#The seasonal depression is lifting lads | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fics-not-tragedies · 4 years ago

Text

One Day in December: Chapter 9 🎇

one - two - three - four - five - six - seven - eight - nine - ten - epilogue

The last chapter will be posted tomorrow folks! Enjoy this one today.

Words: 2154; Warnings: few smut bits, also alcohol drinking; Summary: This year the pair decided to sing together a Christmas classic before ditching he party.

Hozier tag list:

@letoursilencebreaktonight; @angelpeachamber; @sgt-morgan; @julessbrown;

December 2018

“Here…” Alex handed Andrew the flask and Andrew looked at him with a bewildered expression on his face, “Don’t look at me like that… you need it… have some.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and knocked a swing back, “Ughhhhh… God…” he bit back the strong liquid that burned his throat all the way down. Shaking his head, he stuck his tongue out and an icy cold chill whipped up between the cars, between their little circle and and around Andrew’s neck, “Fuck it” he murmured and took another hard swig. It may have burned, but it felt good once it was settled in his belly.

“We’re still doing this, eh?” Rory grinned looking between the two of them.

“Eh… it’s only once a year. Tradition, right?” Alex smiled at Andrew and he nodded his head with a grin.

“Tradition, yeah” Andrew handed the flask off to Rory and checked his phone one more time. It was getting late.

“Oh God!” Rory exclaimed, clutching his throat just beneath his his scarf, “That’s disgusting. Tastes like lighter fluid. Is that what it is?”

Both Andrew and Alex laughed at Rory’s reaction, and Alex defended his choice of liquor, reasoning that it would keep them warm. Which it was, so he hadn’t been wrong, really.

“Fuck it’s cold!” Andrew hissed, digging his hands deep into his pockets. The bass from the party was beckoning them inside, into the warmth and out of the crisp, damp, snow.

Alex frowned, “What’s the deal, mate? Is she-”

“Hey!! You better have saved a sip of that for me!” Bianca’s light, happy voice traveled on the wind, carrying it to the little cluster of lads huddled together, shielded from the wind by the car beside them. Andrew’s head whipped up at the sound, a smile breaking out on his face.

There she is.

Alex and Rory cheered and clapped at her arrival and Andrew grinned like a fool, opening his long arms up wide for her, “Hey you…” he breathed, a cloud of air engulfing them as she melted into him. He wrapped his arms around her tight, hugging him to her so close.

“Sorry I’m late…” Bianca sighed against Andrew’s neck, giggling when he tickled her sides.

“It’s fine, em… we just froze out here waiting for you…” he teased, giving her a pinch and tucking her against his side.

“Froze? What about the lighter fluid?” Alex grinned and Bianca held her hands out in indication that she wanted him to toss the flask her way.

It sailed through the air between the four of them and she caught it before knocking it back and finishing it completely. She gagged, “Fuck me. That’ll put hair on your chest” and then with a grin she added, “Shit… I should’ve saved some more for you Andy.”

“Ha!” He rolled his eyes and nipped at her playfully.

“Alright you two, let’s head inside, shall we?”

And so the four of them traipsed up the steps to the party that the friend they’d all met years ago and couldn’t quite remember how, had been throwing for nearly a decade now.

“Hey, where’s Cormac?” Bianca frowned when they pushed through the bodies and down the hall to the coat room.

“Stayed home with his family” Andrew informed her, holding his arms out to help her remove her jacket.

“Aw. I never thought it was quite as fun when all four of you weren’t together.”

Rory smiled and raised his eyebrows, tossing his jacket onto the pile and unknotting his scarf. It was the same one Bianca had seen him tuck around his neck the first night she met him, “I agree.”

“You can be him for the night Bianca if you’d like” Ryan chimed in, “The honorary fourth Hozier crew member.”

She grinned, “Those are some serious shoes to fill… but I can totally do that.”

Andrew and Bianca let themselves drink a little more than they usually did… seeing as to how now they had each other and there really wasn’t anything to be depressed about this holiday. They’d commandeered the karaoke. They were two hams that were finally unleashing their natural ability to entertain and sang through a barrage of songs. Bianca wasn’t shy and nervous anymore with Andrew by her side, and he’d finally begun to feel comfortable in his own skin. Sometimes getting older and finding the one you were meant to be with had a way of doing that.

“Wanna sing one more with me, baby?” Andrew raised his eyebrow at Bianca, his voice deep as he sang his question, his lips pressed to the mic. Bianca giggled from her perch on the arm of the couch where she sat through Andrew’s last two songs with Alex and then a few drunk friends of theirs who tried to wrench the mic from him in their intoxicated obnoxiousness.

“That depends…” she sang back in the other mic, standing up opposite him, “… what song? because I’m tired and I wanna go hoooooome.”

“It’s an old favorite” Andrew smiled, his face lighting up when he selected the song and the words showed up on the screen.

“The duet version” she felt her cheeks flush, remembering the last time this song was sang here; how sweet Andrew had looked when he sang it. He nodded his head to the screen, indicating that he wanted her to take the lead first. She smiled and rolled her eyes upwards. The key was going to be high for her, and she really didn’t have the voice that belonged on the same stage as her boyfriend. He was the singer in this couple, not her.

Clearing her throat as her countdown began, she chirped the first word, coughed with a smile and started again, catching up.

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we've no place to go

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

She swayed back and forth to the beat as Andrew began his part.

“It doesn't show signs of stopping

And I brought some corn for popping

The lights are turned down low

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” he sang flamboyantly and loud, making his way over to her and taking her hand. He spun her into his arms and then out all the way again so she nearly fell into Andrew’s lap.

A crowd had gathered.

When Bianca noticed this her face got bright red and she nearly gave up the mic, but Alex pushed her back in towards Andrew. She shook her head as he sang to her.

“When we finally kiss goodnight

How I'll hate to go out in the storm”

He was hamming it up now, improvising and throwing in his little ‘Andrew-isms’ just to make her laugh and she loved it. She adored him and her heart was full. Now came the part when they were meant to harmonize and it didn’t sound great, but they went with it anyways.

“But if you really hold me tight…” Andrew was pointing at himself, like ‘me? are you singing to me?’ And Bianca grinned, nodding her head and playing along. “… All the way home I'll be warm…”

And then he had her hand and he was singing right to her, her voice dying out as he took over.

“The fire is slowly dying

And my dear, we're still goodbying

But as long as you love me so

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow?”

Bianca giggled when Andrew kissed her cheek and squeezed her. Their performance warranted a round of applause and a few whistles here and there. Most of the guests in attendance had witnessed the last few years of their roller coaster of a love story and if they hadn’t been there first hand, they’d heard about it through a friend. It was a small town, good news travel fast, and everyone knew Andrew. Bianca became a local celebrity by association.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough for this kind of attention” she whispered in his ear, hiding her face, “How do you stand it every night?”

“You’re just not seasoned like I am” he teased her with another squeeze, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Yes!” Bianca exclaimed and for some reason, she got the feeling this would be the last time he’d be asking her that question in this house.

“Can you please hurry up?” Bianca called from the middle of her bed, the covers tucked up under her chin.

“What?” Andrew called to her from the bathroom around the corner, “Couldn’t hear you…”

He peeked around the corner at Bianca’s head floating on the pillows, seemingly bodiless beneath the blankets. He snorted, his toothbrush wedged between his teeth.

She grinned at him, her cheeks flushed, her shoulder-length tawny hair in a little knot on the top of her head. “I said can you please hurry up because I’m freezing.”

He laughed again, “Baby… how can you be freezing when-”

Andrew stopped mid-sentence when Bianca lifted the blankets and flashed him her naked body quickly, her mouth an open smile, her hazel eyes twinkling. Andrew pulled his toothbrush from his mouth and threw it over his shoulder. It clattered to the floor behind him somewhere, and Bianca giggled when he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled on top of her over the covers, “Thought you were tired and all that?” Andrew asked her between kisses. He covered her cheeks and her forehead, her eyelashes and the tip of her nose.

“Tired of that party” she laughed as he felt her up through the blankets, squeezing her and tickling her, supporting his weight by leaning up, his knee on other side of her waist, “Can we never go back again?”

“Never?” He murmured, inching down the blankets slowly as he kissed across the tips of her shoulders and her collarbone.

“Ever.”

“Never ever?”

“I don’t wanna go back!” She cried with a laugh as he shimmied the comforter down further, exposing her breasts. She tried to cover herself from the icy cool air of the room, but he nudged her hands away with his nose, and swatted at her.

Andrew chuckled against the warmth of her soft skin, “No reason to really…”

“There isn’t. I only went for you. And now I’ve got you” she sighed happily, sliding her fingers into his hair while his minty cool lips took her nipple into his mouth. He sucked on her slowly, his fingertips and thumbs stroking her sides. Goosebumps dotted her skin and she shivered.

“Pretty sure…” Andrew mumbled through each sinful, wanton pass of his tongue, “It’s I who’s got you.”

Bianca moaned softly, laughing at the tingly way her body melted with that incredible mouth of his, “Either way. Not going back” she combed her fingers over and over through his long locks. He’d cut it over the summer, but it was back to this length again, and when he didn’t tied it, it reminded her of her Andrew beneath the mistletoe in two thousand twelve. So soft, and gentle, and sweet.

“Good” he moaned as he trailed sloppy, wet open-mouthed kisses down her torso, “Can I ask you em, one thing?”

She tugged on his hair when his nose brushed against her, tickling her, “Yes…”

“What are you doing New Year’s Eve?” He muttered against the bone of her hip, his teeth gently nipping at her. He looked up at her, kissing her once more before climbing over her and pulling the blankets up around them. He settled between her legs, resting on his elbows beside her head, “Wanna come back with me and spend the New Year in Dublin? I know this isn’t as exclusive as it sounds, since we’re, em, an hour away from Dublin, but let’s change something.”

Bianca raised her eyebrows at the suggestion. She’d only been to Andrew’s once during the summer for a few weeks. She’d loved it.

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” Andrew grinned, brushing his nose against hers, “You can stay for as long as you want, don’t have to come running back” he kissed her soft pink lips slow and lazy, leaning on one arm to push her leg open wider for him. He brushed his fingers against her, getting them slick and wet. Bianca moaned, sliding his pants over his hips and ass, snaking her hand inside to wrap around him and stroke him slowly before guiding him inside her.

She sighed when he filled her up, her hands on his ass, holding him against her. He lay there on top of her for a moment, gazing heavily into those pretty eyes of hers. He realized then he didn’t want to have to say goodbye to her anymore every time he left.

“I’d like it if you stayed with me…” Andrew whispered, his lips brushing against hers, “More…permanently.”

20 notes · View notes

sailor-cresselia · 5 years ago

Text

Zi-O 45: “THIS WENT FROM COOL TO HOLY SHIT REAL FAST.”

Last time: Swartz became Another Decade, and summoned a whole bunch of Dark Movie Riders, who proceeded to start kicking Sougo and Geiz’s butts.

Then G4 pulled out a missile launcher.

This time? Who knows, it’s Zi-O.

(Please enjoy my 10-page liveblog, with heavy Drive and Double fangirling, and my love of continuity nods.)

––––

So, yeah, G4 firing missiles at the boys! Fortunately, Woz has decided to skip the time freeze part of his recap, and says… basically what I just said, before grabbing Sougo and Geiz with his scarf and teleporting the three of them out of there.

Then we go into the Recap Vault, where he reminds us about Miharu showing up, and his intention to bring Geiz and Tsukuyomi back.

Woz comments that ‘it’s almost time for them to say goodbye.’

We go DIRECTLY into the credits from there, not even a minute into the episode.

––––

Oof. The episode proper starts with the four lads – Sougo, Geiz, Woz, and Heure (who I’d forgotten was Also There) walking along the river/drainage basin. Sougo comments that he can’t believe that Swartz’s – no, Another Decade’s – power is to bring in other Riders.

Geiz snaps, practically slamming Heure into the railing, saying that he’d tricked them – Hora was Another Drive, so Heure must have been lying the entire time.

Heure’s panicking as soon as Geiz turns on him – he didn’t know, he really didn’t – but Geiz, being Geiz, doesn’t listen. He tells Heure to get out of there before he really snaps and beats him up – so Heure all but runs off, plainly scared and confused.

Sougo calls Geiz out. Heure didn’t know, he’s changed since Swartz turned on him, after all, and they were starting to work together.

Geiz, being Geiz, says that people don’t change so easily, pointing out that Heure’s usual MO is manipulating people. He does have a point, but he slips up when he says that an enemy is always an enemy.

Sougo doesn’t look hurt by this. Just disappointed. What did Geiz come back here for, anyway?

To defeat Oma Zi-O before he could become Oma Zi-O.

Here’s where Sougo gets angry. Really, truly angry. If people never change, there’s no way they can make a better future.

Geiz points out, growing increasingly furious, that it’s Sougo who destroyed the future, that it’s his fault in the first place.

I don’t like the look on Sougo’s face right now. He says that’s the future him, that since it’s the future, they can still change it in the now. I’m… not sure I want to know what Sougo’s thinking of for ‘changing the future,’ because he looks frustratedly depressed.

Geiz questions what the hell Sougo could know, he has no idea what it’s like for people in that future.

Sougo gets quiet, saying that Geiz is right, he doesn’t know, and walks off.

Woz has watched both of these exchanges from the side, and sighs as he watches Sougo walk off.

Geiz just looks down.

––––

We come to Heure, hiding by an abandoned building, when Hora approaches. Startled, Heure yells for her to stay away. She’s an Another Rider, isn’t she?

Hora doesn’t seem to have any idea what he’s talking about.

Starting to freak out, Heure thinks. Maybe – maybe the Another Rider was just using her as a disguise, to throw him off balance. She tries to come over to him, presumably to calm him down, but he fully flips, saying that she still might be that Another Rider, and runs off, uncharacteristically clumsily.

Hora just looks confused, and maybe a little sad. It’s hard to say with her – she’s always kept her emotions pretty hidden, and does have a history of manipulating people, even more so than Heure. INCLUDING Heure, actually, given her actions during the second part of the Kikai arc.

––––

Sougo’s walking down those stairs we see so often, when a former classmate shows up, saying it’s been a long time. I think we’re supposed to know him, his name’s Owada, and he’s actually excited to see Sougo. He’s a pro gamer, and is participating in a tournament that will let him represent Japan…

Oh, hang on, is this the classmate from the Ex-Aid arc?

Yes, yes he is! Nice continuity nod, there!

Anyway, after briefly asking why Sougo’s so beat up – which Sougo brushes off, saying he’s fine – he asks Sougo to come watch him play, completely disregarding Sougo’s protests of it not being a good time for that.

––––

Heure’s running, finding himself at one of those abandoned factories, when Hora appears from inside one. She’s got some bad news. This is where he’s going to die. Pulling out the Another Drive watch, she transforms.

I appreciate the touch with the transformation including the wheel images from above and below coming to form the armor, and including Shinnosuke’s little post-transformation side-lean.

Running, Heure tries to use his time stop, but Another Drive’s faster, and beats him to the punch by activating Slowdown. She starts wailing on him, punches to the gut, backhanding him in the face, and then throwing him bodily towards a stack of barrels and crates, cancelling the slowdown just in time for him to impact at full speed.

Hora calls Heure’s name, running up to them. She sounds worried for him! Yay! But also there’s still an Another Drive, saying that ‘we finally meet… me.’

Hora tries to use her time powers – tries, clenching her fist and grimacing as she throws her hand out. Nothing happens.

She’s clearly been trying to do this for a while, too. There are numerous indents on her palm, where her nails have dug in over and over. Too many to just have been from this one time.

Another Drive zooms over, and hoists Hora by the neck, lifting her from the ground.

Hora asks – struggling – what they are.

The answer… they’re the Paradox Roidmude.

To which I, a Drive fan, have a general reaction of NOPE NO NUH-UH I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS!!

For those who didn’t watch Drive, or didn’t watch it’s movies, Paradox, or Roidmude 108, was the villain of “Kamen Rider Drive: Surprise Future”, Drive’s summer movie, who basically wanted to stop the world. Forever. A permanent Global Freeze, and he tried to do it by… what was it again? OH RIGHT. By coming back in time from 2035! SO, YAY! MORE TIME TRAVEL SHENANIGANS!

Listen, Surprise Future is a great movie, and I highly recommend it. Also, its ending theme, “re-ray”, is amazing.

Anyway, Drive!Paradox transforms back into Hora’s appearance, notably using the original Roidmude transformation effects, instead of the Another Rider ones. They have wonderful news. Hora’s going to disappear, and they’ll become the real one. Hora’s lost her powers, so it’s not like she needs to exist.

I really appreciate both of these nods, actually. The fact that a Roidmude is using a combination of their own native abilities and the Another Rider ones, and the acknowledgment that they copy people – right down to their character tics and habits. Medic kept her human’s ballet, Brain held onto that handkerchief for the majority of the season, just out of habit, and Paradox… this time around, they’ve picked up Hora’s old ‘catchphrase.’ Remember, when Hora made Another Riders, she did offer a choice, saying that she had bad news, but also good news.

So yeah, nice continuity nods they’ve got going there.

Oh, right, the show.

Anyway, Hora’s being lifted by her neck, struggling to breath. Paradox changes back to Another Drive – this time with the Another Rider effects – and starts laughing. Heure is terrified, and probably feels really bad about suspecting Hora now. Not that I can blame him on either front, but still.

A green-and-purple fist punches Another Drive away from Hora.

Kamen Rider Woz, in Ginga form.

––––

Over at 9-to-5, I realize that the logo isn’t just a pendulum clock, but the hands also looks a bit like a pair of glasses.

Geiz walks in to a darkened shop, Tsukuyomi sitting there, stoic. He comments that she’s back.

So, she has been gone since the end of the last arc, then? For the last month? Because we do get confirmation that it’s been a month – that giant gear-clock on the back wall also has a calendar function, which says it’s July 23. Thus, we know two things. First, there has been a time skip since the Another Den-O and Zi-O II arcs. Second, that the previous episode probably took place over the course of a few days, since July 23 is a Tuesday. Most episodes take place around Sunday or so, depending on if the show involves school or not, which does throw a bit of a wrench in that.

Anyway, I got distracted. Tsukuyomi tells Geiz that she met Miharu, and that if they stay here in 2019, they’ll never make the future that they wanted.

Geiz agrees. They shouldn’t have come here in the first place, all they did was run away from their own issues.

This scene has no background music at all, just the pair of them talking, and the ticking of clocks in the background, growing louder as the scene goes on, and ending with one decisive ‘tick’ as Geiz turns to the camera, lit from behind by the window, saying they should go back to their own era.

––––

Turns out Owada’s game tournament is Tekken. Again. Seriously, can they not get Namco to let them use at least one of the other properties, or is this the only one they want to get the rights for? Ah well, it’s more appropriate for this guy than it was for Tsutomu back in Hibiki arc, since Owada was from Ex-Aid’s arc, and Tekken played a role in the backstory there.

Unfortunately, he lost. Really badly.

Sougo tries to talk to him as they head out, but Owada’s not having it, telling Sougo to shut up and shoving him away before running.

Before running headlong into Swartz, that is. Who says something about making Owada’s own world.

He then proceeds to summon what look like tendrils of that ripple texture, which come out of the ground, latching onto Owada before surrounding him in an orb, which then shrinks down into a small ball. We can see an image of him gaming in it, before Sougo runs up, asking what Swartz did.

Swartz, being Swartz, doesn’t answer, simply saying that he has an interesting game for Sougo. The ball spins into a dimensional wall, which passes backward…

And leaves someone else in it’s wake.

Someone who seems upset at being brought here, saying that he’d thought he’d met a proper death, while implying that it’s not the first time this has happened.

Katsumi Daido. Kamen Rider Eternal.

He’s going to give Sougo a taste of hell.

To which I, a Double fan, have a general reaction of NOPE NO NUH-UH I AM NOT OKAY WITH THIS!!

For those who didn’t watch Double, or didn’t watch it’s movies, Daidou was the villain of “Kamen Rider W Forever: A to Z/The Gaia Memories of Fate”, Double’s summer movie, who was basically The Worst and tried to turn everyone in the city of Fuuto into ‘Necro-overs.’ Basically, he died, and his mother brought him back to life as… technically not a zombie, but he’s basically undead, and can’t be re-killed by normal means. He came back a little crazy. (Also, no, I don’t mean undead in the Blade sense, I mean the resurrected dead person sense.)

Also, his actor, Mitsuru Matsuoka, did the ending song for that movie, “W”… which is not nearly as good as the five songs he did for Drive, its movies, and specials, including the earlier mentioned “re-ray.”

Fun times!

Eternal is a great suit, with the exception of that stupid trash-bag cape, which I hope he gets rid of at some point in this episode.

…Sougo why are you in BASE FORM?! This guy was summoned here by Swartz, and your track record against other Kamen Riders as base Zi-O is not good, to put it lightly.

Like, literally the only Rider he’s come out on top against as original flavor Zi-O is Geiz.

Ohh, but I do love that they used the old Gaia Memory sound effects, driver and all. And there’s the movie-and-special variant of the transformations! I mean, transformations in W are always a treat, but in bigger-budget productions, they have this effect where during the standby, the icon for the Gaia Memory in use stays visible, and circles of energy in the Memories respective color radiate outward from the driver. It’s always a treat to see. Also, kudos for how whenever Eternal lands a direct hit, there’s those blue flames coming from where he connects.

––––

At 9-to-5, still in the dark, Geiz takes Tsukuyomi’s arm, saying that they’re going home together. He’s rushing, as if he’s well aware that waiting will kill off his resolve. Again.

But Miharu shows up, telling them that together isn’t an option. They’re from different timelines, after all. They’re going to different places.

Geiz sounds dejected as he remembers that. They didn’t know that until a month ago, after all, so it stands to reason that he’d forget. He takes off.

When he’s gone, Tsukuyomi says that… yes, Miharu’s right, but could she have just a little more time? They’d only gotten hope once they met Sougo, so-

Miharu stops her. That hope is for Sougo and the others. Miharu’s not wrong – Tsukuyomi is from a different branch, while Geiz is from Sougo’s. But here’s the thing. All of Tsukuyomi’s memories? They’re all from that same timeline as Geiz. She doesn’t remember her original home at all; the person she is now is entirely from the timeline where Oma Zi-O took over. She only found any of this out a month ago. There’s no way she could be used to it.

Miharu, awkwardly, says that they should probably go get her powers back from Swartz, and that he’ll help her with that.

––––

Back to the Woz Versus Another Drive fight!

Wherein Another Drive activates Slowdown – again – but Woz cancels it out on his own. How? Ginga Finaly is based on space, and things are weightless there – the gravity intensifying effect of slowdown can’t do jack to him. Also, he cancels it out for the rest of the area.

Another Drive is only slightly impressed, and proceeds to knock him off his feet by doing a sliding kick right into his legs. You know. Because car.

As they get up, that slowed down version of the Tridoron horn plays, and I get sad all over again.

Oh, uh, at this point, I should probably say why I’m using ‘they’ to refer to Another Drive/Paradox. See, Roidmudes technically don’t have genders. They normally use the pronouns of whoever they’ve copied. Right now, for Paradox, that’s Hora. However, the last time we saw Paradox, they were copying Tomari Eiji, aka Shinnosuke’s future son. So… it’s a tricky subject for me, so I’m erring on the side of caution and going gender-neutral with regards to Paradox. (Last episode, I had caught spoilers that Another Drive was ‘Hora’, so I tried to stay neutral through the liveblog because A; the Another Rider never spoke, so any mention of gender would be a spoiler in and of itself, and B; I wasn’t supposed to know that ‘Hora’ was the one behind the Watch, so I didn’t want to spoil that.)

Okay, fight time. As Another Drive is getting up, we hear an announcement. TYPHOON

Enter Geiz, in a nice mini fight sequence where both he and Paradox are moving fast enough that they leave afterimages. I mean, it’s pretty poorly green-screened in, but it’s a nice idea. With riders like Kabuto and Faiz around, it’s not hard to forget that one of Drive’s gimmicks is his speed. He doesn’t get to show it off that much on his own, so the fact they’re utilizing it here, even as an Another Rider copy, is cool. So was having the three of them team up in HeiGen Forever.

Heure’s surprised that Geiz is helping them – he’d just threatened Heure’s life, at most a few hours ago.

Geiz’s reply? He’s not fond of being rescued, or maybe just not fond of owing.

You know. The same thing Heure said last episode when he came in for the save when Geiz and Sougo were fighting Another Drive.

Geiz switches into Fury, and starts fighting again.

––––

Switching back over to Sougo Versus Eternal!

OH LOOK ETERNAL STILL HAS HIS KNIFE.

Sougo’s more worried about that wall behind them, which still shows Owada gaming, as Swartz watches on, smirking. However, someone else is watching. Namely, one Kadoya Tsukasa.

“Oh, so that’s what you’re doing with my power?”

Swartz doesn’t lose his signature smugness. He’s already got Tsukasa’s power, so there’s no way that he can interfere.

Unfortunately for Swartz, Decade-the-season never actually established what powers are Decade’s and what powers are Tsukasa’s. See… Tsukasa’s power? Is the fact he exists.

After all, those walls? He’s not the only one who’s been able to use them. In fact, he didn’t use them back in his season! He traveled through them on accident a few times, and never without pain when he was an adult. His younger sister could open them, and so could Narutaki, but Tsukasa? Nope. Not until his post-season appearances, same as Daiki.

So these? They aren’t tied to his being Decade at all.

(Same as Takeru’s psychic force-powers – those are inherited. That runs in his family, which handily explains how he was able to use them in Zi-O, whether he was in the camp that forgot being a rider or remembered. It was super unclear, after all. Those were not the ‘I know, right’ comments of someone who had no idea what it was like being a ghost.)

Anyway, Tsukasa takes the wall that Swartz was controlling, and moves it over himself and the Zi-O Versus Eternal grappling match, taking Sougo away with him.

––––

Tsukasa and Sougo are in the tournament room, where Owada just won the game, against an opponent with his face nearly blanked out.

Wait, won? Sougo’s so confused – he lost the match, why is he saying he won? He tries to talk sense into his friend, but then-

Time reverses, like a frames of film being played backward just a little too fast, the screen glitching slightly, as though it can’t keep up.

Sougo finds himself back next to Tsukasa, where Owada just won the game.

Tsukasa’s figured out what’s going on. Swartz has made little pocket ‘Another Worlds’ to put people in, reliving moments of ‘lost possibilities’ over and over again. Why? To be able to summon Dark Riders, like the one Sougo was just fighting.

In the reuglar world, he was defeated by Double. But in this world, he must have won.

––––

As Tsukasa is saying that this version of Eternal defeated Double, we cut back to the main universe, where Eternal looks… a bit confused as to where Sougo went. If not confused, exactly, then at least frustrated. Curious, maybe. Miharu steps into frame, clutching a brightly colored pair of boxers.

(Eiji, I know you were well meaning, but I think he took your advice a little too much to heart.)

There’s a medal-flip sound effect as Miharu reminds himself that he promised to protect everyone’s tomorrows. He transforms into Aqua, and goes on the offense.

––––

In Owada’s World, Tsukasa says it’s time to go, because their goal isn’t here. Sougo wants to save Owada, but apparently he can’t. So long as this world, on an infinite one-minute loop, exists, there’s no way to get him out.

––––

Back at the warehouse, Paradox makes me almost choke on my damned Twizzler when they stick out an arm and a FREAKING ANOTHER TRIDORON SHOWS UP.

Oh MAN, this thing is all pipes and clawed front and OH MAN YOU JUST BROUGHT A CAR TO A PERSON FIGHT.

Also, we see why they’re in one of the wide-open warehouses, because that gives enough space for the Another Tridon (again, WTF) to do drifts and turns and knock Woz and Geiz every which way.

We cut from the fight to Heure and Hora, her picking herself back up… with a lot more ease than should be possible from someone who was almost choked to death. Especially since Heure didn’t have that happen, and can barely support himself enough to sit up. She asks if he’s okay, to which he replies that the whole thing was a little too close for comfort.

“Oh. I’ll make this easy, then.” She takes him by the shoulder-

A dimensional wall opens, dropping Sougo off. His eyes widen in shock.

At the top of the stairs from earlier, Swartz grins.

Hora is kneeling next to Heure…

With a blade of red energy, longer than her torso, coming from her hand.

It’s jabbed through Heure’s chest.

THIS WENT FROM COOL TO HOLY SHIT REAL FAST.

As Hora pulls back, Heure can’t understand why she did this.

With that usual detached manner, she puts it simply. It’s nothing personal. It’s that they can’t live and escape from Swartz. Pulling his little hair decoration off – with a chunk of hair, presumably, because I’m pretty sure it was just beads and feathers on a string of hair – she says that the one to survive will be her. She walks off, letting Heure fall to the ground, struggling to breath and clutching his chest.

His very blood-stained chest.

Sougo shouts his name, running over, and holds Heure in his arms.

A brief moment later, Heure stops moving.

As Sougo screams for Heure, Paradox starts laughing madly, shoving Geiz and Woz away, saying that this is what they expect from them, from a better them.

Sougo is enraged. What the hell is so funny, why the hell are they laughing?!

(Okay, he doesn’t actually swear, but I’m pretty sure he would if he could get away with it.)

He enters Grand as he runs, and starts beating Another Drive.

––––

Eternal and Aqua are at the docks now. Good location choice for a water-based rider – although, apparently Eternal’s god-awful cape is actually useful for something, because he uses it to block the majority of the force behind the water attacks.

The self-proclaimed Grim Reaper says it’s party time – because Daido came back super crazy, okay? He’s not all there in his usual canon, much less here. Actually, he’s worse normally.

Thing is? Miharu’s not actually here to fight him, and proceeds to shoot an attack at Swartz, gripping him in… a fist and series of belts made of water.

OUR GOOD FUTURE BOY IS A WATER BENDER! I’M SO PROUD!

Here comes Tsukuyomi, to take her powers back. Swartz actually seems to have been caught off guard! That’s not like him.

That’s not like him at all.

Oh, RIGHT, Miharu, you’re still technically stuck fighting Katsumi, so, here ya go, one undead murder-man coming at you. Eternal actually says that the ‘party is getting watered down’, that’s not even a translation thing, he says ‘party’ in English, and I distinctly hear ‘mizu’, so he’s actually saying this, I can’t believe they went with that joke.

I also can’t believe that he’s dumb enough to throw himself and aqua into the water. You know. Aqua. A WATER-POWERED KAMEN RIDER.

And Miharu has a good line for him, too, after zipping around and punching him as Eternal tries to dodge. “I’m from the future, you’re just a ghost of the past!”

The rebuttal? “In the end, even the future becomes the past.”

WOW, these are some good lines here!

He proceeds to create a water vortex, because the Eternal skillset is undefined and overpowered, and throws the both of them back on land.

Swartz throws off his water-shackles and Tsukuyomi’s draining by transforming into Another Decade, knocking her down.

She struggles to get up as he approaches, chuckling menacingly, and Miharu calls her name. (Well, her former name. Her name is Tsukuyomi, please use it!)

––––

In the warehouse, Geiz and Woz are standing at a distance from the Grand Zi-O Versus Another Drive brawl. They. Uh. Well, they probably just don’t want to get in the way, right? They were just getting their butts handed to them on a platter, and Sougo’s really pissed off right now. So, it’s probably better to stay out of the way, right? Right.

Sougo summons Drive out of 2014, by slamming his fist onto the figure on his thigh. They proceed to wail on Another Drive some more, and…

Geiz leaves, with what seems to be a sigh before he turns and walks out.

Finish Time! Grand Zi-O!

SO WOW.

The finisher this time?

Summons the Tridoron, which circles around everyone, smashing the Another Tridoron to bits, before the finisher properly activates. The belt may be saying “All Twenty! Time Break!” but this? This is the Full Throttle: Speed finisher!

THIS is both Drive and Zi-O ricocheting off of the circling Tridoron, faster than can be followed, slamming into Another Drive over and over, before they merge together (!) for Zi-O to perform a one-man Rider Kick.

Another Drive starts to give off blue arcs of electricity, and the blocky lights of a Roidmude exploding, before reverting to Hora’s appearance, and then to Paradox’s evolved form, before their body goes up in an explosion. Two Roidmude cores emerge from that explosion, before going up themselves. 108… and 108.

Paradox only gained an evolved form after the version from 2035 literally merged with the version from 2015.

So, of course there were technically two Paradoxes for Swartz to bring in.

––––

Still in the warehouse, it’s later. Much later – the sun is going down, as judged by the fading light through the dirty windows. It was bright before.

Sougo drops to his knees next to Heure’s body, barely saying his name, his voice trembling.

A distance away, Woz – still transformed – watches.

––––

At the docks – also approaching sunset. Wow, that sure came on fast, didn’t it? Seeing as they’re right where they left off with the four-person fight.

Swartz – as Another Decade – basically hurls Tsukuyomi to the ground, with her rolling into a… partition? Mini-wall? What do you call the barrier between a green-space and a sidewalk? IDK, the curb section. Aqua can’t get to her, because Eternal’s keeping him busy. You know. With his KNIFE.

Swartz advances on Tsukuyomi, hand raised, but he’s knocked aside by Geiz, now in Revive Typhoon again.

“So, you came after all. I thought you would. Let’s make a world just for you.”

Swartz. Swartz, no. Don’t flick your hand like that. Don’t summon those dimension tendrils. You let Geiz out of that bubble right now, old man.

Don’t you spin that thing into forming a wall. Cut that out.

Don’t pull a familiar laughing figure through.

With a beret and some god-awful neon sunglasses.

Put that Hat Woz back where he came from or so help me-

SO HELP ME!

––––

The closing screen is… Huh. The Drive watch is front and center, with Revive Typhoon in the right corner… and the Eternal Gaia Memory in the lower left.

––––

Preveiw time says…

We’re getting a Woz Versus Woz fight, and it ought to be a bit less one-sided, now that they’ve both got drivers.

Eternal’s losing the cape for his party time – except it’s for the worse, because that’s a whole lot of Gaia Memories up in there. If I had to guess, I’d say… 26? One for each letter of the alphabet. Enough to set off his full power Maximum Drive – the “Never Ending Hell” Maximum Drive.

Yeah. Dude’s got issues.

There’s a sound clip of Geiz… shouting that he wants to make a new future with someone. Doesn’t say who, of course, because that would be even more spoilery than a preview usually is. Could be Tsukuyomi, could be Sougo, could be both.

The last sound clip is Sougo, saying that ‘it’s the king who makes the world a better place, it’s that kind of power!’

It’s played over shots of him down on the ground, in the rain, with Swartz standing over him. Sougo looks badly beaten up… and furious.

#kamen rider zi o #kamen rider decade #kamen rider drive #kamen rider w #kamen rider double #kamen rider ooo #sailorcressy says

15 notes · View notes

lilithnewzealand · 5 years ago

Text

Outlasting the darkness: lessons of six Scottish winters

A view towards the Isle of Mull from its neighbor island, Kerrera--spring

I begin these winter musings in the final weeks of the American summer. Light is waning, and we splash one last time in the magnificent lake, pretending that the golden heat of this muggy, molten season will live on forever. In reality, the earth in its tilted run is already siphoning the minutes off the days. We can no longer reliably plan late evening BBQs around our garden’s shady oak tree, for it will already be dark by 7pm in these last weeks of August. Suddenly, we’re careening into the hectic, school-filled days of early September. One or two punctilious neighbors have already mutinously exchanged flip-flop door wreaths for pumpkins and gourds. I know that in the weeks to come, a veritable sea of hay bales and potted autumnal mums will sprout up in pleasant but unoriginal beatification of this dying season.

Chrysanthemums seem seductive envoys of death, cultivated to bloom only in hues mirroring those of a mature leaf’s swan song—pear-like yellows, burnt oranges, reds umbers, and even crackling browns. Flowers that are unwelcome and doer in the heady exuberance of spring find themselves the befitting adornment of atrophy and waning. Festive gourds, Halloween treats, and crisply weathered hayrides ease us like a conciliatory lullaby into the season that flows towards the utter darkness of the northern hemisphere’s agonizing winter solstice.

I will admit that It is not beyond me to pray, to beseech, to quietly plea for something as elementary as winter sun. Just as I pray quirky prayers that as a Western populace we’d forgo ease and profit for truly earth-honoring, nutrient rich, non-carenogenic farming, or that God would bring suffering children out from pain and fear this night, or for a friend who’s mother no longer lives, so I whisper this prayer for the mercy of winter light. I lift my voice in an entreaty that as the icy air stings our braced, pale faces, and layers panoply our bodies, that the far off winter sun with its weakened winter force would reign over our sky.

I come to these prayers with memories of winter’s capacity for mental woundedness. For six long seasons, I lived as a young adult through the insanity inducing darkness of west coast Scotland’s seemingly amaranthine, sodden winters. While before my travels I had known in theory that places such as Finland, Alaska, and Russia endured a departed sun for seasons together, I was wholly unprepared for the true, if somewhat functional insanity human beings endure when caught in the grip of a dark, far north winter. I had come to a country whose springs and summers produced some of the most stunning landscapes on earth, but whose winters’ lightlessness and wet stung the equilibrium of every cogent citizen. At ten steps beyond cozy indoor lounging, and peaceful snow-filled Saturdays, winter in the Scottish city I’d called home was, in my experience, something to survive, like an ancient, enveloping, heavy, returning foe. This is my small tale of everyday endurance.

When I left east coast America for Glasgow, Scotland in 2005 as an energetic, adventure-seeking twenty-two year old graduate student, I only vaguely considered British lore of generally omniscient rain and mist. If tea and scones accompanied that promised rain, I felt equal to its challenge. After all, I was no stranger to varieties of weather. We of the American Northeast gloried in the wonder of nature’s four faces, and cherished each one’s splendor.

Not we the soft, milk toast citizens of mild Florida, with its perpetual clemency like the slog of a meteorological purgatory, never proceeding from heaven into hell, or fleeing hell into the promise to heaven (apart from those apocalyptic moments of hurricane decimation, to be fair!). Nor were we the unfathomable folk who think it prudent to nurture community so far north as to warrant cars block heaters and homes with double heating systems. Surely a routine -30 F was nature’s indication, to western folk at least, that such landscapes as Alaska or Manitoba were not intended for human flourishing!

For all the variety of season, one reasonable constant was sunshine. From fifteen hours of committed, humid sunlight in the height of a suburban Philadelphia summer to a mere, miserable nine hours mid-December, with sunsets slipping down by 4.36pm instead of summer’s 8.32pm, the sun still at least shone weakly and cruelly in winter. How different it all was just across the pond where dramatic lochs lay and bagpipers piped.

In the beginning, my new young adult life in the art-loving, gritty, dually medieval and Victorian city of Glasgow proved mostly splendid. The beauty of nearby Hebridean islands, hill walking, and Harry Potteresque Edinburgh all soothed the longing I’d followed for vivid, three-dimensional encounter with everything I’d seen on the countless BBC murder mysteries and Jane Austen adaptions. With ceilidhs to dance, coffee shops to visit, curry to discover, and accents to unpack, the insidious impact of a profound lack of vitamin D3 upon my skin and in my body went under my radar. My mind perhaps registered the lack of sun, but only to complain or “winge” of its inconvenience, as the Scots would say. Surely, the November sky was darker than I’d ever known, but there was a jolly Burns night feast to attend, and a grotesque Haggis to address and devour.

Loch Katrine, July

Soon, alongside studies, I had found work at an inner city hotel’s vivacious restaurant. The job stretched my world from church and post-graduate university to the bustling business district of that medieval city. Working the evening shift at the flashy five-star hotel’s eatery, I saw business executives live in rooms week-to-week as their veritable second home, while lush, pleasure-seeking weekend holiday makers shifted the energy to indulgence come weekends. Often, I’d wake from a drug-like sleep the next afternoon in recovery from a previous night’s early morning finish. Weary from consecutive hours of cultivating restaurant elegance on the ground floor, while then frantically couriering steaming room service to more private, weary, or work burdened guests on upper floors, we topped long evenings with free beers and huge communal plates of greasy chips in the wee hours. Night after night, we sat like those participating in a greasy, ritualistic, pagan Scottish communion, where no one but me remembered Jesus’ body and blood.

As the sun glowed a very muted gray buzz across the daytime sky, I’d then half glimpse two hours of cloudy half-light before diving back into the murky cave of our sophisticated but windowless hotel restaurant. Here, I served Scottish rack of lamb to the lonely Welsh businessman, or waited upon the elderly far north Scot who kept the chefs in their windowless aluminum kitchen interested in life by routinely ordering the “special” of the day, chased down by an elegant but heavy triple Laphroig. We’d watch this distinguished man canter very intentionally, like a lad pulled over for his sobriety test, back across the street to the more budget hotel where he slept off this gourmet evening, ready for the following day’s to work on Scottish Educational databases.

When I’d dart out to the wide atrium bar for a diner’s wine or beer in winter, not a spot of sunlight could be seen after 3.30pm, despite the 25 foot floor-to-ceiling windows that invited every ray of lingering sun. Blackness framed the football (soccer!) fans zealously bedecked in their ribald sporting colors, marching drunkenly through the streets to and from pubs screening their games. Their glamor and serious fervor was like a shout of resolve against the depressing dimness.

As I raced along hotel corridors with my dented aluminum room service trolley and my tender, undying hopes of a small cash tip, I’d consume any glimpses of light or sky in passing windows. The mournful beauty of gulls swooping in the inky night’s electric semi-glow is my salient memory of visual grace on these long roomservice patrols along unrelieved gray corridors. Arriving at the penthouse suite on such a preternaturally shaded evening, burdened with the happy, hot, succulent roast chicken for Tony Bennett or hot chocolate and scrambled eggs for Jermaine Jackson and his shy, Caucasian girlfriend, I would sometimes pity the confusion I imagined these grand American stars must feel in our dark cityscape. Why would a civilization choose to stay and inhabit such a gritty and preternaturally dark island? On the surface of things, our commitment to this dim, soggy winter space seemed bewildering and foolishly patriotic.

Wrapped in the stalwart blanket of Scottish pride, Scots rarely discussed why they stayed at all, or how they survived. A tale of explanation that I once read was that in former generations the peoples occupying the coastal lands had found the atmospheric shoreline and islands habitable by aid of their vitamin D3 rich fish, seaweed, and cod liver oils. These they kept in a vat of fermenting sea fruits near the door of their mud-made huts. Oozing the invaluable nectar D3–liquid sunlight in food form--these earlier chiefs and clanspeople weathered the darkness abetted by foodstocks most natural to human survival in their particular climate. Did some of this impulse survive in the English and Scottish default to fish and chips on any possible occasion? In America, we grab burgers or sushi on the run. In Scotland, folk did a wee nip doon to the chippie, perhaps in an unconscious genetic compulsion back towards the fish liver oil origins enabling their earlier mental survival.

Modern-day Scotland offered not so much a supplemental strategy, as a mission of pitiable smothering —endurance through camaraderie and pub life. In short, we drank the winter away. The prevalence of alcohol, clubbing, and more alcohol, to forget or enliven the threatening, consuming darkness was farught reality. This turn to the wine, the jack and cokes, the gin and tonics, and what became gallons of hard cider was followed, inevitably, by pursuit of deliciously repulsive fried food. A vivid memory of a winter’s evening during my university years in Glasgow was standing with friends in a grease-filled chip shop at 3 am, where a sober, level-headed, but smirking shop owner in turban and mustache served the scantily dressed, blitzed, and literally tottering western “Christian” guests a zero nutrient meal of hot chips (fries), with the chip shop’s familiar grayish green anointing curry. Indeed, a mini industry had sprung around the predictable depression of winter-bound, partying Scots—that of chippies and fish shops, open into the wee hours of the morning. By the end of six years in Glasgow, I stood well aware of the national sting of alcoholism, but certainly, and sadly, not without understanding.

I paint with broad strokes here, of course. These are memories mainly from days spent among hotel friends and university colleagues. My church friends weathered the winter rather more sedately, but not without a wee nip to get through the days, and certainly with a lion’s share of fish and chips. West Wing DVD binges, evening parties of games and “chewing the fat” (fun, leisurely chat), and mini-breaks for those who could afford to flee the gray all sustained the less alcohol prone types, as we grinned and struggled to bear the black winter away.

For myself, winterizing our let Scottish flat remained central to my mental survival. There is such a thing as cutting off your arm to spite your face. And, there is such a thing as having no good choices. When the darkness of a Scottish winter crept into Glasgow like the angel of death looking for blood on the lintels of homes, I was living with two American expatriate friends in a grand West End Glasgow flat. A magnanimous blonde stone mansion that had once outfitted an oil or railway baron of sorts in one of Glasgow’s poshest neighborhoods had now been sequestered into four elegant westend Glasgow flats. By some beneficence I still thrall to remember, we three American post-grad students had obtained “letting” rights to this splendor over a small host of other applicants. During spring, summer, and into autumn, we were the envy of all we knew. Our sprawling lounge with its twelve foot high bay window allowed in light, images of foliage, and the sound of children at play on the grounds of their expensive public (private) school across the way.

As winter crept through, however, opulent settings that had once framed our elegant spring view transmogrified to the Achilles heel of wellness and peace. My male flatmate at the time worked part-time researching medieval and modern lives of the saints, and the other seventy percent of this time drinking Jack Daniels and coke and playing an internet based video game with brothers and friends back in the US. His perch was the delicious round table within the sweep of the elegant bay window. Come November, he and I would rather awkwardly heave out the hidden, original, indoor Victorian window shudders, painted black and capable of covering literally the entire span of the floor-to-ceiling windows in a complicated inter-working of hinges and panels. Assembling this indoor screen felt like the muzzling of a bulldog or the blinding of hero, Samson-style. But we did this because there was other way to keep warm. The meager oil heaters scattered here and there like tokens to modernity held no real efficacy. They were no match for the high ceilings and now-insanely tall windows, and this shudder system in effect double glazed the space, however imperfectly. Whereas with a modern home, one stood a chance of creating somewhat stable warmth with space heaters and extra layers, these old flats stood impotent against the softly insidious sting of that millions-strong army of wet winter water cells.

In western Scotland, winter was not the season of snow, but of the far worse dual enemy of damp and darkness. This was the place of clothes that took a week to fully dry on British drying racks, and Victorian floorboards that leeched cellular moisture perpetually. Continually running dehumidifiers, we found, was positively the most effective form of heat management. Would the yesteryear drying power of real fires in the tenement fireplaces proven the key to survival against the potency of this winter water cell army? I certainly hope so for the sake of our forefathers and foremothers!

When we were done securing the blackened panels across our lounge’s windows, I turned to my own small room, likely once a servant’s quarters. There, too, hung original wooden indoor shudders for my window. Around the awkward fitting paneling, I stuffed old pajamas and the summer shorts and tank tops I’d literally never worn in Scotland. Their summer lightness now served as plugs and sealants against my greatest enemy--winter. At last, my small space lay hermetically sealed and guarded against any speck of outdoor water, and indeed, any ray of weak winter sun. I slept, lived, and worked in a cavernous darkness at least three or four months of those years in which I resided in that flat of historic luxury. Night blended almost unnoticed into day, and a cell phone flashlight directed into my eyes each morning was the best means of indicating dayspring to my searching body.

Deeper into the stretch of the city’s west end, my husband-to-be, with a professional job, traditional office hours, and a somewhat larger bank account, battled the lows of the western Scottish winter more genteelly. His best mate, a distinguished Scottish surgeon, lured him into membership at the sleek and financially exclusive David Lloyd west end gym. Here was a gorgeous, artificial, perpetual summer of sorts—the chemical paradise of an indoor pool, ensconced safely within the glass. Here, eminent surgeon sat swan alongside high stakes IT programmer, property developer alongside Oxford-trained eye surgeon. Thus it was that Alistair and Chris swam their way through the sadness of winter.

Somehow, when I think of Alistair, quietly and dramatically insisting that the David Lloyd gym and the pool were the only places keeping him from actual insanity between the pressures of complicated, risky surgeries at a large regional hospital, estrangement with his brother, tensions with a difficult mother, and the memory of a dead, beloved father, I recognized a specter of my own mental workings–a reluctance to admit or inability to see that a beloved object or passion could actually be foremost implicated in my own harm. Was the west coast Scottish darkness the true force that exacerbated all other struggles beyond the point of endurance? Yet, for this Gaelic patriot, the Scottish winter’s almost unrelenting lightlessness never came to the fore as perhaps the central instigator of mental agony. Alistair loved Scotland deeply. The main fonthead of soul-reviving relaxation outside of the gym lay in his emotional involvement with the waves and rhythms of Scotland’s contemporary celtic music. For a man so somber and focused by day, it was spellbinding to observe him unwinding with dances, fast foot-tapping and a subtly rocking body at modern celtic concerts.

As I would think of those two friends, my mind would automatically contrast them, for some reason, with the astonishing scarred man I met at the Garnethill laundromat one Scottish summer’s day. It must have been the year after my own traumatic second degree burns to my feet—boiling kettle, rushing for church, tired and stressed, slippery hands–and my subsequent skin graft surgery at Glasgow’s Royal Infirmary. The scarred man was short, almost childlike in stature, as I found many Scottish men to be, but clearly aged. Almost up the rim of his chin, where neck and head met, danced plaited, pleated scars so complete and decorative that he almost seemed reptilian.

A thick, three-dimensional scar smiled darkly across the top of neck of where throat and chin meet, reminding me of the mark made by my great uncle, who, carrying the burden of PTSD from violence seen in WWII Pacific battles, and now in the first stages of dementia, had slit his throat with a huge metal saw. This gentle, kind, and tall music-loving man had once played the saw musically, eliciting its wobbling, otherworldly siren song with a cello bow against the flat side of the tool. The musical saw’s sound is piercing and otherworldly, finding its sound family with the glassy, wobbling chords of Benjamin Franklin’s glass harmonica. Two decades later, during my undergraduate years, that tall, German-American vet who’d lied about his age to begin serving before he actually turned 18, took that very musical blade slashed it across his neck. “Look what you made me do,” he cried to my usually strong, forceful Polish-American great aunt. He survived, but forever wore that same ring around his long, elegant neck.

Now, as I bid hello to this diminutive, thoroughly scarred man, I looked quickly away, resolved to appear oblivious to what seemed a very intimate tale of attempted suicide on his body. To my surprise, however, after polite greetings in the otherwise empty laundromat, he immediately commenced the tale of his body with strong Glaswegian inflections. Perhaps it was our isolation. Perhaps it was my conspicuous burns scars blazing through summer sandals. Whatever it was, I was so glad to know him, and moved hear his story. I’ll loosely translate from that lilting Glaswegian brogue into more comprehensible but less lyrical American style.

When he was no more than 5 years old boy, he began, his mother had spilled a full kettle of boiling water over her wee son in a horrible kitchen accident. He was taken to hospital, and almost died. These scars besmirching his flesh were the best doctors could do in skin repair forty years ago, and so he’d borne these ostracizing wounds for almost his entire life. Through no fault of his own, this scarred and anxious man stood thoroughly adorned by permanent markings of unintentional violence. He displayed on one frame forever, something of every person’s lifetime of wounds, internal and external, secrets which other bodies adeptly conceal.

He continued his story by describing a most isolated life, one that I can only attribute to the visual taboo of his grotesquely slashed and matted skin. His home was a single bedsit in the Glasgow city center, where he shared a tiny kitchen with four other single men. His trade, however, was sharpening knives and blades of all kinds. I was mildly surprised to learn that he worked, for it had become routine to me to meet men and women “on benefit” for an array of real mental and physical struggles. The delight he took in his labor delighted me.

From the small, highly regulated and much rarer hunting knives that still circulated after the successful 2005 Scottish gang crackdown and knife amnesty, to larger industrial blades for manufacturing machinery, the man whose name escapes my memory, but whose face and form I’ll never forget, could sharpen them all. Here, with talk of his trade, his eyes finally shifted from their haunted anxiety to brightness. I was blessed to hear him speak with some joy of camaraderie among the gents who worked on site with him at the mechanic’s shop. While the rest of the team fixed tires and engines, he practiced his own highly tailored, solitary trade in a small corner.

Perhaps boldly, because of the safety of my engagement ring, I asked him about girlfriends and women, only to hear confirmed a lifetime of isolation and singleness. He sticks out to me among these contemplations of winter for perhaps unmatched mental resilience against outwardly imposed suffering—a human creating what order, purpose, and joy he could amidst day to day agony. It was the story of a lifetime’s Glasgow winter.

I longed for him was to experience acceptance and community across ages and genders. And so, I, not being one to routinely do so, invited him to stop in at our church in the center of the city, a place of community at the very least. I knew men like him there, faint bodily memories of times past —beatings, disabilities, and trauma—but now slowly flourishing, incrementally renewed, and even married against all odds.

At just that moment, my posh Oxbridge roommate arrived. In the wake of the awkwardness of that invitation and her aura which recalled both my connection with another social realm and his gendered isolation, he quickly scurried off down the road, bearing the burden of his laundry like Quasimodo returning to the tower. I have thought of him often since then, praying for love, for community, and great, new hope. As I write here of winter and mental survival, of Alistair needing the bright lights and chlorinated waters of the posh David Lloyd spa and fitness club, of drunken friends, and mentally suffering colleagues, I think of him. I think of the steady, determined living of the scarred, knife-sharpening man.

One late winter’s evening sitting before the artificial blue glow of my laptop in a room enclosed by the total blackout of a Glasgow winter’s evening, I purchased tickets to the romantic heart of Southern France to visit a childhood friend. I was going on mini-break! Think Van Gogh’s cafe by night painting, and you will know Arles, France, the actual location of that iconic coffee shop, and the Dutch master’s home while at the from February 1888 to May 1889. Late February, almost March, I flew from Glasgow to Barcelona, Spain, and from Barcelona to Grenoble, France, and then by train to Arles. My dear American friend’s smile and transcendent ruby curls greeted me, and together we sauntered like those who’ve reached heaven itself through her adopted hometown, a healing intellectual and aesthetic distance from the New Jersey suburb of her youth. I posed by a Baroque fountain, while an enthusiastic male youth, adorned in an expensive Chanel “merce”, man-purse, jumped in to cradle me and photobomb the shot. We paused at a cafe on a winding, cobblestone street resounding with gentle guitar music for coffee and cocoa--all my European dreams were coming true. We continued on to Arles’ ancient Roman arena, where I heard tell of jazz and opera concerts, and finally emerged before the pinnacle, iconic Arles sight–its mirthful 1900 carousel.

Each of Katherine’s overseas guests were brought here and invited to ride the most famous of all Arlesian beasts—the black bull—El Toro of the carousel. Arlesian voices, Katherine explained, cacophonied in a dynamic, regional debate over the beauty or butchery of the bullfight. When these people of Southern France craved societal momentum, their chosen form of activism was always the formation of a society–the Society for Perpetuating Bullfights, the Society for Ethical Treatment of the Bull, the Society for Ending all Bullfights, etc. Across the road from one such society in an elegant turn of the century building, I paid my euros, and we laughed as the little carousel propelled my postgraduate student body up and down like a child’s. I balled my hands into fists and extended pointer fingers into two playful horns for my own forehead. For one puerile moment, I embodied El Toro himself.

For all the charm of that exploratory, Southern France day, the moment that stands immortalized in my mind was a quiet one. Descending the bull, and resting on the cobblestone pavements between the carousel and the boulangerie where Katherine quickly ran to purchased dinner baguettes, I felt a warmth steal across my face, neck, and decolletage. What was this glowing orange heat descending from the sky? How was this mercy of a peachy, gentle heat present on a mere late February day? Soaked in the mild ecstasy of this magnanimous anomaly, I drowsily wondered again what was this golden orb was doing filling the winter sky so warmly. I am not one to anthropomorphize flesh, but in that moment, my assemblage of cells spoke almost audibly. They begged me to pause, to stop, to soak, to drink in every lingering ray of sunlight. They would not budge.

There can be tears for the relief of battle we barely knew we had. There can be weeping with the realization that we had unknowingly survived truly destabilizing insufficiencies for so long. And at that moment, tears literally sprang to my eyes as I luxuriated in the gentle fullness of a benediction so long denied—the necessary mercy of sunlight for my pale, deprived epidermis. Here was a long forgotten grace for both body and mind. Here was a reminder of an alternative world where sun reigned not as a far off, chance promise, but as an immanent, abundant love.

In 1971, John Denver, the American folk singer with a flaxen gold bowl cut sang, “Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy…Sunshine almost always makes me high.” This racy line sat neatly memorized in my mind, snuck in among other more lighthearted folk fare from my parents’ 1970’s favorites. I vividly recall my parents discussing, with insufficiently hushed voices from the front seat of our gray airport limousine-style van on a trip west around America in the mid-1990’s, whether Simon and Garfunkel’s Cecilia was appropriate musical fodder for the mixed company of our family’s emerging pre-teens, teens, toddlers, and elementary students. “Makin’ love in the afternoon with Cecelia, up in my bedroom! Makin’ love!…” So little music did our parents bring, and so many long hours in the car made for a categorically memorized albums–beauty, revolution, salaciousness, and all. By the end of that month-long trek we kids had memorized much of Peter Paul and Mary’s In The Wind, John Denver’s Best Of, and Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Waters—all of which rotated like clockwork with an audiobook performance of Jane Eyre.

That day, standing in the long alien sun on that street in southern France, the line from John’s “Sunshine” filtered to the surface of long forgotten memories. To be clear, whether it makes me nerd or novice, I have never been “high” in the usual illegal, high school manner; yet, I have experienced the ebullience of a day out with friends and no obligations and money to spend, or the delight and honor of winning a grand, unexpected prize, whether first place in a the school wide coloring contest in kindergarten, or the university Presidential Award. This moment of sun’s mercy was like that—a shock of sheer biological joy, soaking in upon my skin, almost against my will or asking, and ushering with it, a deeply gladdened heart and endorphins. I no longer giggled and smirked at John Denver and his chillaxed, hippy musings. I sang alongside in fully realized understanding. How, oh how, could I return to dark Scotland?

Back in my little cavernous bedroom a week later, I distractedly ordered a large jar of encapsulated vitamin D3. Each small, smooth and marble-like tablet appeared so inane, harmless, even placebo. I tossed one in my mouth, In fact, I think I tossed 5 in my mouth for few days straight. I had no idea of their efficacy, but I reasoned that if in theory, I had been missing out on this necessity for five years, my body would require a small jolt of awakening to begin its journey into recovery. Chasing them down with water, I probably raced on with the movements of my busy life. And suddenly, a week or two later, as I turned up the circular staircase of our Victorian flat, I noticed that the unhinged sadness and chaos that had darkly plagued my inner world had calmed ever so subtly.

It was not the burst of what I imagine a drugged high must be, but the soothing calm of gently increasing stability, the slow, almost imperceptible release from the whirling bedlam of a blurred and muddied mind. The little blue pitch-forked demons of Disney’s 1959 Sleeping Beauty had ceased their authoritative dance and disappeared into a poof of nothing.

“Wow, I’m not insane anymore,” I muttered softly to myself. Gratitude, then annoyance flowed through me. Why, oh why, hadn’t I just tried it before? I would have liked to know that I was more than the “sweet” but distracted and zany blonde—that a measure of winter peace was possible, ever so subtly.

I’ve been a sun chaser ever since. I could not go back, could not slacken my pursuit of the gift of God’s best UV rays. My body and practices have grown more savvy, tailoring their thirst to the most vanguard research—10-20 minutes a day of obsolescence before the orbital rays on as much skin as possible in the prime window of lowest UVB rays—10am to 2pm. I respect the sensitivities of the face, neck, and shoulders.

For so long, I’d scorned the Glaswegian flight to crass, boozy Majorca, Spain, with what I deemed to be its tacky modern hotels and abundance of alcoholic loitering on the sands. Why, I mused, would a nation with such ready access to Europe’s innumerable cultural splendors and fine countrysides beeline in droves to a that tasteless resort landscape? I’d drunk the molding Kool-aid of belief in fading science—wearing sunscreen even on overcast days in cloudy Scotland, and trying to cover every inch of skin with fabric, even on warm far northern days, dreaming all the while of the crowning trophy of smooth, creamy pensioner (retiree) skin, coupled with a remarkable freedom from skin cancer. But now, after seven years of winter darkness and year-round mist, my snobbish disdain broke down with understanding for those I’d once slighted –you must fill up on sun and wellness before any culture becomes important. Pale and D3 deprived as I was, it dawned on me that there was grave logic to British comedian Michael McIntyre’s routine about the Glaswegian airport bombing attempt. Contrasting successful terrorists in London and Manchester, British born Islamic jihadists failed in their malicious bomb plots here in Glasgow, where a winter-beaten Glaswegian man tackled the physician- turned-jihadist in overweening determination to let nothing keep him from…Majorca.

When I next visited Glasgow seven years following our emigration, my friend Lindsey stood contemplating my Americanized postpartum body. She who had known me well in the Glasgow days observed, “You have some curves to you now, and some colour!” It was late October then, and so particularly gratifying to appear even remotely tanned! I reveled in my new hue, a sun-kissed peach, no longer the pallid, muted white linked to breast cancer and MS.

Now as a thirty-something year old scholar, mother, and partner, I look to photos of fellow thirty year old Scottish friends. Two Octobers ago, I sat with them in an ornate Victorian sandstone building-turned-Starbucks, drinking in the miracle of their lovely children, and seeing photos of their flourishing middle class lives. They worked as a professors, teachers, bank tellers, mothers, and volunteered with refugees, addicts, and international students. They lived day by day still in this cloud of gray, and theirs is a resilience I marvel to behold. I raise my glass of almond milk and another of kombucha to them, and salute their Scottish hardiness. My heart opens in prayer for the gift of mental wellness for them, and for those of us everywhere who find the shift to winter darkness an elephant of gloom sitting upon hearts. Let us fill our homes with green plants, keep connected in fun and kinship with friends, especially the lonely, pop our vitamin D3 with its enabling K2 buddy, and long for the lights of Christmas, Hanukkah, and Yule who offer bright, needful stars of hope and celebration against a black winter sky.

As we walk in darkness, visions of summer remains my close companion hope, a specter walking by my side, the dream, like heaven reaching close to earth. And if we have eyes to see, we raise our fragile fingers to touch the veil between this present world and the next springtime. Memories and testimonies from far across the equator where antipodean New Zealand and Australian summers reign alongside our winter become the motivating promise that at the culmination of this obligatory darkness, there will be my body glistening with sun and sweat by the sonorous utterance of the lapping ocean waves.

4 notes · View notes

thedaniverse · 6 years ago

Text

Got that Busy Season Depression lads If anyone has any good at home self care/pamper tips let me hear them, I just did my usual and it is nice but not quite enough to lift me from this fog of eughghghhghhhhhh

7 notes · View notes

kingmaker-thac0hno · 4 years ago

Text

The Kingdom of Thornvale: A Year’s End

The month of Kuthona, 4711

By Kuthona, the cold winds of winter have settled across the lands, and most folk stay indoors by the warmth of the fire. The Lords of Thornvale announce their plans for the month, expanding the kingdom northwest along the Thorn River, and seeking to construct a horse ranch in the hills northwest of Haven.

Evrin works with prominent members of the Haven militia to familiarize themselves with the newly constructed ballista, practicing the slaying of various tree stumps and old barrels. He speaks with Thefina about the construction of a swivel base for the weapon, which she promises to begin working on next month, as she is dedicated to building a school for Lord Stonewalker.

The halfling begins a series of drills at the nearby Stag Lord's fort, and though the weather is unfavorable, many of the militia dutifully trudge there for practice. A few comment on the halfling's desire to fish on the Tuskwater during middle of winter - in truth, Evrin was acting to sink the enchanted and fey-touched Thorny Crown to the bottom of the lake.

Evrin speaks to Jubilost about the recent discovery of the Taldan burial site, and the little gnome is ecstatic. He immediately packs up his things and enlists the help of his gnomish companions to prepare for a journey to the site. Within a few days, the small group is able to reach the crypt and set up camp. Jubilost informs Evrin that he will likely stay here for some time to properly document and categorize his findings. At first glance, however, the gnome is able to explain some of the site.

Long ago, before the Golden Age of Taldor, the young country sent many explorations parties out to settle these lands. If my suspicions are correct, this site seems to be from that era. The markings on the walls and the arrangement of the burial site seem to indicate a person of some stature - perhaps a noble or warrior-knight. The sheer number of books here is astounding, which is indicative of a scholar. They are remarkably well-preserved, and the handful I dared to touch all appear to be written in old Taldan script. Some of these texts appear to be of a magical nature, and I have refrained from examining those in detail until I can be sure of their safety.

There are some interesting observations I can make, however. First, there appears to be a book missing from this crypt. Did one of your men take it? A surveyor perhaps? Something to look into, certainly: where it went, and why they took it?

Second, the deceased corpse from the sarcophagus, see it there? The crown on its head? It appears as though a gemstone once rested within it. Though I have not once seen a gemstone with such an odd, notch-shaped cut. It too, appears taken. At first I thought it may have simply fallen out in the battle, but no! Look there, and there - upon the gold, what do you see? Those little scrapes could only have been made by a knife or dagger.

Third, you are right. The shield here is indeed missing. You can tell by the depressions on the shield-arm here and here, where the shield straps were fastened. It would have been rounded, likely with a high or low grip as was commonplace at the time - not a center grip shield like we do now. Though I am confounded as to why someone would take the shield, and leave the sword. Or how it would have lasted all these ages, as the wood surely would have disintegrated by now.

Hopefully, these books will hold some answers, though I suspect the missing one is key.

*** Karis speaks to Kimble the tailor and Quill the Blacksmith, setting them to crafting various outfits and wrist dagger-sheaths. They, along with Thefina and her hidden-compartment crates, set to working and by the end of Kuthona have suitable products for use. He directs Lathon to continue drills with the Aldori - now taking place at the nearby ruined fort. The sailor looks hale and much more resilient than earlier in the year, and his demeanor reflects it.

Daily visits with his wyvern maintain the bond between the two, but the winter weather has made the creature lethargic and slow. It seems to sleep more and prefers the warmth of the fire. Throughout the month Karis dedicates many nights to meditation, seeing to connect with his patron - but the Lady remains disturbingly quiet.

Much time is spent on training with the young boy Rhys in learning the elven language and the subterfuge tradecraft. Though a few grumpily shoo the boy, most commoners in Haven often laugh at the lad as he slinks about the town, playing at being a sneakthief. Karis sends the boy on several play-missions such as how many pints is Oleg consuming between breakfast and dinner, performing some infiltration exercises, such as lifting some of Saryn’s fancy boots and returning the footwear before he notices them missing.

Unfortunately, the lad stumbles, and is caught red-handed by the Lord Saryn With a wink, he offers a few unsettling words. Momma always told me taking things without asking was asking for trouble! With that, sinewy elongated tongues jut forth from deep within each of the boots wrapping around the lad’s forearms as fangs tear through the fine leather cuffs and begin gnashing hungrily at his hands. Rhys, screaming in terror, yells, Lord Karis told me to do it! He told me to do it!

After a few moments, Saryn calmly explains, If you apologize to my mimic I am certain he will probably not devour you, but you should probably be far more careful in the future- especially when breaking into a house full of monsters!

Rhys, realizing he is unharmed, apologizes, and explains the exercise. He then sulks away sheepishly, returning to Lord Karis, who takes the opportunity to relay to the boy that failure and learning from these exercises within the confines of Thornvale is far more forgiving than far reaches of its enemies.

***

Upon returning to Blackstag from Haven, once well upon the waters of the Tuskwater, Odis says over his shoulder Well, it’s getting better...but they still don’t think of us as equals.

After a moments pause, Arna responds, ‘Cause we are not equals. We’re yet to provide to the kingdom main At this Odis actually stops paddling and turns to meet her We now is it?

Arna ignores the jest, surprised herself at her choice of pronouns. We know their needs, needs they have been trying to fill, but have been unable...you’ve been trading with Mivon, tell me about them.

What, the eel eaters? Walled city built on a bog. Lots of folk, but short on resources, nasty bunch of gangs. Duels weekly right in the square, damned waste of good swordsmen if you ask me, came the reply.

Let’s make a trip this month, take 3 or so of the fairest looking widows. See if we can convince some apprentice or journeymen to come to Blackstag in the spring. Men will come at the promise of getting their wicks wet or finding a bride along with the coin they’d make.

And so Odis, Arna, and several other women from Blackstag head south to Mivon. The journey is cold and slow, as they paddle down the Little Sellen Rriver via canoe. There are remarkably few dwarves in Mivon, and the city smells vaguely of peat. Nearly everyone here seems to dress in the style of the Aldori duelists, and virtually everyone with a sword seems to have the colors of one house or another emblazoned upon his person. Finally, a warm tavern is a welcome sight, and within, Arna gets to know the folk around town.

Little do they realize that they have ended up in the lower quarter of Mivon, full of the un-desirables. Two near-fistfights and a bowl of spoilt gruel later, Odis and the dwarf end up in a quiet discussion with the waitress, a lass of maybe 15, curious as to why such foreigners would come to her town. After a brief discussion of their mission, the gal excuses herself, promising to return.

Later that evening, the small group is approached by a rough-looking gentleman, but one clearly respected ( perhaps feared?) by his companions. He's heard of Arna's story, and comes with a proposition:

I have, at times, a need to relocate people out of Mivon. Good people. People who shouldn't have to face bad things. It seems that you are looking for people with skills. These people, my people, often do. It seems we may be able to help each other. Take your time, think it over. Have a meal on me - the good stuff, not that swill you’ve been eating. When you decide, let the lass know.

The man turns to leave, but as he does so, he speaks one final time, We never met, understood?

***

Continuing their plans for a school in Haven, Thefina and Stonewalker enlist a number of idle folk to help with the work. The going is very slow, as the cold ground makes digging difficult, but by the end of the month, the school stands - doors open for new students in the new year.

Regarding the position of instructor, Stonewalker speaks to many of the skilled folk in Haven, who all politely decline. Most - like Kimble Purling, Grutzner Brasse, Ardbeg, and Thefina herself ( among others) openly offer to take on younger apprentices to teach their trade, but most express that they have no time for classroom teaching ( and a few suggest that the classroom is no place to practice a trade). As such, no full-time teacher is found to staff the school. One of the local mothers, Midge, volunteers as nanny. In addition, a missive is sent to Blackstag informing them of the opportunity for education for their youth.

Stonewalkers biweekly meetings of various tradesfolk in Haven have encouraged more and more residents to speak up regarding suggestions. Jubilost Nartropple, recently retuned to Haven, suggests that a library of sorts would be good for academics, and is willing to contribute the first book to it's collection: The Mysteries of Mivon: An Exploration of the Eastern River Kingdoms, by none other than himself. In addition, he would like someplace where he could buy some decent ink.

Oleg mentions some warehouses to store surplus furs during hunting season, and one of the local farmers mentions that the cellar underneath Havenhall is getting rather full - suggesting that perhaps a granary is in order. A few of the fishermen in town suggest a establishing a curing house where they can salt excess fish for trade ( or a winter stockpile).

***

Saryn continues his tradition of aiding those in town, speaking words of inspiration to the departing surveying expedition and singing songs of rejuvenation to the workers at the ranch. By now, he has come to know the majority of the residents of Haven, and is able to quickly find and speak with the halfling seeking to create a gathering place for burrowing folk near the old sycamore.

Furret Quickfoot explains that he would like to convert the hill under the sycamore to a home for all burrowing sorts - a haven ( near Haven!) for little folk, filled with amenities that suit their kind. Though not nearly as proficient as the battle-hardened lords, the little halfling seems skilled enough with the blade, and light of foot to boot.

Another brief visit to the giant finds him sitting next to a roaring fire made from uprooted trees and surrounded by empty barrels of ale. Munguk is cold and miserable, and very, very drunk. Munguk walk see mommy, but she not home. Munguk wait. No come back. Mommy gone! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

After a bit, Saryn is able to calm down the sobbing giant, and Munguk agrees that sitting in the cold hills sucks, and would rather go someplace warmer - provided there's something to drink.

Additional training with the owlbear and wyvern is difficult, as both creatures seem lethargic and slow. The young owlbear cub seems to just want to sleep all day, and the wyvern stubbornly refuses to leave the warm stone of the fireplace. As such, Saryn makes very little progress with any sort of 'training'.

***

The end of the month brings the end of the year as well, and various small celebrations during Winter Week. The Sootscale kobolds dedicate quiet moments to Aspu during their Time of Reminiscence. Lady Garess is spotted during the Winter Solstice, performing the Ritual of Stardust by singing songs and dancing about a blazing bonfire.

during the last week of the month, with construction of the school complete and Arangin's Acerage finished, the surveyors from upriver return to Haven, happily chatting among themselves and declaring their job complete.

Most Havenites stay indoors to mark the Final Day, waiting for spirits of the years' dead to pass by their doors on the Night of the Pale, and emerging the next morning to welcome in the new year: 4712 AR.

Turn 17; Abadius, 4712 AR

Petitions:

Cedrin reports that Jubilost has left Haven again, eastablishing a camp near the old Taldan burial site.

Cedrin reports that the workers sent to construct the Graniteworks upon the quarry site still refuse to return to work, and are scared of the giant bird who attacked the site in the previous month.

Cedrin reports that he has been able to process the many requests for land from the citizens of Haven. Virtually all of them are requests for small family farm plots in the outlying hills.

Cedrin has collected the submissions for the name of the newly constructed road. A full listing ( sans duplicates) is as follows.

The Kamelands Pass

Four Lord’s Road

Haven’s Trail

Kesten’s Way

The Eastern Stolen Trail

Rue de Garess

The Stag’s Path

Handor’s Highway

Edicts:

You may issue two (2) edicts for the month of Abadius.

0 notes

jrpneblog · 5 years ago

Text

Great Scott!!

The big news at Deepdale this was the signing of Scott Sinclair from Celtic on Wednesday afternoon. The former Bhoys star had flown back from the Celtic training camp in Dubai on Tuesday evening to make sure things got over the line on Wednesday. The signing has certainly lifted the spirits amongst the Deepdale faithful who are now chomping at the bit to see the former England U23 star make his debut, hopefully at Ewood Park at the weekend. To be fair it is a big signing by North End`s standards and not one that is the usual format of buying potential from the lower leagues and then hoping that the promise the player has shown fulfills itself at Deeopdale. There comes a time, though, when you need to buy straight of the self and I think after the last couple of months it has become apparent that North End had a decent squad but were sadly lacking in one or two quality players to finish it all off. Hopefully Sinclair fits right into that bracket, although the form line through the Scottish Prem to the Championship is not particularly clear. Certainly Celtic have the best team North of the border since Rangers financial demise so it will be intersting to watch Sinclair go about his business. My thoughts on the matter are quite simply that form is temporary but class is permanent and if the lad shows the form he showed in his five years at Swansea then better days are ahead for North End. I would ask the fans just to give him a couple of weeks to get aclimatised to life back in the Championship but I dont think it will take him long before we see what he can do. There are twenty league games to go and if Sinclair can score 10 goals or more then we are likely to be in the shake up at the end of the season.

The game at Ewood comes at a time when North End are on a poor streak of form, having lost the last three, while Rovers are generally on an upward curve. I get the impression the home fans think it might be their turn having not beaten North End in the previous six games. Clearly they are a decent Championship side but without Dack I think it is like us being without Ben Pearson. A bit of a difficult one to predict this time, having got the three previous results spot on, however if Sinclair had anyting like an impact I take North End to win the game and the new star man to get off to a winning start. North End should, once again, be roared on by a 6000+ following after sales increase dramatically once the lower tier was made available. There will be Upper Tier tickets available on the day and with Sinclair likely to make his debut it is one of those must see games for my money.

The trip to Ewood comes on the back of a very depressing run of three consecutive defeats at Deepdale with the latest one coming last Saturday in the FA Cup against Norwich City. It turned out to be a bit of a disaster for second choice keeper Connor Ripley who was majorly at fault for two of the goals and then conceded a penalty which Norwich converted to seal the game. The final score was 4-2 to the Canaries, who made eight changes from the previous week. Alex Neil choose to make nine changes but North End still fielded a side capable of doing justice to the competition. However being 0-3 down at half time the boat had sailed but credit must go to the lads who kept on going right to the end and at least brought a little respectability to a disappointing afternoon.

And finally this week:- I see plenty of players have nightmare games for North End and Connor Ripley`s efforts last Saturday will certainly not be the last. As goalie makes a blunder it is usually a goal conceded whilst the outfield player gets away with it. No player goes out to deliberately play poorly or make glaring mistakes, I`m afraid it just happens sometimes. That is why I hope Alex Neil names Ripley on the bench at Ewood not just for the lads confidence but for, hopefully, the fans to forgive him and give him plenty of encouragement in the warm up. He is a Preston player and being booed again on Saturday is not what the lad needs. They say the darkest hour is just before the dawn and let`s hope that is applicable in Connor`s case.

Telly Treble

Arsenal to beat Crystal Palace 17/20

Man City to beat Aston Villa 2/11

Cardiff to draw with Swansea 23/10

A fiver on these three returns £36.08 Betfred

Running total for the season is - £11.49 with this weeks stake

0 notes

enjoyblacksurf-blog · 6 years ago

Text

What a Time (Part Deux)

Dude, nobody actually knows what a dinosaur sounded like. Sit with that for a minute...

Good to hear from you and thanks for the kind words. What a total legend of you for dropping off your hearts and sharing our wares far and wide. That's how it works now, isn't it? This is how we communicate.

Have you noticed the long WhatsApp voice message is what all the kids are doing now? Long gone is actually talking to your mates! I'm well and truly down with it. You get to have a good, uninterrupted ramble, on your own time and really get your point across. On the flip side, you have to patiently listen to your mate’s rambles (some ain't got it down) and listen without butting in to share, correct or change the subject. It's good training for conversing with humans. Speak your mind and listen. It also takes actually talking to another human being out of the equation. This could be both sad and dis-connective and equally a blissful way of existing.

Aaaaaah yes I remember where we were...

The state of the world and rapidness of change, individually and collectively speaking. We're all getting zapped through a lifetime of technology and constant change. Look at music, for example. For thousands of years we couldn't record music. We then created records and we were pretty chuffed about that for around 50 years or so, yeah? Then we went through some kind of futuristic light speed music technology portal in the space of 20 years! Betamax, 8 Track, Cassette's, CD's, Laser Discs, Mini Discs, Blue... Bluuuue something? Torrents, MP3's, MP4's, JPEGs and PNGs. “Hey mate, can you send me over a vector of that?” WTF is a vector? Well, I actually know now ‘cos I had to send one, and I happily admit I thoroughly enjoyed telling a vector virgin to keep up with the times about a week later. The classic 'learn something yesterday and act like you've known it for decades and feel smug for a minute before you toy with telling the truth or letting them think you're more intelligent than you are'. Oh, it's a classic.

Wait...

No, we're talking about the uplift of humanity’s consciousness and how we are all playing a part in it's victorious evolution or it's inevitable demise. DUN DUN DUNNN. Hahaaa! Which side are you on?! That was it. I'm on track, it's all good. Loved what you we're saying about that, you crazy cat! You sound mad as a bottle of crisps, but I dig it.

Well, the spell we've all been under, up until now, has well and truly been lifted though, hasn't it? Everything’s all out there in the open right now getting exposed and brought to light. And that is BADASS! It’s rough, but’s it’s bad ass. Coming from the countryside where the general rule of thumb, is don't be Doctor Doom and bum everyone out. Don't bring anyone down with that talk of sadness, depression, anxiety or overwhelm, for god's sake. What will the neighbours think, lad.

The Emo's did try to warn us though, didn't they? Oh, we all laughed in their faces, behind those stupid haircuts. But, they were right. We are in fact emotional beings. They called it and touché. Emo's at least found music to express themselves while the rest of us suppressed our feelings like the proper lads and lasses that we are, and where's that got us? You and I have both have suffered in the past from not talking about shit. Aaaaaah jeeeeez. As you always say, what a time to be alive!

Y’know, thinking about it... When I ask my dad how he's doing, he sometimes says a confident and proud “Fantastic!”, followed by silence. Is he on top of the world or his he saying “Let's talk about something else.”? A bold and wise move I always think. No-one in their right mind should ever question a ‘Fantastic!’ delivered with such conviction and finesse. It's leaps and bounds above an 'Alright' or a 'Not bad', isn't it? It's a touchdown response in comparison. A power move by a seasoned veteran of suppressing and releasing emotions for decades. A man who once used to see the dreaded red mist and instantly react; now chilled, humble and zen.

When things are going good with friends and family, we'll know or hear about it, right? We'd hope, but you and I both know that isn't true, though, is it? We’ve all become masters of hiding our feelings and just cracking on with it. 'How are you doing?' That's one hell of an ask and also a mountain of pressure to release onto another human being for a brief conversation, d’you not think?

We’re not only protecting ourselves, but each other by not opening up sometimes. It's served us well for generations. Sort of. Hasn’t it?

Dude, the difference in the amount of knowledge of awareness, recovery, health and happiness we have access to now, in comparison to our parents generation; it's off the charts! The world has changed sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much in the last 20 years. Are you also noticing with this, a whole load of extra baggage full of anxiety and pressure has been assigned to everyone one of us?

Millennials are screwed unless they also start to connect to this lost natural flow of life itself. Rather than purely just #instatweetagramsnappabookface. Add to the mix that they most probably got whacked by emotional, psychological trauma growing up too, like the rest of us. Kids of 80's and 90's had it like a walk in the park in comparison. As long they dodged, evidently, all the kiddy fiddlers and slew of #meetoo’s that we’re apparently allowed to run amok?

I’m all for carrying on shining the light! Right now, we're doing a fantastic job of bringing every wrong'un, racist and rapist out in to the light for all to see, scrutinize and stone, publicly. Whether we have to herd the one's that had a regretful night and sent a sloppy unconscious tweet that ended their career and the Cosby's of the world in the same pen... I'm not so sure. This whole process is for the greater good, but it's messy trying to figure out the guidelines.

We're forced to instantly know our views, beliefs and morals with each case, instantly in real time. Let's look at the comics for a minute. Louie CK was outcasted and back after 9 months. 9 months out of the public for being a big weirdo. That's what you get for being weird. 9 months ban.

Carlo Mencia was notorious for stealing jokes and Joe Rogan stormed the stage and publicly shamed him at his own gig! OUCH. He's done. Michael 'Kramer' Richards dropped the racist card and he was sheepishly back on network TV in no time, but it ain’t looking good.

Roseanne Barr, one sloppy tweet and her second career that was all set up and ready to go... Pffffffffft up in smoke. Brutal, confusing and maybe unfair but it's all for the greater good. We're thinning the herd. We're prepping for a better future to come where people will be more conscious. It's as simple as that and that's only a gooood thing!

The Civil Rights Act was in 64', right? Soon kids won't know what slavery was or even be able to comprehend it!

Hey man, I watched the Foo Fighters once and heard a a guy excitedly say to his little bro “You know, he used to be in Nirvana!” To which he turned up at his older brother and said “...in what?” I nearly died in that moment.

This time is sticky as, but if we truly know ourselves, our beliefs, thoughts, morals, dreams, goals and desires, It's gonna be one hell of a less sticky ride. If we don't, it's gonna be HEAVY, seriously confusing and painful. We need to learn to act from the heart rather than the head. This should take no time at all, rewiring and re-programming the planet to be good, ethically conscious souls who care for each other and the planet for future generations.

Hahaaaaa! Yeah, right!

Lenny Henry and co nailed it back in the day, didn’t they. Hello world! It’s all pretty messy. Let’s all laugh about how crazy it all is, come together and support whatever we can and do what we can. That’s the deal, right? Most people get stuck in the heavy, sticky realms of the ‘it’s all pretty messy’ part and get no further than that. Just repeat the news, get depressed, moan, judge and complain about others and do absolutely nothing positive to make a difference at all. That’s only 1/3 of the journey! That’s the easy part! Jog on, pal. Awareness, deciding to make a difference and then making a difference. That's your three step plan right there. That's what should be taught in schools.

Talking of which...

Can you imagine if we got taught how to actually talk to people and create harmonious relationships? Can you imagine if we got taught how to break up with people correctly or amicably? Can you imagine if we got taught how to use the frickin cooker or be told that being a musician or a skateboarder was a perfectly acceptable job to aspire to have? Tony Hawks famously told his careers advisor that he was earning more money than him at 14 years old when asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. Long gone are the days of 'a normal job' or even having just one job!

We just need to allow this time to birth and breath a little. Y'know, just a little time to allow us all to catch up and see objectively, without judgement, that we are indeed being squeezed through a sped up evolutionary process. Absorb what’s collectively and consciously right and wrong, weed out the old and plant the new; nurture, nurture, nurture. Because the inevitable and constant debate between EVERYTHING is exhausting. Have you noticed we now have to have a white, black, asian, disabled, gay, lesbian and transgender character on every sitcom. The narrative has to comment on the latest moral issue otherwise it’s seen as not adjusting with the times and won't get commissioned again for being non-PC. Every show is the god damn same! Ok, to be fair, I may be guilty here of watching crap TV. It’s ok to get the news from South Park, Joe Rogan’s best of the week podcast and the banter in the sauna? I swear between the three, I get the news of the world and a real objective and diverse opinion of each topic.

Times are changing, man and I couldn't be happier about it! What a time to be alive! It's gonna be rough for a while seeing the Trumps of the world in power and people trying figure out how Brexit is figuring itself out. Our politicians somehow turn into overnight millionaires and from what? Their amazing biographies? I don’t think so. Tony Blair is doing ok the last time I checked. Um... Should he not be in jail?

Hilary had her fingers in the Monsanto pies, though, too. Her, Bill Gates and probably Bono investing into a company that... well you can look ‘em up. There’s evidence of Gates saying that de-popularisation of the world is the answer to the population problem. Ooooosh. Hey man, it’s not me saying this it’s the internet. Fake news? So, what's or who’s worse? Voting for either of those guys would have been like switching seats on the bloody titanic. But, we can't afford to let the bastards grind us down. Hey? But jeeeeeeeeeezus. What a time to be alive!

We can’t afford to not observe the amazingness that is all around us, though, too. Now that would be pessimistic and foolish of us. There's too much awesomeness brewing and cultivating every day! We all know that the world has to go to shit before it has the chance to blossom into something sustainable again. Let’s watch it all crumble and side step the debate.

Get working on the new earth and all that comes with it in whatever our field. Let’s be pioneers and get in there early! Speak our minds, make some change and stop following the damn trends and herds into mediocrity! If we’re lucky enough to not be living in utter poverty, surely we have a duty to enjoy life and help others do the same in as many moments as possible? Every person we see and meet can act as a mirror. In each person we get another chance to realise what we don’t want in our life, or a chance to meet with compassion and sympathy if they’re broken, lost or just being a dick. Or, a clear reflection of light, love, happiness and all the other hippy shit that serves us good. If we truly admit it to ourselves; love in all its forms is always a better choice than fear.

We’ve come to the point where we’re definitely aware now. We are now AWARE of all that the world is and has come to. We have awareness for this, for that, this disease, that symptom, cuddle a dog day, ‘Stoptober (don’t be an alcoholic and just learn how to moderate your drinking?) month’, pink band, white band, gotta walk around with a ‘tache for all of November otherwise I don't care about my fellow man’s balls day! My money going in those buckets doesn’t cure the disease and neither does yours. I ain’t joining in to this charade. Unless I happen to want to just rock a sweet ass ‘tache that particular month. WE ARE AWARE! We get it. Awareness is first key to change. It’s the first stepping stone but certainly not the be all and end all. What’s the chuffing solution, pal!? It’s certainly not my November ‘tache!

Hey, as long as the next steps are available, i’m all in. If they’re not, create them! This month, give us money for the awareness of Depression! Urm, we’re already aware of depression, mate. I’m from Yorkshire! What’s the solution? The solution is always in the prevention. I’ll admit it’s not the most popular view. It’s not as popular to not have a super, all-in-one-fix-it-cure-all-drug, but it’s true. Prevention is the cure! End of debate. End of story.

1. Problem - Awareness. Individually or collectively realise and accept the problem. 2. Reaction - Make a positive reaction to create change. 3. Solution - Create a better solution that the last one made. 4. Progress - Create change and freedom for self and others.

Repeat steps 1- 4 when needed and stop funding charities that promote sugar, non-nutritious foods to cure diseases.

We, as a society, package-up symptoms and disease and sell them back to us all like shiny toys. You ever walked into the supermarket and seen all the packaging and all the food that has literally no nutrition in it at all? It’s predominantly a warehouse of about 70% absolute junk that we’re pumping out and lapping up. It gets us sick, we moan and then buy the pharmaceuticals they sell us or patch-up-feel-good legal drugs like food and alcohol. Duuuuuuuuude! WTF are we all doing? What’s our endgame here?

As a whole, our values, morals and outlook are waaaaay off right now. Not even comic relief can patch up this one. As you get older do you not feel that moral obligation to sort your shit out? For the sake of yourself and others too? Do you not find that every other person we meet is either wearing their heart on their sleeve in either the positive or negative sense right now? Potentially, righteously whoring out their opinions and beliefs like myself in hope to cause a spark in someone suffering and struggling in silence. We're either raw, cooking or totally on fire! It's a melting pot of good, bad and everything in between, isn't it? Everyone seems hyper and conscious, frazzled, confused or just completely ignorant. Ignorance seems like a good call sometimes. It’s the opposite end to an easy way out though.

We're either chasing sensations of attraction or aversion in every given moment, d’you not think? It's quite funny that not only do we all know the answer, the answer is so simple and yet we seem to forget it the moment when we ‘wake up’ each day. The Zen lot would say, just observe and accept where we are in life without judgment to ourselves or others. Let go of the past. Navigate back to the moment and get cracking. Repeat this constantly. Over and over and over again. Repeat, repeat, repeat until being present in the here and now occurs naturally in your day. Relief! Voila!

Yeah? What you think? I reckon that's it. Job done. Mate, it's been serving me good for sure. It helps me detach from the past and the future and just accept life as is and all of my shit and everyone else’s too! That’s the kicker! That’s where the ease and relief comes in. Accepting others as they are. Ooooosh that’s a tough one. It’s the only solution I found to life, thus far, that needs no debate.

What’s the saying?

Lao Tzu (Which translates as 'The Master') was actually an anonymous being that left loads of awesome wisdom on the planet. My favourite being: “If you’re depressed, you’re living in the past. If you’re anxious, you’re living in the future. If you’re at peace, you’re living in the present.”. Nailed it.

When we're really living our truth, making good, conscious decisions in life, we can truly be at peace. I think the issue is nobody seems know who they truly are. Nobody knows what’s right or wrong and nobody knows what to do about any of it. Well, we do know, don’t we! So, therefore we have to get to work and shake up the rest of us.

No religion, philosophy or rules needed. Just a good old fashioned mission statement of: BE A GOD DAMN GOOD PERSON TODAY! DO, HAVE, BE OR SAY SOMETHING GOOD! DO BETTER THAN YESTERDAY!

It's bloody hard work fighting up stream but you gotta, right? Or, we can die without ever truly experiencing the other side of the coin. Absolute Happiness! Absolute over relative happiness. Relative happiness being the quick fix’s to just fill the hole, the void. That general mentality we seem to live in. Either experience a life like a yo-yo of extremes or live the middle path and manage the good and bad, the highs and the lows. Live a life of balance! It’s free from the grip and pressure of the past and the future. It’s freedom! It’s also right here, right now in every given moment.

CHOICE!

If we have the awareness and luxury of choice, that’s all we ever need. As an individual it’s our duty to basically be a good human and create positive change. Hey, leave a legacy for your grandkids, too! Why not? Basically, just don’t be a dick.

Living unconsciously and not making that daily choice between love or fear. Oh my days. That was an exhausting way to live life. Wasn’t it!? We've been there, got the t-shirt and the mug. Smashed the mug and then glued it back together again. Chucked out the mug, lost the t-shirt. Sick and tired of being sick and tired. Constantly getting sucked in to other people’s bullshit. Job’s we don’t care about... Ugh. It was like being an extra in the story of someone else’s film. Nah, fuck that! Sorry... It’s supporting artist, not extra! Oops. Gotta keep up with the new words! We are the lead actor, the writer and producer of our own film. If we don’t realise this, we are living in someone else’s film, in someone else’s story.

It's like a sick joke with a silver lining, isn't it? This veil that has well and truly been lifted, that we're all experiencing, right here, right now. It's truly and completely messy and horrendous, but also positively beyond belief how much progress and change is being made. We are certainly consciously evolving as a species whether we’re indeed merging with the robots or not. Dude, I saw that they were making the plastic bits that tie the beers together out of edible material for fish. That's pretty rad! The missus completely eradicated all our plastic bags and bottles years ago. No chemicals at all in our flat. No chemicals in deodorants or foods. Nothing. Wooden toothbrush's and crystal rock deodorants, fridge full of farmers market organic veg for juices and smoothies. It’s a lot of upkeep and work but we’re fully invested. I used to think she was off her rocker and that the word vegan was a planet! It’s pretty nuts how we've completely changed our lifestyles and gone all in, isn’t it?

I couldn't ever go back, could you? Once you discover the other side of the coin. Nah. All in, pal. You should check out Edward Begley Juniors house. He's been building an eco house since the 70's! His white picket fence is made out of milk bottle tops. I mean... Oat mylk bottle tops (just incase any of those hardcore righteous vegans read this over your shoulder). God those guys suck. They ruin it for all us self-righteous vegans. I gotta say though, the celebration of the vegan lifestyle, yoga, meditation, well-being and all the mylk choices out there, I did not see that coming. It's pretty unreal! And proof the times are changing. Bob was on it back in the day!

We're pretty lucky to be able to make these conscious choices now. Pretty lucky for the awareness that we have this choice! 90% healthy and on it 10% full blown party time. That’s my jam. Yeah, I’ve still got my 10% party card that I pull out once in a while, mate. Don't get me wrong. I might forget my shopping bag once in a while and go wiiiiiiild and get a placky bag.

I saw someone give an old man shit for putting something in a bin once. “THAT CAN BE RECYCLED!” Oh those guys suuuuuuck! You’re doing life wrong, mate. We’re all figuring this out together. And hey, call me out if i’m doing the same. I most probably am! I’m trying my best to be objective and point out my flaws. I have many! I’m opinionated, passionate and stubborn as shit! It only ever sparks conversation and hopefully a positive change in at least one of us though, no?

I’m never a fan of those who sit on the fence. You have a voice and a brain. Use it! Or, get off that damn fence and get out of here, kid. Jog on and find the other kid that was moaning about the state of the world while doing sweet FA to contribute.

As a species though, we've definitely been forced to shine the light on what's truly important right now and dissolve what no longer serves us. We're totally getting there. Equality, gay marriage, a stronger voice for women in society, plant-based living and saving the unnecessary mass slaughter of animals.

The thriving of well-being industries and joking aside, the awareness of the importance of mental health and everything else we have bands and moustaches for. Ethical materials and products making their way into our lives... Again. The positive effects of Psilocybin on cancer patients and people with depression being discussed on mainstream TV!

The awesome effects of CBD Oil on patients with Cancer, Alzheimer's and Cerebral Palsy on both humans and animals. The mass breakthrough of stress relieving tools like Mindfulness, Meditation, Qi Gong and Yoga helping kids, teenagers, parents, inmates, housemates and everyone in between.

Dude, It's safe to say we are all experiencing, both individually and collectively, an overwhelming wave of joy and pain, love and fear, clarity and confusion, simultaneously on a global mass scale. In doing so, we're making way for the birth of a new world and new environment for sure. The release of it all brings suffering to some and joy to others. That's the crux of it all.

What a time to be alive! Which side are you on?

'What a time to be alive!' This could be a state of heaven or hell depending on your outlook and circumstance, right? The buddhists say that heaven and hell are both here on earth rather than a judea-christian outlook with your granny playing a harp and satan surfing the lake of fire.

Heaven and hell and everything in between is a state of mind we experience in each moment. It’s choice that programmes the GPS system and destiny. If we have the ability to read information on a device in this day and age, there's a very high chance we are armed with the powerful choice of choosing love or fear in any given moment, right?

So, this knocked me off my feet. Check this out! There's over 300 million people suffering with depression, worldwide. Depression is the leading cause of disability worldwide right now. How crazy is that, man!? Are we still allowed to say ‘crazy'? So where are these 300 million then? Oh that's right, we've got ridiculously good at hiding it, haven’t we! You and I both, hey! We need to keep our shit together in order to survive and not bring Doctor Doom to the party. That is until we inevitably, eventually pop. Mate, I can lock up all my feelings just like the next man can! Person. Like the next person can. See! The times are changing! Just about covered my ass there.

Is blasphemy still just a grey area? Do we have an all clear on god damn? What are the rules? I love a good god damn! Do you find that you’re starting to also question every word that you throw out incase you get called out and lynched? I heard a guy get really mad at someone say ‘midget’.

“It’s not midget it’s little people!” Is it?? Is ‘little people' the preferred title chosen by... I’m not particularly reckless with my words, but I do feel the egg shells cracking, constantly. We’re all figuring out what we think is OK and what's acceptable for this new time we're moving into. And that, my friend, is why I watch South Park. I learned about gender neutral toilets from South Park!

I do know we're not allowed to say 'brain storm' anymore! I totally get it. Imagine little Jimmy has a tumour and all his mates are shouting “BRAIN STORM! BRAIN STORM!”. Little Jimmy is gonna lose his shit. A shame because I loved a good brain storm at school. It's mind maps or cloud thoughts now.

Gotta keep moving with the times people! Keep up, keep up, keep up!!! Exhausting, isn't it? When did you pop by the way? Have you popped yet or are you managing your shit well enough? I popped in 2012 and have been attempting to drag others over to the other side ever since. No wonder we feel ambushed, overwhelmed and frazzled. We don't know what words to say incase we missed the meeting and that word is no longer cool or valid anymore. The correct grammar for email but not necessarily a text... Should we say... ‘See ya, pal!’ or ‘See ya pa!’? Does it matter anyway? It does if you're dealing with a hierarchy of intellects, backgrounds and cultures in your place of work. Not so much in school I imagine. We've been ambushed, but simultaneously upgraded with a shit ton of knowledge like a cosmic slap round the face.

I would like to at this point, thank you for your patience for allowing me to gather my own thoughts in this cathartic ramble by the way. This ramble has helped me figure out a few things. So, thanks. I’ll look forward to your reply.

It's got it's pluses for sure, but, by Lord, have we not all seen enough of us go down in the process. We've both lost a few friends and friends of friends. Mate, all those celebs in the last few years? It's like the 27 club all over again. Apart from this time it was mostly voluntary and not most probably a CIA job.

Martin Luther King, John F. Kennedy, Hendrix, The Beatles... Oooooh the times were changing then man! It went downhill after that. I 1000% believe we’re picking it up where we left off! Aaaaaaaaaaw I've only just realised the BEATles is a music pun! How did I miss that?????

When Robin Williams went, that was the sign that's something was definitely not right on planet earth. Oh man, I genuinely miss Robin Williams! Life can be confusing, unfair, relentless, overwhelming and sometimes just fucking rough. But, hey, sometimes, for fleeting moments, it's totally badass! Sometimes it's even FANTASTIC!

We've got to the point that we need to at least acknowledge the other side of the coin now. This side being love, absolute happiness, change, positivity and peace we can experience within us. I ain’t saying the world as a whole as we’ll always need that yin and yang. But, certainly within us, we have the choice. We’ve done, seen and experienced all the fear, hate, lack, pessimism, poverty, racism, sexism, depression and anxiety. We’ve seen the results. The results are well and truly in. They suck!

To balance out this eco-system, the equilibrium within us and that expression into the planet, we have to individually choose either love or fear in every given moment. Constantly. Repeat, repeat, repeat for the sake of ourselves, family, friends and the world itself. We have a job to do! For sure we do. It feels like a responsibility now rather than the chore that it once was as a kid.

Historically though, we are 100% definitely experiencing something out of the ordinary, for sure, right now. Put your hand down, no debates needed. Put your mouth and thoughts away, pal! On this note, we can give ourselves a break. We can collectively take a breath and sigh of comic relief and say “Hey, fuck! The world is fucking nuts!”.

This will help us all bring compassion to those who are struggling right now. Because just being a human-being is hard enough!

So, what have me and the boys decided to do? We've only gone and decided to navigate our way through these insanely treacherous waters and do 'the work’ the only way we know how. We found the thing we love more than life itself. Music! Music, much like comedy is a high vibration and should be honoured in all of its expressions and forms. Just as much as all the ‘proper jobs’ out there. That negative belief system was one of the hardest one’s we ever had to battle as musicians, artists, creatives and performers. We matter and contribute to the world just as much as the suits do! And we bring the tunes to the party too!

We've channeled it into a vessel we call Black Surf and we're firing off all the joy, happiness, creativity, and love into the world where it's needed. Why the chuff not! What else are we gonna do? Sit in a pub and moan about Brexit?

If we have a choice, which we are fortunate to have, struggling against all odds and following your dreams is waaaaaay better than sitting in our pants on the ends of the bed, staring at the shoes we don't want to wear to a job we hate. Like a supporting artist in somebody’s else film.

Mainly for ourselves and to satisfy the urges of writing and playing live for the love of it. Just knowing that we're out there trying to inspire anyone in need of inspiration and allowing space, compassion and sympathy for our inevitable dirty trolls. We love them all. We gotta embrace all the positive change that is here among us and be free enough to let the music we create flow through us, harness it, record it and just keep moving. Because otherwise we’re just arm chair philosophers and wannabes.

It's a debatable point, of course, but I love it in essence. If you wanna save the land don’t chain yourself to the tree. Raise the money, buy the land and do something awesome with it! Save the trees and leave no man behind! Aaaaaaah fucked it.

Hope all is well! Look forward to hearing about YOU! Big LOVE

x Ali

P.S. I've only just remembered in this moment, the moment that I literally typed my name, that you only asked how the band was doing. I'll save the story and mission of Black Surf for next time. It’s all been pretty ridiculous. Messed up, yet beautifully glorious.

0 notes

spursroundup · 6 years ago

Photo

Danny Rose interview with the Mirror

Danny Rose reveals his secret depression battle as he bares his soul over uncle's suicide, mum's racial abuse and gun attack on brother

Danny Rose has lifted the lid on his battle with depression and the catalogue of personal traumas he overcame.

In an astonishingly frank interview – the most searingly honest ever given by a current England international – the Tottenham star reveals he was prescribed antidepressants for months as he battled to regain fitness after a knee injury.

Three Lions left-back Rose – who has 17 caps – turned to a psychologist for help when his dark mindset was exacerbated by...

One of his uncles committing suicide

His mother, Angela, being racially abused in the street

A terrifying gun attack on his brother at the family home

Until now, the 27-year-old Spurs man has kept the sheer depth of his depression from even close family. But beneath those Three Lions on his chest, Danny Rose’s heart was breaking.

It started with a knee injury, and the initial frustration of pills and needles which failed to cure it, before the ravages of depression closed in like nightfall.

On the dark wings of mental health came family tragedy and trauma, with an uncle committing suicide, his mother, subjected to racist bigotry, and a gunman firing at his brother. And when Rose chose the moment to unburden his soul, it all came spilling out in 12 minutes of sensational honesty.

What Rose gave us was astonishing candour – secrets so personal he had concealed some of them from his own parents and England coach Gareth Southgate.

From Marcus Trescothick to Tyson Fury, depression is not a new enemy on sport’s front line – but it is still the hardest to detect simply by judging a book by its cover.

Rose said: “It all stemmed from my injury in January last year, when I was advised I didn’t need an operation. I don’t know how many tablets I took to try to get fit for Tottenham, how many injections I had to try.

“I had cortisone-PRP (platelet rich plasma) injections to try to get fit for my club, and four months down the line – after all the football I missed, when the team was flying and I was playing really well – it was difficult. Seeing the lads beat Arsenal and Manchester United comfortably - it was hard. I’m not saying I’ve had worse treatment than anyone else, but that was the start of it.”

Rose was eventually referred to the operating theatre last ��summer, but the drudgery of rehab and missing the first three months of the season took their toll on his mental health.

He revealed: “I was on medication for a few months – nobody knows about that apart from my agent – but I’m off it now, it’s all good, and I’m looking forward to seeing how far we can go in Russia.

“Being referred to a doctor and psychologist by my club doctor helped me massively to cope.

"I’ve been through a lot, and England has been my salvation. One million per cent. But off the field, there have been other incidents.

"In August, my mum was racially abused back home in Doncaster – she was very angry and upset about it. Then someone came to the house and nearly shot my brother in the face.

“Nobody knows this either, but my uncle hung himself in the middle of my rehab and that triggered it [depression] as well.”

Looking back, he can identify the symptoms now. Easily dismissed as mood swings, they were classic signs of a tortured soul.

He said: “I was getting very angry, very easily. I didn’t want to go into work or do my rehab, I was snapping when I got home.

"Friends were asking me to do things and I wouldn’t go out. I would come home and go to bed.”

Rose was fined two weeks’ wages – around £130,000 – by Tottenham last year after claiming their star players were underpaid and the club needed marquee signings, “not ones you have to Google”.

Rotated, when fit, with Ben Davies for the left-back slot, he was restricted to just 17 appearances last season, and admitted: “It’s no secret I’ve been through a testing time, which led to me seeing a psychologist and being diagnosed with depression.

“I had to get away from Tottenham, and I’m lucky England gave me that opportunity to refresh my mind. I owe them a lot.

“Fortunately, I have a strong relationship with the physio here, Steve Kemp. I texted him every now and then, asking ‘Do you think I’ll be in the squad?’

“I used to badger him to try to get information, but he couldn’t tell me anything and I was worried.

“The manager is based at St George’s Park a lot and I would bump into him during my rehab and occasionally have dinner with him.

“Away from here, I’ve had the odd text or phone call. He’s one of the nicest men I’ve come across in football.”

submitted by /u/_gumnut_ [link] [comments]

#spurs coys tottenham thfc soccer

0 notes

sending-the-message · 7 years ago

Text

I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and would like it back. [Part Three] by PeteTheSeed

Part Two

It’s been difficult to write this third and final part of my tale. Honestly, no matter how I try to write it, nothing truly conveys what I’ve come to experience. I’ll do my best. We left off with Gary and I finding ourselves in Hell, which in itself is a rather precarious predicament. The search for my soul had been a rather tenuous one, and as we left ventured out from that warehouse and into the unknown, I felt a strange sense that everything was going to be okay.

I lost Gary on the first day. We traversed across the landscape of Hell, which is far less ‘pedestrian-friendly’ than you might think. Mountains scoured the horizon, broken apart by deep ravines that disappear into darkness. The sky was ablaze, and the lightning that rained down from its inferno left fissures large enough to swallow you whole. Winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone came and went, and carried with them the howls of those too unfortunate to get caught in its midst. If I’d came here on vacation, I’d give it two out of five stars.

We crawled and stumbled across the cliff face overlooking a vast expanse of land that stretched farther than the eye could see. Wilted forests and bodies of grey water littered the expanse, with figures and shapes darting around wildly. Predators and prey. Whilst we crawled across the jagged and crumbling rocks, lightning struck between us, which sent Gary tumbling down into the chaos. He cupped his genitals the entire fall as he rolled and collided with stone.

So, that was kind of lame. I managed to reach the end of the cliff face, only to find myself staring outwards at another stretch of horrors and obscenities. I was getting the impression that there wasn’t a great deal of aesthetic variance in Hell. I silently wished Gary the best of luck, and continued onwards.

I didn’t really have a plan in mind; Hell, as far as I knew, could be infinite in size, and the likelihood of just stumbling upon my soul could be less likely than two grains of rice adrift at sea bumping into each other. The only thing that was fuelling my soulless being was a pure sense of annoyance at the entire ordeal; I had faced a great deal of inconvenience thus far and didn’t want to admit that I’d wasted the better part of a week.

I eventually found myself a quaint little cavern overlooking what I’m pretty sure was an ocean of faeces, which I decided to use as a temporary retreat from the dreary horrors of Hell. I folded my jacket into a pillow, and sat down to enjoy some quality me time, where I could recoup and gather myself. I’d get some rest until morning, maybe lead a one-man search party for Gary, and plan my next course of action. I was relatively certain that, by the end of the next day, I’d be well on my way home and able to put the entire thing being me.

I was in Hell for over six months.

Less than an hour after settling down in my Hell-scape abode, I found myself being woken with a spear inches from my face. Well, I remember thinking, this is interesting. The man who held the spear was nothing but skin pulled tightly over thin bones, his eyes sunken deep into the skull and his lips well receded, revealing his broken and blackened teeth. Coating his skin was a mixture of bodily mutilations and tribal paint, that I sensed were largely a fashion choice. Behind him stood others, similarly styled and equally deranged. Never having been a ’fight my way out’ kind of lad, I pretty much surrendered on the spot.

Before I could protest the necessity of it all, I found myself bound by my wrists and dragged from my dwelling, poked and prodded with sticks and stones along the way. Outside of the cave stood what I can only describe as a roaming Hellish gypsy brigade; strange, horse-like creatures pulled along obscene carts built from bone and skin. Behind each lay a trail of poor souls bound the same as I, connected in a train and pulled behind each of the carts. My captures had innumerable friends, all of which marched and chanted and yelled crazily, taunting their prisoners as they went. I was attached to the back of one trail, and the gypsy brigade moved onwards with me in tow.

I don’t know how long we marched for; Hell had no day or night cycle, no change in season and certainly no calendars. I marked the passing of time as best as I could. The only real judge I had was the growth of my hair and beard; I’d long since accepted that it would take me at least three months to grow out what could be potentially described as a semi-successful beard, and whilst I was pulled along across Hell I went from clean-shaven to Santa Claus. We would march day in and day out, resting only for a few sparing hours for whatever rest we could get before being dragged along again. We were fed filth coated bowls of a gruel-like substance that I’m pretty sure the horse-creatures excreted; I’ve never been a picky-eater, but it took a few days before I even dared dip into the putrid mixture.

I won’t go into too much detail about my time captured in Hell; truthfully, every day brought a new nightmare, each one grimmer, each one more horrifying than the last. We were led through ceaseless valleys that held grand pits of the damned who writhed in their own misery. We trekked through deep caverns that burrowed into the earth, where spider-like creatures the size of mammoths roamed in numbers unknown. When we reached an ocean, boats were assembled and we sailed through storms across oceans of shit and blood and bile, baring witness to indescribable beasts whose lengths could span cities as they erupted upwards from the waters depths, bringing with them a bellowing cry that could deafen ears. We miserably trudged through swamps of long dead trees with bubbling pools of acid that exploded outwards and coated more than one of us, whom immediately writhed down into a puddle of their own being. If I had a soul, I’d have probably been pretty depressed.

When my ankles could take no more, I crawled. When I could crawl no more, I was pulled until the skin peeled from my back. After a lifetime, we reached our destination.

We were pulled into a grand encampment, a city of skin-forged tents and raging bonfires. Spikes adorned with severed heads were littered like street lights, discarded bones laying like trash. Tribal savages roamed and sung and chanted and danced in every direction. It wasn’t really my kind of scene.

Various other caravans were unloading their own hordes of captives, all lined up and chained like dogs. Forced to my knees, I was made to join them.

We were left there to rot. Occasionally, a savage would approach and inspect one of us; arms lifted and groped, legs tapped and stretched, mouths pulled open and examined. Sometimes they were then ignored, other times they were untied and taken away, not to return. I imagine they went to a happier, cheerier place. Maybe Morocco.

We slept on the floor. We pissed and shit on the floor. Scraps were flung at us, often just out of reach. Dignity was in sparse supply in those moments. As time passed, those who I had been brought in with dwindled one by one; some perished, others were taken. One chewed through his chain, reducing his teeth to broken, shattered stubs. He tried to run, and was ridden down and set alight.

Others came and were chained, but I remained. If they were selling us, my captors would need to offer a pretty substantial discount if they wanted to be rid of my sorry soulless ass, it seemed. I retreated inwards, spending my days staring into space as caravan after caravan rolled into the camp, selling their wares and trading in suffering.

“Psst… Hey! Dude!”

I snapped out of a daze at the words; it was the first language I’d heard since arriving that I understood. I turned my head as best as I could to look behind me, and saw another poor captured man trying to get my attention. He wore tattered, torn overalls and the remains of a black beanie.

“Oh, hey Dave.”

“Hey! It’s you! Remember me? I opened the portal and got us here? Fun times, right? Crazy times. So, how you been?” Dave had seen better days. Ragged, ginger curls hung down from his beanie, matted like a dog. His face was battered and bruised, and he looked as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. Oh, and he had one eye now. Or did he only have one eye already? I couldn’t remember.

“Oh, I’m not bad, myself. Did some sightseeing, worked on my calves, got a bit of a tan. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I’m a slave now, which is something.”

“You got your soul back though, right? Man, look at this place. Craaayzeee stuff, amiright?”

I realised that I didn’t like Dave very much.

“Nope, still soulless. I guess that’s kind of been a blessing, really. Puts things into perspective.”

“Really? The demon I sold it too is, like, right over there.” He pointed off towards a caravan, where a being that was more blob than man sat surrounded by various jars of peculiar glowing liquids. He had small, ill-fitting glasses and four arms, each of which was scratching a different orifice that coated his form. The caravan was coated in ornate, ancient jars, that each radiated a small flicker of light. Each one had a name, and each one seemed to be vibrating furiously, causing a rattle to the cart. “Yeah, that’s the guy. I found him not long after we wound up here, figured he’d help a dude out considering our pre-existing business relationship. The dude sold me for some sheets.”

“Huh. Well, that’s neat. Kind of annoying, what with the whole slave thing that I’ve currently got going for me.” I awkwardly manoeuvred myself into a sitting position, and stared at the caravan. It’s difficult to explain, but now that it had been pointed out to me, I could sort of feel a presence coming from the jars. One jar, in particular; it sat at the bottom of the cart, slightly damaged and it appeared to be leaking, surrounded by a few other equally damaged wares. My soul was in the discount, remainder bin.

That’s when Gary showed up again.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Was pretty much all I said. I sat there, bound and chained and displayed like a piece of damaged fruit, staring at my spectral companion that I hadn’t seen in what felt like the better part of a year.

My hair was wild, my beard and skin coated in all sorts of filth. My jeans had, at best, a week left of decent use in them. My wrists were cut to the bone from my restraints. But I wasn’t the only one who had a change of appearance; Gary wore a hat now. More of a crown, actually; it looked to be made of bones and twigs. His once perpetually disgruntled expression had softened, seeming sunken with a hint of sorrow. His once proud ghastly erection was now but a humble semi. I dared not think what he had endured those past months, but his appearance said it all. Behind him was a small group of the damned. A baker’s dozen, at most. Each one of them wore strange cloaks that covered their forms, their faces expressionless and gaunt. When Gary stopped in front of me, they fell on their knees, and began to chant and bow clumsily. I guess Gary was their leader now, or their God. I don’t even know. Upon seeing me, Gary turned towards them, made a few gestures and removed his crown, placing it on the ground. A few of his flock began to tremble, a few burst into howling tears. One by one, they all departed. Gary looked at me and shrugged, a single ghost tear running down his ghost cheek. It was all ridiculous, honestly.

“Hey.” I said. Gary nodded.

Gary approached, and began fiddling with my restraints. In a few moments he had freed me, and none of my captors seemed to notice. I stood up, dusted myself off and threw up slightly as blood rushed to my feet. I stretched my back and coughed fiercely.

Gary gestured his head towards the soul-covered caravan. I nodded, acknowledging that I’d seen it.

“Well, let’s just take it and get out of here. Come on, Gary.”

“You can’t steal a soul, buddy!” Dave pipped up from behind. “Oh, and could I get a hand over here, too? Hell is overrated.”

I turned back towards the caravan, and then back to Dave. Then to Gary.

“You know what? I’m done. Let’s just say that we tried, we gave it a solid effort. Fuck this. Fuck Hell. Fuckity-fuck being a Hell-slave. Fuck you, Dave. Fuck the dishwasher. Fuck your god-damned boner, Gary. Fuck you and your boner.”

I collapsed, completely finished. Some may say that I was overreacting, but even a soulless husk has its limits. If only I could just rest.

Gary didn’t react. He looked down upon me, sighed, and disappeared into nothingness as though it was the most casual gesture in the world. I was alone again. I wasn’t counting Dave.

“Fuck this. Fuck whatever that is,” I was walking forward now, my blood boiling. I don’t know if it was down to the proximity to my soul, but I was starting to feel raw, unfiltered emotion seeping in to my skin. “Fuck souls. Fuck Hell so god-damned much.”

“Um, dude? A little hel-“ Daves voice faded into the background.

I reached the soul-trader, stood before him defiantly. He looked a bit confused, and a bit offended.

“Give me my soul.”

He blinked. He itched his slime stained scalp. A strange mucus dripped from one of his many orifices. He didn’t seem to mind. He spoke back in a broken tongue, and then turned away.

“Give me my damned soul, don’t be a douche.” I reached forward and grabbed the jar that was calling to me. It was cold to the touch, and felt far lighter than it should have. The blob guy looked at me, his eyes going wide. He pointed with all four arms and all twenty fingers, yelling. The savages around the encampment had begun to take notice. They muttered and whispered between one another, and began to approach and encircle me. I took steps backwards, gripping the jar close to my chest like a child grasps a pillow.

“Look, things might have gotten a little heated, granted. Now, if you just let me walk away with my soul, we can put all of this behind us-“ A spear flew in my direction, missing my skull my mere inches. “Now, that’s completely uncalled for.”

I ran. I don’t know where I planned and running to, but it felt like the best option at the time. I passed Dave as I went, and shot him the kind of look that said, ’sorry about leaving you in Hell. Oh, and fuck you.’ I left the encampment at full sprint, the savages quickly in pursuit. Nothing but open valley stretched around, the sky still burning and raging and my feet aching and my heart pounding. My brow dripped sweat. My fingers trembled. I was not letting go of my soul.

I fell, hard. I slipped down a small ravine, landing flat on my back. The jar flew off in an unknown direction. I felt warm liquid trickle down my leg. I’ll say it was blood, but it was probably urine.

The Hell savages were on me in no time. They circled like sharks, weapons outstretched. One of them carried a flaming torch. Another carried a barbed whip. I sensed my plan had failed miserably.

I spat out dirt. The jar was a few feet away from me. I began to crawl towards it, as the lash of the whip came cracking down on my back. I screamed, spittle’s of blood dusting the ground. I reached the jar. Another whip; I felt the skin on my back tear open. I raised the jar. Another whip. I felt the barbs crack bone. I brought the jar down to the earth as hard as I could, as I heard the air break as the whip began to bear down again. The jar shattered.

Nothingness.

I was adrift. Somewhere and everywhere. I was nothing and everything and something all at once. I felt no pain or ache, wasn’t tired or hot or cold or stressed or scared. Just complete and pure nothingness. Wherever I was, I felt as though I’d been there before. I could sense nothing, but at the same time everything was heightened and overloading. I have no experience in it, but I imagine it’s what meth felt like.

Then, as though nothing had happened at all, I was back. I felt different, but the same. It was disorientating. I could see nothing but the ground, and slowly the pain that radiated my body returned. I forced myself onto my back, which burned fiercely. I was still in Hell. Great. The savages stood around me now, eyes widened and weapons gripped. A few of them scowled, others looked frightened. I stood up, and waited for the inevitable killing strike. It never came. One by one, they began to turn-tail and run, fleeing back to the encampment. Soon enough, I was stood alone, surrounded by discarded weapons.

Well, that was odd. I guessed it was one of those things you just have to roll with. Exhausted, I scanned the horizon, decided upon a nice-looking hill to walk towards, and set off.

Upon my first step, the ground beneath me crumbled, and I was swallowed by the abyss. I faintly heard Dave’s voice as a whisper in the distance:

”You can’t steal a soul, buddy…”

I could see them beneath me as I fell; thousands of souls, all piled up upon one other, surrounded my nothingness, all reaching upwards towards me. I landed atop the pit, hard. The writhing mess of flesh accepted me, hands outstretching and pulling me inwards. Within moments, I was dragged deep within. I felt the pressure of it all on my chest, the air being forced out of my lungs. I tried to scream, but fingers wrestled into my lips and began to force their way down my throat. With my one free hand, I reached upwards towards the darkness, as I got what I knew would be my last glimpse of anything.

Light exploded overhead. Pillars of brilliantly white fury descended, burning away at the accursed souls who pulled me downwards. A thousand shrieks killed my eardrums, withdrawing. I looked up, blinded, and saw the most beautiful sight that any being has ever bared witness too.

Gary descended slowly, the light radiating from his glorious form. He floated above me, his angelic erection stronger and prouder than ever. He reached out his hand and took mine, and pulled me from perdition.

We rose together, Gary’s hand locked around my wrist as I hung beneath him. We rose and rose until we had left the abyss that I had been called too, until Hell was but a faint glimpse below. We ascended through the infernal sky, and I closed my eyes and embraced every moment of my saviour’s presence.

“Gary… Are you an Angel?” I don’t know whether I actually asked, or whether I merely thought it. Within my mind, a gentle and comforting voice replied. I don’t recall what it said.

The light grew brighter and brighter, until it was everything.

I awoke in my apartment, and that was that.

It turns out I was in Hell for about a day and a half, which is mildly frustrating. I’m pretty sure I have my soul back now, which is cool. I don’t feel as empty any more. I still have the dishwasher, too; I’m not really sure what to do with it. I guess I’ll just sell it for scrap or something. I can dream again, now; I must have slept for the better part of three days after my return. I’m not really sure what to make of my experience; I guess it’ll take some time to piece everything together, and come to terms with what I experienced, if that’s possible. I don’t see the dead anymore, either; the streets are once again only occupied by the living and the homeless. Yeah, that includes Gary, too. That’s okay though, I suppose. I won’t forget what he did, even if I don’t quite understand it. I think he’s still here. Every now and then, I’ll catch a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye, something that looks a hell of a lot like a disembodied penis, and I find comfort in that. He’s my friend.

Kind of a shame about Dave, though.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

0 notes