, this may be an onion of a year too.

The Walls Close In: Yet again, the police have reduced the circumference of the wall. I feel claustrophobic or like I’m slowly, very slowly drowning. I go to bed, but sleep doesn’t come. I hear the rats fight over the last morsels of food in this chawl, when I wake, there’s inevitably a rodent corpse on the footpath in the ally that leads to my house. Food has been cut off for 2 weeks. I gave the last of my supplies to a family, in total it amounted to a pound of rice and a pound of lentils. Now, the cot is less of a fishing net with big holes and more of an empty frame. I lay on the floor instead, will I be able to get somebody to fix it, I don’t know. I have to get my family to send money first.

An Altercation: We are now allowed an evening walk, so I venture out to the usual chants, a ragtag team of would-be thugs follow me. A wave of exhaustion washes over me and my pace slows to a crawl in front of the BJP(14) Office. As I cross in front of the office, beneath the flag, a scrawny slum-bastard walk up and says “are you British?” “I’m American,” I reply. “I hear they call you Hari(15).” I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he speaks. “What of it?” “More like Harry Potter.” “I guess that’s funny,” I say and try to walk away, but he grabs me by the collar and takes a swing, he misses. I return the blow, my fist makes contact with his face. My heart is racing. I fear an all out retaliation when, like roaches from beneath rot-wood, members of the local gang emerge from the alleys and come to my aid. I had been buying tobacco from them, at highway robbery prices for weeks, and so it’s in their interest to act as my vigilante guardians, in some regards, the gangs are better than the police, or at least their corruption and self service is laid out on the table for all to see, where the cops are supposed to protect and serve, protecting and serving often isn’t the case here, it comes down to ethnic and caste schisms.

Two Deaths and a Ghost: It’s another day and the death toll has spiked again. Feeling that I escaped death and death being the only thing the news reports on I begin to wonder, had I been killed by a mob, would my death have been reported as a Covid death? Is the death toll real? There’s a little hospital in this chawl, it’s certainly not inundated with the dying and morticians don’t walk the streets singing “bring out your dead,” as they did during the Black Plague of 1665. In fact, of the 3 who purportedly died in Anand Nagar, one was an elderly with Emphysema, the other was a suicide and the last one, I saw him walking down the street the other day, risen from the grave as by some Covid era miracle. Truth be told, he had gone back to his family home and returned. Not an easy task, much like during the Holocaust, traveling papers are required to go anywhere, there’s not even any trains, minus a few for displaced workers. A combination of lack of food, a growing mistrust of the government’s intention with regards to lockdown and dire times brings these lyrics to mind: My wife fixed up a tater stew/ We poured the kids full of it/ Mighty thin stew, though/ You could read a magazine right through it. Always have figured/ That if it’d been just a little bit thinner, Some of these here politicians/ Coulda seen through it(21).

Are the politicians duped or am I? What about herd immunity? I feel like I’m living in the Dust Bowl, except there’s no storm of dust and the sky isn’t black. The enemy is invisible. Or, am I the enemy? So much for relativism.

Police and Indians: On another outing, again attempting to purchase essentials, those things that whether for sustenance or pleasure, an invisible hand has decided that I may indulge in, I find that even local authorities seem misinformed about the number of foreign nationals in India with Covid. Recently, police stopped me for questioning and informed me that “foreigners are the cause of Corona Virus.” After looking for a quarantine stamp on my hands several times and not finding one they insisted that I run back home and followed me on motorcycles. This was witnessed by several locals who cheered the police on. As the police resounded sentiments of this chawl’s inhabitants, it reinforced negative feelings. I didn’t eat that night. The days following the police harassment, locals continued jeering me by saying “the police will come and hit you,” while mimicking the thwack of a cane on their posterior. Not just are they misinformed, they’d like to see me hung.

Read the Sign: In case you feel incredulous in regards to my claims about placing a stamp on the hands of foreigners and the police’s blindingly Orwellian allegiance to the BJP, the party who blamed Covid on Muslims and foreigners, The National Library of Medicine has this to say about it: tourists who arrived in India from affected countries were put in quarantine for 14 days in their port of arrival, their “left hand was stamped with ink” to maintain the date and time of their home quarantine, “a move that could risk assault, due to stigma towards Covid suspects [foreigners].” Individuals violating the quarantine can be penalized via Indian penal code Section 188, 269 and 270 (Siddiqui). The police, like the locals, are looking for a whipping-post and have a draconian view about foreign nationals in India during this crisis, what a hoot it would be to cane them. Bollywood is no “City of Dreams,” in fact, misinformation abounds here, signs, obviously posted by Conservative and nationalistic Hindu Vegans, reads as so: ‘Ways to avoid Covid/ Don’t eat meat/ Don’t smoke/ Don’t talk to foreigners.’ I no longer see the good that I jotted down in an earlier journal entry. Also, tired of the word “misinformation,” not sure who gets to decide what’s misinformation, although I myself used it in this entry, just tired: days crawl by and the feeling of isolation causes a pressure on my cranium and a meaninglessness to all things.

Mending a Bed: Despite having become a pariah, I was able to get the cot fixed, for a small fee, a tailor was willing to come over, and work against the law, they despise me, but like money enough to look past it. The work doesn’t look great, it’s rigged. Most everything here is rigged. I’m never sure if this is the ingenuity of a race of impoverished people or the result of an attitude that declares good enough is good. In the end, most everything is a hodgepodge of corrugated steel, broken bits of wood and rope with exposed electrical wires that run through water and the elements in general. I’ve always said, if the manpower here became a collected force and decided to stop pollution, get the rivers clean, enforce something like an ADA, demand fair housing they would be an unstoppable force. Instead, they divide themselves along ethnic schisms.

A Pickpocket: Food has returned to the stores and shopkeepers are serving me, but I was pickpocketed at the register. I took my wallet out to pay, right before my eyes a man reached in my wallet and took a 500 out, it was the last of the money I had. I came home empty handed. For the first time since my divorce, I broke down and cried. Now I sit wiping my eyes. Is all hope for humanity lost? I cannot answer. Besides Covid, there’s so much political turmoil! It looks as though there won’t be a smooth transition of power this time.

What I’ve Learned From the Steppenwolf: I’m concerned for the nation’s migrant workers, other visiting foreign nationals and those who descend from Mizoram and Assam, these individuals may be more prone to the psychological effects of loneliness than myself. Culturally, Indian life centers around an extended family, whereas I’m more akin to Herman Hesse’s Steppenwolf. All in all, it’s tough to live overseas in the best case scenario and down-right depressing when you’ve become public enemy number one. But, as I said, I have a tough enough skin to survive this, but there are those who’ve been cannibalized by their own society. Anyway, lockdown should end in 3 weeks, the infection rate is on the decline. We are now aloud out in the evenings and I have taken to sitting with friends in front of the Rukhmini(16) Temple. It’s like the opening line of a joke, a Jew, a Muslim and a Hindu… Among us, there’s a Muslim, a Jew, a Christian and a Hindu priest. All in all, I need them not, but it’s nice to have some companionship, even if there’s little communication. I have returned to good graces.

Family Matters: Although I feel alone, I’m not jealous of India’s family structure. Locals often ask me about my family, casual things like “how is your mother?” “I don’t know. I don’t keep in touch with my family very much,” I respond. It’s a matter of privacy and staying out of gossip. Here, grown men never grow up, they are fed and coddled by their mothers. I had recently met a man who can’t cook for himself, nor wash his own clothes and still occasionally sleeps in bed with his mother. Speaking of men, spouse abuse, along with drinking, is on the rise. It’s not uncommon to see and hear it. Too often, after dark, I witness, when I sneak out for a walk to break the munatiny, men hitting women by the open air temple that my house is adjacent to. Speaking of temples, Hanukkah recently passed. I lit a makeshift menorah, but even that gave me little joy. As for now, the best thing is drinking chai by the little Rukmini temple.

Down With the Wall: The wall has come down! Lockdown isn’t over, but the wall has come down. Alas, air travel has returned, the government has announced “air bubbles” and I’m returning to America. After everything, I was never again treated as more than a second-class citizen in that chawl but it matters not, I’m leaving! In the end, the locals’ reaction to me and the psychological impact of the loneliness, their words and actions heave upon me, have caused deep scars. On a more disappointing note, all local newspapers have declined to publish my recollections of lockdown. An earnest question, were we fed false dichotomies, ones that stated wear a mask or everyone dies and get the vaccine or everyone dies, just for some political experiment or agenda? It’s just odd that after the farmers protested the Covid number began to decrease.

Integrity Intact

No Amnesty for the Wicked: One might say, you’ve survived the worst, why bring this up at all? Isn’t it time for amnesty? I feel the answers to this was best put into words in the video Pandemic Amnesty: Do you Forgive and Forget and so I will summarize what the author said, “there were things that happened that there needs to be a recognition of, and there needs to be a public apology. There needs to be a promise that this never happens again. There needs to be people who actually pay for their behavior, potentially criminal behavior. […] Until the people who did harm admit that they did harm this kind of thing will just keep repeating itself. […] Some people were victims, other people were perpetrators, and then there [were] also enablers (Wand).” For instance, The Deccan Herald reports that there have been “attacks on people from India’s northeastern region […], suspecting them of being carriers of the virus.” Assaulting your own people is like cannibalism, that’s all there is to it! As it was written in the newspaper, apart from being called “Corona” or “Chinki(9)” India’s [Asiatic] people were spat on and forcibly quarantined, despite showing no Covid symptoms, all because of their looks and an ignorant fear that anyone who looks different are the root cause of the Pandemic. Also, they were denied entry into their apartment complexes, evicted, merely threatened with eviction or forced out of restaurants to make others comfortable and none wanted to share transport with them (Karmakar). Of all things, it’s not time for amnesty.

Ignorance isn’t an Excuse: There needs to be punishment for these wicked deeds! There’ll be no retribution for foreigners who suffered in India, but locals, those from minority communities, who had just days before lockdown been upstanding citizens, deserve retribution and possibly reparations. There those who died from the virus and those who died at the selfishness and ignorance of mankind, for those who died by the hand of man have this to say: “To forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time ( Elie Wiesel).” Ignorance, for good reason, has never been, nor shall it be an excuse for breaking laws and committing atrocities. The Atlantic is wrong in their assertion that we should just forgive and forget (Oster). Perhaps, in the name of healing, it’s time to forgive, but should never forget!

A Clear Conscience: During The Covid Outbreak, I may have lost my mind, found myself in complete isolation and on the brink of starvation at times, but at least I kept my dignity. I threw no stones and attempted to obey the laws, even those that actively brought hardship into my life. I defended myself when needed, I live by the adage “walk gently and carry a big stick.” As for the war of the ethnicities in India, I guess it’s none of my business, alone, I can’t defend the minorities. And in regards to retribution for the wicked, my hands are also tied. However, I won’t give amnesty, not in my heart. Forgetting and moving on, as Oster’s article suggests (Oster) is, to reiterate, akin to allowing the cycle to repeat again. In the end, my travels have provided me with armor to protect against cabin fever, I’ve endured hardships and loneliness in remote villages of Nepal and have been “the stranger” in the metropolitans of Hong Kong, Bangladesh… But there are those among the Indians whose identity and self-worth come from a tightly knit family and friend structure, many of which took their own lives due to isolation. Others starved to death because of lack of income and others died due to the rejection of medical services. Luckily, I was not immune to the effects of isolation, but well insulated from the threat of Corona by a chawl that exists off the radar and societies’ fear of foreigners, local inhabitants keep me at arm’s length and so, I didn’t catch the virus during lockdown.

Notes

1: The views herein are not the of WTDA but the author. At WTDA we publish a variety of news, depending on what we deem to be an interesting story at the moment.

2: At the time of writing, Covid hadn’t yet been declared a Pandemic.

3: Citation no longer available at The World Health Organization.

4: The author of this journal wants it to be known that they don’t, nor did they ever, believe that masks are/were an effective way of preventing Covid-19 but were forced to wear a face covering by Indian law. At the time, they obeyed the law.

5: Public.

6: Hyped media, having no real effect on the life of the author.

7: A long scarf worn by Indian women.

8: The Marathi word for neighbourhood which is colloquially used to denote a slum.

9: North Indian slang for India’s Asiatic population.

10: A religion that combines attributes of Islam and Hinduism and originated in India.

11: Guests are G-D.

12: In 2019, due to flooding, there was an onion shortage. An entrepreneur had been hoarding onions. At the time, not only did he declare that “onions are the new gold” he purportedly sold the onions for 3 times the market value. To the author, it serves as a symbol of the selfish psychological state that caused some of the worst aspects of Covid lockdown.

13: A 3 day Islamic spiritual event in India’s capital hosted by a 100 years Islamic Missionary Movement. Due to the cases reaching over 300 after the event, the meme was coined: China is the “producers” of the virus, and Muslims are the “distributors.”

14: A political party, of which Prime Minister Narendra Modi is the leader of. Every neighborhood has a BJP office.

15: A common male name in India and regional pronunciation of the Anglo name Harry.

16: The primary wife of the Hindu G-D Krishna.

17: The name of the slum in which the writer lived during lockdown.

18: A temple in the slum in which the foreigner lived during lockdown. The temple is dedicated to the monkey G-D, a deity who helped Rama in the Hindu epic, the Ramayana.

19: A poker-like card game in which the players make melds with three cards.

20: Mending Wall by Robert Frost.

21: Talkin’ Dust Bowl Blues by Woodie Guthrie.

22: A dance form native to the west Indian state of Gujarat, performed in October to honour the Hindu Goddess Durga. It is also celebrated in Maharashtra. People gather on the streets, dancing in pairs of men and women where they rhythmically click sticks together.

23: The largest ethnic group in mainland China, about 91% of the population.

24: A South Indian dish made of rice and lentils. It’s a comfort food that’s supposed to aid in healing.

25: Brutalist architecture emerged during the 1950s in the United Kingdom, among the reconstruction projects of the post-war era.These buildings characterised by minimalism and bare building materials. They are commonly seen today in old Soviet Union countries and Central Asia, reminding many of totalitarianism.

[ao3feed-sambucky]

and if life is pain then i buried mine a long time ago (but its still alive)

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/cWMzYgO by yeehaw_my_beebaw “As he prepared the cups of coffee, there was some shuffling from the bedroom and a soft thump. Curiosity piqued, Sam poked his head into the room. He wasn’t quite sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t his partner curled up on the floor, flesh hand pressed to his mouth as he choked on ragged breaths. ” or Bucky doesn’t know how to be a sick person and Sam is just trying his best. Now featuring nightmares and feverish delirium!! Words: 2242, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Captain America (Movies) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers (mentioned), Sam Wilson (Marvel), Helmut Zemo Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes & Sam Wilson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers (past) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick Character, Sick Bucky Barnes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Some Fluff, Fever, sicktember 2023, multiple prompts used, Delirium, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Feels, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Sam Wilson Needs a Hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, No Beta, Infection, Injury, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes Whump, Sam Wilson is a Saint, sam wilson is just really great imo, I like hurting my comfort characters, it makes me happy, Literal Sleeping Together, Domestic Boyfriends, but angsty, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/cWMzYgO

[howieabel]

Vladimir Mayakovsky 1927

Good! (fragment, chapter 14)

Over those          whom  sleep eternal claimed that lean,          harsh winter                      spread                            a pall. What  are words!               Words                    are lame! On the Volga sores                  I refuse                          to dwell. Of a string of days                   I choose                           to speak, akin    to a thousand others,                         bleak, pushed on         by the years,                      oarsmen eager, not over-fat            nor               over-meagre. If ever       something of worth                         I wrote it was all         the  fault of a pair         of eyes-                  bottomless skies, my  beloved's eyes. Huge  they are, round, dark brown, with a speck            of hazel, coal-hot,        blazing. The  phone's gone                 stark-raving mad, an axe's        blunt edge                  striking the ear:                                   wham! Round  the huge brown  eyes -                             pads: hunger's        to blame. Doctor's orders: for the eyes            to be able to eye       the world,

heat the place, put greens          on the table. By their curly green tails -                            behold!- I'm holding           two  carrots                      crunchy. They're not           for my  stew: I'm taking them to my sweetheart,              for her                     to munch. Boxes of sweets               and flowers                          freely I handed  out,              but                 I recall that those carrots                  plus firewood                 (half a billet) were    the most precious                     gift                         of all. Thrust under my arm                   are damp pieces of wood:                    knobby sticks,              eyebrow-thick. Face puffy, eyes-splits: it's    malnutrition. Greens and care -                  eyes clear. Bigger than saucers,                   they eye                           the Revolution. Easier for me             than for most             (it's no boast!) Because I'm Mayakovsky.

I sit and chew a fresh piece of horse flesh. The door whines. My kid sister. "Hullo!" "Hullo!" "Volodya, listen, it's New Year's tomorrow. Got some salt             I could borrow?" "A pinch,         Wet  too. Here,     let's divide it in two." Wading  through  snow,                      fighting fear, with an        "Oh, dear,                  how'll I keep on my feet!" Olga  stumbles along the icy,        three-mile long                       Presnya Street. Home    to salt her potatoes                        she hastens. Frost     walks          beside her, grows fierce,             inches closer,      tickles             and  pinches. "Gimme it!          Isn't that salt                         you're hiding?" Home at last,             and didn't lose it. But how  use it? To  her fingers              it's frozen fast. Behind  the wall               shuffling feet. "Here,  wife,            we gotta eat. Trade  my  coat              for millet,                        will ye?" Look  through the pane- it's snowing again. The snow  falls, covering all. Soft its step,            yes,               and  light. Moscow's         a cliff,               bare                   and white. Snow lies         in banks                 and drifts. Of forests         the skeleton clings                           to the cliff. Daybreak.         Into the sky's thick shawl the sun,        a louse,               crawls. December's late dawn,                     worn out,                              shivery, hangs     over Moscow                like typhus fever. Storm  clouds vagrant to fat lands migrate. Wrapped  in haze, its chest sticking out,                    America  lies. What  is it doing? -                    Lapping up coffee      and cocoa               by  the cup. Into your face,               thick as the snout of a good-sized pig,          than a round tray rounder, from  this hungering land of ours                                I shout: My love       for my land                  is boundless!

You can forget             when                 and where you stuffed          your craw                   and your belly,                                  but the land        you hungered with                         you can never as long as you live and breathe                               forget!

[lismonia]

To JK Rowling, from Cho Chang by Rachel Rostad

When you put me in your books, millions of Asian girls across America rejoiced! Finally, a potential Halloween costume that wasn't a geisha or Mulan! What’s not to love about me? I’m everyone’s favorite character! I totally get to fight tons of Death Eaters and have a great sense of humor and am full of complex emotions!

Oh wait. That’s the version of Harry Potter where I’m not fucking worthless.

First of all, you put me in Ravenclaw. Of course the only Asian at Hogwarts would be in the nerdy house. Too bad there wasn't a house that specialized in computers and math and karate, huh?

I know, you thought you were being tolerant. Between me, Dean, and the Indian twins, Hogwarts has like... five brown people? It doesn't matter we’re all minor characters. Nah, you’re not racist! Just like how you’re not homophobic, because Dumbledore’s totally gay! Of course it’s never said in the books, but man. Hasn't society come so far? Now gays don’t just have to be closeted in real life—they can even be closeted fictionally!

Ms. Rowling. Let’s talk about my name. Cho. Chang. Cho and Chang are both last names. They are both Korean last names. I am supposed to be Chinese. Me being named “Cho Chang” is like a Frenchman being named “Garcia Sanchez.”

So thank you. Thank you for giving me no heritage. Thank you for giving me a name as generic as a ninja costume. As chopstick hair ornaments.

Ms. Rowling, I know you’re just the latest participant in a long tradition of turning Asian women into a tragic fetish. Madame Butterfly. Japanese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself. Miss Saigon. Vietnamese woman falls in love with a white soldier, is abandoned, kills herself. Memoirs Of A Geisha. Lucy Liu in leather. Schoolgirl porn.

So let me cry over boys more than I speak. Let me fulfill your diversity quota. Just one more brown girl mourning her white hero.

No wonder Harry Potter’s got yellow fever. We giggle behind small hands and “no speak Engrish.” What else could a man see in me? What else could I be but what you made me? Subordinate. Submissive. Subplot.

Go ahead. Tell me I’m overreacting. Ignore the fact that your books have sold 400 million copies worldwide. I am plastered across movie screens, a bestselling caricature.

Last summer, I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows. He had his father’s blue eyes. He’d press his wrist against mine and say he was too pale. That my skin was so much more beautiful. To him, I was Pacific sunset, almond milk, a porcelain cup.

When he left me, I told myself I should have seen it coming. I wasn't sure I was sad but I cried anyway. Girls who look like me are supposed to cry over boys who look like him. I’d seen all the movies and read all the books. We were just following the plot.

[emilyfloresworld]

Sporting Events in Toronto: A Guide to World-Class Games

Toronto, a bustling metropolis known for its diverse culture and vibrant energy, also holds a special place in the hearts of sports enthusiasts. The city boasts a rich sporting history and a passionate fan base, making it a prime destination for witnessing world-class games and experiencing the thrill of live competition.

Whether you're a die-hard fan or simply looking for an exciting way to spend an evening, Toronto's sporting events offer something for everyone. From the roar of the crowd at a hockey game to the precision and grace of a tennis match, the city's sporting calendar is packed with unforgettable moments.

So grab your jersey, put on your game face, and get ready to immerse yourself in the heart-pounding action of Toronto's sporting scene.

Hockey: Toronto Maple Leafs - The Heart and Soul of the City

Hockey is more than just a sport in Toronto; it's a way of life. The Toronto Maple Leafs, the city's beloved hockey team, hold a special place in the hearts of Torontonians, and attending a game at Scotiabank Arena is an experience like no other.

The atmosphere is electric, with fans decked out in blue and white, cheering on their team with unwavering passion. The energy in the arena is contagious, and even if you're not a die-hard hockey fan, you'll find yourself caught up in the excitement.

Basketball: Toronto Raptors - Reigning Champions of the North

The Toronto Raptors, the city's NBA team, have captured the hearts of basketball fans around the world with their thrilling championship run in 2019. Watching a Raptors game at Scotiabank Arena is an unforgettable experience, with the crowd's energy reaching a fever pitch as the team battles it out on the court.

The Raptors' fan base is known for its diversity and inclusivity, creating a welcoming atmosphere for everyone. So whether you're a seasoned basketball enthusiast or simply looking for a fun night out, a Raptors game is sure to deliver.

Baseball: Toronto Blue Jays - America's Northern Team

The Toronto Blue Jays, Canada's only Major League Baseball team, offer a unique blend of American and Canadian sporting culture. Watching a game at the Rogers Centre, with its retractable roof and stunning views of the city skyline, is a treat for any baseball fan.

The Blue Jays' fan base is known for its enthusiasm and dedication, creating a lively atmosphere at every game. And with the team's recent success, there's no better time to catch a game and experience the thrill of America's favorite pastime in the heart of Toronto.

Soccer: Toronto FC - The Beautiful Game in the 6ix

Toronto FC, the city's Major League Soccer team, has quickly become a force to be reckoned with in the world of soccer. Watching a game at BMO Field, with its passionate supporters and electrifying atmosphere, is an experience that will leave you wanting more.

The team's fan base, known as "The Reds," is renowned for its unwavering support and colorful displays of team spirit. So whether you're a seasoned soccer fan or simply looking for a fun and energetic sporting event, a Toronto FC game is sure to deliver.

Tennis: The National Bank Open - World-Class Tennis Action

The National Bank Open, formerly known as the Rogers Cup, is a prestigious tennis tournament that attracts some of the biggest names in the sport. Held annually in Toronto, this event offers a chance to witness world-class tennis action up close and personal.

The tournament features both men's and women's singles and doubles events, showcasing the skill, athleticism, and competitive spirit of the world's top tennis players. Whether you're a casual fan or a tennis aficionado, the National Bank Open is an event not to be missed.

Other Sporting Events: From Marathons to Horse Racing

In addition to its major professional sports teams, Toronto also hosts a variety of other sporting events throughout the year. The Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon, one of the largest marathons in North America, attracts thousands of runners from around the world.

The Honda Indy Toronto, a thrilling IndyCar race held on the streets of downtown Toronto, is another popular event that draws large crowds. And for those seeking a more traditional sporting experience, the Queen's Plate, Canada's oldest thoroughbred horse race, offers a glimpse into the country's equestrian heritage.

Where to Stay: Luxury and Boutique Hotels in Toronto

Toronto offers a wide range of accommodation options to suit every taste and budget. If you're looking for a truly luxurious experience, consider staying at one of the city's many 5-star hotels, such as the Shangri-La or the Ritz-Carlton. These hotels offer impeccable service, world-class amenities, and stunning views of the city skyline.

For a more intimate and personalized experience, opt for a boutique hotel in Toronto. These unique properties often feature distinctive design and character, providing a charming and memorable stay. Some popular boutique hotels in Toronto include The Drake Hotel, The Gladstone Hotel, and Hotel X Toronto.

Tips for Attending Sporting Events in Toronto

Plan ahead: Tickets for popular sporting events can sell out quickly, so it's important to plan and purchase your tickets in advance.

Check the schedule: Toronto's sporting calendar is packed with events throughout the year. Be sure to check the schedules of your favorite teams and events to plan your visit accordingly.

Consider transportation: Depending on the event and its location, you may need to consider transportation options. Toronto has an extensive public transportation system, but you may also want to consider taxis, ride-sharing services, or even walking if the venue is centrally located.

Embrace the atmosphere: Toronto's sporting events are known for their lively and passionate atmosphere. Don't be afraid to cheer, sing along, and show your team spirit.

Explore the surroundings: Many of Toronto's sporting venues are located near other attractions, restaurants, and entertainment options. Take some time to explore the surrounding area and discover hidden gems.

Toronto's sporting scene is a vibrant and exciting part of the city's culture. Whether you're a die-hard fan or simply looking for a fun and memorable experience, attending a sporting event in Toronto is sure to leave a lasting impression.

So next time you're in the 6ix, be sure to check out the city's sporting calendar and immerse yourself in the heart-pounding action of world-class games. You might just discover a new favorite team or sport along the way.