#House writers how am I supposed to interpret that! if not a declaration of love!

[doctorwilson]

Thought I had at 3-4  AM delirious and sleep deprived: How else are we meant to interpret the last few episodes of House MD aside from House realizing he’s in love with Wilson.

[mypoisonedvine]

Love, Theoretically | Sebastian Stan x reader (Chapter 2)

read Chapter 1 here

series summary: having lost your husband, sister, and best friend all to the same extramarital affair, you ran away to a secluded villa in the Hungarian countryside to write and get a little time away from the life you’d left behind.  you were only looking for peace and perhaps some inspiration for your novel, but instead you found an unlikely connection with the immigrant repairman– even though the two of you don’t speak the same language.

word count: 2.3k (exactly the same as last chapter, i’m proud of myself lol)

warnings: just fluff and ~pining~ for now

thanks again to @evnscvll for making this moodboard-- and this series is for her 3k celebration challenge so def check out her writing!

You should’ve known that you wouldn’t be able to force yourself to write, but after a quick shower to wash off the day’s journey, you decided there was nothing better to do but sit at the desk and hope for inspiration.

Your husband had never been very supportive of your writing, which is why you had struggled to complete your latest novel.  He, like your publisher and many of your readers, wanted a sequel to your last book, in spite of the fact that you were adamant it was impossible.  It was a complete story, even if the ending was ambiguous.  There was no room for growth in the characters or the world of the story; just because readers wanted more didn’t mean that they would actually enjoy a forced product.

The publisher and your husband, however, shared a very strong opinion: the fans won’t care if it’s forced, and neither should you as long as it sells.  But, they weren’t writers.  You were.  And you knew there were different stories you needed to tell… if only you could find the words for them.

You were a few pages in when you heard the stairs creaking outside your closed door.  There was a quick knock at the door; you answered with an offer to come in.  

“I was just wondering if you wanted some coffee,” Mrs. Alberti explained as she crossed the room, standing beside you at the desk.  You nodded with a quick thank you as she set the cup and saucer down onto the wood.  “Oh heavens, he’s working on the house again,” she suddenly groaned, motioning out the window.  

You leaned over and nearly spit out your coffee when you saw Sebastian outside.  He was only wearing some much-too-tight jeans, driving a hammer down onto wood as the sun cast orange light over his body.  He was glistening with sweat, which was probably pretty uncomfortable for him but he looked damn good anyways.  

“Is he always… like that?” you shuddered.  

“Maybe I didn’t just hire him because he was cheap,” she shrugged, handing you a cloth.  “Go soak this in cold water and bring it to him, he looks overheated.”

You should’ve questioned why she was giving you chores, but you just took the rag and did as she asked.  He didn’t notice you walking out to him at first, but stopped when he did see you, waving quickly and setting down his hammer.

“For the heat,” you explained as you handed it to him.

“Ah, mulțumesc,” he nodded, accepting the rag with a smile.  

As he wiped the sweat from his face, you found your gaze trailing over his arms, down his chest and abdomen.  Jesus, how could this guy eat Mrs. Alberti’s cooking every day and still have washboard abs?  When you looked back up to his face, he was looking right at you with a grin-- oh shit, had he caught you ogling?  But then again, maybe he wanted you to ogle.  Why else would he be doing housework so… shirtlessly?

“Wh-what are you working on?” you asked him to break the silence.  He gave you a puzzled look.  “Er, the wood,” you motioned to the work he was doing, “why?”

His face softened with understanding.  “Construiesc un cadru nou pentru fereastră,” he explained, motioning vaguely to the house, “în partea de est a casei.”

“Right…” you nodded, realizing that you had no idea what he’d said.  Clearly you hadn’t thought this through.

“Aici, permiteți-mi să vă arăt,” he said, grabbing a board and walking past you, motioning for you to follow him as he slung the rag over his shoulder.  You figured you looked like a lost puppy trailing behind him like this.

He stopped when you reached the wall of the house, and grabbed part of the window frame; it creaked and moved as he wiggled it, clearly on the verge of falling off.  Then, he held up the new board he had been hammering and you realized that it was going to replace the rotting portions of the frame.

“A intelege?” he smiled.

“Da!” you answered, and he laughed.

“Cred că asta contează ca român,” he shrugged.

“It’s good you’re fixing the window.  I’m sure Mrs. Alberti appreciates everything you do.”

“Bătrâna îmi plătește rahat, dar sfârșesc trăind aici gratis.”

“Well, I should let you get back to it,” you decided as you stepped back with an uncomfortable smile.

“Nu te voi mai ține, sunt sigur că ești ocupat,” he said, and though you had no real way to interpret it, his tone didn’t seem to indicate that he was trying to stop you from going.

With a little wave and a heavy sense of god why am I such a dork?, you left him and returned indoors.

First nights in new places were always sort of surreal, but this was definitely less weird than the sleeper car of the train.  You’d felt like a proper stowaway then, but you had a stronger feeling of belonging here… even if you didn’t quite feel like you had any place to call home at the moment.

As you laid in bed and looked at the room turned on its side, you found yourself missing your room.  Your real room.  It had been designed and decorated somewhat meticulously, but most of all you missed the things about it that you hadn’t put that kind of thought into: the random earrings on your bedside table, discarded casually before you went to sleep; the layers of blazers and skirts draped over the chair in the corner; the still-slightly-visible coffee stain on the corner of the rug, even though you’d spent hours trying to get it out.

Meanwhile, this room was so obviously not a space that people lived in, but just a space people passed through.  Though nowhere near as sterile as a traditional hotel room, it had the same emptiness even with its personality-- specifically, a reflection of someone else’s personality rather than your own.

All that said, sleeping was pretty easy once you got yourself comfortable in the fluffy mattress, even if you were aware all through the night that you were not at home.  So aware, even, that you weren’t surprised at all when you woke up in the new space for the first time.  What you were surprised by was the sounds of heavy rain against your window, immediately dashing your plans for a morning jog.  As much as it seemed apropos to type by the window instead and soak in the moody weather, you decided to head downstairs for a cup of coffee first.  Already having forgotten where you had left off, you grabbed the pages you'd already written to reread with your breakfast as you slipped on some comfortable clothes and made your way down the creaky steps

Passing through the living area, it was impossible not to notice Sebastian sitting in one of the chairs, staring intently at a half-played chessboard.  Stopping for a moment to try to determine what he was doing, he moved a piece and you realized he must be playing with himself.

Against himself, you interrupted your own thought, he's playing against himself… important distinction.

“You play chess?” you asked, pointing to the board.

“Şah,” he replied.  

You pointed to the chair across from him.  “Can I join you?” 

“Luaţi loc,” he offered as he gestured to it as well, nodding in approval.  You smiled and sat down as he reorganized the pieces back to the starting position.

“Negru?” he asked, pointing to the black pieces-- “Sau alb?”-- he pointed to the white.

“Um, black,” you decided, pointing to them since they were already on your side anyways.

“Tu primul,” he prompted you, and you moved your pawn.  He moved his, and after that, it was long stretches of silence between moves.  It didn’t feel awkward anymore, though; even between two people who share a language, chess is usually a silent affair.

“Check,” you announced as your bishop came into range of his king.  He looked up from the board and gave you a puzzled look.  “The bishop, see?” you demonstrated, tracing a line through the air over the diagonal squares which led from your piece to his.

“Ahh,” he nodded, stroking his chin as he considered his next move.  It called additional attention to the shadow of stubble which dusted over his jaw.  

He maneuvred a rook in the path of your bishop, and you settled back into your chair and you pondered your options.

The next hour went by oddly quickly.  Not in a rushed way, just in a way that made you wonder how it had already been an hour.  

“Şah,” he informed you as his knight threatened your king.  You weren’t sure if it was supposed to mean ‘check’ or ‘checkmate,’ but since you were able to capture his knight with a pawn, it was definitely just a check.

Instead of mourning his knight, he grinned and moved a rook forward, capturing the aforementioned pawn and trapping your king for good.  You gasped a little as you realized you’d fallen right into his trap.

“Şah-Mat,” he declared triumphantly.  That definitely meant ‘checkmate’; you could tell by the smug look on his face as he crossed his arms and leaned back into his chair.

“You got me, man, that was sneaky,” you smiled.  Offering your hand for a shake, you looked up at him: “Good game.”

He grabbed your hand and shook it, squeezing just tight enough that you wondered if you were the only one noticing a certain energy to the air.  “Bun joc,” he replied with a nod and a smile.

He let go of your hand after lingering just a little too long, his fingers brushing over yours for an electric moment.

Now the silence was awkward again, as the two of you sat in the high-backed chairs, staring across the table at each other.

“So, you really don’t speak any English at all, huh?” you considered aloud.  He looked back at you vacantly.  “English?  Even one word?” you lifted one finger as a symbol.

“Halloo,” he replied-- apparently a broken attempt at ‘hello.’  You laughed a little.

“Yes, that counts!  Did you learn any English in school?”

“Televiziune,” he replied.  

“Ah yes,” you nodded, “I know what that is.  Television; I’m a big fan myself.”

“Puteți vorbi un singur cuvânt de limba română?” he asked you, raising one finger as well.  Turnabout is fair play, after all.

“You mean other than ‘da’?  Or ‘salut’?” you asked with a laugh.

“Pentru a fi corect, acestea sunt cuvinte,” he shrugged.

“Teach me,” you requested.  “Just one word.”  

You looked around the room, settling on a lamp.  “What is this?  In Romanian-- română?” 

“Lampă,” he replied.

“Okay, well, that one isn’t very exciting,” you frowned.  “Um, what about this?” you bent down from your chair, picking up one corner of the rug.

“Covor,” he answered, leaning down with you to run his hand over the soft shag.

“Covor,” you repeated, surely butchering it.

“Da,” he smiled.  Okay, maybe you didn’t butcher it so bad, or maybe he was just being nice.  

“Can you teach me more?” you asked, hoping it wasn’t too demanding.

“Uhhh,” he stalled, looking around the room.  Finally, he pointed to the fireplace.  “Vatră.”

“Vatră, fireplace,” you tried to memorize it as he said it.

You pointed to the window.  “What’s the window called?”

“Fereastră.”

You pointed to the stairway.  “Scară,” he informed you, smiling a little.  You hoped this wasn’t boring for him, because you were actually having a bit of fun.

You pointed to his feet.  He furrowed his brow a little and lifted one, grabbing his shoe.  You nodded; “Pantof,” he explained.

You grabbed your blouse and shook it a little, appreciating the puffs of cool air that rolled down your chest;  “Bluză.”

You pointed to him; “Sebastian.”

You already knew that, but it was interesting to hear the way he said it versus Mrs. Alberti’s pronunciation.  “Yes, that’s an English name too,” you told him, “but pronounced differently…”

You wondered if your name had another pronunciation or translation, so you pointed to yourself; “Frumoasă,” he said, a little slower, a little more thoughtfully.

“Is that the Romanian equivalent to my name-- or does it mean ‘woman’?” you asked.  He just smiled vacantly.  

“This,” you pointed to the book, “what is this called?”

“Carte,” he answered.  “Engleză?”

“Book,” you replied.

“...book…” he said slowly, contemplatively.

Suddenly inspired, you grabbed the loose pages of manuscript that you’d laid on the small table beside you.  “Book,” you repeated, flipping through the pages.  He seemed confused.  “My book,” you clarified, pointing back and forth from yourself the papers.  “I’m writing this-- that’s why I’m here.”

“Ah!” his face lit up with recognition.  “Ar trebui să scrii o carte!”

“Yeah,” you nodded.  “I’m a writer; or, I’m trying to be.  My last book did… better than my first, at least.”  

“Ce fel de carte este?” he asked.  You looked at him with confusion to indicate you weren’t sure what he was asking.  “Uhh, book… este--” he made a sad face, rubbing under his eyes like a cartoon character’s weeping-- “sau--” he fake-laughed.

You laughed, actually, at his charades.  “It’s a thriller, it’s crime--” you thought for a moment, then made the motion of stabbing someone with a knife. 

His eyes got wider.  “Este… erotic?” 

You choked a little, realizing that your hand movement was… more ambiguous than you originally intended.  “No!” you blurted out suddenly.  “No, it’s… crime, mystery--” 

You looked around and saw a magnifying glass resting on the side table by your chair; grabbing it, you held it to your face and gave your best quizzical look.

“Oh!  Crimă!” he grinned.  “Detectiv?”

“Yes, yes, there’s a detective,” you sighed satisfactorily, “and absolutely no handjobs.”

~

shamelessly tagging the people who liked chapter 1!  @mariahthelioness29 @navybrat817 @navegandoaciegas @mandalorianspace @2smittinkittin @maizyistrash @honeygingergemini​��

[rainingpouringetc]

Hi! So, I’ve been wondering what the problem with Anna Lightwood is, because my brain saw that she was bending gender norms and hit love. But, now that I’m on tumblr, people are saying that she is problematic?

hi! i’ll try my best to explain, idk if i’ll hit everything but i hope this helps. and i’m sorry it took me a while, i wanted to do it justice so i tried to cover my bases and do my research.

basically, anna has said and done things that came across to many as ignorant, racist, and even misogynistic. 

first, let’s look at “every exquisite thing” from ghosts of the shadowhunter market. 

“If I were to tell my parents the truth about myself, if I were to reveal who I really am, they would despise me. I would be friendless, cast out, alone.”

Anna shook her head.

“They would not,” she said. “They would love you. You are their daughter.”

Ariadne drew her hand back from Anna’s. “I am adopted, Anna. My father is the Inquisitor. I do not have parents who are as understanding as yours must be.”

“But love is what matters,” said Anna.

this is from when ariadne was trying to explain why she would be getting engaged to charles. anna is very lucky: her family loves and accepts her and she’s able to live her life as she wishes, which we see her doing in chain of gold. ariadne, however, is not as lucky, and she has to take into consideration the conditions of her parents’ love. anna apparently struggles to understand this, ignoring ariadne’s valid concerns and telling her that it doesn’t matter because “love is what matters,” as if it makes everything perfect.

this is where anna’s ignorance begins to show through. ariadne is: (a) a woman in the late 1800s/early 1900s (i don’t remember for sure what year this story took place but i’d assume 1900s), (b) indian at a time when india is under british rule, (c) adopted, and (d) a lesbian shadowhunter. we know enough about how intolerant people have been about homosexuality, but shadowhunters are a whole other story. put all of this together and you have someone who is terrified of letting down her family and being shunned by society more than she already has been. in ariadne’s mind, she has no choice but to hide who she is.

 anna ignores this. entirely. she doesn’t take the time to talk to ariadne about her concerns, but rather skirts around them and insists that what she wants is what’s more important. this is highly indicative of her privilege and how she puts herself before others and others’ feelings.

now let’s look at chain of gold. there are two scenes in particular that i want to look at, but there are more.

“I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from Lalla Rookh. You’re half-Persian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded--I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother’s hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair--he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna’s eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”

“Because he hates that his hair and skin and eyes are dark,” said Cordelia. “He always has. We have a country house in Devon, and people used to stare when we went into the village.”

Anna’s eyebrows had ceased swooping and taken on a decidedly menacing look. “People are--” She broke off with a sigh and a word Cordelia didn’t know. “Now I rather feel sympathy toward your brother, and that was the last thing I wanted. Quick, as me a question.”

this scene is from cordelia’s tea with anna. i won’t touch so much on the “peri from lalla rookh” comment so much as i’m afraid i don’t feel well enough qualified or researched to adequately represent people’s concerns about this statement, but i do know that there were several posts going around about people discussing how it rubbed them the wrong way, so i thought i would include it as well.

the rest, though, is a bit more obvious. one of the things about books is that it can be more difficult to interpret someone’s words and their meaning because we don’t have things like tone or facial expressions or any of that unless the author explicitly includes it. however, we can draw on the way other characters react to certain comments. cordelia goes on the defense, answering anna’s question “a little warily,” setting aside her tea and explaining rather bluntly that not all persians look the same. it’s pretty easy to infer from her reaction that she’s uncomfortable from anna’s words. now, is that to say anna was intentionally being racist toward cordelia and her family? absolutely not. this is where microaggressions come into play. we see them with anna and also with matthew and even jessamine (though we see hers in the infernal devices rather than the last hours). microaggressions, while often unintentional, are still a form of racism. given the times these characters have grown up in, it’s not necessarily a surprise, but that certainly doesn’t excuse her behavior.

there is, however, a more intentional party to this scene that really rubbed me the wrong way. it’s her discussion of alastair. cordelia has just explained that alastair dyes his hair to stop people from staring at him when he’s walking down the street, and anna replies that she feels sympathy for him and that is “the last thing” she wanted. i understand that she has her own feelings about alastair, likely from listening to the merry thieves’ depiction of him, but that doesn’t excuse her. she even starts to say something about it, likely drawing on her own experiences of wearing menswear at a time when fashion was much more strictly regulated in society than it is today. but she stops herself and instead goes on to reemphasize her dislike for cordelia’s brother and changes the subject.

She held up a small black-bound memorandum book... “This,” she announced, “will hold answers to all our questions.”

...

Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”

“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book... about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”

...

Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.

“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia--a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James--Mariane, Virna, Eugenia--”

“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.

“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily... ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me...”

i hope i don’t have to explain this one too much. there’s just something... unsettling about the fact that anna is held up as this feminist icon and yet she keeps a book with the names of and her encounters with all the women she’s slept with... and then reads those names aloud to everyone. it’s a bit much, don’t you think? and all of this is even without touching the leak we got about her and ariadne, which i’d rather not speculate on too much but is also quite damning. 

all in all, i’d like to believe anna is really a good person who’s just misguided and confused, much because i love the idea of a genderqueer character, especially one in an era before stonewall, but her actions and behaviors have led me to believe that she has a long road ahead of her. as i said earlier this week:

let me get something clear: i would die for fanon anna but canon anna needs to get her shit together before i’ll willingly breathe in her direction

i really hope this was helpful... i did my best lol. if anyone else has more to add, please feel free.

[adanicole04]

Power to the People: An Ideological Analysis

**this is a paper I wrote in college about the ideology of democracy, and tied to current culture. It’s been a couple years since this was written, but I remember this being one of my favorite projects, and I believe it’s still applicable today. Hope you enjoy! But please don’t steal it ;)

Introduction:

           NBC’s Parks and Recreation character Leslie Knope is a passionate bureaucrat who personally renewed my faith in what government is supposed to be by consistently reinforcing what democracy means to her. It may be a little pathetic in retrospect that it actually took a TV show to do so, but in light of everything happening today, it seems pretty understandable. Considering approval ratings of Congress have been at a historic all-time low for several years now, it should come as no surprise that “this more negative attitude toward Congress mirrors other indicators showing that Americans are at or near record lows in their confidence in the executive and judicial branches and the federal government in general” (Connolly, 2016).

           The American people are losing (if not already lost) trust in their government, and really, who can blame them? We’ve been lied to, deceived, and had our money stolen from us to be blown on government officials vacation homes while the rest of us have the worries of our basic needs to live constantly hanging over our heads. We are a people in need of reassurance; not of what our government is doing for us (because who knows if we are ever told the truth about that), but what our government was founded on: democracy.

After Donald Trump was elected president, there seemed to be enough interest as to what “Leslie Knope” would say, that an actual letter was written up in her name (by the writers of the show). There is a lengthy story about democracy, the central idea of this paper, of which I will discuss later. For now, I will start with the proclaimed point of that story.

           “People are unpredictable, and democracy is insane.”

           Critics, like random Quora user Carl Hancock, argue that democracy should be considered a concept, and that the ideology of democracy is limited to the belief of one’s ideal form of government (Hancock, 2013). And even Merriam-Webster defines “democracy” as a form of government (Democracy). Should democracy be restricted to a concept and/or form of government?

           Foss (2009) states that “an ideology is a pattern of beliefs that determines a group’s interpretations of some aspect of the world” (p. 209). Our government should be reflected on the beliefs and values our founding fathers had for America: that we are free people. By limiting “democracy” to a form of government, we eliminate the potential belief system that essentially directs our government. Using “Leslie Knope Writes Letter to America Following Donald Trump’s Victory” as my main artifact, quotes from Parks and Recreation (Parks & Rec for short) episodes, and ideological criticism, I argue that democracy is (and should be considered as) an ideology.

           Foss (1989) also asserts that the goal of a rhetorical criticism is to introduce an artifact and essay that transforms the lives of the reader (p. 26). My goal for this analysis is to embody the persona of Leslie Knope herself, and inspire American citizens to engage in the idea of democracy. I know too many people who actively avoid anything political, because it’s not only an untrustworthy area, but it’s also confusing due to issues exactly like this essay: what even IS democracy? My contribution is to simplify the rhetorical foundation of what government is supposed to be to provide confidence the people should have about it.

Context and Artifact Analysis:

           Parks & Rec first aired sometime in 2009 while interest in politics really sparked after the 2008 Presidential Election. President Obama based his political campaign on “hope”, creating a positive aura around Congress. The creators of Parks & Rec were inspired by this and with the success of the politically charged show The Wire to produce a comedy about an optimistic woman starting her career in politics while highlighting the general failure of local government (Weiner, 2009).

           This government-loving optimist named Leslie Knope was born, and she reminded us every week why government is important, and what it stands for. She was always consistent in her views of democracy, women in government, and breakfast foods. All of the characters were impeccably cast, but Amy Poehler brought upon a certain charm and admirable trait to her love of government. Personally, I related politically more with the character Ron Swanson, a firm libertarian. However, I really loved Knope’s idea of democracy, and how often she talked about it.

           For instance, when visitors from Venezuela came to Pawnee, Indiana (the fictitious location of the show) to financially help build a park, one of the men tried to trick Knope into taking their money, videotaping the donation, so they could humiliate Americans back in their country. Knope hilariously stood her ground by reinforcing her American values by telling him, “I am gonna build that park myself, and it is gonna be awesome. And it's not gonna have a fountain shaped like Hugo Chavez's head spitting water all over everyone. Unless that's what the people want. And that, sir, is democracy.”

           When it came down to the recent election of Donald Trump, it was embarrassingly comforting to have that same reassurance by her. Honestly, there are more than enough quotes from the show itself to discuss, but her letter to America was classic Leslie Knope rhetoric covering a very real issue.

           To make her initial point, she almost immediately began with a story. She was in fourth grade, and her teacher conducted a mock election in which two fictitious characters were presented. One character was cool, promised things like extra recess and pizza with a candy bar crust, and the other was “bookish”, and promised to take things slow to be able to evaluate the problems of the school in a careful, intentional manner.

           But before they voted, one student (Greg) asked if they could nominate a third candidate. Her teacher replied, ““Sure! The essence of democracy is that everyone—” and Greg cut her off and said “I nominate a T. rex named Dr. Farts who wears sunglasses and plays the saxophone, and his plan is to fart as much as possible and eat all the teachers,” and everyone laughed, and before Mrs. Kolphner could blink, Dr. Farts the T. rex had been elected President of Pawnee Elementary School in a 1984 Reagan-esque landslide, with my one vote for Greenie the Tortoise playing the role of “Minnesota.”

           Knope then went on to say, “Winston Churchill once said, “Democracy is the worst form of government, except all those other forms that have been tried.” … The point is: people making their own decisions is, on balance, better than an autocrat making decisions for them. It’s just that sometimes those decisions are bad, or self-defeating, or maddening, and a day where you get dressed up in your best victory pantsuit and spend an ungodly amount of money decorating your house with American flags and custom-made cardboard-cutouts of suffragettes in anticipation of a glass-ceiling-shattering historical milestone ends with you getting (metaphorically) eaten by a giant farting T. rex.”

           Even in her self-proclaimed despair, she finds a way to make us laugh. More importantly, Knope reminds us the importance of having our belief system of democracy serve as the foundation to how government operations should run, even if the results don’t sway in the direction we want or intend. Regardless, “democracy only works if people get involved” (Pilot Episode) because “the whole point of democracy is decisions are made by the people, as a group” (Canvassing).

           There were also a couple of episodes in Season 6 where her idea of democracy was even further defined. In New Slogan, Leslie inspires the town of Pawnee to vote for a new town slogan. Obviously, she created most of the selections, and she encouraged the people to vote for one of the slogans. Well, matters took a brief turn for the worst when the local radio DJ “the Douche” suggested a write-in option of “The Home of the Stick Up Leslie Knope’s Butt”, and it led the polls. And why was there a write-in option you may wonder? “Because every election has a write-in option. That's how democracy works. I'm not a dictator. If I we're a dictator, I would throw the Douche in prison without a trial” (New Slogan). Once again, even though sometimes it makes her hysterically angry, her ideology of democracy guides practically everything she does, and every decision she makes.

           Even when her archenemy Councilman Jeremy Jamm snuck in a meeting to vote on a bill that would take away voting rights to its new citizens (there was a town merger that joined the bordering town of “Eagleton” when their government went bankrupt) right before Knope’s recall election. Councilwoman Knope interrupted the meeting to filibuster it so it couldn’t pass. During the filibuster, she found out that the new citizens supported her actions, but would not be voting in her favor. She had to weigh the options out loud, but ultimately remained true to her beliefs. She could’ve stopped in order to have a better chance in the election, but instead she declared that “the right to vote is fundamental in any democracy, and this is bigger than me or anyone” (Filibuster).

Ideological Criticism:

           By using the application of ideology to democracy, we can ensure a level of consistency that is desperately needed (and currently lacking) within political actions. As opposed to the restrictions the literal translation of democracy offers, the ideology behind it ensures that the “actions and their rationale are not isolated but woven into a broader fabric of understanding, anticipation, and value” (Brock, Huglen, Klumpp, & Howell, 2005).

           During my analysis of the presented artifacts, it is clear that Leslie Knope has a deeply rooted understanding of democracy that is based on the idea of “the people”; that government cannot properly or fairly operate without the input of its citizens. The element that Knope presents is that we also need people within our governmental systems to uphold those beliefs and values. We need people to encourage group participation.

           Although she explicitly speaks to females near the end of her letter, she acknowledges the misogyny protruding from Trump. Because this character is also quite the feminist, it probably would’ve been easier to cover this and other artifacts using a feminism approach. However, I’ve found that her hardcore belief in democracy is the basis of her rhetoric and actions. She encompasses the power within groups by simply using the word “we”; accomplished within this letter, and pretty much everything she does on the show.

           “We will acknowledge this result, but we will not accept it. We will overcome it, and we will defeat it. Now find your team, and get to work.”

           Democracy isn’t yet another form of government. It should be the idea behind every single decision made and action taken within the system. Political leaders and elected officials should stop and think, “Is this what the people want? AM I 100% SURE?” before signing or approving anything.

           Using her anger as a tool, she encourages the beliefs behind democracy to fight the good fight in politics, and overcome this embarrassment that is our current president. When she says, “I work hard and I form ideas and I meet and talk to other people who feel like me, and we sit down and drink hot chocolate (I have plenty) and we plan. We plan like mofos. We figure out how to fight back, and do good in this infuriating world that constantly wants to bend toward the bad. And we will be kind to each other, and supportive of each other’s ideas,” she is literally describing her idea of democracy in classic Leslie Knope fashion. As the elected official in her town, she remains determined to improve lives through the power of the people, and through communication.

Conclusion:

           Democracy shouldn’t be placed in a box, and set aside in politics. It should be the automatic default deciding factor for everything that happens in our government. Without the ideology of democracy, we have no real guide for how things are done. The values and beliefs behind it consistently point to the PEOPLE; not one person, not only elected officials. If anything, the elected officials should ONLY be acting in the wishes and demands of their citizens. No politician should have a final say in anything without the approval of the people first. Maybe that’s why our government is as screwed up as it is: because we have put democracy in a box, labeled it as a concept, and threw it in the dark and musty basement that no one ever goes in.

           Politicians want us to believe that the notion behind democracy is some liberal tactic to take more of your money, and encourages welfare systems “for the good of the people”. This also discourages others to participate in government because people will blindly accept and trust that elected officials will do the right thing. Well, if there is no foundation of beliefs, morals and/or values, what (besides dirty money) is left to guide them?

           Simple answer? Democracy. Myself, and others like Mrs. Knope (aka Parks & Rec writers) firmly believe that democracy is a set of beliefs grounding all political actions to be decided upon by the people. It is also the mutual understanding of myself and others like me that this can only be done through communication. Any politician has the “power” to draft a bill, and receive approval within the system, without ever reaching awareness of his or her citizens. In a fair and just democracy, that can no longer happen. Americans need to understand the true power of the people, and reconstruct our government to do the same. We are in desperate need of a government that works for us, not over us. We can only make this happen through the ideology of democracy.

[soundonreadings]

Sound On InstaReadings Series Volume 6  with Betsy Warland & Alison Acheson

Welcome to Sound On InstaReadings. This is our final event of the season and features Betsy Warland and Alison Acheson and is hosted by David Ly, Cynara Geissler and Dina Del Bucchia. Thank you for joining us for our spring events. See you (virtually) in the fall! Bio:

Betsy Warland has published 13 books of poetry, creative nonfiction, and lyric prose. Warland’s 2010 book of essays on new approaches to writing, Breathing the Page— Reading the Act of Writing became a bestseller. Author, mentor, teacher, manuscript consultant, editor, Warland received the City of Vancouver Mayor’s Award for Literary Excellence in 2016.ALISON ACHESONAlison's IG handle is @alisonacheson. Her email is alison@alisonacheson.com. BIO: ALISON ACHESON is the author of ten books, including the memoir Dance Me to the End: Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS Brindle & Glass), and the short story collection Learning to Live Indoors (Porcupine’s Quill), which was praised by the Globe & Mail for its “arresting and crystalline clarity”. She teaches creative writing at the University of British Columbia, and lives in Vancouver, BC. 

Reading Text: 

#1

The Human is at a loss for words

The Human is at a loss for words. Considers. And, considers. Wonders, is this loss of words perhaps why The Human is a writer? The desire to describe something that The Human cherishes makes words scatter like a flock of startled bushtits. The very word “cherishes” is suspect. Passé.

Okay, The Human thinks (again), let’s begin with its name: Lost Lagoon. Its very name is a conundrum. How can one misplace a lagoon? Standing on the shore any passerby can observe it’s not a lagoon but a small lake or, perhaps, a pond.

Over the decades, The Human has walked around the lagoon chatting with various companions, but now dwelling close to it, lives with it. The difference between “around” and “with.” Difference between pointing with camera, voice or index finger, and standing still—watching, listening, sniffing, occasionally speaking softly or returning a bird’s call.

Just across the street from the high- and low-rise buildings’ cheek and jowlness, Lost Lagoon life is___________. Once again, The Human is at a loss for words.

The lagoon resists being depicted. Summed up. The Human admires this.

#2

That said, under the cover of darkness and human absence,

That said, under the cover of darkness and human absence, the lagoon spills into surrounding life. Many are the nights that The Human is jolted awake by alarmed quacking of geese and ducks. Coyote, owl, or otter on the prowl have startled them: their panic echoes inside The Human’s head.

#8

For years, decades in fact, whenever visiting

For years, decades in fact, whenever visiting Stanley Park, The Human puzzled over its name: Lost Lagoon. How did it get this nonsensical name? It seemed an oxymoron or a Zen koan. Then water drove The Human to water. The apartment flooded, and The Human moved here.

Just like the magnetism of the river four kilometres away from the family farm, Lost Lagoon magnetized The Human. Now, this close proximity has provoked an investigation into its curious name.

One might guess that it was named by a poet. Indeed it was. E. Pauline Johnson, part Mohawk part English, was fond of paddling her canoe there when it was a quiet cove. Here a “however” hovers. With summer tides, during Johnson’s favoured paddling time, her refuge was temporarily lost. Then, was lost permanently in 1916 when construction of the Stanley Park causeway cut the cove off from the sea. Lost, too, for the Skwxwú7mesh / Squamish, Musxwməθkwəy’əm / Musqueam and Səl’ílwətaʔ/Selilwitulh / Burrard nations’ peoples who harvested clams and other sea life from the mudflats for generations, probably centuries.

“Lost, leu, to loosen, divide, cut apart.” The causeway separating the sea and the tidal flat.

“Lost, leu-, forleasan, to forfeit,” these unceded territories of the Indigenous Peoples.

          Lost, another word for taken.

#31

Picture it as a slightly aberrant-shaped lima bean

Picture it as a slightly aberrant-shaped lima bean—six blocks wide by four blocks across—with a 1.75 kilometre gravel and earthen path hugging its shoreline, these in turn held by conifers and deciduous trees’ protective embrace. Notice its well-camouflaged beaver lodges: one on the south end; one on the north end. Picture its ceaseless reflective conversation with the trees and ever-changing sky and movement of air. Keep in mind how close it came to obliteration numerous times, the final attempt by the Vancouver Trades and Labour Council to get the city to drain it, fill it in and make a sports field. Whisper a thank you to those who worked to have it officially declared as a bird sanctuary in 1938. In the early fall notice how the Canada geese congregate at the narrowing arm leading to the stream in twilight. Puzzle about how strangely quiet they are, and why two or three adults take turns paddling to where the lagoon opens, then retreat. Paddle out. Retreat. The Human is mystified: “What are they waiting for?” Then imagine them suddenly, soundlessly unraveling in an unbroken line that swims as one being across the lagoon to where they spend the night. It takes a few times before The Human understands. The adults are waiting until the eagle has turned in and it’s safe. This choreography as eloquent as any  The Human has ever seen.

Bio:

Alison Acheson is the author of ten books, including the memoir Dance Me to the End: Ten Months and Ten Days with ALS Brindle & Glass), and the short story collection Learning to Live Indoors (Porcupine’s Quill), which was praised by the Globe & Mail for its “arresting and crystalline clarity”. She teaches creative writing at the University of British Columbia, and lives in Vancouver, BC.

Dance Me to the End by Alison Acheson (TouchWood Editions) “Mary & Martha” – excerpt for SoundOn reading series

The sense I had at the outset, that we were still us, was beginning to feel over-populated. There were perhaps too many of me. 

There was this irritating me—the one who organized and understood the need to think about tomorrow and plan for next week, and even take a peek at what might be required of me a month from now. The one who even knew to turn off my brain (or tried to) if thoughts went beyond next week or month. She was necessary. But she made me squirm. Because I wanted to be someone else—a loving spouse, or artist daydreamer. Or at least someone who could dream at night, asleep. This other person I was revealing myself to be seemed incapable of anything beyond list-making and research and careful cooking. 

To my mind came the Biblical story of two sisters, Mary and Martha, and their brother, Lazarus. 

I grew up with those stories. Every Sunday my father opened that big book with its magic of old English, and read. The stories embedded at cellular level. It’s the figure of Mary, at Jesus’s feet, listening to his words, that was imprinted on my mind, as it is in many minds of those growing up in Christian faith. I don’t know how that image resonates with boys and men, but as a girl it spoke to a hierarchy of tasks. 

It is surprising to return to the actual text and discover the words from which church leaders have extracted these guiding thoughts, and images. The sisters are evoked in such brief verses, a handful of words, that have been expounded upon, dissected, painted by artists, interpreted, and re-envisioned. There are several vignettes in the books of Luke and John that show us the sisters, Martha intent on making and serving food, and Mary sitting at Jesus’s feet, listening, rapt. 

The verses in the book of Luke say that Martha was “cumbered about much serving,” and approached Jesus, and said, “Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? bid her therefore that she help me.” And Jesus answered: “Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.” 

In another story, Mary “took a pound of very costly oil of spikenard, anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped His feet with her hair. And the house was filled with the fragrance of the oil.” She even took some grief from a disciple who thought she shouldn’t have spent the money on the ointment. 

I wanted my house to be filled with that fragrance. After all, given the choice between a foot massage and kitchen work, I’d take the massage. And Jesus said that Mary’s listening was “that good part” of the sisters’ actions. In churches, even in the family Sundays of my growing up, that message of taking time to listen to Jesus, to make him the centre, was held up as the model. Martha was the woman in the kitchen, away from the saving words, and mired in chores and daily grind. 

I have long held images and notions in my mind about these two and, as others have, I’ve tried to grapple with their significance and meaning. Was it possible there was some sustenance left in these ancient stories? I’d long ago put aside the bindle-stick of paradigms that seemed to belong to my childhood. 

As a caregiver, these two women began to visit my mind, heart, and soul regularly, sometimes separately, sometimes together. In my heavier months of caregiving, they just showed up without being asked, and stepped through the doorway—Martha with a look of superiority in her unflagging energy, and Mary with such accusation: What was wrong with me that I didn’t understand that love—simple love—had all one needed to get through? All you need is love. 

You don’t understand, I wanted to say. To both. 

What about a third sister, one with shared qualities and more? But no. The stories, at first, seem to have a reductive nature; humans tend to like either/or. For our children, we call it choice therapy. It’s supposed to ease life. 

I have looked at areas of my life in my past, and wondered whether I am one or the other. As a wife, I’ve ached to be Mary. But more often, as a mother of three, working in and out of home, I’ve had to be Martha. You know Martha wives and mothers. We’re the ones who opt to be designated driver with one glass o’ red, no more, over taking a cab and figuring out a way to retrieve the vehicle the following day. 

We make meals that result in real leftovers for next-nights when there are multiple sports or music lessons. And we know how to make leftovers tasty, and how to keep straight in our minds and on our calendars all those classes and practices and games, alongside our own work schedule. 

Martha is capable and convenient. But even as a writer, Mary has been my go-to desirable—the bohemian, the artist, the one who eschews the everyday concerns, and can spend hours looking out the window. Mary indulges. And I am pulled towards her. Then, too, that commendation of Jesus. No small thing. I’ve heard about it often, sitting in a pew. Mary hath chosen that good part. 

Though, left entirely to Mary, would the words get on the page? 

I let that thought drift away. 

In the third story, Martha goes out into the town to find Jesus because their brother, Lazarus, has died, and she wants to ask Jesus why he did not come earlier when he might have saved him. Mary stays home to grieve. In this story, Martha affirms her faith. Jesus reassures her. And he resurrects Lazarus from the dead. This story is less often told from the pulpit. 

In the days following Marty’s diagnosis, I found that point of acknowledging that this was an opportunity to show him what he meant to me. It was, to my mind, the highest calling of love: to care until the end. In Leonard Cohen’s words, Dance me through the panic ’til I’m gathered safely in / Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove / Dance me to the end of love. 

In my journal, through the months, are notes of almost prayer: Let me feel our connection through this. Let me be there when he goes. Give me the good to remember, and to sustain through the inevitable pain. Yes, the panic. 

No one said to me, “You are a romantic idiot!” If they had, I would not have listened. Who would be brave enough to say that to someone trying to face a recent terminal diagnosis? Would I? Even now? People do say, all the time, 

“This will draw you closer together than you’ve ever been,” which is, to my mind, a spectacularly stupid thing to say—to assume. But at the outset it seemed possible, desirable. 

These people generally added words about this idea being based on observation of their grandparents’ marriage, for- getting that they were nine and a half at the time, and there is so much that children miss—willfully so, perhaps—about adult connections and misconnections. 

So caregiving might begin with Mary, but what about Martha, with her wide hands and square-tipped fingers, broad in hip and shoulder? Her lips are full; she prefers to smile than not, and her smile is open and free of guile. She’s lost the art of flirting and seduction. Long ago she depended on being young for that, but now she counts on someone liking her hand-tossed pizza. I wouldn’t be taken in by her pizza. 

Mary, Mary, Mary, with your slim hips. Let me follow you. Show yourself. 

Even as both called to me, I knew in my gut that it was Mary I wanted to follow, if I had to choose. If I could choose.