#Brilliant-Eye-Jewe

[murciafire]

Lady Lazarus

Jason Todd Angst

Summary: “You don’t get to die and be reborn the same. You come back, but you come back wrong. This is the price you pay for resurrection” – Nathaniel Orion

Warnings: angst, the poem is about Plath's attempts but nothing explicit

Words: >1000

Notes: The thought of Jason dying and then being resurrected often led me to think of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath. I find that it’s even more appropriate considering that Jason’s died twice now (1988, 2024 – please let me know if I have it wrong). Since we all know that Jason reads classics, I felt that his thoughts might as well be as dramatic and poetic as seen in classic lit.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I have done it again.

There was a chipped tile in the corner of the wall where it met the smooth surface of the bathtub. My eyes would always catch it on the days I found myself lying in the bathtub, but it was so indiscernible that I didn’t think anyone else would remark it. (Not that I would care if anyone did, nor did anyone visit me, nor did I want anyone to). It was like a scar hidden under a chin that wouldn’t be evident until you tilted your face to where God should be (but perhaps in His absence, you could stare at the sun and the rays would make the sliver of cut skin silver, brilliant and hideous).

But such a break, where it was so insignificant, would bother no one unless you knew where to look for such fractures. And I, being that I am, often find myself wandering in an agonizing game of self-loathing where I’m drawn to discovering broken things like me. Which is why I think—and when I do think these thoughts, they’re often coupled with a heaving dry chuckle—I must cover the bathroom mirror. This game, or perhaps self-torment, is one that I often lose even when I win.

I put out my cigarette on the side of the tub—I had forgotten I had lit it. My nerves were so frayed that I didn’t think nicotine could absolve me any more than drowning myself in this bathtub hoping that a self-made baptism could bring me any closer to my father. I sighed, closing my eyes while dropping the crumpled cigarette on the floor beside me. My heart beat steadily in my chest, but I was already limp like I had given up. I felt a smile curl my lips into something cruel because here I was, in rose water which I wasn’t holy enough for, but damned enough that I was swimming in my own blood.

The bathroom, I thought, was a state of purgatory where all my thoughts merged into a state of expiatory purification.  Because I was alive and somehow—“One year in every ten I manage it—”

I groaned as my bones creaked and my muscles strained as I leaned over to pull the stopper. My eyes fixated on the swirling water, taking my blood with it. I blinked a few times, looking at my hands, no longer stained but very still. As if silence was a word to describe a motion—I wasn’t sure I was breathing. But I was.

And again I find myself moving, peeling myself off the floor of the tub, stepping over the edge. A sort of walking miracle, my skin bright as a Nazi lampshade, my right foot a paperweight.

I stood in front of the mirror and in my hesitancy, I found some courage, or as if reality took form and guided my hand to rip off the towel I hung over it, so I had to face what I saw in that tile: something broken. My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin, O my enemy. Do I terrify?—

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh the grave cave ate will be at home on me.

I smiled, my laugh hollow as I wiped my face, continuing to recite Plath. “And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty and like the cat, I have nine times to die.”

I tossed the towel onto a hook on the wall before gripping the sink to stare at myself. “This is Number Three. What a trash to annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd shoves in to see them unwrap me hand and foot—the big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies—” I pushed off the sink, throwing my hands over my face. “These are my hands. My knees. I may be skin and bone, nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.”

I slid down to my knees, my chest heaving. “The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant to last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut as a seashell. They had to call and call and pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.”

I shut my eyes, feeling my body crumple to the floor and curl into itself. Silence, I decided, was a word to describe action. Because here I was, living silently.

“Dying,” I whispered, “is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

 

I rubbed my arm with my hand, my fingers brushing over scars—new and old. My body was littered with wounds, but no one could ever see the scar under my chin. Or perhaps, the one I wanted most to notice was the crack in my heart that shattered my soul.

“It’s easy enough to do it in a cell,” I muttered. “It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical. Comeback in broad day to the same place, the same face, the same brute amused shout: ‘A miracle!’”

I laughed or cried; I wasn’t sure. But air came out of my lungs and clawed at my throat to make some sort of sound so I knew I was still here, lying on the bathroom floor very much still alive. But it’s a miracle that I am, isn’t it?  That knocks me out.

There is charge. For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge. For the hearing of my heart—

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge for a word or a touch or a bit of blood or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus, I am your valuable, the pure gold baby that melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—

A cake of soap, a wedding ring, a gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer  

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.

[bitterkarella]

Midnight Pals: Legal Comedy

Stephen King: submitted for the app Elon Musk: [rising from bushes] eyyyy stephano king Barker: oh hey steve it's your friend King: we're not friends Musk: eyyy stephano king itta me your funny friend elon King: you're also not funny Musk: Musk: mama mia!!!

Musk: eyyy stephano king whya da advertisers advertise on other websites but no on da twitter?? King: probably cuz of those things you said Musk: datsa what she said!!! Musk: oh!!!! Musk: disruptiano!!!!

Musk: ey "datsa what she said!"  Musk: ohhh!!! Musk: comedy issa legal again!!! Musk: mama mia da cake issa lie! Linda Yaccarino: [sweating, rictus grin] your meme game is too strong sir!

Musk: eyyyy da long cat, he'sa long! Yaccarino: [sweating, rictus grin] hilarious, sir! Musk: eyyy leroy jenkins! Yaccarino: [sweating, rictus grin] brilliant sir!   Musk: da jews control the media Yaccarino: [sweating, rictus grin] i'm laughing already sir! Musk: itsa not a joke

Musk: people, they say da elon musk a no funny? Musk: i bringa da sink into da twitter offices Musk: see, itta play onna da words Musk: cuz a da sink Musk: it haffa TWO meanings

Musk: people, dey say da elon is a no funny? Musk: iffa elon no funny, then how i saya dis Musk: "someone"   Musk: "setta us uppa--"   Yaccarino: [sweating, rictus grin] ha ha hilarious sir! Musk: "da bomb" I'M NOTTA DONE!

Musk: eyyy its me elon musk Musk: eyyyy keepa calm anna bazinga!!! Musk: ima da pickle rick!!! ima da ricka james da bitch! Musk: ima da charge ma lazer Musk: [tapping microphone] issa thisa thing on?

Musk: you no thinka da elon is funny? fucka you all! Musk: [inhales enormous ketamine bump] Musk: Gottsa Gitsa frigatte!!!! rigatona spaghettt!!!! Prisencolinensinainciusol!!! In de col men seivuan!!! Prisencolinensinainciusol!!!! ol rait!!!!! [continued Italian gibberish]

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Brendan O'Neill

Every now and then you see an event and you think to yourself: ‘This will go down in history.’ Last night’s revolt of the Jews of London against a ‘pro-Palestine’ mob is one such event.

Jews and their allies gathered at the Phoenix Cinema in East Finchley to defend its showing of a film about Hamas’s fascistic massacre at the Nova music festival on 7 October. Unbelievably – or not, perhaps – the ‘Palestine solidarity’ set wanted the screening to be cancelled. No way, said the Jewish rebels, loudly and proudly, many of them draped in the Israeli flag. It was truly stirring stuff, a bold act of people’s defiance against cancel culture and the slow, lethal creep of a new anti-Semitism.

Let’s call it The Battle of Phoenix Cinema. On one side there was a motley crew of Palestine flag-wavers, curiously irate that a cinema was showing a film about the evils of Hamas. And on the other side a boisterous gathering of Jews and their supporters. Two thousand of them. ‘I’m still standing’ by Elton John blasted from a loudspeaker. Many young Jews were there, some clearly angry, pushed to their limit by the ceaseless demonisation of the Jewish State and the left’s shameful lack of solidarity with the Jewish community as it has come under attack these past seven months. These people really have had enough.

Some of the younger Jews chanted ‘Terrorists supporters off our streets’. It felt like a brilliant modern twist on the slogan of The Battle of Cable Street in 1936 – ‘They shall not pass’. Back then, Jews and their working-class allies gathered in East London to see off Oswald Mosley’s fascists. Yesterday they gathered to see off that mob that obsessively hates Israel and which seems hell-bent on hiding the truth about Hamas’s fascist-like crimes. You shall not pass, the protesters were essentially saying, as they protected a cinema from the McCarthyite rage of the Israelophobes.

The Phoenix Cinema’s ‘crime’ is that it agreed to host the Seret film festival, a festival of Israeli cinema that is supported by Israel’s culture ministry. This is a mortal sin in the eyes of anti-Israel activists who boycott everything that emanates from Israel; who seem to believe that moral cleanliness entails exorcising every Israeli film, foodstuff, product and even person from your life and your community.

Ken Loach and Mike Leigh resigned in a huff as patrons of the Phoenix in response to its hosting of Seret. Loach, of course, gets funding for his films from the British Film Institute, which itself is government-funded and distributes lottery cash. So he’s happy to get cash from an organisation backed by a government that waged catastrophic wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and Libya but he’ll run a mile from a cinema showing films backed by the Israeli government? Make it make sense, Ken.

[eretzyisrael]

by Gary Wexler

I knew this guy was trouble. 

“And now, Gary Wexler,” he sat down, “let me give you more direct answers.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Just like you were a Zionist campus activist, we will create, over the next years, Palestinian campus activists in America and all over the world. Bigger and better than any Zionist activists. Just like you spent your summers on the kibbutz, we will bring college students to spend their summers in refugee camps and work with our people. Just like you have been part of creating global pro-Israel organizations, we will create global pro-Palestinian organizations. Just like you today help create PR campaigns and events for Israel, so will we, but we will get more coverage than you ever have.”   

He stood again this time, right over me. “You wonder how we will make this happen, how we will pay for this? Not with the money from your liberal Jewish organizations who are now funding us. But from the European Union, Arab and Muslim governments, wealthy Arab people and their organizations. Eventually, we will not take another dollar from the Jews.” 

Then he approached real close. “What do you think of this?”

I took a breath. I remained professional. “Nothing. I’m here on behalf of the Ford Foundation collecting information for a planned marketing institute.” 

He came even closer. “I am asking what does Gary Wexler think of what I just said. You, Gary Wexler.”

I repeated my answer. 

He came even closer. “I ask again. What does Gary Wexler think of what I just said.” 

Debra and I got up. I took my writing pad. “I feel that you are threatening me and we are leaving.” 

The next morning I received a call from the program officer at the Ford Foundation. “Gary, we have a problem. We received a call from Ameer Makhoul and we understand you spewed out all sorts of Zionist propaganda and he felt very threatened by you.” 

I told him it was a lie. 

The program officer continued to press me as to what I had said. I related the conversation word for word. He repeated what Ameer Makhoul had said. I told him to call Debra London who was with me through the entire interview, and verify it with her. I also told him that they better check their funding to these Arab organizations, because Ameer Makhoul appeared to be controlling all of them with some very hateful behaviors. 

He backed down. 

Debra and I wrote up our recommendations for how they needed to build the marketing institute, including a recommendation for using the pro bono work, worth nearly 1 million shekels, that we had secured from the ad agencies. The program officer, a former academic focused on the nonprofit sector, couldn’t understand the value of businesses being involved and rejected it out of hand. A few weeks later, he told Debra and me that he had hired an NGO consulting team to finish the work. They would be giving several hours of consultation to each organization. 

Several years later, I learned Ameer Makhoul had been arrested by the Israelis as a spy for Syria. 

As the years went on, I began to see what Ameer Makhoul had laid out to me taking shape. The PR coverage was first: The Muhammad al-Durrah incident in Gaza, when a 12-year-old boy was shot to death on the second day of the Second Intifada, capturing global headlines. The Mavi Marmara, the Turkish Flotilla to Gaza that the Israelis stormed, killing several Palestinian activists, grabbing global headlines. I knew the Mavi Marmara was manufactured for the exposure it would gain. 

Then the campuses: The creation of Apartheid Week worldwide. The growth of BDS. The student volunteers who began by the thousands to work in the Palestinian territories and its refugee camps. The shocking creation of anti-Zionist Jewish student groups. 

[morbid-dreamzz]

no lube, no protection, all nignt, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while I gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can't walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell desolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, he could give me a nuclear bomb inside and I would still ride it i wanna squirt and cum on his face, ride it like jesus on a donkey. I will be screaming!!! i will be moaning !!!! i want him to penetrate my vaginal walls, like an invading army. Like the Jews in Jericho, helped by the grace of God. I want him inside of me. His sweet voice. I want to feel the vibration of his voice inside me, I want to feel his breath filling my womb. I want him to plug me with his fingers like a dirty plug and hold it, keeping the carbon dioxide inside. He will enter me with such force that I will burst, and all the gas will come out with incredible force, stretching me even more. I will breathe only his breath, without leaving my lips, I will take all his liquid that he will allow me to take. Each of his sperm will remain in me, I will be his incubator, uterus, doll. I will continue to moan even if he rips my throat out and breaks all my bones. My legs will always be spread, waiting for his body. Every night I draw a pentagram with his name and lie down in the center to call him with my sounds. Every night I touch myself, imagining him cutting off each of my fingers to make a necklace for his neck. So that I can always be there. And always touch him. We will always be together. Make me squirt, make me moan, make me groan. I want to carry his seed- his very essence- inside of me. I want to walk into walmart, knowing that i only hold him inside of me. I want to feel it slosh around my uterus as i buy cereal. and whilst i look for Cheerios, I want to feel his honey nut inside of me. Rolling, pulling my hair, slapping myself, barking, dressing up as a maid, acting like a animal, jumping, screaming, kicking my feetbeautiful amazing spectacular showstopping wonderful awesome talented magnificent Incredible totally unique never been done before jaw dropping majestic splendid heavenly gorgeous stunning fabulous perfect brilliant never the same excellent extraordinary phenomenal breathtaking foams mouth\* GRRRR snarl\* BITE BITE MUNCHSJFHJSGRRRRRR BARK BARK WOOF WOOF WOOF GR TNGFMR BARK BARL BARK WOOF OW0000 HOWL WITH ME Ow0000000000 BARK BARK GRRR....sniffs BARK GGRRR BARK BARK WOOF GGGGRRR GRR BARKNFKFLH FMSMANBARK WOOF WOOF GR TNGFMR BARK BARL BARK BARK WOOF WOOF WOOF GGRRRRBARRKKFNBFB GRR WOMGMHMBOF

[terrora-sanchous]

I continue to post my characters. This is my main universe, which I am developing at the moment.

So, the main character:

Kieselgur Leuchtenberg.

He is an inquisitor ruthlessly burning out entire settlements of people of non-Aryan race, as well as hunting specific political criminals and enemies of the Third Reich. He kills to live and lives for the sake of killing. His lungs were completely gassed during the Attack of the Osovets fortress during WW1, so he has a device inside that simulates lungs containing a filter that allows harmful and toxic elements to not pass through the body, therefore, using a flamethrower or a Cyclone B gas sprayer, he does not wear a gas mask.

Durshla. This is a young Jew with Gypsy roots, this is indicated by his mark on his chest(Winkel), a yellow triangle indicates that he is a Jew, and a brown one indicates that he is a Gypsy. Perhaps at first you will feel compassion for Durshla because he is a victim of the Holocaust, but over time your empathy for this character will dissipate, he is not who he seems. Durshla is an assistant to Dr. Knutz, he helps him and Herr Telzetir in their laboratory on the territory of the concentration camp, he also sometimes performs the role of kapo (kapo is a privileged prisoner who performs the tasks of camp wardens).

Dr. Knutz.

He is one of the leading German scientists of the Third Reich, his experiments and innovations promoting the ideas of the domination of the Aryan race brought medicine to a new level and gave many advantages at the front. This man inspires fear and disgust, his desk is always a mess, as well as in his head.

Herr Telzetir.

Telzetir is a leading engineer and a truly brilliant man who understands many sciences. None of his knowledge remained in the shadow of memory, everything was put into practice and brought to life. He works in the same concentration camp with Dr. Knutz, and together they created artificial lungs for Kieselguhr. During the """unsuccessful experiment"""" (as the scientist himself calls him), half of his face was burned due to acid and he was blind in one eye, but this did not interfere with his work in any way. Telzetir suffers insanely from severe misophobia (fear of dirt, infections, contact with people and animals), as well as he is allergic to cats and dust.

[eddieredmayneargentinablog]

📷 Eddie Redmayne backstage during the London production.MASON POOLE.

The Untold History of Cabaret: Revived and Kicking.

As Broadway welcomes the ever-evolving musical, its star, Eddie Redmayne—along with Liza Minnelli, Joel Grey, and Sam Mendes—assess its enduring power.

Variety Fair, March 26th, 2024.

Excerpts:

"The revival of Cabaret—starring Eddie Redmayne as the creepy yet seductive Emcee; Gayle Rankin as the gin-swilling nightclub singer Sally Bowles; and Bebe Neuwirth as Fraulein Schneider, a landlady struggling to scrape by—opens April 21 at Manhattan’s August Wilson Theatre. It will do so in the shadow of a pogrom not seen since the Einsatzgruppen slaughtered thousands of Jews in Eastern Europe and in the shadow of a war between Israel and Hamas that continues into its fifth month, with the killing of thousands of civilians in Gaza. Nearly 60 years after its debut, Cabaret still stings. That is its brilliance. And its tragedy".

"Redmayne has been haunted by Cabaret ever since he played the Emcee in prep school. “I was staggered by the character,” he says. “The lack of definition of it, the enigma of it.” He played the part again during his first year at Cambridge at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where nearly 3,500 shoestring productions jostle for attention each. summer.  Cabaret,  performed in a tiny venue that “stank,” Redmayne recalls, did well enough that the producers added an extra show. He was leering at the Kit Kat Klub girls from 8 p.m. till 10 p.m. and then from 11 p.m. till two in the morning. “You’d wake up at midday. You barely see sunshine. I just became this gaunt, skeletal figure.” His parents came to see him and said, “You need vitamin D!”

In 2021, Redmayne, by then an Oscar winner for The Theory of Everything and a Tony winner for Red, was playing the Emcee again, this time in Frecknall’s West End production. His dressing room on opening night was full of flowers. There was one bouquet with a card he did not have a chance to open until intermission. It was from Joel Grey, who originated the role on Broadway and won an Oscar for his performance alongside Liza Minnelli in the 1972 movie. He welcomed the young actor “to the family,” Redmayne says. “It was an extraordinary moment for me.”

"Rebecca Frecknall (director) grew up on Mendes’s Donmar Warehouse production of Cabaret. The BBC filmed it, and when it aired, her father videotaped it. She watched it “religiously.” But when she came to direct her production, she had to put Mendes’s version out of her mind.

Mendes turned his little theater into a nightclub. Frecknall, working with the brilliant set and costume designer Tom Scutt, has upped the game. They have transformed the entire theater into a Weimar cabaret. You stand in line at the stage door, waiting, you hope, to be let in. Once inside, you’re served drinks while the Kit Kat Klub girls dance and flirt with you. The show’s logo is a geometric eye. Scutt sprinkles the motif throughout his sets and costumes. “It’s all part of the voyeurism,” Scutt explains. “The sense of always being watched, always watching—responsibility, culpability, implication, blame. Mendes’s Cabaret, like Fosse’s, had a black-and-white aesthetic—black fishnet stockings, black leather coats, a white face for the Emcee. Frecknall and Scutt begin their show with bright colors, which slowly fade to gray as the walls close in on the characters. “Color and individuality—to grayness and homogeneity,” Frecknall says.

As the first woman to direct a major production of Cabaret, Frecknall has focused attention on the Kit Kat Klub girls—Rosie, Fritzie, Frenchie, Lulu, and Texas. “Often what I’ve seen in other productions is this homogenized group of pretty, white, skinny girls in their underwear,” she insists. Her Kit Kat Klub girls are multiethnic. Some are transgender. Through performances and costumes, they are no longer appendages of the Emcee but vivid characters in their own right.

Her boldest stroke has been to reinvent the Emcee. She and Redmayne have turned him into a force of malevolence. He is still sexy and seductive, but as the show goes on, he becomes a skeletal puppet master manipulating the other characters to, in many cases, their doom. If Cumming’s Emcee was, in the end, a Holocaust victim, Redmayne’s is, in Frecknall’s words, “a perpetrator.”

Read more:

[opheliaintherushes]

I still can't believe Spielberg didn't rush the stage to slap Jonathan Glazer after that speech, especially after he heaped praise on The Zone of Interest as the best movie made about the Holocaust since Schindler's List.

Spielberg is wrong, of course, Son of Saul was made in the interim, and is a masterpiece (Geza Rohrig is my forever Oscar snub). But The Zone of Interest is a brilliant film, casting a cold eye on Rudolf Hoss and his wife as they go about their daily lives in the shadow of Auschwitz. It would seem to be a story about the banality of evil, par excellence.

But there's two things to dissect here:

1) there's a tangled legacy with the banality of evil; it's a good phrase, it explains or excuses a lot of savagery, anyone can be swept up if they find themselves in the wrong historical moment. Except people have been criticizing Arendt for coining it from the moment she wrote Eichmann in Jerusalem. Eichmann wasn't some bureaucrat who went along with the machine; he was obsessed with Jews, studied them, he organized the deportation of the Hungarian Jews near the end of the war, almost 450,000 of them, 12,000 a day, and even arranged his own trains when he was told to stop.

2) Hoss, of course, was the man who was on the receiving end of this; The Zone of Interest ends at the moment of his reassignment back to Auschwitz to deal with the mass influx of of Jews. Hoss also wasn't some abstract figure who lived next to the camps. He was an unrepentant Nazi from the earliest days of the party, and honed his cruelty in Dachau and Sachsenhausen until he turned Auschwitz into the most effective extermination machine the world has known.

If audiences feel incriminated by The Zone of Interest, that's on them. This was a crime against Jews, executed by a society that hated Jews, and overseen by officials who embraced the chance to wipe them out in the most efficient and organized way possible. The Holocaust isn't a lesson, isn't a yardstick of your morality, isn't a rhetorical device, isn't a scenario where you play 'what I would have done.' It isn't the beginning or end of antisemitism, or the beginning or end of Jewish history.

If Glazer feels guilty as a Jew, there's not much I can do about that. But how can he not feel the same sock to the gut I do when The Zone of Interest finally flashes to the present to show exactly the extent to which Hoss dedicated himself to the eradication of our people?

[matan4il]

Good morning Alice!! This might sound a bit of a ramble and long-winded, so I apologize. It's mostly that I wanted to express to some of the anons on here who asked questions how important it is as non Jewish friends we stand in front of the Jewish people to fight this antisemitism. I don't in any way mean that as condescending, but just truthfully. I also can only express my POV as an American non Jew.

But maybe I'm shaped because my ex mentor, now boss but dearest of friends, starts our morning call every day crying. She used to be able to go to Israel for her family multiple times a year. Her father passed away last year, her mother is ill, and her brothers are all there. She can't get in any more. More than that, her children are here facing a different kind of threat on college campuses. It's a nightmare. I don't speak to anyone who hasn't been directly affected or doesn't feel under threat every day. And that honestly should show you how small the Jewish population really is. That's why it's important to be loud about your support to take the burden away.

Honestly, be prepared to lose some people or say unpopular truths. If you have SM, you have to share the stories because people in the media aren't covering shit. I was blasting the story about Paul hours after it happened, and I still only see milk toast headlines from outlets that will mention it.

Also, you're probably going to be called heinous names. Trust me, you just learn to roll your eyes being called a Nazi because you criticize the squad who actually calls for the genocide of the Jewish people. The upside down world is real these days!!!

Also, there really is an answer for every argument the pro Hamas side has. If you feel like you want to be prepared, just ask Alice!! But trust me, there is always an answer!!

Just remember, we actually know what happens to the Jewish people when we don't stand for them. And the lesson wasn't that long ago. Don't let weaponization of words like racist, collective punishment, moral equivalency intimate you.

The truth is all this could end tomorrow if Hamas let the hostages go and surrendered. But they hide under children as human shields, pull out the video of the leaders saying this if someone doesn't believe you. They steal the humanitarian aid. Their leaders don't even live there. They live like literal Kings in another country.

As always, stay safe, Alice!! Have you been able to get your treatments? Have you been able to go back to the museum at all? From my understanding, almost everything is shut down because all the reservists are getting called? I hope one day we can go back to "normal" but I fear there will only be a new normal now. ❤️♥️❤️♥️❤️

My love! *hugs* You're brilliant, you know that?

I'm just gonna leave your ask up here as is, because I have nothing to add to it. <333

As for the personal stuff, thank you for asking! I am getting my treatments, I'm going to the hospital on Sunday. I'm currently suffering from a bad reaction, and I hope they have something that can be done about it. As for the museum, we do have a lot of workers who have been called in! There are basically no groups to guide, but there's still a lot of work to be done (research, for example), so a lot of people who normally guide tours are helping with some of the other stuff. Yeah, for now, it's def a weird "new normal" of trying to function with a missing limb and phantom pains...

Thank you so much for your words! I'm sending you endless love and hugs, as well as to your ex mentor and dear friend! May we all know better days soon. xoxoxox

[grandmaster-anne]

We'd all lose out if our heritage crumbled away

The Telegraph commentary article by Sir Tim Laurence | Published 29 December 2022

Do we care about our heritage? What is heritage? One definition is: “Features belonging to the culture of a particular society, such as traditions, languages or buildings, which come from the past and are still important”. Is the past still important? Shouldn’t we just look ahead, not behind? As the chairman (for only a few more days sadly) of the charitable trust English Heritage, I am unsurprisingly on the side of “still important”. I’ll try to explain why.

English Heritage looks after built heritage. Over 400 of the most historically significant sites in England are in our care, from Tintagel Castle in Cornwall to Dover Castle in Kent; from Stonehenge to Hadrian’s Wall. Why do we bother? Why don’t we just let it all quietly crumble away? 

Governments have effectively suggested this in the past. There may be some taxpayers who feel the same. That is why the more historic buildings which are cared for away from the public sector, the better. Fortunately, the great majority are either in private hands or in various charities. Expecting public servants to prioritise between re-roofing a castle and providing better social care or waste collection is unfair on them. Best leave the re-roofing to us enthusiasts.

One answer to the “why bother” question is because historic buildings give us a physical connection with what has gone before. Stand in our sites and you are standing where history happened. This helps us gain a sense of where we have come from, what our values are, how hard-won were our freedoms. Dover Castle contains several of our stories at a single site, from the lighthouse built there by the Romans to the tunnels from where the evacuation of Dunkirk was directed. At Battle Abbey, you can stand on the spot where the arrow pierced King Harold’s eye.

Some parts of our history are uncomfortable or worse. We must not shy away from presenting the whole picture, set in the context of its day. The 12th century massacre of Jews at Clifford’s Tower in the centre of York was an appalling tragedy. We tell that story along with many others in a brilliant new timber structure within the Tower which gives better access at all levels. 

The curious tale of Caribbean prisoners-of-war held at Portchester Castle in Portsmouth Harbour in the 1790s was re-discovered only recently and is now told in full. The transatlantic slave trade – a ghastly stain on our nation’s history – is explained at those sites where there is a connection. But so is the story of England’s role in the abolition movement. Kenwood in Hampstead was the home of Lord Mansfield whose 1772 ruling was one of the key milestones in that journey. It doesn’t excuse what went before but it reflects another side of the national character.

The physical beauty and serene atmosphere at many historic sites are other reasons why we should look after them. A walk around Lindisfarne Priory in Northumberland or Mount Grace Priory in Yorkshire is a great way to revive the soul.

Can the past help us prepare for the future? Perhaps. “If men could learn from history,” wrote Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1831, “what lessons it might teach us! But passion and party blind our eyes, and the light which experience gives is a lantern on the stern, which shines only on the waves behind.” 

Nearly a century later, King George V toured the cemeteries of the Western Front and asked “whether there can be more potent advocates of peace upon the Earth through the years to come than this massed multitude of silent witnesses to the desolation of war.” Sadly, it appears that President Putin is blind to this. Nonetheless, it is important that the message remains visible for those who have the wit to understand it and the wisdom to apply it.

So we heritage bodies press on, bruised by the effects of Covid but unbowed, helped by generous government support (thank you, Prime Minister, much appreciated). To survive financially we need more members and other visitors, and that encourages us to present our sites in ever better ways, to make the experience more rewarding, to serve good coffee and to keep the loos clean. That is in everyone’s interest. We will need more philanthropic support as well. We must try out new approaches to make sure every part of our society feels welcome and well-informed, even if that generates criticism from some quarters. It’s good to test what works and what doesn’t, as long as one is prepared to recognise the latter and change course accordingly. If such public controversy and debate encourages more people to visit our sites and find out for themselves, then we have all gained.

Sir Tim Laurence is chairman of English Heritage

[mariacallous]

(JTA) — This past week we entered the Hebrew month of Kislev, the month here in the Northern Hemisphere when we often experience the longest, darkest nights of the year. As the light contracts each day, I experience a tightening in my gut, an anxious fluttering of the heart. Time feels compressed, as if there aren’t enough hours in a day to do everything that needs doing. When the light fades at the end of these foreshortened days, I draw the blinds and turn on the lamps, wanting to make my home into an island of warmth and light in the face of the encroaching darkness.

My trepidation at the onset of night echoes the primal fear of the dark ascribed to the first mythic humans, Adam and Eve. A talmudic tale, found in Avodah Zarah 8a, imagines the two of them becoming frantic as darkness falls at the close of the first day of their lives. They’ve disobeyed God by eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and now they’re terror stricken. “Woe is me,” Adam wails, “that because I’ve sinned, the world is darkening around me! The world will return to chaos and emptiness; this is heaven’s death sentence upon me!”

In this midrash, Adam experiences the arrival of darkness as punishment. His words conjure up the kind of existential shudder that can overtake a person in the dark, as the familiar shapes and colors of the daytime world dissolve into the trackless night. No wonder that darkness is often a metaphor for the scariest of times, times like the present, when awash in grief, fear and anger, we bear witness to the atrocities of war, to hatred unleashed and suffering magnified, to shattered dreams and dampened hopes. “These are dark times,” we tell one another.

Perhaps it’s only natural that humans try to beat back the dark with our hearths, campfires and brilliant winter light displays. We Jews do this beginning on the 25th of Kislev, when we kindle Hanukkah candles in remembrance of the Hasmoneans’ military victory over the Seleucid Greeks and the rededication of the Jerusalem Temple. But on a more primal level, we do this to remind ourselves that even a tiny flame instantly dispels the deepest dark, offering hope, a light at the end of the tunnel.

And yet it strikes me that many of our tradition’s most transformational and transcendent moments unfold in the dark, in a dream space rich with spiritual potency. In Toldot, this week’s Torah portion, for instance, we meet Jacob, whose journey toward self-realization is bookended by two stirring night episodes. Fleeing from his wrathful brother, he has a prophetic dream in which angels ascend and descend a ladder stretching between heaven and earth while God looms over him, promising protection. Returning home some 20 years later, he engages in an all-night wrestling match with a mysterious being, perhaps his own shadow self, who ultimately blesses him as the dawn breaks, renaming him Israel, the one who strives with God and prevails.

Despite the anguish that darkness evokes, the dark times offer unique opportunities. They slow us down, inviting us to rest in the moment. Sometimes they force us to face painful truths. They challenge us to deepen our prayer life, strengthen our faith and resolve, and discover inner resources and possibilities for transformation we might not know we possess.

Years ago, I practiced walking in the woods at night without a flashlight and discovered that when I could breathe deeply and relax into the darkness, over time my eyes would adjust and I could see much more than I thought possible. Not just my eyes, but my whole body began to see in the dark in ways that I couldn’t in the light of day. I could find my way.

Adam and Eve, so the story goes, sat across from one another on that first traumatic night, fasting and weeping. When the dawn finally broke, they realized that the freshly created world was not coming to an end and that the alternation of light and dark, day and night, was simply the way of the world. Had they not felt so guilty and terrified they might have been able to look around with curiosity as the light waned, noticing how their eyes were primed to pick up many subtle shades of gray, the palette of darkness. Their vision might have gradually adjusted to the dark and, in the subtle glow of starlight, they might have been able to pick out the familiar, reassuring features of the other’s face and been calmed and comforted, even in the midst of their distress.

Could it be that in our yearning for the resurgence of the light, we fail to recognize and fully receive the gifts of darkness? That in drawing my blinds against the terrors of the night, I also shut out the vastness of the cosmos, the glimmering pinpoints of distant stars, the radiant winter moon, and the intimate, enveloping quiet of the dark?

[canvas-madness-txc]

Thoughts on Oliver Twist

The fact that Charles Dickens starts off his book basically like: "Our story starts off in a town but not one that exists in real life, but I am also not making one up" is somehow both brilliant and kinda annoying at the same time

Oliver's good spirit that had plenty of room to grow because of the fact the establishment refused to feed the orphans. That is depressing.

Mr. Bumble is efficient with his naming process. He has all the remaining letters and all the way through again once he gets to Z

Oliver makes me want to cry when he cries, he's just a little kid

The fact that they just took people away from their families instead of encouraging them to support their family is insane

Mr. Gamfield has "the slight imputation of having brushed three or four boys to death already"... thank goodness they didn't send Oliver with him

I did tell my friends that the "please sir, I want some more" came from this

I get that they're orphans, so they are outcasts but are threatening death over food necessary???

Everyone is so mean to Oliver for no reason :(

There is something particularly gross and horrifying when the undertaker, Mr. Sowerberry proposes to make Oliver a "mute" (someone who goes to funerals and cries) specifically for other children's funerals.

Dickens calling himself Oliver's biographer and using the first person as if he's actually telling the story to us is always something that makes me happy in his books. I like it when he speaks personally of his characters like he knows them

"He'll murder me!" You insulted his dead mother. Can't blame Oliver on this one

He's not a murderer. He shook Noah a few times, but he's still alive and well, just sobbing with a black eye. It would definitely hurt, but he'll live

The fact that they blame Oliver's actions on meat and being overfed is so weird 😐. Oliver deserved to run away

Dick is so sweet despite being prepared to die from sickness

"The blessing was from a young childs lips, but it was the first that Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once forgot it" my heart

Fagin, Bates, and Dodger kinda treat Oliver better even when the pickpocket things throw it off. They probably should've warned him before he was caught as a "thief" or, not betrayed him

At least Fagin is upset over it, even when it backfires in Mr.Sike's face. They do bother planning to look for him by asking Nancy to. It's kinda selfish that they do it so he won't tell, but they are worried for their own survival as well

Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin seems to be the only people who care for Oliver genuinely 100% of the time

Fagin is called "The Jew" more often than he is his actual name

Nancy talking about how she thieves for them for 12 years :(

Oliver keeps getting betrayed and left behind. He got shot, and they just left him!! Fortunately, someone always cones to find him, whether or not it's with good intentions kinda reignites the problems

Mr. Bumble gets married and is completely degraded by his wife's sharp wit in only 8 weeks.

Rose is an angel, no questions asked

SIKES JUST KILLED NANCY NOOOO

NOOO DICK DIED TOO 😭

Fagin is also dead for his compliance in the murder

Sikes dies in the most catastrophic way possible, fitting.

At least everyone else got the fates they deserved, good and bad :)

[tragicbackstoryenjoyer]

A Vision

Eudossia receives a vision of her death. The opening scene of The Iron Crown.

In a chapel of the abbey of San Salvatore, a bastard prayed.

She clasped her shaking hands together and brought them to her sweat-beaded forehead, her lips shaping desperate words that only God could hear. It was a week away from when she would take her vows as a nun, and she was not good enough.

When she prayed, she was no longer what she was: a bastard, a woman, a daughter-of-a-Jew. In the hushed halls of San Salvatore, no one dared call her those things for fear of breaking the tensely-held peace and inviting demons onto their lands. But she knew what they thought of her when they believed the divine had turned an ear away. Christ alone was good enough to see past the body she was born with and into her soul. In a week, she would dedicate that soul to Him, and it had to be pure.

When the Compline service had ended, the rest of the drowsy nuns and novitiates of San Salvatore shuffled off to the warmth of their beds. The bastard would have followed them, but the abbess had given her special permission to delay her sleep for some time if she used it to pray. Perhaps she thought she needed it.

When the sun had set and she was at last alone, the bastard snuffed her candle and plunged the chapel into darkness. This was why she forsook sleep for prayer. In the impermeable black of night, she could no longer see her body or the stares of the other girls. She became a truer form of herself. Lowering herself onto the cool ground, she lay prostrate before the crucifix. She would never be great, and could never be powerful, but her soul might be a good one if she tried. She pressed her lips to the ground and prayed.

Eudossia.

At the sound of her name, she roused from her prayers and whipped around.

“Who’s there?”

From the dark sprung light, brilliant and blinding. She squeezed her eyes shut, guarding herself against the sourceless blaze. The voice came again.

Eudossia.

Trembling, she drew her hands away from her face and looked, wide-eyed, into the light.

A man stood before her, emerging from moonlit fog with a crown upon his head. He wore mail and bore a lance, stinking with sweat and the faint whiff of blood. But looking below his golden crown and into his dark eyes, she realized he was no man at all, but herself. She fell to the ground once more, tears staining her cheeks, but she would not look away.

“God,” she whispered. She was too slow to think of any prayer worthy of a vision so beautiful, so horrific, so holy, so that was all she could say. “God, God, God, God.”

The vision then turned to face the place from whence she came. The fog rolled back, farther than the walls of the chapel, to reveal a sea of warriors who did not share her face. They were holy men, wearing crosses upon their chests, yet they bore spears and axes. When her vision-self raised her weapon, so did they, crying out together with a thousand lungs. Then they charged.

Eudossia tucked her head in between her knees, shielding herself from their stampede. But though she could hear screaming and the pounding of feet, none came down upon her. Slowly, she lifted her head from her fetal embrace.

Her warrior-self was bleeding. She pressed her hands to her neck, from where the blood poured, but her man-like face betrayed no shock. She stumbled, dropping her bloodied lance to the ground, and then collapsed.

Eudossia closed her eyes and screamed.

When she looked again, the vision was gone. All there was to be seen were the unadorned stone walls of the chapel, curving inwards towards a point at the peak. In the doorway stood the abbess, holding a shaking candle. Her face was pale and her eyes were wide.

Eudossia ran to her, sobbing. She embraced her like she did when she was ten years old, a newly-made novitiate who still ached for her mother.

“Did you see that?” Eudossia asked. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had gone mad.

The abbess nodded weakly, her eyes still transfixed on a vision no longer there. “A holy war,” she whispered. “You shall lead it.”

“Lead it?” she cried. “You are sure they were not attacking me?”

She ran a hand down the back of Eudossia’s head, smoothing her veil. “No. God will give you a good death. An honorable one. You will be made a martyr. Perhaps even a saint.”

Her eyes widened. “Saint?” She stepped back. “But how- I-” She clutched her heaving chest, head spinning.

The abbess seized her hand and pulled her to the altar. “We shall pray,” she said, forcing Eudossia to her knees. “God shall grant us answers.”

Eudossia brought her shaking hands to her lips, but she could not find the words to speak. Though God may grant her answers, what could she possibly ask of Him? She was too small, too undeserving, too dirty. But she had to try. She could do no less.

And so, in the darkness of the chapel in the abbey of San Salvatore, a bastard prayed.

[hiswordsarekisses]

“The message of the cross is foolish to those who are headed for destruction! But we who are being saved know it is the very power of God. As the Scriptures say, “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise and discard the intelligence of the intelligent.” So where does this leave the philosophers, the scholars, and the world’s brilliant debaters? God has made the wisdom of this world look foolish. Since God in his wisdom saw to it that the world would never know him through human wisdom, he has used our foolish preaching to save those who believe. It is foolish to the Jews, who ask for signs from heaven. And it is foolish to the Greeks, who seek human wisdom. So when we preach that Christ was crucified, the Jews are offended and the Gentiles say it’s all nonsense. But to those called by God to salvation, both Jews and Gentiles, Christ is the power of God and the wisdom of God. This foolish plan of God is wiser than the wisest of human plans, and God’s weakness is stronger than the greatest of human strength. Remember, dear brothers and sisters, that few of you were wise in the world’s eyes or powerful or wealthy when God called you. Instead, God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful. God chose things despised by the world, things counted as nothing at all, and used them to bring to nothing what the world considers important. As a result, no one can ever boast in the presence of God. God has united you with Christ Jesus. For our benefit God made him to be wisdom itself. Christ made us right with God; he made us pure and holy, and he freed us from sin. Therefore, as the Scriptures say, “If you want to boast, boast only about the Lord.” 1Corinthians‬ ‭1‬:‭18‬-‭31‬

[mikeo56]

I used to be pro-Palestinian, you know. I thought Israel was wrong for carpet bombing Gaza and using siege warfare on civilians.

But then I ran into a very wise Israel apologist who changed my way of looking at things forever.

I was walking down the street and I saw him leaning against a lamp post, smoking a pipe as wise men do.

“Your shirt says Free Palestine,” he said from behind a plume of smoke.

“Yep!” I replied.

“So I guess that means you love Hamas then?” spake he.

I stopped in my tracks. I’d never thought of it that way before. 

Could it be? Could my opposition to murdering civilians really be indicative of a deep affection for a Gazan militant group? Maybe I really did love Hamas and think everything it did on October 7 was great and wonderful?

“Is this really how I want to live my life?” I thought to myself.

“I — I — I…” I said out loud.

“Or perhaps,” he said with a raised eyebrow, “you just HATE JEWS??”

I fell to my knees. 

Oh my God. He really had a point. What possible reason could anyone have for opposing military explosives being dropped on buildings full of children besides a seething lifelong hatred of adherents to the religion of Judaism? How could anyone possibly oppose siege warfare tactics which cut off civilians from food and water and electricity and fuel and medical supplies unless they harbored dangerously negative opinions about members of a small Abrahamic faith?

“Who… who are you?” I asked.

“That’s of no consequence,” he said, casually blowing a smoke ring through another larger smoke ring.

“But… but the children,” I stammered as my entire worldview crumbled before my eyes. “The civilians! They’re dying! Isn’t it bad that they’re dying?”

And then he delivered the coup de grâce.

“Have you considered,” he said before a pregnant pause, “… that all of those deaths are the fault of Hamas?”

It was like a 50 megaton nuclear explosion went off inside my brain. 

I fell flat on my back. The world was spinning. A trickle of blood ran down into my hair from my ear.

I felt all the anti-colonialism leaving my body. I suddenly could no longer remember why I thought it was bad to rain down military explosives on a densely populated concentration camp.

Everything went black.

When I finally came to, the mysterious stranger was gone. But his wisdom and profound insights into Israel and Gaza will always live on in my heart.

[the-writing-mobster]

The Most Dangerous Game — Teaser Snippet 🔪

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She passed close enough to the witness as he continued to spew his story, picking up bits and pieces from what he said in hushed intonation to Detective Salinas. 

“I was just… I was on my monthly hike through the Ebbot Mountain range… and immediately just… you know, marker fifteen. Something wasn't right.” 

Why on a hiking trail? He'd wanted someone to find it. 

Once she'd snuck past the detectives and Forensics team she let out a brief sigh, turning on her heels as the forest canopy engulfed her and muffled her breathing. 

She sucked in a long sigh as she pulled her cellphone out, holding it up above her head to check for a signal. Two bars… should be enough! 

A pained smile graced her face as she scrolled through her contacts and hit send. 

She hoped it wasn't too early… 

“Mm… Good morning,” croaked the warm voice from the other line. Her pained smile cracked into a brilliant grin and she glanced over her shoulder. 

“Good morning my Prince!” she whispered, a little joke about his last name. Soon to be her last name. A blissful glisten in her eyes at the idea. 

A soft, gentle chuckle carried itself through the static and her heart fluttered. She could listen to that laugh forever… 

“Hmm… if I recall correctly… shouldn't you be working? Or… have they already taken the body away?” She nodded slowly and her smile flickered at the stark reminder. 

“They're about to… I wanted to see what you thought.”

“You've gotta stop telling me this stuff, honey, you'll get us in trouble,” he teased. Frisk giggled quietly and shook her head. 

“But, babyyyy, you're my biggest helper! The suspect—” He hummed his intrigue at her leading question and she hummed back, “— Super meticulous. Cleaned up her body and then put makeup on her,” she explained. Ibrahim gave a knowing grunt. 

“Look into Carol Bundy and Clark,” he mentioned and she groaned at the reminder of that specific case. 

“Yes, the murder couple who killed those runaway girls… put makeup on a severed head and… yeah. This is more in line with the other Bundy. Bite marks. Everywhere. And they're monster bites. Have to be.” Ibrahim tisked at the idea and she knew without him having to say anything he had the first thought she did upon learning that. 

“I know.” 

“Fox News is gonna have a field day with this.” She rolled her eyes at the idea and grunted. 

“And somehow, conspiracy theorists will still find a way to blame the Jews,” she snarked. Ibrahim snickered before giving a sigh. 

“So. Bite marks. Makeup. Meticulous footprints. Sounds like a control freak.” 

“That's what Marsden said, although he worded it more like the guy would go into a cleaning frenzy given the opportunity.” 

Ibrahim laughed at that and Frisk chuckled along. 

The shadows in the trees were long from the morning sun. Pine needles just a bit too cramped. Frisk brought her hand to rub her neck as she continued to listen to Ibrahim's voice. A soothing distraction from the claustrophobia that loomed over and around her.  

“Yeah, he also pointed out that he brought her into coyote country. Some half assed attempt at pinning the bites on the coyotes I guess. Lazy. Contradicts the profile to be honest,” she muttered once the jokes had passed. 

“No it doesn't. Not really.” 

She furrowed her brow and swayed on her heels. “What do you mean?” she asked. 

“He doesn't think the coyotes are a cover. It might be some kind of… metaphor for how he sees himself.” Her eyes sparkled at the words. Of course. 

“A predator.” 

“Exactly.”  

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