#I could go on and on writing about the most improbable stuff for the eternity 😭😭

[giolovesyousm]

Day 14 of Deadboyween Weeks:

[Bookstore] Au

I'm very little interested in books, much more in you, pretending to read phrases, but wanting to read about your fingers dancing along spines of manuals, slow and sure.

How your eyes flicker when you find what you're searching for, reading about creatures and worlds I know nothing about, the only thing I can know is how mesmerising your jaw closes and your absorbed pupils go from left to right.

I wish that spark of joy you reserve for words, was for me, I've found what I was looking for in that sight of yours, imagining how this gentle touch should be used to delicately trace the pages of my skin, cutting the insufferable space between us. And as you leave, with our story unwritten, I look in books for stories better than how our could be.

[bao3bei4]

girlbosses, male wives, and other lesbian genders

a post about jing wei qing shang. but also mostly about another unrelated movie. spoiler-free.

for a lot of people, mulan 1998 is their definitive “ohhh i’m a chinese woman dressing as a man for contrived reasons and i get absolutely nooo erotic pleasure from this” movie. 

however, because i am very special and unique, for me it’s the love eterne 1963. it’s the shaw brothers adaptation of butterfly lovers, the classic chinese folktale. here’s how i’d summarize the movie: 

zhu yingtai, an aspiring scholar, convinces her parents to let her dress as a man to attend school. on the way there, she meets liang shanbo, another prospective student, and they become sworn brothers. they study together for three years, growing closer, until zhu yingtai returns home. liang shangbo accompanies her for the eighteen-li journey home while she hints she’s a woman, but he remains oblivious. by the time he learns her gender, her parents have engaged her to another man. he dies of grief, and while she mourns at his grave, it splits open, and she buries herself inside with him. two scraps of her torn outfit turn into butterflies and fly away.

it’s worth noting here that like. this movie is made in the huangmei opera style. so both zhu yingtai and liang shanbo are played by women (betty loh ti and ivy ling po respectively). because of this, basically every level of the film is preoccupied with gender: if we take zhu yingtai’s male performance as credible (as the characters in the movie do) the leads bond through male homoeroticism; the text is ultimately about a heterosexual romance; it is acted out by two women, in a performance that is difficult to mistake as heterosexual or even feminine; and the dialogue of the movie can’t help but remark on this.

basically it asks: what if lesbians could be gay both ways? wouldn’t that be based? 

like opera was traditionally made by single gender casts, so roles tended to be genderless, in that the gender of the actor doesn’t determine the gender of the role they play. roles are instead typed into four categories: dan (fem), sheng (masc), chou (clown), and jing (painted face). it’s a sick gender quadinary. each of these roles has further subtypes that are represented through stylized patterns of singing, makeup, costuming, movement etc.

so in butterfly lovers, betty loh ti plays a dan, and ivy ling po plays a sheng. but because of the textual cross-gender play, you end up with a woman playing a woman playing a man who falls in love with a woman playing a man.

i’m going to make a brief digression here into talking about like.. acting theory. in the european tradition, you see it evolving out of early concerns (from stanislavski, brecht) about the fourth wall, and its permeability or lack thereof. in chinese opera tradition, the fourth wall didn’t ever really exist. and mei lanfang, the legendary fanchuan performer, claimed that his success wasn’t just due to his appearance, but rather, his mastery of some nonliteral feminine subjectivity. 

If I kept my male feelings, even just a trace, it will betray my true self; then how can I compete for the audience’s affection for feminine beauty and guile?

i’m not going to argue that there’s like, an essence to being a woman because i’m not a fucking idiot. but there’s something to be said for the idea that the gendered interplay between the audience’s perception of the actor, the actor’s perception of themself, and the character they play is a massive part of the appeal of fanchuan performance.

this is echoed by david hwang’s m. butterfly, in which gallimard memorably says, “i’m a man who loved a woman created by a man. everything else—simply falls short.” btw sorry for having the type of brain disease where i constantly reference chinese crossdressing related media. you already know why i have it. 

anyway. parallel to that (but far less morally detestably), jin jiang argues “young male impersonators in yue opera embody women’s ideal men—elegant, graceful, capable, caring, gentle, and loyal.” so, trivially, 1) the eroticism embodied by fanchuan performers is distinctly different from their “straight” counterparts, and perhaps less trivially 2) it’s way better. 

back to the love eterne for a bit. one of the many reasons it’s lodged itself into my psyche is because there’s something more interesting at play than just all that. normally in opera, to compensate for any perceived residual femininity in the sheng, the dan camps it up even further. so this is how zhu yingtai first appears, this bratty femme pastiche of womanhood. yet within a couple minutes she’s dressed as a man, which she’ll stay as for the bulk of the movie. they do however make compromises with the makeup--more gently lifted eyebrows than the steep angles of the sheng opera beat, and an improbably masculine smoky eye. 

that’s right. they performed girlbossification on her. 

i don’t want to suggest that she’s straightforwardly feminine. i could write an entire other thing on her relationship to masculinity. instead i want to highlight the erotic interplay not just between the “girl” and the “boss” but also between her and her counterpart: the male wife. 

liang shanbo is ostensibly straightforwardly male, but his relationship with zhu yingtai isn’t gay in the ahaha what if i was into my bro way-- it’s a what if i was into my bro and i was his wife way.

that’s right. they performed force fem on a cis woman-man. like when zhu yingtai tells him he can’t watch over her as she recovers from an illness because “boys and girls can’t sleep together,” liang shanbo asks “are you implying that I’m a girl?”

there’s a lot of shit like this that builds up over the course of the movie. it all culminates in that final 18 mile journey. along the way, zhu yingtai compares them to a pair of mandarin ducks, one male & one female. liang shanbo sputters “i am a man inside out-- you shouldn’t--” before graciously conceding, “you may compare me to a woman.” 

this is like. a simple punchline. but it’s incredible. it’s true! liang shanbo isn’t a man inside out in that he’s a man and only a man, but rather that he’s a man seen inside first, built for desiring, by a woman & for a woman. as a perpetual object, he becomes a more believable woman than zhu yingtai. and at least in his view, it seems more likely that he could be a woman than her. but beyond that, his permissive tone reads as a kind of wanting in itself--recast, if she wants, “for you, i’ll be a woman.” 

obviously this is a classic lesbian mood. who among us has not seen “no gender only lesbian” posts. and speaking of classic lesbians, you might ask. did you just tiresomely reinvent butches and femmes but with a more annoying name? yes. no. okay. well. 

first, like butch/femme dynamics have both historical specificity and a classed character such that it’s not rlly that appropriate to impose them on the love eterne. and i guess more importantly, i wanna talk about stuff that isn’t real.

we fight all day about people who confuse performance with performativity, (i use we lightly here. for instance, i go outside every day so i don’t care about discourse) but what if we actually wanted to talk about the former for once? something specifically, whether we choose or are forced into it, that we pretend to be? 

anyway. what the hell does all that have to do with jing wei qing shang. i’m going to start by first making the argument that there’s no such thing as a naturally occurring girlboss. i think, honestly, she’s a product of capitalism (“boss” should be the tipoff here) but because both of these stories are set in ambiguously historical china, i’m going to say, instead that she’s a product of uhhh primitive accumulation.

semantics so that i can be canon compliant with marxism aside, if girlbosses are made not born, can you choose to be a girlboss? sheryl sandberg says yes. i don’t disagree, i guess, but i will say: stop glamorizing it! humans only become girlbosses when they’re greatly distressed. 

you become a girlboss when you have no other choice not to be one. when your wants are too great to be a woman, when the things you want are not things that women should want-- whether that’s something that really no one should want, like being a ceo, or whether that’s just something like loving a woman (or, as it is quite often, both) -- you have to become something else. 

another important part of being a girlboss is that other people are not. your excesses mean that not only do you lose something in the process, but your bosshood comes at the expense of others. the girlboss necessitates a girlworker, or so to speak. 

now we’re getting to jwqs. i’m assuming that you haven’t read jwqs, because most people haven’t. that was me until like four days ago. in broad strokes, the novel is about a woman, qiyan agula, who was raised as a prince, and her quest for revenge against the kingdom who slaughtered her people. of course, this involves marrying one of the princesses of that kingdom. it’s all very exciting (lesbian). 

what’s striking about jwqs is that both of them seem to fit the girlboss paradigm, in vaguely similar ways. qi yan (agula’s assumed name) seems to follow the lineage of zhu yingtai, who pretends to be a man to achieve her goals. she’s forced to give up much in the process, and also sacrifices a, uh, lot of innocent people. similarly, nangong jingnu, the princess, is inherently a girlboss because royalty sucks. but also, qi yan girlbossifies her over the course of their relationship. 

but i wouldn’t say jwqs is girlboss4girlboss. there’s something a little more complicated happening. qi yan isn’t zhu yingtai in that she’s a dan pretending to be a sheng. it seems more like that she was a sheng all along. it’s something that the women of the novel return to often: qi yan seems to be better than a man.

for instance, nangong sunu, jingnu’s older sister, reflects on this. 

Nangong Sunu had seen many foolishly loving women who sacrificed everything for the sake of their husbands, but there were rarely any men who would do the same for them. 

(...) 

Thinking it through, Nangong Sunu felt that Qi Yan was truly becoming more interesting. She intended to observe discreetly for a while, to verify if such a man truly existed in this world. (ch 221) 

and i forgot to write down the citation for this, but nangong jingnu also seems to argue that not only is qi yan prettier than a man, but she also seems to be prettier than a woman. (it’s the bit where she’s watching qi yan sleep. help me out here.)

moreover, the way qi yan relates to nangong jingnu is suggestive. jingnu brings out the elements of wanting to be a woman in her. it’s jingnu’s body that makes her wonder what she would look like if she was more feminine. it’s jingnu’s happiness that she resents, wishing that her people could have that as well. it’s her desire for jingnu that makes her a woman. 

(another important distinction i suppose--while one person can’t be both a butch and a femme, because the girlboss and the male wife are things we pretend to be until we embody them / them us -- there’s greater slippage between the two.)

anyway, the girlboss/male wife dynamic is reversed wrt who’s actually dressing as a different gender. that suggests an inversion in the implications we see from the love eterne, if we are to take the love eterne as the paradigmatic girlboss text. which i do, for no reason in particular. 

so then, is qi yan pretending to be a man? under the opera framework, we’re forced to say no. she’s not pretending to be a man any more so than liang shanbo (as acted by ivy ling po) was. but that, of course, feels incorrect, just looking at the text. is she, then, pretending to be a sheng? i’d strongly say no. the things that others see in her, they authentically see; and she does authentically feel the same things as liang shanbo wrt femininity.

so it has to be the opera framework that jwqs is subverting then. if qi yan kept some trace of her once-womanhood, if qi yan reveals her true self, and yet she still can compete for the audience’s affection-- jwqs’s inversion of the opera framework seems to argue instead that it’s that true self that allows you to compete. it’s being masc that lets you be a desirable woman; it’s being feminine that lets you be a desirable man.

there’s an increased gender ambivalence to jwqs, which make sense, i guess, seeing as it’s not meant to be a het story the way that the love eterne was. for instance, nangong jingnu crossdresses to go out in public, and qi yan remarks that jingnu’s disguise fooled her on their first meeting. when qi yan and jingnu go out in public, both disguised as men, they’re repeatedly perceived as a gay male couple. there’s freedom in that: they could be gay women only privately, they could be straight officially, but they could be anonymously gay publicly. 

so it’s through the gay male pretense that they can be gay women; it’s through the qi yan pretense that agula can love women; it’s the qi yan caring husband persona that coaxes jingnu in caring for qi yan in return-- jwqs, more precisely, argues that you can’t be a woman if you’re going to love them, and even less so if you’re going to be loved by one. 

this is perhaps well-trodden ground for anyone who has read wittig & certainly many people who haven’t. but it’s the layer of pretense that for me complicates these two narratives. 

i think it’s a relatable feeling: wanting something anticipating getting something, or wanting something for yourself anticipating knowing that you already had it. that is, desire in itself being constitutive of that reality. 

or less abstractly, knowing that you’d want to be a lesbian if you could, knowing that you’d want not to be a woman if you could-- anticipating any realization of either. 

the dramatic excesses & wants of the girlboss, i think, are a decent literary stand in for being a lesbian. 

i wanna note here that this is rlly just based on my experience being a transmisogyny exempt nonbinary diaspora lesbian lol. it’s fun & cathartic to overread this history & place myself in the accidental implications.

i don’t think most of the things i say are literally true. and i don’t want to overstep & say any of this can be generalized. please lmk if something here doesn’t read right! ok kisses bye

[duhragonball]

Oh, Shit,I Just Remembered Pete Wisdom.

I started looking into Warren Ellis a little more, to see what he accusations against him were, exactly.   So much has come out about so many people that it’s hard to keep it all straight, but I’ve been a comics fan since 1993, and Ellis has been in the industry for about as long, I think, so I wanted to know more.  

The quick version, from what I can tell, is that Ellis would offer to mentor fans who wanted to break into the comics industry, and with the women, he would start to segue that relationship into something more physical.   It would get to the point where he’d want to have sex with them, and they felt like they couldn’t refuse him, since he could torpedo their careers before they could get off the ground.   A few women must have spoken out about it, leading others to do the same, and eventually it started to become clear that there was a lot of similarities in their stories.   

As I was thinking about this, it suddenly dawned on me that I first heard of Ellis from his work on Marvel Comics’ Excalibur, where he introduced Kitty Pryde’s love interest, Pete Wisdom.    And then a bunch of stuff started to make a lot more sense in hindsight.  

The X-Men franchise is overrated trash, but probably the wankiest, most usless, most overrated part of the X-Men mythos is the spin-off series Excalibur, which was basically a splinter group of X-Men operating in Great Britain.   Fans loved this book, I think because it featured popular characters like Kitty Pryde and Nightcrawler, and the book (mostly) managed to steer clear of the mega-crossovers that dominated the rest of the franchise in the 80′s and 90′s.  When I finally sat down to read my X-Men collection in 2015 and 2018, I did so confident that I wouldn’t need to bother with Excalibur, because it rarely had anything to do with the main books.   The message Marvel sent me with this book was that it doesn’t matter and it never did.

Anyway, around 1995 or so, Warren Ellis took over as the writer, and he introduced a new character named Pete Wisdom, who quickly became romantically involved with Kitty Pryde.   This was somewhat controversial for a few reasons:

1) When Kitty was introduced in 1980, she was stated to be only 13 years old.    “Thirteen-and-a-half”, to be precise.    They actually threw in the fraction, just to make her seem even more like a little kid, if that was possible.    Comic book time moves slower than real time, but it wasn’t entirely clear to anyone how old Kitty was by the time she relocated to England and met Pete.   Later stories by other writers would attempt to set Kitty’s age as being 16 or 18, which makes Kitty’s relationship with Pete a continuity error at best. 

2) In spite of Kitty being very young, people had been shipping her with Colossus for years, and it annoyed them that there was yet another obstacle for their extremely problematic-but-much-desired relationship.   

3) People accused Pete Wisdom of being a Mary Sue, since he seemed to just pop in out of nowhere and work himself into the team, win the heart of the most popular female character, and he’s supposed to be this super cool secret agent type.  The implication here was that Ellis only invented Pete as a self-insert OC for the purpose of getting it on with Kitty Pryde.  

I think there were two schools of thought on how Kitty was supposed to be portrayed in comics.   The first was that Chris Claremont had insisted on keeping her eternally 16 or whatever, this plucky kid prodigy who was always too young to get into these kinds of relationships.    Ellis’s supporters felt that this was too restrictive, and it was foolish of Claremont to think that other writers would be beholden to his wishes, especially after he left Marvel Comics in 1991.  Ellis seemed to be allowing Kitty to grow and mature as a character, and it didn’t matter if it messed around with “comic book time”, since no one knows how that works exactly anyway. 

For my part, I always thought Pete Wisdom was a fucking tool of a character.    He was yet another government spook riding on the popularity of “The X-Files”.    Plus, the conventional wisdom among comics nerds in the 90′s was that U.K. writers were better somehow, just because they liked to write snarky dialogue and deconstruct the superhero genre.   Pete Wisdom was a mutant, and he joined the Excalibur team, but he wasn’t gonna wear any poncy tights, innit?   No, he went into action with a suit and tie, smoking cigarettes and constantly drinking shots, because that’s more bloody realistic, mate.   Ellis gave him an eyepatch in 2001, because of course he did.

The point I want to make here is that Ellis came up with this big idea in the 90′s, and fans ate it up because they were X-Men fans and had no taste.   You have to understand that in the 90′s, the big overused cliche was giant guns.   The second biggest cliche was nostalgia references to the 1960′s.   So when someone trotted out “Fox Mulder, but he’s sarcastic and British”, people actually thought it was kind of fresh by comparison.  Surely this bold new concept could only take Kitty Pryde into amazing new directions...

But no, Excalibur got cancelled in 1998, and they moved Kitty back to the X-Men.  Did they even break up Pryde and Wisdom on panel?  I have no idea.   All I know is I read a bunch of her post-Excalibur appearances and she barely mentions the guy, probably because a lot of people in Marvel probably wanted to forget the time she got aged up just enough to sleep with a skeevy-looking older man.  

Looking back on it, I always sort of assumed that Ellis only did the Pete/Kitty thing because he was just looking for something interesting to do with the characters, and he wasn’t going to let tradition or continuity stand in the way.   But in 2020, the whole thing starts to feel more autobiographical, since this resembles the sort of thing he was doing with young women through his online community.   Ellis’ “apology” states that he didn’t notice the power imbalance when he was involved with these women.   “I have never considered myself famous or powerful.”   I find this insulting to my intelligence, since I used to see fans worship every stroke of his pen like he was some kind of genius.   News would come out that Warren Ellis would be taking over the writing duties of a book, and fans would say “Good, they finally fixed it.” They just trusted him to do right by whatever project he was given.    So I can only imagine how overwhelmed they might have felt when they signed up for his mailing list fan club thing and he would offer to help some of them become professional writers.  

So maybe the critics had Pete Wisdom figured out from the beginning.   Whether Ellis realized it or not, Pete was his power fantasy, an older guy just impressive enough to get the attention of a (very) young woman and take her under his wing.   And he teaches her how to drink whiskey and smoke and how to know all this black ops horseshit, and-- well whaddya know?-- they’re having the sex.   

And to a point, maybe that’s human nature.   I always wanted to be a writer because I liked the feeling of power it offered.   Imagine being the guy who could put words in Captain Picard’s mouth, or decide exactly what kind of music Superman likes.  And yeah, if I could make a name for myself in that kind of field, maybe the ladies would start to notice me, and then I’d be doing pretty well for myself.  

The thing is, I eventually learned that writing for comics is a real bullshit thing to get into.   You can’t just submit scripts, and there’s no set of steps to follow.   I remember reading stories of writers breaking into the comics industry, and they were all different, usually involving some improbable meeting with someone who was already there.  A comics writer I respect once wrote that it takes some creativity to figure out how to break in, and if you can’t find your own way, then maybe you’re not creative enough to be in the business in the first place.  

And that’s how these women got pulled into Ellis’s nonsense, I assume.    They had similar aspirations to my own, and at first he seemed to be offering them a lifeline, but then it led to something they hadn’t bargained for, and what could they do?   If they refused to have sex with him, they might have to start from scratch.   

Which sort of confirms my suspicions that writing for comics is just a bullshit job, because maybe it’s only hard to get into because of all the gatekeeping that goes on.    Why bother accepting submissions and hiring based on merit, when a handful of writers can just vouch for friends or fans willing to do anything they ask?   All I know is it’s relatively straightforward to get a job in chemistry.   I got a degree in chemistry, and then I sent out some applications, went to some interviews and they offered me a job.    Maybe if Marvel worked the same way, guys like Warren Ellis wouldn’t have the sort of unfair influence they have over their fans. 

[alma37]

Some thoughts about Fortitude

I finished watching Fortitude and I am not happy, but not at all.

Don’t read if you didn’t watch Fortitude yet and you want to. Otherwise, feel free...

Wtf Simon Donald was thinking ending the story this way. I realise it is a dark show but it didn’t even look like the show was ended but rather like it was cancelled. The end is no end at all! No closure, no kind of resolution, not even a kind of open ending, like in the first or even, to a lesser extent, in the second season. But, honestly, the worst for me, was the complete lack of hope, no light (not even a flicker) in the middle of all this darkness. I would have had the death of the hero (I mean Dan, obviously), saving someone - anyone, sacrifying himself for the greater good, or on the contrary, dying at the hand of Petra (or Erik or Vincent... Oh no! Sorry! Not possible!!) who would have at last understand he was beyond redemption. But now, you don’t even know if he is dead or in the limbo for all eternity (which is kind of impossible), you don’t know if Vincent is alive, you don’t know what will become of Natalie and Fortitude. I hate this kind of ending. As I said, I like closure, particularly in a tv show.

The silver lining here is that it leaves a lot of room for a fix-it fanfiction. Any kind of fix-it, actually. So I decided I am going to try my hand at it. I suppose it is going to be slow and probably painful for me (and maybe even for you!! :-D). For the moment, I have some stuff maybe for two chapters and a epilogue, that I have yet to write.

But I have a question to those - few - fans who are out there. Do you think Dan is still sick at the end of season 3 or the parasite left his body and left him with the psychosis? IMO, Dan has still the parasite within him, which influences his behaviour, as if he were a psychopath. Well, to be fair, Dan is not the most balanced of people to begin with, with his obsession for Elena and his tendancies to violence, but all in all, he has the heart in the right place in the season1. And we can still see some glimpses of conscience and guilt in the season 2. And at the end of season 3, he is clearly afraid, so the sickness hasn’t completely erased his humanity, which was what Elsa implied would happen. So, for me, he is not beyond redemption, and if a complete turnaround would be unexpected it is not totally out of the question.

I can work with that.

Fair warning though. I am a hopeless romantic, so, if I write this story, it will be a story of redemption and atonement, as improbable and OCC as it could be. I always try to stay as close to the original character as I can, but in this particular case, I am not sure it is possible.

But I can’t stand one of my most recent favourite character staying (and dying) a bad guy (a monster, really). At least not if he weren’t to begin with.

[sirkkasnow]

09 Catch Your Breath When You Can

Ao3 link

07/17/13 Wednesday evening

Stan was shoulder deep in the Fairlane’s engine compartment when the kids finally made it home late that afternoon. Dipper waved and headed straight inside; Mabel came over to lean casually against the front fender. “So?”

“There’s a meatloaf in the fridge for dinner an’ we’ve got potatoes, and I guess the fixins for salad if you’re into that kinda thing.”

Mabel pressed both hands over her eyes and groaned in protest. “Nooooooo. I mean did you call her? Did you get to do your something nice whatever it was? You’ve gotta be almost done with the car!”

“Yep, almost done.” Stan straightened up with a sigh and latched the hood. “Gonna fire it up in the morning, see where we’re at. Probably a day, day an’ a half to finish up, then she’s free t’go.”

“You’re not just gonna let her walk out of here, right?” She was peeping out at him between fingers now, looking horrified. “I know you’d both regret it.”

Stan pinched his lips against a smile - his poker face was cracking. “Well, I maybe mighta lined up a flick after dinner. So if you could help keep the nerd brigade occupied that’d be great.”

Mabel produced a whistle-shrill hypersonic squeal of delight and flung herself at him for a hug. “I knew you could do it! Consider the nerd brigade well and truly distracted! You report to me on everything, got it?”

“Mabel, c’mon, it’s just a movie.” He was grinning anyway as he swiped down his hands.

The five of them gathered for what proved to be a noisy meal. One tiny nudge from Mabel was enough to derail the conversation into DD&MD worldbuilding. “Clary’s about to leave,” she said firmly, “she hasn’t gotten to play one game and we need to fix that.” Within fifteen minutes the rulebooks were scattered across the crowded kitchen table and both Ford and Dipper were talking scenarios and taking notes.

Clary had spent most of the afternoon napping. She looked crisp and refreshed, a froth of peony pink silk knotted off-center at her throat, tossing an occasional suggestion into the chaos. Mabel vanished for a minute or two as the plates were cleared. When she returned it was with arms full of scrapbooking supplies and an unsubtle jerk of the chin towards the living room.

Stan took the hint and slipped out unnoticed, setting up a dinette chair next to the recliner. He tracked down a couple of pillows and a light blanket to make the whole thing a little more comfortable. Clary showed up a few minutes later, hands in pockets, still smiling to herself. “I’ve been banished,” she murmured over the background conversation from the kitchen. “So they can surprise me in the morning.”

“Damn shame, too bad, movies are under the TV.” He punched the pillows in a mostly-futile effort to fluff them up as she knelt to sort through the cabinet. He’d tracked down the remote and gotten comfortable in the recliner by the time she waved a worn black-and-white cardboard sleeve at him: Captain Of Her Heart.

“Old-school okay?”

“Um. It’s mushy.”

“I can handle mushy.”

“It’s sad.”

“I can handle sad and I’m not in the mood for nature documentaries.” Clary slotted in the tape, fiddled with the channels until trailers for twenty-year-old New Releases! began to play, and collected a box of tissues before settling into her seat.

“You a crier?” Stan nudged her tissues with a knuckle and she gave him a dirty look.

“Insurance. Settle down.” Clary stacked pillows against the recliner’s back corner, propped her elbow on the arm near his and made herself at home. He’d seen this one a million times, an obscure classic in his opinion with some really good on-location seaside shooting for its era. Familiarity never seemed to make this one hit any less hard.

He found that it was hitting maybe a little harder than usual. The bookish harbormaster’s daughter and the rough-edged first mate she’d spent the last hour falling improbably in love with walked the shoreline under a spotlight moon, switching to closeup against a painted backdrop for their wrenching scene of farewell.

Stan stole a couple tissues while she wasn’t looking. Clary already had one clutched to her lips, tears welling up at the corners of her eyes in resolute silence. Maybe she was a bit of a crier after all, though she held it together pretty well through the last ten minutes or so.

Once the ship had departed and the harbormaster’s daughter had slipped down to the docks in the night, dressed in a man’s traveling clothes and bound for parts unknown, Clary blew her nose in an undignified honk. He would have teased her if he weren’t busy trying to do the same without her hearing him. At last she settled close to watch the brief credits. When the tape ran out and the screen went to static he grumbled and jabbed at the remote until the TV snapped off.

They rested together in the near-dark. Stan listened as the rhythm of her breathing steadied. “Good flick,” she murmured at length, in no apparent hurry to move.

“One of my favorites,” he admitted, equally quiet. “I did warn ya. If, ah, if it’d help, there’s a sequel...or I could maybe get Soos to write some kinda fix-it, he’s good at that fanfiction stuff….” He felt rather than saw the subtle shake of her head. “What, no?”

“It’d be cheating.”

“C’mon, now, there’s nothin’ wrong with chasin’ a happy ending - “

“They’re hard to catch.” He heard her swallow thickly and felt her shift to turn a little more into him. “Why the heck don’t you have a couch? I don’t want to move yet but this is uncomfortable as hell.” Stan considered bolting to leave her some privacy, then held his breath and wriggled his arm free to lay it lightly around her.

“This a little better?”

Clary drew up her legs and nestled into his side without hesitation. “Much.”

“So - we don’t have a couch because we didn’t need one until everyone was leavin’ at the end of last summer, anyway - “ He was cursing the lack of a couch right now, because the arm of the damned recliner was wedged between them and this would be a very nice post-movie snuggle without it. “I’m not sure Ford an’ I ever really thought we’d be back for more’n a quick visit. Soos hasn’t had time to update the place much.”

“You said you’d been running the Shack for thirty years. Alone?”

Stan hissed softly, dragging his free hand through his hair. “Yep,” he said just before the pause went beyond recovery. “More or less. Kids first visited last summer an’ that changed a whole lot.”

“From what I’ve gathered in town last summer was pretty lively.” He felt her smile against him. “Funny, no one really wants to talk about it.”

“It was, uh.” He groped for the right word and finally said, frustrated, “Weird.” Clary laughed softly. “Listen. I am not the one who should be givin’ pep talks, you get that? But I can promise that sometimes y’catch the happy ending.”

The house had gone quiet around them, the kids retreated to bed, Ford probably downstairs. Stan flinched in surprise as her cool hand covered his at her shoulder. “I’ll take your word for it,” Clary murmured. “And thanks. For today. Not everyone handles - “ She tugged at her silk scarf with a fingertip.

“We both got history, kid, I got no right t’pry.”

“I’ve been preemptively dumped over this, you know.”

“Hah! Just as well. You don’t strike me as the type t’date idiots.”

“No. I’m not.”

A minute or two drifted by like that, comfortable, the warmth of contact something he hadn’t slowed down to enjoy in an eternity. Stan had about found the perfect angle to pillow his cheek against her hair when she stirred. He rumbled in protest before he could stop himself, arm tightening for a second then relaxing as she sat up straight.

The wan wash of light from the hallway gilded the slope of her cheek; her shadowed eyes held a determined glint. “I’m in too good a mood to talk about ancient history, but I’d like to trade stories with you sometime.”

“Sure, but I don’t know when - “ She tilted her head in reproach and any further protest stalled in his throat.

“Stan. You made the fatal mistake of giving me your phone number.” Stan cracked a crooked grin and she went on, low-voiced and all velvet persuasion. “Let me know when you hit a port I can get to. Anywhere in the north Atlantic’s fine. If you end up someplace warm, like say Gibraltar or the Azores, so much the better. Drinks are on me.”

He almost barked out a laugh, a startled little huff like she’d just sucker-punched him. “You askin’ me out? Your treat?”

“Yes.” The practiced look of light amusement on her face faded by degrees into something more apprehensive. “If you’d like. I’d hate to never see you again.”

His brain locked up hard, spinning off into logistics and complications and the overwhelming desire to not fuck up the good thing he had going. Mercifully his mouth got out ahead, as usual. “Yeah. Definitely. I’d - really, really like that.”

She lit up in a split second of unguarded happiness for maybe the first time since they’d met. Clary leaned in too quickly to intercept, her lips grazing the stubble of his cheek as a fleeting whiff of her faded peony perfume curled into his nose. “Great. So would I.”

Stan’s hands twitched once with the sudden impulse to snag her by the waist and drag her into his lap before common sense shut that down. She couldn’t quite look him straight on as she withdrew and this time he laughed in earnest. “Oh, c’mon, counselor, y’can’t make a pitch like that an’ then go all shy on me.”

“Sure I can.” Clary’s fingers tightened in his, then slipped away as she rose. “I’d better go to bed before I say anything else incriminating. See you in the morning.”

“What, alone?”

“Stan.”

“It’s gonna be chilly, want me to drop off a couple extra blankets - “

“Stanley.”

“I got a sideline in personal furnace services - “

“Oh my god. Don’t make me regret saying anything.” The chuckle she was trying so hard to suppress laid a husky note under the words as she headed for the hallway.

“G’night, sweetpea.”

She slipped through the door with a last backward glance. He sat back to think it over, eyes closed, horrified and delighted all at once.

Mostly delighted, he decided, pressing fingers to his cheek where she’d kissed him.

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“I’d hate to never see you again.” She looks anxious, jittery with anticipation and a little sad all at once.

Definitely.

Maybe.

I just can’t.

[spaceorphan18]

I don't follow anyone that believes in this "theory" that Darren and Chris are secretly together, so I find the whole thing confusing (and deeply bizarre) Do you know if any of them have articulated why they think these two people would go through this much trouble and involve so many other people for so many years to hide their relationship?

I’ll preface this with - I’m not a psychologist, so all of this is armchair psychology, and I understand the twisted curiosity of – how can these people believe in such nonsense?  It reminds me a lot of – people who believe the Earth is flat, people feel the moon landing was faked, people who believe the orange cheeto-in-chief can do a good job.  It’s a microcosmic look at how people essentially get so brainwashed into believing a thing so strongly that for them it becomes a reality.  I hope you don’t mind me indulging a little - and kind of exploring the psychology behind this stuff.  

First, I wanna say there are three-ish groups - there are the people who know RPF is not real, and specifically just write fiction because they find it fun.  Most of the tinhatters are not these people.  Unfortunately, most (not all) of the people who still dabble in Glee RPF are enablers, in a way, and don’t seem to care that these other people are overly invested in their subjects.  The second group are the True Believers.  They 100% believe Chris and Darren are in a relationship.  (More on them later).  And there’s a third group – and I only have a theory that they exist, not proof, is that there’s a subsection of the second group that know that Chris and Darren aren’t in a relationship but a) enjoy the power of leading the rest of the followers and/or b) want to hold on to this fantasy because it’s more appealing to them.  

Anyway - what the tinhatters are, actually, are a bonafide cult.  

Cult definition according to Google Dictionary: 

a system of religious veneration and devotion directed toward a particular figure or object.“the cult of St. Olaf”

a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister.“a network of Satan-worshiping cults"synonyms:sect, denomination, group, movement, church, persuasion, body, faction"a religious cult”

a misplaced or excessive admiration for a particular person or thing.“a cult of personality surrounding the leaders"synonyms:obsession with, fixation on, mania for, passion for, idolization of, devotion to, worship of, veneration of"the cult of eternal youth in Hollywood”

So.  I don’t know the exact science behind this but (I promise I’m not making this up) – the human brain sees patterns.  For most of human history - it’s been helpful.  However, it has kind of a strange side effect of – we start to see patterns when they aren’t really there.  Such as – hey, the burn mark on this grilled cheese sandwich looks like Jesus! Well, no, that burn mark is just a burn mark - but it’s shape is familiar to something you already know, hence your brain makes the connection. 

I don’t know where the origin of this story is, I wasn’t around when it became a thing, but from what I can tell - the story is that when Darren started on Glee, he had to hide his sexuality because there was a contract between – Fox? Ryan Murphy? His manager Ricky? I don’t fully understand who the evil PR people are in this scenario.  I don’t, also now that I think of it, really understand when Darren was supposed to have started dating Chris, ether.  I think it was Never Been Kissed week - but I don’t go far into their mythos.  And Mia was brought on as Darren’s beard to keep the secret alive.  

Is any of this probable? No.  Is any of this real? No.  A logical (and sane) person would look at the facts presented and see what reality is.  Darren says he’s straight and in a long term relationship with a woman named Mia.  That’s the simple truth.   But they’ve built such a deep narrative, and confined themselves in their own circle – to the point where they feel they are in an us against them scenario – that they’re almost unable, at this point, to be told anything but what they feel is true to be true.  One thing about cults – is that the only person who can get someone out is that person, unfortunately.  

In addition – there’s something about being a part of this that makes them feel special.  On their own, the conspiracy might just be another crazy conspiracy.  But if other people feel that way, well then it’s okay to indulge, it’s okay to really believe.  

The crux of this whole thing is that they these people want (or need - now that they’ve reached cult-like brainwashing status) Darren to be gay…or not straight.  That seems to be the biggest fixation.  And kind of like the crazies who thought the world was gonna end ind 2012 because of an ancient Mayan calendar - they feel that there will be a point where Darren ‘comes out’.  (It’s always soon, btw.)  But the okay now moment always gets pushed back.  It’s something that’s never gonna come, though, which makes these people’s lives sad, really.  

But I digress.  They’ve receded so far into this fantasy at this point that I don’t think Chris even matters to them much anymore.  I don’t think the story of Klaine matters much more than this is Darren and Chris making out.  I don’t think they even like Darren all that much, because he keeps disappointing them by not coming out.  They’re so fixated on Darren being gay that they’ve lost sight of everything except that one particular point.  

And they’ve wrapped themselves up in this pattern-seeking mentality.  Everything they twist to fix their own narrative.  As I joked about the Oscars - Chris wore blue and Darren wore red.  And we often saw, in Glee, Chris in blue and Darren in red.  The reality of it is - with their skin tones, the costume designers and the personal stylists know that blue looks good on Chris and Darren looks good in red.  But to a tinhatter - you have to make that fit your narrative.  Chris and Darren wore blue and red respectively on Glee, and now they wore it at the Oscars, it’s another sign of their secret love.  And, etc, etc with all the nonsense they’ve said over the years. 

So now, finally, to your question: 

Do you know if any of them have articulated why they think these two people would go through this much trouble and involve so many other people for so many years to hide their relationship?

Essentially, what they’ll tell you if you asked, is because it needs to fit the narrative – Darren is gay, so all those people being involved has to be true.  They want (need) Darren to be gay, so they literally have to twist reality to make it work. And the twisting is that all of these people, as highly improbable as it is, would be in on the conspiracy.  

The question I’ve always pondered is… why do they need Darren to be gay?  And I’m sure each have their own reason - from just not liking Mia, to some thinking Glee should be a documentary, to them liking the idea of Darren making out with men instead of women, etc, etc. (Or more so - why do they need to have Chris and Darren be in love?  Why is fictional Klaine not enough?)  But I guess that’s the biggest part that trips me up.  Why is reality worse for them than this made up fantasy land? 

The unfortunate thing is that most of them don’t realize or understand the real world consequences they’ve had.  Chris withdrew inward to get away from them.  Mia has endured a lot of shit because of them.  And there seem to be these extremists in every fandom - so it’s not a Glee specific thing, even if we’re directly effected by these particular ones.  

I think, as an aside, I also find it sad, and further frustrating, that there’ve been signs that some people begin to understand reality, questioning whether they’re right or not, and there are a few ring-leaders who – (whether they’re part of group two or group three I’m unsure) who pull them back in.  And thus makes it a cult.  Hey - Chris sounds sincere about just being friends!  Nope - you’re just seeing things, Chris is lying because he’s an actor and he secretly loves Darren.  Or… Darren looks so depressed with Mia (on a picture where he’s clearly in love with her).  And those ringleaders are really the ones that keep the followers in line.  It’s a cult.  And I hate that.  

What also makes it sad is that these people are so deeply invested that for some of these hard core believers - questioning the foundation of this reality almost breaks their brain – like they can’t comprehend the truth - because if they did, they’d have to reexamine the amount of time and energy spent on this false thing, and they’d rather have the security blanket of someone telling them they’re right instead facing that they’ve essentially been brainwashed - or have to face a reality they don’t really want.  

I mean think about the fact that Darren could have a kid with Mia, or personally tell them that he is not in love/in a relationship with Chris, and they still would not believe him.  Nothing, at this point, except themselves, can pull them out of it.  

It’s also so weird, and frustrating for us, and I wish they’d give it up, but unfortunately, I think a lot of them will be still stuck in their cult long after the rest of us have moved on.  But hopefully helps you understand how they got this way.  And how answering the question of ‘why’ is so complex. 

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Doll

Daphne du Maurier (1937)

Foreword.

The following pages were found in a shabby pocket book, very much sodden and discoloured by salt water, tucked away between the crevices of a rock in —Bay.

Their owner has never been traced, and the most diligent enquiries have failed to discover his identity. Either the wretched man drowned himself near the spot where he hid his pocket book, and his body has been lost at sea; or he is still wandering about the world trying to forget himself and his tragedy.

Some of the pages of his story were so damaged by exposure as to render them completely illegible; thus there are many gaps, and much of it seems without sequence, including the abrupt and unsatisfactory termination.

I have placed three dots between sentences when words or lines were undecipherable. Whether the wild improbabilities of the story are true, or whether the whole is but the hysterical product of a diseased mind, we shall never know. My sole reason for publishing these pages is to satisfy the entreaties of many friends who have been interested in my discovery.

Signed. DR E STRONGMAN.

—BAY, S ENGLAND.

R

I want to know if men realise when they are insane. Sometimes I think that my brain cannot hold together, it is filled with too much horror – too great a despair.

And there is no one; I have never been so unutterably alone. Why should it help me to write this? . . . Vomit forth the poison in my brain.

For I am poisoned, I cannot sleep, I cannot close my eyes without seeing his damned face . . . If only it had been a dream, something to laugh over, a festered imagination.

It's easy enough to laugh, who wouldn't crack their sides and split their tongues with laughing. Let's laugh till the blood runs from our eyes – there's fun, if you like. No, it's the emptiness that hurts, the breaking up of everything inside me.

If I could feel, I should have followed her to the ends of the earth, no matter how she pleaded or how she loathed me. I should have taught her what it is to be loved by a man – yes – a man, and I would have thrown his filthy battered body from the window, watched him disappear for ever, his evil scarlet mouth distorted . . .

It's the hot feeling that has filled me, the utter incapacity to reason.

And I am deceiving myself when I say she would have come to me. I did not follow her because I knew that it was hopeless. She would never have loved me – she will never love any man.

Sometimes I can think of it all dispassionately, and I pity her. She misses so much – so much – and no one will ever know the truth. What was her life before I knew her, what is it now?

Rebecca – Rebecca, when I think of you with your pale earnest face, your great wide fanatical eyes like a saint, the narrow mouth that hid your teeth, sharp and white as ivory, and your halo of savage hair, electric, dark, uncontrolled – there has never been anyone more beautiful. Who will ever know your heart, who will ever know your mind?

Intense, restrained, and soulless; for you must be soulless to have done what you have done. You have that fatal quality of silence – of a tight repression that suggests a hidden fire – yes, a burning fire unquenchable. What have I not done with you in dreams, Rebecca?

You would be fatal to any man. A spark that lights, and does not burn itself, a flame fanning other flames.

What did I love in you but your indifference, and the suggestions that lay beneath your indifference?

I loved you too much, wanted you too much, had for you too great a tenderness. Now all of this is like a twisted root in my heart, a deadly poison in my brain. You have made of me a madman. You fill me with a kind of horror, a devastating hate that is akin to love – a hunger that is nausea. If only I could be calm and clear for one moment – one moment only . . .

I want to make a plan – an orderly arrangement of dates.

It was at Olga's studio first, I think. I can remember how it rained outside, and the rain made dirty streaks on the window-pane. The room was full, a lot of people were talking by the piano – Vorki was there, they were trying to make him sing, and Olga was screaming with laughter.

I always hated the hard thin reed of her laugh. You were sitting – Rebecca was sitting on a stool by the fire.

Her legs were twisted under her, and she looked like an elf, a sort of boy.

Her back was turned to me, and she wore a funny little fur cap on her head. I remember being amused at her position, I wanted to see her face. I called out to Olga to introduce me.

"Rebecca," she said, "Rebecca, show yourself." . . . flinging off her cap as she turned. Her hair sprung from her head like a savage, her eyes opened wide – and she smiled at me, biting her lip.

I can remember sitting down on the floor beside her, and talking, talking – what does it matter what I said, dull stuff, nonsense of course, but she spoke breathlessly, with a sort of constrained eagerness. She did not say much, she smiled . . . eyes of a visionary, of a fanatic – they saw too much, demanded too much – one lost oneself in them, and became incapable of resistance. It was like drowning. From the moment I saw her then I was doomed. I left her, and came away, and walked down the embankment like a drunkard. Faces spluttered up at me, and shoulders brushed me, I was aware of dim lights reflected on wet pavements, and the hazy throb of traffic – through it all were her eyes and her wild impossible hair, her slim body like a boy . . . all coming clear now, I can see each event as it happened, each moment of the game. I went to Olga's again and she was there.

She came right up to me and said "Do you care for music?" gravely, like a child. Why did she say this, I don't know, there was no one at the piano – I answered vaguely, and noticed the colour of her skin, pale coffee, and clear, clear as water.

She was dressed in brown, some sort of velvet I think, with a red scarf round her neck.

Her throat was very long and thin, like a swan's. I remember thinking how easy it would be to tighten the scarf and strangle her. I imagined her face when dying – her lips parted, and the enquiring look in her eyes – they would show white, but she would not be afraid. All this in the space of a moment, and while she was talking to me. I could drag very little from her. She was a violinist apparently, an orphan, and lived alone in Bloomsbury.

Yes, she had travelled much, she said, and especially in Hungary. She had lived in Budapest for three years, studying music. She did not care for England, she wanted to go back to Budapest. It was the only city in the world.

"Rebecca" someone called, and she glanced over her shoulder with a smile. How much could I write about Rebecca's smile! It was so vivid, so intensely alive, and yet apart, unearthly, it had no relation to anything one said. Her eyes would be transfigured as if by a shaft of silver.

She left early that day, and I crossed the room to ask Olga about her. I was in an agony of impatience to know everything. Olga could tell me little. "She comes from Hungary," she said, "no one knows who were her parents, Jewish, I imagine. Vorki brought her here. He found her in Paris, playing the violin in one of those Russian cafes. She won't have anything to do with him though, she lives entirely alone. Vorki says her talent is marvellous, if she only goes on there will be no one to touch her. But she won't work, she doesn't seem to care. I heard her at Vorki's flat – it sent cold shivers down my spine. She stood at the end of the room, looking like something off another planet – her hair sticking out, a sort of fur bush round her head, and she played. The notes were weird, haunting, I've never known anything quite like it, it's impossible to describe."

Once again I left Olga's studio in a dream, with Rebecca's face dancing before my eyes. I too could see her playing the violin – she would stand straight and firm as a child, her eyes wide open, her lips parted in a smile.

She was to play at Vorki's flat the following evening, and I went to hear her. Olga had not exaggerated, with all her palpable, shallow insincerity. I sat like a drugged man, incapable of movement. I don't know what she played, but it was shattering – stupendous. I was not aware of anything but that I and Rebecca were together – out of the world, away, lost – lost in unutterable bliss. We were climbing, then flying, higher – higher.

At one time the violin seemed to protest, and it was as if she were refusing me, and I were pursuing her – then there came a torrent of sound, a medley of acceptance and denial, a confusion of notes in which were mingled desire and sweetness, and intolerable pleasure. I could feel my heart beating like the throb of some mighty vessel, and the blood pounded in my temples.

Rebecca was part of me, she was myself – it was too much, it was too glorious. We had reached the summit, we could go no farther, the sun seemed to strike into my eyes. I looked up – Rebecca was smiling at me, the violin broke on a note of exquisite beauty – it was fulfilment.

I leant back exhausted on the sofa, my senses swimming – it was too wonderful, too wonderful. Three minutes passed before I came fully conscious again. I felt as if I had plunged in the black abyss of eternity to sleep – and had come awake once more.

No one had noticed me, Vorki was handing round drinks, and Rebecca was sitting by the piano turning over some music. When they asked her to play again, she refused, she was tired, she said. They implored her so she took up her violin and played once more – something quite short, but very lovely and pure, like a child's prayer.

Later in the evening she came and sat beside me, for a few moments I was too moved to speak. Then I cursed myself for a fool, and turned to her, and looked into her face.

"You gave me a marvellous sensation when you played," I told her, "it was beautiful, intoxicating, I shall never forget it. You have a rare – no – a very dangerous talent." She was silent, and then spoke in her restrained, breathless little voice. "I played for you," she said, "I wanted to see what it was like to play to a man." Her words bewildered me, they seemed utterly inexplicable. She was not lying, her eyes looked straight into mine, and she was smiling.

"What do you mean?" I asked her. "Have you never played for anyone before, do you use your gift just to satisfy yourself? I don't understand."

"Perhaps," she said slowly, "perhaps, it's like that, I can't explain."

"I want to see you again," I told her, "I'd like to come and see you alone, where we can talk, really talk. I've thought about you ever since I saw you in Olga's studio, you knew that, didn't you? That's why you played to me tonight, wasn't it?"

I wanted to drag the answer from her lips, I wanted to force her to say yes. She shrugged her shoulders, she refused to be definite, it was exasperating.

"I don't know," she said, "I don't know." Then I asked for her address, and she gave it to me. She was busy, she would not be able to see me until the end of the week. The party broke up soon after and she disappeared.

The days that passed seemed interminable, I could not wait to see her again. I thought about her ceaselessly.

On Friday I could stand it no longer, so I went to her. She lived in an odd sort of a house somewhere in Bloomsbury. She rented the top floor as a flat. The outlook was dull and dreary, I wondered how she could bear to live there.

She opened the door to me herself, and took me into a large bare room like a studio, with an oil-stove burning. I was struck by the cheerlessness of it, but she did not seem to notice anything, and made me sit down in a shabby armchair.

"This is where I practise," Rebecca told me, "and have my meals. It's a bright room, don't you think?" I said nothing to this and then she went to a cupboard and brought out some drinks, and a few stale biscuits. She took nothing herself.

I found her strange, detached – she seemed bored at my being there. Our conversation was forced and there were pauses. I found it impossible to say any of the things I wanted to say. She played to me for a while, but they were all classical things that I knew, and quite different from what she had played that evening at Vorki's.

Before I left she showed me round her tiny flat. There was a little scullery place she used for a kitchen, a poky bathroom, and her own small bedroom which was furnished like a nun's cell, quite plain and bare. There was another room leading from the studio, but she did not show me this. It was obviously a fair-sized room, as I saw the window from the street afterwards, and watched her draw the heavy curtains across it . . .

(Note. Here some pages were completely illegible, covered with blots, and discoloured. The narrative appears to continue in the middle of a sentence. Dr Strongman.)

. . . "not really cold," she insisted, "I've tried to explain to you that I'm odd in some ways, I've never met anyone to care for, I've never been in love. I've always disliked people rather than been attracted by them." "That doesn't explain your music." I broke in impatiently. "You play as if you knew everything – everything."

I was becoming maddened by her indifference, it was not natural but calculated; she always gave me the impression of concealment. I felt I should never discover what was in her mind, whether she was like a child asleep, a flower before it has blossomed – or whether she was lying to me throughout, in which case every man would have been her lover – every man.

I was tortured by doubt and jealousy, the thought of other men was driving me insane. And she gave me no relief, she would look at me with her great pale eyes, pure as water, until I could swear that she was untouched – and yet, and yet? A look, a smile, and back would come my torture and my misery. She was impossible, she evaded everything, and yet it was this fatal quality of restraint that tore at me and broke at me, until my love for her became an obsession, a terrible driving force.

I asked Olga about her, asked Vorki, asked everyone who knew her. No one could tell me anything, anything.

I'm forgetting days and weeks as I write this, nothing seems to have any sequence for me, it's like rising from the dead, it's like being reincarnated from dust and ashes to live it again, to live my whole cursed life again – for what was my life before I loved Rebecca, where was I, who was I?

I had better write that Sunday now, Sunday that was really the end; and I didn't know it, I thought it was the beginning. I was like someone walking in the dark, no, walking in the light with his eyes open and not seeing – deliberately blinding himself.

Sunday, day of hollow and mistaken happiness. I went to her flat about nine in the evening. She was waiting for me. She was dressed in scarlet – like Mephistopheles, odd strange clothes that only Rebecca could wear. She seemed excited, intoxicated – she ran about the room like an elf.

Then she sat down at my feet with her legs tucked under her, and held out her thin brown hands to the stove. She laughed and giggled childishly, she reminded me of a mischievous child planning some naughtiness.

Then all at once she turned to me, her face pale, her eyes strangely alight. She said, "Is it possible to love someone so much, that it gives one a pleasure, an unaccountable pleasure to hurt them? To hurt them by jealousy I mean, and to hurt oneself at the same time. Pleasure and pain, an equal mingling of pleasure and pain, just as an experiment, a rare sensation?"

She puzzled me, but I tried to explain to her what was meant by Sadism. She seemed to understand, and nodded her head thoughtfully once or twice.

Then she rose and went slowly across the room to the door I had never yet seen opened. She looked oddly pale as she stood there, her mass of queer savage hair springing from her head, her hand on the knob of the door. "I want to introduce you to Julio," she said. I left my chair and went towards her, I had no idea of what she was talking about. She took my hand and then opened the door. I saw a low round-shaped room, whose walls were draped with some sort of velvet hangings as if to deaden any sound, and long thick curtains were drawn across the window. There was a log fire, but it had burnt very low. Near the fireplace was a divan, covered with cushions thrown anyhow, and the only light came from a small shaded lamp, thus leaving the room in a half darkness.

There was one chair in the room, and this was facing the divan.

Something was sitting in the chair. I felt an eerie cold feeling in my heart, as if the room were haunted. "What is it?" I whispered.

Rebecca took the lamp and held it over the chair. "This is Julio," she said softly. I stepped closer, and saw what I took to be a boy of about 16, dressed in a dinner jacket, shirt and waistcoat, and long Spanish trousers.

His face was the most evil thing I have ever seen. It was ashen pale in colour, and the mouth was a crimson gash, sensual and depraved. The nose was thin, with curved nostrils, and the eyes were cruel, gleaming and narrow, and curiously still. They seemed to stare right through one – the eyes of a hawk. The hair was sleek and dark, brushed right back from the white forehead.

It was the face of a satyr, a grinning hateful satyr.

Then I was aware of a strange feeling of disappointment, a helpless sensation of not understanding, of dumb incredulity.

There was no boy sitting in the chair. It was a doll. Human enough, damnably lifelike, with a foul distinctive personality but a doll.

Only a doll. The eyes stared into mine without recognition, the mouth leered foolishly. I looked at Rebecca, she was watching my face.

"I don't see," I said, "what's the point of all this? Where did you get this loathsome toy? Are you having a joke with me?" I spoke sharply, I felt uneasy and cold. The next moment the room was in darkness, she had turned out the lamp. I felt her arms round my neck, and her mouth upon mine.

"Now shall I tell you I love you?" she whispered, "shall I?"

A hot wave of something swept over me, the floor seemed to swing beneath my feet. She clung to me and kissed my throat, I could feel her fingers at the back of my neck. I let her hands wander over my body, and she kissed me again. It was devastating – it was madness – it was like death.

I don't know how long we stood there, I don't remember anything, words, or thoughts, or dreams – only the silence of that dark room, the feeble glow of the fire, the beating of my heart – the singing in my ears – and Rebecca – Rebecca—. When, – and whether hours had passed or years I cannot tell – when I raised my eyes above her head I looked straight into his eyes – his damned doll's eyes.

They seemed to squint at me and leer, one eyebrow was cocked, and his crimson treacherous mouth was twisted at the corner. I wanted to leap at it, and smash its beastly grinning face, trample on its sordid human body. Was Rebecca mad to keep such a toy, what was her motive, where had she found it? But she would not answer my questions.

"Come away," she said, and dragged me from the room, back once more into the hard glaring light of the bare studio. "You must go now," she said breathlessly, "it's late – I had forgotten." I tried to take hold of her, once more, I wanted to kiss her again and again, she surely did not mean me to go now.

"Tomorrow," she said impatiently, "I promise you tomorrow, but not at the moment. I'm tired and bewildered – don't you see? Let me alone just for tonight, it's been too strong, I can't realise anything."

She stamped her foot with impatience, she looked ill. I saw it was hopeless. I took my things and went – and walked, and walked – all night I think.

I watched the dawn break on Hampstead Heath, grey and sunless; heavy rain fell from a leaden sky.

My body was cold, but my brain was on fire. Once more I was certain that Rebecca had lied to me – from the moment she kissed me I knew that she had lied to me.

She had known five, 10, what matter the number, 20 lovers – and I was not one of them.

No, I was not one of them.

I found myself near Camden Town, buses rumbled along the streets; it was still raining, people straggled past me, their figures bent under umbrellas.

I found a taxi somewhere, and went home. I got into bed without undressing, and slept. I slept for hours. When I awoke it was dark once more; it must have been about six in the evening. I remember washing mechanically, and then once more walking in the direction of Bloomsbury.

I reached the flat and rang at her bell.

She let me in without a word, and then sat down in the studio before the oil stove. I told her I was going to be her lover. She said nothing. There were red rims under her eyes as if she had been crying, and thin lines round her mouth. I bent towards her to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

She began to speak rapidly.

"You must forget what happened last night. Today I realise I made a mistake. I'm not well, I haven't slept. All this has worried me considerably. You must leave me alone."

I tried to seize her, and break down her iron restraint. It was like hammering at an iron wall. She lay cold and still in my arms. Her mouth was icy. I left her in despair. Then followed a week of doubt and torture. Sometimes she sat apart from me without a word, sometimes I could have sworn that she loved me. And she would not let me touch her, she was not in the mood she said. I must wait until she wanted me again. I must wait in suspense, in agony. She never mentioned Julio. We never went into that room again. I asked her what she had done with him. I wanted to know what was at the back of it all. She would answer evasively and change the subject. It was useless to press her. She was maddening. She was intolerable.

And yet I could not keep away from her. I could not live without her.

One evening she would be gentle and affectionate. She would sit at my feet and talk about her music, about her future plans. She was always changing. She was never the same.

I felt hopeless. My position was ridiculous – but what was I to do? She had become a madness to me – an obsession.

I've now come to the last evening, the very last. Then crash – blankness – the depths of hell – and desolation – utter desolation.

Let me get it clear – when was it, what time was it? Seven, eight perhaps. I can't remember. I was leaving the flat and she came to the door with me.

She suddenly put her arms round me and kissed me . . . There have been men in arid deserts where the sun has so disfigured them that they have become things of horror – parched and blackened, twisted and torn. Their eyes run blood, their tongues are bitten through – and then they come upon water.

I know, because I was one of their number.

Laugh at all these comparisons, call me a madman, but the laugh is on my side.

There are women – but you have not kissed Rebecca, you cannot know.

You are a fool asleep. You have never begun to imagine. . .

(Note. Much of this seems completely unintelligible, and the quarter page that follows consists of nothing but broken sentences and half-formed ideas. Then the narrative continues.)

It was shattering. She let me kiss her again and again. I took her face in my hands and looked down into her eyes.

"Who were your lovers?" I said. "How often did you kiss them like that? Who taught you to kiss them like that? Who was the first, the very first? Tell me."

A haze of fury was before my eyes, my hands shook.

"I swear to you that you are the first man I have ever kissed. I swear to you there has been no man before you. Never. Never."

She looked straight at me. Her voice was firm. I saw that she was speaking the truth.

"Now you must go," she said, "tomorrow you shall come, and then we shall have so much to tell each other, so much."

She smiled at me. I saw right through her wall of restraint, right through ice to the flame, the hidden fire.

I remember leaving the flat, and having dinner somewhere. My head was on fire. I seemed to walk among the gods. It was incredible that Rebecca should love me, it was incredible that I should know such happiness. I wanted to shout. I wanted to chuck myself off a roof.

I went home, and paced up and down the room. I couldn't sleep, every nerve in my body seemed alive.

Then suddenly, at midnight, I could stand it no longer. I had to go to Rebecca, I had to.

I felt my love for her was so strong that she would know. She would wait for me. She would understand. She would have to understand.

I don't know how I got to her flat. Seconds seemed to flash by, and I was standing outside in the street, gazing up at the windows.

I persuaded the night porter to let me in, he was half asleep and he let me pass upstairs. I listened outside her door – not a sound came from within. It might have been the entrance to a tomb.

I put my hand on the door knob, and turned it slowly. To my surprise it was not locked – Rebecca must have forgotten to turn the key after I left.

I stepped inside, everything was in darkness. "Rebecca", I called softly, "Rebecca". No answer.

The door of her bedroom was open, there was no one inside.

Then I went into the kitchen and the bathroom, both were empty.

Then I knew. Something gripped my heart, cold, clammy fear.

I looked towards that other room – his room – Julio's room.

I knew that Rebecca was in there, with the doll – with Julio.

I felt my way across the room and beat against the door. It was locked. I kicked against the panel, and tore at it with my nails. It gave way beneath my weight. I heard a cry of fury from Rebecca, and she turned on the lamp.

Oh! Christ, I shall never forget her eyes, the terrible light – the unholy rapture in her eyes, and her ashen – ashen face.

I saw everything – the room, the divan – I knew everything. I was seized with deadly sickness – a terrible despair.

And all the time his vile filthy face was looking at me. His eyes never left me, staring with a lifeless, glassy immobility. The wet crimson mouth was sneering – the sleek dark hair hung in streaks across his cheek. He was a machine – something worked by screws – he was not alive, not human – but terrible, ghastly.

And Rebecca turned to me. Her voice was cold – apart – unearthly.

"And you expect me to love you. Don't you see that I can't – I can't? How can I care for you, or any man? Go away, leave me. I loathe you. I loathe you all. I don't need you. I don't want you."

Something cracked inside my heart. I turned away. I left them. I left them alone. I ran into the street – tears were pouring down my face – I sobbed aloud – I shook my fist at the stars . . .

And that is all, there is no more to say, no more to tell. I went the next day and she had gone, they had both gone. No one knew where she was. I asked everyone I saw – no one could tell me.

Everything is dim, everything is useless. I shall never see Rebecca again – no one will see her again. It will always be Rebecca and Julio. Days will come, and nights, and nothing – they will haunt me – I shall never sleep – I'm cursed. I don't know what I'm saying, what I'm writing. What am I going to do? Oh! God, what am I going to do? I can't live – I can't cope . . .

[iasmelaion]

Yuletide 2017

Don’t mind me, just crossposting my Yuletide letter here. Fandoms are The Last Samurai by Helen DeWitt (has nothing to do with that Tom Cruise movie), Sense8, 17776, and Moonlight. Sorry to everyone on mobile where I guess read mores still don’t work?

Another year, another Yuletide! Thank you for signing up to write in one of my fandoms! I can't wait to see whatever you come up with, and with these fandoms, chances are I'll love whatever it is you choose to write. If my requests/prompts/details don't catch your interest, just remember that Optional Details Are Optional, and that I will be thrilled to get fic in any of these fandoms at all. As far as my basic preferences go: I am okay with gen, het, slash, and femslash. If I've indicated a pairing preference in my request, don't feel pressured to write it! I'm a big gen lover, and I'll specifically note if there's a pairing I don't want to see with the characters I've requested. Also, a confession: I usually skim through sex scenes. I know, I know, what am I doing in fandom if I skim past the porn. But I am almost always way more interested in character interaction than in sexy times. Feel free to include sex scenes! I'd just really prefer that porn not be the whole point of the fic. Things I love: banter, subtle but meaningful declarations of love and/or trust, pining, characters finding home and family with each other, the smaller moments of domesticity or the calm before the storm, crossovers, detailed worldbuilding, lolz, feelings, women being complex and sometimes assholes, dudes being stoic yet simmering with repressed emotions, any number of forced intimacy situations (fake married! Undercover relationship! Surprise soul bond! Huddling for warmth! Oh no there’s only one bed! Sex pollen! I could go on, really), threesomes/sedoretu-style moresomes, and indulgent emotional hurt/comfort. Things I don't love: dark fic, character bashing, character death, non-con, infidelity, incest, alpha/beta/omegaverse fic, mpreg, harm to children, being mean to robots, unhappy endings, issuefic. Also, while I generally love AUs, I love these fandoms for their settings and the characters in those settings, so I'd prefer no total AUs (canon-divergent AUs okay though).

1. The Last Samurai - Helen Dewitt (Ludo, Sybilla) My desires in terms of Last Samurai fic are simple: I just want to know what happens to Ludo and/or Sybilla, after the book. Especially Ludo. Who does he end up being, when he grows up? What does he do with his brilliant mind? Hell, what name does he choose to go by? I'd really just love to see something about an older Ludo interacting with the world and the interesting people in it, a sort of extension of the kind of adventures he got up to in the book. I'd also love to know more about Sybilla, whose character arc I thought ended up getting somewhat short shrift. How does her life change as Ludo grows up? Does she enter the world again, academic or otherwise? How does she continue to deal with her depression? This is my third fourth fifth sixth SEVENTH, holy shit, year requesting this, and I live in hope! I’m pretty sure the book is even in print again now! Here is what I said in years past: I wrote about my thoughts on the novel here, if that interests you. Anyway, like my request says, I more or less want straight up future fic about Ludo and Sybilla. I want to know what kind of man Ludo becomes, what happens to Sybilla as Ludo grows into an adult, what happens to their relationship. In short, I just want to know more. Whatever you do to fill my insatiable desire to know more more more about these characters will make me happy. Don't feel like you have to match the style of the novel. I will be very impressed if you do, but it's not a dealbreaker for me. Anyway, Ludo and/or Sybilla future fic! That's my Last Samurai request in a nutshell.

2. Sense8 - Any I basically just have a lot of EMOTIONS about the cluster and the experience of being sensate, and would love a fic exploring that. What exactly does it mean, to be part of a cluster? Our main cluster seems to have had a somewhat unique/traumatic experience of being “born,” how does that make their take on being sensate different? The show did a pretty good job visually showing it, but I'm super fascinated by what the interiority of the experience is like. The members of the cluster seemed to feel a pretty instant empathy and understanding of each other, what's that like? By now they must know each other better, what was that process like, learning all the mundane stuff about each other in non-life or death situations? How does being a sensate influence their relationships with the other people in their life? What happens when, say, Will tells Diego or Lito finally tells Hernando and Dani (on the way to rescue Wolfgang perhaps)? I know Season 2 ended on a bit of a cliffhanger, but feel free to just jump ahead to some nebulous future where everything’s resolved if you want. You by no means have to answer all or even any of these specific questions, they’re just guides for the kind of thing I’m interested in here. I picked Any characters here, so go wild. I'm most interested in the main cluster, but I'm overall fascinated by the whole sensate experience and what it means for any given character's relationships and experience of the world. Any fic exploring that would be great. Shipwise, I'm into all the canon pairings and basically any permutation of the members of the cluster. My tl;dr thoughts on Sense8 are here and here. This is a fandom where I sort of feel spoiled for choice in terms of characters I'm interested in, so I picked Any for this request. I love the main cluster and their relationships with each other, you basically can't go wrong picking any given combination of them and smushing them together. I'm also very interested in all the non-sensate side characters and how they interact with the cluster. I really just want more more more in this universe.. 3. 17776 - Any I am so utterly FASCINATED by the improbable and amazing and weird utopia Jon Bois has built with 17776. It’s a world that seems to be positively teeming with stories, and I’m wildly interested in reading about any and all of them. I do not actually care about football qua football; I like the country and centuries-spanning version of the game Jon Bois has extrapolated here, but you don’t have to make it the focus of anything you write. What I’d love to know more about are those first few decades after humanity realizes they can no longer die. Or, heck, who first realizes people have stopped dying, and how do they approach that mystery? How do other parts of the world deal with immortality, what games do they play? I know Jon Bois thinks that humanity is alone in this universe, and won’t be able to overcome the practical roadblocks to long-range space travel, but what if they did? What if humanity’s not alone? Who are the kinds of people who’d fling themselves out into the big, wide dark of space, with no expectation of returning, and eternity stretching out in front of them? What other bits of electronics or AI have gained their own sentience or significance, and who do they talk to? Honestly, I’d be thrilled with you exploring just about any nook or cranny of this fascinating universe. I’d only ask that you maintain the source’s absurd yet optimistic and loving tone. Bittersweet and even a little elegiac is fine, I just don’t want anything grim or dark here. The world we’re living in right now has plenty of that. Also, do not feel the need to try any wild format/coding stuff the way Bois did if you don’t want to. A vanilla text story is more than enough for me. A quick primer on 17776 in an effort to snare more people in, and also just elaborate a little more on why I love it: 

You can find 17776 here. It is...hard to explain. Maybe impossible to explain. For one thing, it's a sort of multimedia storytelling experience, composed largely of text, but also some video and audio, and some website weirdness. Jon Bois of SB Nation wrote this, ostensibly, as a series on the future of football. It is not what you might expect, given that starting point. The premise is this: humans stopped dying and aging as of April 7, 2026. Any other risk of injury or illness has been mitigated by a worldwide network of nanobots that will fix anything. It’s a post-scarcity utopia, all pressing problems fixed Having reached this pinnacle, and having hit the hard limits of ability and resources that leave them unable to meaningfully explore space, the humans of 17776 are left with some weird ways to pass their endless supply of time, one of which is playing football. Only it’s not football as we know it, it’s football blown up so the field crosses states and the timespan crosses decades, centuries. 17776 opens with the space probes Pioneer 9 and Pioneer 10 trying to talk to each other, many years in the future. As 17776 slowly unfolds, Pioneer 9 is shepherded into sentience and learns about what’s going on on Earth from Pioneer 10 and JUICE (the Jupiter Icy Moons Explorer). Pioneer 9 learns about football, and the people who play it now, and some people who don’t play it, but are passing their endless amount of time in different ways. Really, the whole experience is worth a read/watch, I’m not doing it justice here. I’ve always been fascinated by fictional takes on immortality, and 17776 offers a pretty new take on it, one where everyone is immortal, not just a few people, so humanity has to figure out how to deal with it together. It would be easy to turn this premise into a horrifying dystopia, a sort of endless hell for all the humans stuck on Earth together with eternal life and no escape. What I love about 17776 is that Bois turned this premise into a utopia, a bittersweet sort of heaven. There are things and experiences that the humans of 17776 mourn and miss (no more children seems like an especially bitter loss, ouch), and they seem to be a little obsessive about cataloging and exploring the past. But it’s so meaningful to me that, when free of want and hardship and death, this vision of humanity buckles down to do ridiculous, wild, fun, sweet things like play century and country-spanning games of football, or travel around learning every minute detail of every place, or travel around meeting each other to share stories. Here is a quote from Jon Bois that really gets at why I’m so fascinated and in love with the 17776 universe: Humanity’s technological advancement over the last 150 years has been almost frightening, but that’s a very small speck of time. I think we’ll eventually hit a wall, and that wall will be, “we can’t travel into deep space ourselves.” Too much distance, too much radiation, and too little incentive. If that ends up being the case, we’ll have nothing to do but solve our problems on Earth. I’m being really optimistic when I guess that we might someday. After we do that, we’re gonna want our games, our art, and each other. One day, we might see those as the only reasons we’re here. In a world where there is no death, where the biggest human problems have been solved, there's something beautiful about those things that still hurt, those things we still lost: the dream of space, children, childhood, endings. And what sweet hope, to distill down our reason for being here to games, art, and each other. There’s a real love of people that runs through all of 17776, and that's one of my favorite things about it.

4. Moonlight (2016) - Chiron, Kevin Just give me Chiron and Kevin’s happy ending. The world hasn’t been kind to them, but I want to believe in the possibility of it being kinder, of them being tender and kind with one another, after everything. I want to believe that they can build a life together, even if it’s not the kind of life they or anyone else would have expected. Trevante Rhodes said, “I like to think they’re together, walking in Central Park hand-in-hand when they’re 90 years old,” and yeah, that’s what I hope for them too. So I’d love a story about how they get there, or how they start that journey. Another possible prompt, this one from something Andre Holland (who plays Kevin) said: “I have this image of them walking along with Kevin’s son and teaching him, either overtly or experientially, about what masculinity is and what it means to be a man, in all the variations that are possible. That, to me, is the magic of it, that there’s a young boy in the world who will grow up with a different idea of masculinity than either of them had.” The thing I loved most about Moonlight was how incredibly intimate and tender it was, how quiet and clear-eyed. It felt like living in Chiron’s skin. And I love it as a love story too, even though the ending was bittersweet. I took it to be hopeful, and obviously, I’m a lover of happy endings. Ultimately, as sad as parts of Moonlight were, as hard as life obviously is for Kevin and Chiron, Moonlight healed some wounds in me that Brokeback Mountain and so many other unhappy queer love stories left, by showing all that hard stuff, but offering a way forward anyway. Kevin, calling Chiron to reconnect. Chiron, taking a risk, making that nine-hour drive to see Kevin. Kevin and Chiron letting themselves be vulnerable to and with each other. Both of them, ultimately, reaching for one another.

[albanlakepublishing-blog]

February Alban Lake Spotlight

Mike Morgan, Author

For our very first interview, we have Mr. Mike Morgan, a prolific and excellent author. He was kind enough to take time to answer our questions; but first, a quick bio for Mike:

 Mike Morgan lives in Iowa with his wife, two children, and increasingly infirm cat. After careers in the UK, Japan, and Texas involving accountancy, freelance illustration, non-fiction writing, and teaching, Mike now does improbably complex things on computers for a living. When he's not worrying about the cat or tidying up his kids' toys, Mike gets overwrought about politics and attempts to write short stories. It's possible his two hobbies get muddled up from time to time. He has written for several publishers in the UK and the USA, with pieces in anthologies, comics, and magazines. Follow him on Twitter as @CultTVMike, where he posts about all things sci-fi. Oh, OK, it's mostly Doctor Who.

 My website is: https://perpetualstateofmildpanic.wordpress.com/

 My latest project is this month's Outposts of Beyond.

  And on to the interview . . .

 Q: When did you first realize you wanted to be a writer?

 A: I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. I looked at book covers as a young child, maybe five or six, and thought, "I want my name on a book." When I got into comics with 2000AD and then Star Wars Weekly, this would be when I was 7, that desire spread to wanting to be in the credits boxes in comic books, too. Unfortunately, as I got older, it became apparent that selling work wasn't going to be as easy as I'd initially thought.

 I tried for a sustained period in my twenties to break into comics, but never got anywhere. At one comics convention in Bristol, while hauling my portfolio around, I got chatting with Matt Brooker, who was brutally honest with me. "Look," he said, "There's nothing particularly wrong with the way you draw, but there just aren't any openings. We hire on maybe one or two new freelancers a year and they have some quirk. You draw well, but there's nothing unique. To develop that style, you need to put in thousands of hours of practice, and you're not going to get paid for that. You don't strike me as independently wealthy, so I doubt you can afford to do it for free. So..."

 He was right. I was dirt poor. I got a job in accountancy, which I hated. But at least I could go back to affording food.

 Later, after years of doing things I loathed, and then teaching for several years in Japan, I immigrated here to the U.S. Starting a new career in Texas, I worked for seven years as a technical writer and editor, which helped me fine-tune my knowledge of English grammar and punctuation and gave me first-hand insight into how hard it is to express complex ideas in plain, no-nonsense sentences. I got enough feedback to sink a fleet of Titanics and developed a tough skin to criticism. I also learned how important it was not to treat my fellow writers the way I was treated, and I became a mentor to some of the newer team members. Although the working environment was hostile, I did love the act of writing and I found joy in helping others improve their written work.

 While all that was going on, I was continuing to put out one or two pieces of my own writing. Teaching in Japan gives you a lot of spare time, so I'd started floating a few things past publishers. Moving to Texas, I was determined to keep that up, but stuck in a car for three or four hours a day on a hellish commute, working tons of extra, unpaid hours, and starting a family didn't leave a lot of spare time. It was only with our move to Iowa, where I still am now, that I found a better work-life balance and was able to kick the writing into high gear. To my inordinate surprise, I discovered that publishers wanted to print my short stories. Not only that, but readers showed every sign of liking them. I was flabbergasted.

 I look back now and I see my name on a book cover and my name in a comic book credits box and I'm glad I never completely gave in. One of my best friends, Kath, said this to me years ago and it stuck with me: "What I like about you, Mike, is that you keep on trying." I'm sure she's forgotten ever saying that to me, but I remembered, and I've tried to stay that way.

  Q: What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

 A: Oh, a 'quirk'! I have yet to develop one with my drawing, but with my writing...? Editors have often told me, in withering tones, that I over-write. You only have to glance at the length of this interview...

 Also, as part of over-egging a box full of puddings in every story, I tend toward the proliferation of pleonasms. And uncalled-for alliteration.

 If you catch me doing it, slap me.

  Q: What do you like to do when you're not writing?

 A: I watch lots of science fiction and read comics. I really enjoy reading stories to my two kids at bedtime, too. Honestly, with two young kids in the house, I spend a lot of time taking endless delight in everything they say and do. I try to carve out a few moments every day to remind my wife how much I appreciate her.

  Q: How many books have you written? Which is your favorite?

 A: I've had 10 short stories published professionally, with two more coming out in the next couple of months. A couple of those were my Titanville stories, which were published together in an e-book by Nomadic Delirium Press, getting me my first solo front-cover credit. I have a dozen more stories in slush piles as we speak, so one or two more will probably work their ways through to acceptance this year – that seems to be the typical ratio of stories sent to stories accepted.

 I've also had a few stories in charity anthologies, and a couple of poems (one was about Star Trek and was printed by Iron Press in a collection sold throughout a major high-street chain of bookshops in the UK), a few non-fiction articles about the long-running BBC TV series Doctor Who in various tomes, and a comic strip script in the British small press comic Futurequake. Another comic script is being drawn now, as it happens, for Futurequake. We're hoping it'll be included in the Spring issue, but we'll see how that goes.

 Oh, and I worked for a short while at an online word mill, putting out articles about sci-fi. You can find them at WhatCulture.com. They accumulated about three million page-views, I think.

  Q: What inspires you to write?

 A: I am drawn to the act of wrenching something into existence through the blunt application of imagination and willpower. I am compelled to create. For better or worse, you guys are on the receiving end of that compulsion.

 When it comes down to deciding what I'm going to write about, I think there are some themes I keep returning to: the beauty in the world, the triumph of love and kindness over indifference and cruelty, the eternal fight against injustice, how any attempt to simplify the complexity of the real world down into stark black-and-white concepts will lead to hate and death...

Also, I love writing characters who are flat-out wrong. There's nothing more fun and more human than someone who is utterly convinced about the rightness of a cause, and that cause is based on an utter misunderstanding. Really, that type of thinking characterizes most of our species' history. People who are wrong deserve our sympathy, our help, our love, not our derision. Anyway, that's some entertaining stuff to write about.

One final thought – I don't want to be a downer but I do feel time pressing on me. Nothing like worrying I'll be dead in a few years to spur me to get some writing done.

 Q: Do you set a plot or prefer going wherever an idea takes you?

 A: I try to have a clear idea of what the story's about before I get too far down the rabbit hole of writing. Preferably, I have an end worked out as well, even if that ending changes by the time I get to it. Sometimes, I'll start the story with the end and work my way backward to the beginning. But there should always be a purpose to a story, even if that purpose is to have fun.

 Every time I carve a tale out of the disorganized mess of my thoughts, the process seems different. One time, the whole story will spill out of me in a rush. Other times, I have to sit down and think through what I'm trying to express.

 Every now and then, a neat idea will occur to me, but I can't find a way to get a coherent plot out of it. Then, a second, entirely different idea will come to me, and I find mashing the two disparate strands together into the same reality brings the whole thing into focus.

 For example, someone having giant spiders in her home and not being bothered by them because they're not in any way dangerous is a neat mental image, but it's not a story in itself. But, add a second strand: imagine there's a neighbor whose job is to twist facts to meet political dogma and that neighbor comes into contact with those spiders... what happens? Does she believe the objective truth that they're completely safe to be around, or does she react with emotion and twist reality to meet that baseless viewpoint? After all, that's her job.

 Boom – you have conflict. The wrong-headed, fact-denying neighbor suddenly at war with nice, harmless giant-sized arachnids. For no other reason than she can't see the truth in front of her face, which is a very common and very plausible failing. What's more, the story takes on a greater message: we shouldn't twist facts to meet our prejudices, no matter how tempted we'd be to do that if we were in the neighbor's shoes.

 That's where A Spider Queen in Every Home came from, the mingling of two ideas that, on the face of it, can't coexist in a single narrative; but, they can, and that story was picked up and published in More Alternative Truths by B-Cubed Press.

 Lastly, some publishers require that you pitch ideas. There, you have to submit a complete plot, along with character notes, up front. If a pitch is accepted, there's no scope for changing details along the way as you write the actual story. For all you know, by altering the agreed-upon tale without consultation, you might be encroaching upon territory occupied by another story in the same collection.

 When fleshing out a pitch, it can feel like you're working while wearing a straightjacket. But it's an opportunity to find ways of making the piece as entertaining as possible without venturing beyond the plan you gave your word on. I've written a couple of stories based on pitches. Unto His Final Breath in Uffda Press's King of Ages: A King Arthur Anthology was created that way, and it garnered some nice reviews. I really like the world building I got to do in that short story.

  Q: What types and forms of writing do you do? If you're also an editor, what is your niche?

 A: I mostly write short stories these days, but I toy with novels. I do have a novel I'm working on (doesn't every writer?) - but, it's the short stories that sell. I am sneakily putting together various stories that work as elements within a greater whole, so that by the time they're all published you'll find they're a novel-length narrative printed in discrete parts across multiple publishers, books, and media. That's the idea, anyway.

 For example, the Titanville stories stand alone as individual tales, but the intent is to have themes and sub-plots that build as time goes on, without requiring the reader to be familiar with every installment. The Age of Asmodeus stories have a similar approach; there's a history to that world, and each story explores a different sliver of it. As those stories go on, readers will see various characters moving in and out of segments of the series or they'll be referred to. Again, the readers won't need to read every story, but there'll be a sense of events moving forward for those who do.

 With the tales featuring Professor Lazarus, the cumulative narrative will unfold using text-based stories and comic strips. Again, that's the hope. Futurequake, a British comic, has printed one story so far and has another one being drawn at the moment. With the short stories, I've had some luck; Flame Tree Publishing printed Fishing Expedition a while ago. I've written a couple more Lazarus stories since then that I'm waiting to hear back on, so we'll see how that goes.

 But you were asking about types of writing. Occasionally, I have a poem published. More often, I'll get non-fiction pieces accepted. I contribute on a semi-regular basis to the range on media and culture put out by Watching Books. This year, they're printing a volume called You on Target about the Target series of Doctor Who novelizations, and I have two essays in that.

 With editing, I offer my services to small presses who print my stories, with regards to proofreading or checking formatting. I'm always willing to help put out the best publication possible.

  Q: What is your area(s) of subject matter expertise? How did you discover this niche? What intrigues you about it?

 A: With living in Japan for several years, I found writing stories set there pretty easy. Not much research required! There's a story of mine being printed soon by you fine people at Alban Lake Press set in Japan. Kuro no Ken (The Back Sword) is slated for the next issue of Outposts of Beyond. The scenes in Ise City take place twenty minutes down the road from where I lived for three years, and the part in the vast cemetery—I've visited that cemetery and it really is that creepy. I love Japan. Those were some of the happiest years of my life.

 Having said that, I lived for longer in Stoke-on-Trent in the UK, and that was the setting for Reverse Horror Story. Your fine company published that piece in Bloodbond just last year. I had way too much fun putting Stoke-themed jokes into that monster-mash-up. I guess, to answer your question, I'm an expert at shoe-horning places I've lived into my stories. I find having a deep knowledge of the settings makes them feel more authentic.

 But, to be clear, I've never lived on the enormous asteroid Ceres, the setting of The Library of Ice in this month's Outposts of Beyond. I'd be willing to give it a try, though.

 Being serious for a moment, I keep writing about people who are struggling because I've been through that. Want to be an expert on the poor? Try being unemployed for years on end, not having enough to eat and worrying about losing the room you're renting. That'll give you an understanding of what that life is like. Newsflash – it's really stressful and depressing.

  Q: How do you balance your creative and work time?

 A: I have yet to find any balance, but live in hope. I get the kids to bed in the evening and then try to write. Sometimes, I even succeed.

  Q: Where have you been published? Upcoming publications? Awards and other accolades?

 A: Other than the things I've already talked about, I'd like to mention Nomadic Delirium's Divided States series, which explores a post-USA North America. My contribution to this excellent range was The Wall Is Beautiful. I hope to finish a second story in this shared universe. I was also fortunate enough to have submissions accepted in their Martian Wave and Disharmony of the Spheres collections.

 One other project I'm very proud to have participated in was Metasaga's Futuristica anthology. I had Something to Watch Over Us included in that amazing collection. I can't heap enough praise on that spectacular book; if you like science fiction, you need to own it.

 As far as upcoming releases go, that I haven't already called attention to, I have a story called Buddy System accepted in Myriad Paradigm's upcoming Mind Candy anthology. The intent is for that book to be released in the next few months. I also have something in the editing pile with Red Ted Books, which should be advancing toward publication this year.

 And, yes, it's a fanzine, but I like fanzines, I'm working with the wonderful people who put out the Doctor Who-themed Fannuals to see what they might want from me for their next volume. I'm so in love with the Fannual project; it's incredible fun. It's actually what I'm starting work on after finishing this interview.

  Q: What are you working on now?

 A: Well, Alban Lake announced they were going to do something with ghost stories, so, you know, I thought I'd try to submit to that. *Grins*

 In the pipeline are more Age of Asmodeus tales, more Titanville, more Lazarus, more space opera antics, more of everything I'm obsessed with.

  Q: Who are your favorite characters to write? How did they come into being, and what do you love - or loathe - about them?

 A: I love writing about Professor Lazarus. She gives her life in every story, usually to save the world from some terrible fate. Then, next story, she's alive again, in a world that's transformed. It forces me to reinvent her and her milieu every time. And there's a point to all her deaths; it's leading to something.

 She came into being because I thought, "Hah – killing the lead character every time would be funny." Then I thought, "What if it's the same lead character every time, and there's a reason she keeps coming back?" How does knowledge of her deaths affect her? Where, at a character level, does that propel the over-arching storyline?

 Another fun character was Silas Smith in The Man Who Killed Computers (published in Disharmony of the Spheres). He's able to lie to computers and have them believe what he's saying. Once you realize how he's doing that, it's less amusing, because you also realize that he can manipulate the humans in the story. I love the ambiguity of his character. He tries so hard to convince everyone he's a hero—the story revolves around how others respond to his claims.

  Q: Any advice you would like to give to aspiring writers?

 A: If someone says you need to improve, he or she is probably right. Every writer needs to improve, every day. It's a process that never ends.

 Don't take rejection personally. It's the work that sucks, not you.

 Keep trying. Stories are only published if they're written and then submitted.

 Realize that even after you've had a pile of stories published there will still be more defeats than victories. And that it's OK.

 Anything else you’d like to add that I haven’t asked? For example, what would you like to see more of in your specific genre? In the publishing field?

 We all like to get things for free. But—! Readers: try to pay for that fiction you're consuming. The more the publishers earn, the more they can pay the writers. The more the writers earn, the more they can write. It's a virtuous feedback loop. If you can't find good fiction out there, it's because you won't pay for it.

 Or, you know, you haven't been to Alban Lake's store. There's lots of good writing there.

  Once again, we’d like to thank Mr. Mike Morgan for his time and to thank all of you for supporting Alban Lake and all of these awesome authors and artists.

[s33]

Things to Think About

A chat with my friend Stephen about qualia, realism, and other stuff. (Posted here by request for comments and discussion).

SK - (Shouldn't we expect real AI to be able to form moralities for themselves?) what are mores if not sets of adaptive rules for decision making? not rigid! This is something that is difficult to square. Computers are considered to have rigid rules...what if they can be made with adaptive rules. Learning seems to require such, btw! Model creation, error correction, etc.If we are going to take ourselves as examples of "intelligent systems", it would sure help if we understood ourselves!

CW - I don't think that there will be real AI. Morality is a sense capacity, like if behavior had a smell.

SK - I actually agree, but that is only because there is nothing possibly "artificial" about sentience. A system can have it regardless of how it was constructed. It is the functionality that matters! self-awareness is not something magical! and the capacity to maximize the number of one's possible future states is not magic either.

CW - I don't think that function is anything more than moving units around. Function isn't magical.

SK - There are functions that can take themselves as arguments! look up Quines self-generating programs. Add self-modeling functionality to that...and the capacity to predict its possible future state given some inputs...

CW - These are theories within consciousness about theoretical entities we call 'systems'. I don't think that there is an actual modeling going on.

SK - IS there modeling going on in your head now? evidence says that there is!

CW - We think in terms of prediction, but computation is nothing but mindless chain reactions.

SK - OK. IS the process of modeling implementable by computations?

CW - Not really. What's going on in my head literally is the metabolism of organic substances...chain reactions from the brain and other organs which constitute the body and its behaviors.

SK - can a physical system, by the implementation of mindless chain reactions generate a model of itself? YES!

CW - Computation only exists to the extent that we make use of it subjectively.

SK - ...You are doing it here now! Proof! The problem is that you are using a very narrow definition of function

CW - Are you assuming that I'm a physical system?

SK - Yes Why? It is a safe assumption to make.

CW - The definition of function should be narrow.

SK - I do not have absolute proof and by Descartes brain in a vat argument, I can not "know for sure".

CW - It's not only not a safe assumption to make, it's a completely unacceptable and unsupportable assumption.

SK - Ok, then you should think of me, the one writing these posts as a mindless system!

CW - Why?

SK - this is getting good!

SK - "Are you assuming that I'm a physical system?" I could assume that you are a figment of my imagination. Is there anything in the content of my imagination that can not be represented by a set of functions, however functions might be defined?

CW - Why not assume that physics is a figment of your imagination?

SK - It is, in a real way. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Function_space

a function space is a set of functions of a given kind from a set X to a set Y. It is called a space because in many applications it is a topological space (including metric spaces), a vector space, or both. Namely, if Y is a field, functions have inherent vector structure with two operations of pointwise addition and multiplication to a scalar. Topological and metrical structures of function spaces are more diverse.

CW - Colors, flavors, feelings, sensations, perceptions, experiences...these aren't coherent in terms of function.

SK - Have you looked at https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/private-language The words of this language are to refer to what can be known only to the speaker; to his immediate, private, sensations. So another cannot understand the language.” This is not intended to cover (easily imaginable) cases of recording one's experiences in a personal code, for such a code, however obscure in fact, could in principle be deciphered. What Wittgenstein had in mind is a language conceived as necessarily comprehensible only to its single originator because the things which define its vocabulary are necessarily inaccessible to others."Colors, flavors, feelings, sensations, perceptions, experiences" follow what Wittgenstein is talking about.

CW - Nah, the brain conjoined twins demolish that. All of that old language-fetish stuff is obsolete.

SK - come on! We have to use language to have discussions.we can not mind meld!

CW - Language arises from natural gesture, empathy, and imitation. Not rules.

SK - there are good reasons for that!

CW - Eventually the mind meld technology will supersede language.

SK - Are there predictable patterns to "natural gesture, empathy, and imitation."?

CW - Only after the fact.

SK - or are they stochastic?

CW - They're aesthetic.

SK - "after the fact", good enough.

CW - not good enough if you're trying to support materialism or computationalism

SK - I am trying to support neither! I want to build intelligent agents. Not write philosophy books...What is a function such that it can not represent any physical action or activity?

CW - If you're saying that the content of imagination can be reduced to a function, isn't that an assertion of computationalism?

SK - "Representation" is a big deal here!

CW - But not as big of a deal as 'Presentation'

SK - Computations are usually imagined to only be what can be defined ahead of time. If we allow for computation and functions that can not be defined exactly ahead of time, but only approximated. That is Progress!

CW - Does it really have to be intelligent agents or can it be pseudo intelligent pseudo agents?

SK - Yes. First is Presentation.i f you can not tell the difference...I could be a pseudo... LOL! Something else that is relevant Is the content of experience irreducible?

CW - Yes

SK - How so? I agree that there is a necessary "integrity" or wholeness involved, but could it be that that property does not control the particularities of content.

CW - Because experience is direct and primary in any frame of reference. Reduction entails indirect experiences.

SK - A set of mutually consistent propositions has a global property of integrity... and it is a collection

CW - It's the qualia that's the problem..

SK - can you state the qualia problem?

CW - Where are propositions coming from?

SK - Let me get to that. "individual instances of subjective, conscious experience."

CW - The qualia problem is how and why would unperceived properties become perceivable in the specific ways which are presented to us?

SK - Is it possible for a pair of entities to come to agree that they are experiencing the same object? I am working on a solution to that! Self-modeling is where it starts, but let's get to that.

CW - It is possible to have an experience which includes the sense that another entity agrees with you.

SK - If it is possible for a physical system to use a set of rules for the manipulation of symbols and the capacity to create dictionary (or their functional equivalent) what else is needed for a pair of entities to come to agree that they are experiencing the same object? Do the entities actually have to have qualia?

CW - I don't think physical systems are possible.

SK - that is a showstopper.

CW - There are no entities except qualia.

SK - OK. We can use Leibniz' monadology to reason about that! since his monads are, by definition, moments of experience or "percepts".The monadology has a challenge: How to account for the coordination of the percepts.

CW - I think Leibniz was on the right track, but assumed that monads were windowless where I think they are windows and doors.

SK - given that there are infinitely many possible combinations of percepts, how does the coordination happen? The 'inside-outside' relation is a duality but let's set that aside for now.

CW - The percepts only appear to be dis-coordinated locally. In the Absolute sense, there is a single eternal percept.

SK - Is there a single coordination of all of them possible? OK, you answered my question. What is the content of that singularity? Something like "every possibility simultaneously"? CW - The totality of all experience. It's only singular in the sense that it is inescapable.

SK - there is math for this, BTW...there is no alternative to it, by definition. Yes CW - Not possibility, just every experience simultaneously. Actually the opposite of possibility in a way. SK - sure. we can toss out "probability" notions. CW - It's made of concrete novelty SK - Yes. Beables, some one called this.What properties might this singular monad have? CW - Think of consciousness like c. It's the most improbable and the most inevitable feature of any frame of reference. SK - Is it fixed for all eternity? unchanging in its properties."most inevitable feature of any frame of reference." CW - It's fixed and unfixed. Those are both local qualifiers SK - an empty frame... CW - The frame of all framing. At least it might appear empty... SK - Good! frame of all framing Can we say that it has an "outside"? Is there anything "outside" it? What about all other versions of it that differ from it in some way? or does it include all possible variations? CW - It appears empty to the extent that a local frame of reference is bounded. The boundary is emptiness (insensitivity) SK - Boundaries!!! Bing bing bing! CW - Outside, inside, variation...these are all local sense qualifiers. The totality isn't bounded though. SK - Can a boundary defining process be represented by a set of rules? CW - No SK - YES, the totality can not have a boundary other than COmpeteness. CW - The boundary is defined aesthetically. There's no process. SK - Can a boundary defining process be represented by a set of rules? NO? Are you sure? Why? I know I guy that proved the answer to be YES! "a set of principles underlying and guiding the work of a particular artist or artistic movement."aesthetic CW - Representation is subjective and incomplete. It's a metaphor. SK - Just because they are not actually written down does not prohibit them from being exactly representable by a set of symbols and a set of rules to manipulate those symbols. What matters is the specifiability CW - I use aesthetic in a little more customized way. Think 'the opposite of anesthetic'. SK - if a function can not be specified prior to its "presentation" is it still 'unspecifiable'? Here we deal with modality and probability, we must. Written or unwritten, symbols are maps between territories. that is qualia...does a map need a prior territory? can a map be "of itself"?YES!!!! CW - Nothing exists prior to its presentation. Presentation is existence. SK - A set of symbols + rules can be used to describe a completely different set of symbols + rules. How? Representation. Maps can map themselves CW - only figuratively. Representation requires consciousness. SK - Can a set of symbols + rules represent itself? can it "make statements about itself"? CW - Symbols + rules are inert without consciousness. Only consciousness can make statements SK - Ah! SO consciousness implies some kind of process... CW - Why? SK - Otherwise it is itself inert. CW - Consciousness can generate process, sure. But it is not itself a process. I define a primitive form of consciousness. SK - it is a process, but a trivial one.To be strictly self conscious, to be aware of one's existence and nothing more. Such as a stone... CW - To me consciousness is just an involuted qualia set. SK - can a process be strictly self-generative? a process that only produces itself? the involution is that! continuous involution...The Moebius strip is a nice illustration of this. CW - But what is being involuted is the real stuff. SK - can qualia be only about itself?sure! It is all that is "real"!!! CW - Qualia can be about itself or not about anything. We know that the Moebius strip is involuted but the strip doesn't know anything. SK - yes. but look at "Qualia can be about itself or not about anything". Think of a chain of experiences.can that chain connect back to itself? X feels like X' feels like X'' feels like X. CW - The chain was never disconnected. It's all centripetal. SK - or, to close the loop. Can X feel like X? it boils down to "Can X be a process that uniquely generates X?" if so, this can be represented as a function that takes itself as an argument.Have you never heard this before? from someone else? CW - X always feels like X SK - yes. But is the "feeling of X" strictly identical to X? Is there a necessary identity? CW - Yes. X is a feeling. SK - is the necessarily X something that can be approximated? An aesthetic presence. Ummm, let me put that a different way. I am present to myself, yes? that is self-awareness.Full stop CW - It gets tricky. We're nested like crazy. SK - I am claiming that that is a process and that it can be represented by a function. Sure, we can nest this process in others.we can nest it it infinitely many copies. Quine is all about this! Also, check out https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/private-language/#ClaAffPosPriLanFalNon CW - *we* can represent aspects of our experience to ourselves and each other, but the representation can't do anything. SK - Indeed! "...the representation can't do anything." BAM! That is why we have physicality. Just because we must for the sake of completeness. For one monad to "affect" another, there has to be at least the appearance of something 'other than oneself' and that appearance has to be such that one monad might have content that is similar or coordinated with that of another, a "common world".T CW - The monad is the totality though, so it transcends self and other. The hand can grow fingers, but fingers can't grow a hand. SK - over and over and over, it transcends itself. That is the fundamental Process. Self-generative, self-defining. CW - I've read the private language argument before, but I don't find it very interesting or compelling. What am I missing? SK - a primitive Process to replace the primitive 'atom'."There is, however, in Wittgenstein's thinking an inclination to think of contradiction in terms of the disintegration of sense, so that even argument by reductio might be understood not in terms of falsehood." CW - Yes transcends in one sense but forbids transcendence in another. I call it the Sole Entropy Well. It's the opposite of MWI. It is the assassin of all other worlds. It uses their impossibility as soil and fertilizer. SK - A contradiction need not be 'immediate". A truth can become false and a falsehood can be come true. SK - “It is the assassin of all other worlds" BAM! This is how wave function reduction happens, BTW. all possible worlds can not co-exist without instant contradiction. BUT! Realities can not be infinite. Know why? CW - I think it's because realism and infinity are intrinsically opposed. SK - yes, but there is detail to this. A language that has infinitely many symbols and infinitely many rules can not be expressive.This is the real solution to the private language question. CW - I think that infinity is abstract SK - sure, but then you are just as much of an abstraction! I can not "know you" in an immediate way... CW - I don't know that a language even requires symbols to be expressive. Onomatopoeia. SK - There is something else too. All types of infinities have a common property: that any proper part is identical to the whole in the sense that the 'components' of the part can be matched up one to one with all of the components of the whole. This allows for "unmeasurableness". What if our qualia is actually a "private language"?as per the discussion in that" In the discussion of the possibility of a private language it may well at first seem as though we understand the possibility under consideration. After all we seem to understand the question in §256, ‘Now, what about the language which describes my inner experiences and which only I myself can understand?’ But is Wittgenstein suggesting we only seem to understand this question?" CW - Yes I think qualia appears as a private language from the third person view. SK - If our sensesorimotor experiences are a self-descriptive process, any external representation of them would NOT be the self-descriptive process itself. It would appear as nonsense or worse, self-contradiction. Thus the proof that qualia is not 3-p accessible. we can even define qualia as that! Exactly what is NOT 3-p accessible. To mind meld would be only possible if it does not violate 3-p inaccessibility... .that would be equivalent to the summing of a pair of databases that contain mutually contradictory data! woops! Recall the duality thing I mentioned earlier? Logical structures are dual to topological spaces? CW - I have been sniffing around the term 'general covariance' and flipping it to be 'proprietary covariance' SK - tell me more! CW - I'm juust scratching the surface of reading this John Norton paper on Einstein's Hole argument. SK - that duality is a relationship such that one 'side' can be transformed into the other and back. CW - The idea of substanstivalism and realism toward space-time SK - logical structure -> topological space -> logical structure We can derive space-time from pre-ordering of events.space-time is NOT a primitive!!!!it is a mass delusion. CW - Think of subjectivity as the hole in general covariance itself...an inversion which introduces a new rule maker. SK - Einstein totally knew it also "the invariance of the form of physical laws under arbitrary differentiable coordinate transformations."This is just another way to define "reality"!That which a collection of entities can not agree to disagree about. CW - The only realism of space-time in his view was the coincidence of fields. I go one step beyond and say that fields have no realism either except in the de-coincidence of universal sensitivity. Reality is like the dream we have not awakened from yet. SK - "The form we take to exist arises from framing nothing." Coordinate systems are frames... CW - Or the representation of frames SK - a reality is a set of framings that is closed under intersection and unions? CW - The real frames are sensory SK - but is open for another condition...sure, they are 3-p inaccessible.thus open to themselves. CW - Any dream can seem like reality, no matter how delirious the content seems after awakening SK - My thought is that interaction between minds is necessary for minds to evolve but minds can only interact indirectly.Thus the physical world, is a necessary delusion. CW - I'm not sure if it's necessary but it allows for a maximally robust realism SK - if all of "physics" can be represented as topological spaces and transformations among them....and minds can be represented as logical structures and transformations among them.and for any logical structure there is a topological space and vice versa. BOOM! CW - I don't think those are minds, they're just the 'body facing footprint' of minds. They require actual minds to represent anything.