#I’m surrounded by white liberals who are under the impression that we will be fine

[megandzane]

Anyway I hate it here

[mar04isdead]

Freaks But Family

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

Chapter 6: Those baby making catholics

Was this title necessary, yes, yes it was. Today I'll be talking about some people, some people you may already know and some you might not know. That's to be determined here, now let's begin the shit show!

Liberator looks at the wall, not really impressed at what's in front of him. A normal alley towards the edge of Snellville, with a normal brick wall. He really doesn't believe that they're supposed to be here, but it's where the light has led them so there has to be something here.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" Liberator looks at Thorn with utter confusion.

Thorn holds up a finger signaling him to be quiet, she points to under the wall. Liberator just glares at her, Thorn holds her hands up in defense.

"I'm not doing this, trust me." Thorn steps back from the vines as they approach both of them.

Liberator chuckles, "Sure you're not."

"I'm serious, it's kudzu. Kudzu is a parasite and I can't grow parasitic plants." Thorn reaches out with her hands, trying to stop the vines. "I can't even control it."

The vines wrap around their feet, both of them start to worry. The more they struggle, the tighter and faster the vines grow. Before they know it, they are encased in the vines and thrown around. After a while the vines start to let them go, and they fall out of the vines onto grass. They both look up, groaning in pain, to see someone who looks very similar to Maria standing in front of a gate.

The girl has black hair in a pixie cut, a red fade at the tips, the same glasses as Maria too. In the light they can also see she has an eyebrow and lip piercings. Olive skin with dark freckles dotting her skin, and two weird black and red tattoos, one on her bicep and the other on her forearm, both on her right arm.

"So, you're the ones who sent the light?" The girl walks around them, sizing them up. "I'll admit, you don't look like much." She crouches down in front of them and looks them in the eye. "You're not even Aztec, so who are you?"

Favion sits up and looks the girl up and down, "How did you even do that? Do you have abilities?"

Thorn hits him on the side of the head, "No, she's a sorceress. Unlike me, who was born with abilities, she had to learn so she has magic."

The girl stands up and grins, "Correct, very impressive Thorn. As for you Liberator," She gives a sour face. "You have much to learn." She waves her hand, and the vines help them both up. "Follow me, you need to work for what you need."

Thorn and Liberator share a look before following the girl through the gate and into a maze. The flowers and bushes start to reach out, the girl just hovers her hand over them to calm them down. Some flowers on the ground start to bloom, letting out some fireflies that were in them.

Thorn looks at a rose bush, "Is this your garden?" She asks while stroking a rose.

The girl looks back and nods, "Yes, it was a gift from my dad though. My mom and older brother have kept it hidden from me. It was supposed to be a wedding gift but I'm glad they gave it to me early."

"Looks straight out of a fairy tale." Liberator giggles as a tulip brushes up against his leg.

The girl laughs, "This isn't a fairy tale." They stop at a wall of bushes, the girl raises her arms and the bushes move aside. "This is real life."

They follow her through the bushes, mesmerized. They enter a circular clearing, in the center is a bird fountain with flowers and dandelions surrounding it at the base. The girl walks up to the fountain, looking at Thorn.

"So, what flower do you need?" She asks, leaning down and picking up a large ceramic vase of water.

Thorn walks up to her, "The blood rose flower."

The girl's eyes widen, "You sure, is her condition that bad?"

Thorn nods, the girl smiles in understanding. She pours the water in the vase into the fountain and sets the vase down. Then she makes flowers appear out of thin air, hydrangeas, forget-me-nots, violets, and oddly enough a very small corpse flower. She raises them above her head and then makes her hands into fist, making the flowers start to wither, dry, and crush themselves. Once they are all a fine dust, she sprinkles them into the fountain.

She looks at Thorn with a smile, "Be a dear and help me for this part." She puts her hands in the water.

Thorn puts her hands in the water too, "What do I need to do?"

"This chant is in Aztec, I'll help you through it." The girl nods to reassure Thorn.

"Rose that smell sweet, and crimson red blood. They join together, and they waste away." The girl chants. "Now follow my lead."

Thorn sucks in a deep breath before following the girl with the chant, "Rose that smell sweet, and crimson red blood. They join together and they waste away."

They repeat it over and over as the fountain starts to glow a dark red, Liberator steps back as the flowers around the fountain start to hide. Both girls' eyes start to glow yellow, they both lift their hands up to the sky and out of the water floats an odd red flower. It's petals curled outwards, the middle of the petals with black markings that look like weeping faces. The black and red stem has thorns and the green leaves are all jagged and spikey.

"There it is." The girl's eyes go back to normal and Thorn plucks the flower from midair.

Liberator looks at the flower with amazement, "Why are you helping us?"

The girl shakes her head with a snicker, "Because I'm related to the person that this flower is for, can't just let my family die now can I?"

"She did mention she has a lot of cousins, but I thought I already met all of them." Thorn carefully wraps the flower in a cloth before putting it in the bag she carries.

"Oh no, there are hundreds more of us." The girl calmly brushes off, when seeing the look on their faces she laughs. "The generation before us were Catholic."

Liberator nods, "Those baby making Catholics."

"I know, right?" The girl pulls a match from her jeans pocket. "You best be going to get everything else you need. Give me the staff."

She reaches a hand out to Thorn, and Thorn hands her Madness' staff. She lights the match against the fountain before throwing it and the staff in the air.

"There's your next location, just follow the light." She waves her hand and the kudzu starts to encase Thorn and Liberator again. "Please tell her, Melissa misses her." She closes them in before the kudzu starts to toss and throw them around again.

The land outside of the brick wall where they started, they look at each other, and then up at the sky to see a red light. They nod before following the light to their next ingredient.

"How much you wanna bet they're stereotypical white people?" Thorn asks Liberator while they both hide behind a bush.

Liberator grins at her, "I'm not gonna make that bet because it's probably true. And you do know I'm half white, right?"

"I'm white too, but this screams people that will kill us if we try anything." Thorn looks over the bush.

"What are we saying about white people?" Someone behind them asks.

They both turn around and scream, only for someone to scream back. The next thing they know, they're engulfed in flames.

"Shit how are we not dead?" Thorn yells.

"I don't fucking know!" Liberator yells back.

"Why are we yelling?" The third person whispers.

Once Liberator and Thorn calm down, they look at the person in front of them and their first thought is, "You're a kid!"

The person looks at them with offense, their blue eyes gleaming, "Excuse you, but I'm older than both of you."

They both take a moment to look at the person closer, blond hair, pale blue eyes, olive skin and dark freckles. Same glasses as Maria and Melissa, and the same tattoo on the right bicep. The right side of their head is shaved, the other goes down to their chin.

"The name is Max, related to the last person you went to and the person you are trying to save." They step back from the two and gesture to what is around them

"Are... are we in a mechanic's garage?" Thorn asks looking around.

Max nods, "Yep, my granddad built me this little place when I was just a kid. I studied my magic here."

It's really not much, large open space, tall shelves to the sides filled with tools and boxes. In the center are two cars, one with the hood popped open and the other dangling from the ceiling, looking like it's being rebuilt.

"So," Liberator looks at the sharp objects hanging off the wall worriedly. "What is your magic?"

"Fire!" Max raises their arms and they burst into flames.

Both Thorn and Liberator back away in fright. Max notices and extinguishes the flames.

"Sorry, anyways what is it you need from me?" Max pulls a lever from behind the shelves, and up rises a cauldron.

Thorn looks at the paper she brought, "Lava from the hellfire."

Max starts laughing, after a while they look up to see Thorn's face. "Wait, you're serious? Lava from the hellfire!" They shout.

Thorn nods, Max groans. They go to the shelves, scan them from up to down, and grab a box, they bring it into the cauldron and open it. Inside are precious gems, diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, quartz, and other gems. They pour all of the gems into the cauldron, and throw the box to the side. They put their hands into the cauldron, their hands start to glow, and the gems start to melt.

Max looks up at Liberator, "Pretty boy, get your ass over here."

Liberator walks up to the cauldron and puts his hands in and they start to glow too. They follow as Max brings their hands out of the molten metal, and they move their hands in circles.

"Just repeat this Aztec chant after me and this will be fine." Max smiles to reassure him.

"Liquid fire from a place of pain, become whole again. Pain and fire unite to cause chaos." Max nods to Liberator. "Now just repeat after me three times."

"Liquid fire from a place of pain, become whole again. Pain and fire unite to cause chaos." They repeat the chant three times, their eyes glow red, and the cauldron starts to bubble. They pick their hands out of the cauldron and move them side to side.

"Hold it." Max instructs.

They run off to a shelf and come back with a ceramic jar. They open the jar and set it on the floor, they position their fingers like finger guns. They have Liberator step back before motioning the lava to flow out of the cauldron and into the jar. Max pics it up, makes a small blue flame with their index finger, and welds the top shut before handing it to Thorn.

"Thanks, now that I think about it you're a Mexican mechanic with fire magic." Thorn smiles.

Max smiles, "What about it?"

"Literally reminded me of Leo Valdez." She puts the jar in her bag.

Max gasps and smiles, "Finally a person with taste!"

Liberator looks at Max questioningly, "You're Mexican, but you're blond."

Max puts their arms around Thorn and Liberator's shoulders. "I'm half white, white on my dad's side and Mexican on my papa's side."

"But how, how's that possible?" Liberator becomes more confused.

"Now I need to get you two out of here." They are all surrounded in flames again. "And one more thing."

Max takes the staff from Thorn and walks to the side of the house. They quickly come back with a lightbulb, they set it on fire and throw it along with the staff in the air.

"Follow the blue light, I recommend you don't leave any metal exposed." Max winks before disappearing in fire.

The middle of the woods, they really thought they were going to get kidnapped. They had no idea what on Earth could possibly make this safe, they took the hint from Max that this person has electricity magic. Just looking at the cottage made both Liberator and Thorn a bit paranoid, not knowing if it's abandoned or not.

"You knock on the door." Liberator lightly pushes Thorn towards the cottage.

Thorn glares at him, "Such a gentleman, I can see why that Maria girl doesn't like you."

Liberator glares back, "How'd you know about her?"

"Madness, she's an excellent mind reader." Thorn smirks.

Liberator is about to say something witty as a response when a tree blows up next to him, he screams and rushes to Thorn. Both he and Thorn get in defensive positions, only to see a little girl walk out from behind where the tree was. Dark skin like chocolate, dark mocha eyes, two little braids that fall down her shoulders, the most adorable blue dress and pink flats.

"Dida, I missed." The little girl turns around and complains into the shadows.

Someone comes out from the shadows and scoops the girl into their arms, "Don't worry hun, you'll get it next time."

The person is just like the rest, black short hair, olive skin, covered in freckles, brown eyes, glasses, and a tattoo on the right bicep. Only difference is that they are actually pretty tall, and they have more tattoos.

"Speaking of, what are you two doing here? When Harley told me there was someone in the woods I just thought she was tired and seeing things. Then she blasted and we heard you scream, so explain yourselves." The person holding Harley glares at the two teenagers.

Thorn digs through her bag, pulling out the paper and handing it to the person. The person looks at the paper suspiciously, sighs before reaching for the paper, unfolding it, and reading it.

"Really, the life of the sky is what you need?" The person hands the paper back, and adjusts Harley on their hip.

Thorn nods, "We hope it's not much of a bother, but we need it. We've been gathering the other ingredients all night, and after here is one last stop."

"They need help, dida." Harley messes with the person's hair.

The person nods, "I know darling, let's just be glad deda isn't here so you can use your magic." The person puts Harley down before turning to the teens. "I'm Micha, follow me."

They follow Micha and Harley to the cottage, they go around to the back to where there is a giant greenhouse. They enter the greenhouse, filled with plants and herbs, there is no roof so the sky is open and clear to see.

Micha turns to their daughter, "Harley, get the book and I'll get the jar." Micha points to a corner.

Harley smiles and goes to get the book in one of the corners and brings it over to Micha, while Micha grabs a jar hidden in the plants. They both meet in the middle of the greenhouse and they sit down. Harley takes the jar and Micha opens the book, they set both objects between them.

"If you two have any metal, piercing's, braces, anything like that, step out while you still can." Micha and Harley raise their hands to the sky.

"The spirit of the ancient heavens, a sign of the gods. It brings destruction and life to those it may touch." They both chant over and over, and above them storm clouds start to gather. Lighting can be seen starting to form in the clouds, it stretches across the sky like a spiderweb. Harley seems to struggle with keeping her hands up but Micha smiles at her to let her know things will be okay. Both of them have their eyes start to glow blue and they bring their hands down across their chest.

"You guy's may want to step out for this." Micha motions for Thorn and Liberator to step out of the greenhouse.

Liberator and Thorn decide to take Micha's advice and head out of the greenhouse. They turn away, knowing what lightning can do to them. They hear a loud bang, and wait a few seconds before turning back around. They see Micha and Harley closing the jar, Micha standing up, leaving the jar on the ground, and scooping Harley into their arms. Micha motions for them to come back into the greenhouse.

"Mind holding her?" Micha extends a sleeping Harley to Liberator.

Liberator takes Harley, Micha picks up the jar and hands it to Thorn. Micha takes the staff from Thorn, twirls it in their hand for a minute before throwing it up in the air. A white light spreads through the sky, leading them not far. Micha smiles up at the sky before taking Harley back from Liberator.

Micha smiles down at their daughter, "She's not used to doing big magic, she was only doing simple stuff until today. Took a lot of convincing for her other parent to let me teach her magic." Micha kisses Harley's forehead.

Thorn smirks, "You're married?"

Micha nods, "Yeah, they're a teacher like me. Their concert band is out of state for competition." They nod towards Harley in their arms. "This one still has preschool and I still have to teach." Micha looks back at the sky, "Speaking of school, it's the weekend so if you want to get sleep for whatever punishment your teachers have, get the last ingredient and make that potion."

Liberator and Thorn both thank Micha before leaving for the last ingredient.

"Why does this night keep getting creepier and creepier?" Liberator hits his head on the closest empty cage.

"Keep doing that, you'll be doing the world a favor." Thorn points to the cage.

They both are now standing in front of a circus big top, trailers, cages, and RVs parked around it and only one large light coming out from the flaps. It smells like popcorn and cotton candy. Some posters for acts are on the outside of the tent, promoting all sorts of odd things.

"Is anyone even inside?" Thorn steps closer to the tent.

Liberator shakes his head, "It's three in the morning, I don't think anyone's in here."

Slowly and weirdly, the tent flaps open, and they hear music coming from inside the tent. There is a small voice, inviting them inside. They look at each other, silently arguing who's going first. Then there is a gust of wind, pushing them forward to the tent. It's much bigger on the inside, circles of chairs surrounding the center ring, large thick metal poles that are keeping the tent up, wires, ropes, and silks hanging from the ceiling, a large net just a few feet above the ground, two large platforms near the top of the poles, and large lights that all shine on someone in the center of the ring.

"Evening, or should I say early morning? Welcome to the LaRue-Gonzalez Circus of Wonders!" The girl in the center announces with a booming voice, as if it's something she has done her whole life. "I am the Mariposa LaRue-Gonzalez, daughter of the ring leaders, knife thrower, contortionist, aerialist, and dancer! But tonight I am your sorceress, how may I help you?" Mariposa extends a hand out gracefully.

Circus performer definitely explains her look, dull red leotard with long sleeves, tiny golden rhinestones at the ruffled cuffs, a short red tutu, bright red eyeshadow and lipstick, golden snake bites and septum ring and odd golden lace up boots with no heel or toe. Her hair in a long braid with golden flowers decorating it, and from the translucent sleeves, one can see a tattoo on her right bicep.

Liberator is the first to break the silence, "You definitely look like you belong in a circus." Earning him a glare and punch on the shoulder from Thorn.

"I apologize for my associate." Mariposa raises an eyebrow at Thorn. "He doesn't have much experience talking to women." Thorn hits Liberator in the head for good measure.

Mariposa laughs, "I can tell, now I assume you are looking for an ingredient from me?" She twirls her index finger in the air, causing the paper in Thorn's bag to fly to her.

Liberator tilts his head to the side, "Is telekinesis your magic?" He wonders.

Mariposa shakes her head, "Air, damn this feels like some Avatar shit. Each one of us has a magic, and Madness controls all of them and more! This is some Avatar shit!" Mariposa jumps up and down with happiness.

Thorn smiles, "Okay that aside, we need the breath of the spirits."

At that Mariposa stands still, "At that I wish I had fallen too." Mariposa stands straight, arms at her side, and as she closes her eyes she slowly starts to rise and rise until she reaches one of the platforms. "Come up here, just be real careful if you're scared of heights."

Thorn merely shrugs and stomps her foot on the ground, the ground shakes before a giant sunflower sprouts beneath them and helps them rise up to the platform. Liberator holds on to some of the petals, Thorn simply stands with her arms crossed.

Mariposa just laughs at their antics, "Now contrary to what you may think, I don't need to summon the dead for this." She has some long silk in her hands that reaches the ground from the ceiling. "There's a jar right where you two are, be careful with it I'm gonna need it."

Mariposa wraps the silk around her legs several times, before taking a few steps back on the platform, running forward, and jumping off the platform. She holds onto the silk with her hands too as she starts to swing in large circles, picking up the pace with each time she passes Liberator and Thorn. Soon she's just a blur of red and gold, Thorn and Liberator and feel something pulling them towards the edge of the platform.

A sort of tornado forms from where Mariposa keeps spinning, until she slows down and unwraps herself fully from the silk. She falls straight down onto the net, the jar coming down with her. She lifts the jar up and Thorn and Liberator watch as it fills with the air she spun, she closes the jar before making herself rise back up to her platform. She sits down with an arm out and the jar resting on her palm, closing her eyes as the jar floats away from her and rests in the space in between her and the other platform.

"What is used to live, what is used to breath. What flows around us, what causes change." Just like everyone else, Mariposa repeats her chant until her eyes glow white. The jar glows too and starts to shake a bit, one can see the winds in it start to swirl and move. Once her eyes stop glowing, she has the jar float over to Thorn and Liberator.

"I know it's not exactly what you were thinking, but my magic hasn't been what it used to be." Mariposa shrugs awkwardly.

Thorn looks confused, "What happened?"

Mariposa looks straight down to the net, "I almost fell from up here, lost someone, been kind of scared of heights since." She looks back up, "Today was actually my first time back up here doing my act in four months." She smiles.

"You're getting over it, and that's good. Keep doing what you're doing and soon your fear will be a thing of the past." Liberator flashes Mariposa a smile.

"Yeah, that's what my dads have been saying." Mariposa stands up and starts to twirl her hand around causing both Thorn and Liberator to slowly rise into the air. "Have fun making that potion, tell my cousin I say hi." She twitches her hand upwards, and Thorn and liberator fly through the sky back to where they started.

"I've been waiting, and is this the idiot who is supposed to help us save Madness." Esme asks, she's wearing all black and a mask that covers the lower half of her face.

Thorn rubs the back of her neck, "Yeah, sorry it took us so long, Emory." Thorn knows better than to use Esme's real name in front of Liberator.

Emory shakes her head, "I have the book and the other materials. Give him the ingredients and we can get this over with. And we need to hurry because we have a situation with Madness' abilities."

Thorn drags Liberator over to the cauldron full of water, she gives Liberator the bag of ingredients, "Just listen to everything Emory tells you and this will be fine."

Emory opens the book and sticks her hand out like a claw, all the things in the bag float out and take positions around Liberator. "Open the jar of spirit's breath upside down so it goes into the water." She instructs.

Liberator plucks the jar out of the air and turns it upside down, he takes the lid off and jumps a bit when it almost falls out of his hands. He keeps it steady as the wind in it rushes out into the water, turning the water a pale white. When the jar is empty, he can hear voices whispering something.

"Don't worry, it happens." Emory looks back at the book. "The blood rose flower must be burned and it's ashes dusted in." She points to the flower.

Liberator takes the flower and crumbles it in his hands, he closes his eyes as he wills his hands to burst into flames. He struggles a bit to keep the fire to just his hands, but he manages and once he has the ashes, he puts them into the mix.

Emory looks at the white water with specks of black, "Okay, now you have to freeze it solid, but there's a specific way to do it." She puts one finger on the rim of the cauldron and drags her finger around it in a circle. "Just this, simple."

He nods and steadies his shaking hands, and places his finger on the rim of the cauldron. He circles the rim again and again until the mix is fully frozen. Once it's frozen the mix is now black, it looks weird but Emory assures him that it's supposed to be this way.

"Now, the lava from the hell fire, but it has to be an 'X' in the middle." Emory makes an 'X' in the air with her finger, "I know it's weird but it's what's in the book."

Liberator just shrugs and opens the hot jar of lava. He slowly tilts the jar on it's side and the liquid fire pours out he makes the lines cross to form the 'X' in the middle. He puts the empty jar aside and watches as the lava burns through the ice.

Emory reads more from the book, "Now, just add the life of the sky and this will be done."

Liberator takes the jar of electricity with shaking hands, watching as the electricity spreads like webs as it touches the glass. He opens the jar, only for the electricity to fly out and up into the sky. Just as he loses hope that he might not be able to get the electricity back, it comes running back down and strikes the cauldron.

"Wow, that was something." Emory and Thorn join Liberator in looking at the potion, now a bright blue with swirls of red.

"Looks like ice cream." Thorn tries to poke at the potion but Emory slaps her hand.

Emory glares at Thorn, "No, unless you want your insides to burn."

At that Thorn backs away, "Okay, then let's get it to Madness then."

Emory nods, closing the book and sticking her hand out, lifting Liberator into the air. "Sorry kid, but the rest of this is a secret. You tell Dr. Gomez what happened here tonight, you're dead." She snaps her fingers, and Liberator wakes up as Favion, in his room by morning.

yEsme watches Maria as she plays around with her cousins, acting as if nothing has happened. Sure she now has bandages around her abdomen, shifting really did a number on her, but she acts as if it's all okay. She's refused to use her abilities too, no one can talk to her about it and it’s been a month.

"You think she'll ever come back from this, I mean she was practically dying." Rose remembers how shadows were practically consuming everything around them. "I mean I keep trying to trick her to use her abilities, but she sees right through it."

Esme shrugs, "I don't know what we're going to do but we have to find a solution. She is the only one that can help Mike and his ability so she has to use hers eventually."

"Okay speaking of Maria, where is she?" Rose points to where Maria used to be, playing in the grass with Imelda but now she's gone.

Esme looks around, "Can you check inside, I'll ask the kids if they saw where she went."

Rose heads inside and searches the whole house, and eventually she finds Maria in the attic, playing with the spider plush she got on Christmas. "Hey, is everything okay?"

Maria just looks at her, "Not really, when I was asleep just saw some memories. Memories I really want to get rid of." She buries her face in the toy.

Rose sits down next to Maria, "Talk to me about it, I've seen that memory, but you never want to explain it." Rose tries to put an arm around Maria only for Maria to move away.

"Not really in the mood to talk about it." Maria turns away from Rose.

Rose groans, "Okay, baby I'm getting tired of this. I know you hate it, I hate talking about my memories too, but I do talk about them." She wraps her arms around herself. "Sometimes I wonder if you're just hiding crap."

At that Maria reacts, "I'm not hiding anything, I just don't want to talk about it." She scoots away further, "Just drop it, and I never exactly asked you to share your memories."

"But I let you see them, I even talked about them when you asked. I felt a lot better afterwards, so why don't you tell me," Rose pulls at her hair a bit. "For once tell me what is bothering you?"

"Nothing!" Maria shouts, objects around her flying around violently.

She starts sobbing and screaming into her plush. She keeps shaking harshly and keeps moving, Rose just sighs and starts to rake her hand through Maria's hair. Maria flinches at the touch, but slowly eases up. She lets herself lean into Rose's touch and keeps crying, she lets go of the plush to let herself be held by Rose.

"They... they just prayed that it would change." Maria shakes and gasps for breath. "I begged, I begged all they had to say about it was talking to some idiot man who doesn't even exist!" She stands up in a rush and paces the floor. "They believed in a book that is filled with lie after lie over their own kid!" She looks at Rose with her eyes red and tears running down her cheeks. "They choose to believe someone where there was no more proof existed, over the only proof left of our ancestors!" She hugs herself tightly, "They choose to forget me, to forget us."

Maria finishes her rant by dropping on her knees to the floor, the objects around her doing the same. Rose quickly walks over to Maria, and Maria throws herself into her girlfriend's arms. Rose just holds Maria tightly, and watches as around them some flowers start to bloom, purple hyacinth.

"At least you can't remember what happened to you." Maria mumbles, into Rose's neck where she's hiding her face.

Rose kisses Maria's hair, "I know you want to forget, but all I can do is help you through it."

"It wasn't just my heritage they prayed to change!" The flowers grow faster. "There was this girl, and I liked her a lot. They yelled at me when they thought she was the reason I was turning against them. Then they sent me away." She wipes her tears away before continuing. "I guess they thought that center was for conversion therapy, they were talking about it before sending me away. Would explain why they didn't send me straight here."

The flowers stop blooming and Maria's breath starts to even out. Rose just keeps running her hand through her hair to keep her calm. She places her other hand on Maria's waist where the bandages are, and rubs small circles with her thumb.

"Does this hurt?" Rose asks while softly rubbing at the bandages.

Maria nods, "A bit, no one will tell me what the hell happened." She wipes her eyes again.

"You used two opposite abilities and I guess since they don't go together they refused to work in your body." Rose places more kisses on Maria's head. "You passed out and we had to make a potion to wake you up."

Maria pulls away from Rose in confusion, "Wait a potion?" Rose nods. "I'm the only one who can make the potions. I mean yeah, the sorceresses can too, but certain ones no. What potion was it?" She questions, thoughts racing through her head.

Rose taps her head trying to remember, "Ancient revival, we had to get Favion for it."

Maria stands up and runs out of the attic, Rose quickly follows her. Yet again Rose finds Maria in the basement, but arguing with Esme, Clarisse, Liam, and Sam. Pointing at the old book in Sam's hands, and at the monitor, which has the formulas about mixing Maria's blood with someone else's.

"Maria, the abilities would be artificial." Esme turns her back to Maria. "And since they are artificial they are temporary." She starts to walk away.

Maria groans in frustration, “Two months, what do you have to say about two months?" She growls, her fangs starting to grow through her gums.

Esme stops in her tracks, "Now, that, is where I should worry." She turns back to Maria. "It should only be a week, less even."

"Yeah, now you want to start thinking about that?" Maria watches as Esme and the others start to work.

Sam looks from where she is scanning scrolls, "That's not possible, yes a chief or chieftess can give someone abilities with their blood. But in what we have recorded it has never lasted more than a week." She keeps pulling scrolls off of the book shelves and reads them all.

Rose decides to intervene, "Keep in mind you guys have never had a chieftess, or a leader with snake and spider shifting." She puts an arm around her girlfriend's waist. "This stuff has never been seen before, so of course how can you guys be prepared for that?"

"Great-grandmother's book is all we have though." Liam says from his spot in front of the monitor. "She was the only one with any recent recordings of our history, we would be able to get something from that."

Maria scratches at one of her discolored patches of skin, "Yeah but most are in code, so the only things we have are the things in Aztec. She was one smart lady." She removes Rose's hand from her waist, and walks away.

Rose notices how all the shadows leave the room and follow her, so she follows too. Following Maria and the shadows, Rose sees them end up in front of the shed in the backyard. Maria is already inside, spray painting something on the floor, lighting candles, and reading out of a book.

Rose avoids the flying candles as she steps into the shed, "What exactly are you planning here?"

"If I can't get the information from the books, then I'll get them from the source." Maria closes the book before sitting in the middle of the skull she drew.

Rose's eyes go wide, "No, babe don't do it. You know what happened last time."

Maria just laughs, the candles setting down and the flames start to go crazy. Maria's patches of vitiligo start to glow, she winks before disappearing in flames and light.

Rose looks at where her girlfriend used to be, "How do I explain this to the others?"

So, yet again with the chaos. Where is Mara going, who knows! All we can do is hope she doesn't die where she's going, It's a possibility. Oh well, come back next time to see what happens. Don't be late!

[yeskama]

Prologue Draft: A Tale of Sorcery II: Dance of the Dark Dragon

The following is an unfinished draft of the prologue chapter for my next fanfic. Some pieces might make it to the final draft but I’m pretty sure most of it’s gonna end up nuked. Figured I’d share it before that happens...

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In the southwestern regions of Augustus, 25 miles from the Solidere border, the Fortress City of Delacroix stands vigil. Considered a feat of human ingenuity, she was constructed during the peak of the Agustian Empire, encompassing over 40,000 square meters of the Great Southern Lake. The steel walls surrounding her reach up to 200 feet, while her tallest towers peak at 400. Built on a solitary island, four great bridges provide entry to the mainland, each located at a cardinal point and underneath her foundations, a vast underground mining complex extracts the valued minerals of the earth. Surrounding the city are ten great spires that defend her from any act of war, be they magic, artillery or otherwise. This resilience has always been the city’s greatest boon. Indeed, the Dark Kingdom only succeeded in conquering the city by starving her citizens out. Even then, it took 2 and half years to accomplish Her accolades however don’t end there...    

Behind her walls reside the finest tradesmen, crafters and scholars known worldwide. Delacroix’s Shining Star Academy has produced many great magi throughout the centuries, notably Archmage Noah. Her citizens are not only a proud and hardy people but also hospitable. The city boasts the largest demi-human and elf populations in Augustus. The Great Cathedral of Aime not only administers the Ten’s watchful eyes, but even permits other faiths to provide for their pilgrims. All these feats however will never wash away the city’s greatest shame. For it was here, six centuries ago, Lilith was sired. The very woman whose son brought the entire continent to its knees, was at a time, one of her beloved citizens...

Since it’s liberation, the governing body of Delacroix has served her Augustian masters for the past 406 years. The road between her and the capital has long been dubbed “The Golden Road” for its consistently safe conditions. For years, the gates of Delacroix stood open for all...

Now?

Her drawbridges are raised, her waters play host to dangerous beasts, and her citizens have boarded themselves within, sword and staff ready. Cannons line her walls while wyverns dominate her skies. Amongst the rolling hills of the mainland, Legion tents dot the landscape with artillery directed at the city. Bending to the banners of golden flame, the north and west bleed red, whilst across the lake, banners of the white horse stand firm as the lands bleed blue. The time is 11 at dawn and here, situated among the hills of red, two men ready their charges for afternoon drills...  

“Recruit-man Lyon!” “Captain Lagnus, sir!” “You are holding your weapon incorrectly, recruit-man...” Unsheathing his own blade, he proceeds to explain. “You want your main hand resting near the guard and your off hand near the pommel. That way you have proper balance. Clutching with the hands together lessens your control...” “Thank you, sir! I will keep that in mind from now on!”  

Sheathing his blade, he just gave the lad a reassuring smile and went on his way. T’was a common mistake, especially amongst enlisted civilians. After examining a few more fresh faces, Lagnus found himself staring into the clear blue sky as sweat tricked down his face.

Though the humidity had lessened since yesterday, the summer's heat was still strong. Truth be told. Lagnus himself wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion. A man of 23 years with jet black hair and brown eyes, he had served in the Legion for six years now. A commissioned officer, he wore a standard Legion armor set but with a slight personal touch. He had it gilded to reflect his proficiency with light magic (a rather difficult element to master amongst magi) with a blue bodysuit, brown gloves and a gold circlet. Finishing the ensemble was a red cape, bearing the sigil of a gold flame on its back, reflecting the House he served under. While he looked regal in it, truthfully, it was like a mini torture cell! He wanted nothing more but to remove it but doing so would undermine his authority, or so he believed. Wiping his head, he made his way toward one of the nearby canopies wherein he took to the comfort of water, chugging away without abandon. With his thirst quenched, he sighed in delight and took a seat. T’was then another man took to the canopy, the one instructing the magi...

“Hot, Captain?” He greeted him. Lagnus just shook his head. “I can manage, my lord...” The man merely smirked as he went for a bottle of water. “I somehow doubt that...” He answered dryly

Albus Vanthe Amherst was his name and at just 17 years, his reputation preceded him. Captain of the Legion Magi Corps and heir to one of the five great noble families of Augustus. Lagnus was familiar with the stories...a generational prodigy they call him. He graduated the Augustus Magi Academy at 12, enrolled in the Severin Legion Academy at 13 before graduating a year later and quickly soaring through the ranks. It took Lagnus six years to claw his way up to Captain, a feat which Albus accomplished in four. An impressive accomplishment indeed and Lagnus was inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt...

...if not for that last name.

He had seen it before, hayseeds elevated through the ranks all on the merits of their family names. Being an orphan, Lagnus did not possess the luxury of a last name, though he was well on his way toward earning one.  Regardless, it just left a sour taste in his mouth. His appearance did nothing to dissuade this notion. A face so immaculately crafted, you’d mistake it for a king’s, with piercing emerald eyes and long flowing scarlet hair. His current attire consisted of a black unbuttoned long coat with matching pants and boots, all of which had some manner of gold trimmings. Only the shirt he wore broke the trend, being a plain red in color. Clearly ill-dressed himself for the season, not that it mattered to Lagnus. He was more preoccupied with warding off the heat than anything...

“Done with your charges?” The noble asked. Lagnus nodded. “Indeed. Yourself my lord?” Albus just nodded before reaching into one of his pockets. Pulling out a bag of peanuts, he offered. “Snack?”

Eh, why not?

Rising from his seat, Lagnus stood next to the mage as the two of them picked at the bag. He hadn’t had salted peanuts since he was a boy and had long forgotten the taste. Rough and tangy but still tastey! Unfortunately, they prompted more water down the throat (the wonders of salt). As the two ate, they both looked ominously on the city. Five months have passed since Delacroix declared for independence and so far...nothing. Just what was going on in there?

“May if I inquire about something, Captain?” Albus asked “Go ahead.” “Why are you here?” Lagnus looked at the mage confused. What prompted him to ask such a thing? “What else? To do my duty. The city has rebelled against the crown. Such actions cannot be abided...” “If memory serves me correctly, did you not once call this city home?” He matched eyes with the knight. “When those drawbridges come down, rest assured, things will turn ugly. If that comes to pass...can you bring it upon yourself to draw your sword on your own neighbors?” Lagnus returned his gaze toward the city, “When we joined the Legion, we made a pledge to his majesty. A knight who cannot stay true to his word cannot be called a knight...” Albus let out a soft chuckle upon hearing this...   “My friend...you are not a knight...” Lagnus just flashed a brief smile as he went for some more peanuts. “Give it time, my lord.”

It was around this time a figure ascended the hill on horseback.  His face concealed by , he was on horseback and had three prisoners in tow, bound by rope and their faces concealed by sacks. One was an adult woman wearing a red maid outfit. Lagnus was well aware of its significance, only those serving one of Delacroix’s governing families wore red. The other two were just children, a boy and a girl. Arriving before the canopy, the shrouded figure dismounted and knelt before them...

“Sir Lagnus, Lord Albus...I have fulfilled my task...” Albus applauded the man as he rose to his feet. “So I see! Well done good sir! Let us meet with uncle, I'm sure he’ll find these arrivals most pleasing...”

Amherst command took up residence in a quaint tent near the lakeside. Inside, sigils of the golden flame stood proud whilst men and women of scarlet (or blonde) hair and green eyes seated themselves before a long table. Food and wine took residence upon its fine surface while its masters discussed strategy, charted maps and schemed against their political enemies. Situated in the back and installed on the most decorated seat was the Lord Victor Penton Amherst, current head of House Amherst, chief advisor to his royal highness and, both figurative and literally, the most powerful man in camp.  

Of course, upon first impressions, one would hardly come to such a conclusion. A man of 55 years, Victor had already gone through three wives and sired six children, only one of which, survived to this day. At a mere 5 feet, he looked like an ant seated amongst giants, though none dared to make such a jest. His scarlet hair, now lessening and brushed backward, had dulled to the that of light ginger. This extended to the thick goatee he grew to mask his weathering features. The parts of his face visible were suitably worn, highlighting his high cheekbones and the creases under his eyes, which like the rest of his family, were a deep emerald in color. Whilst his present company were outfitted in decorative raiment, Victor settled on a simple black leather doublet, with matching pants and boot. Situated on his lap and was the Amherst family heirloom, a great tome bearing the family’s ancestral sigil, a golden flame over a red field. The tome itself bore the family’s greatest creation; a magic spell forged from over 200 years of generational knowledge...

Hellfire

Whilst the others squabbled amongst themselves, Lord Victor kept silent, his attention focused on a letter addressed from his majesty. A solemn man, he was not one for small talk, only speaking when he deemed it necessary. Only Albus’s arrival would pry him away from the whims of his king...  

“Lord Uncle!” He shouted over the ruckus. Upon the declaration, the whole tent immediately went quiet. Raising his head up, he watched as his nephew hurried to his side.  

“What is it Albus?” he asked. Contrary to Lord Victor’s size, his voice was deep and strong. “Have there been any new developments from the city?”  Albus just smiled and shook his head. “Afraid not, my lord. But we have procured some...bargaining chips.” Signaling to the entrance of the tent, he shouted...

“Bring them in!”

Lagnus escorted the bound maid while the cloaked figure gently prompted the children in. All eyes were on the pair as they unmasked the captives. The maid was a young woman with short blonde hair and blue eyes, probably in her early to mid 20’s. Her eyes bore a tremendous fury toward the tent’s occupants though she stayed her tongue. Lagnus maintained his composure but was quite dismayed by her unveiling...

For he knew this woman...

Thankfully t’was not the maid the Amhersts were interested In. Rather, their attention was focused on the children. A delicate looking pair for sure, certainly no older than 8. Both bore eyes of red, hair of orange and were outfitted in sleepwear typically reserved for the upper-class. These factors lead little doubt concerning their identities. Like the maid, their mouths remained silent but instead of fury in their eyes, terror took front stage. This fear intensified as the short man in black approached them, his great red tome tucked under his left arm. Kneeling down to the boy, he gently grabbed the lad’s chin and studied. The boy, whose eyes were tightly shut, began to cry...

“Open your eyes boy!” The man asked sternly.

He did as asked and was instantly met by the man’s emerald gaze. He stared intently before breaking his gaze and looking up to the Shrouded Man, who’s head bowed in respect.  

“There is no mistaking it. This is indeed Lord Ville’s son...”

Raising to his feet, he ordered all present save his nephew, Lagnus and the shrouded man to leave. Once the tent was emptied, he gave the order to a nearby sentry to escort the children to one of the prisoner’s tents and double camp security. He was taking no chances. As the children left the tent, the shrouded figure snapped his fingers and suddenly, their tears and sniffles were now audible. The display brought a rare smirk to Lord Victor. A silence incantation? Very clever indeed...

“Remove those rags and rest yourself. You’ve more than earned it...”  

The figure did as commanded and discarded his concealments, revealing a young man with short chestnut brown hair and piercing brown eyes.  Seating himself at the table, he proceeded picking at the ham as Lord Victor wandered over to the maid, eyeing her curiously...

“Who is this?”

The brown-haired youth looked upward and responded, “A servant who got a bit too nosy for her own good...” The cup now full, he took a quick swig and continued, “Give her credit, she was the only one in the Ville household that didn’t buy my story...” Breaking eye contact, he looked downward, “When the opportunity to abduct the kids arose, she was waiting for me in the girl’s bedroom...” He paused briefly before finishing “Not wanting to take any risks, I brought her along...”  

The maid glared furiously at the man, struggling to free herself while her mouth silently flapped like mad. Lagnus tightened his grip, garnering him an ugly look from the young woman before she returned her gaze to the brown-haired man. Without warning, she suddenly felt a vicious strike against her left cheek. The blow was strong, so much so, her head swung as she fell to her knees. A red bruise burned brightly on her face and as she struggled to open her left eye, she felt someone grip her cheeks. Orbs of green gazed into her sole opened eye, a horrifying fire having awakened within them...

“If you value your life wench, you will compose yourself...” The Lord Amherst growled. “The Golden Flame has no time for fools. I suggest you prepare yourself for questioning...less you want something unpleasant to befall those children...”

As the maid was escorted out, Lord Victor returned to his seat. Albus took a seat next to his uncle whilst Lagnus sat across from the Brown Haired Man. Lord Victor eyed him inquisitively before asking...

“Have you charted the city’s entire sewer system?” Nodding, the man pulled out three folded papers from his pocket and set them on the table. A brief smirk crossed Victor’s lips upon seeing them. It had been three months since he departed for the city. An insider them tipped off that the city intended to declare for independence. Only the royal family was privy to the city’s one weakness, and even then, their knowledge of it was lacking. Victor sent his newest acquisition into the city before the drawbridges were rose, complete with fake identifications to clear him as a Ville servant. Needless to say, the lad passed with flying colors. Passing the pitcher of wine around, all four pour their goblets and the Lord Amherst raised a glass...

“To you Canne, let us celebrate this moment as one!”   “Here, Here!” Albus chimed. “Aye...” Lagnus agreed quietly. Canne kept his silence, his eyes closed as he sipped his wine. Once everyone had their fill, he asked...

“Will the children be harmed?” The question surprised Albus who softly chuckled. “Well, that all depends on Lady Ville! As we are all privy, every woman’s sole weakness is their children...Why else would we assign you to her?” Albus smirked as he raised to goblet to his mouth for another sip before continuing. “I’m rather shocked Canne! Even after three months as a servant you still possess that small-town naiveté? I would think it quashed by now...” Though he did not see it, Canne shot Albus an ugly glance as the noble returned to his cup...

“Is it not strange though?”  Lagnus interjected. “What is?” Albus eyed him. “How many of the council seats have changed in the past 6 months? Lord Ville’s sudden death notwithstanding, both the Rochester and Hanniver heads passed away two weeks apart! The Cushings being replaced by the Lees? The disappearance of Lord Dolle and his daughter? And the Monevs being given a seat?! So much has happened amongst the city’s top brass that it’s near impossible to ignore!” Looking at Canne, Lagnus asked “Did you hear anything notable during the past three months?” Canne simply shook his head...

“Nothing significant save rumors and gossip. Amongst the staff, the prevailing belief was that Lady Ville poisoned her husband, though just as many say otherwise. Though the daly atmosphere amongst the household was fairly dismal...”

“Our mission is quell the uprising, not speculate on it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The chapter would have ended with Victor sending Canne eastward to acquire some “important desirables” his majesty requested in the letter (though what they were would not be revealed). 

The only noteworthy thing about this was that in earlier stages, Lemres was present. Originally, Lemres was the one training the mages and would pose the question if Lagnus was comfortable with the situation. These interactions were repurposed for Albus with minor adjustments (Albus was always intended to appear, instead he would have been introduced in the Amherst tent). 

Why was this changed?

1.) I have reservations about Sega characters appearing in the story so early. Maybe further down the road but not so soon.

2.) Lemres serving in the Legion is just too out of character of him. Also, the implication that he would have no problem blasting rebels on the grounds of treason was just pushing it.

[eurello]

Media Diet, Week of April 19th

I am forever working on improving the quality of the deluge of culture I am taking in at all times. Lately, I’ve been especially rigorous about this, as I keep realizing exactly how much valuable time I am wasting slurping up really dumb stuff. In an attempt at accountability (and to make myself ashamed to spend too much time on anything purely dumb), I am going to try logging and posting about the culture I consume. I will analyze what attracts me to the trashier things, and attempt to train myself, little by little, day by day, into better habits.  

Sunday, April 19th:

As I was getting ready and making breakfast, I listened to podcasts as usual — the end of Oh No, Ross & Carrie, and the beginning of Baby Geniuses. I enjoy both of these podcasts a lot, and I think they are good things to listen to, although this particular episode of ONRC went on for too long. I have gone through phases of listening to a lot of political podcasts, but I have recently admitted to myself that I’m not that interested in politics, and that is perfectly fine. I think it’s important for a citizen to remain up to date and aware of what is going on, but I have this sort of weird feeling that smart people are obsessed with politics? And I don’t know why I feel that way. There’s nothing especially noble or intelligent about political governance; quite the opposite most of the time. Politicians are often venal, and even if when they aren’t, the more time you spend paying attention to the largely broken processes they attempt to navigate and massage every day, the worse it probably is for your own sense of hope, and certainly for your own creativity. So I’ve let myself off the hook on this one, and now I mostly listen to humor podcasts and weird fictional things.

As I drank my breakfast (smoothie/coffee) and procrastinated at doing something more worthwhile, I spent probably two hours on Twitter, Instagram, and various websites. This is becoming a big problem for me. On Twitter, I follow mostly comedy writers, liberals, feminists, black Twitter, and weird Twitter (and intersections of all of the above), and some local political organizations. I tweeted a lot this morning, as well. On Instagram, I follow a lot of the same people I do on Twitter, plus a TON of visual artists. I am not a visual artist, but because Instagram is a visual medium, it’s nice to follow artists, and I sometimes find it inspiring — if not to create art myself, at least maybe to make my house look nicer (although I never do). I also follow some old school fashion and lifestyle bloggers who I’ve been following for like ten years, and although I do not find that kind of blogging interesting at all anymore, I am interested in these particular people, and invested in their lives at this point. I also embarrassingly have been paying a good bit of attention lately to a certain terrible influencer, who I won’t name because I don’t want to draw the wrong kind of attention here, but you probably know who she is. She is entirely boring, but people are interested in her for a variety of reasons, and they all have complicated explanations for why. I think it’s that she’s sort of the purest example of the sort of woman (blond, thin, pretty, performatively aspirational yet empty enough to be completely non-threatening to anyone) that middle-class Americans have always been culturally encouraged to admire and, if they are women, to emulate, and yet, it’s so apparent that there is no there there. I imagine most people who follow her are thinking, “I can’t believe I thought I needed to be this in high school!” For me personally, there’s something else to it, and after thinking about it so that I could write it down here, I think it is that I spend a lot of time mildly regretting that I had not been more intentional about pursuing my creative dreams in my 20s (I was sort of dabbling in comedy and performance and writing; I had some talent but little intelligence), but at the same time, when I look back over my work and writings from that time, I am horrified by how stupid I was without realizing it (and not just stupid for my age, because I was surrounded by far more intelligent and creative people who have gone on to do amazing things, and there are many preternaturally wise and hilarious babies who are creating right now). Had I had a bigger platform at the time, I fear I would have looked a lot like a less successful this girl. So, it’s a sort of cautionary tale that really just serves to make me feel better about having avoided exposure I’d now regret (albeit through laziness rather than foresight). And also, being able to realize this now is a reminder that I am at least smarter now than I used to be, so I have been growing in some way, even if it feels like I’ve just been atrophying intellectually and creatively ever since I got a real job. I think now that I’ve written this down, I’m ready to let go of paying attention to her. Also, though, I just feel bad for her, and I want to see what happens to her and if she ends up ok or not. Which possibly sounds nobler than it is — am I really just rubbernecking at an accident? I don’t think I wish her harm. Anyway, in non-shame scrolling, two of my favorite comics on Twitter and Instagram right now are Eva Victor and Alyssa Lamparis. They are both brilliantly hilarious.

The first few chapters of “Joshua”, while working on one of my blog posts about the Old Testament.

A chapter of The High Growth Handbook, for work, which I’m finding more interesting than most business books.

Moral Clarity by Susan Neiman, which I’m not really enjoying. This isn’t necessarily why I’m not enjoying it, but I gave some thought while reading this about why I find the left’s current backlash against “identity politics” to be disingenuous. I mean, other than the fact that it is only white people (and mostly white men) who argue that identity politics are a pointless distraction from real social change. And it’s that nobody — no matter how naive — thinks that we are going to transform all human systems overnight. Abrupt revolutions rarely happen in established societies, and even when they do, they never stick; no matter how you come about it, lasting social change always takes forever. So, eschewing identity politics as a mere distraction implies that those who unfairly have less power and influence under the current system should just be content with their marginalization until we have a new system altogether. And that those who are over-represented in the current system shouldn’t be criticized or made to lose anything in the interests of equity and social justice until we have a new system altogether. That this is the same old self-serving bullshit from a different direction seems so obvious to me, I don’t understand why so many smart people are buying into it. There is no getting around our historical legacy of racial oppression! There’s just no scenario in which white people are not going to have to deal with that first, before we can successfully build systems that are more just and more fair! You have to address both things at the same time, and no, just focusing on economic class is not going to cut it — especially not when so many people pretend that they don’t understand that poverty results from lack of access and limited options, and has little to do with whether you have much money at any given time (in reality, they understand this very well). And I can’t take any leader seriously (no matter how far left) who does not get that, and/or who won’t force their followers to acknowledge it.  

“Where outrage itself is exhausted, even despair is impossible. The resulting inertia is not the result of an ideology, postmodern or otherwise. But anyone who wants to oppose it must oppose an ideology that makes inertia the most rational response.”

Finished Baby Geniuses and started listening to Get Rich Nick as I prepared for my run, and as I showered after my run. Nick V is a good pal of mine from Chicago — we came up through iO at the same time and were on a Harold team together for like a year. He’s hilarious and I enjoy his podcast, but I suspect I partly find it so funny because it’s just very…Nick.

I listen to the same Spotify playlist on every run. I made it for running and it’s all exactly what you’d expect someone like me would listen to while running.

I watched an episode of season 2 of “Big Little Lies” while I ate dinner. I thought the first season (while it had its faults) was perfectly cast and pretty impressively honest in how it dealt with domestic violence and rape. I wasn’t interested enough to seek out season 2, but I recently noticed HBO is streaming some shows for free right now on Amazon Prime (which I have finally, finally canceled because #morals but still have through August), so I started watching it, and I still love the cast. I will watch Laura Dern in absolutely anything, and it’s really fun to watch Reese Witherspoon play what I imagine is basically herself.

Listened to more Get Rich Nick while I cleaned up the kitchen and got ready for bed.

Finished the night off with The Collected Stories of Eudora Welty — she’s one of my faves and I’ve read two of these four collections multiple times, but right now am on The Wide Net which is new to me. Read the titular “The Wide Net” and really enjoyed it and then “A Still Moment,” which was boring but made me want to get my computer out and google Audubon. Then fell asleep reading this weird old novel I’m slowly working through called The Man Who Loved Children.

“‘She’s a lot smarter than her cousins in Beulah,’ said Virgil. ‘And especially Edna Earle, that never did get to be what you’d call a heavy thinker. Edna Earle could sit and ponder all day on how the little tail of the ‘C’ got through the ‘L’ in a Coca-Cola sign.’”

Monday, April 20th:

Instagram on the toilet, Get Rich Nick while I performed my ablutions and made coffee, and Instagram stories and Feedly for a bit while I drank it. I spend less time on this today, the awareness of accountability is already working! About Instagram stories — I usually ignore them altogether but every so often I go through phases of watching them. I find them mostly very boring, but because I mostly follow creatives on Instagram, there’s something inspiring about starting my day by watching a bunch of creative people all around the world making things. At least starting a day off this way (which today fortunately is); starting a work day this way makes me feel an intense despair. I also follow a few farmers, and it’s fun to see their daily lives. And also just a bunch of people who live in gorgeous places around the world. And ok, yeah, a couple of hate follows, which for me are people who I just find so unbelievably grating and irritating in every way that I can’t stop watching them — I just can’t believe they exist and yet aren’t entirely consumed with self-loathing. And I think for me it’s like, I find them so utterly obnoxious in every way, but they still all have lots of people in their lives who truly love them, and that’s affirming to me personally, because I often feel like I couldn’t ask anyone to tolerate me for very long unless/until I’ve attained perfection in every sphere, so it’s a nice reminder to me that that’s not really how people operate. In Feedly, I follow 3 Quarks Daily and The Morning News, some political digests, a number of old school bloggers I’ve been following forever (mostly funny ones), a handful of newsletters (mostly by people who used to be bloggers), and some sustainability bloggers to guilt me into making better choices. I probably spend about 90 minutes on all of this? Which is too much time!

More “Joshua.”

I poke around online and find and follow a handful more artists from around the world on Instagram and/or Twitter. These aren’t really very interesting ones, and so I’ll probably unfollow them soon, but they’re a bunch of diverse young people, and lately I feel out of touch with what young people are doing. One funny thing about young people is they have so much energy and so many interests, so all of them are doing like ten really shitty things — they’re making crappy art, they’re writing nonsense, they’re performing dopey shows, AND they’re in a shitty band. And then they get older and they realize that it takes an incredible amount of time and effort and research and angst to do even one thing semi-well, and at that point, they either disappear or focus. Anyway, I mostly stick to Twitter for these — I only follow artists on Instagram whose work I find genuinely appealing; Twitter is more for people I’m interested in hearing more about how they perceive the world, but am not necessarily interested in what they’re making. Also, for Twitter, I use TweetDeck and make lists, so it’s a lot easier to follow and unfollow groups of people than it is on Instagram. Like I’ll make a list of “possibly interesting” and watch it for awhile, and then I might move two people on it to a more permanent list and then just delete the whole list.

Listen to The Read while I make a smoothie.

Two short stories from an old issue of Salt Hill, both terrible.

A chapter of High Growth Handbook, and two of Moral Clarity.

Listened to The Read and Scam Goddess while gearing up for run, walking back from run showering, cooking dinner, and cleaning up the kitchen. Usual playlist on run.

Spent some lost time on Twitter and Instagram while crouching on the floor and shivering in my sweaty running clothes, and then again after dinner while sitting on the couch. I’m starting to realize that I look at social media when what my brain really wants to be doing is just….sitting and staring and not taking in anything.

Three Welty stories, “Asphodel” (enjoyable), “The Winds” (in which Welty is starting to find the voice she will master in The Golden Apples), and “The Purple Hat” (eh). Interrupted, I am embarrassed to admit, by looking at Twitter and my email and also reading some articles about Welty.

The Man Who Loved Children

Tuesday, April 21st:

There are two things I want to stop doing, and I did both today. First, after my alarm went off, I spent 90 minutes hitting the snooze button and also pursuing Twitter and Instagram in bed. My entire goal is to reserve as much time for myself in the evenings as possible, for doing what I want to be doing. And I waste a lot of that limited time in procrastinating what I don’t want to be doing. And this is the first place it happens — lounging in bed staring at my phone instead of getting up and going to work.

Finished Scam Goddess and started The High Low while I got ready, made coffee and my smoothie.

After work, I did the second thing I want to stop doing — I spent 90 minutes sitting on the couch looking at Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, and rubbernecking at a long train wreck thread on NextDoor (people are wilding out at this point), procrastinating getting my running kit on and going out for my exercise. All together, this is THREE HOURS of wasted time that could go toward my evenings, where I get to do the stuff I want to do! I’m robbing myself of this valuable time.

I walked for most of my run because I was sore from some exercises I did, and I finished The High Low. When I got home, I listened to Office Ladies, which is not a very good podcast, but it’s just mindlessly comforting to listen to and I like thinking about The Office, which is mindlessly comforting to watch, as I took a shower, made dinner, and cleaned up the kitchen.

The Man Who Loved Children

Wednesday, April 22nd:

Well, I still hit the snooze for an hour but I DIDN’T browse Twitter before I got out of bed. Listened to Lady to Lady while I got ready and made a smoothie and coffee.

Couple of breaks during my workday, during which times I looked at Twitter, Reddit, and Instagram.

I worked later than usual and it was rainy out, so I didn’t go out for exercise, but I still spent TWO HOURS on the couch mindlessly scrolling (Twitter, Instagram, NextDoor train wreck). So, all told, I still wasted three hours on garbage today.

Listened to Lady to Lady and Your Favorite Band Sucks while I made dinner, ate it, cleaned up after it, and got ready for bed. Your Favorite Band Sucks takes down a lot of bands I genuinely like, and I truly do enjoy hearing people rip apart things that I enjoy for some reason (cultural masochism). This episode, though, is on Billy Joel, which I feel is low-hanging fruit, although it reminds me of when this guy I had a massive crush on in high school got super into Billy Joel (I know) and so I spent a few months listening to him and trying to convince myself I also thought he was brilliant. Listening to this podcast makes me realize how much time I spent trying to convince myself that I liked bands that guys I had a thing for worshipped. I don’t really listen to music very much (note absence of it from this entire week) since podcasts became a thing -- I just always vastly prefer narrative if I have a choice. Either music is too distracting from the thing I’m trying to do, or I have enough bandwidth to listen to a podcast while I’m doing the thing, which I prefer. There’s just very rarely any place in my day where music makes sense. You will never find me getting stoned or drunk and just sitting and listening to music -- I can’t fathom how people do that. Whenever I’ve tried it, I’ve just gotten so angry that I took away the mental capacity to read and am wasting all that excellent reading time just sitting there. I guess I don’t really like turning my brain off. Some people spend all their time trying to turn their brain off, but that actually causes stress in my case; fun for me is more taking a ton of adderall to really get it jumping. I don’t mean to imply by that that I’m smart or I use my brain for anything worthwhile, I really, really don’t. I just like the feeling of being alert and I like thinking my dumb thoughts and following along with narratives of whatever kind. 

The Man Who Loved Children

Thursday, April 23rd:

Success! I hit snooze for 20 minutes only and then I got to work!

Listened to a new podcast by a comic I like while I got ready, and I won’t say which one, because it wasn’t very good, and I don’t want to slam the first episode (I’m sure it will get better).

Very brief Instagram/Twitter/Feedly breaks a couple times throughout the day.

Success again! After work, I only looked at Twitter for 20 minutes before heading out for my run. Usual playlist on run. On my walk back, I recorded an Instagram story.

Listened to old episodes of Sawbones and By the Book (both of which I’m trying to decide if I like or not) and You’re Wrong About while getting ready for run, showering, cooking dinner, cleaning up the kitchen, getting ready for bed. This episode of You’re Wrong About was about Marie Antoinette and was really fun, although I have a hard time with this podcast, because the voice of the woman who hosts it kind of traumatizes me. I do not like criticizing women’s voices and she can’t help her voice or how it affects me, but she has this sort of sarcastic, flat, patronizing tone that makes her sound like a cool girl of the intellectual cast of cool girls who thinks you are the stupidest little try-hard femme ever to be brought before her, and it gives me some unpleasant flashbacks to certain incidents in college. But I like the podcast overall (and her probably!) and so I just try to get over it.

Read “Livvie” by Eudora Welty, and then finished The Man Who Loved Children.

Friday, April 24th:

Hit snooze for a full hour, but then got up. Listened to another first episode of a new podcast by another comic I like that also was not very good while I got ready, etc. and also a bit later in the car as I made a grocery store run.

Couple very short Twitter/Feedly breaks throughout the day.

Usual music playlist on run. I’ve got a podcast playlist of weird fictional stuff that I’m mostly listening to old episodes of from the beginning and many are new to me and I’m trying to decide if I liked them. Today, during the usual periods of podcast listening, I went through episodes of Welcome to Night Vale and The Lost Cat Podcast, both of which I am enjoying, although I have trouble paying attention to Welcome to Night Vale and always realize after I finish an episode that I didn’t really hear any of it.  

Watched 1.25 episodes of Big Little Lies while I ate takeout and spotted my friend Mike playing the marriage counselor in one of them! Having a background in performance makes for very weird TV and movie experiences now, because I’ll pretty often see someone I know well in something. Often, it’s a really happy surprise like this one, but sometimes it’s a really unpleasant one, like when you’re sitting around with your family and you see a guy who dumped you pretty brutally playing the dopey, amiable dad in a commercial and get plunged into despair and self-hatred in the midst of a bunch of oblivious people in your aunt’s living room and start to feel like you are living in a surreal world no one else is actually a part of and also like your personality is fragmenting in what is possibly a psychotic way.  

Started The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane. I’m really happy to be done with The Man Who Loved Children and on to a new book, and this one looks to be an easy, possibly dumb page-turner, which is well-timed.

Saturday, April 25th:

Snoozed for 40 minutes. Listened to Tanis while coffee etc. Bit of Instagram and Feedly.

While I cleaned the house and deep cleaned my office, I listened to The Bright Sessions, Within the Wires, The Box Podcast, Tracks, and Rabbits.

While I got ready for run, walked back from run, made dinner, cleaned up kitchen, put the laundry away, and got ready for bed, listened to Father Dagon, The Amelia Project, Glasgow Ghost Stories, Middle: Below, The Last Movie, The Van, Video Palace, Blackwood, Dreamboy, Caledonian Gothic, and The London Necropolis Railway. I went through a ton of podcasts today (but also these fiction ones are quite short).

Started to read “At the Landing” by Welty, but I fell asleep super early. I usually save fiction for a couple hours in bed before I go to sleep, because fiction is my favorite thing in the world, but I am so tired by the time I lie down that I often can’t really enjoy it, and fight to stay awake while I try to read and then just fall asleep. So I might need to rethink this timing.

Overall, I think this has been a successful first week of doing this! On Saturday, I had a day off, and I spent basically zero time procrastinating with garbage media! I can really see how my consumption of dumb stuff went down through the week.

[viewfromthedrumstool]

Sri Lanka Diary, Part 1/4

London to Kandy to Nuwara Eliya

It’s early on a rainy Thursday afternoon in January when I leave Oxford. Even under grey skies it still looks beautiful but I’m glad to getaway all the same. As per tradition, my January is fairly empty work-wise — the musician’s quiet month — so Harry ‘Deaco’ Deacon (bass player with Razorlight and Willie J Healey, among numerous others) and myself are heading east to Sri Lanka!

Two weeks of freedom in ‘The Land Of Serendipity’ is a tasty prospect – even without mention of the food. So to Heathrow I go, where a Thai waiter called ‘Servinio’ serves up my final taste of England - a passable fish pie - at The Curator before I board Sri Lankan Airways flight UL504 and we soar up to 31,000 feet.

↑ For your own safety and comfort please stow your bongos securely

It only takes American Sniper (better than expected) and half of Django Unchained (I‘ll be back for the rest) before I pass out. Deep in slumber I remain for the duration of the 10-hour flight before waking to a tasty Sri Lankan fish breakfast and a rapid descent into Bandaranaike International Airport.

Inside the airport it’s clinical and clean and the staff all wear white – though ominously a solitary Pizza Hut greets us before even reaching Passport Control… hopefully not a sign of things to come.

It’s early on a sunny Friday afternoon as I emerge from the terminal, dazed and disoriented, into the frenzied bustle and hustle of a Sri Lankan street. A hundred tuk-tuk drivers spy my pale skin and circle like vultures... airports are heady hunting ground for grifters the world over and it takes a feat of negotiating to convince a rickshaw driver to take me to the nearby bus station for less than the cost of my return flights...

Deaco has been out here for a few days already and has journeyed as far as Kandy, a small city in the middle of the island. It’s a four-hour passage to get there by bus and we meander along at a fair pace, slowly picking up elevation as the journey progresses. I’m a little weary but it’s an enjoyable ride – and very cheap too at 162 rupees (70p)!

There’s barely a junction or a turning to be made on the route east, just a long winding road up into the mountains, flanked by huts, houses, schools and shops. As they say in Asia: Same same but different. And despite being on another continent, many of the characters on the bus are familiar: a group of young mums gossip, school kids play, and my new friend and seat-mate Hashan, on his way to visit an Aunt, promptly falls asleep in my armpit.

The bus pulls in at Kandy station and Hashan peels himself from my underarm. I disembark and hop in a final tuk-tuk up to the pre-emptively named ‘Best Hostel’ where Deaco awaits. It’s his Birthday today! Many Happy Returns to the chap, and after a joyous reunion, we enjoy a celebratory dosa in town with a third travelling companion, Tom, from St Louis, MI.

Kandy is a vibrant little city popular with tourists and centred around a man-made lake. There’s a wiggly road that skirts its perimeter and I can’t help but think it would make for a great tuk-tuk Grand Prix – or at the very least a Kandy Lake track level on Mario Kart.

Harry takes me to see all the tourist attractions – which is kind, given he’d already been to see them before I arrived. We start at the Botanical Garden, a scenic spot with an impressive suspension bridge and a beautiful display of different grasses (who knew there were so many). We bump into old friends of his too: an odd pair of Russians with whom he shared a hostel earlier in his trip. The tourist trail is a well-trodden one and bumping into familiar faces hundreds of miles down the road is a common occurrence ... I suspect it isn’t the last time we’ll see them.

Next we enjoy a display of ‘Kandy Kultural Dancing’ (plate-spinning, back-flipping, fire-walking and some enthusiastic drumming) before heading over to The Temple of The Tooth, the centrepiece of the city and one of the biggest attractions in Sri Lanka.

As the name suggests, the focal point of the large Buddhist temple complex is a single tooth mounted atop a magnificent gold shrine. And not just any tooth! Indeed, the famous fang is allegedly one of the Buddha’s very own, pulled from the funeral pyre of his body back in 543 BC. It has a chequered history and the controversial canine has already been responsible for more than one war...

We barely catch a glimpse of the shrine, let alone the tooth itself, which as it turns out is safely tucked away inside a box within a box within a box within a box within a box within a box within a box. Only a handful of people have ever seen the holy fragment which leads one to wonder whether the tooth is literal or simply more a state of mind...

Tooth or no tooth, there’s a lively atmosphere in and around the Temple as night falls, while tourist and Buddhist alike are harmoniously integrated in a melange of worship, ceremony, prayers and music.

Feeling a little more spiritual, we rise early the following day and head to Kandy station for the 0847 train to Nuwara Eliya. It’s another small city further south in the hill country of the Central Province. The scenic journey that will take us there is apparently the stuff o’ legend and needless to say we aren’t the only ones with the idea. The platform at Kandy station is soon teeming with tourists – including a pair of familiar Russians!

First Class has long since been reserved by the coffin-dodgers on the package tours, so it’s a tight squeeze in the Second Class compartment. Not concerned with seats, we locate ourselves by an open door for the duration and take it in turns with our fellow travelling companions (the usual suspects – Aussies, Germans and more Russians) to hang out the side, take pictures and wave at those who call this beautiful land their own.

↑ Third Class can be found at the rear of the train, attached by rope

The train canters along at a pleasant pace, weaving in and out of tea plantations while the native folk enjoy their peaceful Sunday in the beautiful Sri Lankan hill territories. With much more rain up here, the scene is more colourful than the sandy beige of the lowlands, with plants, trees, grasses, shrubbery and foliage in every shade of green. Many of the quaint little stations (my favourite is called Ohiya) along the way have a distinctly English feel, reminding me with fondness of the Malton-Scarborough route oft ridden in my youth.

After 4 idyllic hours watching the country scroll by and chatting with new friends, we disembark at Nanuoya Station and our friendly cab driver Pryantha (+94 778 880213) takes Harry, myself and a handful of Aussies into Nuwara Eliya to drop us at our respective hotels.

At least that’s the plan, except Pryantha nor anyone else that he asks has actually heard of the ‘King’s Lodge’ and when we eventually arrive at the hotel in the picture the staff there don’t recognise the name either.

All the same, it’s such a pleasant spot overlooking the town that we decide to stay anyway. They show us to their last remaining room, a ‘triple’ which one presumes would surely contain at least two beds given that a triple bed doesn’t exist. In Sri Lanka however, it does, and it looks like tonight Harry and I will be sharing a bed, albeit a large one. (It’s good to know that the liberal Sri Lankans consider a three-way relationship quite normal and are prepared to cater to that in the design and manufacture of both beds and bedding.)

We wander into town for a bite, passing a sign for Grymsby Holiday Bungalow. As a Mariner myself, it’s nice to feel close to home – despite the misspelling – and a passing stranger poses with me for a photo, insisting that it was his Uncle who named the hotel and that it really is named after “Grymsby City in Engerland”.

We’re rapidly becoming fans of the cheap local eateries where the food is always fast and fresh (and there are lots of vegetarian options too). In Nuwara Eliya town we spy a vibrant spot teaming with locals and lay out a mean £1.70 on a dinner of vegetable kotu, egg rotis and dhal curry.

Nuwara Eliya isn’t called Little England for no reason. That night an almighty rain unleashes an unrelenting torrent that bounces off the roof and fills our room with a resonant 80dB of white noise. It’s not until daybreak that the downpour ceases – apparently this happens most nights – and I grab 6 minutes of uninterrupted sleep before heading down to breakfast.

We’re taking a tour of the surrounding area before training down to Ella later in the afternoon and our friendly hosts have hooked us up with their friend Hamza to show us the sights.

He rolls up bright and early in his well-kept rickshaw complete with rain flaps, CD player and anti-marijuana stickers. He’s the happy-go-lucky sort, with enough spoken English to get by and a friendly demeanor. It’s only when he smiles his generous smile that I first glimpse the most rum set of gnashers I’ve ever seen. There’s a section of ill-fitting false teeth, a couple held together with string, and some that barely look like teeth at all. If the Buddha’s canine was anything on Hamza’s I can see why they keep it locked up inside seven boxes.

First stop: Ramboda Falls. The journey alone is a thrill: an endless vista of tea plantations as far as the eye can see. These hill territories are carpeted with them and it’s easy to see why, after the overnight downpour.

Our rickshaw winds its way along the mountainside on a road peppered with pretty stalls selling fresh vegetables: aubergine, potatoes, curry leaves, onions, green chillies, carrots and unexpectedly to me, leeks, which it turns out are a delicious feature in many Sri Lankan dishes.

We swing a final right in a sharp descent and are suddenly confronted by 109 metres of sheer waterfall, a magnificent sight, and in fine thundering voice after the long nights rainfall.

Ramboda Falls holds the claim of being the 729th highest waterfall in the world, a fact which massively undersells what is actually an impressive spectacle. There’s a dangerous and slippery path which snakes up the rocky mountain face, and Hamza insists that it’s well worth climbing for a closer view of the natural wonder. Thankfully I had my Loake brogues only recently re-soled...

While our nature-loving guide takes a moment to scrawl our initials into a tree, an elderly native appears in the undergrowth. The water supply to her village some 5kms away unexpectedly stopped, so she traced the pipe halfway up the mountain to the spot where it was broken and is undertaking a repair job.

The descent is even more deadly, made all the more tricky when two Chinese schoolgirls wearing flip flops execute a reckless overtake and I almost lose my footing. Luckily I needed no dramatic rescue because Hamza’s attention was entirely on Harry. “I like your hair” I overhear him say to my friend. “You look like Robin Hood...”

The next stop on our tour of the Nuwara Eliya district is the Blue Field Tea ‘Factory’. It was opened in 1921 and has changed very little since. Everything is still done by hand and much of the machinery originates from Lincolnshire, Birmingham and Belfast. It’s atmospheric and rich in Colonial, vibes which I love!

Our tuk-tuk swings into the ‘Damro’ factory next but we’re done tea-tasting and ready for something a little more substantial, so Hamza takes us to his favourite buffet. The food is delicious, however, our respective understandings of the term ‘buffet’ are quite different. After sampling a little of everything on display (dhal, different kinds of rice, mackerel, swordfish, curried aubergine, egg curries, sweet and sour vegetables) it’s to our dismay that we’re charged the full price of a meal for every dish! Thankfully the food is so cheap that it doesn’t amount to much.

Finally we’re dropped off at the train station. It’s been a fine day in the company of our friendly tour guide and his willingness to shuttle us around from place to place without constantly asking us for more money is refreshing. Your teeth may be among the worst I’ve ever seen, Hamza, but we’ll miss you.

Part 2/4 follows shortly!

Mike

[its-just-like-the-movies]

The Help (11, C+)

There is a lot, a lot, a lot going on in The Help. We know this because this movie is two and a half hours long, though it doesn’t feel like it when you watch it on TV. Or, if it does, you blame the network for breaking it up into such a long sit, the way Freeform can make any Harry Potter film a four-hour experience. There is a lot going on in The Help, but probably too much. For sure, thinking back to the film before I rewatched it, Viola Davis’ performance was the only part I had any real memory of, and even that was somewhat fuzzy. Especially after the 2016 Oscar season saw such a great year for Davis, Octavia Spencer, and Emma Stone, not to mention Bryce Dallas Howard’s great work on Black Mirror and whatever groove Jessica Chastain’s been in for some time, seemingly on the edge of another nomination with A Most Violent Year (better than the nominated slate, but she and Arquette deserve a rewatch) and Miss Sloane (nice haircut, but feh) yet always on the outside looking in (I had also recently seen Zero Dark Thirty and was surprisingly unimpressed with her performance, and was eager to get her again), it felt like I owed it another look-through. What I saw was Viola Davis giving a truly wonderful central performance, surrounded by a lot of performers ably serving the piece without complicating it, deepening it, or keeping up with Davis. No one is really abetted here by writer/director Tate Taylor, whose direction doesn’t do anything to help or guide his actresses, and whose screenplay betrays a lot of shaky politics by giving Emma Stone’s Skeeter so much focus. The Help really tries to do a lot of things politically, but encourages too much broad playing from its interpreters in a film that lives and dies by how well they can play their parts. But what we end up having is a breezy film, pretty entertainingly played, with one heroic performance a lot of political brouhaha to sort through. So reader, let’s get sorting!

Ostensibly, there are two women leading The Help’s crusade, though one of them seems ripe to get shoved to the sidelines. I am, of course, talking about the bizarrely forefronted Skeeter Phelan, the ambitious and racially aware white woman whose attempts to write a book about the black maids in her home town, is the narrative backbone of The Help. Like Jack in Room, or so many other stories where a fascinating central character is observed by a less compelling audience surrogate, The Help does not have the good sense to actually hand over the film to the characters its story is actually about, and it suffers for it. Nevermind that Stone is perhaps the film’s least compelling performer (Bryce Dallas Howard isn’t good, but she’s not boring either), but her career aspirations and romantic journey are so tangential to the conversation every other facet of the film is having that its inclusion is genuinely unnecessary. I’m all for long films if the story requires it, but a lot of her story feels like padding on a film that doesn’t need it. I’d have admired a more self-effacing performance, but Stone seems to flail with giving her castmates or us any kind of characterization to interact with. I’d have loved to see her take on Hilly Holbrook, but instead we just have an idea about Skeeter Phelan, and that’s a shame for everyone involved.

 Our real hero, of course, is Aibileen Clark, though certainly more characters could be considered equal drivers in the story. Minny Jackson, Celia Foote, and Hilly Holbrook have almost equal narrative import as Aibileen, and the story certainly shifts between letting each of them drive it for long stretches of time. The inclusion of Skeeter’s separate arc keeps these strands from mingling entirely gracefully, and disrupts the film’s most interesting ideas about the relationship between the black maids who raise the white babies that will grow up and continue mistreating them as adults. You can feel how much this version wants to have a structure like Howards End, which so artfully allows all of its characters to work as engines that drive the story’s narrative and its political ideas, but Tate Taylor’s comedic bent in interpreting The Help undermines this idea from the get go. The cast, too, is almost uniformly limited by Taylor’s direction, asking too little of a fine ensemble that seem completely ready to do more. Not one actor is asked to complicate or deepen their characters the way that the actors of Howards End do, breathing specific life into each of its characters and giving each one plenty of ideas and actions for the audience to respond to, even as the political ideas that power the whole project are present at all times. Here, the limited scope of what Taylor is doing simplifies everything The Help is earnestly trying to be. Bryce Dallas Howard doesn’t just make Hilly Holbrook a flatly antagonistic presence, flaunting her nastiness, but works hard to make us aware that she as much as anyone is disgusted by Hilly by way of turning the woman into a joke as much as she does a threat. Jessica Chastain, easily turning in the best performance among the cast’s white women, makes Celia a welcome, giddy presence, committing deeply to the character’s goodness and her sadness in appropriate moments, but doesn’t seem in any way like a woman who could ever be friends with Hilly and her crew. And as lovely as Octavia Spencer’s Academy Award win is, it’s still a pretty broad performance that seems ripe for a deeper read, and more decision-making on Spencer’s part. I wish it resembled her wonderfully underplayed Hidden Figures performance, especially since her face is so remarkably open and expressive that it often feels like she’s mugging for effect in scenes that just don’t call for it. No one embarrasses themselves or the picture, and it hums along fine, but it’s almost too easy to see the deeper, more complicated picture, one with a more outwardly cozy Hilly, a pricklier Celia, a more reserved Minny, that’s hiding in this film.

What is it about Tate Taylor that he can so capably stymy all but the most committed actors? Davis somehow finds room to thrive in The Help and Emily Blunt manages to turn in a full characterization in The Girl on the Train, but they are palpable exceptions to what both films wind up turning out. The Girl on the Train’s cast seem like they all showed up to set between other projects and haven’t bothered trying in the slightest, outside the remarkably committed Blunt. No one in The Help, thankfully, is dull, but it’s astounding how Taylor managed to get the two sleepiest performances I’ve ever seen Allison Janney give. She makes more of an impact in the two minutes she appears in Margaret, so much more alive on the brink of death than Janney’s cancer-ridden mother ever appears to be. Cicely Tyson has almost nothing to do as Skeeter’s long-gone maid, never mind the walk-on cameo of Tony winner LaChanze as her daughter, though I appreciate the seeming revitalization it gave to public interest in Tyson’s career. At least Sissy Spacek and Mary Steenburgen seem like they’re having a ball, but Spacek especially doesn’t look like she’s trying.

 If Taylor doesn’t seem to have coached his actresses in any meaningful way (I’m saying nothing about Chris Lowell’s unworthy suitor), his own staging of the film’s events seem completely uninspired, banking entirely on the strength of actresses has hasn’t tried in any way to coax out more intricate, surprising performances than the ones they end up giving. The comedic tone leaves the film alarmingly without any complication, and the uncomfortably entangled relationships between the white and black women of Jackson, Mississippi are wholly underserved as all the white women fall so neatly under the “unbearably cruel racist” or “fundamentally good liberal” categories. In art like this there’s no way for the maids not to be wholly sympathetic figures, and they should be, but we’re treated to far less time with the maids as a whole to the white society ladies. There’s not one maid that isn’t a cuddly presence to the audience, not one who could confuse a stupid liberal into abandoning racial equality through being too thorny or unapproachable or mean, as is occasionally a thing stupid liberals do nowadays with progressive causes. The broadness of Minny Jackson seems especially symptomatic of making her and Aibileen likable above all else, and I wish that Spencer had made the character a truly bitter woman who sees no way to change her situation except through this white redhead, instead of finding a comedic register for her sourness and her anger. Taylor’s own, scripted insistence on giving so much for Skeeter to do belies his own fundamental misunderstanding of what The Help is about, of what it could be, and the whole piece suffers for it.

 For all that Taylor’s decision-making seems to impede most of what The Help is trying to be, there is still enough fertile soil for Viola Davis to craft a wizardly performance of Aibileen Clark. Working within the film’s tone, she makes Aibileen a figure of audience sympathy without into the bathos the role more than accommodates in the slightest. In fact, Davis is delightfully indulgent in the moments of joy in Aibileen’s life without editorializing how sporadic these moments of happiness are, highlighting their rarity by giving in completely to them when they appear. Gossiping with Minny at parties in the kitchens; earnestly caring for Mae Mobley and fondly recalling the other white babies she has taken care of; so touched and grateful and delighted by the recognition she gets from her fellow parishioners once the book is finally published. Her whole first scene is a brilliant introduction to the character, responding to a recollection with a full-mouthed and toothy grin, so visibly responsive and impressed with Skeeter asking what it’s like to raise white babies but not her own child in such a way that you know she’s never been asked anything that personal (at least by a white woman) in her whole life, the way her face tightens into a mask as she looks out the window after glancing at the portrait of the son she knows is long dead without boldfacing it to us. I knocked the character of Minny and Spencer’s interpretation of her as being an easy mark for audience sympathy, and there’s certainly plenty of potential for that kind of manufactured likability that short-shrifts character depth or complexity in Aibi. But at no point does Davis milk Aibileen’s sadness for easy sympathy, asking for empathy instead of pity as she tells the story of how her son died and what telling her stories will mean to her, and to his memory. She cannot seem to stop her tears but never stops to cry. Even in the face of the dehumanizing bathroom laws from Hilly, or the absolute terror she feels running home at night after Medgar Evers is assassinated, she telegraphs the indignities Aibileen faces every day and the ones that are new, shameful lows for her to experience. There’s a bone-deep tiredness to her, but her body is just as active in her joys (laughing at Elizabeth Leefoot’s dress with Minny during the ball), her triumphs (jumping for joy at receiving the check from the book), her shame (that run home), her care (every scene she has with Mae Mobley, earnestly doting on her but worried about who this girl will become), her rage (that gut-wrenching last scene).

I tried ending the introductory paragraph with the phrase “Viola Davis does not a movie make” but in this case, at least, that’s debatable. Her performance is the only reservoir of depth and emotion anywhere in The Help, the most vivid part of the film I could remember before this rewatch and surely what I will remember best about it after (I did in fact spend my entire 4:00-10:30 dishwashing shift on Tuesday reminiscing on her performance, and planning the outline of this piece). I’ve already spent a lot of time thinking about revisiting her performances in Solaris, Far From Heaven, Doubt, Blackhat, Prisoners, and Fences - glorious Fences - and wondering what else I’ll get out of seeing these for second or third times. The Help was so unexpectedly rich to see again specifically on her account, and it’s perfectly fair to remember this film only on terms of her heroics. “You is kind, you is smart, you is important” already seems like it’s permeated the culture so perfectly, perhaps more so than the gifs of Jessica Chastain practically hurtling her coke bottle in joy or the look Octavia Spencer gives once she reveals the secret ingredient in her pie (lord, why are all the biggest insults hurtled at Hilly so scatological?). The Help is a fine film, perfectly acceptable on its own turns even as it belies a lot of wasted opportunity in its script, its cast, and its direction. But we have one unimpeachable feat of acting, given by one of the most powerful and imaginative actresses working today. I am happy to hear a deeper read on this film from someone who loves it, and morbidly interested in hearing the problems someone would have with Viola Davis’s leading performance.

 As it currently sits, I am perfectly fine with the mediocrity of The Help, though I wish so much that it had more in it than I got. I also wonder the degree I’m underestimating how well it gets the intraracial environments instead of the interracial environments. Is it that difficult, though, to grasp the social hierarchies of rich, politically stunted white women? Or the inherent terror, without editorializing, that black women felt at that time? Jim Crow is mentioned about once, though he hangs over the proceedings. I still think it’s a massive liability than “the help” are not given the communal screen time wasted by a lot of what Skeeter’s up to, and that easy reversal could’ve done wonders for the film to see how these women react to the opportunity to have their stories published instead of hearing it relayed to us through Aibileen and Minny. And I really wonder what having any real male presence in this affair, to see how white and black men feel about the codependent relationship between the black and white women of The South, would’ve transformed the blueprint of the whole project. Okay, so maybe I’m not perfectly fine with it, but the degree to which Viola Davis is so immensely rewarding in this film makes me forgiving of anything that made room for her genius performance. There is a lot, a lot going on in The Help, and a lot of ways all of that could’ve been made better. Especially with a project that is so politically ambitious, it is disheartening that the film seemingly clubs itself so easily. Yes, there is room in there for Viola Davis to Do That, but it’s independent of her director, and as undeniably sterling as she is in this film, she cannot be used as an excuse to cop for the film’s flaws. Aibileen Clark is a tremendous creation, and one that could surely exist in a better version of The Help. I hope we get a better version of this kind of film soon, but Viola and Aibileen give us the story and the protagonist we deserve, and I am happy to applaud her for it as often as I can.

[archivallyfound]

“How” formerly knowns as: “Millennials, Politics, Hate-Groups, Baby Boomers: How many buzz words can I fit in a title?”

“How the hell do I even spell it?”

After 3 tries, Google finally understands my jumbled disaster of letters. Millennial, that’s what you want, right? Yes, thank you, oh wonderful technology god that does not demand I know how to spell anything correctly. Now before you scroll past this, I assure you, this is not another millennial-defense piece about how eco-friendly, economically-minded, and amazing they are; nor is it a millennial-bashing piece berating the society-killing nature and socially-spoiled, participation ribbon generation. This is simply me trying to figure out what’s going on.

“How do I want to word this?”

A quick Google search of the word “millennial” brings up 39,900,000 results in .73 seconds. Impressive. Most results begin with definitions, a few stock images of young people doing “young” things (like laughing weirdly and eating ice cream). However, a modified search to “millennials” results in something entirely different. “Millennials Don’t Care About X” fills the news headlines. “The Unluckiest Generation.” “Why Millennials Don’t Work Hard Enough.”

“How is this search so different?”

The addition of a single letter skews the results. The pluralization of a single word, mass-scale search shows an ugly side of reality. The single millennial is not a threat. There is a certain curiosity about them. Almost like a newborn animal at a zoo where all information is gathered from scientific-evidence (height, weight, age, coloring, blood pressure, etc.). But more than one millennial is a threat. Once groups start forming generationally, changes begin to occur.

“How do they not remember that?”

Alright, Baby-Boomers, I’m looking at you here. I guarantee that at some point in life, you have been called the “greatest generation” and also condemned at the “worst generation” as well. These generalizations are just that- generalizations that are applied by those outside the group via their personal perspective. Are all of you “the worst”? No. Are all of you “the greatest”? No. Do most people fall in the middle of two such extremes? Absolutely. Remember when your parents told you that you were changing too much? News reports about cultural norms being “ruined” essentially by a young generation? Let me jog your memory if not: Civil Rights. That was a pretty big doozy.

“How can they blame us?”

Millennials find themselves in the same place that all generations have been: the transition. The change. The “ruining” of the last generation. Altering the course of history. You get it. But this generation faces a slightly different angle to the change: the rapid growth of communication and technology has forced these changes to occur at lightning-speed that has never been seen before. Within .7 seconds anyone can connect with someone around the world. We are glued to our phones, laptops, tablets, smart devices. Why? Because they’re awesome. I don’t say that facetiously. The power to compute, communicate, research, and enjoy is easier now than ever before.

“How did we get here?”

Millennials are often referred to, at least recently, as the generation that kills things. Millennials kill the fast food industry. Millennials versus Walmart, Millennials opting to go organic. Why are millennials making these changes? Perhaps, and just perhaps, it has to do with the mass amount of information and commentary we carry in our back pockets and our purses. We have found other people like us. We’ve formed entirely online communities. We type our hearts out to strangers who in turn share theirs. We are creating a shared experience globally.

“How is that bad?”

I’m glad you asked, other me typing the questions. Interaction is not necessarily bad or good, it’s an interaction depending on multiple circumstances. However, with the growth of communication and the demand for immediacy in everything surrounding millennials lives, destination of news, events, politics, and culture, is not always great. Oftentimes, accuracy is sacrificed for speed and sources are cited only due to their proximity. This means the reality of the situation isn’t fully realized until much later and it is sometimes contradictory to the initial reports. Quick news is generally not wholly accurate news.

“How do we combat that?”

No idea. No really, I have no explanation for that. But I do want to circle back as to why this rant is continuing. A.) I wanted to used the word “rant” so a google search for “millennial rant” will pull my writing. B.) The growth of the “millennial” global community is a reflection of a much larger issue at hand. Politics. Yup, we’re going there. Buckle up and get on the Magic School Bus kids, it’s gonna be bumpy.

“How does politics relate to any of this?”

It’s pervade in everything we as people do. News, online articles, TV interviews, podcasts, Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. News and information is everywhere. You’d need to be hiding under a rock to miss all this. Even if you only get your news from traditional or “reliable” sources (debatable, by the way), you’re still consuming information in the technologically most advanced age in the course of human history. This means you have the ability to select which news you see, respond instantaneously to the author, link the information to others, which is great. IF. IF. IF. If the information is correct and unbiased.

“How do we get unbiased news?”

We don’t. Everyone ever has had a personal bias that shapes the way they think and act. Experiences, education, culture, trauma, disabilities are all factors in how we process information and determine the lens in which we view the world. None of this is new. The news has always been biased. People have always been biased. History is biased. If you don’t believe me, check out a textbook from the 1950’s, the 1970’s, the 1990’s, and 2017. Look at the index and search for “women” or “race.” I promise you they will all be different in their explanations of events and information. We fight against unbiased news by ourselves bing educated.

“How can you demand that from people when they are so busy?”

Don’t misunderstand. I’m not expecting everyone to read every book and have full knowledge and acceptance of every concept ever. But remember those devices in our pocket or purse or, more likely, in your hand right now? huh. Maybe a search to check out some research before you comment or you post or you discuss. Remember writing papers in high school? Thesis then support and support and support (and every bit of support is cited to a source that is an expert on the facts of the discussion). We should be approaching news and information the same way: thesis+researched sources and background = argument.

How can you expect me to do that?

I know firing off in the comments on youtube or that god-awful article forum is more fun. We as humans like drama. Don’t deny it. We want to get a rise out of the other side because emotions cloud the reality and sustainability of their argument. Facts are not emotional. Facts do, however, sometimes depend on the source. “There’s his side, her side, and the truth.” That applies here. Gathering as much information as possible allows a fuller picture to encapsulate most of the reality of what happened/is happening/will happen. This demands a background on the topic. Sorry history-haters, you’re going to need to brush up a bit here. Disclaimer: I’ve got two degrees in history, I’m a nut. I know it’s not normal, but it is vitally important. I’ll keep my excitement to a minimum.

How does history apply?

More than anyone realizes. History shows us the patterns of humanity when faced with interactions. Good, bad, ugly, we’ve got examples on all of them. None the same, but some very closely related (like identical twins versus you and a cousin who look more like siblings). Same concept, different solutions or different means to an end. Let’s look at the current political atmosphere: Nazis and White Supremacists. These groups are not new, even in the U.S. no matter how much a large group of us would like them to be. they are deeply rooted in our history (cheesy, right?) but there is an element of truth to it.

How do we fight them?

We don’t. Violence isn’t solving anything in this case. It’s causing injuries, injustice, death. Unfortunately, it is also giving those in support of these policies and ideologies a chance to easily blame those standing up to these hate-groups. “There were fine people on both sides.” “There was aggression on both sides.” “The liberal violent agenda…” This is not going to solve anything but draw the line in the sand even deeper. You cannot change their minds. They will not change yours. That point is at an impasse. However, we can fight them by not indulging them, by knowing historically where we’ve been, by taking realistic, rational steps towards educating those around us so they know that hate is not how the U.S. operates.

How do you know what to do?

I don’t. And you shouldn’t listen to me. Or anyone, for that matter. The more educated you are and the more you think for yourself, the more dangerous you are. You’re not sheep, you’re not dumb, you have an 8 pound brain in your head (according to that cute kid in Jerry McGuire); USE IT. The mob mentality is lazy. Let one person push their thoughts out to a mass and the mass responds with “yeah, that works.” We aren’t just fighting black/Jew/Middle Eastern/Asian/Mexican/name your minority haters, we are fighting ignorance. We. Not a person. Not an individual. Individuals. That’s right, add that ’s’ on there. Changes the meaning. We need to examine our education on these matters and then add to the collective knowledge of humanity and join together.

How?

Any way we can. Read a book. Share and article. Have a discussion. Get into it with Aunt Liza and Grandpa at Thanksgiving. Ask them why they feel the way they do. Understand their perspectives, look historically when and where they lived. Place yourself in their circumstances. Then fight the prejudices that they are facing. Find information. Fight ignorance. And take care of yourself. We make this world better collectively by taking care of ourselves individually first.