#I know Labour is messy and imperfect

[lights-on-why]

Link to the news story

Am I being silly or is this a non-story?

They’re saying the barges are bad, they’re just admitting/accepting that they aren’t going to be able to start emptying the barges on day one? That shouldn’t be a surprise right?

I know the slow speed of government changes is frustrating, and I know that it will likely be much, much slower than it should be and may quickly fall down the list of priorities - but that’s my speculation. All this news story acutally says is “We cannot stop using these bad solutions from day 1. This is sad. We don’t know how long it will take to fix.”

Would we expect an immediate solution? Or is it just that we feel that Labour should be giving clear deadlines on when they will have solved this problem?

Evil party for evil people.

[jasmine-ash-design]

MP Notes and Learning agreement

Having had some feedback on my major project ideas, I have decided to focus on the hand made instead of imperfection. This is because I think hand made work is what I had ran interest in whereas imperfection can link to a lot of things. Imperfection is still a part of hand making however I think it is a better choice of study for me. I have written my learning agreement and I am thinking about producing a publication using interviews or quotes from makers and illustrating this to show appreciation for hand made work. 

My next steps are to do lots of research into craft and hand made work including existing artists or people that use their hands to produce something and why they like this method of working. I want to try and find an interview or something about this and I can also speak to my fellow students and also my family.

Learning Agreement

Jasmine Ash

Title: Hand made

Description:

For my major project I am going to be studying the beauty and importance of handmade work. I want to investigate why making with our hands is so important and how it can spark new, unique ideas as well as aiding mental wellbeing. There is something special about working by hand that the digital world cannot replicate. Throughout my studies I have worked both by hand and digitally and have realised the positives and negatives of both. However, I have realised that I will always favour handmaking, especially at the start of a project. It helps me to create one-of-a-kind work that inspires new ideas and helps me get my thoughts, feelings and ideas onto a page.

I want to investigate this subject as it is something I am passionate about. I love the messy, unfinished and unique work that comes from making with our hands and I want to show appreciation for this. I have always enjoyed making with my hands, during lockdown I got back into crafting and making art with my hands, it helped improve my mental state as well as producing outcomes and ideas that I was proud of. I love exploring my ideas and feelings through making and I think it is very important today as technology is becoming an even bigger phenomenon. This is not to say I dislike the digital world and its capabilities. It provides artists and designers with even more possibilities. However, I do think that the experience of working by hand cannot compare and I think being hands on can help anyone in some way, artist or not.

I want to present this study through illustration and an exploration of hand making. I have developed my skills in illustration and storytelling throughout this course and it is something I want to push further. I want to produce something that captures and portrays the importance and beauty of handmaking and how we should not let it be replaced by the digital world. I am from a very creative, hands-on family. My dad is a chef and an artist, and my mum is a gardener. I think this is something that has inspired my love of art and traditional ways of working. I am thinking of finding some content possibly about artists or crafters speaking about their experiences with hand making or even speaking to people I know who favour using their hands. I would then present these interviews/phrases or quotes in a book or publication with handmade illustrations.

I want to achieve this by exploring my hand making skills by experimenting with different forms of craft such as drawing, book binding, letter press and printmaking. An artist that inspired my appreciation for imperfection and working by hand is Sooji Lee. I discovered Sooji Lee’s work during my typographic project at the end of last year and she has continued to inspire my practice today. She shows that handmade work cannot replicate what is made by machines, but this is what makes our work beautiful. One of her quotes that I love is “The process of manual labour and the result of imperfection while pursuing perfection is the beauty of human originality”.

[vasiktomis]

Pomegranate, Chapter 18: Quiet Earth, Part II.

John Seed x Female Deputy

Rating: Explicit.

Read it on Ao3 here! Notes: Co-angels @honeysides, @shallow-gravy, and @lilwritingraven all provided immense support while I toiled over this chapter, which I am forever immensely thankful for. Never would've been able to give people second-hand embarrassment like this without y'all enabling me. As always, thank you for reading!

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence. Sexually-explicit content. An angry cult leader with performance anxiety. You know the drill.

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The comparative tranquillity of Seed Ranch had a way of making Cora feel like time was moving slower than it should have. In all seriousness, the chain-reaction of their escape from Fall's End was still firing, but without the gunshots and the shouting, approaching the property felt more like being in stasis. It was too still. Too unassuming.

The Project members awaiting John on the steps of the property were vigilant about a thorough, yet strangely distant reception of the man, as if they’d been hard-wired to anticipate his moods; warmly welcoming him home, but giving the man such a wide berth that one might have assumed he was carrying a live grenade.

Cora supposed he was at least consistent in his inconsistency; just as volatile toward his allies as he was his enemies. She wondered if the serenity of the ranch was a natural element of John's sect; whether they simply cared enough about the man to know his boundaries to the inch - or whether such a light-hearted environment was manufactured deliberately and specifically around his temper.

The Deputy’s presence did well to break the façade, however. It brought with it a range of cautious exchanges from the followers that ushered them into the home; some in fear of re-living the bedlam of her bunker escape, and others casting stern looks between her bare midriff and their leader’s refusal to leave her side.

She noticed it, too - how he stuck to her like Velcro.

It was only after she was administered pain medication and had her wound dressed (they’d been gracious enough to re-dress the haphazard bandaging on her hand, too) that John abruptly took his leave, excusing himself to apparently more pressing matters. Cora was simply confined to the foyer, drifting in and out of snoozing consciousness on one of the couches in front of the fireplace.

All in all, the mental and physical exhaustion of conceding defeat to the Project proved in all honestly a little boring. The blonde had expected she might break down once she was left alone. It seemed about the right time for it, and yet, all she felt was tired. Was it the cult who had done this to her? Run her so ragged that only anger remained?

Ideas of escape waxed and waned with cultists moving in and out of the space periodically to check in on her, lessening in their hostility with each passing visit until their warnings not to cross them turned into beratements over her refusal to sit still, for the love of Joseph.

In her restlessness, she sorted through thoughts and memories, deciding on the conclusion that while yes, today had been devastating, she’d long since thrown away her capacity to recognise it. It had been so long since she’d spared herself any emotion beyond rage that everything else felt only vaguely different. She might’ve broken down, had she not forgotten how to do such a thing. Trying only gave her a stomach ache, and so she resigned herself to waiting it out, growing more and more impatient with how undramatic this aftermath had turned out to be. How her captor had left her so unceremoniously after being declared victor.

Maybe he was similarly nonchalant about all this.

...No. That was impossible. He'd probably just excused himself to go dance a celebratory little jig. Perhaps he'd stepped through a hornet's nest in doing so, or been ambushed by coyotes. Something beyond mere choice that warranted the excuse to disappear like that.

The skylights in the ceiling changed hues over the course of what felt like hours, however, and John did not return.

It felt weird, being in his home without him present. It felt weird being fussed over by house staff who muttered for her to stop picking at her bandages while she lay across his furniture, warmed by his fire. It felt weird that her exposure to Sharky and Jess had finally led her to identify that the strange smell she’d always detected in the Baptist’s home was unmistakably raw cannabis.

Eventually, the clatter of plates and bubbling conversation drew the Deputy away from the couch and around to the other end of the foyer. The gigantic table she’d only ever seen stacked high with bibles in the past now carried an assortment of food, picked at by passing cultists like a barbeque line while they chattered away.

Watching them almost felt like watching her family back in Brooklyn. Waiting out the messy crossed streams of conversation in hiding until the coast was clear and the kids could swarm the reward of food without the labour of having to hang out with the adults. It was strange, how they mimicked a family, when the only similarity Cora could gauge between them were the logos printed on their clothes.

The spying didn't last. One pair of eyes flickering to her quickly became ten, and Cora's heart rate skyrocketed. Instinct kicked in. Eyes combing over each Peggie around the table for weapons. Hands reaching for her own absent holster and emptied pockets.

The group did not respond in-kind. Apparently, they were too preoccupied with loading up their plates to deal with a leader of the Peggie-killing movement in their space.

Cora didn’t buy it. Not straight away. Not until her gaze darted around the rest of the room, weighing up which of the Baptist’s gaudy home decorations might be most effective at bone-crushing and-

“Look who’s got her colour back.”

…

What?

The same cultist who spoke up - a woman - one of the group who’d been at the church earlier, gestured at the table. “Hungry?”

What?

One Peggie with a particularly heavy beard slid a plate over the table toward Cora. Two younger girls over his shoulder giggled to each other.

“Do you think we should offer her a shirt?”

“I’m not that brave. Leave it to John.”

“Anything fresh is all from the garden.” The bearded Peggie spoke, pulling Cora’s scowl away from them with a smile.

She inspected the table. Undersized apples and strawberries. Home-grown, by their imperfections. Multi-coloured silver beet and slightly burned sweetcorn. Homemade bread piled an end of its own, surrounded by a selection of preserves in blank jars. All of it, against her will, served as a reminder that she’d only ingested coffee today. This was bizarre, but she was hungry. Not to mention the Resistance diet consisted mostly of canned spaghetti.

Gingerly, the Deputy picked at one of everything, and while the group of cultists continued chatting, she stood awkwardly by on the side-line, trying to figure out the most efficient means of eating corn while still maintaining a hostile air about her and lot letting slip that it was fucking delicious.

Apparently tearing into the thing wasn't adequately frightening. The same talkative man split from the party to approach her, ignoring the roll of her eyes. A spot of shine glided over his bald head while he moved around the table, and as he neared, he gave her a moment to squint at him.

There was something familiar about that overbearing air.

“We’ve... -”

“Met.” He confirmed. “Briefly.”

“When?”

“Months ago now. I, uh, almost baptised you.”

Cora chewed the inside of her cheek, considering that. Somewhere in the back of her mind the memory of wet rocks beneath her feet swelled with the lapping of shallow waters. Just tap my arm if you need to come up for air.

He shrugged at her silence. “You were pretty Blissed-”

“No, I remember you.” The Deputy mumbled, turning her attention back to her food, intent on keeping it there. It didn’t last long. A hand stretched out before her, and with a laboured, full-mouthed sigh, she shook it.

“Andrew. Glad to see you again.” He offered.

“Okay.”

The silence was as painful as she’d hoped to make it, but tragically, he was resilient.

"Andy works, too-"

"Andrew's syllabically identical and perfectly sufficient. Where's your boss?"

“Upstairs, working.”

“And he’s asked not to be disturbed.” One woman interjected. “So don’t get any ideas.”

Cora blinked at that. Then, plate still in-hand, she spun on her heel and made for the staircase.

Behind her, the group exchanged a collective look of panic.

"Ma'am?"

"Sister?"

"Hey!"

“We’re not allowed up there!”

“Perfect." Cora grumbled back, already ascending the steps. "Then you don’t have to worry about following me.”

The second storey of Seed ranch was dead still in comparison to downstairs. A hallway presented a quiet stretch of closed doors and branching hallways that led out to balconies, part way between residential space and tactical efficiency.

Back in the day, she’d assumed the Baptist just had a thing for doors. Looking around at the space now, it was clear that John was well-aware of how many enemies he’d generated thanks to his work.

The crackle of a radio up ahead drew the Deputy’s attention, and as she drew closer, a hushed curse.

“Pick up. Come on, pick up.” John murmured. Then, in a brand new tone: “Joseph. Brother. I need you to call me back. Please, it’s been - just...whenever you can. I’ll be here.”

She found him beyond a cracked doorway, hunched over a desk. His fingers smoothed through damp hair hair, tugging, jaw clenched and brow furrowed.

The door creaked as Cora pressed against it, and in the time it took for her to cringe at the noise, John had sat up straight, shifting out of whatever private mood she’d spied him in. He blinked up at her, inhaling deeply, reeking of uncertainty.

She felt it too. Of all the scenarios to catch him alone in, the blonde hadn’t expected that she’d be brandishing sourdough.

A moment passed. Both of them trying to feel out this new territory.

“Hey.” Cora eventually muttered.

John exhaled. “Hi.”

“Brought food.”

He looked away. “Deputy, pleased as I am that you’re making yourself at home, I asked for privacy.”

“Since when did you value privacy?” Cora asked, pushing into the room and seating herself on the desk. The tired irritation on John’s face when she set the plate in front of him was worth the day of boredom already. He glanced up at her, and she responded with a wolfish smile.

“You have corn in your teeth.” He mumbled, relenting, posture slackening. “And you’re getting blood flakes on my desk.”

The Deputy tried not to look so hurried about picking. “Isn’t that a garnish in Japan?”

“That’s fish. You’re thinking bonito.”

“I know what I’m thinking.”

Another pause.

“Is that what you thought you were filleting in the church? Bonito?”

Annoyed silence.

“It was Nick.”

Finally, John scoffed, glaring at her, offering a reluctant nod when she flashed her teeth to confirm she’d gotten rid of the food in her teeth. “You are so funny.”

“Thank you. Eat something.”

Cora watched the man regard the plate in front of him.

“How generous of you to take a bite out of everything first." His gaze landed on the shredded corn cob. "Except for that. That,  you demolished."

"Yeah, well." Cora plucked up the same piece of bread he'd been reaching for. "Why're you hiding up here? Thought maybe you would've starting laying on the torment by now. Not...brooding."

"Brooding."

"Yes."

"Pardon me for needing to adjust to having a murderer in my home."

Cora hummed at that, casting a look around the room. "Took you about 2 seconds to adjust to a murderer's tongue in your mouth-"

"Deputy." John spat, pushing the plate away from him in a final display of denial. "Please, leave. I'm busy."

“No, you’re not.” Cora bit back. “I want to know what your plan is. Now you’ve got me, what’s next? What’s the point in me sitting around on your couch all afternoon? You don’t leave me alone, ever, and now that I’m here you want me to make myself scarce?”

The Baptist's jaw rolled in annoyance, and when Cora shifted her legs to face him easier, he jerked away from her, avoiding contact. “You’ve grown too accustomed to being in the spotlight." He grumbled.

“Stop avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What’s your deal? What's the plan? What happens now?”

“The plan is to get back to work. My apologies if your assumption was that you were the main goal of this valley, but there are dozens of things that require my attention-“

“Like sitting by the phone for your brother for hours?”

John paused at that. Something old and familiar flashed over his expression, and he stood from his seat. “You’re jealous.” He accused.

Cora’s lip curled, ears running hot. “You’re wasting time, and I want to know why.”

“Is that why you're nosing through my business? If I gave you details - what I'm working on - what the next step is - is that a strategic win for you?" His palms slid against the desk, planted on either side of her legs. "Or is my lack of undivided attention so awful to you that anything to help rationalise it would do?"

Something in her celebrated that look on his face. The renewed confidence in his attitude. It enraged her, but it was scores better than his absence.

She scowled, but she didn’t pull away when John leaned down into her space. It didn’t work the way it used to. Now it didn’t feel close enough. Now she wanted to part her legs and pull his hips against her.

It was a discomfort she’d never known before, and now, even with her wounds dulled, it almost felt painful. She wanted to know what the plan was. She wanted to plan an escape. She wanted to have just this one little victory if this was the end of the line. If he was going to convert her, then she could at least undermine him by ruining his faithfulness. It might destabilise him enough that she could find some advantage to getting back to Fall’s End. That would make it okay, if it were all driven by strategy or revenge. Her curiosity would be sated.

But then, as if he could hear her thoughts from the sheer volume of their demands, John drew away from her.

“You should shower.” He muttered quickly, snatching the radio from the desk. “Across the hall, on the right.”

He didn’t look at her as he left the room. He didn’t look back when he disappeared down the hall and made for the stairs.

Cora glared ahead at the space he'd left emptied.

What a fucking coward.

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Despite her soured mood, Cora had done as she was ordered. She spent all of two minutes rinsing the old blood from her skin, and another ten reflecting in quiet judgement over the bottle of 3-in-1 sitting in the shower caddy with her. Maybe she should've allowed herself the opportunity to warrant having to bathe here earlier. Maybe she'd have developed more of a sense of disgust for the man if she had.

The clothes she’d arrived in were still stained, but it was an improvement. Less of a sensory distraction while she sorted through her thoughts, at least.

While the Deputy dried off and re-dressed, the haze of pain relief began to lighten, and she was able to focus on cobbling together some kind of a plan to get herself out of Seed Ranch. She might have conceded defeat, but the hideous tattoo marking her sternum didn't mean she was suddenly going to behave. Especially if her captor was refusing to even the playing field and let her know what the hell they were supposed to do now.

Whatever John was keeping from her, it was urgent enough that his entire demeanour had changed. What did he need from Joseph so desperately? If it had anything to do with the Resistance, or if had anything to do with Joseph coming here, the Deputy intended to put a stop to it.

If John Seed’s intention was to avoid her, he should’ve thought twice before locking her in his home. Ensuring that he’d keep his distance, however, was the easy part.

The real goal would be getting him away from that radio.

Descending the stairs, Cora found John in solitary silence in the foyer. There was no sign of the Peggies serving up supper anymore, and the dining table had been cleared.

John was alone, sitting on the couch by the fireplace with his head in his hands, no less agitated than when she’d first found him. The hand-held sat close by on his left. In front of him on the coffee table was a landline phone that hadn’t been there previously.

He didn’t notice her at first. To his credit, she didn’t announce herself until a creak of the stairs did it for her. Then, the snap of his gaze toward her was instant. Hyper-vigilant.

Cora reached the first floor. “Where’d everyone go?”

“Minding the perimeter.” John answered, making space for her to take a seat but keeping himself faced away. “You’ll be pleased to know that your troop is still yet to be captured. Little doubt they’re aware that you’ve been brought here. Even less that they’re on the hunt for you, given the state Fall’s End was in when we left. Boshaw seemed happy enough to blow up half the town to get to you. Shorty."

There was no mistaking his bitterness at the nickname.

When she approached, Cora found a folded Project sweater sitting where she intended to. John’s jaw rolled when she slowed to glare at the thing.

Still, he refused to look at her.

“Put it on. You’ll freeze.”

“I’d rather not look like one of you when the Resistance comes to rescue me.”

“You are one of us, now. Almost. Once you’ve pledged yourself to the Project, they needn’t consider it a rescue effort any longer.”

Cora huffed in response, pulling the sweater over her head and slumping into the couch. “You sound a lot less happy about that than I’d expect.”

“I’m fine.”

Stonewalling. Now she was beginning to understand how annoying it was when she did it.

“I’ve made enough of a career out of it to know what you look like when you’re not fine.” The Deputy remarked.

“I think I preferred it when I was asking all the questions.”

“I think you preferred me when I was tied up in a basement.”

That comment caught a glance. Amusement, unnoticed on her part.

“So, what - you’ve been sitting beside a radio all day and somehow weren’t inclined to terrorise me? Or were you just that busy arranging flowers for my Atonement?”

“Are you feeling stood up?” John asked. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were projecting, Deputy.”

Her ears flushed hot. Immediate rage flooded pitted in her stomach, but as much as the blonde would have liked to get up and stomp elsewhere, she had little other option without any better ideas.

Right now, this was all she had.

Channelling her inner Adelaide.

Cora inhaled, swallowing back a cursory retort. “Both work.”

In her periphery, John ceased all movement, staring straight ahead.

All she had to do was pressure him enough to move away. Then it was over. She’d been rejected by him before - anticipating it happening again shouldn’t have needed to feel as gross as it did.

“Maybe I think you got scared, not having me under your control.” She went on, finding the words already prepared on her tongue as she turned toward him. “You seemed like you were enjoying it when it was you-”

“-and then you punched me in the face.” John cut in stiffly.

“Didn’t deter you.”

“We shouldn’t be talking about this.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s against the rules.” The clip in his tone signalled a warning. Then, an impatient sigh escaped his nostrils. “And you said it yourself: it was a mistake.”

He wasn’t going to look at her. There was no pulling at his attention while he could hide her in his periphery.

“Is that why you’re upset?” She made a quiet move to touch her fingers to his forearm, but he pulled away with a scoff.

“If you’re trying to buy time -”

“Are you frustrated?” Cora pressed on. His shifting had given her enough leeway to get herself between him and the phone, and she took her opportunity, sliding down to kneel between the couch and the coffee table. Directly in front of him. “Knowing what people say about you?”

John finally inclined his head to sneer down at her, but if he had anything he was intending to say, it was silence by the bob of his Adam's apple. A gulp. His breathing was the only audible sound in the room, barring herself; shallow and staggered.

Almost there.

Cora kept her eyes on his. She wouldn’t lie - despite sitting at his feet like this, she could still gauge the power that she held. That while, yes, there was a spark of disappointment that came with watching him ignore her advances, there was also some odd thrill in watching the man who’d made multiple attempts on her life struggle so much. Knowing that, even with her unarmed and kneeling - even with all his connections and soldiers, and everything he'd done to her - he was powerless.

He’d taken her freedom, but she could get that back. She’d compromised his loyalty to dogma. Nearly made the tallied notches on his arm into a lie. He'd have to start again from the ground-up. He'd be middle-aged before he found the same progress.

“Now that I’m atoned. Now that no one’s watching.” She sat up, drawing closer to his thigh, inwardly cursing at his refusal to move away this time. “All that work you put into catching me, and now what? Nothing?”

“Deputy.” John growled, low and dangerous.

“You want this.” Cora concluded, watching the flush of red bloom from beneath his collar and the flex of his jaw while he grit his teeth.

“There are bigger things at stake right now-”

“And even now that you have me, you’re too scared to do anything about it.”

John inhaled a swift breath, averting his gaze. “That’s beside the point.”

“You want this."

“Would you quit it? You’re wrong.”

Finally, the Baptist shoved himself out of the couch, back-stepping several paces until he was half-way across the room. Once he’d gotten himself to a safe distance, he regarded the Deputy once more, gaze cold and angry while she cycled through unknown victory and equally unknown disappointment.

He wasn’t going to be made to give in.

“You haven’t been atoned. Not yet.” John breathed, turning on his heel and marching into the kitchen.

Cora stared at the doorway he'd escaped through. Now was her chance.

One...two...three...

Okay. He wasn't coming back in a hurry. She'd successfully scared him off.

There was no time to waste.

While the faucet ran in the next room, Cora twisted around, snatching the phone upside down and hastily unclipping the cable from the device. The dial-tone cut to silence. Communication blocked, but cord hooked up to the damn thing was already conspicuous without  evidence of tampering. She couldn't just discard the cable.

There was no way John wouldn’t notice its absence when he returned, and so the Deputy did what any effective home invader would do.

She bit down on the cord, close as she could to the adapter, chewing hard until grinding wire snapped between her teeth. When she plugged the cable back in and set the phone straight again, the machine remained dead, but intact.

Good. That'd buy some time.

The radio was next. Rather than switch the device off, Cora tuned it a few notches, finding a dead station and placing it back right where John had left it.

Done.

Sabotage successful. If Joseph had any intention of making a call-back soon, he’d be going unheard. There was no telling how long it would last, but unless the Baptist was stocked on landlines, half of his communications were disabled entirely.

Cora exhaled, inviting in the momentary relief. Being kept here was one thing. Having to be in the same room as Joseph Seed was another dimension entirely.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” She called, rising to a stand and following the Baptist’s trail.

No response.

When Cora entered the kitchen, John was dabbing his neck with wet hands. The moment he sensed her, he grumbled a sharp curse, bracing his hands against the counter to keep from facing her.

“Is this the plan? We just sit and wait?”

His shoulders seized. “...Yes.”

Cora stalked past him, finding a counter of her own to lean against, finding her own patience dwindling. Coiling irritation at the very notion of Joseph having so much sway over the Baptist that he could seemingly halt time.

“So what’s the point in taking me? In bringing me here?” She spat.

“Disregarding our personal rapport, it’s no small matter, having you here.” John ground out. “My family will want to know-”

“Have you tried calling Jacob?”

Something twitched in John's expression. A button, pushed. Dispelled rage.

“The Father  will-”

There was no holding back the snarl that brewed in her throat. Hitting its boiling point. He did  have that much sway over the man. They were sitting here in stasis, all because of him.

“Are you that fucking sad? We’re stuck here just because you need to hear Joseph tell you how well you did? A whole fucking resistance effort just blew up half of Fall’s End. You caught  me. Dozens of people are dying, and all you can do is sit by the phone?” Cora demanded, scowling while his muscles trembled. “Are you serious?!”

“WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE ME DO, CORA?!”  John bellowed, head snapping around to fix her in place, eyes blazing. The sheer volume of him froze her to the spot. "Did you assume that you were somehow different from anyone else the Project takes in? That your place here; that you're even alive  had anything other to do than Joseph requesting it? Did you think that you'd somehow slipped through every possible crack in the system for any reason beyond this path being carved specifically by the Father? Because, frankly speaking, YOU HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

The Deputy didn't reply. She couldn't.

Not that it would've mattered.

John, it seemed, was far from finished.

“You're so selfish. One moment you insist on making your own salvation impossible. The next, you assume you can simply start calling shots." He bit, voice already hoarse from yelling, but with no less poison. "You think I enjoy waiting around for whatever order comes next? That I enjoy you waltzing around my home, eating my food, whining that I'm not doing enough  for you? After all the wrath you’ve wrought - after all the death and the destruction - you’re still so fucking entitled to assume that I’d throw aside my loyalty to the Father. All just because you’re here, and not even by fucking choice.”

Cora swallowed, calming the nerves that egged her on to snap back at him. "I didn't - I don't - "

After a moment, the hostility thinned. John's shoulders sagged.

"I know it's not optimal. It might not seem like it, but we're lucky. Things could be a lot worse for both of us, but on Joseph's order, they're not. It's his wisdom that made you being here even possible. So yes; the plan right now is that we sit and wait."

John turned toward her, then. He looked positively miserable.

“What happened last night…can’t happen again.” He explained. “It doesn’t matter that you’re here now. I’m the Baptist. Joseph is my brother. There’s nothing he doesn’t know, and there’s nothing he won’t find out. We need to do everything we can to stay on his good side.”

He did have a point. As much as she wanted John to be the last of her enemies, he was only one of three, and likely the lowest ranked of the Project's leaders. Pushing John to defy a higher power was unwise.

Her job was done, anyway. There was no more need to pursue him. Curiosity didn't matter. Want didn't matter. No meant no.

“Okay.” The Deputy croaked finally, nodding.

John raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” She attempted a smile. "Water under the bridge."

He returned the expression. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Great.”

“Cool.”

They both stood still, watching each other for a long moment.

Then Cora’s heart sank, and she felt herself detach from the counter. John did the same, marching toward her while she advanced on him with equal urgency.

Her fingers found the front of his shirt just as his found her face, and his mouth was on hers in a heartbeat. For all her rationalisations, the blonde reciprocated immediately, clutching him closer, humming into his kiss with a pitch she’d normally find mortifying.

“I’m sorry.” John breathed, hardly breaking away long enough to put the words together before he was kissing her again. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean that."

Cora nodded, barely able to formulate a response against him. Every word she reached for melted on her tongue, completely enraptured by the heat of his mouth and his desperate hands not knowing whether they wanted to grip at her hips or keep cradling her jaw.

She didn’t even know she’d been walked backward until she felt the cold countertop hit the small of her back, and then - much more pleasantly - the warmth of John’s body pressing against her front. She gasped, winding a hand into his damp hair and slipping beneath his shirt with the other, pawing at whatever skin she could access and drawing another one of those pitiful sounds she’d pulled from him last night.

“Wasn’t - ah, fuck,” the Deputy choked, not anticipating the Baptist’s impatience when he dipped his head to kiss her neck, arms coiling tight around her waist, “Wasn’t a mistake.”

"Fuck no." John moaned against her throat, tongue barely darting out to taste her skin. “Won’t hit me this time?”

“Not this time.”

He pulled back then, leaving a half inch of aching dead space between them. Swallowing back a pant and looking at her directly. Like he was weighing up every possible pro and con about this scenario. Cora stilled, trading hesitation with the man, sobering for all but a few fearful seconds.

“If you don’t-”

“Don’t.” John breathed. “Just let me commit this to memory.”

“I mean it.”

“Deputy, you have no idea - how many times I’ve -...how much damage this could do."

Cora shifted under his gaze, searching impatiently to find which direction his resolve would fall. "I can keep a secret."

Amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, breaking through apprehension.

“You want this.” She murmured.

“God, yes.”

He kissed her deeply, holding her steady through the shiver sent through her as his tongue slid across her bottom lip. Then, as soon as it felt like they were picking back up where they’d left off, he pulled back again. The grin he flashed at her frustration pulled a little noise of protest out of the blonde, and when she chased his mouth, he held her still.

“For the sake of being on the same page,” He began, “you do, too, right?.”

What a ridiculous assertion. What kind of answer was he hoping to gain from that? He already had her consent; did he really need the pride of knowing how badly she wanted this too? It wasn’t even something she’d actively considered, anyway. She’d have to think about-

“Yeah.” Cora breathed, ragged. “Yes.”

John settled into a more comfortable smile, and while the eye contact wasn’t something she could uphold for long, Cora mirrored the expression.

Then, a sigh rolled out of the Baptist. “Thank fucking Christ.”

She didn’t have time to chuckle at that.

His mouth was back on her in a instant.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What’d I tell you?” Jess hissed, looking Sharky up and down while she waded toward him through torn up asphalt and cement debris. “What’d I tell you about making a fucking idiot of yourself?”

Sharky traded a look with Hurk at that. The man was nearly unrecognizable from all the dust clinging to him.

“I thought we did pretty good.” The arsonist defended.

“The town’s half blown-up, dipshit.”

“We did real  good.” Hurk weighed in.

He wasn’t wrong. They didn’t even kill nobody they weren’t supposed to. There’d been bumps in the road, sure, but all in all, things hadn’t been a total disaster. Once you translated that into the kind of situation they were in, total disaster  was actually kind of...well, awesome. Especially once the Cougars had arrived.

Sharky hadn’t heard word from over East since they’d left, but things must’ve been mighty fucking boring up there at the County Jail for a whole fucking convoy to come charging through town.

He’d never seen so many baseball jerseys in one place, let alone jerseys toting assault rifles.

There wasn’t any chasing leftover Peggies out of town once they’d shown up. It was a purge so quick and so direct that the blonde understood a little better why Shorty had been so pissed about not getting the extra help earlier.

Everyone had found their way back to each other pretty quick once the chaos had died down. As luck would have it, Kim had been walking Boomer when Eden’s Gate had arrived. She’d managed to get a couple of the general store clerks to safety and found a cattle shed to wait out the fight about a mile up the road.

It might’ve been the adrenaline getting him going, but Sharky could’ve sworn her tits were even bigger than yesterday.

Grace and Mary May reunited quick, but disappointingly did not  start making out. Instead, they helped Kim cart Nick and Pastor Jerome off to Dr. Lindsey.

After they’d rounded up any remaining hostages, the team made their way back to Sharky as the stand-in replacement for the Deputy. That part didn’t surprise him. He was  best mate, after all...after the dog, at least. The part that did surprise him was that the Cougars seemed to do that same.

Tracey surveyed the wreckage on her way toward the group with Sheriff Whitehorse and that tight-lipped Marshal in-tow.

“Jerome says Stammos got carted out with John’s people.” The woman announced. “They took the road down to the airport.”

“Then unless they’re plannin’ on looping back around, they’re probably headed to the ranch.” Adelaide replied.

“Probably a smart move after last time.” Hurk added.

The Sheriff inclined his head, incredulous. “Last time?”

“Long story.”

Sharky watched the disappointment pass over Whitehorse’s face. Must’ve felt shitty; losing all of his employees to the cult.

“I tried chasin’ ‘em down, Sheriff.” He said.

“And given how you’re dressed, Boshaw, it’s no surprise they were so quick to leave.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jess asked.

Tracey was already turning back around, headed for the truck she’d arrived in. “We keep liberating.” She answered. “Stammos called us to take back the valley, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“John’s ranch is almost the Southernmost point before the border.” Whitehorse elaborated. “If we do everything right, he won’t have many friends left to help him cross it once he gets word of us coming.”

“Sounds like the same plan as last time.” Adelaide commented.

“No stone unturned.” He affirmed. “Same as last time. Take care of John the same way we took care of Faith and bring our girls home.”

The Marshal, however, didn’t look as happy about that option. Dude always hated taking the long way around. “And what if John’s taken care of your Deputy before we get there?”

Sharky exchanged a look with the others.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John’s fingers tangled in Cora's hair, hurriedly tugging out the damp tie and wincing when a caught snag caused the Deputy to hiss. “Sorry. Sorry.” He muttered, breathless.

“You’re - you’re certain this is okay.” She huffed against him. If there was any acknowledgement of the apology on her part, it was only in how she clawed at his vest, dragging his mouth back to hers.

“Not at all.”

“What about your -” A gasp briefly did the trick of silencing her, but then: “What about your brothers-”

“Please don’t mention my brothers right now.” John whined.

Cora eyed him. “Door’s locked?”

John stifled a chuckle at that. “No, why would it be?”

Cora eyed him dangerously.

“I’m kidding." He defended. "What, you think I let people walk in and out of here unannounced?"

“Fucking prick.”

“Obviously, I’m kidding. You’re a-aaah…” His retort dwindled when the blonde’s hands slid down his front, stopping short of the hem of his vest and creeping back up to his collar again. He pulled back to glare. “A captive.”

“And you’re sensitive.” She replied, simply.

“7 years is a long time.” John’s own hands fell from her hair, slipping down her sides until she couldn’t feel them anymore. “Not sure how much I can...handle.” That last phrase came cautiously. Awkwardly.

The blonde’s fingers traced back down while she listened, more quizzical than apprehensive at the warning.

To her, that sounded more like a challenge.

"What."  John grunted at the smirk that played on her lips.

"Just the audacity of you asking for mercy."

A shiver worked its way out of him when she went lower, ghosting over his hips and then back up again. Deliberately avoiding the ever-insistent graze of an erection against her stomach, sporadically tensing against denim confinement whenever her hands got close. Every reminder of it sending a fresh wave of heat through her.

“Seriously-”

“Mr. Seed, either we carry on like this, or you fuck me. Right now.” The Deputy spoke low, watching the Baptist’s pupils dilate more with each word. “Either way, we’ll find out how much you can handle, but 3 years is also a long time. I’d hate for only one of us to break a streak.”

John stared, dumbfounded.

Then, his hands reappeared, tugging around her waist, wrenching her up and onto the countertop. Her wasted no time pushing her knees apart, drawing near enough between her legs that she could reach for his belt, but not close enough that she could find the friction she was looking for. His fingers pawed her thighs, then gripped hard when her fingertips ghosted over the bulge that impatiently jutted between them.

“Ah. Shit.” He shuddered, folding down to balance his forehead in the crook of her neck, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping him standing. Cora found that she liked the idea of that. Ten times the amount of experience she had, and yet here he was, barely functional.

She pressed her palm against him, content with the hitch in his breath and the little jerk of his hips. A responding, dulled twitch pressed back. Through the obstruction of clothing, it was impossible to get a sense of him, but biology didn’t discriminate. She wanted him in her.

“Doing good.” Cora murmured against John’s temple, running her fingers through his hair in reassurance while his dug into her thighs in a vice grip.

“So good.” He choked when she slowly began to move back and forth. “So - so good. Feels - ah, fuck - let me -“

Maybe a little too quickly, Cora pulled herself closer to the edge of the counter, tugging John’s unbandaged hand further up her thigh and hoping he’d get the message while she busied herself with his belt.

She knew his smirk too well to mistake it for anything else when she felt him hum against her throat.

John straightened, pulling Cora’s attention back up to him. Lo and behold, he was looking as arrogant as ever; as if he hadn’t just been whining at her mercy. “Deputy, have a little patience.”

“After all that ranting about giving, you sure are selfish.”

“Oh, so you were listening.” He grinned, tracing a thumb back and forth over the junction of her hip. “Tell me, what happened to my little ranger who loved to play by the rules?”

“Hypocrite.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Hurry up.”

John flinched when Cora’s hand shoved beneath his still-fastened pants, palming him through his underwear. He managed to hold strong, though, even if his voice near-cracked. “Or what?”

“Or John Seed’s gonna come in his pants.”

Again, he twitched in her grasp, but his movement remained torturously slow.

Realisation hit the Deputy at his resistance.

He was getting a kick out of this.

He was testing her.

“How crazy does it drive you, not having total, complete control?" He asked. His thumb reached the seam of her pants, almost too light to feel. She still throbbed all the same.

"You're an asshole." Cora growled.

“You know, I always suspected you got off on that.”

“Evidence suggests it might be the other way around.”

“Answer me, Deputy.”

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll do just that if you don’t cooperate.” John tutted at her frustrated ineptitude at deciphering his belt buckle. “Are you really in a position to be calling the shots?”

Cora stopped to consider that, locking to his gaze with a scowl. Why did every interaction with him have to feel like a chess game?

Fine.

Not breaking eye contact, Cora simply pulled her sweater over her head in response.

John’s gaze broke immediately. He tried to recover, but the damage was done. There was no picking his composure back up after the attitude slid from his face and left him with nothing but prying eyes and a slackened jaw.

“Well,” He croaked, “when you put it that way…”

“Help me with this.” Cora urged, still tugging at his belt. He acquiesced immediately, although with the two of them hastily fumbling with the same mechanism, the extra help wasn’t much better. John swore under his breath, pulling out of Cora’s reach while she clicked her tongue. “Does that thing double as a chastity belt?”

“It’s not my fault we have a single functional hand between us.”

“You stabbed me first.”

“For God’s sake - fuck - got it.”  John sighed, finally unbuckling the monstrosity, rushing back to the blonde’s reach. She dealt with her own belt while he hurried with his jeans, tattooed fingers shaking. The moment he’d succeeded, his hands flew to her waist, revering bare skin and savouring her impatience for him to touch her where she wanted to be touched.

She would have cussed him out, had his teeth not grazed her lip, refreshing the taste of him with his tongue slipping into her mouth - right as his left hand wriggled it way into her pants and pressed.

Cora saw white for a second. Untouched nerves awakening in a frenzy that had her gasping into that bastard’s mouth. Jesus, she could feel  the grin on his face.

“Hm. Hypocrite.” Came the reminder, followed by a strangled noise when her fingers enclosed around his cock; separated still by underwear, but gripping him all the same. His body shoved against her, crushing their arms between them in the attempt to find his way closer - to find more. “Ah - shit. Careful-”

A knock from beyond the kitchen sent a collective jolt through both of them, and John’s head whipped around in a panic.

“W-...what is it?!” He called, voice cracking.

“John, have you got a minute?” A deeper voice Cora didn’t recognise responded from outside.

“Doubt I’ve got more than ten seconds.” The Baptist hissed to himself. “I recall saying emergencies only! Ask yourself - is this something I need to find John for, or can I find my own way?”

Christ. He spoke to his followers the same way she spoke to hers.

“O-okay. Sorry.”

John didn’t reply. He simply turned his attention straight back to Cora, stroking up and down along the material of her underwear. His cock twitched impatiently in her hand, at odds with his leisurely pace. “You’re soaked through.” He taunted, but the tremor in his voice delivered it as a revelation.

Cora’s brow furrowed. She stroked once, sweeping her thumb over the head of him. “Speak for yourself, Baptist.”

A grunt sounded from the man. His hands moved quickly, yanking her to the edge of the counter and gripping at her pants. Tugging the material down and off her legs while he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. The Deputy’s initial instinct to draw herself together and hide from scrutiny was jarred by the way the Baptist gaped between her legs. Like closing them would be some cruel disservice to him. So, she let him stare. Held still while he drew close, dotting a kiss to her knee and shivering when his beard skimmed her inner thigh.

“Thank you for wearing white.” John murmured, stroking a careful thumb over the cotton, leaving only aching want in his wake.

“That a religious thing?” She tried not to croak, raising an eyebrow.

“Not in this circumstance. Just...thought about it.”

“Oh. You just - casually speculated on the colour of my underwear.”

“Something like that.” He continued the action. Back and forth. Up and down. Trying to find the same spot as earlier. For all his enthusiasm, however, he was still out of practice and just as impatient as she was. He’d draw close, but any hitch in her breath pulled his gaze up to her face, searching for praise and losing his place in the process.

When his mouth suddenly descended upon her, though, fingers giving up their place to yank the material to the side and grant him direct access, the Deputy found herself uncomfortably on the complete other end of the spectrum. From not enough, to way, way too much. A squeak shot out of Cora, and her legs clamped shut on John’s skull just as her fingers gripped his hair in an attempt to pry him away from her. Both actions earned a separate “Ow,” from the man.

John pouted up at her. “What?”

“Stand up.” “I like where I am right now.” He protested. “You’re not shy,  are you? I want  to-”

Cora tugged at him anyway. “I don’t want you to practice on me. I want you to fuck me.”

John blinked. “Okay - not shy.” He pulled himself back to a stand, averting his gaze while she guided his hips back between her legs. “I’m - er - it’s just…-”

He bit back a resigned curse when her fingers circled his erection once again, passing over the noticeable slick of precum on strained cotton.

“Just what?”

“I'd like you to - enjoy it." The admission came. "And I’m not going to last.”

“Good. I'll enjoy that just fine.” Cora replied, earning a questioning look. “Won’t look so smug anymore when you’re coming in record time.”

John's expression darkened at the challenge, but his hands shook as they swatted her away, struggling to manoeuvre the fly of his underwear into just  the right position.

Anger was still the quickest way to get through to him.

“Just you wait." He warned. "I’ll-“

She cut him off with a kiss, pulling his hips against her, and his threats evaporated. They were pressed too close for her to see, but his cock grazed the hem of her underwear, finally pulled free. Then, John’s fingers hooked around the material, pulling it to one side.

The Baptist held her gaze, brow upturned like he was worried.

Was he nervous?

“Ready?” He asked.

He looked...kind of pretty like this. Pupils blown. Lips a little swollen. Hair all messed up. Eye-contact wasn't so uncomfortable when he looked this wrecked.

She nodded. "Yeah." The pitch of his gasp matched hers when the head of him slid with dangerous ease along the wetness of her cunt. All she could focus on was the heat of him. The blunt press, drawing closer and closer to her entrance until he was finally lined up. The ache of resisting muscles and relieved nerve-endings when he pushed forward, torturously slow, concentration and bliss fighting for equal real estate on his face, and okay,  he was exceptionally pretty like this.

A tiny little 'fuck'  crept out of John when Cora sighed at the feeling, insistently encouraging, tugging. She needed more. It wasn't fair. Didn't fucking matter how long for; she just needed to feel him. All of him.

Then, when he was barely two inches in, another knock at the door pulled her out of her stupor.

“John? I spoke to Andy. He says it’s an emergency.”

John froze. Then, his eyes scrunched shut in a long-suffering grimace, and once again, his forehead dropped to Cora’s shoulder. Frustration radiated from him, infecting her within moments.

"Has he been out there the whole time?" She grunted.

"Christ." The Baptist sounded almost amused at that. He pulled back to offer a half-smile.

He had to investigate.

Cora, meanwhile, had no patience for his imminent departure. Her legs locked against his hips, but he was gently prying himself away already, muttering repeated, gasped apologies at her protests.

“I’ll be right there!” He called back, already resetting his belt. “Give me a minute.”

“Are you kidding?” Cora hissed, sliding down from the counter.

“I’ll be 30 seconds. I swear. Then we can - we can go upstairs, and we can stay  there. Emergency or not.” John assured her, punctuating his words with kisses wherever he could land them while she struggled to multitask between receiving and yanking her pants back on. Then, he pulled away completely, stumbling out of the kitchen on visibly shaky legs.

Cora took a moment to silently lament before heading back out into the foyer, buckling her belt while she surveyed the space in an attempt to distract herself from impotent fucking rage.

John murmured away with someone outside, half-visible through the gap he’d left in the door. His arms had crossed, but with his back to her, she couldn’t discern his mood any further.

Nonetheless, her concern grew, and when the man said his goodbyes with a nod and entered the building once more, the Deputy found it had good reason to.

John passed through the room, not sparing her a glance. He snatched the radio he’d abandoned on the coffee table, but to her fleeting relief, simply clipped it onto his belt and moved on.

He’d turned pale.

“Hey.” Cora frowned, following him to the trophy cabinet where he began rifling through memorabilia. “What’s going on?”

“We have to leave.” He muttered, unboxing a small case. It rattled as he shook the content into his hand. 38 Specials, most making it to his back pocket, some clinking to the floor, forgotten when he moved on to withdraw his revolver and tucked it into the back of his pants. “Now.”

John continued hurrying about with Cora hot on his heels, unable to really do anything but watch him build a collection of valuables on the dining table. His coat. His keys. A particularly raggedy old bible. He made some effort to conceal the zip-lock bag he pulled from behind the décor on the mantle; definitely the source of the odour that permeated the foyer.

They traded a look - critical on Cora’s part, and John rolled his jaw while he shoved it out of sight, irritated. Perhaps embarrassed.

“Did you know?” He huffed.

“Mr. Seed, I studied in Colorado. I know what a half-bag looks like.”

“Did you know about the Cougars?” John’s voice hardened. “According to the Chosen, there’s one hell of a convoy inbound from the North. Did you know?”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Oh. Fuck.” Cora noted, still too dazed to even bother lying. “I called them in.”

They actually came?

“Wonderful.” John had stopped to run a hand through his hair. “Truly. Thank you.”

“Well sure, but I don’t see what good they’re gonna do you. They’re probably here to-”

“Sarcasm, Cora.”

“That makes more sense."

John started to pace, then, relenting. Dispersing his temper. He tugged the radio from his belt, holding it to his chin. “Joseph, for God’s sake, come in.”

Half a minute passed by. The little curses under John’s breath became more punctuated until his patience thinned. He angled the dial, and then stopped. Examining the station he’d been using, incredulous.

His gaze flickered to her for a split-second, eyes narrowing, and Cora’s stomach coiled.

Shit.

He knew.

She winced while the Baptist strode past her, anticipating his approach to the phone, investigating an absent dial tone and her now-obvious tampering. He turned the machine over, holding up the ruined cord for her to see.

"Your handiwork, Deputy?" The smile that spread over his face was sharp as ever. The mask was back on.

Perhaps this hadn't been her best plan.

She should've let him go down on her when she had the chance.

[sabineelectricheart]

The Travelling Emissary

Summary: Byleth feels trapped in aristocratic life, but Sylvain offers a way out. Will she take it?

Rating: K+ - Suitable for more mature childen, 9 years and older, with minor action violence without serious injury. May contain mild coarse language. Should not contain any adult themes.

Words: 1500

Notes: Tonight’s the first full moon after the Summer solstice. May the season bring all good things to you! And you could help my season chug along better with a share and a comment, how ‘bout that?

It is a full moon night out there. A beautiful night for such a grand announcement, but not everyone was feeling so festive. Byleth, for one, sat on the cold, stone bench on the corner of a castle courtyard, so completely lost in thought that her usually sharp senses did not notice the man until he spoke.

“So, I hear you are going to be queen. Congratulations.” He held up his crystal champagne flute in a mock toast.

The woman jumped at the surprise for the sound of his voice, then narrowed her eyes at his tone. “I am, but I shall not thank you, for I doubt your well-wishes are in any way genuine.”

He smirked and dropped down next to her. “Astute as ever, Byleth.”

The pair looked ahead, each refusing to meet the other’s eyes, each too stubborn to admit what had been brewing between them since much before the end of the war. Perhaps even before the monastery was invaded.

He had come to visit one week, in the Spring. A whirlwind trip through Fhirdhiad before embarking on his next adventure. Dimitri had been happy to see his old friend, already overwhelmed with the demands of being king-to-be, and encouraged Sylvain to stick around for a little while, if nothing else to smooth things over with the aristocrats. His boat to Brigid would not leave without him, anyways, so he stayed and stayed.

Byleth had been miserable. She missed the freedom of the road, she missed her labour, she missed fighting, or even teaching. Completely out of her element, she hated playing dress up only to be ignored by the men and degraded by the women. She had found an out-of-the-way study with a well-stocked bar cart and sat nursing a bottle of spirits, the clink of the ice cubes the only sound in the room. 

“Oh, sorry, I did not know anyone was here.” 

Sylvain stepped back from the door, ready to leave. He was looking for a drink, not a conversation with his old professor who had no business being there. The woman looked up, surprised. Clear green eyes locked on his and Sylvain felt the air escape his lungs. 

“Please stay, Sylvain. I have not had a conversation with anyone in over two days.” Byleth grabbed the whisky bottle and held it out to him. “Care for a drink?”

His body moving toward her before his brain could tell him it was a bad idea, Sylvain found himself sitting on the opposite end of the couch, reaching out to slip the bottle from her slim fingers. Raising it to his lips, he took a long pull of the burning liquid, his gaze never leaving her face. 

“Why are you hiding in here?” Sylvain sucked his upper lip, removing the traces of liquor there.

Transfixed by the sight, Byleth felt a stirring deep in her belly. Dimitri was attractive, there was no doubt about that, but she saw his imperfections: a slightly chipped incisor, cheekbones slightly too angular, shoulders slightly too rounded, and the loathsome missing eye he mourned as if a family member. She saw, however, nothing wrong with the man in front of her. A full mop of vividly red hair haphazardly brushed back from his honeyed eyes. A dazzling smile, the dimple in his left cheek mesmerizing.

Byleth thought he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The war has left no imperfections on him, if anything his imposing figure seemed that much attractive perched on a war horse.

She shrugged her shoulders, the messy green bun on top or her head wobbling with the motion. “I guess I just did not feel like impressing people tonight.” 

“Well, you are in good company, then.” Sylvain gently knocked the bottle against her tumbler. “I never feel like impressing those assholes.”

“Yet it seems to come to you naturally.” The green-haired woman notes. “I suppose this is why Dimitri put you in charge of the diplomatic service.”

He chuckled uncomfortably. “I suppose.”

The pair talked into the early morning, finally parting ways when Byleth gave a jaw-cracking yawn.

“I guess I should get to bed. I will not be impressing any princes with dark circles under my eyes.” She snickered self-deprecatingly as she rose. “Thanks for hanging out with me, Sylvain. It was nice talking to you.” 

He rose from the couch, wracking his brain for a reason to keep their conversation going. After so many years, so much time apart, and he had never enjoyed anyone else’s company as much. He appreciates her outlook in life, that rugged enlightenment born of life and experience that feels so refreshing. Never had he actually wanted to talk to a woman, not just fuck her. 

“You are impressing everyone, Byleth.” Sylvain gently touched her elbow, electricity bouncing between their skin. “Dimitri would be lucky to have you as his Queen.”

She smiled softly up at him. “Thank you, Sylvain. Good night.” 

“Byleth?” Sylvain stopped her before she could slip out the door.

She turned and raised her eyes questioningly, hoping beyond hope that he wanted to see her again.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat nervously, unsure why he felt so unsettled by this girl. There was something disarming about her, something so genuine that Sylvain could not help but want to be around her. To talk to her. Make her smile. Kiss her. 

“I leave soon, but…” He sighed, putting his thoughts and feelings in order. “I know how this place can get to you. If you ever need to talk, I am here. I get it.”

Byleth grinned. “I would like that. Thanks.” 

Over the next few Moons, the two conversed frequently, each of them finding comfort in the other, taking well into the night. Their blossoming friendship was complicated by Dimitri’s growing feelings for Byleth and, overcome with guilt, Sylvain tried to back off. They swore each get-together was their last, yet could not make it through the day without speaking to one another.

“You know, I never thanked you.”

Byleth’s voice broke Sylvain out of his reverie. He turned his eyes to the woman who had slowly become his best friend over the last few weeks, had maybe become more. The pain of knowing his other best friend was going to announce to the court in mere minutes that she is to be his Queen thrummed through his body. He tilted his head back and let the champagne in his glass flow down his throat, hoping it would soothe his aching heart.

The redhead cocked an eyebrow, remembering what she said when he last advised her to leave Fhirdiad.

“Thanked me? If I recall, you told me I had no fucking right to tell you what to do with your life.” He stood and rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension tightening his muscles. “So, I do not need your thanks, Byleth. I do not need anything from you.” 

A flash of pure rage shot through her, pulling her to her feet next to him. “Fuck you, Sylvain! Fuck you for trying to tell me how I feel. I know how I feel. Dimitri loves me. I am marrying him, and he loves me, and I love him!” 

Byleth drew a deep, shuddering breath. He was wrong. He was wrong about her, about everything. 

Staring down at her, at her beautiful face surrounded by that green halo of hair, a ringlet perched on her head, billows of chiffon wrapped around her body, Sylvain made a desperate decision.

“You love Dimitri?” He asked, shakily.

Byleth crossed her arms, hating the prick of tears behind her eyes. “Yes. Of course, I do. I told you that.” 

Sylvain took a step closer. “Look me dead in the eye and tell me that, Byleth. Tell me it is him that you love.”

She tilted her chin up defiantly, looking Sylvain in the eye, but she could not make the words come.

“I-I… Of course!” She stutters pathetically. “I just said that! I do not have to justify myself…!”

Sylvain pulled her to him, plunging a hand in her thick green hair and crashing his lips to hers. He felt Byleth pause for a whisper of a second before she opened her mouth to him, soft and sweet. He let his tongue slowly collide with hers, twisting intimately together, their bodies finally learning what their hearts already knew.

Byleth moaned softly against his mouth, her own hands coming up to tangle in his unruly curls. Gripping her against him, Sylvain picked Byleth up so their bodies were pressed together, the passion between them released. 

After what seemed like only seconds, Byleth slid down Sylvain’s body. He felt the loss instantly, as though the sun had gone behind a cloud. They stared at each other breathlessly. 

“What now?” Byleth whispered.

Sylvain brushed his thumb gently across her kiss-swollen lips.

“Now we come clean. Finally.” He smiles. “And then we ride into the sunset.”

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

[cathlita]

Never Girl

You are a force of nature. You wound and heal, both in a single stroke. I want you out but I miss you beyond measure. To hold you is both the greatest gift and by knowing that, simultaneously the worst pain because there will come a time where I won't.

You'll be everything i never was, with any luck. You'll take the best of us and shed our ineffectiveness and labour like a dried husk. And you'll emerge brighter for it.

I've done everything for you. Torn through fabric and flesh and hurled it all into the sun for just the chance of you. And I will do everything for you. Nothing I can give you will be enough for me. So I will give you everything, exhaustively and unconditionally.

You are everything I've ever wanted, but don't let that weigh you down. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.

And you will be a queen. You harbour more responsibility than I will ever let you know. You keep me going, you are my being, my heart beat and my breath. All roads lead to you, even if I've had to wear them down myself. And it has worn down.

You will be a trailblazer. No one will do what will do before, during or after you. You are perfect and entirely messy all at the same time. Your imperfection is what makes you perfect.

In whatever form, before, during or after you will be enough.

How I long to hold you and tell you how much enough you are. I will plant the seed and tend to it and water it and care for it and watch it grow and let others in to tend and care and water until. Until nothing. No plant ever stops needing the sun or the rain, and both must come for growth.

You will be the size of a seed. and then not. The size of a grape. And then not. The size of a small Guinea pig. And then not. For better or worse it will be and then not.

Growth is a curve. It's not straight up to the clouds. If we're lucky we get to the Crest and have a clear day, to breathe it in for a single moment before a decline that will be gentle, rough, agonising, peaceful and undoubtedly downwards. But the end place shouldn't be the goal. It's easier on the way down to open your eyes and heart and easier to open your mind on the way up. But I promise you, eyes heart and mind, all open, up and down will be so worth it.

Pain is inevitable, sometimes almost pleasurable in its torture. Learn from it. Or try to. Sometimes it's enough to just let it wash over you and through you to permeate your skin and let it sit within you until the last has evaporated. Just feel it. Feel everything as hard as you can. Let your tears race down your cheeks and make a bet with yourself on which one will win. In the end you'll find you always win that race.

Be generous with your words. But not too careful. Let them fall from your mouth easily and smoothly. Or not smoothly

Just let them out. Oh how they long to be let out. They've been forged in the fires of your heart and the raging machine of your brain and they so desperately want to get out so let them. Let them. Let them. Until the feel of them in your mouth is too much you let them. They are there. And then not.

[freemmoviess]

Movie reviews: Love Aaj Kal

Here's what critics are saying about the film Love Aaj Kal featuring Kartik Aaryan, Sara Ali Khan, Randeep Hooda, Aarushi Sharma and others.

Kartik Aaryan and Sara Ali Khan pose for photographs during the trailer launch of Love Aaj Kal in Mumbai.© Photo by Sujit Jaiswal / AFP Kartik Aaryan and Sara Ali Khan pose for photographs during the trailer launch of 123movies Love Aaj Kal in Mumbai.

Love Aaj Kal is love’s labour’s lost (Hindustan Times) First thought that comes to your mind after watching Imtiaz Ali's Valentine's Day offering, Love Aaj Kal is what could have prompted the filmmaker to tell a decade old story again, with modern characters who are messed up, uncertain and frivolous? Or was it just a mindless decision to cash in on the craze his lead pair - Kartik Aaryan and Sara Ali Khan - generated ever since Sara expressed her wish to 'date' Kartik, on Koffee With Karan?

Irrespective of the reason, with this reboot of his own 2009 film by the same name, Imtiaz once again invites you into the world of imperfect people, complex situations and dysfunctional relationships, and fails to weave it all together. Complete review here.

An incoherent mess (Indian Express)

If you had apprehensions about a brand new film being called by an old name, made by the same director, you were right. If you thought that despite this apparent lack of imagination, this 2.0 ‘Love Aaj Kal’ would fly, you were wrong. Imtiaz Ali’s latest version of romance in this-day-and-that age, is nothing but an incoherent mess.

The last time I saw the messy feelings of pain-pleasure-exhilaration, feelings that touch you and move you, that radiate from true lovers, was in Ali’s ‘Jab We Met’, and before, in his lovely, underrated ‘Socha Na Tha’. He hasn’t managed to capture those emotions since, not in ‘Rockstar’, nor in ‘Tamasha’, and certainly not in the misfire that was ‘Jab Harry Met Sejal’. Complete review here.

Also watch: Things you did not know about Love Aaj Kal actress Arushi Sharma (Video by Times of India)

Video player from: TimesOfIndia (Privacy Policy) A bearable first half and terrible second half (Bollywoodlife.com)

Imtiaz Ali tries doing a Sigmund Freud or Carl Jung on love and relationship, but all he ends up being is a paltry government-sanctioned student counselor, with an online degree, who's masquerading as a pseudo-psychologulist, without the first clue in the world of what he's taking about or getting at.

[contemporarythoughts]

Blackpool and its treasures- Unique Bath towels.       Having a breakfast in HIVE in Blackpool made me realise that art is coming out of galleries on bigger and bigger scale. It makes me really happy that artists have a platform to show and sell their work in a day-to-day environment, in a café, which  makes art itself more approachable. Four paintings hanging on the walls, two still life and two landscapes ready to be purchased, reminded me of Collector plan in welsh STORIEL, “own the art you love” project, which sympathised with the idea of art education on a daily basis, which is also being pursued by the artistic locations on the map of Blackpool and I count HIVE as one of them, because of putting effort in promoting & spreading awareness about local art. While on the subject of artistic locations , I also want to mention the Abingdon Studios. The parallel between them and HIVE is the everyday they bring to art. Garth Gratrix, the founding director of Abingdon Studios Ltd, whom I had the pleasure to meet, employs everyday and DIY materials such as wood, concrete blocks and found objects. He created a modern atelier studio, providing safe space to represent art, especially in lenses of sexuality and social identity. According to the artist, the studios were called by some as “messy space for messy people”. It addressed the problem of commissioned and independent art, the dialogue the today world has with commissioned gallery and autonomous studios. Modern artists do not just “sell” the art  they produce , but also the personality that goes with it. They have to built up an appearance not only in the artworld but also in the business industry. Gratrix said he had to negotiate, while building a certain level of importance to who he was as an art representative, to not be seen just as a “messy” owner of the new propriety. Personal details can affect the way you are perceived. He mentioned the “joke in the room” problem, when he felt as it was expected from him as a queer man to be joking rather than having a business conversation. I think like a constant reminder of that was the page of an article in one of the studios called: “ Are You in the market for Art?” hung within a newspaper-like composition on the wall. The practise is questioned not only by potential patrons but by the audience criticality, too. They are more interested in the process of making art, answering the question of what drove the artist to create this piece, the experience rather than the importance of aesthetics. It feels more personable this way, the viewers try to minimalise the unfamiliar in the mysterious figure who calls himself an artist in the 21st century. The audience is curious, trying to find a safe space, a sign or a moment that will allow them to bring an artist to a less intimidating form. What I find surprising it’s not the art that’s a component of relevance for a modern viewer, but the person who produces it. It’s a very Duchamp-like approach (art cannot exist without its creator, who is not only valuable, but the most important component, : 'I don't believe in art. I believe in artists.') The place gathering all the arts is obviously an art gallery. While my staying  in Blackpool, I went to Grundy Art Gallery, an important place in Gratrix’s life: “ When I was a child I thought, this feels like environment I want to be in, to be a part of “. He was everything his art was, playful, intelligent and with ready wit. Well aware of his heritage, the artist fulfilled the art viewer’s desire of getting to know him as a human being not just as an artist by introducing us to two male figures in his life, grandfather and father. Frivolity of taking a bath in “Shy Girl”, interfere with  aesthetics related to the darkest times in history of human kind (horror of concentration camps his grandfather experienced), consequently the artwork’s philosophy is more comparable to Susanna and the Elder’s bath than to seeming wantonness of summer holidays by the seaside. Even though the bath towels respond to the marine space and seeking for material relationships between them, it has a lot more to it. By making revolution in art through simplicity and play, but adding to it conceptualism, Gratrix again explores the artworld in very Duchamp-like way. Yet, Blackpool- located artist remains exceptionally original, adding to his art a part of himself- a pinch of comedy, he’s creating a unique three-way dialogue between us, him and the past. Then we laugh and notice that the past is also the contemporary ( from the 1940s to now, the importance of pink triangle symbol within LGBTQ+ community perceived back then as shame mark) we are the artist (moving the towels, by touching them we invade their constancy; a similar concept in “The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even”, M. Duchamp) and the artist is the viewer, watching us from a distance. The UK society is mostly working class and “Shy Girl” is about a middle-class leisure time on a beach, but just as in "A Sunday on La Grande Jatte" by G. Seurat, it has a “ugly side” to it, revelling imperfections of society (monkey suggests the women’s a prostitute and this piece refers to sexual discrimination). The pink triangle, here a white triangle, being a part of the artistic narrative, makes the artist himself more approachable by drawing upon a personal anecdote and bringing it in the aesthetics. Sense of authenticity is additionally deepened by the fact Gratrix is a gay male artist, using his artistic voice and space given as a platform to speak out. Composition of “Shy Girl” is made of three bath towels, two of them are spread out, whereas the third one is crumpled. As we already know, they provoke a conversation about sexuality and identity but what I found especially interesting is that within the making process, the thought came first before the playful colour palette. The artist mentioned  the issue of identifying gender with colour- “feminine” or “ladylike” paints used for the art objects act really bold, standing in the way of stereotypical gay men portrayal, reminding me of increasing gender issues awareness welsh art exhibition: “ Button it up” in STORIEL, Bangor ( I found out that Roy Gratrix, the artist’s grandfather, played for the Bangor City Welsh Club, too!). The exhibition informs that pastel coloured children clothes began to be made from the middle of the 19th century with the start of cultural expectations given at birth. Language of colours is again linked to the narrative. “Cottage by the sea” towel, dominated by different light shadows of blue, purifies working class labour, makes it to be more elegant than it actually is, without pointillist monkeys and biblical duplicity (Seurant, S. & the elders). The artwork is  personified by the choice of its placement. Seen from every angle by an opening in the balcony upstairs and by being able to rearrange the towels, it truly resembles a shy girl trying to cover herself from a male gaze. Maybe we are the noisy elders in this situation? But the artwork’s purpose is to be seen, even watched and questioned and seeing Gratrix reaction when my professor accidentally left a pencil mark on the medium makes me understand the spirit of “Shy Girl”. After all it really has a positive, playful charm and impishness, which can not be forget as being a true essence of the artwork. - K.W

[chameleonspell]

191: heal

[Under a cut for injury description, including broken bones and blood.]

His neck was broken. Or his back, Iriel wasn't sure. He knew only that something in Julan's spine had twisted and crumpled, when they hit the rock, and now the angles of his head and shoulders were all wrong. He was more certain about the ribs. He had felt those go beneath him, on impact. At least three, Ire thought. One on the left side of his chest had pierced the lung, judging by Julan's raw, laboured breathing, and the bloody foam collecting on his lips. A collarbone, too, most likely. Skull fracture, perhaps. There might have been leg injuries, but Iriel's examination hadn't got that far. The light was poor, and by then, he couldn't see much for tears. The details made no difference. Julan's injuries were clearly fatal, they were hundreds of feet deeper than help or Intervention, and there was nothing at all he could do. He'd tried every spell he could think of, and watched each one fail. A murder of ghosts churned in vortex above them, seething with impotent fury. Every so often, one would arc out to skim closer, and Iriel would glare at it until it returned to the cloud. "Idiot," he told Julan. "Fucking... idiot. You're the healer! Why couldn’t you... just..." Wiping his eyes, Ire smeared more blood across his cheek. None of it was his. He wasn't sure if Julan could hear anything. His eyes were closed, but sometimes a muscle in his face would contract, or a limb spasm, briefly. His gasps of air, fast and erratic at first, had begun, almost imperceptibly, to slow. Iriel knelt in the dim, red light, wondering how long it would be until they stopped. Julan's eyes flickered open, blank with pain. He drew a sharp breath that became a moan, quickly crushed into a whimper, followed by shallow, whistling mouthfuls of air through gritted teeth. Ire bent over him, catching his twitching hand and cradling it. "Shhh, love, lie still. I know it hurts, I'm so sorry. You... you don't have to be brave about it. Your ma's not here, no one's here but me." Julan's hand clenched fitfully around his, and Ire squeezed it until Julan's breathing was softer, and his grip fell slack. "Why do parents always say that?" Ire demanded of no one, when the quiet became more than he could stand. "Tell you not to cry, try to convince you being brave means pretending things don't hurt. They don't do it to ease your suffering, they do it to ease theirs. They can't bear to see your pain, so they make you hide it." He sighed. "I can't ease your pain, love, but I promise, I can bear seeing it." For some time, Iriel remained bent over their clasped hands, trying not to jolt Julan whenever a breath shook into a sob. Then he raised his head. "No," he hissed. "Fuck just bearing witness." Slipping his hands free, he forced himself to trace the lines of Julan’s body again. Tried to sense the mangled bones, tried to extend his consciousness past his own frantic respiration and circulation, and open himself to another's. He almost... something... but at the first trickle of awareness, panic overtook him, and he sat back with a ragged gasp. "Healing is fucking terrifying, you know? No... you don't know, do you? You were never afraid of trying to change things. Of taking responsibility for something, making it your problem, and facing the consequences if you're wrong. Me, I... never had hands safe enough for that. Not for myself, so how for anyone else? Healing can be so painful, more painful than the original injury, sometimes, breaking and resetting, and what if you’re making things worse? When should you give up, when are you no longer doing it for their benefit? When to let broken things rest? "And... gods, I'm so bad with pain. My own was bad enough, but other people's? I numbed myself to it for so long that when I stopped, it was paralysing. Because what can you ever do about it? Changing a perception is one thing. Changing a physical law is another. But people? You can't change people, I thought, not permanently. They’re too complex for those easy answers, for heroic rescues and happy endings." He sighed, shook out his hands, and laid them just below the hollow at the base of Julan's throat. He had the briefest impression of a crystalline stillness. Of frozen energy, held just beneath the surface. Like an enchantment, if he could only find the pattern of it, the key. But when he tried to focus on it, his attention was drawn to Julan's face instead, warped and made foreign by pain, but still his face, distracting Ire's fingers into tenderness, touching and stroking. "I love you so fucking much. I think... hope... you know that already, but I'm sorry I was so terrible at saying it. Giving someone my love never felt like any kind of favour. Not a gift, but a fireball. A pit I was dragging them into. I was... ashamed." He brushed the hair from Julan's forehead, caressed him from cheek to ear to jaw. "It seemed so cruel and ridiculous to say you couldn't love someone until you loved yourself. I mean... I felt things, of course I did! And it was so tempting to believe that wringing some kind of... longing for contact, some quantity of desire and affection out of my wreck of a heart meant that I was successfully loving someone. And... I'm not saying I didn't love you, but... I was so terribly bad at loving you, while I believed I had nothing to offer you. While I couldn't believe myself worthy of love, while I was so full of shame and self-hatred that instead of giving you my love, I gave you that, instead. "I still have imperial fucktons of shame. It's not going anywhere, but I know where it lives, now. I'm better at telling when I'm close to the edge, better at dodging, when things try and drag me in. I have ways to defend myself, weapons you gave me.” A sudden breath, that hid the shadow of a laugh. “So... even if my love is accidentally shaped like a spear, it's still yours. Yours to hold and use, if I can keep myself from giving it to you point-first. I think... it’s worth something. It's stronger than I thought." It blossomed in his chest. Warm as hearthfire, light as thistledown, flowing down his arm and into the hand he'd left resting on Julan's neck. A blue glimmer melted into grey skin, and suddenly Julan's chest spasmed, sucking in air, agonised pulse thudding frantically against Ire's fingers. His own heart seizing, Iriel snatched back his hand, all else lost in a useless wave of nausea and fear. He rocked back and forth on his heels, wringing his hands and muttering curses. "Not just ashamed.” His voice came thin and brittle, now, words decaying as they met the air. “I was scared. So fucking scared. Because... I mean... it's like healing, isn't it? Once I realised how alone and vulnerable you were, the thought of taking responsibility for you was terrifying. I was... angry, even. How dare you be so weak, so guilt-inducing, who gave you permission to be such a fucking mess? That's my job!” He forced a mirthless grin, but couldn’t sustain it, and his head dropped. "I thought I knew what I was doing, at first. I thought you were trapped, and I just needed to free you, but I was cutting so blindly I only gave you more wounds. Next, I tried weaving safety nets, rescues you didn't ask for. Tying you to things, people, places, guilds, tribes... anyone but me. Because anyone could hold you safer than I could. For some strange, unfathomable reason... you still kept wanting me. I started telling myself I was bad for you, holding you back, that it would be selfish to pretend otherwise. I was afraid. Of trying to do something I'd only fail at." His shoulders hunched, then fell limp. "I'm still so scared, but... I'm not nearly as scared of failing as I'm scared I won't get to try any more." He closed his eyes, heartrate evening out, hands knotted against his breast. He'd long since taken off the Moon-and-Star, but as his fingers rubbed against each other, his right hand found the place on his left, where the metal had lacerated his palm. He opened his hand and pressed his thumb against the wound, watching the broken line of Julan's chest flutter and dip. "I mean... we're all weak, aren't we? All vulnerable. Everything in this realm is so fragile and ephemeral. Of course it's terrifying, it should be. And we're just stupid, short-lived mortals, so of course every single one of us is going to be a fuck up, to some degree or other. Not even in nice neat ways, that we can fix by clinging to someone else, matching perfectly aligned jagged halves into something faultless and whole. It's messy, and it always will be. There's no place in this world for perfection. Not in either of us, and not in our love. And yet, between love and perfection, I know which I'd rather have. "You are fragile and imperfect, and I love you. I am fragile and imperfect, and I can let you love me. I can let you see me as I am, however messy that might be, and... I hope that instead of thinking less of you, for loving me anyway, I can think better of myself. I’m sure I'll still fail at it, sometimes, but... it’s all right, because just as I can bear your pain, I know you're strong enough to bear mine." His hand ached; he was gripping it too hard. He stared at it. You've been getting it wrong this whole time. Overcomplicating everything, as usual. Kindness isn't about whether you deserve it. It's just... kindness, the alleviation of pain. It was such a simple thing, to let his own energy circulate. Not forcing it, but releasing it, opening a secret door he'd always thought a solid wall. Letting it flow from right hand to left, speeding the knitting of the flesh until he could barely tell he'd been hurt at all. He thought Julan had fallen unconscious again, but when Iriel turned back to him, his eyelids had parted a red fraction, and his lips were struggling to shape words. "I... fell..." Ire leaned forwards, taking his hand again, pressing it between his. "We both did, love. Try not to move." "No, I... fell. Failed. False." "You didn't fail!" Iriel's eyes were bright, his tears reflecting sharp points of light from the corners. Limpid, perhaps. Crystalline, even. The rest of his face held less potential for lyrical description, but real pain rarely does. "If you fell, it's only because you were pushed. And not false. Never false." "Many fall, but..." "No--" "...one remains. That's... you." "The FUCK it is!" Ire glared into the slivers of Julan's eyes, daring him to close them again. "YOU remain! Yes, you fell, but you can still get up again. You're still here, still something. No, you're not who you thought, but who the fuck is? You think I care about that? I don't want Nerevar! I want you, failed and false, fallen and fucked up, same as me." Jaw set, Ire huffed air through the gap in his teeth. “You’re not going anywhere.” Leaving the other clasping Julan's, Iriel inched his right hand towards Julan's collar and moved the cloth aside. "There, now, it's all right. It's going to be fine," he muttered, chanting it like a prophecy. As he touched the skin, Julan flinched, and Ire tightened his grip on his hand. "Don't worry. You're going to be all right. I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you are. Stop comparing yourself to legendary heroes, that was always going to crush you. Not because you failed, because they’re not real, and you are. You are allowed to be hurt, and you are allowed to be weak. You are allowed to be angry, and scared, and sad. You are allowed to make mistakes, even if they hurt me. You... you are allowed to have your own needs and desires! I know you've always had to break and twist yourself to be who you think everyone else needs you to be, but just be you. Please. Just you." He curled his hand behind Julan's neck. Found the crooked place, at the back, where the vertebrae jutted oddly, sharp beneath the skin. Ire took a long breath. "I'm not afraid of any part of you." Now that he looked, it was obvious. There were the bones, their symmetry misaligned, but legible. There was the spinal cord, wrenched out of place. but intact. The body knew how it wanted to be, he only had to listen, and follow instructions. Provide support, do the heavy lifting. "Keep very still, love. This will probably hurt, but it's going to be all right." Perhaps it was Alteration he used to move the bones, Mysticism to maintain his awareness, Illusion to mitigate the pain. Perhaps it was all Restoration. It was magic, he didn't try to label it any more. It was energy, creativity, love. The ribs were even easier. He had laid his hands here a thousand times, knew how the landscape of Julan's chest should feel. He drew the shattered pieces carefully towards him, easing the shard out of the lung, uniting and moulding them into place. When he'd done all he could, he was drained and lightheaded, but the taut agony had begun to drain from Julan's face, his posture looser, his breathing soft and smooth. "I think," Ire whispered, "my mistake was in believing I had to take that kind of responsibility for anyone in the first place. That I was committing to providing a perfect and complete future for them, together with all the guilt and blame if it failed to come to pass. Of course I recoiled from that, it's impossible. You can't ever promise that to somebody. But... you don't have to. You only have to support them in the moment, commit to that moment. Give them the strength to do the rest on their own. If that's rescuing people, then... I can believe in that." He lay down beside Julan, wincing as he straightened his cramped knees, but settling into an almost-comfortable position, nestled against the slow rise and fall of Julan's chest, the flicker of his pulse, all the familiar rhythms of his body. "Perhaps it's being so fragile that makes people so incredibly resilient. I don't know if you can change them, but I do know they can change. They'll always keep growing and healing, if the cells have the simple things they need in order to multiply. But... providing that means embracing the chaos and uncertainty of it. The knowledge that people might change in unexpected ways, grow differently... or apart. The possibilities are endless, and terrifying. But... life is possibilities." He gasped out a laugh. "Terrifying possibilities. So... while there is life, I will do what I can to preserve those possibilities intact." He buried his nose in Julan's neck, closed his eyes against the heat of his skin. "I know you're still falling, wherever you are, but I will wait here as long as it takes. Holding out my tattered blanket to catch you, praying it's enough." Later, when he twitched from his uneasy doze, the dead were still swirling angrily overhead. Iriel couldn't be bothered to care. In the half-light, he saw that Julan's eyes were open, that he was trying, weakly, to smile. Ire kissed him with as much restraint as he could manage, balanced on a tender knife-edge between caution and relief. "I'm afraid," Iriel said, when he could avoid such things no longer, "that I have no idea how we can get out of here. I can't see any exits from this part of the cavern that don't require far more levitation than I could safely risk. The last thing I want to do is let you fall again." "I can't leave yet." Julan's voice was weak, but insistent. "I have to... find where my father died. We're almost beneath the Ghostfence, but his body must be past it. That's why... they could never call his soul back with the rites, it was trapped. If I could just get a little further, I could... find out what really happened, and--" "Don't be ridiculous! You shouldn't move at all, until your bones are properly set. Anyway, does any of that matter, now?" Julan flicked a finger upwards. "It does to them. I need to know if Moth... if she really did it. They won't leave me be until I kill her, but..." "They don't care!" Iriel was gently incredulous. "Didn't you hear them? They know she didn't kill him, but they don't care! They want someone to blame, blood to sate... whatever they think it will fucking sate, because it won't make anything better!" "Then what can I do? He was my father, but I never knew him, she never told me! I knew the rumours, but there were rumours my father was every man in the tribe! He... used to watch me, in the camp. I thought he was making sure I didn't steal anything! That voice I heard, on Red Mountain, that I assumed was Dagoth Ur. I think maybe... it was him. Trying to stop me... getting myself killed." Tears slid from his eyes as Iriel desperately tried to calm him, fearful a sob might shake his ribs apart again. "I wasted my whole life, Iya. It was all a lie." "You didn't waste it! And only some things were lies, not everything. Sweetheart, I know you'll make the right choice, and I'll support you in whatever it is. But right now, you need to lie still. You need to heal." Julan closed his eyes, resigned. Suppressed a cough. "I'm so thirsty," he muttered. Ire grimaced. "I don't have any water, I'm afraid. I barely brought anything, like a fool. Let me go and look around, perhaps I can--" "No, stay here. If I have to lie here without moving, you need to talk to me, or I'll go mad." "I'm sorry," Ire said, after a moment. "I don't know what I should say. All I keep thinking is that we might still die in here. That even if we get back up to the tunnels, I can't remember the way out. So unless you want to hear about that--" "Uh... no. Sing to me?" Ire exhaled shakily, laughter verging on tears. "I can't. They're all too sad, my songs. I've had enough of that, today." "Thought you said you found them comforting." "Not now, not... not like this." Julan didn't move, except to grin. "Then at least... I get to be right about something, for once... can die happy now..." "Don't you dare, you trashbag." Julan yawned. "...'k. But only 'cause I love you." "I love you, too, now shhh. Try to rest, and I'll look for water." As Iriel stood, there was a commotion from the ghosts above him, a great hissing and turbulence. "Leave us alone, you unwashed dishrags," he snapped. "Don't you have other descendants to bother?" But the dead weren't facing his way. They were clustering around something high in the darkness that he couldn't see. Iriel was about to ignore them, when he heard a distant voice. "Urshi assarnibibi, za'erureth ye'el dran?" Ire squinted upwards. "Hello?" he called, then, abandoning reserve: "HEY! IS SOMEONE THERE? WE NEED HELP!" "Zanna? Obi... ob'areth?" He could see the Velothi woman now, levitating down through the ghosts as they parted meekly around her. At first, all he could tell was that she was wearing a voluminous brown robe, because when she saw Iriel, she bent awkwardly, and gathered the hem in one hand, to stop it ballooning indecorously around her waist as she descended. Closer now, he saw her beltful of pouches and her charm-strung neck. Her red, tasselled shoulderbag, and her black hair, bluntly cropped into a style even shorter and less flattering than his own. Finally, as she landed, he saw her face. Barely older than he was, but marked with rows of dots along her chin and beneath her eyes. Eyes that quickly took him in, scanning for detail, carrying both assurance of judgement, and a darting tension. Her knuckles were white against her bag-strap. She was afraid, he realised, afraid but determined to be brave. A furrow appeared in her brow. "I know you." Her eyes went wide. "You are Shani's Altmer!" She stared at him, apparently able to do nothing useful with this realisation. Then she looked past him. "Is that... Julan?!" He offered her an awkward wave, from the ground. "Hi, Min." Unwilling to remain Shani's property, in her worldview, Iriel tried, in a vague sort of way, to introduce himself. She, kneeling on the ground and rummaging in her scrib-silk bag, was more confident in her identity. "I am Minabibi Assardarainat," she said, "assintashiran, alchemist and apprentice to Sinnammu Mirpal, wise woman of the Ahemmusa." Ire was trying to help Julan drink one of her healing potions without either spilling it, or moving his neck. It was a losing battle, but some of it was going down his throat. "What was that thing you said? Before alchemist." "I don't know the eramuri... the Aldmeris word," she said, scowling. "It means I serve the dead. I give offerings to them. I bring messages to them, and receive their answer. I am trained to sense their presence and their needs. That is why I could track them to this place." "Alone?" Her scowl deepened. "It was my responsibility to care for them. I do not know how it happened, but when I opened the kausagursha today, I could call nothing through it. They were gone. They should not have been able to do this! My bone charms were good, and yet..." With tense movements, she pulled a small, wooden box from her bag, inlaid with ebony and shimmering purple-blue bugshell. She placed it on the ground before her. "I must draw them back, and return before Sintushpi Sinnammu finds out. Already, she talks of replacing me as her apprentice. I cannot give her more reasons to doubt." "Can you do that? Get rid of them? They're here for Julan, and they don't want to leave." "I know. I hear them. But that is a matter for Sintushpi Sinnammu, not for me. My duty is to the dead, and they should not be here like this. It is dangerous for them to remain in Mundus too long. They are angry and wild, but I will try to calm them." She opened the box. From inside, she took a small pinch of ash, and tossed it into the air. Before it could fall, she began to hum a single note, high and keening. The ash hung above her, suspended. Then, as she shifted the note still higher, it began to rise, moving in a lazy spiral towards the mass of ancestors. He couldn't see the ash any more, but Iriel could see the spirits reaction to it. They came pouring downwards, a slow-twisting tornado of souls, moaning in their low, colourless drone. When the first ones grew close, Minabibi took a hasty gulp of air and opened her mouth. Eyes screwed shut, she produced another sound, throbbing and resonating from the depths of her throat, vibrating with an ineffable sadness. One by one, the dead modulated their tone to hers in eerie chorus, until the whole cavern echoed with their shared song. To Iriel, it felt like the music of separation and loss, of mourning and lamentation. Sadder than any of his mother's folk tunes, because it had no end and no beginning, no words to define and limit it. It seemed to broaden and swell into the sound of all sorrow. Until Minabibi changed her tune again, introducing a new note. The dead were clouded around her, now, yearning and writhing. The note she extended to them was a candle in the darkness, a caress, a whispered consolation. Iriel was overcome by the conviction that the hands of everyone he'd ever loved and lost were inches away, longing for him, all differences forgotten, if he would only draw closer, shed his pride and reach out, touch-- Minabibi closed the box with a snap. The air was silent and empty, and the dead had disappeared. next: 192: living previous: 190: weight beginning: 1: numb Minabibi's ghost-herding owes much to Sunderlorn's headcanons about Ashlander ancestor magic and ritual. ~*~please read Ghostline for more soft necromancy~*~

[encephalonfatigue]

wrestling with eden

some first thoughts about trying to grow vegetables this summer. seedling photos taken from march 18th to 25th.

I have too often fantasized about withdrawing into some solitary rural utopia to live off vegetables planted with my own two hands — fingers cloaked with the damp scent of decay, gentle bird song, and the quiet promise of new life. I’ve probably had this fantasy at least as far back as when I first read “Jayber Crow”, a novel by Wendell Berry in which the protagonist abandons the path of a seminarian to return to a quiet rural town called Port William where he grew up as an orphan. He lives simply as a barber and plants his own vegetables in his backyard. For some reason, both back then and still now, something was really quite appealing about this. Granted Wendell Berry’s poetic prose is hardly what I would call resistible, more often, extremely gorgeous. He feels like one of the last great literary Romanticists, and so the idea of “returning” is thematic to his work, even if it is to a place characterized by painful imperfection and finitude. I suppose Berry’s insistence is that this proverbial ‘old home’ even with all its shortcomings has its own sort of abundance, and that modernity’s ideas of progress and abstract economic growth can so frequently fall very short, even precipitating a type of gratuitous scorn for ‘neo-Luddite’ simplicity, physical labour, or the soiling of one’s hands.

I: Returning to Where?

This theme of “returning” (e.g. to the labour of growing food) surfaces as a rather common literary theme, from Voltaire’s Candide to Huxley’s Brave New World. Yet I’m also aware of the great shortcomings of the Romanticist notion of “returning”. I think one of the best twists to this literary trope was in Margaret Atwood’s magnificent novel “Alias Grace” (one of my favourites) where Dr. Simon Jordan during his time in Kingston interviewing Grace Marks tries to start a vegetable garden of his own, very unsuccessfully. Admittedly, I will be attempting to undertake a similar quest this summer, and I (only half-jokingly) anticipate the same sort of fate for myself.

Atwood has a lot of fun with this image of a desperately failing gardening endeavour, poking fun at Dr. Jordan bringing vegetables bought from the market each day to his sessions with Grace (as Grace proverbially rolls her eyes each time) and also describing the dirt underneath Dr. Jordan’s fingernails, seemingly symbolic of the deprivation characteristic of his time in Kingston and how consumed and exhausted he becomes with his case. In my reading of it, Dr. Jordon’s lack of success with his garden seems emblematic of his own sexual frustration — the lack of the garden’s fertility paralleling his own sexual life under pressure from his mother. In other words, this Eden we yearn to return to does not exist in the way we imagine it does, or if it does, it’s often full of failure and disappointment. Like Marks it is something we feel obligated to nurture and protect (in our imagination), yet its jouissance remains unattainable. The image of a failing garden also seems emblematic of Dr. Jordan’s growing disillusionment with finding innocence where he once thought it could be. Atwood’s reminder is that the bucolic ‘paradise lost’ we want to reclaim is fictive construction all the way down. Caddy smelled like trees and it’s comforting, but in reality, we were always in the midst of the sound and the fury, and life is more complex and messy than we can often imagine.

In her Cyborg Manifesto, Donna Haraway wrote that “the cyborg would not recognize the Garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust. They are wary of holism, but needy for connection…” As a first-year student reading Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises”, I became deeply absorbed with the book of Ecclesiastes, and it’s proposal that Haraway’s cyborg cannot quite recognize, an interesting exegetical elaboration on Genesis 3. The claim goes:

“for in respect of the fate of man and the fate of beast, they have one and the same fate: as the one dies so dies the other, and both have the same lifebreath; man has no superiority over beast, since both amount to noth­ing. Both go to the same place; both came from dust and both return to dust.” (Ecclesiastes 3:20, JPS)

And I admit I have often had this fantasy of returning to soil. Ecclesiastes like Genesis is surprisingly materialist in this respect. Mary Oliver elaborates quite beautifully on this Epicurean theme, saying:

“everything’s a little energy. You go back and you’re these little bits of energy and pretty soon you’re something else. Now that’s a continuance. It’s not the one we think of when we’re talking about the golden streets and the angels with how many wings and whatever, the hierarchy of angels… But it’s something quite wonderful. The world is pretty much — everything is mortal. It dies. But its parts don’t die. Its parts become something else. And we know that when we bury a dog in the garden. And with a rose bush on top of it. We know that there is replenishment. And that’s pretty amazing… And what more there might be, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure pretty confident of that one.”

II: Speaking of Death

Wendell Berry so often talks about death like this; for example, in The Unsettling of America, he quotes Sir Albert Howard talking about “the Wheel of Life (as he called it, borrowing the term from religion), by which 'Death supersedes life and life rises again from what is dead and decayed.’” Part of the consequences of our alienation from directly nurturing our own food is that we have grown so distant from the cycles of death and growth that such practices necessarily entail and guide our attention towards. I suspect that is in part where the Freudian diagnosis for modernity’s denial or repression of death comes from. Terry Eagleton, in a talk at the London Review Bookshop, mentioned that:

“For most of history, societies – pre-modern, tribal societies – have always believed that somehow an acknowledgement of death in some ritual kind of way is the condition for living well. Modernity tends to repress death; it can’t do anything with it. If you are seized by the ideology of progress, then it’s hard to fit death in at all. It’s embarrassing and it’s certainly not definitive (as it is for some pre-modern thought) of what life is actually about.”

Eagleton as a Catholic Marxist recognizes resurrection's centrality to the Christian tradition, and as John Polkinghorne has astutely pointed out, a proper acknowledgement of death’s finality and gravity is prerequisite for resurrection to mean anything at all, hence the distinction between Christian resurrection and Plato’s ‘survival of the soul’ (which so commonly passes for Christian eschatology).

Our alienation from death’s ubiquity is something I also sense as related to our unconscious fear of death, exhibited by euphemisms like ‘passed away’, the countless commercial products offering us body parts that appear younger (and farther from death), and especially in the enormous amounts of expenditure poured into military and carceral institutions, which promise to keep death at bay, and give some illusion of control.

III: Self-Sufficiency and Control

Contemporary vegetable gardening can often be framed in terms of these illusions of control and radical self-sufficiency. I think Wendell Berry is someone who’s very attentive to the ‘giveness’ and grace that unfolds quietly around him as a farmer, and growing food for a living allows him to see that there’s nothing to congratulate himself over with respect to this earthy practice. Also, that he is in no position to treat plants and the soil in any manner he wishes, with chemical byproducts from militaristic research. In the beautiful film “Look and See” Berry says:

“The world is in fact full of free things that are delightful. Flowers. The world is also full of people who would rather pay for something to kill the dandelions than to appreciate the dandelions. Well, I’m a dandelion man myself.”

It’s alarming to see the ideology behind the preemptive strikes of American militarism filter their way down into how North Americans engage in gardening or the pervasive ubiquity of hand-sanitizer dispensers. And how laughable it is when we use the language of “invasive species”, when we are of course the most destructive “invasive species” we know of. Ironically, even the U.S. Army in its "The Complete Guide to Edible Wild Plants" recognizes that all parts of the dandelion plant are edible. Euell Gibbons' "Stalking the Wild Asparagus" gives some good tips for when best to pick them. The Berkeley Open Source Food project is also a great place to learn more about feral foraging.

Anyways, I think Donna Haraway’s elaborations on Eden in “Primate Visions: Gender, Race, and Nature in the World of Modern Science” help expose the extent to which self-sufficiency narratives are constructed and crafted, especially in her chapter on Jane Goodall in a National Geographic documentary being filmed by her husband:

“[The National Geographic film] Miss Goodall and the Wild Chimpanzees (1965)… is a first contact narrative, recognizable within science fiction conventions… it is a story of the self-sufficiency… of a young single white woman in nature… The narrative of first contacts proceeds in several stages… Goodall, constructed as rigorously alone and undergoing hardships and dangers, first is shown spotting the elusive chimpanzees only by signs of their passage—a tuft of hair on a bush. She descends toward where she spotted the animals, but “the wild chimpanzees flee the pale-skinned stranger invading their domain.” No cameras are visible; no clue has been given so far how Goodall herself has been made visible…

Day ends, with Goodall on the mountain top. “Here Jane will spend the night, high above the African forest.” Goodall’s voice confirms, “…[I] enjoyed those nights in the mountains with no human companionship. …There is only one jarring note in the scene of the female representative of man alone in the Garden—she eats a spare dinner of pork and beans from a tinned can. The odd sign evokes the history of the transformation of systems of production and of daily habits in the mid-nineteenth century, when large-scale canning in the U. S. got a huge boost from demand created during the Civil War (Boorstin 1974: 309–22). The tin can on Jane’s mountain top preserves pork, beans, and the social relations of industrial capitalism enabling the colonial “penetration” and division of Africa.”

As I try growing vegetables in my backyard this summer I also recognize the risks of getting a little too carried away with the fictive mythos of self-sufficiency. At the same time I’m deeply shaped by the story of Exodus, with its story of manna in the desert serving as a counter narrative to self-sufficiency. Gardening can be both a reminder of how dependent we are on things beyond ourselves, or it can yield a false impression of self-sufficiency. One view accounts for the variety of species we have co-evolved alongside for millions of years and the planetary systems that make our lives possible, the other does not quite register this reality. In some sense growing food does feel like an exodus of sorts from the type of capitalist commodification of food. Like Kool AD once rapped: “Some don't eat enough, food should be free, what up? It used to be, when it was growing on the trees and stuff.”

Yet that “used to be” is also in some sense a fictive construction, though one that serves a purpose I think to be somewhat worthwhile. It really doesn’t take long though to realize there is no adequately or satisfactorily untangling myself from the inevitable contradictions of capitalism. I’m firmly implicated in it. Beyond the plastic gardening pots I bought from Dollarama, there are many other contradictions lurking less obviously out of view, like Jane Goodall’s camera-wielding husband and the long commodity chains and imperialistic military history buttressing her can of beans.

IV: Sphagnum Peat Moss

Starting seedlings for this summer vegetable garden, I shelled out a couple dollars for some dehydrated sphagnum peat moss pellets. Needless to say, I had almost no idea what peat moss really was when I purchased it, and how it was ‘harvested’, or rather ‘mined’. Having read somewhere that normal soil from by backyard e.g. was not ideal for getting seeds started (as they often have pathogens and seeds of other plants mixed in) I set about trying to find some starter soil at the closest big box retailer near my home. Jiffy peat pellets were all I could find. Only in the process of writing this did I gain a better sense of what sphagnum peat moss really is.

Sphagnum moss is in fact a moss (a rootless plant) as the name suggests that grows in wetland bogs. When sphagnum moss dies it is honoured with a new name: “peat.” (As Jesus once said: “I tell you, you are Peat, and on this bog I will build my garden, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it!”) Yet ironically, it’s dead vegetation from the very realm of Hades we are talking about here. This peat accumulates in layers submerged in wetlands. Peat pellets then are basically dehydrated moss corpses that provide a good substrate to start seeds on. Maybe they are emblematic of capitalism’s capacity to commodify the cycles of death and life, alienate these cycles from their contexts, and then render their underlying ubiquity invisible to human attention that is so conditioned by modern processes of production and consumption. Or maybe just invisible to people as clueless as myself.

Peat harvesting if done irresponsibly can contribute to the disappearance of wetlands, which is also well underway by worldwide wetland draining for agricultural or urban development. Peatlands are important carbon sinks, but become large sources of carbon emissions once drained, as they release all that carbon back into the atmosphere. They are also important treasure troves for historians and scientists trying to learn more about our past. Because of their acidity and anaerobic conditions, peatlands are very good at preserving the remnants of organic life. “Koelbjerg Man” is the oldest human bog body (‘mummy’) that has been found, dating back to ~8000 BCE.

The peat pellets I’ve started some seedlings on were harvested in Canada, probably somewhere in Quebec or New Brunswick, where most of the country’s peat harvesting is concentrated. There is a report put out by the Government of Canada that claims peat accumulates in Canada 60 times faster than the rate at which it is being harvested. And peat harvesting in Canada is subject to regulatory oversight ensuring measures for peatland restoration after harvesting takes place. The report also claims peat harvesting accounts for only around 0.02% of wetland loss compared to agriculture’s 85%. However, it’s difficult to get a sense of how benign peat harvesting is from a government that has such a vested economic interest in ensuring as much of its land remains as productive as possible. What I do know is Tim Moore, a professor at McGill, did explicitly identify peat harvesting as one of the threats to wetlands. It’s proportional contribution was not mentioned. There’s also a 2009 paper by Winkler and DeWitt at the University of Wisconsin-Madison who identify US peat-mining impacts to include:

“1) toxic-metal release from peat,

2) eutrophication of surface waters,

3) increased runoff (including flooding and impacts on fisheries),

4) release of organic pollutants,

5) changes of salt and freshwater systems,

6) changes in ground-water supply, and

7) air pollution and fires.”

So however marginal the impacts of peat harvesting/mining are, I still find the little seedlings sprouting by my window implicated in this strange situation. It’s certainly not an innocent Eden I’m ‘returning’ to, yet I haven’t quite escaped Eden either. Unable to escape the gravitational pull of that primordial Garden, this story of summer vegetable gardening also begins with the theme of death.

V: In the Beginning / Death

In “Genesis and Apocalypse”, Altizer’s thermodynamically inflected theology speaks of: 

“the beginning of a full and final actuality, an actuality which is perishing itself, and a perishing which we know as history. For the advent of history is the advent of death… Thus the beginning of history is the beginning of fall, a fall from a consciousness that is closed to the full actuality of perishing and death, and a fall from an original or primordial state or condition that is an undifferentiated condition and therefore an original state of serenity and silence. That fall is the inauguration of the revelation of I AM…

…with the closure of the cycle of eternal return, ending becomes manifest and real as an irrevocable perishing, a death… The advent of irrevocable death is… the advent of a final actuality, an actuality inseparable from unique and irreversible events, and an actuality bestowing upon life itself the finality of an inescapable and irrevocable death. Consequently, the finalities of life and death are now inseparable, as the advent of irrevocable death bestows upon life itself a new finality…

Only the final ending of eternal recurrence or eternal return makes possible a once and for all and irreversible beginning, an actual beginning which is absolutely new, and is absolutely new only by way of the absolute ending of an eternity which is eternally the same. Consequently, God is the self-emptying or the self-negation of that eternity, a self-negation which is a once and for all and irreversible event, and therefore is the actual event of death.”

Altizer suggests that if we imagine God within the domain of eternity, ‘outside time’, unchanging, then Creation for God is a type of death, or the beginning of a death. It is the death of primordial eternity that allows temporal history to burst forth. Soil and peat both allude to this untidy paradox intermingling death and new life together. Many modern peat bogs formed around 12000 years ago after the glacial retreat of the last ice age, around when agriculture was beginning to emerge. A tiny and silent eternity, broken, in the act of harvesting, all for some superfluous seedlings to begin the irreversible process of sprouting.

Sphagnum peat moss, apart from being biologically dead, also alludes to the threat of a much larger and menacing death. As peat becomes a quickly disappearing carbon sink across various global ecosystems, these little seedlings sitting by my window cannot help but allude to the menacing global warming apocalypse very vivid in 21st century imagination. The Edenic resonance is stark: “but of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall die.” Jack Miles, in his book “God: A Biography”, suggests:

“When the serpent tells the woman that, contrary to what the Lord God said, she will not die if she eats of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, the serpent is telling the truth. She and the man do not die when they break the Lord God’s command; certainly, they do not die, as the Lord God had warned, ‘as soon as you eat of it.’”

Yet it’s far less certain the prophetic warnings of climate change are full of empty threats. Death is impending. Peat is one of many carbon troves being mined and released into the atmosphere as greenhouse gases. Ta-Nehisi Coates yields a prophetic warning that connects the historical plunder of colonized peoples with the contemporary plunder of the earth:

“Once, the Dream’s parameters were caged by technology and by the limits of horsepower and wind. But the Dreamers have improved themselves, and the damming of seas for voltage, the extraction of coal, the transmuting of oil into food, have enabled an expansion in plunder with no known precedent. And this revolution has freed the Dreamers to plunder not just the bodies of humans but the body of the Earth itself. The Earth is not our creation. It has no respect for us. It has no use for us. And its vengeance is not the fire in the cities but the fire in the sky. Something more fierce than Marcus Garvey is riding on the whirlwind. Something more awful than all our African ancestors is rising with the seas. The two phenomena are known to each other. It was the cotton that passed through our chained hands that inaugurated this age. It is the flight from us that sent them sprawling into the subdivided woods. And the methods of transport through these new subdivisions, across the sprawl, is the automobile, the noose around the neck of the earth, and ultimately, the Dreamers themselves.”

VI: Vulnerability and Interdependence

What this looming threat of death instills if anything, is a particular realization of fragility and vulnerability, both in ourselves and those around us. If the crucifixion is to mean anything to the Christian imagination, it must recognize God in the middle of this fragility and vulnerability also. If loving God and loving others are one and the same great command, it must recognize this fragility as reality, and therefore also the urgent need to care and protect. And this fragility and vulnerability in both others and God, must also lend itself to a realization of a vulnerability in one’s own self, and an understanding that being ‘self-made’ is an implausible narrative that, like bad soil, holds no water.

This complex interdependency however implicates all of us, even in getting a vegetable garden started I now realize. Is self-sufficiency plausible, I ask myself, when I did not make the laptop I’m typing this on, or when I did nothing to pump the water for my plants all the way from Lake Ontario, to say nothing of cleaning this water or constructing the infrastructure to get it past my doorstep. Did I carefully tend and select cherry tomatoes year after year like Alan Chadwick, or start a corporation to commodify such a plant and sell it in a local hardware chain store? Before making a delicious salsa verde, did I gather seeds last season from beautiful little Tomatillo fruits to return to the Port Credit seed library?

What I think the Port Credit seed library is so beautiful at reminding me of is that planting and growing things is a community affair. Seeds imply people who came before me, and my dependence on them. A seed library suggests that this dependence does not require capitalist commodification. There is an alternative mode of being and relating in this world. Maybe someone will tell me the better alternative to sphagnum peat moss to get my seedlings started next year. But seriously though, if Dr. Simon Jordan’s gardening fate is my own, there will be a few less seed packs at the Port Credit seed library next year. For that I will be deeply sorry, but it will also be something to laugh about. After all, I’m a long ways away from untangling my own eating habits from capitalist commodification. There is maybe no innocent utopia to return to here. I don’t know what to do with myself most days. I suppose though that these seedlings have germinated some thoughts in my own head, thoughts that would not have otherwise made their way there. That’s an ancient and old miracle about plants. I like to think there’s something to having conversations with plants and there’s something to the Amazonian Cofan notion that plants can sing and speak to us. I will finish with this lovely excerpt from a Wade Davis talk:

“the thing about tryptamines is they cannot be taken orally because they're denatured by an enzyme found naturally in the human gut called monoamine oxidase. They can only be taken orally if taken in conjunction with some other chemical that denatures the MAO. Now, the fascinating things are that the beta-carbolines found within that liana are MAO inhibitors of the precise sort necessary to potentiate the tryptamine. So you ask yourself a question. How, in a flora of 80,000 species of vascular plants, do these people find these two morphologically unrelated plants that when combined in this way, created a kind of biochemical version of the whole being greater than the sum of the parts?

Well, we use that great euphemism, "trial and error," which is exposed to be meaningless. But you ask the Indians, and they say, "The plants talk to us."

Well, what does that mean? This tribe, the Cofan, has 17 varieties of ayahuasca, all of which they distinguish a great distance in the forest, all of which are referable to our eye as one species. And then you ask them how they establish their taxonomy and they say, "I thought you knew something about plants. I mean, don't you know anything?" And I said, "No." Well, it turns out you take each of the 17 varieties in the night of a full moon, and it sings to you in a different key. Now, that's not going to get you a Ph.D. at Harvard, but it's a lot more interesting than counting stamens.”

[hlghpriestess]

december 2006

never again but in my dreams will i thread wool through cardboard loops and shake tricolour glitter into paper seams; Never again will my neck crane in awe  at dazzling creations that took thirty children, and one saint, to make. never will the afternoon darken without my knowing, Ice on the walk home  a thrill, and not a hazard.

Let me be clear -  Rarely do I pine for when my free spirit was hemmed in by scheduled time, But, once a year, things hung above my head with my name on;

Once a year, the fruits of our labour were not filed away and marked In red  but strung up, no matter how messy, No matter how imperfect. We also 

worshipped some god, whoever He was, But we worshipped more this time- Those days that always felt like nights.

[tenaciouscandybouquet-blog]

Dear Jessica,

in order to be a servant leader I must love like Jesus.

It all goes back to the principle of upholding and restoring the dignity of human life, and I was wrong for thinking that every human being already was given this diamond slip of information, but maybe that is my new mission.

Another principle from Catholic Social Teaching is that

I would choose to play victim-rescuer here and present my sister as someone to have compassion with for a while, but I know after years of trying to get through to her, that 

I have since realised

I realise that some of you will naturally want to be on her side; I have experienced the same with past ‘friendships’. Though I’ve learned that to be attracted to/want to spend time with people who have shared/similar insecurities and anxieties, while liberating in a eureka-I’m-not-alone-in-this! sort of way; fear-based friendships where the deepest emotional bond is felt when we bitch, sob, or moan together, is no match for the friendships where we share a love for something.

And this is where the formula gets messy. Call me an algebra nerd but the ratios can be all different. 

The main principles here are that:

Humans are so different from each other that

And I guess I’ve analysed this too deeply because I’ve tried to justify all the pain I’ve felt in my life. I’ve tried to justify why it was okay to accept this certain thing in this situation but then have it be wrong in another. 

I’ve blindly accepted because it had previously felt futile but when you have nothing left, you find it in you to find the truth. And Evey was completely right, when she said that the truth can set you free. Integrity can set you free.

And this is another learned virtue, so to speak. 

When we have this crossed so many times, naturally, over time, we are conditioned to passing it through our minds because processing it fully would cause too much hurt. Our brains and bodies have had enough.

We are not around people who are respecting our hopes, wishes, fears, dreams, and fostering environments as much as possible, which help us to grow and learn and get back up once we’ve fallen a bit off track.

We can learn to become insensitive, or chuck it in the ‘not-so-important-in-my-life’ file, which we can’t really blame ourselves for, because to claim it as an important thing, which matters a lot to us, and therefore should have a lot of effect on our self-esteem, would be to lower

Which is why for the duration of life, it is so important that the earliest memories of life with a caregiver are where the parent is reassuring the baby, the human life, of the most secure, protective, loving care any life deserves.

We fight for the environment and animals; similarly, why not our own human race?

Maybe it’s because we find it so vile that some people would want to sit in their own filth of their lives with the knowledge that they aren’t really doing anything for anyone.

I see the war in your eyes - would she acknowledge me if I helped her?

Would she beat me if I gave her some insider knowledge? How would she help me better MYself?

Maybe it’s because when we went through hard times no one was there to help US up.

Maybe we learned a pattern of proving ourselves to the ones who rejected us when we asked for help, and don’t want any charity from anyone.

Is this pride? Is this to be looked down on?

Why do some people deserve help and others do not?

Do you really believe that there’s always going to be inequality in the world?

Those people go through the worst forms of mental illness.

Once you have an attitude like that then you’re never going to do anything extra, for anyone. You won’t get blessed by life’s accidental joys, happy accidents, funny mistakes - you’ll be over-controlling, demanding, impatient - wanting your fill already because you have paid your dues. There is no fun, no connecting in the act of doing, learning, mistake-ing together, no bandaging wounds once we’ve mucked up, no sorries and fights and tears and more love, just perfection, just an end goal - and THEN we’ll be happy.

But here’s the book the Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle, summed up in a sentence (this Catholic source I read once said it’s kind of anti-Catholic, but I take this with the knowledge that his philosophy is a summation of pretty much every religion, no religion, all religions; having a PhD in Philosophy I guess he has that broader perspective to distill or bring all together, though we filter by our own instincts and knowledge/truth uncovered so far too)

That piece of information was, that you can’t achieve a good end by bad means - this includes all your micro-relationships, bad choices, all the parts of the system. Think of a high fashion chain, popular one, that uses slave labour but ‘sustainable materials’, to use a stereotypical example. 

And I just realised now, in thinking about this again, that it can be quite stifling. Paralysing. But the same rules apply as with any perfectionist problem.

Through sacrifices, we can achieve freedom. This is because it pulls us to our highest conscience - we are called to care so compassionately, love so fully - give without thought of reward - and because we ARE limited maybe there will be muckups - maybe something promised last week will have to wait 2 years when you originally said 2 months. 

NZ is waiting. To be called to arms. 

problems: depression, gap

racism,

BIGGEST SOLUTION AND WIN WIN FOR EVERYONE: HELPING EACH OTHER UP. WATER INTO WINE. 

Let me tell you a story about my teacher. She saw something in me, might have known that my best friend had just left, and I was in a new class without my old friends, and was shy, nerdy, sensitive, quiet, reactive, scared, nervous, with low self esteem. She pulled me out of the dark..

In criticism I’d say she set some pretty high relationships maybe riding on the high of the difference she could see she was making, 

The main thing with Malis was the BS - so no corruption, no shoulder taps, flattery by indirect gifts and compliments - genuine principles, values, 

and so you understand it we are very clear - we share fully like Mrs Brebner’s RE class, laying out the structure and very clear expectations, and people can move around that as they need to. The goal is to progress our society not allow it to go backwards.  But the bare bones are there - what you don’t need to reinvent, what you can and should. The benefit of architecture is that it allows you to intellectually challenge yourself - debate top minds, pick brains of actual architects, multi-talented people. 

goal: to give back to Mrs Brebs

Massive thanks to Mrs 

Progressive NZ fashion aesthetic. 

Story - what do you wear coming out of the gym? The disparity is huge. We want it made and tested in NZ by friends and family and colleagues here. How people are going to be fully involved I have no idea. But it’s going to give back to ACM and Vinnies and I’m going to tell people what they need and want.

I feel like all of NZ is depressed and kind of waiting on something to be pulled together, to inspire, not the same old. We hate consumerism now, capitalism. We want to return back to nature, we want to be praised for all the effort and care we’re putting into the protection of what is beautifully pure and good. 

Their quest was anti-Catholic  

Listen to nature, heal by nature

Make people happy - gifts? - THOUGHTS, IDEOLOGIES, ATTITUDES, THEN IMPACT. SMALL SEEDS FIRST. 

But see, that’s the thing - life is made up of imperfect, and its the imperfections which give the value to life.

I realise this is something I have ‘walked’ wrong in my life. People do more of what you reward and celebrate. So what do you want people to do? Be more courageous, faithful? 

To give more freely?

Then you start. Do your tests at home, with those closest to you. they are gems. Don’t take them for granted. 

So I don’t know, maybe our egos take charge over time. As we get older. Or maybe we get rid of them. Maybe we learn to detach, or maybe we just attach more to other things.

I hope in this confusing meld of things we learn that everyone is so different that we can’t judge each other. Infinite combinations of DNA molecules, patterns built up from a treasury of experiences, some chosen, some intentional, some accidental

Being my sister,