#Lent itself a bias

[teaboot]

Was in the car with a few of my brothers when I (oldest, riding shotgun) told one (upper middle, driving) that our mutual brother (youngest, back seat) had Damian Wayne vibes.

This started an excellent conversation about the virtues of various Robins that abruptly ended when I admitted Jason Todd was my favourite, upon which my brother (the one driving) groaned loud enough to alarm truckers in the other lane

[arvandus]

Love and Duty Chapter 2

Banner background made by me; do not copy or distribute without permission.

OVERALL FIC WARNINGS: cisfem!Reader; canon adjacent (i.e., loosely-based); 18+ (Minors and ageless blogs DNI!); NSFW in future chapters; violence in future chapters (not against MC); deceit/lying; fake relationship (one-sided); pining; angst with a happy ending.

Chapter 1

Love and Duty Chapter 2

For all of the drama of the previous night, the brothers were quick to apologize the next day, with Mammon practically groveling for forgiveness.

With your temper now cooled back to its usual low hum, you had accepted their apologies, and in a rare case of cooperation between them, Mammon and Asmo managed to put their funds together to replace the dress that they had ruined.

It was hard to stay mad at them after that...

But it was also hard to focus on much else besides the new development between you and Barbatos. It was a strange vortex of emotions that you found yourself in, caught in a tug-o-war between elation and anxiety.

On one end, you were thrilled that your night had done the one-eighty that it did, the impossible becoming your new reality.

Barbatos had kissed you. Not once, but twice.  The memory of it still sat on your lips, the soft flesh tingling while your heart did joyous somersaults in your chest.

But you were now also filled with uncertainty.  Yes, you’d kissed.  But he’d also made a point to ask you to keep your involvement with him private for the time being.  It’d lent the promise of more intimate moments to come, but it also brought to question how official the two of you really were.  You couldn’t help but feel the sharp tinge of disappointment; it made you feel like a dark secret, something to be hidden away rather than cherished, and it brought with it a sense of uncertainty and shame.

Deep down though, you had trouble believing such negativity, especially considering the kisses you’d shared, and the way that he’d comforted you that night.  Not to mention your lengthy friendship with him that you had both built over the years provided a strong foundation of trust and respect.

So instead, you focused on understanding the difficulty of his position.  There was no doubt that your involvement with him could cause quite the political scandal.  It was an unspoken fact in Devildom culture that there remained a very real bias against cross-species romance in any serious capacity.  Sure, sexual relations weren’t uncommon; demons were more than willing to utilize sex as a form of manipulation when they sought to corrupt a human for the sake of devouring their soul.  Sexual involvement also sometimes occurred as a way to solidify pacts between a demon and their human, a vow written into the body and soul via touch rather than verbal contract.

But romantic relations? True commitments? They were still frowned upon by demon society at large, and there was no greater emphasis on this than the persistent archaic ban on interspecies marriage.  Yes, it was a ban that Diavolo had every intention of abolishing when he felt the time was right, but who knew when that time would be. Years? Decades? Centuries?

So to not only become romantically involved with a demon, but Barbatos? Even you couldn’t ignore how such news could shake the entirety of the Devildom and compromise Diavolo’s reputation and public trust.  It didn’t matter how many times you’d helped the Devildom, whether it was the citizens, the lords of hell, or even the crown itself.  It didn’t matter that your approval rating amongst the student body was the highest it’d ever been. And it didn’t matter how popular you were amongst the citizens, a celebrity icon in your own right.

What did matter was that Barbatos was the oldest, most powerful demon in the Devildom, second only to Diavolo himself, and the one closest to the young prince. He was not only the master of time, who’s reputation preceded him in hushed whispers, but he was also the voice of reason, the one who tutored prince Diavolo for millennia and advised him in a multitude of affairs, big and small.

Anyone could excuse the brothers’ infatuations with you as an influence of their pacts or even their Sins.  And despite the strength of their Sins, their legal authority was limited by the Prince and the House of Lords, a vital arrangement of checks and balances within the Devildom government. 

Anyone could even excuse the infatuation of prince Diavolo, if he were so inclined, with the assurance that Barbatos would always be present to act as a voice of reason and boundary-setting, the invisible leash to a young demon prince with overly optimistic and grand ideas.

But to have Barbatos be the demon that was compromised in a love affair with a human? And not just any human, either; one who had the pact strength of the seven lords of hell, the Ring of Light, and was apprenticed under the most powerful human sorcerer? And not just any sorcerer, but one who’s untrustworthy reputation far preceded him and that Barbatos himself happened to have a pact with?

No doubt many demons would not only see Barbatos’s involvement with you as a conflict of interest, but as a full-on attack to their national security.

The weight of these realizations grew heavier and heavier the more you thought about them. They wormed themselves between what you wanted and what was possible.  All you wanted was to enjoy the comfort of Barbatos’s company; to flirt and date and be together without fear of repercussion.  Instead, you had to remain secretive, silent, putting a stopper on your joy even as it threatened to bubble over like an unwatched pot.  You had no one to talk to, no one to confide in. No one except Barbatos, of course... and his availability was already limited as it was.

The more you looked at it, the more it felt like a losing game, a temporary indulgence with no happy ending.  But hope was a funny thing, and the simple fact that Barbatos had seemingly chosen his feelings for you over whatever risks it would bring were enough to give you reason to stay, to take what you could get in whatever form he could provide it.

After all, at the end of the day, happiness was something you not only craved, but needed. And for better or worse, it was Barbatos, above all else, that made you happy.

Which was why you knew you’d have to tread carefully.  You were aware of the risks; you were aware of his position and the demands it placed on him.  He had made the first move, but you knew that, at least for now, he also had to make the second, and the third. You were in uncharted waters, and he would be your guide, weaving the both of you through any possible political pitfalls.

You opted to wait; give Barbatos time to come to you when he was ready.  You knew how busy he was, how heavy his plate of duties weighed upon him day in and day out.  And it was for the best, you told yourself. Your own plate wasn’t exactly light either.  You had plenty keeping you busy throughout the long Devildom hours.

It still didn’t stop you from checking your phone periodically, hoping for a text message.  But each time, you were only greeted with his most recent text, sent after the meeting with the Lords had ended.

‘Well done,’ he’d said.  ‘The young master was very pleased.’

The message was timestamped for three days ago. You’d received nothing since.

You worried your lip between your teeth.

Best not to look at it.  You stuffed the DDD into your back pocket.  But as soon as you did so, it vibrated.  You nearly threw it across the room as you clumsily yanked it from the denim at lightning speed.

False alarm. You stared at the brothers’ group chat with an annoyed glare.

But as you stared at your phone, a new text came through, Barbatos’s name flashing across the top of your screen.

Your heart immediately froze and you opened the message.

‘The young master would like to invite you to dinner at the castle this evening.’

You stared at it with a mixture of relief and annoyance.  Finally Barbatos messaged you... but certainly not for the reason you’d hoped.

Your fingers hovered over the keys briefly before you began typing.

‘Am I in trouble?’  you joked.

Barbatos responded immediately.

‘On the contrary, the young master was so pleased with your conduct with the Lords, that there’s a new matter he’d like to discuss with you in private.’

Private... you’d grown accustomed to the subtleties of Barbatos’s communication style to know that such a specific detail implied a request for secrecy.

You stared at the screen in annoyance and confusion.  The way he was so formal... it felt like you were in a weird alternate universe where the kisses had never happened.

You read the message over again and narrowed your eyes.

A new matter...

Ugh. That sounded like the impending doom of more responsibility... you had half a mind to decline the invitation.

But before you could reply, Barbatos continued.

‘I shall make you your favorite dessert.’

Warmth began to blossom like a morning sunrise in your chest.

‘Are you bribing me?’ you teased.

A pause and you could almost hear his chuckle in your mind. ‘Perhaps,’ he said.

‘You can be rather devious when you want to be,’ you replied.

Barbatos sent you a winking demon emoji and you rolled your eyes.

‘What time should I arrive?’ you asked.

‘Dinner will be hosted at 6.’

‘I will be there,’ you replied.

‘I look forward to it.’

You stared at his response, letting it soak into your bones and water you like a parched plant.

He was looking forward to seeing you.

He still liked you.

He didn’t regret kissing you.

The anxiety slowly faded away and you felt like a normal, functional human again.

---

You arrived precisely on time, as you knew Barbatos liked. It was a skill that you’d never quite mastered until you’d finally learned to teleport.  Turns out that removing the transportation aspect of travel made timeliness infinitely easier.

Barbatos opened the door just as you had raised your hand to knock, his body already dipping in a graceful bow.

“Welcome,” he said formally. His eyes lifted and met yours as he straightened, and heat flooded your veins at the very subtle undertone of warmth within their verdant depths.

“Thank you,” you replied in the same formality, a grin barely held back from your neutral lips.

Of course, your resolve didn’t last long.  Your joy around him was in constant bloom, and your lips curled into a smile as he beckoned you into the entry hall.

It was all so familiar, now... the stonework, the dancing flamed sconces that never died, the pictures that always watched but never blinked.  There was always something strange about the Demon Lord’s Castle, an awareness that seemed to lurk within its very walls.  It felt more alive than inanimate, the occasional Devildom wind passing through high open windows like the breaths of a great beast.  Even the rooms themselves seemed to change locations occasionally, particularly ones that didn’t like to be visited too frequently (as Barbatos put it).  It always unnerved you, inspiring a low hum of discomfort each time you stepped within its ancient magic-laden walls.  It made you subconsciously desire to treat the enchanted keep with respect lest it send you somewhere you didn’t want to go.

You never let your defenses down completely within the castle, but you had learned to grow more comfortable with it over time, in much the same way one might learn to befriend a wild beast.  It was familiar to you now, as each visit you learned and memorized more and more of its nuances.  In a strange sense, it felt like a second home, so long as you kept to the hallways and rooms that you knew you were allowed to venture.

Of course, your knowledge and the comfort it brought wouldn’t be nearly as complete without Barbatos’s help.  You’d had countless conversations shared over tea about the ins and outs of the castle; he was a wealth of knowledge, filled with history and memories. He told how some spaces were built by the power of the first Demon King, while other parts came later, of their own volition, manifesting within a night.  It was the spaces without origin, without ownership that were the most dangerous, where the magic was at its strongest, warping time and space, impacting the laws of physics in ways that were beyond your human comprehension.

Avoid the southeast tower.  And the fourth level of the basement on the west end.  Do not enter the room at the end of the long hall; the door only opens in, but not out. Never out. If you hear whispering behind the curtains within the gallery on the seventh level, do not open them.

On and on it went.

You catalogued each warning within your mind with an ease that could only be reinforced by the fear of death or worse.

Barbatos was always generous with answering your curious questions, although the answers he gave were at times cryptic or entirely evasive.  No doubt there were some questions that ventured too close to secrets, and in those moments, you knew better than to pursue it.

You followed behind Barbatos, allowing him to lead you, despite the urge to walk beside him where you could steal glances of his profile.  Typically, the entry hall led directly into the Great Hall, where most of the hosting and dining occurred when company was present.  However, this time, you were led to the right and up a set of stone stairs to the second floor which opened onto a mezzanine.

“Are we not dining in the usual place?” you asked curiously.

Barbatos glanced back at you briefly.  “Not this evening.  The young master wishes to have his meal in his private dining room. I discouraged the decision due to formality, but he insisted, stating that the smaller space will be better for private conversation.”

Your brow furrowed as he led you down a wide hallway along a row of closed doors before finally turning to face the second to last set of doors.  They were tall and ornately carved with etchings of Devildom fauna and wildlife arcing in intricate patterns upon its surface.

“Is anyone else coming this evening?” you asked as your eyes followed the height.

You had kept your invitation a secret from the brothers and provided a school-related excuse for Lucifer when he inquired about your dinner plans, but it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that others might still be present. Solomon, Simeon... even Mephisto on rare occasions had joined you and Lucifer at the prince’s dinner table in the past.

Barbatos paused as you joined him at his side, and he looked down at you with a small smile.  “No.  The young prince has requested to see only you.”

Your eyes widened and your posture stiffened slightly.  Barbatos gave a soft chuckle that traveled right up your spine.  His gloved hand took yours, his fingers intertwining to give a gentle squeeze. 

Such contact from anyone else would have been entirely normal and innocent.  But from Barbatos, it spoke volumes.

“Are you worried?” he asked quietly.

“Maybe a little...” you admitted.  “This feels very different from having a luncheon or teatime...”

“Hm, that is true.  However, you will soon find that the young master is much the same, regardless of the time of day or the number of people at his table.  You have nothing to fear.”

Your fingers tightened between his, allowing some of your anxiety to seep out of you and into his reassuring grip.

“It’s not Diavolo that I’m afraid of...” you muttered.

Barbatos’s gaze glazed over into an unreadable expression, the rich green darkening slightly and pupils dilating.  It held you captive and you felt far too seen in that moment, the weight of his endless knowledge and infinite secrets taking everything from you while giving nothing.

For the briefest of moments, you felt the reality of what he was... more immortal being of darkness than friend.

But then his gaze softened again. Time moved forward, the infinity of the moment vanishing, and he was once again the Barbatos that you knew and adored.  His hand released your grip to cup your cheek.  The intimate gesture made your breath hitch, your eyes locked with his.

“Do not worry,” he said gently.  “You will do fine. Besides, I will also be present.”

That did bring some relief, and the tightness in your chest lessened, finally allowing the breath you’d been holding to escape.  Barbatos’s hand left your cheek as he faced the doors. He put hands on the large, iron handles and pushed them open with ease, a detail that did not go unnoticed by you as you eyed their height and thickness.

The dim gloom of the gallery hall gave way to the warm, yellow glow of a dining space that was half the size of the great hall.  By comparison it was significantly smaller; however, that didn’t account for much. The room itself was still plenty large with a table long enough to seat ten individuals at its center.  Diavolo sat at the furthest end at the head of the table, with two place settings arranged on either side of him. His hand was outstretched to the array of food in front of him, no doubt to sneak a sample, but retracted as soon as he was within yours and Barbatos’s sights.

Barbatos’s eyes narrowed, and he loudly cleared his throat in disapproval.

Diavolo pretended not to notice as his face lit up at your arrival.  “Ah, there you are!”

“Here I am,” you smiled as you approached. 

You took the seat to his left and sat as Barbatos pushed in your chair for you.

Barbatos began to fill the prince’s plate for him, but Diavolo waved him away with a laugh.  “Sit, Barbatos.  You’ve waited on me enough today.”

Barbatos paused and stared at him as if he grew a second head.  “It is my pleasure to wait on you.”

“Yes, yes, I know... but I was hoping for something more casual this evening.”

You glanced at the array of delicacies on the table, the candlesticks and elaborate centerpieces... everything spoke of grandness.

Casual. This was casual for him?

Years you’d lived here in the Devildom, and you still couldn’t quite get use to situations like this.

Barbatos hesitated for the briefest of seconds and then nodded his head in defeat.  “Very well.”

He took the empty seat across from you and your eyes locked with his.  A flush of heat washed over you and you averted your eyes.  You grabbed your glass of water and took a gulp.

Barbatos clapped his hands twice and you watched as two little Ds came out and began serving your plates.  Just because he wasn’t serving the prince apparently did not mean that the prince was meant to serve himself.

“My apologies for not hosting you in the great hall,” Diavolo commented.  “I grow tired of that big room sometimes.  Especially after hosting a major event.”

“I totally get it,” you replied.  “It does feel a bit much when there’s only a few of us.”

Diavolo brightened.  “My thoughts exactly!”

You watched as your plate was loaded, and it was then that you realized... everything on it was something you loved.  Not that you didn’t love nearly all of Barbatos’s cooking to begin with, even with the odd ingredients that were native to the Devildom.  Still, you expected at least one dish that was a favorite of Diavolo’s since it was his dinner in his castle.

Suspicious.

Your eyes caught Barbatos’s again and for a moment you thought you saw a ghost of a smirk before it vanished.  You stared a moment longer, but his expression remained as placid as always.

Diavolo and Barbatos engaged in small talk with you as everyone began to eat.  How are studies at RAD going? How is your apprenticeship with Solomon?  How are Lucifer and the brothers?

The questions were kind and genuine but also predictable.  You were beginning to get the sense that Diavolo was nervous, procrastinating on bringing up the real reason he invited you here.

You did your best to keep your eyes on your plate or on Diavolo so as not to make your interest in Barbatos obvious, but the eye of your affection sat across from you and you couldn’t help but steal glances.  Sometimes he met your gaze, and other times he did not. He watched the young master speak, addressed the Little D next to him with a whisper, or paid particular attention to the food on his plate.

God, how you wished you could read his mind...

You could feel tension growing and you weren’t sure if it was something shared with those in the room, or if it was something purely within yourself as you waited and waited for the truth of your visit.

But waiting wasn’t your strong suit.

“You know...” you ventured, “I’m curious why I’m the only one here tonight?”

“Oh? Really?” Diavolo asked with a tilt of his head.  “Haven’t we often shared private meals between the three of us?”

You knew this tone; an invitation to engage in a careful dance of exchanges, a give and take of unspoken questions and answers.  It was a game of sorts that demons often enjoyed engaging in, and you’d grown accustomed to it, learning how to play along.

“Lunches or teas, usually...” you replied, “but I think this is the first time I’ve been the only one here for dinner.”

Diavolo put his chin in his hand and looked up thoughtfully.  “Hm, I guess I never noticed.”  He looked back down at you, his smile genuine, but his eyebrows scrunched slightly with worry.  “Does it bother you?”

‘Are you scared?’  Was what he was really asking.  It was a test of trust.

You smiled reassuringly.  “Not at all.  I live in a house with seven demons.  This is a very welcome reprieve, trust me.”

‘I am enjoying the game, let us continue’  was your unspoken reply.

A hearty laugh burst from Diavolo’s chest.  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

“But still...” you pressed. “I’m surprised you didn’t even invite Lucifer. I’m sure he would have been happy to escape his brothers for a night.”

‘What could you possibly want to share with me that you haven’t shared with him?’

Diavolo’s smiled turned into one of darker mischief as he rested his cheek against his fist. “I’m sure he would have.”

‘Something he would do better not to know.’

Now that was interesting...

You halted, your cutlery poised in your hands on either side of your plate. You narrowed your eyes and set them down, the game coming to an end as you swiftly cut to the point.

“Okay, what’s going on here? You have Barbatos prepare all of my favorite foods, you invite me and only me to dinner, and Barbatos said in his invite that there’s something you want to discuss with me. He even promised to make me my favorite dessert.”

Diavolo’s eyebrows raised beneath his auburn strands, the golden irises glinting with mirth.  “Did he, now?”

Barbatos froze briefly in the middle of drinking his tea, then slowly lowered the cup to the small saucer.  “I will admit, my lord, she did require a little... persuasion.”

You raised a curious eyebrow at the butler but said nothing.

Diavolo released a satisfied sigh. “I do love your ability to read the nuances of a situation, and your directness has always been a breath of fresh air.  Especially after a day spent with stuffy old demons whose words always carry three or four hidden meanings, at least.  You wouldn’t believe how long conversations can drag on for, especially in a group...

“Yes, I did invite you here to discuss something.  But I wanted to discuss it without Lucifer here. He can be a bit....”

“Overbearing?” you offered.

Barbatos smirked into his teacup.

Diavolo raised an eyebrow and grinned.  “I was going to say protective.”

You suppressed a knowing smirk of your own.

“So...” you continued, “is this meant to be a secret from Lucifer then?”

“No, not in the slightest. I just simply wanted you to be able to consider the information and make the decision for yourself without external pressure.”

“Decision about what?”

“Well...” Diavolo pushed his plate forward and interlocked his fingers on the table.  “That’s what I must talk about.  The House of Lords were pleased to meet with you at the celebratory ball a few days ago.  You left a good impression on many of them.”

“But not all of them,” you stated wryly.

Barbatos’s eyes glinted and Diavolo gave a half laugh with a crooked smile.  “No, not all of them.  There are still a few who are... resistant.”

“Because I’m human.”

“Because you’re not a demon,” he corrected.  “It’s less about what you are, and more about what you are not.”

Your heart began to beat heavier in your chest, your stomach coiling with the early signs of nausea.  “But I’ve been nothing but an ally to the Devildom, have I not?”

Diavolo nodded.  “You have.”

Your throat tightened,  and your words filled with more and more tension.  “I’ve tamed the Seven Deadly Sins, helped to navigate peace with the angels, and saved the Devildom more times than I can count... what more could they want?”

More importantly, what more could you give?  When would these endless tests finally end? How much more did you have to prove yourself before you could be left alone to live a happy life with those you cared about, without being scrutinized like a bug under a microscope?

You felt the hard tip of a shoe nudge gently against yours beneath the table, and your eyes caught Barbatos’s.  His eyes were soft with understanding, his lips curled into a mellow smile.

Relax.

You took a breath and let it out slowly.  “I’m sorry,” you muttered.  “It’s just been... a lot lately.”

Diavolo stared at you for a long moment, sympathy in his gaze.  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he reassured.  “If you decide this is not something you want to engage in, then I will smooth it over the lords. You only have to say the word.”

You sighed heavily.  “I don’t even know what ‘this’ is.”

“The lords have agreed by majority vote to expand the exchange program,” Diavolo said.

Pride swelled in your chest and your eyes widened. “Diavolo, that’s great news!”

Diavolo laughed. “Yes, it is.  However, it won’t come without restrictions.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.  “What sort of restrictions?”

Diavolo sighed and leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed over his broad chest.  “That has yet to be decided.  But for now, it is enough to know that support for the program is growing.  Which presents us with our next dilemma... we must strengthen our position and prepare for who we will invite next.”

Ah, finally you were beginning to understand...

“You mean like... more humans?” you replied.

“...and angels,” Barbatos chimed in.

You fell silent for a moment as you pondered the significance.  Doubt crept along your spine, icy tendrils that warned of danger.

“Is this a good idea?” you finally asked.  “You just agreed that there are still some demons who don’t like even me and Solomon being here....  won’t this just anger them more?”

“A fair question,” he sighed.  “And one that I’ve been pondering as well.  But at no point have I ever waited for a one hundred percent approval rating before making a decision.  One of the many benefits of being the prince,” he winked.  “RAD was always meant to be more than just an experiment.  And progress is only progress if things continue to move forward.”

Dread soaked you from your head to your toes, dampening your appetite. “And how would you like me to help move it forward?” you asked.

“I would like to include you in the decision-making; to utilize your expertise of humans to make the exchange program more welcoming for your kind, help us select our next three candidates, and then provide guidance for them once they arrive.”

You choked on the water you were trying to sip and coughed. “Me??  I’m hardly an expert on humans...”

“You are more of an expert than any of us,” Diavolo replied.  “In fact, many demons haven’t visited the human realm for some time now, the House of Lords included.  Their understanding of humans is a bit... outdated.”

You could feel a headache begin to form behind your eyes and you rubbed the bridge of your nose with your thumb and forefinger.  “Diavolo... there are billions of humans. Trying to narrow it down to just three will be impossible.”

“You will not be doing this alone,” Barbatos offered.  “Myself, Diavolo, and Lucifer will be involved in the process as well.”

You raised your eyebrow in doubt.  “Yes, and how long did it take you three the first time?”

A silence lingered for three seconds too long before Diavolo finally spoke.

“Well, uh...”

“Yeah, my point exactly,” you huffed.  “I’ll be long dead before you even reach a decision, let alone provide guidance.”

“The first time,” Barbatos said, “The entire process was new for everyone. The second time will be quicker, we assure you. The young prince would not bestow this task to you if was outside of your realm of capabilities.”

“Well, why not ask Solomon?” you asked.  “At least he is immortal...”

“I have a different offer for him with regards to RAD,” Diavolo replied.

Curiosity made your eyebrow raise.  “Oh?”

“Yes, you see, I realized that it would help the exchange program if we expand our RAD staff to include human and angel faculty.”

Your eyes widened and you stifled a laugh.  “You... you want Solomon to teach? What on earth would the subject be?”

“I was thinking human world history.  After all, he’s been alive for such a long time, and was likely there to witness most of it... I’m rather excited to hear his personal recounting of events...”

Diavolo had that look again, the one that made him seem younger than he was, all excitement and wide-eyed wonder.

You had no doubt that Solomon’s penchant for mischief would lead to a rather biased and inflated account of even the most mundane of historic events.

“Solomon teaching history... that’ll be interesting...” you muttered.  “Has he accepted?”

“I haven’t asked him yet,” Diavolo confessed.  “But it’s more than that... you have a far better approval rating amongst the populace than Solomon does.  If we’re to allow a human to participate in the expansion of the program, then you are clearly the better candidate.”

A laugh escaped your lips and you clamped your hand over your mouth.  “I-I’m sorry,” you said. “It’s just... this is not what I expected. I thought you were going to need help for another event, or another trial I’d have to go through or something for the House of Lords... but this?”

You gulped your water, but it didn’t satisfy.  A million thoughts were flooding your head at once, pros and cons, unspoken implications and all the ways that you could clearly fail...

RAD studies, living with and managing the brothers, sorcerer apprenticeship, the student council, the judgment and scrutiny of an entire population...

It was too much, too much.

You could feel your heartbeat pounding against your sternum, and it felt harder and harder to breathe... and was the room warmer? Couldn’t someone open a window??

“Perhaps a short recess is in order before dessert?” Barbatos suggested.

His voice sounded distant, muted against the sound of your pulse rushing in your ears.  Your eyes were stuck to your plate, but you forced them up to look at him.  He stared back at you, but the panic was drowning out whatever it was that his gaze was trying to communicate.

“Yes,” Diavolo agreed. “A good idea, Barbatos.”

You hadn’t even realized that Barbatos had left his seat until you heard his voice next to you.

“Will you walk with me?”

You looked towards his voice to see his hand stretched out, palm up. You stared at it, before absently taking it with your own.  He gently tugged your arm and you stood slowly.

Barbatos looked at Diavolo and provided a bow.  “We shall return shortly, my lord.”

So much said in so little a statement, and Diavolo understood all of it.  He gave a nod.

“Yes. Thank you, Barbatos.”

And suddenly Barbatos’s hand was guiding you out of the dining room and into the quiet and dim gallery. The further you moved away from the room, the more your surroundings returned to clarity.

“Come,” he ordered gently.

You didn’t question him, and you didn’t take note of where he led you, trusting him implicitly to take you somewhere private, somewhere safe.

If you’d allowed yourself the mental wherewithal to think of where he’d take you, you would have assumed the gardens or observatory; a place where you could see the sky, where the vastness of the heavens above you would free the weight from your shoulders.

Instead, he took you to the piano room.

The same one he’d found you in days prior.

The same one where he’d kissed you.

Your heart froze in your throat, your skin prickling and tightening into goosebumps.

A single thought broke through the chaotic hum of your mind and you finally found your voice again.

“Why did you bring me here?” you asked.

“It seemed to be a place you like to come to for comfort,” Barbatos replied.  “Would you prefer a different place to gather yourself?”

 You turned to him and stared, only to be met by his neutral gaze. Your eyes searched and dug for a sign of something more, desperate for a rock to cling to in a churning sea, and finally you found it... the most subtle furrow of his brow, the ever so slight downward turn of his mouth. He was concerned for you.

It was small, but it was enough.

You crossed your arms over your chest protectively.  “No, no.... you’re right. I like it here.”

But instead of sitting and calming yourself, you paced, your feet moving you back and forth in front of the tall windows where starlight poured in. Barbatos watched, waiting, allowing you the space you needed to process and organize your thoughts.

“I don’t understand,” you muttered.  “Why me?  Why does he think I can do this?  Help pick out the next three humans to come here? And guide them?  What if they don’t even speak the same language as me? Do you know how many human languages there are? Thousands! Literally thousands! And how am I supposed to know what qualities to look for in a person?  Are they qualities that demons will respect or want?  Are we ruling out certain age groups? I mean, obviously no children, but that still leaves so many... and what about Solomon? That sly bastard... did he know about this? Why does he get to teach history while I have to be the one to search for three needles in a haystack...”

On and on your rambled, your words spilling from your mouth in a disorganized heap and you hated it, hated the way you were losing control of yourself.  Barbatos’s reserved nature was more painful than it was helpful, he’s own calm resilience put in stark contrast to your own emotional state.  Surely he was disgusted with you, found your emotional outburst unbecoming...

But then you felt his gloved hand grasp yours, heard your name spoken with gentle firmness on his lips.  The interruption halted your pacing, and you turned to look at him, your eyes wide.

His gaze was soft, his touch secure and warm, and it grounded you instantly. 

“Breathe,” he ordered, “before your damage your fragile human heart.”

You couldn’t help but smile and give a small laugh.  “I don’t break that easily...”

Barbatos smiled in amusement and gently pulled you closer to him. “One can never be too careful. Now talk to me.  What exactly is troubling you?”

You were inches apart now, and the closeness of him made your heart begin to race for a different reason.

“I already told you—” you started.

“No,” he replied, cutting you off.  “That was not talking a moment ago, that was panic. You scarcely even acknowledged my presence.”

You stared up at him for a moment, your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to organize your conglomeration of worries into something cohesive.

“Ah,” Barbatos noted.  “Perhaps I can assist.  Earlier you had stated it wasn’t the young master you were worried about.  What did you mean by that?”

You searched your memory for the moment outside the dining room doors as you stared at the details of Barbatos’s clothing.

“I... was worried about the House of Lords.”

“Why?”

“Because I know not all of them approve of me.  And I know they likely talked with Diavolo after I met them at the ball.”

“Hm,” he commented.

You shot him a playful glare. “Hm? What kind of response is that?”

Barbatos’s lip curled into a half smirk. “It is the kind that is appropriate for this moment.”  He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. “Continue. What do you suspect they talked about?”

You stared off to the side as your thoughts returned to Diavolo’s request at the dinner table.  Your thoughts began falling rapidly into an organized pattern, a series of what ifs and consequences.

“I fail, then it’s going to give the opposition everything they want,” you said.

Your response didn’t answer his question, but Barbatos’s eyes glinted anyway, and his lips curled into a smile.  “Splendid. I see you are already three steps ahead.”

Your mind continued working.  “If I don’t participate in expanding RAD for more humans, then it’ll negatively impact the influence humans can have moving forward. What good is a human on the student council if they’re not even a part of selecting the future exchange students?  My position would be in title only and wouldn’t bear much weight. It would make me look either irresponsible, or too afraid to make major decisions.”

“A valid point,” Barbatos agreed.  “Your position as a student council officer was not given lightly and it would be a waste to not utilize it to its full potential.”

You fell silent for a moment, and Barbatos gave your hand another gentle squeeze.

“Continue,” he said.

“If I do participate in the selection process, then that will also carry its own risk.  If for any reason the candidates I help select end up being a poor fit for the program, then it will not only call into question my skills but will reflect poorly on humanity as a whole.”  Another realization came on the heels of the previous, and you looked up at Barbatos, your eyes wide. “The opposition will try to sabotage any new candidates that arrive here.  They’ll try to make them fail.”

Barbatos’s smile faded to neutrality.  “A likely possibility. Of course, we will do what we can to mitigate such attempts.”

Your brow furrowed for a moment.  “Why didn’t they try to sabotage me?”

Barbatos’s smile returned but it was entirely devoid of warmth.  “They did.  We stopped them before you fell into such traps.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Oh...”

“Although to be honest,” Barbatos added with a slight tilt of his head, “your celestial heritage makes you particularly resilient to demonic influence, which made our work infinitely easier.  Plus, we didn’t have to protect you for long... you managed formulate pacts with the brothers rather quickly, which only strengthened your resistance and deterred anyone with half of a brain.”

You flushed beneath his gaze and looked to the side again as you continued thinking.  “This will put more pressure on me with all of my other duties, which is what they want.  If I can’t handle it all, then they’ll call me incompetent. And if I give up anything, then it’ll lessen my impact and undo all that I’ve worked for.  I’m sure they’d love nothing more than to see me vanish into obscurity, bogged down for decades behind mountains of paperwork about human candidates.”

Barbatos nodded in agreement.  “There are those who would gladly take advantage of your short lifespan.”

“Of course they would....” you muttered. “Diavolo knows all of this too.  And he knows he has to offer me this responsibility or it will look poorly on both of us if he doesn’t.  That was why he didn’t inform Lucifer.  He knew Lucifer would try to talk me out of it.”

“The decision must be yours and yours alone,” Barbatos said. “The young prince did state that you can refuse.  It will not be the first roadblock he’s encountered, and I assure you he will overcome it as he’s done with all of the others.”

“No, no...” you muttered.  “He’s worked this hard already... who knows how long this will set back the program and humanity’s place amongst the three realms if I refuse.”

“And thus you understand that all of our hands are tied.” Barbatos said quietly.

A heavy silence fell for a moment before you finally spoke again.

“I have to be perfect...” you muttered.  “Anything less will be used against me, one way or another.”

Barbatos tilted your chin up to look at him.  He smiled down at you, a hint of mischief glinting in his timeless gaze.  “Luckily for you, you have me.  And I happen to be an expert at perfection.”

You stared into his eyes, and it felt like weightlessness and falling at the same time. 

“Do I?” you whispered.

“Hm?”

His stare made you so vulnerable it ached.  The burning sensation of impending tears itched behind your eyes, but you fought it down.

“Do I have you?”

There was a moment of silence as Barbatos’s smile faded and his gaze stretched like the infinite darkness. It terrified you and called to you, and the longer you held his gaze, the less ‘human’ he seemed.

Then he leaned in and kissed you, gentle and feather soft, and the ethereal demon was once again a man. It felt hesitant, as if he feared he’d break you, but his lips were warm and real, and you leaned into it, grateful for the contact.

It was over too soon, his back straightening and your eyes fluttered open.

He smiled at you tenderly.  “Of course,” he answered.

Relief pushed back the clouds of dread that your impending new responsibility had summoned forth and you smiled at him.  Barbatos’s pupils dilated slightly, his own lips curling into a smile of his own, and his thumb gently caressed the apple of your cheek before taking your other hand in his.

“So tell me, star of mine... what shall we tell the young prince?”

You let the love-haze linger for a few seconds as his pet name echoed through every crevasse in your body, mind, and soul.  One. Two. Three.  Then you closed your eyes and pushed it down, stashing it away to savor for later.

When you opened your eyes again, you were once again firmly seated into your position of power. Apprentice of Solomon. Keeper of the Deadly Sins.  RAD student council member.

And above all else, human.

“I will tell him that I will accept his offer,” you stated firmly.

Barbatos smiled fully, and it lit up his face in the most beautiful ways.  He took your chin in his thumb and forefinger and stared into your eyes as if he were checking for something.  “Ah,” he commented.  “There she is.  Welcome back.”

Chapter 3

[hallowpen]

The plan was to start watching The Sign by divvying up the series into two episodes per day until I could finish. Well…that plan went completely out the window and I ended up binge watching the entire thing in one go. So, as I try to gather my thoughts, I wanted to sort of get my feelings out there on what I thought was an incredible show before I finally unfilter the tags (as to avoid any outside influence on my opinion).

Let me preface this by saying that this is going to be an incredibly bias opinion given my cultural upbringing and background (I'm half-Thai and I've spent almost half of my life living in Thailand), so please take that into account before reading any further. I metaphorically removed my western-lensed glasses while watching this series and preferred to watch as a Thai viewer, which probably made the more confusing or difficult parts of the show a lot easier to swallow. So, yes, I will admit that the show was not perfect by any means, but I was able to overlook a lot of its shortcomings given the parts that had been done so well and what this series could mean for Thai QL media going forward.

My goddess, where do I even start…

I'm a sucker for the reincarnated/fated lovers trope, so the show had me before it even started. What I absolutely loved the most about the romance and the A+ chemistry was that it didn't dominate or singularly drive the story, which was refreshing to see. It gave room to explore the fantasy/mythological elements of the show, the investigatory plotlines (which we'll get to later), and the relationships of the characters surrounding the "main leads".

Episode 3, my beloved, was what solidified my trust in this series and served as the foundation for the personalized experience I curated in my continued viewing. First off (and a bit of a side note), seeing Yoshi show up as Sand just made my heart super happy. I've been following her off and on since 2018, and she was one of the only things I actually liked about หมอ มือ ใหม่… but I digress. Behind the main story (and maybe even because of it), this episode was, for all intents and purposes, a love letter to Thai culture and its religious mythology. Which, when you consider how much international draw a BL series can hold, is truly momentous. International viewers got to experience the Bang Fai Phayanak (the naga fireball festival) that occurs every Wan Ok Phansa (the last day of what is considered Buddhist Lent) and the significance it holds over Thai history and culture. Using this as the stepping stone to establish the importance of the series' reliance on naga folklore…brilliant! The episode was also the viewers' introduction to the Buddhist idea of the cyclical intermingling of karmic fates. How the implications of an interdependence on one fate more than the others would later define the relationship between Phaya, Tharn, and Chalothorn…genius! All of this!? In one episode…of a BL!? I was overwhelmed by a sense of cultural gratitude and pride, that I still can't quite shake. I think Saint knew exactly what he was doing when he chose to adapt this series and I love him even more for it.

Aside from the cultural dependency and relevance, the show delivered so much beyond that as well. The production quality sailed high above previous BL standards and, in turn, lent itself to beautiful visuals and cinematography.

The casting! Billy and Babe's chemistry was just so *chef's kiss*. I knew Billy would absolutely smash it in the role of Phaya, but I often forgot that this was Babe's first ever acting role. It was an undertaking, that you could tell, he did not take lightly. Heng!? Wow! What a performance! He's been a staple in every Idol Factory series thus far, but he really nailed the purely villainous role of Chalothorn. Gap as Yai? No notes. He was able to flesh out what could have been a very one-dimensional character. Tack and Poom as Khem and Thongtai were a welcome levity inbetween, what was otherwise, a more weighty plot.

If I had to address any gripes I had with the series, there were only two that really stood out:

1) I wish the moments/conversations between Tharn and Chalothorn that eventually led to Tharn's return hadn't happened off-screen. There was a lot left to be resolved that could have been explored in that instance. But using my own inference based on Tharn as a character, his relationship with Chalothorn, and the core of his personality, I could kind of piece together how that ending came to be.

2)The lesser intriguing elements of the investigation storylines were shaky, at best. (If you were looking for the show to have a firm western-influenced ACAB agenda, then I'm sorry to say you were setting yourself up for disappointment. As much as I selfishly wanted it to be, this series was never going to be that show, it's a Thai drama.) From a Thai perspective, it made sense that the "copaganda" aspect of the series focused on the incompetency and inefficiency of a police force where justice is often informed by wealth and greed. I got an idea of what the show's stance on the matter was supposed to be but the overall plot and its consistency got lost somewhere within the final execution.

Other than that, I was left feeling satisfyingly content with where the series landed and I will continue to highly recommend it. It's easily one on my top five favorite Thai BL dramas and just Thai dramas in general! And…

There is such a rich history of mythology and folklore left for the show to still sink its teeth into: the garuda of it all, the pre-existing feud between the naga and garuda and why that is… Aside from a few minor specificities that were missing from naga folklore (their exclusion didn't really detract from anything, but it could have served to benefit non-Thai viewers), all of that could be addressed in a second season. Which, at this point, seems pretty likely 🤞🏾🤞🏾🤞🏾 and would be HUGE in the BL world.

PLEASE, LET IT HAPPEN! 🙏🏾🙏🏾🙏🏾

[thecoolerliauditore]

Interesting perspectives.

I'm a big baby who mostly just dislikes LL for being the "meanest" season, with everyone backstabbing each other, no compelling dynamics as well as some of my least favourite dynamics in the whole series (truly it was the season that belonged to my beloatheds), and too many big groups (not fond of groups larger than 3, more than that makes interactions get lost and alliances weak in an uncompelling way. a duo/trio can realistically trust each other and have a personal dynamic, a quartet+ are just early episode roommates (this is a problem that is a result of the length of the seasons, I think if they were closer to 12+ episodes larger teams would work better, but I also think if a season stuck around that long everyone would be sick of it)).

And also yeah if you ask me to remember much of anything that happened in the last 2/3s besides an unrelenting wave of betrayals and abandonments I'd be hard pressed to think of anything. I can't even remember most people's last deaths. The map was also the most Eh map in the series, never knew where anything was, was all just ambiguous forest. Session 2 was good, though, entirely because of Lizzie. And, I also watch things as casual entertainment first and foremost, so most of my first watch enjoyment is "did this pov make me laugh/cheer on their antics". LL very rarely made me do either.

I waver back and forth between it and 3L being my least favourite, though, cause 3L was genuinely just kinda boring unless you cared about either desert duo or renchanting. And I kinda liked both but I didn't love either. People weren't as funny and didn't know each other well so they were awkward, they still didn't know what they were doing, and the map outside the desert was wasted (a particular quality of each season that people don't talk about nearly as much I think, setting quality). I can only enjoy it casually as background noise, I rarely get pulled in.

I know this one is an unpopular opinion because the last two seasons can't go a single episode without some controversy by monday, but to me the life series generally is one that gets better every season. Though I think SL was its peak even if it didn't have any particularly compelling teams, the gimmick was the best and everyone was at their funniest and enjoying themselves the most, the gimmick lent itself to being bent to the needs of the game such as lightening the blow of the wider gap of final deaths by having Jimmy return as a ghost, or giving the reds tasks to do damage. It was good at creating both personal moments and server-wide moments.

Double life is my favourite though, because no objective qualities can beat out favourite characters and first entry bias. Also the small amount of deaths and inherently having someone to share it with made every single one memorable, and it had one of the best maps with the ancient city and canyon. And every single team memorable and well-utilized base, as well as being the season that finally forced everyone to get to know each other which the later seasons benefited from greatly.

Yeah, in my head 3L and LL are slightly like test runs and DL is where the series really got on a roll. Grian said they didn't even know what they were getting into with 3L and I think you can tell that by the over-correction into DEATH game territory LL did before DL reeled it back in and they found more of a balance for the rest of the series.

(Actually "5th is the best, 3rd is my fav" is the exact same opinion I have about pokemon, funny enough. Maybe its something)

But I also think that comparing seasons is a bit like comparing apples to oranges since every single one is so different besides the base 'death game' concept. Like I like 24L and WL equal amounts but also they don't have a single thing in common so I find it hard to even put them side by side. And, of course, RL is just... its own thing entirely.

This is why I rotate stuff like the funny evil bdubs interpretation chart/cycle so much because essentially all the reasons you listed for disliking 3L and LL are reasons they're my favourites e.g. the awkwardness, the distrust you could feel in larger groups, the overall meanness, so on.

They felt absolutely like. the most DEATH GAME out of the series, DL still felt like a death game to me albeit with a slower pace and much more focused on conversation and drama than action. LimL marked a very distinct shift in tone for me although that was also the first one I watched as episodes were coming out so that might've been a factor. SL and WL so far feel more like Mario Party than Death Game with maybe the exception of the very last episode of SL feeling much more like something that should've been in an earlier season due to the lack of tasks.

I think we're all biased towards our own fav seasons but tbf I think the "controversy" with each new episode of WL is more. me being grouchy than any real significant drop in retention? You can correct me on this I am absolutely not watching the numbers but I've definitely seen people like the direction the series is taking which is honestly cool w/ me cus I feel like Grian knows that in competitive situations with time it either goes the funny minigame RNG route or the sweaty min-maxxer route and I and most people I feel like would much rather watch the series go more in the direction of funny RNG than Last Life 2 where everyone employs the smajor strategy of not making enemies, making a base in the corner of the map, only teaming with 1-2 people, etc. Plus it's going to be kind of hard to fish back the distrustful atmosphere of 3L/LL when it's six seasons in and pretty much the entire cast are friends.

Anyway yeah the apples and oranges thing is very correct, it's more or less a different vibe completely and why death game stories that are intended as death game stories usually don't rerun the same cast lol <-- although the "they are stuck in a horrifying death game loop forever to the point where they dont care anymore and find it kind of fun" angle is something I find really cool to think abt with this series.

One of the reasons I like LL over 3L actually (other than the very strong first season I watched bias) is the fact that 3L was a rare situation where I felt like there was a very clear A plot/B plot that emerged with main and side characters. Bdubs' POV in his last episode was literally just brewing potions in his house whilst a million death messages flooded the chat lol.

I still think 3L might be the strongest narratively and its "b plots" although not as flashy as desert duo vs dogwarts have some really cool stuff that have left me fucked up forever mentally (flower husbands I'll never forgive you) but yeah. Compared to LL and the seasons that come after it does feel like the one where all POVs are equal but some POVs are more equal than others. Especially when LL was a massive fucking mess in terms of its alliances where every single team had some sort of massive dramatic moment.

Thinking about it now I think I like the life series for the same reason I like those. "100 player battle royale" videos where I more or less look at it from an angle of an unethical psychologist. Holy shit okay um I was about to make a joke about how I would be Zimbardo instead of Freud if Zimbardo was dead and I didn't think this would be the way I found out Zimbardo died last month holy shit post cancelled I feel bad now

[posttexasstressdisorder]

1971, Vol. 1

A Mixtape

A History Lesson of sorts, Babies.

Composed of actual 45s I bought as a kid during '71, snap, crackle, pop and all. Recorded onto a Maxell C-60 low-bias cassette as a mix some time back in the '90s, the order much like it might have been back in '71 on any AM Rock Radio Station worth its salt, or on a hypothetical "American Top 40" episode.

Transferred from cassette to SSD sometime last year ('23). The old Nakamichi cassette deck don't miss a beat! Tape's in excellent shape, as well. No deterioration in 30 years. Currently listening to it via AM Broadcast, on a Zenith Transistor Radio, as The Gods Intended.

It's being played on a 5th Gen iPod (with the audiophile processor), the little hard drive of which I replaced with an SD card holder and a 256GB SD Card. It's playing over an AM Transmitter I soldered together from a kit about 10 years ago that's been essentially running 24/7 ever since I plugged it in first time.

Sonically, AM had this sort of expansiveness to it, like an automatic-level control with a degree of reverb, of sorts, that had this particular sound that lent itself really well to being listened to on the typical car radio, and on portable radios. The 45rpm "single mix" was always recorded "hotter" than the album track, so it was extra "in your face". That, combined with that reverb/compression inherent in AM was, and still is, Powerful.

It is essentially a Temporal Portal back in time, this experience of hearing them now, just as I heard them back than, on an AM Radio, that imperfect medium that seemed so perfect for this music...it is like being time-machined back.

Blogging about it to finally get the tracklist written down, since in my iTunes it's just 'Side 1 and Side 2' of the cassette xfer. lulz. Figured y'all would enjoy the selections. I'll have to dig through my tapes for Vol. 2 and the rest.

Side 1

1. I Feel The Earth Move (Carole King)

2. Another Day (Paul McCartney)

3. Maggie May (Rod Stewart)

4. Chicago (Graham Nash)

5. What Is Life (George Harrison)

6. Lucky Man (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

7. Groove Me (King Floyd)

8. Sunshine (Jonathan Edwards)

9. Signs (Five Man Electrical Band)

10. 25 or 6 to 4 (Chicago WHEN THEY USETA ROCK!)

11. I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing (The New Seekers) (Yes, the Coke commercial song) (goddammit, we were so naive and innocent...why am I cryin'?)

12. Ooh, Child (The Five Stairsteps) (There, there, it's gonna be OK, baby...)

13. Where You Lead (Barbra Streisand)

14. Temptation Eyes (The Grass Roots)

Side 2

1. Day After Day (Badfinger)

2. Draggin' The Line (Tommy James)

3. I Hear You Knockin' (Dave Edmunds)

4. Nathan Jones (The Supremes) (Yeah, after Ross left, Mary and her two new Supremes came out swingin' with this killer song, cheesy phaser effect and bitchin' piano riffs included no extra charge!)

5. It Don't Come Easy (Ringo Starr)

6. Ain't No Sunshine (Bill Withers)

7. Beginnings (Chicago)

8. That's The Way I've Always Heard It Should Be (Carly Simon)

9. Friends (Elton John)

10. One Toke Over The Line (Brewer & Shipley)

11. Lookin' Out My Back Door (Creedence Clearwater Revival)

12. Me & Bobby McGee (Janis Joplin)

13. Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is? (Chicago) No, really, y'all, there was a time when CHICAGO DID NOT SUCK! REALLY!

14. Power To The People (John Lennon)

15. From The Beginning (Emerson, Lake and Palmer)

So that's Vol 1, and 1971 was an incredible-enough year that it took me at least 3 tapes to get all the killer 45s put on tape. I'll have to dig.

[mcgiggers]

New York - September 2023

Just back from a long-anticipated return to Armory week festivities in the Big Apple. Fueled by the pent-up excitement following a self-imposed two-year hiatus and not deterred by the sweltering heat and overcrowded New York streets, the art viewing experience was over the top - fantastic fairs, surreal MoMA moments and great gallery shows. Stopovers included: The Armory Show, Independent 20th Century and Art on Paper fairs; a pilgrimage to the MoMA; and a half dozen or so gallery visits.

The Fairs

The Armory Show held court as the centerpiece of the two-day jaunt. While the fair has long been part of the city’s cultural landscape, bringing together the world’s leading contemporary and modern galleries in the revamped Javits Center elevated the fair-going experience for all stakeholders. Art fans, exhibitors and artists have all benefited from the move two years ago from Piers 92 and 94. While the art is ultimately what matters most, venue counts as well, and creating an atmosphere where art fans can best appreciate wonderful pieces and exhibitors can best showcase their artists is important. With its outstanding gallery lineup, topnotch presentation space and user-friendly layout, The Armory Show delivered on all fronts.

This year the fair assembled over 225 leading international galleries representing more than 35 countries and over 800 artists. Along with the revitalization brought about by the venue upgrade, the show’s focus has also evolved to having a more contemporary and emerging artist bias where previously older post war painters also shared the spotlight. With that change, the crowds also seemed to get younger, less staid, and more eclectic, all making for a vibrant and exciting ambiance.  Some highlights included: Landon Metz’s organic flowing shapes in “Untitled”, 2023, dye and canvas, diptych (40 x 64 in.); Mario Martinez’s abstract expressionist inspired “Inside, Outside”, 2004, acrylic and charcoal on canvas (86 x 133.5 in.); and Nicole Coson’s imprinted found objects in “Untitled”, 2023, oil on linen (79 x 51 in.).

The vibe at the Independent 20th Century fair was more reflective and subdued but also enjoyable in a different sort of way. Set in the historic Battery Maritime Building, the focus of this 35-exhibitor show was to celebrate unsung artists that applied their trade between 1900 and 2000. Donning the walls were works of lesser known heroes such as Jack Tworkov, James Brooks and Midred Thompson, among others. The fair highlights included three large scale works from Paul Feeley featuring his archetypal jack-like forms set in a colour field backdrop, namely, “Vespasian” and “Germanicus”, 1960, and “Untitled”, 1961, each oil-based enamel on canvas.

Art on Paper was staged on the courts of Basketball City on Pier 36 and celebrated its ninth edition with a 100-plus gallery roster featuring top modern and contemporary paper-based art. The atmosphere was light and lively and lent itself well to the creatively used to highlight the fair’s signature medium. Highlights included: Eric Stefanski’s earnest and satirical “Im Fuckin Trying”, 2023, oil and graphite on paper affixed to panel in artist’s frame (44 x 34 in.); Gigi Mills’ “Night Sail and Shephard”, 2023, oil, paper and crayon on paper (43.5 x 38 in.); and Alyssa Salomon’s “Time & Place for Considering Optimism & Sunlight”, 2020, cyanotype on Abaca/Kozo paper (38 x 25 in.).  A showstopper also included a collection of six exquisite Michael Loew cubist nudes, 1951, india ink on paper on board (each 9 x 6 in.).

The Museum

The MoMA experience kicked off with early morning access tothe Ed Ruscha / Now Then exhibit. The show surveyed six decades of output and featured over 200 works in mediums including painting, drawing and photography. Peppered throughout were many of his easily recognizable images mined from Los Angeles iconography such as the Hollywood sign, Standard Oil stations and the Twentieth Century Fox logo. Equally impactful were the word paintings reflective of guttural utterances he came across in his day-to-day activities. Special pieces among these included: “Honk”, 1961-62, oil on canvas and “Oof”, 1962, oil on canvas.

The Ruscha exhibit then flowed into a pilgrimage to several extraordinary works in the MoMA permanent collection. These included: Andy Warhol’s “Campbell’s Soup Cans”, 1962, acrylic with metallic enamel paint on canvas, 32 panels; Jasper Johns’ “Flag”, 1954-55, encaustic, oil and collage on fabric mounted on plywood, three panels; Jackson Pollock’s “One: Number 31, 1950”, 1950, oil and enamel paint on canvas;  Henri Matisse’s “The Red Studio”, 1911, oil on canvas; Pablo Picasso’s  “Les Demoiselles d’Avignon”, 1907, oil on canvas; and, Vincent van Gogh’s “The Starry Night”, 1889, oil on canvas. While these works are all very familiar and are plastered on everything from mugs to T-shirts, a firsthand visual of their mastery is a magical reboot and a reminder of their greatness.

The Galleries

Memorable gallery exhibits visited outside the fair circuit included: John Zurier “On the Back of a Mirror”; Caroline Monnet “Worksite” and Ellsworth Kelly “Ellsworth Kelly at Gemini: An Exploration of Color”. Standouts among these included: John Zurier’s dreamy “Langspil(Echo)”, 2023, oil on linen (25.6 x 19.6 in.); Caroline Monnet’s biological experiment “Depredation”, 2023,  mold on gypsum board, 15 parts (each 13 x 13 in.) and powerful “In Silence We Speak Volumes”, 2023, oriented strand board, acrylic (47 x 47 in.); and Ellsworth Kelly’s stunning “Red Curve (State ll)”, 1988, 1-color lithograph, edition of 15, #3 (26 x 84 in.).

While art fans were scurrying about to the various venues sharing the New York City stage with sportsfans who were in town to witness Coco Gauff’s crowning achievement, on the other side of the world in the Philippines, hoopsters were being treated to a different brand of basketball at the FIBA World Cup, the toughest albeit not glitziest of international hoops tournaments. When all was said and done, the gold medal went to Germany who outlasted Serbia in the finals while Canada upset the USA in an overtime thriller for the bronze. That was a historic finish for Canada on the FIBA world stage and a major disappointment for the USA who fielded an all-NBA team - true, maybe not the best of the lot and three players were out with an undisclosed illness (bad pancit, maybe), but still, a great victory for Canada thanks to standout performances from Shai Gilgeous-Alexander who was named to the All-Tournament team and bronze medal game MVP NBA villain par excellence Dillon Brooks. Another huge positive stemming from the tournament was the show put on by Dennis Schröder who led the German team to the top podium finish. The speedy and crafty guard was named FIBA World Cup MVP and will be bringing his talents to Toronto. Let’s hope Flash can carry over his success to the Dinos as he steps into the prime ball handler role vacated by Steady Freddie’s departure. Something to look forward to.

For more information on any of the artists or works mentioned, the MoMA, the gallery exhibits and Schröder’s transition to the Dinos, “Just Google It”.

There you have it sportsfans,

MC Giggers

(www.mcgiggers.tumblr.com) Reporter’s Certification

I, MC Giggers, hereby certify that the views expressed in this report accurately reflect my personal views and that no part of my compensation was or will be, directly or indirectly, related to the specific views expressed herein.

I also certify that I may or may not own, directly or indirectly, works of artists mentioned in this report and that I may or may not have a strong bias for such artists and, more generally, for “Pictures of Nothing”.

[andrewuttaro]

Why is Lent like that?

When I was in High School my family would get together to put together Lenten resolutions. After a family dinner one awkward night in February we would try to figure out something more creative than chocolate to give up. I remember not mocking that common idea too much because somebody would do it every Lent and take offense to mocking it. As a younger kid I remember only ever giving up one thing seriously that I never went back to: Hawaiian Punch. I was such a fiend for that stuff that it gave me digestive issues.

As I got older I came across the other facets of Lent. The three pillars of Lent as many high-liturgy Christian sects will tell you is prayer, fasting, almsgiving. Each one of these pieces of the journey of Lent has a rich history that I won’t cover here. Each one of these pillars has a distinct reason its worthwhile that, forgive my bias here, has a transformative power in your life if you really engage with it. Each of them help explain the weird questions we have about Lent. As a child and well into my adulthood I have found myself asking the same question repeatedly: Why is Lent like that?

You know what I mean, right? For one the fasting thing comes across masochistic or even unhealthy. If you don’t do it right it certainly can be the latter but when you look back just a couple generations you see how that problem was already solved. Perhaps for many Lent just becomes a second chance at your New Year’s Resolutions: some things I should give up but didn’t have the self-control to two months ago. That thinking isn’t entirely wrong. Long before I came across the three pillars I heard this advice about it from a teacher in my Church community: we give up things in Lent that we think we would do better not having in our lives.

This coreligionist was a wise matriarch of her family who always managed to make more complicated things practical. That is the basic motivation for me writing religious articles and even a book (more on that at the end of this article): making more complicated spiritual realities practical. That is also the beginning of understanding why Lent is the way it is. The forty days leading into Holy Week and Easter, the height of the Christian calendar, Lent is a preparation I some sense. In another sense it is the making practical of the beautifully complex truth at the center of Christian faith: Jesus’ passion, death, and resurrection.

Think of it as a relationship. In order to have a friend in your life you adjust your schedule a bit here and there, you focus in on the common interests, and you accommodate the little differences as strengths, not obstacles. This same dynamic intensifies with more intense forms of relationship: when you marry and adjust your life to the life of another it requires some pain. It is often a joyful pain, if such a thing exists, as we align elements of our lives as sweeping as long term life goals and plans down to the most intimate day-to-day getting along and finding consolation in one another. Our relationship with God is just like this but we are very prone to neglecting what we often decide is a too nebulous, spiritual effort to prioritize over anything else in our busy lives.

That is the starting point of Lent: refocusing on God, putting some effort in, and hopefully making the more complicated dynamics of how we relate to God more practical and doable on a day-to-day basis. This is where our three pillars come back into the picture. Each one of prayer, fasting and almsgiving is bridge to God and into the greater depth of God’s very essence: love itself. Once we figure this out all the other puzzle pieces to this crazy thing called Lent start to fall into place. Anything will make more sense when we have the full picture.

Let’s start with prayer. This pillar may seem obvious: of course we talk to God if we intend to relate to him. But prayer is a wide world of diversity akin the variety of plants one can raise. My mother began getting dozens of plants when she moved into her knew place. It has become a joke we like to roast her for. There are plants in every room and most of them look different. My mother has to water them all on a regular basis and tend to the amount of sunlight they receive and how their containers are holding up and so on. This is prayer. I don’t just mean it’s a great metaphor, though it is, thanks mom. I mean this kind of regular care attended to another living being is what prayer is made of.

A wise man once said prayer is just “thinking with another”. Prayer is every action we take outside ourselves. As a spiritual reality most of us will acknowledge, whether we consider ourselves religious or not, nobody is a true island unto themselves. Even if you try to be your not. Even hermits and shut-ins need the outside world in various ways. Prayer is the way we interact with others in love. In Christian faith we believe God is, in his very nature, love. That is to say relating to God is relating to love. Putting it that way really makes you realize how many of us interact with God in some way, eh? As we set out on his Lenten journey let us consider how our prayer lives are needing and what we can do to provide for those needs.

Fasting on the other hand is a big leap for most of us. We give up things in Lent because, like my wise teacher once told me, we do need to remove some things from our lives that we would be better without. Hence why Lent often becomes New Year’s Resolutions Part II. This is a well-tread thought process in our self-improvement culture, so I’ll flip right onto the positive inverse of the practice of fasting.

We believe as Christians that Jesus Christ, God made man, choose poverty in a special way. He entered human existence not as a fully-grown man descending upon a cloud, but via a natural, pre-modern pregnancy and birth of a woman. Moreover he wasn’t born into privilege. He labored for a living in carpentry. Mentally there was an impoverishment there too: he did carpentry with his father. He didn’t even get the autonomy and independence of going his own way with it!

The bible passage which was historically the inspiration for the fasting of Lent is Jesus’ time in the desert in the fourth chapter of Matthew’s Gospel. Before Jesus even tries to assemble followers and start his ministry even he takes a forty day penitential trip we can imagine as something of a proto-Lent. This includes temptations where he explicitly rejects Satan tempting him with power, prestige, and a host of other earthly pleasures Jesus could have taken up with the slightest effort. He refused at great agony. Before his final saving work on the cross Jesus is again tempted by Satan to give up this painful final act ahead of him. He refuses again, this time at the cost of tears of blood. There is something about Jesus’ human existence that elevates an impoverishment, a lack of things, that points to the spiritual worth of not cluttering our lives with the pursuit of ultimately meaningless fantasies.

Moreover, in our day and age I think we have a wealth of examples of what happens when does get everything they want in this life. Seldom ever do we consider these people moral exemplars. They’re normally jealous politicians, titans of business, celebrities, or just people the folks around them recognize as the friggin worst. There is a spiritual need for having less. This need points to a right relationship with God through Jesus and a more fulfilling spiritual life in general.

Fasting is just the blunt physical experience that reorients us toward our neediness and smallness next to the loving embrace of almighty God. I feel the rumbly tummy and I remember my mortality, my neediness, my imperfection next to the grandeur of God. Then when the time comes to break a nice, safe fast we realize how blessed we are to have what we have and then, perhaps more profoundly: what we actually need. Consider this the practical reality of fasting: the spring cleaning of the soul. The decluttering of the spiritual closet. The elimination of the junk before we can fill up with the fullness of spiritual joy at Easter. We do penance for forty days but then we party for fifty days. There is a spiritual healthiness to fasting that has preserved the practice over millennia as a result. Once you mix in the aforementioned prayer to help the refocusing of our souls you can see how productive this can be for us.

Finally we arrive at almsgiving. You probably already understand this concept more than you realize. The giving part can be self-explanatory though the “alms” part is the real clarifier. Alms is prefix that implies justice. In other words, a giving not from one’s excess but from what they keep near to themselves. If you want to put it how Jesus and many Saints in the first millennium put it we’re talking about returning to the poor what we took from them. St. John Chrysostom went as far to say: “The rich are in possession of the goods of the poor, even if they have acquired them honestly or inherited them legally.”

Wait, what? I am a hard worker, darn it, why am I not entitled to some excess!? God being love has consequences for us beyond what is immediately comfortable to face. We are called to do charity to our fellow human beings not simply out of some abundance of virtue but from owing it to the God of love and his loved ones less loved by the world. Giving alms isn’t pity: it’s paying our dues to a more just, loving world. This is the cutting edge of the wake-up call that is Lent: things have to change within us and among us.

While we can take on new habits of prayer and fasting to draw nearer to God, improve ourselves in virtue, and maybe even make the world a better place, almsgiving most directly calls us to realign our social nature toward God according to the way God loves: unconditionally and extravagantly. That kind of love does change the world because all are equally loved in God’s eyes therein. That kind of love can change us when we put the effort in like Lent invites us to. It all starts there with a little bit of effort. Those who have historically put in a lot of effort in this regard produce the wildest Lenten practices. All weirdness of Lent stems from these three pillar and attempts to prepare for the central mystery of Christian life that awaits us in the end at Easter. And that is where the final key to understanding why Lent is the way it is lies.

You may have noticed the word “penitential” here as we’ve come to understand Lent in this article. To do penance, to not only seek forgiveness for our wrongs but to take action to make them right, is the implied truth underwriting all this. You and I are not God, and we never will be. That is okay and important to realize as we struggle along. In fact, it brings us right back into that spirit of poverty that properly reorients us to our relationship with God. One thing that we should carry from Lent into the rest of our lives throughout the year is that its better not to be so high on ourselves. Yes, wholesome self-esteem is a necessary ingredient in our sanity, but what makes the spiritual part of our lives worthwhile at all is the outgoing love of it. This is the original secret sauce of all religious belief, behavior, and belonging.

The students of religion among us may have noticed that all three of these pillars transcend religious boundaries. Muslims practice all three of these pillars, particularly fasting, during the festival of Ramadan and Jewish people integrate them into every special feast day. In many ways even non-Abrahamic faiths like Hinduism and Shinto go out of their way to give alms, pray and refocus themselves on the divine presence. The Buddha famously recognized his own mortality and, as a result, the need to go outside himself toward enlightenment.

As you prepare yourself for Lent do not feel isolated in a esoteric, bothersome religious practice with no bearing on your life beyond a reloaded New Year’s Resolutions. Where we put a little effort in we see the plants of our spiritual life flourish again, our selfishness fade, and we see substantive efforts to make the world a better place. And at the end of it all we arrive at the joyful feast of Jesus’s ultimate passion and resurrection for us as if to say: its all worth it for at least the good that comes from it. That is why Lent is the way it is.

Whoa, Lent starts next week as of the posting of this article! It always sneaks up on us doesn’t it? If you enjoy the way I write about spiritual matters then I have a gift in mind for you! Last November I published my first book: “How to catch feelings for Jesus”. It is available online at Wipf & Stock, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other book retailers. I would say it’s a great step-by-step practical dive having a relationship with Jesus just in time for the Lenten season, but I already feel greedy promoting here. I’ll let you decide how good it is at that! My hope is that it may help you find the Jesus who gave his all loving us. Let us love him in return!

Thank you for reading.

[bace-jeleren]

I would like to preface this with, I absolutely love all of your art/sketches. You draw stunning expressions and put great detail into them. I also particularly like the recent Wanderer X Compleat Kaito works (spicy and not.) And it's because of those wonderful pieces that I'm making this.

So, I'm not the only one of people I know to misinterpret Compleat Kaito's design before your works. The original artwork lent itself to an.... alternate thinking from the perspective and added design elements.

Here is my artist rendition of the misinterpreted design: Yawgmoth Mask Clown.

I apologize. But, thank you from, at least slightly, wrenching my mind from this utter monstrosity.

(Also, would you consider doing some art of the other combinations of compleat/not Wanderer X Kaito?) (ie: Compleat Wanderer with regular Kaito and/or Both Compleat?)

Thank you for your time! - An Eldritch Ancient

The fucking... cloooowwwwnnnnn noooooooooo

(Also I've thought about it, I just have a bias for the monsterfucker dynamic that comes from Spider!Kaito and The Wanderer. But I'd probably consider other avenues, maybe. We shall see)

[idkwhoiamanymorebutwtf]

People are so quick to blame literally everything that happened in Mapleshade’s Vengeance on Mapleshade and nobody else without even suggesting that any sort of blame could be pinned on literally any of the other characters or even that some of the bad things that happened were tragic accidents while also complaining about how none of the villains ever have any moral complexity or gray area and it’s baffling.

Like.

You even suggest that Darkstar, Oakstar, Frecklewish, Ravenwing, and Appledusk were all shitty and played a significant part in the events of the book, that the general society or even warrior code itself being flawed may have contributed to making Mapleshade a villain, or even suggest that the kits dying wasn’t Mapleshade’s fault and people jump at you. Because they cannot fathom that a villain isn’t always just pure evil for no reason with no question or blame on anyone else. Like. The same people who are annoyed at Tigerstar being such a villain stereotype down to literally being born evil.

That book is incredibly interesting because it shines a light on just how fucked up clan loyalism and biases can be as well as showing a cast of characters who all do awful things and all end up suffering in the end because of the society in which they live.

The warrior code and Starclan in of itself is incredibly flawed and this fact easily lent itself to creating this story. It’s easy to say that Mapleshade was horrible and wrong for lying about the father of her kits, however there’s no doubt in my mind on why she would have seen this as necessary. Clan rivalry was at a high at the moment, the book opening up with Mapleshade noting the blind rage and hostility her clanmates showed towards Riverclan cats after their recent battle, now, very clearly clan rivalry to the extent it’s displayed throughout the books is a flawed thing in of itself, think back to the Dawn Of The Clans books and how Clear Sky was regarded for bringing bloodshed into the forest. Think of that battle, of two siblings laying dead, having murdered one another over borders that aren’t really necessary. Think of warriors letting kits of other clans drown because they don’t see it as their own problem. Even now in present time, think about how a cat can lay dying in Thunderclan camp and be ignored completely because they aren’t one of them. Clan loyalism is incredibly dangerous. It leads to death and hatred. Constantly. Even in times of relative peace there’s so much resentment for other clans so evidently present. And during the time of Mapleshade’s Vengeance, tensions between Riverclan and Thunderclan were particularly high. To pretend that Mapleshade had no reason to be terrified for her own safety and that of her kits is ludicrous given the climate in which clan cats live. Lying was not the moral thing to do, and it’s not as if Mapleshade had nothing to do with her own downfall, but do not pretend for a second that the decision would have been easy or clear cut. Do not even pretend telling the truth from the start would have been the right choice to make. Clan loyalism is dangerous. It’s a terrible thing that’s lead to the deaths of countless cats over the years. Cats who didn’t deserve it. The warrior code and Starclan facilitating this is a terrifying, awful thing. Mapleshade lived in an incredibly flawed system that would have persecuted her for falling in love and hated her kits for who their father is, Mapleshade lying in an act of self preservation and protection over her kits was a direct result of the corrupt system she was raised into forcing her hand. What’s more, Starclan choosing to out the kits to Ravenwing and his subsequent decision to tell Oakstar- because the will of Starclan comes before the lives of warriors, every single time- was a further example of this. That small, innocent kittens be punished for a woman daring to love somebody outside her boarders is ludicrous. And Starclan’s wrath did not come from the lies Mapleshade told, but rather the Riverclan blood in her kits veins. This disdain her culture held for Mapleshade and her “half-breed” kits was exactly what forced her to lie in the first place.

I’m going to handle Frecklewish and Oakstar in a different paragraph to my discussion on how the warrior code, starclan, and clan society in general were to blame, because they did have more personal motivations as well and I would like to address that fact. In the end, they were both incredibly upset that Mapleshade lied (or, well, more like omitted the truth, but same principal) about the father of her kits. This was fair. I do not fully blame Mapleshade for this lie. As I said before, I do not dislike Mapleshade for choosing to lie. Certainly it can be said that her decision was morally wrong, however a mother of three choosing to prioritize her and her children’s safety and security over morals in a society that would see them exiled and left to fend for themselves....well, it’s just human, to be quite frank. She was in a desperate situation and people will never be their best selves when placed in a desperate situation, especially when their children are involved. It’s the same reason I don’t blame Leafpool for giving her kits to her sister, even if it meant lying to Bramblestar and the rest of the clan (honestly mapleshade’s lie may arguably even be more understandable than leafpool’s because she didn’t have nepotism on her side like leafpool, mapleshade lived in a time of war against her mate’s clan unlike leafpool, and, well, mapleshade was going to tell the truth eventually once she was sue her kits wouldn’t be thrown out to fend for themselves...unlike leafpool). Frecklewish and Oakstar’s anger was understandable, but that doesn’t make Mapleshade a bad person for the lie. And, well, to be honest, both Oakstar and Frecklewish cross the line into cruelty. And that line is crossed...where their personal anger against Mapleshade meets their clan biases. Oakstar was quick to throw out a young mother and her three small children with nowhere to go. And he did it because she fell in love with a tom across the boarder. A tom who’s clan Oakstar had a bias against. Yes, his personal rage against Mapleshade fueled this decision, but had the real father of these kits been Thunderclan, she never would have been exiled for her lie alone. And his decision to exile the kits as well. Three innocent children who hadn’t done anything wrong. Who he couldn’t be certain would survive with only Mapleshade to care for them. It was because once it was revealed they were half clan, they became other to him. They weren’t people like him. The clans have an us vs them mentality. Oakstar’s decision to throw out three helpless children was because they stopped being ‘us’ and started being ‘them’ as soon as they were revealed as half clan. Not because of his grudge against Mapleshade. The exile of the kits, even as Mapleshade begged for them to be allowed to stay because they were innocent even if she wasn’t, can easily be traced back to, once again, that dangerous sense of loyalism clans have. And then there’s Frecklewish. A lot of what was said about Oakstar can go for her too, except with the added layer of her standing at that riverside and letting the kits drown. Now, she could have stepped in to try and help them. It’s not like she was incapable. In no place during her confrontation with Mapleshade did she say “I can’t swim, idiot”. No. It was “I assumed the Riverclan cats would help them!” and other such statements to imply it wasn’t her business. There’s no doubt in my mind that if those kits really had been Birchface’s she would have jumped in to help them. There’s no doubt in my mind that if those kits had been any Thunderclan cat’s she would have jumped in to help them weather or not there were other cats nearby. Because the lives of Thunderclan kits are her business. And the lives of other kits...well...aren’t. Especially not half breeds. If they were alone, maybe she would have begrudgingly helped out of obligation to the warrior code, maybe she wouldn’t have. Weather or not she would have done the bare minimum doesn’t change the fact that she was less willing to help these kits than she would have been if they were Thunderclan.

Even the actions of cats like Appledusk and Darkstar are in some way related to the unhealthy clan loyalism and biases. Mapleshade was instantly cast out of Riverclan and not even allowed to take her kits to bury while Appledusk was allowed to stay and given another chance. To be honest, Darkstar was harder on her because she was Thunderclan. You can argue that the choice to cross the river was stupid and risky, but honestly, I completely disagree with blaming her for a natural disaster. She was thrown out. Homeless. She didn’t really have anywhere to go. Her only hope was to make it to Appledusk in Riverclan where she could hopefully be offered refuge. Crossing the river, to her, seemed like the only choice she had. Her only option for the salvation of herself and her kits. I don’t blame her for it. I don’t know how anyone can. She was frantic, she was homeless, she was under threat of attack if she stayed in the wild, she didn’t know how to provide for herself, how to provide for her kits. She needed to get to Riverclan, she was panicked in her attempts to do so. I cannot blame her for it. Had the kits survived or had Mapleshade already been a member of Riverclan, Darkstar would have been compassionate as well. Would have shown empathy. As she did for Appledusk. However Mapleshade was other. She was one of them, not one of us. Her blood, her scent, her posture, Darkstar loathed it in the way any loyalist Riverclan cat loathes a Thunderclan cat. Disdain, contempt, apathy at best, that was how a Riverclan cat regards a Thunderclan cat, and that was how Darkstar regarded this grieving terrified young mother, so easily dismissing her. Even Appledusk was deeply influenced by this attitude that’s always infected clan life. I have no doubt he once cared for Mapleshade. I have no doubt he killed off the part of himself that loved her for the sake of self preservation. That he latched onto his clanmates’ perceptions of Thunderclan cats as inhuman enemies. That he chose to love a she-cat within his own clan instead because love beyond boarders is forbidden in every sense of the word. Appledusk was horrible. He was a cheater, he showed no empathy for Mapleshade, he was just awful.  However it’s clear to me that this, like everybody else’s actions within this book, was a result of the horrifically flawed values of the clans, the warrior code, and Starclan. That Appledusk was able to dehumanize Mapleshade in his mind because clan cats dehumanize those who they see as other. That he was able to justify his behavior to himself and other’s due to clan loyalism and bias. That he would have had a chance to be better had his love not been forbidden in the first place. Had his children not been a sin he felt the need to atone for in order to be deserving of salvation from his ancestors and his leader.

Almost every bad thing within this story was a direct result of clan culture and biases. Everyone did horrible things. Oakstar, Darkstar, Frecklewish, Appledusk, Ravenwing, and Mapleshade herself all did bad things during the first half of this book weather it be out of discrimination against the other or self preservation in a world that sees them as the other. Every other clan cat who watched this happen and Starclan itself who facilitated this were just as bad. Mapleshade’s breakdown and the subsequent deaths of Frecklewish, Ravenwing, and Appledusk can all be blamed on this. Mapleshade, even when she killed, did not act selfishly. She was not a true villain until after her death. Mapleshade suffered from a psychotic break in which she became convinced her kits could not enter Starclan until the cats who caused their deaths were dead. This breakdown was completely the fault of the cats mentioned above who allowed their loyalism and biases to cause the horrific deaths of Patchkit, Petalkit, and Larchkit. Obviously murder isn’t okay, however i’d be lying if I said that within the fictional story it wasn’t thematically satisfying that these cats die. It was also incredibly satisfying that Mapleshade go to the dark forest while the other cats involved went to starclan, not because Mapleshade deserved the dark forest more (usually murder would be much worse than what the others did, however since she was suffering a psychotic break at the time circumstances are different than they’d be if she hadn’t been vividly hallucinating that her children weren’t allowed into heaven). Starclan watched this messy, horrific event unfold. And they picked one person to blame for it. They did not reevaluate their rules and systems, they did not even choose to punish everybody else involved for what they’d done (let three innocent kits die and turn away a desperate terrified grieving young mother in need). Starclan chose one cat, the cat who they decided had committed the worst crime, and they said she is objectively to blame for all of this, punish her and we never speak of this again (which is ironically also what a lot of fans try to do, say mapleshade was to blame, nobody else is, punish her and lets move on). People want to blame everything on a single entity they can fight, not on a complex system of societal biases that can make two clans commit atrocities with Starclan’s full support. And the brilliant part of this is that this didn’t fucking work. Mapleshade came back. Again. And again. And again. Progressively getting worse and worse and worse, more vengeful and more dangerous as time went on. Because that’s what HAPPENS when you ignore the bigger picture and pin everything on one person without trying to give it a second thought. The problem isn’t solved. Things get worse and worse and worse. Mapleshade is a bad person now because she was victimized by society and starclan in life, then swept under the rug. She became more angry, less rational, completely focused on revenge. Not because she was always bad, but because pinning big complex issues on one person isn’t helpful. Because that’s always going to end in disaster. Nobody in the clans were innocent and in the end the corruption of the society in which they live ruined everybody and everything. There were no happy endings, not for anyone, and once it was all over it was all blamed on one person and swept under the rug to be a problem for future generations instead without anything actually being solved.

Don’t believe me? Which big characters were fully innocent in the main plotline of the book, then?

Patchkit, Petalkit, Larchkit, and Mylar. Three exiled half clan kits and a loner. The only fully good, kind, innocent cats weren’t part of the larger clan culture and system of beliefs. 

Stop blaming everything on Mapleshade, i’m almost certain the exact reason this book is so good is that it’s not all her fault and that her future character arc of actually becoming a bad person and becoming dangerous to the clans is actually only farther proof of that. Clan society is fucked up, we’ve known that for a while but this book does such a good job of portraying it. The way the system makes it so that nobody’s hands are ever clean as long as they exist within the main system and how the cruelty or apathy of Starclan, The Warrior Code, and Clan Society will corrupt even those who could have been otherwise innocent.

Mapleshade’s story is impressive and probably the only villain I can think of that’s...actually super complex and is bad for reasons other than “am selfish want power am cartoon villain stereotype”.

[reneejuliet]

I can hear the bells.

Author: reneejuliet

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Rating: E (absolutely nothing)

Word Count: 1, 768

Genre: Fluff, Soulmate AU?

Author’s Note: Hiiiiiiiii. Here it is: my first drabble. I swear Jungkook isn’t even my bias, he’s just such the sweetest little sweetheart to ever exist. As soon as I read/heard about his whole thing with wanting to hear a bell when he meets his soulmate/significant other, this just popped right into my head. And because I am an insomniac, I finally wrote it out last night. Hopefully you like it! 

Also, the photo above is edited by me.

  It was quiet - that was the first thing Jungkook noticed. The soft lull of commercial music hummed above his head as he perused the shelves, just muted enough for any lyrics to be indistinguishable. He didn't mind. It lent a hand in dissociating, something he rarely had time for these days.

Not that he was complaining. That was something he tried very hard to never do. Jungkook knew just how lucky he was, how great of an opportunity he had seized at a young age that allowed him this crazy, amazing lifestyle he would have never had otherwise. It had its pitfalls, its downsides, but every road in life did. His benefits far surpassed any complaints he could possibly muster, and so he made painstakingly sure to always keep them to himself.

No, he was simply grateful for these moments when they did finally come. When peace and quiet weren't such foreign concepts, but old friends to reacquaint with. Familiar, warm.

The quiet was to be expected, he supposed, given that the sun hadn't even risen yet. In fact, just across from the shop, the high-rise windows showcased the faint stretch of dawn as it began to wake up the horizon. Currently it was just smudges of blue, but soon the sky would blossom with rosy hues as it yawned awake into the start of another day.

For now, though, there was still time to snooze.

It was for precisely this reason that they had chosen now to pass through. The airport was all but barren, and what few bodies did inhabit it were so sparse the danger of recognition was all but nonexistent. Precautions were still taken, of course. Masks pulled up over noses, hats tugged down over eyes. It was always better to be safe than sorry, after all. The majority of the guys hadn't even bothered to stray away from the gate. He wasn't alone, though. Namjoon had also diverged, meandered his way over to a small bookstand cater-cornered from the group in search of a good in-flight read.

Jungkook’s destination had turned out to be this souvenir shop, small and homely despite the massively industrialized building it took residence in. Its doors had barely opened before he had wandered his way in, eyes twinkling at all the miscellaneous knick-knacks lining shelf after shelf. His fingers had ghosted over fancy scarves, traced titles of foreign books. He'd even gotten a chuckle out of a commemorative t-shirt. Then he noticed the small display of perfumes, nose already tingling with the promise of pretty scents, and his feet had turned with a mind of their own. One more couldn't hurt...

He had just stepped out of the aisle when something clipped his shoulder and he stumbled to the side. Gripping a shelf for support, he managed to maintain his footing while turning to identify his assailant. He hadn’t even realized anyone else was in the shop – aside from the clerk behind the counter, anyway. But he was too late. The only sight left to greet him was an arm thrown haphazardly upward as the other person staggered back around the corner from whence they had come. The soles of their shoes squeaked across the tile, followed shortly thereafter by an alarming cacophony that just beckoned Jungkook to follow.

Before he could stop himself, Jungkook heeded the peculiar siren call. The first thing he noticed was the display, its shelves dropped to the side as the last of the trinkets slid unceremoniously toward the ground. Then there was the figure, hunched over itself as small, delicate hands tried to grab as many of said trinkets in a rush to save them. Mumbled words joined the discord, tickling at Jungkook’s brain, though he recognized few. They were spoken too harshly, too quickly. What he did recognize was that they were foreign for the country they were currently in. They were English.

A rush of embarrassment spurred him forward, crouching low to help gather the fallen souvenirs. “Sorry, I – so sorry…”

The sound of his voice startled the other person out of their ramblings and they jumped back on instinct. Above, the display rattled dangerously again on impact. The last remaining shelf teetered off kilter and its contents spilled forward, raining down with a musical chime.

Instinctively, Jungkook lunged forward, throwing out his arms in protection. The trinkets pelted against his body as they fell, too small to hurt. Below him, the other figure jumped again before curling in on itself, face buried in the hood of their jacket. He could just make out the eyes though, wide and bright as they stared at him in shock.

Once the barrage of ceramic keepsakes stopped and the store fell back into relative silence, Jungkook unfurled himself from his hunched position. Out of the corner of his eye, he surveyed the shop to assess the damage. No one seemed alerted to his presence, at least. Not even the clerk. A rush of relief surged through him.

“Sorry,” he muttered again, absentmindedly reaching out a hand to help the other person up. “Are you okay?”

That small, delicate hand slipped hesitantly into his and he tugged. Just as his eyes fixed forward again, they were drawn away at the sight of something slipping off the stranger’s shoulder. Once more instinct acted for him, his other hand shooting out to catch the stray souvenir. What he thought was one was actually two, however, and while the first landed squarely in his opened palm, the second tumbled musically toward the ground.

That was when he recognized the sound. And in what felt like a true movie moment, Jungkook swore time slowed down as his eyes shot back up in surprise. The stranger stared back, face frozen in shock, hood finally slipped away from their face. Jungkook drank in the sight before him while the delicate noise rang loudly in his ears.

Bells.

You were beautiful.

You stood before him, body frozen in complete confusion with just a touch of fear. Plus, you were afraid to move, what with the dozens of ceramic bells now littering the floor around you. So you stayed put, albeit awkwardly, fists curling into the sleeves of your jacket. This man’s gaze was intense, especially given you could see nothing but his eyes. It was a little unnerving.

“I, uh…” You tried to speak, but it was difficult with how he was staring at you. Your cheeks flushed, one hand raising to swipe at them in a weak effort to hide the blooming color.

Jungkook didn’t need to hear much to think your voice was more melodic than anything else he’d ever listened to. And the soft dusting of pink on your skin? More captivating than the glowing dawn outside, and easily his new favorite color.

Whatever moment spanned between you was broken by the call of a voice outside of the shop. Your head perked up at the sound, eyes leaving him in search of the source. He felt his heart thud pathetically at the loss of your attention. His fingers curled tighter around the bell and beneath his mask, he worried his lip between his teeth as he struggled to find something – anything – else to say to you.

Then your eyes turned back to him, and all thought flew right out the window. “I, uh, I have to… go,” you managed to stutter out. Attempting to step around the mess beneath you, your body swayed on uneven footing. Jungkook’s hand came to rest on your side for support, guiding you safely to a free expanse of floor. He hadn’t even noticed your own hand had gripped his arm until suddenly it was withdrawing, shoved deep into the recesses of your pocket.

“Thanks,” you muttered, the flush darkening on your cheeks. Jungkook was sure his own were a matching hue, and he’d never been more thankful for his disguise. “Sorry for the, uh, mess.”

You were moving toward the front of the shop – you were leaving. Jungkook’s eyes widened in realization and, as was proving to be his usual today, he moved after you without thinking. He caught up to you at the end of the aisle, fingers brushing against the seam of your palm as he reached out. You jumped, spinning to face him again. Judging by your expression, you clearly had not expected him to follow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, dropping his hand back to his side. “I just… uhm…”

Your eyes darted outside of the shop, and he noted the figure hovering in the hall, calling out once more. They turned toward where you both stood, and their eyes lit up in recognition upon seeing you. You looked back to him in apprehension.

“I need to go, my flight –“

“Your name?” Jungkook spit out, cheeks flaming in embarrassment. Damn, he wished he were more eloquent.

Your lips pursed in surprise at his outburst. “Wh-what?”

He couldn’t help how his gaze fell to your pouted lips for a split second. He hoped you wouldn’t notice, but your ruddy cheeks indicated that you most definitely did. You looked good in scarlet.

“Your name,” he breathed out a little easier this time. “I can… have your name?”

Maybe it was the caffeine from one too many coffees buzzing through your veins, or just the way his dark eyes glistened so innocently in the faint light of dawn. Or maybe it was because you were just desperate to get away before your already dwindling wallet could feel the weight of the possible damage you had caused in there. Either way, you found it much too easy to oblige him.

“Y/N.”

His heart took wing at the sound, and the smile that split his face was so wide it crinkled his eyes to near slits. And he swore your lips twitched with faint mimicry. Then you were moving again, joining your friend as you both hurried off to your gate.

“Ahem.”

Jungkook turned to see the store clerk perched over his shoulder, arms crossed over her chest. She raised an eyebrow at him, tilting her head in the direction of the broken display. His head bobbed in admonishment and he moved back inside, quick to assure the clerk he would pay for the damage. This seemed to soothe her, at least, and he followed her back to her post at the register. Somehow, he found he didn’t mind the impending cost. Instead, his hand tightened around the little ceramic bell, grateful to have a keepsake of the single most important day of his life.

The day Jeon Jungkook met his soulmate.

In’t he cute? Anyway! I sort of have an idea for this to be a series/longer piece, so pleaseeee let me know what you think and if I should expand. Otherwise this will remain a stand alone. Thanks for reading! ^.^

©reneejuliet 2020. No part of this material may be copied, photocopied, reproduced, reposted, or translated without consent.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #314

“as above, so below  /  what you reap is what you sow  /  what you give comes back threefold  /  as above, so below”

What do you do for work? I'm currently unemployed. I only get paid now and again to do pictures for people. What would you ideally like to do for work? I'd love if I could just be a photographer. What are you doing in order to achieve this? Practice and shoving my extreme discomfort about it aside and trying to promote myself where possible and not in an overbearing manner. What do you think is the worst being on the planet? "Rapists, pedophiles, abusive people in general." <<<< This. Anyone who disrespects the existence of other and equal people. Have you ever been arrested? If so, what for? No. How big an age gap is between you and your siblings? My immediate sisters and I are two years apart. My half-siblings, I don't know. I don't have their ages memorized, but I do know 5+ years, some even 10. Do/did your siblings cause trouble? Not really, we were good kids. What's your dream vehicle? I don't really have one. Are you good at taking care of your finances? What finances? And I don't mean that happily. What's your favorite comic strip? I don't have one. How many people have you texted today? Zero. Someone cheats. Second chance? Nope, byyyyeeeee. Thoughts on kids? Clay that I'm not playing with. Are you a risk taker? No. What are you listening to? I'm currently going through a phase of playing The Evil Within 2's theme nonstop, jc. Is/Was your high schools dress code strict? Not like, mega strict, but it still was overboard. No spaghetti strap shirts, and I even once got in trouble for wearing a floral mesh shirt, despite having a normal tanktop underneath it. It was weird, like no one had ever had a problem with it before, it was just this one teacher that I passed in the hall. Who was the last person to request you on a social media network - and did you accept? Someone I didn't know, so obviously not. Who was the last person’s vehicle that you rode in? Mom's. Who was the last person to make you laugh or smile, and why? Another current obsession of mine: John Wolfe, another let's player who I think is super funny. He said something that made me snicker before I turned on music and started this. Who was the last person that you took a photo with? My half-sister while she was visiting. Who was the last person to pay you a compliment, and what did they say? In group therapy the other day, one of the other women told me that even if I don't believe it, I bring so much positivity to group and she was really happy to be there while I am. I was so so super flustered but flattered, too. Who’s the last person that you visited in the hospital? My mom, following her surgery. Who is the last person that you lent money to? Actually today to Mom. What was the last food that you ate? I warmed up a burger for dinner. What did the last pair of footwear that you wore look like? They're just black flipflops. What was the last kind of bread that you ate? Just plain white bread. What was the last app that you downloaded to your phone? Oh wow, I never do this. I want to say it was a game for my niece. When was your last work shift? I haven't worked in a long time, so idk. When is the last time that you had trouble falling asleep? This is literally every single night. When was the last time you saw a significant other? I ain't got one'a those. When’s the last time that you took a risk? What was the risk? Well, I did say I'm not a risk-taker... Where was the last place that you went on vacation to? You know, how long does it have to be to be considered a "vacation?" I would say not since I went to the beach with an old friend, but it was literally a day. Where was the last place you got lost? uhhhhhhh Why did your last relationship fail? We need to work on ourselves before we could properly support each other and stay in a healthy mindset. Why did you leave your last job? I couldn't handle the stress of serving people and having so many responsibilities at once. How long has it been since you last visited a doctor? How about a dentist? I literally went to the doctor today because I had a follow-up appointment about my weight gain again. I haven't been to the dentist in a few months; I had a normal cleaning my last visit. How big was the last fish you caught? Oh boy, this is stretching years back. It was probably something small, idr at all. Give me the first initial of your last name? D. Something in your home that’s on its last leg(s)? We just moved here, so nothing that's a part of the house itself. As far as items we actually own, idk. Where do you purchase most of your clothes? I haven't gotten new clothes in so long, idk. I would probably say Hot Topic. Describe your skincare routine. I don't have one, if I'm being honest. I just shower. What’s your typical morning routine look like? I don't have one of those, either. The only thing that's consistent is going to the bathroom, eating, and taking my meds. Even brushing my teeth, the time of day when I do that (if I'm not leaving the house) varies. Then it's time to just binge stuff on YouTube and do whatever on the laptop... Are you still playing Animal Crossing? I've never played it, actually. How has the pandemic specifically affected you? It's caused a lot of stress worrying about my mom falling ill, given her being immunocompromised. It's also held me back from searching for another job (even though I don't know what I'd go for, anyway...), because I absolutely refuse to risk bringing Covid into this house by leaving it daily or whatever. What is your main source of anxiety? Being mentally ill, really. It just affects a lot. Any bands or artists you’ve recently discovered? Not very recently, no. What kind of games do you play on your phone? Just Pokemon GO nowadays. Do you have a specific aesthetic? It varies. I love dark, gothic, and gory stuff, but then I also love everything pink and pastel?????? Pastel gore is especially where it's at. Describe the moment you realized you were falling in love with someone. I'd rather not. What’s your favorite sparkling water brand/flavor? I've never even tried it before. What’s your favorite makeup brand/brands? I don't wear nearly enough makeup to be even remotely familiar with any. What’s your all-time favorite movie? It'll probably always be The Lion King. Do you have any subscription boxes? No, but they're cool. What fictional creature would you like as a pet? On deviantART today I actually discovered a fantastic artist who does a lot of HTTYD fanart, and I would say as a dragon lover, Toothless would be soooo great. Have any local businesses closed that you’re sad about? I'm certain tons have closed, but none come to mind. How do you feel about TikTok? I don't feel anything about it. Did you/do you still have a Neopets account? Haha I've had like... two or three at different stages in my life. What were you doing at 9 o'clock this morning? That's actually when (virtual) group therapy starts. Are you wearing any jewelry? Yeah; my piercings (if you count them) and then two rings that I always have on. Are you good at hiding disappointment? No. I'm bad at hiding my emotions because they're so strong. What happened the last time you cried? lmaooo I was finishing watching a The Evil Within 2 LP yesterday, and like, the last hour or so of the game just rips me apart. I was hoping so bad that my mom didn't pass by and ask what the problem was. What would your parents be surprised to learn about you? Both would be stunned to know the situation I had with Joel/my former best friend's boyfriend when I was around 12. What fictional character do you have the biggest crush on? dARKIPLIER Where would you live if you could live anywhere in the world? When all things are considered, like laws, seeing family, etc., somewhere in Canada, or maybe Alaska. Actually, Alaska would be really cool. What after school activities did you do in high school? I didn't have any, if you mean like, school sports and clubs. I did do dance once or twice a week, but it wasn't tied to my school. What’s the last book you really loved? I positively adored The Handmaid's Tale. If you could have been a child prodigy what would you have wanted to be skilled at? My writing was seen as very exceptional for my age as a kid, but it still would've been awesome if it was even better. If earth could only have one condiment for the rest of time, what would you pick to keep around? Uhhh I guess ketchup. I use that the most of all options. What is the scariest experience you have ever had? The night of the breakup. It was such an impossible concept to me that I genuinely thought my life was over, that I'd pull the plug at any moment. Who is a non-politician you wish would run for office? Oh, hunny, Markiplier lmao. Call it a bias all ya want, but he's just a genuinely incredible person that cares so much for everyone and is so serious about equality and just being a good person. Do you think it’s important to stay up to date with the news? It's very hypocritical of me to say, but yes, regardless. Do you own plants? If so, what kind of plants? If not, would you like to grow any? I've never been into growing plants, honestly. Is there a city that you have a particular fondness for? If so, what city is it and why? No, not really. When was the last time that you acted impulsively? Is this a common behavior for you? I dunno, I've gotten better at this. I probably said something I shouldn't have. If you received an allowance as a kid, what kinds of things would you buy with it? Were you more the type to save up for something big, or spend it on little things? I didn't get one. When you cuddle with someone, how do you prefer to position yourself? Would you rather be held, or do the holding? Or both? Are we sitting or lying down? Either way I think I have a tendency to lay my head on their chest while hugging them, and my legs generally curl up. If I'm upset, I definitely feel better and just a greater sense of safety if I'm the one being held, but if the roles are swapped, then I like to be the one doing the holding because I know that's what I want when I'm upset, so treat others how you wanna be treated, y'know. When you woke up today, did you find unread messages from anyone? No. Have you recently told anyone that you miss them? Yes. Can you recall the last time you turned down an offer, of any kind? Mom asked if I wanted to come with her to Ashley's a few days ago, but I said no. I wasn't in a social mood at all. Is there anyone you interact with every day on social media? No. What was the main character's name in the last fictional book you read? Sunny. Have you ever been rejected by a church? No. Is your family nice to you? Yeah. Are you comfortable with your gender? Yeah. What was your favorite Mary-Kate and Ashley film? I don't remember; we had a couple, though. What was your favorite book you had to read for school? The Outsiders. What was your favorite Nickelodeon show? ngl, I don't remember a lot of them and don't feel like looking up a list. Do you still live in the house you grew up in? No. Which Spice Girl was your favorite? I don't remember their names. Do you think you look the best you've ever looked? Oh hell no. Have you been hurt by religion? Yes, honestly. In Truth or Dare, would you rather choose Truth or Dare? I always choose "truth." Have you ever had more than one crush at once? Yeah, I think that's perfectly normal to feel, even for someone monogamous like myself. Just when you establish a relationship, then it's time to make a choice. What social issue do you care about most? This is hard to say with how passionately I hold my opinions, but probably LGBTQ+ rights. It's just... so disgusting to me that I was once homophobic. It's like I want to make up for it. Just the idea of being repulsed by love just because someone has "the wrong thing" in their pants is just... appalling. When was the last time you read a Bible? Many, maaaany years ago I started reading it, but I didn't get very far at all. Do you own a Bible? I personally don't, but I know Mom has one, maybe multiple. Do you discover new music regularly? No; I very much stick to what I know. It's great when I do, though, given that that's how I find new songs to repeat to the grave. What does your first name mean? "Of Britain" or something like that. What country do you live in? U.S.A. Do you believe that gays are born that way? Uh, yes? Who honestly believes a homosexual would *choose* to be in the discriminated minority? People are murdered and abused for simply their sexuality; no sane person would "choose" to risk that torture.

[zanth-i]

Bonjour-Hi! I was born and raised in Montreal. But I don’t quite belong.

Because speaking a language is not the same as having a voice.

Here’s a story that may resonate with many first-generation immigrants. We may be born in Canada, but because our parents weren’t, we’re not considered bona fide Canadians, and our ethnic upbringing does little to wean us as such. We’re raised with pride for our heritage and develop everlasting patriotism — for our parents’ country of origin. We’re the quasi Canadians, well aware that with every passing generation, we become, well, more Canadian. But even so, one’s roots are not easily forgotten, if ever. Cultural indoctrination has proven its permanency.

So why is it that in a seemingly open-minded city where I’m free to live true to my heritage, I often feel like I don’t belong?

I was born in the late ’70s to Greek parents in Montreal, Quebec. My parents settled here in the mid-’60s. They’d planned on staying for 5 years but stayed for more than 50 (and it’s surely not because they couldn’t resist the good weather). They spent most of their life in this city because it became their home. My late mother always said that she had two motherlands: the one where she was born and lived as a young girl, and the other where she grew and lived as a grown woman. My father still stands by their decision to move here, though wishes they’d retired there (something to do with the weather, again).

While my parents faced many challenges and weren’t always greeted with a welcoming smile, I’d like to center this piece on some of my reflections on being raised Greek in a French Canadian province.

Like most immigrants, my parents held on tight to their traditions. As they began to settle into the city, ex-pats came together and gave rise to Greek media, educational, social, and religious institutions. And of course, they introduced Montrealers to Greek food.

Us kids, we inevitably made friends with our kind and upheld such a strong sense of community so immersive that our “Xeni” (foreign) friends would eventually “turn Greek” and become all too familiarized with our way of life. We’d speak English amongst ourselves (sometimes Greek), but Greek with our parents (sometimes English). And if not every year, every other year, as kids, many of us spent our summers off at our respective parents’ birthplace, “back home” in Greece, visiting our grandparents. As adults, many of us still make it a point to return and often. And we still unreservedly boast about our beautiful motherland.

While my parents made sure I spoke Greek fluently and knew my roots well, they were adamant about me learning to speak French, as “this was the language of the future in Quebec” my mother would counsel. So when I was 7, she pulled me out of the Greek educational system asserting that their French curriculum wasn’t sufficiently robust, and instead put me in an all-french school, where I experienced major culture shock. And to accelerate my learning (along with my shock), she also signed me up for French swimming lessons, French scouts, and French camp. Oh, and I was only allowed French tv and was to speak to my big sister exclusively in French, for a whole year. As you gather, she lent high importance to the French language, and I in turn learned to speak it fluently, and also to eventually forgive my mother for her militant (but in the end effective) ways.

Now — while I love speaking in French — I find myself consciously choosing to say hello rather than bonjour. Largely because I feel we’ve taken the language policing too far. For this, I direct my disappointment to the Office Québécois de la langue Française (OQLF) whose efforts may be well-intentioned but I feel are misplaced. And the Coalition Avenir Québec’s recent decision to inject funds into the OQLF especially during a pandemic while we’re literally fighting for our lives is a bitter reminder of the powerful provincialism we’re regularly faced with. It’s no longer about speaking French, it’s become about not speaking English. And to then have the minister responsible for the French language in Quebec say that this “is not against English institutions,” and “we can do both — respect English institutions but also respect French in our society” is playing offense.

Without making this article about the laws of the OQLF, it will suffice to say that the laws along with the board were created out of fear that the French language would go extinct in Quebec. That said, it’s important to note that the French hold a majority in Quebec. But their concern with having their heritage eclipsed, nods to the anglophone/allophone influential minority. Also to consider is that Quebec (begrudgingly to some) is in Canada, where anglophones are of majority. Naturally, in came the language laws with the mission to protect the French language in a primarily English-speaking nation. It’s only natural to want to secure your kind and colony.

For those of you that don’t live here, I want to clarify: No one will arrest or fine you for speaking in whatever language you wish amongst your friends and family. It’s when you seek to operate professionally — as an employee or business owner — , and seek service of any kind that things get sticky. Businesses are subjected to fines if they don’t abide by the language rules. And people are subjected to discrimination, plain and simple. French fanatics will not literally convict you, cuff you, and lock you up for not speaking French, it just feels that way.

I believe it is moot point to argue historical events and statistics in an attempt to prove or disprove the language laws, because in the end what matters most is people’s current state of mind and wellbeing. And if Black Lives Matter has taught us anything, it’s that history often needs a rethink, and room for redemption. With that in mind, our elected leaders and citizens of this province should be asking themselves “how do yesteryear laws continue to serve us?”

I understand that the French want to maintain their heritage in Quebec — it’s really the same for everyone settling onto any land. But I feel our Provincial government is stirring up a storm only to later justify its self-serving plebiscite.

If their true intent is to segregate the citizens of this province, I suspect that things will worsen with time and anglophones/allophones will eventually protest and march with #OurVoiceMatters banners in hand.

Some of my Francophone friends that are here fresh from France complain of being picked on for their accent. Some anglo/allophone friends often cope with disapproving glares for speaking in their mother tongue. And some of my pure laine friends think anglos are arrogant and dismissive of Quebec language and culture. If none of this resonates with you and you feel that there’s no race problem in Quebec, you’re likely part of the problem.

I remember wishing a francophone a happy Canada day (in French) and being met with a dry “I don’t celebrate that” as she handed me the flowers I’d just purchased from her shop at the Atwater market. And such racist and discriminatory occurrences are constant in everyday life here. Especially online where you’ll find no shortage of Anglophones complaining about some language-related fines, and Francophones coming to the OQLF’s defense, leaving low-brow remarks ordering anglos to pack up and leave if they don’t like it.

Here’s the thing, as a first-generation immigrant, I can assure you that just because I speak the French language doesn’t mean that I’ve given French-Quebec culture a voice.

If I was born to Greek parents in Montreal, QC, Canada, what is my country of origin?

My name is a dead giveaway of my ethnic background. When I’m asked where I’m from, I’m reminded of the struggle between being born somewhere but *really* originally being from somewhere else.

Being born in Quebec doesn’t make me a Québecoise any more than being born at the Jewish general hospital doesn’t make me Jewish.

Ironically, in Greece, I’m called a foreigner. Growing up Greek in Montreal, is not the same as growing up Greek in Greece. Goes to show how culture unavoidably breeds bias and immigration ushers it along.

Consider the saying “when in Rome, do as the Romans do”

So when in Quebec, do as…whom?

Think of the last time you traveled and how you were absorbed by the culture and became enchanted with their way of life. Now consider someone traveling here. What are they absorbing and experiencing?

Most say they love our multicultural vibe. And this perhaps defines Quebec culture — our hodgepodge of many cultures. And so making sure everyone speaks French or else, does very little to raise and cultivate the French-Quebec culture. Hence SNL’s latest ‘bonjour-hi’ skit, a spoof that caused upset amongst Quebecers especially francophones, that Bowen Yang issued an “apology” for missing the mark.

Many are unacquainted with Quebec heritage and culture because its people are preocupied with language correction, instead of cultural connection.

I humbly suggest they stop staring at the tree and instead take notice of the forest. Culture is more than language. It takes a lot more to maintain heritage and identity. This language battle only speaks to cultural impotence. Ask any immigrant who has no language charters and laws in place to secure their language and identity, but still has managed to preserve them. A powerful culture speaks for itself, in whatever language it chooses and its pull is so great, that you don’t resist. So instead of focusing on condemning each other for our differences, let’s start exploring how those differences make us fundamentally the same. What binds us will bond us.

I propose we start with the following statement.

#JeSuisQuebecois(e)Parceque…?

[buggie-hagen]

Sermon for Nineteenth Sunday after Pentecost (10/11/20)

Primary Text | Psalm 23

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Dear People of God,

         In a facetious way, they say it takes a fairly eccentric person to become a pastor. The type to become a pastor have a few quirks, a few unique qualities, one could say. Now, you know, I am completely normal. No oddities about me! Nothing to see here. My enthusiasm for birdkind is nothing to turn one’s head for! I do admit, how I choose which passage I’m preaching from has turned some heads. In our services at this congregation, we use what is called the Revised Common Lectionary—RCL for short. It is a three-year set of assigned readings for every Sunday. It is an expression of Christian unity, uniting us not only to other ELCA Lutherans, but to Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Roman Catholics, the United Church of Christ, and even LCMS Lutherans—as well as many other denominations in the English-speaking world. The RCL was first put into official use in 1994. Generally speaking, this means every Sunday our first reading is from the Old Testament, the second reading from the New Testament, and the final reading from one of the Gospels. You’ll find a lot of preachers will preach primarily the Gospel lesson because they either view it as easier to do or quote-on-quote “more relevant.” You may know from experience that that has not been my approach. I have felt it is important that you get exposure to all parts of the Bible and not just the Gospel lessons. Whether it comes from Old Testament, New Testament, or Gospel books, it is the Word of God for the people of God. And together, the whole Bible is the witness to the good news of Jesus Christ and is to be understood as such. Too often I think we are tempted to sneer at the Old Testament or the New Testament letters. But we must learn from them too. God has a Word to say to us from them.

What some have deemed peculiar is how I choose between the different options to preach on. I roll a die. I do this because it takes away my own bias and challenges me to preach on passages that might be hard to preach on. If I roll a 1-2, I will preach on Old Testament lesson. If I roll a 3-4, I will preach on New Testament lesson. If I roll a 5-6, I preach on the Gospel lesson. Of course, occasionally I will veer off this strategy. In addition to those options there is also a psalm assigned for each Sunday. They tend to not be considered “a reading” but a “prayerful/worshipful response to the First Reading.” In my strategy to also include the psalms as possible preaching texts I at the beginning of the year choose five Sundays at random in which I will preach the psalm. Today happens to be one of those days. This sermon is from Psalm 23. What is very peculiar is that the Fourth Sunday in Lent I also assigned myself to preach the psalm and the psalm happened to be Psalm 23. What is even a step more peculiar from that is that Fourth Sunday in Lent was March 22nd, our first online service after the pandemic began!

Today we ask, what does God have to say to us from Psalm 23 since the beginning of the pandemic to now? And for that I will laser-focus on vs. 4 where it says, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for you are with me; your rod and your staff—they comfort me.” We are walking in a dark valley this year of 2020. A pandemic is upon us, political divisions have turned the people against each other, those in power have neglected to take care of those in need for political gain, and now we’re fatigued to our limits—it is the perfect storm. This is not to mention all the other ordinary difficulties of life that we already are going through. The temptation right now might be to despair. To give up. To fall into unbelief. The darkness of this valley makes it so that we can’t see the light. It feels like there’s nothing that we can hold onto to keep us sturdy. The darkest valley of Psalm 23 is a place without safety and hope—where only death is tangible.

The psalm writer speaks, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil.” What does it mean to not fear evil? How can he say this when evil is so clearly all around? In our dark valley, one way to misinterpret “I fear no evil” is to make it mean that we do not have to encounter or appropriately deal with evil as we come by it. We still have a responsibility to do whatever necessary to fight the evil—for our neighbor’s sake. Another way to misinterpret “I fear no evil” is to think it is a foolish statement altogether to give up on fear. Some have said, “We have to live in fear.” This is a false statement. To live in constant fear is detrimental. It is how we get so exhausted and fatigued. Think of Luther’s explanation of the First Commandment in the Small Catechism. The First Commandment is “You shall have no other gods.” It means, “We are to fear, love, and trust God above all things.” When something wants us to be afraid of it, it is trying to get us to put our trust in it. And therefore, stealing away our trust in God above all things.” A trust we are to have even above all evil things. The psalmist gives the reason that he fears no evil, “For You are with me.” Yes, you might be walking through the darkest valley, you might be going through one of the scariest times in our lives, but God is with you. He is reason enough not to fear any evil. The dark valley itself provides no comfort, no safety, no protection. It may even cause you harm. But the LORD is with you! Dear people, we are not in this struggle alone. No matter what happens, even if we face death, God has not abandoned us. Whatever we face we do not face it alone.

How do we know? Because he has provided his “rod and his staff” to comfort us. His Word and his Sacraments. We are like a small child lost in the dark, shivering. But to God “darkness is as light”. He sees us in our distress, picks us up, carries us, rescues us from all evil. Not only that, but gives us his warmth and restores our souls. In the darkest valley we walk God has given us his Word and Sacraments to comfort us. Through them he turns us away from fear, from darkness, from evil, and delivers us into the hands of his Beloved Son. The LORD is with us because the Word became flesh, and dwelled among us. He pitched his tent in the darkness. We do not depend on our own strength or abilities to get through this time, but on the gospel—the free forgiveness of sins accomplished thanks to the death and resurrection of Christ Jesus our Lord. You will remain and belong to him as long as we are in this valley. That is our certain hope. Amen.

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Movie Review | The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (Hooper, 1986)

This review contains spoilers.

I don’t know if repeat viewings have made me think this is a better movie so much as I’ve found it more endearing. The movie is undeniably loud and shrill, but if you listen to something at the same volume for long enough, I guess you grow used to it. Whether that’s a good thing for your hearing and/or taste I’ll leave unanswered, but Bill Moseley saying “Lick my plate, you dog dick!” seems to get funnier with each viewing. I still think it has structural problems, as it seems to jump from an effective comic horror first act to an ear-splitting bombastic climax without nearly enough build-up in the middle. I understand quite a bit was cut out of the movie at Cannon’s insistence, including a scene with rowdy football fans with a high enough body count to earn the “massacre” in the title and another where Joe Bob Briggs admires the family’s handiwork, and while I don’t need my horror movies to be overlong, these scenes might have allowed for some kind of build-up the finished film simply doesn’t have. The overall effect is deflating, which might actually be the point, as the movie seems intended partially as a parody of the original, as Hooper was reportedly upset that audiences failed to appreciate the extremely dark sense of humour in that movie. (At one point it was supposed to be a piss-take of Motel Hell which itself is a piss-take of the original, so I guess Hooper just went straight to the source.)

The villains, who had been left behind by automation and industrial progress in the original, have fully embraced free enterprise (they run an award-winning chili truck; the secret is to not skimp on the meat) and bitch endlessly about how the small business always gets it in the ass. Their lair this time, located in the bowels of an abandoned amusement park, is like the MTV version of the original - bigger and flashier yet hardly evocative of the grim Southern Gothic atmosphere present in the original, with the gaudy decor and lurid, overbright lighting undermining any sinister mood that might develop. There’s also Dennis Hopper, bringing dignity and intensity to his sheriff, a voice in the wilderness attempting to wage a one-man crusade against the villains and finally finding an ally in Caroline Williams’ winsome disc jockey Stretch, a genuinely appealing final girl who’s probably the element played most straight in the whole thing. (Hopper’s character isn’t the only one who takes to her, as Leatherface starts to develop feelings for her and tries to make love to her with his chainsaw. He later gets lectured by his family on choosing between “sex and the saw”, with a heavy bias towards the latter.)

Hopper’s performance is lent an added dimension by the fact that he’d only been a few years out of rehab, yet the movie gives him a particularly unceremonious sendoff with a slapstick chainsaw duel and a grenade (a “fuck you Charlie”) that Jim Siedow’s Cook produces in an act of desperation when he realizes his business venture has gone down the drain. (Hopper was understandably sore about the movie, given that it turns his admirably committed work into a punchline.) Yet, when the movie goes full bore for an effect instead of undercutting it, it can stick the landing, with its exclamatory final shot (Williams embracing the madness and flailing around a chainsaw, splitting the difference between the fates of Marilyn Burns’ Sally and Leatherface in the first film) having echoes of the strangely exhilarating concluding images of the original.

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Sinner’s Holiday: An Ode to Pre-Code

Once upon a time, Hollywood movies showed us Spencer Tracy skinny-dipping with Loretta Young, Barbara Stanwyck ducking into the ladies’ room with her boss in exchange for a promotion, and chorus girls warbling hosannas to marijuana.1 This, of course, was pre-Code: shorthand for the era of Hollywood movie-making between the advent of sound in 1929 and the ascendance of Hays Office censorship in 1934. The term is in fact a misnomer. The Production Code was written and officially adopted in 1930, but for the next four years, like Prohibition, it was flouted with near impunity. A look at a representative film of the time provides ample evidence of the Code’s impotence. Take Night Nurse (Wellman, 1931), starring Barbara Stanwyck: a fast, tough, sleazy and thoroughly enjoyable tale of a nurse who uncovers a plot to murder the children in her care for their trust funds.

The Code proclaimed that Undressing scenes should be avoided, and never used save where essential to the plot. Stanwyck and her roommate, played by Joan Blondell, often speak their lines while casually changing their clothes in front of the camera. An intern who walks in on Stanwyck in her scanties assures her, “You can’t show me a thing. I just came from the delivery room.” The Code said, The use of liquor in American life…shall not be shown. The mother of Stanwyck’s charges, who is never seen in any other state than blotto, boasts, “I’m a dipshomaniac—and I like it!” Stanwyck befriends an amiable bootlegger when she treats his bullet-wound and agrees not to report it, contrary to law. In gratitude, he sends her a bottle of rye. “But you’re not allowed to drink,” a square nurse objects. “No,” Blondell cracks, “But it’s swell for cleaning teeth.”  Adultery and profanity are both proscribed by the Code. The dipsomaniac is plainly carrying on a tawdry affair with her chauffeur, Nick (Clark Gable), and at one point Stanwyck, disgusted to find her passed out while her children are on the brink of death, rebukes her with, “You mother.” The Code said, Methods of crimes should not be explicitly presented. When sent out to get milk for the sick children, the amiable bootlegger breaks into a grocery store. As for Revenge in modern times shall not be shown, the movie ends with the bootlegger arranging for Nick to be “taken for a ride.” Did I forget to mention that Apparent cruelty to children or animals, the central trope of the plot, is also forbidden by the Code? Or that Gable socks Stanwyck on the jaw, or that Stanwyck gets her job by flashing her ankles at a doctor?

Code? What Code?

The appeal of pre-Code movies lies not in sex, violence or vulgarity (there’s more than enough of those in the infinitely more explicit cinema of the last forty years) but in their attitude, which conveyed the pessimism and irreverence of their time. Radical cultural changes in the wake of World War I, the farce of Prohibition, the 1929 stock-market crash and the Great Depression combined to create a pervasive disillusionment and loss of respect for authority and traditional values. With rapid changes in fashion and technology, violent upheavals in economic and political conditions, society was wide open, hectically elated in the twenties, confused and frightened in the thirties. For a few years the lack of rigorous censorship allowed movies to channel the mood of the country and to capture society warts and all. They depicted adultery, divorce, rape, prostitution and homosexuality; bluntly portrayed alcoholism and drug addiction, glorified gangsters, con artists and fallen women. With a distinctive blend of cynicism and exuberance, they offered escapist entertainment but also bitter and sometimes radical visions of a society on the verge of breakdown. Oscar Levant famously quipped that he he knew Doris Day before she was a virgin; Hollywood too was grown up before it was innocent.

The Con Man as Comic Hero: Blonde Crazy

During the silent era, censorship of films was piecemeal. Not only states but individual towns had boards of censors who screened movies and ordered cuts of shots or scenes they considered too racy. Projectionists simply snipped out the offending material, a practice that accounts in part for the incompleteness many surviving films from the twenties.2 In the early twenties, Hollywood was hit with a string of off-screen scandals, culminating in the trial of comedian Roscoe Arbuckle on charges of rape and manslaughter. The movie moguls, terrified that bad press would scare away audiences, invited Will Hays to become the guardian and public face of Hollywood’s morals. Hays, a Presbyterian elder and former postmaster general, became director of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors Association. He was an ideal choice to project a more wholesome image of Hollywood, but as a censor he proved ineffectual, and movies continued to be attacked for their evil influence on the country’s moral fiber.

Silent movies contained many elements that would not be seen during the Code era, including nudity, drug use and comic vulgarity. But the absence of sound gave film a degree of unreality that lent itself to fantasies like Valentino as an Arab sheik and Douglas Fairbanks riding a flying carpet, as well as to timeless moral fables like Sunrise: a Song of Two Humans, whose characters are called simply The Man and His Wife. From Mary Pickford as a spunky urchin to Harold Lloyd as a college freshman, actors frequently played much younger and more naive than they were in real life. Even the flapper films of Clara Bow and Joan Crawford, which purported to expose the shocking mores of modern youth, presented their heroines as pure though misunderstood. With the change to talkies, the silent era’s swashbuckling heroes, Great Lovers, ringleted sweethearts and carefree flappers suddenly seemed antiquated. Sound punctured fantasy and brought movies down to earth and up to date: never again would they soar to the heights of romance they had reached in silence.

The coming of sound involved a complete reinvention of movies, amounting to the development of a new medium. The fluid spectacles of the silent screen gave way to small-scale films confined by the technical limitations of early sound recording technology to interiors and studio sets. The bulk of films from 1929 and ’30 are clunky and static, with stilted dialogue and acting. When talkies hit their stride in the early thirties it was with urban settings that could be recreated on studio backlots and zingy vernacular dialogue delivered at machine-gun pace by Brooklyn-bred voices. As the old screen gods faded, snappy young urbanites like James Cagney and Joan Blondell entranced audiences with their unaffected style and wised-up attitude.3 This new earthiness brought the censorship issue to a crisis; everyone agreed that movies were going “from bad to voice.” In 1930, still hoping to render external censorship unnecessary through self-regulation, the studio moguls officially adopted the Production Code, written largely by a Jesuit priest named Daniel Lord (hence it should, aptly, be known as the Lord’s Code rather than the Hays Code.) But this effort coincided with the onset of the Depression, when the movie studios were struggling like other businesses. Desperate to lure audiences back to theaters they defied the Code to create daringly risqué entertainment, treating the list of “Don’ts and Be Carefuls” as a list of “Do’s.”

The kick in pre-Code movies comes from the awareness shared by the actors and filmmakers that they are pushing the limits, getting away with something.  Since today’s films must work so hard to raise an eyebrow, they can never recapture the harmless fizz of Maurice Chevalier taking Jeannette MacDonald’s measurements in Love Me Tonight, or Jean Harlow slipping a portrait of her boss into her garter in Red-Headed Woman, or Miriam Hopkins and Herbert Marshall in Trouble in Paradise picking each other’s pockets over the course of a romantic meal. (“I trust I may keep your garter?”)

There was a Code, after all, and movies were never completely uncensored. Because they couldn’t get away with explicitness or profanity, pre-Code movies specialized in innuendo. A line that would register with sophisticated adults but fly over the heads of children or more naïve viewers was considered ideal; it would protect the innocent while enticing the experienced. In The Half-naked Truth, a scheming promoter played by Lee Tracy checks into a fancy hotel with a Mexican carnival dancer he is passing off as a Turkish princess. Also with them is rotund Eugene Pallette, wearing a turban. The hotel clerk looks at the register Tracy has filled out and does a double take at Pallette. “Oh, they have them in all Turkish harems,” Tracy says, adding confidentially, “He’s very sensitive about it.” The joke is carried through the movie without a word being spoken that could bring a blush to the most prudish cheek. Pre-Code wasn’t always this artful—there’s nothing subtle about Dick Powell singing “I’m Young and Healthy” in a tunnel of chorus girls’ legs, or Tarzan and Jane romping around the jungle in loin cloths—but in general the naughtiness was low-key, not flaunted but there to be discovered by the alert viewer.

Movies offered vacations from reality in sleek art deco style: gleaming penthouses with twinkling views of Manhattan, shimmering bias-cut evening gowns and shiny top hats, buoyant jazz scores and intoxicated gaiety. Beyond mere escapism, there’s a loopy, zany, surreal streak in pre-Code that flourishes in the early Marx Brothers and W.C. Fields films, in Busby Berkeley musicals with their kaleidoscopes of semi-nude chorines and in the cartoons of the Fleischer Brothers, where Cab Calloway lends his voice to a ghostly dancing walrus singing “The St. James Infirmary Blues.” There’s a dizzy feeling, as if the whole of society, like Jack Lemmon in Some Like it Hot, had an empty stomach and it went to their heads.

Maybe it was the effect of hearing so often that prosperity was just around the corner while the country sank deeper and deeper into despair. Demented optimism was parodied—or endorsed; it’s hard to tell—in a bizarre cartoon short from Columbia Studios called Prosperity Blues. A world of wretched, baggy-eyed, trembling sufferers, of cobweb-infested banks and pitiful apple-peddlers, is transformed into a fascistic spectacle of crazed cheerfulness as the hero, to the tune of “Happy Days Are Here Again” slaps disembodied grins on people’s faces with the command “Smile, darn ya, smile!”

“The age of chivalry is over,” James Cagney declares in Blonde Crazy (Del Ruth, 1931). “This, honey, is the age of chiselry.” Tough yet ebullient, Cagney personifies the essential pre-Code flavor of hard-boiled high spirits, sarcastically knowing and gleefully amoral, but not sour or misanthropic. Like nightclub owner Texas Guinan who greeted her customers with a hearty, “Hello, suckers!” the con artist hero of Blonde Crazy seems high on his own cynicism. Or maybe punch-drunk: you need a score card to keep track of how many times Joan Blondell slaps him, and he keeps coming back for more.

The films of Hollywood’s classical period are tight, smooth, polished. The scripts, dialogue, acting, lighting and art direction all gleam with controlled craftsmanship. Blonde Crazy, by contrast, skates on the verge of chaos: the actors seem to be winging it, cutting loose, seeing how far they can go. Cagney revels in this freedom, indulging in outrageous vocal mannerisms, flaunting his virtuosic control of his body as he darts and weaves through the role like a boxer in the ring, going from crafty schemer to world-class chump, wise-cracking operator to heart-broken lover. The anarchic, free-wheeling atmosphere of pre-Code, mined with slapstick and doubles entendres, often leaves modern audiences incredulous. Did I really hear that? Did they really mean...?

Like Night Nurse, Blonde Crazy methodically defies the Code. Undressing scenes? Cagney walks in on Blondell in the tub and appreciatively examines her underwear, doing a little shimmy with her panties, playfully holding her bra over his eyes like a pair of goggles. Liquor in American life? In an early scene Cagney, a bell-hop in an anything-goes hotel, peddles bootleg booze to a traveling salesman (Guy Kibbee). Adultery? Cagney and Blondell’s first con involves setting up the same salesman: caught “parking” with Blondell and a bottle of hooch, he offers a hefty bribe to the “cop” who’s actually their accomplice. Methods of crimes? The depiction of the movie’s confidence tricks, including a daringly simple ploy by which Cagney lifts a diamond bracelet from a jewelry store, is so detailed the viewer could easily copy them. Revenge in modern times? The movie lovingly details the means by which Blondell succeeds in fleecing a fellow con man who previously fleeced Cagney.

One scene is set in an elegant hotel lobby where men discuss the races while women share their plans to blackmail men with love letters. Every single person here is on the make. “Everyone has larceny in his heart,” Bert (Cagney) explains to Ann (Blondell) when he asks her to join him in the rackets. She’s reluctant, but only because she’s afraid of getting caught and sent to jail. Still, as the movie’s only hint of a conscience, she objects to out-and-out thievery and feistily protects her virtue. Bert keeps making passes at her and she keeps slapping his face, without harming their affectionate partnership. But the pair’s toughness keeps them from admitting the depths of their feelings. “I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you,” he tells her earnestly, then shrugs dismissively, “But if I can’t have you I’ll have someone else.” Still, by the time Ann tells him she’s marrying another man, your heart bleeds for Bert, the chiseler with the wandering eye. The other man is Joe Reynolds (Ray Milland) who chivalrously takes a cinder out of her eye and sends her a book of Browning (the poet, not the automatic, as Philip Marlowe would say.) She tells Bert that she’s going to marry Reynolds because he and his family know “a better way to live.” They care for “music and art and that kind of thing.” Of course he turns out to be the biggest louse of all, stealing from his firm and exploiting Bert’s devotion to Ann to make him the patsy. Bert winds up in jail and shot full of holes, but at least Ann finally admits her love and promises to wait for him.

Joan Blondell was the best love interest Cagney ever had. More than able to stand up to him, she brings out an unexpectedly tender and sexy side of his cocky, wound-up persona. With her wide-eyed, appetizing looks, Blondell has a warm, open front but an inner reserve and caution. Like her fellow Brooklynite Barbara Stanwyck, she was born wised-up. Cagney too, for all his extroverted energy, has a core that is aloof, introverted, nervously intense. It is touching to see these two wary, skeptical souls embrace each other so openly. They have good reason to be wary; only suckers trust anyone in the world of Blonde Crazy. Con artists con fellow con artists, and “respectable” citizens lack basic decency. Near the end of the movie, another con man tries to interest Bert in a ploy that involves tricking the relatives of the recently deceased into paying for good luck charms that the dead supposedly ordered just before “kicking off.” Anyone stupid or trusting enough to be conned deserves to lose his money. Life is a continuous game of one-upmanship, a contest to see who can laugh last.

In Guys and Dolls, Sky Masterson explains that among his people, “to be marked as a chump is like losing your citizenship.” During the early thirties, audiences who felt like victims of an economic swindle reveled in the exploits of sharpies, shysters, smart guys who know all the angles and who outwit hypocritical representatives of wealth, authority, respectability. Cagney played more con men than gangsters: in Jimmy the Gent, as “the greatest chiseler since Michelangelo,” he asserts, “There’s only two kinds of guys in business, the ones that get caught and the ones that don’t get caught.” But for all his street smarts, Cagney has moments of child-like naivité. “The consummate urban provincial,” as Andrew Sarris called him, Cagney is irrepressible rather than unflappable. His driving energy, self-mocking humor, hot temper and sentimental streak expressed the pre-Code mood—fast-paced, excitable, hustling for a buck—as Bogart’s world-weary postwar cool expressed the mood of noir.

Later in the thirties, Frank Capra would glorify his own version of the sucker: in his films Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart embody the soul of America as innocent, optimistic, easily fooled. Smart cookies like Stanwyck and Jean Arthur would crumble in the face of such purity, renouncing their hardened attitude and determination to get ahead by any means necessary. Even pre-Code movies often bow, sometimes wistfully and sometimes perfunctorily, towards the old-fashioned virtues. Chivalry makes a come-back in the final scene of Blonde Crazy, one of the few genuinely romantic moments in Cagney’s career as he gazes up at Blondell with shining, worshipful eyes. Bert has demonstrated that love can turn a crooked guy into a knight in shining armor. But he’s got a prison stretch ahead of him, and then—what? Will he go straight, get a job? It’s hard to feel any great confidence in his future, since the lasting impression left by the film is that the cornerstone of American society is the confidence trick.

“The End of America”: Heroes for Sale

The pre-Code years corresponded to the nadir of the Great Depression, when disgust with Herbert Hoover’s government deepened the country’s black mood, when the homeless called their shanty-towns “Hoovervilles” and the newspapers they wrapped themselves in “Hoover blankets.” Law-abiding citizens made folk heroes out of bank robbers like Dillinger and Bonnie and Clyde, while hoboes sang of a utopia where “all the cops have wooden legs” and “the railroad bulls are blind.” The “bulls” were notorious for beating the hoboes they caught, shooting at them or forcing them to jump from speeding trains; even young teenagers weren’t spared. Being broke, jobless and homeless was treated not as a misfortune but as a crime. In the South, many towns used transients as slave labor: arrested on freight trains or in rail yards, they were put to work on chain gangs, and when their sentences were up, put back on the trains they’d been arrested for riding and told to get out of town. Communities posted signs, “Jobless men keep going—we can’t take care of our own.” Some towns denied medical care to travelers who fell ill or were injured, simply dumping them outside the city limits. Before the 1932 election of Franklin D. Roosevelt, many people felt the country was drifting towards anarchy or revolution.

Not all movies of the time were escapist fantasies; many pre-Code films were “ripped from the headlines.” Warner Brothers even confronted the Depression in a musical, Golddiggers of 1933. The opening number, “We’re In the Money,” is pure wish-fulfillment, as chorus girls wearing only strategically placed gold coins crow that “Old Man Depression” is through and that, “We never see a headline about a breadline today.” This giddy fantasy shatters when it is revealed to be a rehearsal for a show that has to close down because the producers can’t pay rent for the theater. Soon the chorus girls are staying in bed all day (three to a bed) because they have nothing to eat. The plot invites us to enjoy watching Joan Blondell earn money the easy way again, squeezing it out of a man who is rich, self-righteous and not very bright. Golddiggers is fluff, but it concludes with a musical number that makes a powerful if disconcerting stab at social realism.

This is social realism à la Busby Berkeley, so Blondell dons a black satin dress and stands under a lamppost, suggesting that unless the government helps jobless men their wives will be reduced to peddling themselves in the street. “Remember my forgotten man,” she sings, “You put a rifle in his hand / You sent him far away / You shouted hip hooray / But look at him today…”4 The song is taken up by a black woman sitting in an open window, surrounded by other women posed to look like F.S.A. portraits: a gaunt and worried farm wife, a starved and empty-eyed grandmother. Meanwhile endless lines of men are seen marching off to war, stumbling through the muddy trenches, then shuffling along in breadlines. This was torn from some very fresh headlines: in the summer of 1932 thousands of World War I veterans, known as the Bonus Army, had camped out on the Mall in Washington, D.C., asking the government to pay them the financial bonuses they were promised for their war service in advance, since many of them were unemployed and destitute. The army under Gen. Douglas MacArthur violently dispersed the men and their families, inspiring outrage. In this frivolous Hollywood musical, Blondell confronts a policeman who is rousting a bum out of a doorway, pointing to the military medal pinned to the inside of the man’s shabby lapel. Her eyes burn with pure hatred for the cop.

In these desperate times, both socialism and fascism were touted as viable alternatives to America’s problems. Several Hollywood movies offered glowing visions of benevolent totalitarianism: in Gabriel Over the White House, produced by William Randolph Hearst in 1932, Walter Huston plays a president who seizes dictatorial powers for the good of the country and proceeds to get rid of gangsters by trying them in military courts without constitutional protections. (Sound familiar?) In The Mayor of Hell, the boys in an ethnically diverse and racially integrated reform school are offered the chance to run the place as a children’s democracy, and when a tyrannical director tries to destroy this system, they try him in a kangaroo court complete with flaming torches.

The government’s helplessness or callousness in the face of economic crisis was not the only source of disenchantment with authority. The prohibition of alcohol, enacted in 1920, turned the vast majority of Americans into criminals, law enforcement into hypocrites, and bootlegging gangsters into society’s pets. Meanwhile, in the late 1920s the lingering wounds of the Great War, initially suppressed by a generation desperate to forget, resurfaced as people began to take stock of what they now viewed as a ghastly waste of life. Pacifism was widely embraced; in 1933 the hallowed Oxford University Student Union debated and passed the statement, “That this House will in no circumstances fight for its king and country.” Movies like All Quiet on the Western Front and The Last Flight expressed horror at the costs and pointlessness of the war, while others called attention to the plight of veterans struggling to survive in the country for which they had fought.

Heroes for Sale (Wellman, 1933) is one of the bleakest films to come out of Hollywood during the studio era. What the confidence trick is in Blonde Crazy, gross injustice is in Heroes for Sale: the basic building block of American society. Richard Barthelmess plays the American everyman as Job, afflicted not by mere bad luck but by unfairness, misunderstanding and the heartlessness of the powerful. In the teens and twenties, Barthelmess had played pure-hearted farm boys in silent melodramas like Way Down East and Tol’able David; he stood for integrity, trustworthiness and boyish optimism. By 1933, his fresh handsome face looked tired and worn, prematurely defeated even at the start of the movie, when he supposed to be just 25. The story begins in the trenches during the War, and the first thing we see is an officer issuing a command for a raid intended to gain prestige by capturing a German officer. When a subordinate objects that the plan will amount to suicide, he snaps, “Suicide or not, it’s orders,” and tells the other officer to take nine or ten men, because “that’s all I can afford to lose.” This kind of callous abuse of power will recur throughout the film, until the penultimate scene in which armed policemen drive homeless men from their shelter into the rain, ignoring the plea that they are not bums but veterans.

Tom Holmes (Barthelmess) is one of the nine or ten expendables chosen for the mission, and when his superior officer turns yellow and refuses to leave the shell-hole where they are hiding, he single-handedly knocks out a machine-gun nest and captures a German officer, only to be wounded and left for dead on his way back. His own officer, Roger, takes credit for the escapade and wins the Distinguished Service Cross, while Tom is taken to a German hospital where he is treated humanely but given morphine to ease the pain of shell-fragments in his spinal column, starting him on the road to addiction. Back home, he winds up working in the bank owned by Roger’s father, who self-righteously fires him when he learns of his drug problem. Roger is a weak, nervous, sweaty-palmed villain; he feels bad about stealing Tom’s glory and allowing him to suffer unfairly, just not bad enough to do anything about it.

For a while things look up for Tom. In Chicago he falls in with a friendly father and daughter who run a café, gets a good job at a laundry, and marries a beautiful young woman (Loretta Young). But as soon as he reaches higher he is shot down. He agrees to help promote a friend’s invention to mechanize the laundry, but when his benevolent boss dies, the new owners use the machine as an excuse to fire all their workers. The workers blame Tom and start a riot, in which his wife is accidentally killed. As if that weren’t enough, he is blamed for leading the riot he was trying to stop and sentenced to five years hard labor. When he gets out, he’s still marked as a “Red” and driven out of town by government agents. By now the country is in the grip of the Depression, and he joins the army of hoboes riding the rails. Achieving secular sainthood, Tom gives away the fortune he earned from the laundry machine to fund a soup kitchen. And when he finally encounters Roger again, also on the bum after serving jail time for embezzling, Tom counters Roger’s pessimism (“The country can’t go on this way. This is the end of America”) with a pat speech about how the country isn’t licked and will rise again, just like Roosevelt said in his inaugural speech. Angry and anguished throughout much of the film, by the end he has slipped into a kind of haloed masochism. Despite his clichéd words, what he embodies is not can-do optimism but the kind of enlightened detachment that comes from having nothing more to lose.

“The only thing that matters is money. Without it you are garbage. With it you are a king.” These words are spoken by Max, the German inventor who makes Tom rich and indirectly ruins his life. Max is a ludicrous stereotype, starting out as a ranting communist and abruptly turning into a greedy plutocrat (when someone points out that he used to hate capitalists he responds, “Of course—because I had no money then!”) In its one idyllic interlude, the film shows a workplace where capital and labor cooperate in smiling harmony and the boss is even willing to use mechanization to give employees more leisure and easier jobs without cutting the workforce or lowering salaries. This utopian fantasy, along with the café whose owners give to the poor even as they struggle to survive, suggest that the only solution to the country’s problems is selfless generosity. Unfortunately, the movie also implies that heartlessness and blinkered malice are far more common.

Heroes for Sale is not a lucid analysis of economic problems, and despite a gritty atmosphere it lacks the objectivity of neo-realism. At once bitter and sentimental, it portrays the whole of American society as a “you-must-pay-the-rent-I-can’t-pay-the-rent” melodrama, with villains as vile and heroes as pure as those in a D.W. Griffith tale of wronged innocence. Many pre-Code movies invite the viewer to identify with and root for people who cheat to get ahead: gangsters, con artists, gold-diggers. Heroes for Sale instead asks us to identify with an innocent and virtuous but hapless and often helpless hero. If people fantasized about being one of Cagney’s confident, cynical operators—predators rather than prey—they saw themselves as Tom Holmes: down on their luck, taking one hit after another, but struggling on and clinging to hope.

Wellman’s next film was Wild Boys of the Road, his famous portrait of teenage hoboes, which grinds through hardship and injustice only to veer into shining idealism in the last five minutes. Two middle-class high-school boys turn into ragged panhandlers, one a cripple, the other stooping occasionally to petty theft. A crowd of vagrants bands together to attack and kill a brakeman who has raped a teenage girl, and to fight off the “bulls” who try to put them off a freight train. It’s easy to imagine audiences cheering as the young bums pelt the cops with eggs and fruit, and booing when the cops use fire hoses to drive them from the shanty-town they have built in disused sewer pipes. The hobo community is painted as loyal, diverse and supportive (blacks and girls are treated as equals), but no one is having any fun. They’re not wild, just bone-weary. The protagonists wind up in New York, living in a garbage dump, and one is tricked into taking part in an attempted robbery. But when they are hauled before a judge, instead of coldly meting out injustice like the judge in Heroes for Sale, the kindly man lectures the youths on how things are going to be better now, they will get a fresh chance, as the camera pans up to the National Reconstruction Administration poster above his head (“We Do Our Part”). The ending looks like a cop-out now, but audiences of the time probably cheered it too.

The pre-Code era was vanquished not only by stricter censorship but by the mood swing following Roosevelt’s inauguration, when the desperate country embraced the promise of a “new deal for the American people.” Pictures of FDR went up next to icons of Jesus; at the end of Footlight Parade, another Warner Brothers musical, solders marching in formation create an American flag, the president’s face, and the NRA eagle. Roosevelt campaigned to the tune of “Happy Days are Here Again,” and one of his first actions in office was to repeal Prohibition. The New Deal failed to end the Depression but it did stop the free-fall of the country’s spirits, ending the sense that the people had been abandoned by their leaders. Hollywood diligently promoted the new tone of wholesome optimism, strictly punishing vice and rewarding virtue. But can you regain innocence once you’ve lost it?

The Age of Experience: Baby Face

Pre-Code movies finally went too far. The last straw may have been the lesbian “dance of the naked moon” in The Sign of the Cross, Miriam Hopkins getting raped in a barn in The Story of Temple Drake, or Mae West just being Mae West. America was divided then as now, and the backlash that ushered in the Code crackdown was driven in part by heartland resentment of movies pitched at sophisticated urban audiences. 5 Outraged by the increasingly salacious tone of Hollywood, in 1934 the Catholic Church formed the Legion of Decency and ordered its congregations to boycott the movies it condemned. In fact, box office receipts rose for movies that were banned by the Legion, but Hollywood’s producers panicked at the prospect of shrinking audiences; of being attacked as foreign corrupters of America’s youth, since most were Jewish immigrants; and of federal government intervention. They capitulated. After 1934, the studios could no longer flout the Production Code Administration and its viciously anti-Semitic head, Joe Breen; unless movies earned its seal of approval they would be blackballed. For a few years filmmakers fought hard against the Code6, but as ticket sales rose with the easing of the Depression, they settled into acceptance of its strictures. For the next twenty years married couples would sleep in twin beds and no couple would kiss for longer than three seconds. The most damaging aspect of the Code was not that it limited what could be shown, but that it forced movies to uphold conservative values, to show respect for authority and religion, and to present a simple dichotomy of good and evil, virtue and sin. The censors did not want controversial subjects like abortion, prostitution or racial tensions discussed from any angle, no matter how morally serious. Hollywood managed to produce great movies under the Code’s restrictions, but sometimes its stifling effect gave them a sterile, airless, homogenized quality.

Some of the pre-Code spirit survived in screwball comedy, a genre created by the Code—the sexes must battle lest they wind up in bed. Even at the height of the Code, Preston Sturges and Billy Wilder consistently subverted its precepts, probably because their dialogue was too clever or just too audaciously dirty for the censors to decipher. After World War II the hard-boiled, wised-up attitude went underground, flourishing in film noir, but what became of the pre-Code sensibility after the end of the noir cycle? Our own time may be rife with irony and black comedy, but sneaky innuendo can’t thrive without restrictions, and all-pervasive, indiscriminate irony becomes shallow and facile. The gritty, sassy tone of pre-Code flourished precisely because it still had the power to shock.

The proponents of censorship cited the overwhelming power and mass appeal of movies, which made them particularly dangerous to the young. And after all movies were not art, so they couldn’t claim first-amendment protection as books or plays might: one journalist wrote in 1934 that no “classic” movie had been created yet. Hollywood’s producers were all too ready to agree, viewing their creations only as commercial products. Even pre-Code films weren’t safe from retroactive censorship. Those that were re-released during the Code years or the early years of television had bits cut out: Myrna Loy trilling “Mimi” in a sheer nightgown in Love Me Tonight, Edward Woods tussling in bed with Joan Blondell in Public Enemy. Ironically, films that were considered too thoroughly offensive to be salvaged remained intact. In 2004 a complete, uncensored print of Baby Face, perhaps the crown jewel of pre-Code, was discovered at the Library of Congress. Baby Face (Green, 1933) was so sordid that it was rejected outright by state censorship boards and heavily altered before being released, but a copy of the original camera negative showed the film as only censors had ever seen it.

Sold-out crowds packed New York’s Film Forum on a snowy Monday in January 2005 to be the first audience ever to watch Barbara Stanwyck smash a beer bottle over the head of a man molesting her, then lie down in the straw with a brakeman in return for a free ride on a freight train; to hear a sinister German cobbler quote Nietszche to Stanwyck and advise her to stamp out all emotion and use her power over men to get the things she wants. A New York Times piece on the rediscovered print stated that “you couldn’t make this film today.” Baby Face’s heroine, Lily Powers, is sexy and heartless, with a hidden, wounded fury built up during a lifetime of mistreatment. Accompanied by a growling rendition of “The St. Louis Blues,” she climbs a ladder of weak and venal men from a dreary steel-town speakeasy to the inevitable Manhattan penthouse. With her all the way is the only person she really cares for, her black maid and best friend, played by the beautiful Teresa Harris. Baby Face has all the kick, the style, the shocking laughs and underlying bleakness that exemplify pre-Code.

During the Depression, with so many men unable to support families, women became responsible for their own and their children’s survival as they had rarely been before. Many pre-Code movies focus on the predicament of women looking for ways to support themselves outside of marriage. While the flappers of the 1920s were young girls sowing their wild oats, the women of pre-Code are looking for security, and they aren’t too scrupulous about how they get it. They are neither virtuous helpmeets nor destructive vamps; they are adults who have faced some cold, hard facts. Actresses like Constance Bennett and Miriam Hopkins played a new kind of woman who was hardened, experienced, far from spotless, but who instead of paying for her sins usually triumphed in the end.

World War I shattered the traditional manly and womanly ideals of the nineteenth century; World War II brought back the celebration of the he-man and the homemaker. Between the wars there was a blurring and mingling of the sexes. Women bobbed their hair, smoked and drove cars; men got manicures, sang falsetto and danced the Charleston. A novelty song of the time complained: “Masculine women, feminine men / Which is the rooster, which is the hen? / It’s hard to tell ‘em apart these days.” Homosexuality was an object of sniggering fascination, and caricatures of effeminate men and butch women show up regularly in pre-Code movies. In Ladies They Talk About, a new inmate in a women’s prison is warned about a hefty cigar-smoking lady in a monocle: “Watch out for her, she likes to wrestle.” In Wonder Bar, a fey young man cuts in on a dancing couple and dances off—with the man. “Boys will be boys!” Al Jolson comments with a swishy gesture.

In the Victorian era, Europe and America embraced the ideal of woman as untouched by experience, the “angel of the house.” One of the arguments against granting women the vote or allowing them to enter universities and the work-place was that if they left the domestic sphere they would lose their purity and moral authority. The working women of thirties Hollywood triumphantly backed this argument: they are hard-nosed, pragmatic, independent. The “double standard” for pre- and extra-marital sex was a common theme in films of the early thirties: why shouldn’t women act like men? The feisty yet vulnerable pre-Code woman was more compromised than the fast-talking dame of later screwball comedies, who usually worked as a reporter or secretary and relished her self-sufficiency. One aspect of pre-Code movies that might actually shock contemporary audiences is the ubiquitous equation of sex and money. It’s taken for granted that women will sell themselves for furs, jewels and apartments, as “kept women” or free-lance party girls. This reflects the Depression too, a time when—so the movies warned—the scarcity of honest jobs might tempt girls to take “the easiest way.” Men, meanwhile, might turn to crime, bootlegging, gangs: selling their souls for flashy suits, cars and women. Unlike their female counterparts, the fallen men always pay, dying in the gutter or going to the chair. Women who break commandments—even a hard-bitten ex-felon like Constance Bennett in Bed of Roses—can be redeemed through the love of an honest man, in this case the poor but hunky Joel McCrea.

The thirties were a golden age for women in Hollywood movies, the only decade when they were regularly allowed to be smart, competent, funny and sexy all at once, and seldom required to be tamed or put in their place by men (Female is a dispiriting exception.) Throughout the decade, women continued to embody the toughness and cynicism of the Depression years in romantic comedies, where they were habitually both more dazzling and more down-to-earth than their male counterparts. The experienced woman paired with a naïve, virginal man is partly a comic reversal of a more traditional trope, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf. But while these women take economic advantage of their male prey, they are also seduced by male innocence. They yearn for what they themselves have lost.

The uncensored version of Baby Face makes it clear that Lily was forced into prostitution by her own father when she was fourteen. Hence the cruel irony of the title: while she poses as girlishly helpless (“Nothing like this has ever happened to me,” she pleads when she’s caught in the restroom with her boss) she has been, as the cliché goes, robbed of innocence. This is the festering wound behind her hard, defiant poise. No one could play the part better than Stanwyck, with her devastating ability to face the facts; her sudden lashing rages; and the enticing warmth that she could—chillingly—turn on or off at will. Douglas Sirk spoke later of how Stanwyck seemed to have been “deeply touched by life.” Her most arresting trait is her level, unwavering gaze, both bold and sad—what Sirk called her “amazing tragic stillness.” The simplicity of her style comes from a steely inner resolve, a hard-won self-mastery that allows her to look at the world without fear—but not without anger or sorrow. “My life has been hard, bitter,” Lily tells her husband. “I’m not like other women. All the gentleness and kindness in me has been killed.”

Movies of the early thirties revel in the victory of experience over innocence, but they mourn it too. James Cagney stumbles into the gutter in the rain muttering, “I ain’t so tough.” Ann Dvorak, as a drug addict whose sleazy lover has kidnapped her son, crashes through a window and plummets to the street below to save the boy’s life. Paul Muni, fugitive from a chain gang, fades into the darkness, answering his girlfriend’s question, “How do you survive?” with the despairing words, “I steal!”7 It is this sense of bitter knowledge, of deeply-felt experience, that makes the best pre-Code movies truly “adult.” W.H. Auden said that the purpose of art is to make self-deception more difficult: “by telling the truth, to disenchant and disintoxicate.” Enchantment and intoxication have always been Hollywood’s stock in trade, but occasionally—in Out of the Past, in The Lady Eve, in Blonde Crazy—the studios blended cocktails of fantasy and disillusionment, of disappointment and romance. Hollywood in the 1930s cast its lingering spell not with cynical magic, but with magical cynicism.

by Imogen Sara Smith

NOTES

1. In, respectively, Man’s Castle, Baby Face, Murder at the Vanities.

2. What happened to the cut footage? Most of it probably wound up in the wastebasket, though some found a home elsewhere. In his book The Silent Clowns Walter Kerr recounts how a boyhood friendship with his local projectionist enabled him to amass “what must unquestionably have been the most extensive collection of shots of Vilma Banky’s décolletage existing anywhere in America.”

3. Native New Yorkers Cagney and Blondell were appearing together in a play called “Penny Arcade” when they were both offered contracts by Warner Brothers, the studio that, with its Vitaphone process, had pushed the changeover to sound. “Penny Arcade” became the film Sinners’ Holiday; Cagney and Blondell made six more films together and formed a life-long friendship.

4. Harry Warren and Al Dubin wrote “Remember My Forgotten Man,” which echoes the great Depression anthem, “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” in its complaint that the men who built the country and fought to defend it were now reduced to begging for bread. These two songs were exceptional; Tin Pan Alley churned out hundreds of “keep smiling” ditties during the Depression, leaving it to Woody Guthrie to express the nation’s bitter mood in songs like “I Ain’t Got No Home in this World Anymore.”

5. The pre-Code Two Kinds of Women opens with the governor of a western state rehearsing a passionate speech decrying the evil influence of New York City on the rest of the nation, leading America’s youth astray with the lure of glamour and fast living. The scene cuts to the next room where the governor’s daughter (Miriam Hopkins) lounges on a sofa in sexy pajamas, reading The New Yorker and listening to a radio program broadcasting jazz from a Manhattan nightclub. The movie makes no secret of which side it’s on. At the end the daughter says that she and her New York playboy husband will announce that they are moving to South Dakota for the fresh air and clean living—until her father is re-elected, after which, “We’ll come back and live on East 58th Street!”

6. Producers and filmmakers at Warner Brothers were particularly hostile to the new regime. Busby Berkeley’s Footlight Parade features a puritanical censor who keeps popping up to warn Cagney, a director of musical prologues, “You’ll have to put some bathing suits on those mermaids—you know Pennsylvania.” Ultimately, he’s revealed as worse than just a buffoon when he’s caught in flagrante delicto with the film’s floozy.

7. In, respectively, Public Enemy, Three on a Match, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang.

[lavender-rebellion]

The Reality of Existence  Chapter one

Masterpost

AO3 Link

Ships: Analogical and Royality

Description: "Thomas looked around his living room and felt a stone in his gut. He had four freshly human sides before him. Four human, terrified, grown adult men who had never lived a day in the real world. Four men who didn’t legally exist, permanently in reality. They were in his care now, and that dormant panic made itself known once more.“ A story about learning to live and learning to love. But also about being roommates, first jobs, being an adult, and that friendship really is the strongest force on earth. They all have things to teach and things to learn, but that’s part of being human. (They have to learn how to do that too, though)

TW for a panic attack and what can be seen as depression symptoms.

Thomas closed the door noisily behind him, letting out a heavy sigh and quickly making his way over in front of his TV, the familiar spot lending him some comfort and he could feel most of the anxious energy fall from his shoulders. He took a moment to take in the new perspective of his living room the spot gave him, before rolling his shoulder and finding the threads inside him. Thomas tugged at the one thrumming with more nervous energy than usual, watching Virgil appear on the stairs nearly immediately. Seems he was waiting for him, which was fair considering that Thomas had been thinking of this all day.

“It’s bad.” Virgil agreed quickly, wrapped up tight in his hoodie with darker bags than usual. Thomas still wasn’t sure if they were natural or makeup, and Virgil always dodged the question. Honestly, he didn’t know which one was more troubling, if Virgil apparently hadn’t gotten a good days sleep ever or if he thought it was a good fashion choice. Speaking of bad fashion choices…

“I knew it, they hated it!” He despaired, running a hand through his hair. Virgil nodded solemnly.

“There is an unusual amount of icky-sticky energy in here.” Patton rose up, hands on his hips. “If I didn’t know better I’d think your name was Vicky!”

Thomas let out a small chuckle at the Fairly Odd Parents joke because while it wasn’t Patton’s best it was clear that he was trying to cheer him up. Virgil sent a tense smile at the other side, who seemed to pick up on the mood and clapped his hands together.

“Alright then, what’s the problem, kiddo? I’ve got my listening ears on and I’m ready to ear you out!”

“It’s his new shirt!” Virgil chimed in, gesturing. Patton looked confused.

“My friends hated it!” Thomas clarified, “I looked awful all day, and they kept sneaking looks at it with this look on their face..”

“Thomas have we not already gone over your cognitive distortions? It was only a few months ago, surely you remember?” Logan rose up, flipping through a planner. He looked up to give Thomas a disapproving look, before returning Patton’s wave and sharing a smile with Virgil.

“Well yeah, but this is different.” Thomas insists, feeling a little silly but mostly like he needs to change his name and go into hiding.

“Look, Thomas, there is only one option and you know it. It’s time to move away to a remote village and become a hermit, never showing your face again.” Virgil cut in, chopping his hands down to emphasize his point. He nodded along, crossing his arms and wondering how long it would take to pack up his entire house and buy a new one. One without internet access, he couldn’t ever go online again.

“Uhhhh….” Patton looked up at Virgil dubiously. Logan shot him a similar look.

“That’s a bit of an overreaction, is it not? We can’t just go into hiding over a bad ‘look’.”

“Watch me.”

“What’s wrong with his shirt, again? I’m lost.” Patton asked.

“And why are you reacting so strongly to this, it’s hardly the worst thing you’ve worn out of the house,” Logan added, and Thomas clutched at his chest, offended. What could he possibly be talking about, and why was he so quick to remember it? Was it recent? Had Thomas just been walking out of his house looking like he got dressed in the dark for ages?

“Not helping, Lo!” Virgil ran his hands over his face, dark bags still perfect afterward which lent weight towards the natural theory..what were they arguing about again? “Anyway, that’s not the point, the point is that Thomas looked ridiculous all day and it’s all on camera!”

Oh right, that.

“OH! That’s right, you were filming that collab today weren’t you?” Patton jumped, clapping his hands together again. “How did that go?”

They all looked over at him, disbelieving, before turning back to the conversation.

“Everyone is going to see my stupid shirt and laugh, and screenshots are going to be all over Tumblr and there will be memes-”

“Are you really that worried about a bunch of 13-year-olds making fun of you?” Logan interrupted. Thomas ignored him.

“-and people are going to think I’m silly and then they’re going to realize that I’m a weird 30 year old who records himself talking to himself and posts it on Youtube-”

“Tumblr is not just a bunch of 13-year-olds, there’s plenty of young adults and adult adults. I mean, we’re on Tumblr, and so is Joan.” Virgil argued.

“Plus 13-year-olds are really mean,” Patton whined. Still ignoring them.

“-and they’re going to stop watching my videos which means I’m going to steadily lose money until I’m making none and then I’ll have to get a stuffy desk job-”

“That’s true. It’s like the John Mulaney skit, ‘13-year-olds are the meanest people in the world because they will make fun of you, but in an accurate way’.” Virgil quoted.

Patton gasped, “Oh I love John Mulaney! He is a very funny man.”

“That’s ridiculous, there’s no factual evidence that 13-year-olds are meaner or more observant than any of the ages near them.”

“Clearly you’ve never spoken to a 13-year-old.”

“-and I’ll spend the rest of my days living in a grey, unfulfilling haze where my coworkers make fun of me and send office emails around full of my earliest vines and those awful screenshots-” Ignoring them, just continue ranting.

“We are both sides, I’ve met every 13 year old you have.”

“And you’re still defending them?”

“Yeah, I’m on Virge’s side in this, Logan. 13-year-olds are just cruel.”

“I’m not defending them, I’m simply saying that there’s no logical reason-”

“There’s no logic in pre-teens-”

“Not even a teen- sy bit-”

“-and that will be my life, mockery and the cold confinement of office routine, no friends or boyfriends and I’ll die alone, without even a cat for company because I have this stupid allergy-”

CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP

They all went quiet, echoing the clap and looking over at Roman, who had appeared a second ago while they were bickering.

“How am I supposed to practice my one-man duets if you are all making a racket?” Thomas squinted at the gaudy necklace he was wearing, a giant ruby pendant resting in the center of his chest. While he watched, it flashed a dim red light. Must have been the light catching the gem.

But everyone else glanced at it as well, including Roman. He looked pleasantly surprised.

“I didn’t know it did that. Neat!”

“What on earth are you wearing?” Logan sighed, glaring at the necklace in suspicion.

"Oh, it’s a best friend necklace! The Dragon Witch gave it to me-”

“The Dragon Witch?” Virgil interrupted, looking at him like he was crazy. Roman glared at him, but it lacked any real heat. He placed a hand on his hip and popped it dramatically.

“Yes, the Dragon Witch. We totally patched things up and are now great friends! Honestly, it was super judgy of me to declare her as evil just because she happens to be a dragon and a witch. She can’t help that! And there are good witches and dragons! Like Sabrina, or the characters from Dragon Tails!” Roman argued, waving his hand around. Patton nodded along, looking proud.

“That is so true! That’s so cool of you, Roman! And may I just say it is be- ruby -ful!” He beamed.

“Ayyyyyyy-” Roman pointed at him, looking delighted. Thomas hid his laugh behind his hand.

“That feels ill-advised,” Logan argued, Virgil gesturing at him in agreement, looking baffled. Personally, Thomas didn’t see the problem with it. But they were once again off track, and Thomas’s problem still hadn’t been solved, so he shrugged and decided that there were no real arguments against Virgil’s idea and that must mean it was fine. He turned and moved to grab his suitcases out of the hall closet.

“Maybe you should evaluate why you hate dragons and/or witches because it’s not her problem that you have a bias.” Roman sassed.

“I have no problem with either of those things, I’m simply saying that prior behavior suggests- Thomas where are you going?” Logan cut off, confused. Thomas blinked and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Gotta pack, so I can become a hermit.”

Logan sighed and adjusted his glasses. “You are not becoming a hermit.”

“I’m not?” “He’s not?”

Logan glared at Virgil and Patton. “No, you aren’t. Thomas, I know you remember our conversation about cognitive distortions so I’m not going to bother rehashing it, and instead let’s get to the root of this problem. Yes, you may have looked silly today, and your friends may or may not have noticed it. Your outfit will certainly be in the video, and others may or may not make fun of it. But we both know that is where it will end, and that it is a minor problem. So why are you making such a big deal about it?”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s not like you to make mountains out of mole-hills.”

It was Thomas’s turn to sigh, body slumping out of its tense position. “You’re right- (“I’m always right.”) - I’m overreacting. I’m just worried about Cartoon Therapy.” He admitted.

“That’s the new script you and Joan are working on, right?” Patton wondered.

“Yes! It’s going to be amazing, you are just going to love the therapist, Pat!” Roman gushed.

“But that’s the thing, what if it isn’t amazing? What if it sucks? I’ve never made such a long scripted episode, what if it gets boring or repetitive? What if people don’t like the new characters? I mean it isn’t like I made you guys up, and I don’t write our scripts from scratch-”

“Take a deep breath, Thomas.” Virgil soothed, looking a little frazzled but much more relaxed compared to earlier. Thomas hadn’t even noticed his anxiety ebb into a dull static. He did as he said, sharing a smile with him at the reference.

“Thanks.” He murmured quietly.

“Give yourself some credit, you’ve created characters people have loved before, in much shorter bits. Take your personification of Sleep, for example. He is well-liked and barely fleshed out. I’m sure characters you can take your time establishing will be just as well received.”

“And if you can’t give yourself credit, give some to Joan. We all know they are a creative genius.” Patton added, speaking softly. “The script will be fine, and the characters will be great. All you can do is give your best try when writing, and watch it come to life.”

“For now, distract yourself and allow yourself to calm down. Put on Parks and Recs! It’ll work out.” Roman suggested. Thomas nodded, feeling much calmer than when he came in. He took another deep breath and grinned at his sides.

“Thanks, guys.”

“It was no problem, I a- shirt you.” Patton shot him finger guns and winked, and then-

Just stood there. Thomas’s brow creased in confusion, watching panic slowly bleed into his expression.

“Pat?”

“I-uh,” The others were looking at him in concern now, “I can’t sink out.”

“What?”

“I can’t sink out.” He stressed, and Logan fidgeted with his glasses.

“How is that possible, Patton-”

“I don’t know!” Patton snapped, looking very upset. “I just know I can’t!”

“I can’t either.” Virgil blurted out, his voice layering.

“This is probably nothing. Lets just all take our own deep breaths, close our eyes and focus on the living room.” Logan said, terse. Thomas watched them all do so, fear rising inside of him at an alarming rate. None of them sunk.

“What’s happening?” He asked. They all looked a little crazed, wide eyes darting around.

“I don’t know, this shouldn’t be possible! What could have-” Logan’s head darted up from where it was buried in his hands. “Your necklace!”

Roman jumped, alarmed at the outburst. A lightbulb went on over Thomas’s head.

“It flashed earlier! When you arrived!”

Roman looked even more alarmed, hands going to the chain and frantically yanking it up over his head, tossing it to the ground. There was a split second of relief on all of their faces before the ruby once again lit up, this time with a blinding red light that filled the entire room, too bright to see through. Thomas could hear the sounds of bodies thumping to the floor and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the spots from his eyes.

Four men were crumpled on the floor (and stairs), but they weren’t the men who were there just a minute ago. They were all dressed like his sides, but it wasn’t his face looking back at him. He could feel his breath hitching in his chest, his lungs empty and his chest burning. He sunk to the floor and curled up, sticking his head between his legs. He could fuzzily recognize this as a panic attack, though he had never had one this severe, and clumsily went through tactics he remembered reading when researching Anxiety. It took him a while, but eventually, he was back to being aware. The men were still on his ground.

In Patton’s place was a man with curly blond hair and a scattering of freckles across his rounder cheeks. He was a bit softer all around, and round glasses lay on the ground next to him. Roman had been replaced with a tanner version of him, a face that was similar to Thomas’s, but his hair was a dark ginger and thicker, his swoop larger than usual. He seemed broader than usual as well, but he was crumpled oddly and Thomas couldn’t be sure. Instead of Virgil, there was a slight man with wild purple hair, lightly curling around his face. It looked like there was a suggestion of freckles on his pale skin as well, but he was too far away and the maybe-freckles were light if they were there at all. His makeup -or not?- was gone, replaced with very real eye bags that were much less severe but still noticeable. And not-Logan was, well, tall. Not giant, but he appeared taller than before, with black hair neatly styled out of his face, which also looked much like Thomas’s own. Actually, they appeared like they could be siblings, and not-Logan looked the most like who he should be. Does that make sense? Thomas didn’t really care, he was still panicking.

Not-Patton looked the least like Thomas, with not-Virgil hovering somewhere between him and not-Roman. There was a strong suggestion of Virgil’s features but they were more…delicate somehow. Like a distant relative of Talyn’s and a less distant relative of his. Patton didn’t look much like him, while Roman could be a cousin and  Logan could be his brother. Because that’s who they were, he knew it and he had to stop lying about it. Those were his sides, only they weren’t very side-like at all.

A low groan came from Logan, the body shifting on the floor and pushing up into a sitting position. Thomas froze, looking at the strange frame which suddenly felt like it was sitting much too close to Thomas’s own. He scooted back, tense. Logan blinked the spots from his eyes as well, before freezing. He was looking straight at Patton. Thomas was sure he was just as startled as he was, but then Logan relaxed and leaned back against the wall.

“Oh good, we’re back.” He hummed quietly to himself.

“Uh, what the fuck ?” Thomas blurted, feeling somehow more confused and nervous. Logan nearly jumped into the air, head whipping around to face him, dark blue eyes blinking once more at him. His brow drew down in confusion.

“Thomas? But how did you- maybe the light….no, because we never appear like this with you around…” He muttered. They were both interrupted by movement on the staircase, Virgil righting himself on the steps, holding his head. His face was scrunched tight in discomfort, and Logan’s attention snapped to him.

“Are you alright?” Logan asked Virgil, lowly. Virgil nodded, eyes clearing the last of the light and locking with the other sides.

“Fine, Lo. We’re back then?” He noticed the tight line of Logan’s mouth and suddenly Thomas was staring into green.  Virgil’s eyes aren’t brown anymore, either, a grey-green color replacing the familiar warmth. They narrowed.

“That’s not right…”

“What is going on?!” Thomas asked forcefully. He doesn’t get an answer, Patton stirring by the curtains interrupting them. He fumbled for his glasses, clumsily shoving them back on his face and opening his eyes.

“Well, that sure was a pain in the neck , very ruby of that Dragon Witch if you ask me.” Patton joked, though it lacked humor. Just like the other’s his body went slack when he noticed the others, but straightened as he immediately took note of Thomas. He absentmindedly noticed that Patton’s eyes were a sky blue. “Why are you in our living room?”

“I-what-” Thomas spluttered. Patton’s attention shifted just as fast as it came, and he let out a little gasp when he noticed Roman’s unconscious form.

“I don’t think he’ll be waking up for a couple of minutes, at least. It appears we woke up based on how close we were to the initial blast.” Logan offered, his eyes darting back to Virgil every so often, who was also watching Roman with concern.

“What happened?” Patton asked, distressed, and Thomas could have laughed.

“That’s what I’ve been fucking asking!” He burst out, earning a startled expression from Patton.

“Language.”

“That is the least of our problems, Patton! You all knocked out and you aren’t you and you’re still in my living room and no one is telling me what’s going on so take your language and shove it. ” He snapped, and his sides reeled back in shock. He felt a little hysterical, he might laugh anyway. It was either that or scream, because one of them was climbing up his throat.

“We don’t know what is going on, any more than you do,” Logan said.

“But, you- you look!”

“This is how we appear in the Mind Space. When you manifested us for the first time you did so with an image in your mind, so that’s how we appeared.” Virgil explained carefully, looking wary after Thomas’s outburst. “In fact, we look like the short’s characters you imagined us as, so while some features you seemed aware we had, like glasses, the rest of it wasn’t originally us.”

What? “So I decided your faces and clothes and personalities, and forced it on you?”

“Not quite. Admittedly, we dressed very similarly before manifestation, and our personalities have been ours since we started existing. You’ve always been aware of those things, just like you’ve always known our functions and of our existence.” Logan corrected.

Patton piped up, though he wasn’t meeting Thomas’s eyes. “It’s just part of being a manifester, kiddo. Well, we assume so, there isn’t exactly a guidebook on it.”

He suddenly felt bad about his outburst, the metaphorical wind leaving his metaphorical sails. “I’m sorry, Patton, I shouldn’t have yelled at you. At any of you.”

“It’s fine! We’re all freaking out, I can understand your reaction.” He was warmer this time, and Thomas sighed.

Roman let out a dramatic groan and made to sit up against the TV stand, body swaying unsteadily as he adjusted to being conscious. These eyes were familiar and comforting, even squinting suspiciously at him. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Patton tapped the ground to get his attention and quietly started filling him in on what little had happened, while Logan started looking around the living room.

“Earlier, you said we were still in your living room,” Virgil commented, watching Logan. He nodded, and Logan mirrored it.

“He’s right, this isn’t our living room. The pictures are wrong, and things are displaced. Like, look, your blankets are not on the couch, and my book and our tea are missing from the table.” He pointed out, and the other three glanced around.

“We didn’t sink out.” Patton devastated.

“And we’re in our real forms, which shouldn’t just happen out of the Mind Space,” Virgil added, grave.

“Something is very wrong.” Roman finished.

“Nothing would be wrong if you hadn’t worn a necklace from the Dragon Witch.” Logan pointed out, edgy. Roman looked a mix between guilty, stricken, and offended, and it twisted his face into something that could have been funny outside of the circumstances. Thomas still wanted to laugh, but that might be the shock setting in. Was this shock? He thought for a second and decided it didn’t really matter. But maybe he should get a blanket?

As the sides began some tense arguing, he spotted his phone lying where he dropped it in his panic attack and realized what would help even more than a blanket. He grabbed it and opened up the call feature. (When was the last time he did that, honestly?)

“It was a gift given of good will, I had to wear it! How could I have known she would do this?”

“Maybe because she was the Dragon Witch ?!”

“Listen, just because she’s the only female in the Mind Space doesn’t mean she has to be the villain!”

“No, she’s the villain because she’s evil! ” Virgil argued.

“He has a point though. Why is the only woman in our realm a villain?” Patton offered, hesitant.

“Roman created her. And he accepted the necklace that got us into this mess!”

“Are you saying this is my fault, Virgil?”

“I’m not not saying that.”

“Virgil!”

“What, Patton? I’m not wrong.”

“But you shouldn’t say it..”

“Patton!”

Thomas hung up and clapped to get their attention. They went quiet once more. “Joan is on their way. Maybe they’ll have some ideas on what’s going on.” And they can tell me I’m not going crazy, he thought, but maybe that was preferable to this situation.

For the first time in his memory, they all lapsed into uncomfortable silence, Virgil tossing his hood over his head and withdrawing into himself while Patton wrung his hands, Roman sulked, and Logan fumed. He had never seen them like this, never known them to be this upset, especially with each other. Things have gotten tense, people have gotten upset or argued, but this disconnect? It was new and somewhat frightening. Minutes passed like snails, slow and dragging, leaving a film behind. Maybe that was the shock.

Finally, a knock on the door drew them out of their heads, and Thomas got up to let them in. They were in their pajamas, and it was only then he thought to check the time. Midnight.

“I’m sorry for dragging you out this late.” He said automatically, but Joan waved him off.

“It’s clearly important, and what are best friends for if not traveling across town at midnight when something important happens?” Joan joked, but Thomas could only give him a weak smile. “You said something happened with the sides?”

He gestured them in, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not good. I was just chatting with them after I got home, everything was normal, and then they couldn’t sink out.”

“They couldn’t leave?”

He shook his head, hovering by the door and speaking quietly. No point in causing the arguing to start back up before it was necessary. “Roman came in wearing this necklace the Dragon Witch gave him-”

“The Dragon Witch?”

“Apparently they made up recently. Today, I think, the others didn’t seem to know about it. Anyway, they figured that was what was preventing them from leaving so Roman took it off. But it let out this bright light, completely blinded us. I heard them all fall and when I could see again they were unconscious and in their real forms.” At their look he tried to explain, feeling jittery and uncomfortable. That was the panic. Shock? “They look different in the Mind Space, they said. They’ve never looked like this outside of it, apparently, they actively control the change. They still can’t sink out, and they keep arguing..”

Joan placed a hand on his arm, seeing him start to panic (had he ever stopped, though?) and Thomas lent into the steadying touch. He smiled at them, thankful. Finally, they moved into the living room, where the sides were waiting. If their new appearances startled them, they didn’t react.

“So you guys are stuck.”

“Understatement of the year,” Virgil grumbled, and Thomas gave him a disapproving look.

“Don’t be mean to Joan. They are just trying to help.”

“Sorry.” He looked guilty, but Joan waved him off.

“Everyone is upset and tense, I understand. But arguing isn’t going to help anything so can we leave that for when this really bad thing isn’t happening?”

They all nodded, and Joan clapped their hands. “Alright. So, once again, you’re stuck. You’ve all attempted to sink out after you woke I’m assuming?”

“Yeah. Before I felt a barrier, almost. I didn’t notice it at first but looking back it was definitely there. But now…now I don’t feel anything at all.” Patton answered, looking down at where his hands were fidgeting in his lap.

“It’s like the Mind Space is just gone.” Virgil agreed. Logan messed with his glasses again, looking agitated.

“But that’s not possible, unless Thomas had something severe happen to his brain or…he wasn’t breathing anymore. Clearly, neither of those things have happened.”

“Yeah I haven’t bonked my head recently, and I’m still kicking. I think?”

“You are,” Joan assured him, seeing the distress in his eyes. “So that means you’ve all lost your connection with the Mind Space, most likely. Can you still conjure things, or access any of your Mind powers?”

They all waved their hands around to no avail, looking crazy. Frustration was clear to read in all of their expressions. Joan grimaced.

“And my shadows are gone,” Virgil said, rubbing his thumb under his eye. “I’ve always had them, I don’t..”

“So, no powers, no shadows, no connection to the Mind.” Joan ticked off. “Forced appearances, as well. Thomas,”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“You once mentioned you could feel the connections to them, like strings tying you together. Are those still there?”

Oh. He reached deep into his chest, where the strings he had used to call Virgil had always lied. There was just empty. He couldn’t recall ever feeling this empty. The tightness in his throat returned, and his face fell. A sob burst from his lips. “No. No, they aren’t there anymore. I can’t feel them, I can’t feel you guys.” Tears welled up in his eyes but he didn’t care, struck by the realization. “It’s all empty. I thought that was shock, but..”

Joan looked upset, and he distantly felt bad about bringing them into this, but now he was crying and he couldn’t stop. He was reeled into an embrace, and he went willingly.

“It might be shock, from having the connection broken,” Joan admitted, before looking over his head. “Do you guys still feel..”

It was clear from how they trailed off that the answer was no. They couldn’t feel Thomas anymore, and that wrung another shaking sob from him. It took him a few minutes to gather composure, but eventually, he straightened from the awkward hunched position he had had to make, making a small wince at the wet spot on Joan’s chest. A glance at the other sides showed that he wasn’t the only one crying though. He wiped his eyes.

“So, you have no connection to the Mind, or Thomas. But you’re still corporeal, I can see and hear you. Maybe….you’ve become real people. Somehow.”

Oh. He had been so wrapped up in what had happened, he never stopped to think about what it meant. The others looked just as gobsmacked.

“That’s impossible, though,” Logan whispered, but it was obvious to himself.

“Let’s test it. Have any of you moved from your spots?”

“I’m just so used to not being able it didn’t even occur to me,” Virgil admitted, getting to his feet. He swayed a bit, but didn’t fall. The rest rose as well. Patton took an unsteady step forward, likely stiff from hours sitting, and when he didn’t hit a barrier he took another. Virgil climbed down the stairs to meet him in the middle, and Roman stepped forward too. Patton’s eyes brightened slightly, and he reached for Roman.

“I wonder…” He grabbed Roman’s arm and pulled him into a hug. Roman gasped, eyes going wide, and when Patton pulled back he gave Roman a wobbly smile, face brighter.

“You felt it, right?” He asked, before gesturing Virgil to come closer and pulling him into a hug as well. Virgil let out the same surprised gasp and gripped Patton tight.

“Everything feels like it’s dialed up to, like, 15. Lo, come feel this!” He held out a hand to Logan, who placed his own on top and wove their fingers together. His eyes widened. Patton released Virgil and moved hesitantly in front of Joan.

“May I?” They nodded and suddenly Joan had an armful of Patton, who was beaming like it was Christmas.

“I can touch you,” Joan exclaimed, looking shocked. While they had always been able to see the sides, they had never been able to touch them before. Their hand had always gone right through them, like ghosts.

Thomas looked around his living room and felt a stone in his gut. He had four freshly human sides before him. Four human, terrified, grown adult men who had never lived a day in the real world.

“Is this permanent, do you think?” He asked.

“I think, Logan said haltingly, unsure, “ That we have to assume it is. Go into this with a ‘worst-case scenario’ mindset.”

Four men who didn’t legally exist, permanently in reality. They were in his care now, and that dormant panic made itself known once more. He couldn’t take care of them. He didn’t have the space, let alone the funds. And again, they didn’t legally exist. And how was he going to explain this? Only Joan and Talyn knew he was a manifester!

He caught Virgil’s eye and could tell he was thinking the same thing, saw him work himself into a similar panic.

“How can we live? We don’t exist in the eyes of the government, we have no papers! And without papers, we can’t get jobs! Where will we live? What will we do?” Virgil echoed his earlier thoughts, and Patton’s face fell. Roman was still quiet, arms wrapped around himself and staring at the ground. Logan looked deep in thought, lips moving silently. The tension in the room was back, and suddenly Thomas felt exhausted down to his bones. He just wanted to sleep, and let everything disappear. Just for a little while.

Joan seemed to pick up on this, and as frazzled as they now looked, standing in the center of Thomas’s living room in their pajamas at nearly 1 am, they once again smiled. “It’s late. Let’s order a pizza, I’m sure we’re all hungry, and then call it a night. We aren’t going to get anywhere tonight. Figure it out tomorrow.”

They all sagged, and while Joan quietly ordered they all moved to sit. The sides collapsed, leaning against each other, on one part of the coach while Joan and Thomas sat on the smaller side. He absently thought how lucky he was his couch was too big, but mostly he thought about how comfortable it was, and once again how much he wanted to sleep. There was quiet while they waited for food, but it was born out of exhaustion instead of anger.

Once they started to eat, however, some energy managed to fill them again, and quiet chatter started up. Roman mentioned quietly to Patton how cool it was to have a full sense of taste, while Joan struck up a conversation with Virgil and Logan on living in the Mind Space. He listened to them talk about the bookcase filled with books Thomas has read, about their rooms and the emotions connected, but only when Thomas was with them or they were feeling heightened. Roman chimed in with talk about his Realm filled with creativity and stories, while Patton mentioned the dog they had conjured and kept for a couple of weeks.

By the time the food was gone Thomas was nodding off, but he managed to get up and gather four sets of pajamas, mismatched and some grabbed simply because he didn’t know what would fit them. Like Virgil, who seemed too small for his pants and instead got a pair of boxers he bought a size too small, and Patton who he had to dig out one of his slightly larger shirts for. He wandered back to the living room on autopilot and took them all up to the spare bedroom.

They took the clothes from him and Patton grabbed a bunch of spare blankets, setting up two beds on the floor. They looked as out of it as him, and the chorus of “Goodnight, Thomas”’s were more mumbles than speech. He closed the door behind him and went back down to Joan, who was dozing on the couch.

“Thank you for coming over.” He said softly, “And thank you even more for being so helpful. I couldn’t have made it through tonight without you, and I’ll never be able to express how much it meant to me.”

“Everything is going to be alright, Thomas.” Joan insisted, and he smiled.

“Yeah, it probably will. But would you do me a favor and spend the night, so I know it’s not all some crazy dream tomorrow when I wake up?”

They took the hand he offered and pulled themselves up, giving him a teasing grin.

“What, you thought I was going to leave? It’s nearly 2 am, you owe me a place to sleep, dude.”

They headed sluggishly to bed, and everything else was tomorrow’s Thomas’s problem.

(tagging @strickenwithclairvoyance because they told me to, and they inspired me. Hope you like it! Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! (Also bold of you to assume there won’t be Deceit because he wasn’t ejected.))