#afro roxy rights

[dingodad]

Does anyone remember that Lord English himself isn’t even composed of the original versions of the souls that make him? He’s the son of paradox clones, right? That means B2 Jack is the one who actually contains the original souls of Lord English, since he was directly possessed. English has been diluted by being a paradoxical copy, and being part cueball. His creation is not unlike that of breeding Genesis frogs. (The end frog does not chronologically branch off from the original frogs, he is a paradoxical copy of all of them combined. I’d argue that he’s almost like the inverse to a Genesis frog.) So the destiny of the original Caliborn, Equius, Lil Hal and Gamzee is to be decapitated by Dave and explode into a black hole. Caliborn brags about how he will become all powerful, but he will doesn’t get to do that. The paradox slime version of himself born in a lab is destined to become the laser skull epilepsy pharoah hulk man, not him. Not that any of this really matters or changes that much, I just noticed that it was odd. This all adds up right? I didn’t forget anything that would make this not make sense?

you are, on a technical level, completely right: at no point in the Pharaoh Hulk's* timeline was he ever literally Lil Cal. he emerges straight from Doc Scratch, who was only ever a clone of Lil Cal. but you're making a critical error by thinking of the Hulk and B2 Jack as if they're meant to be two different guys.

*I've always known this iteration of Lord English as the "Mobster Hulk" version - google seems to be telling me it's basically only my posts that use this phrasing but I'm guessing I must have picked it up on the forums.

I won't give you the long-winded explanation about Ultimate Selves and how it's the idea of a person that matters more than the specific body they inhabit because I already have about a dozen posts on the subject and I'm sure everyone's sick of hearing it by now. so I wanna focus on two specific and related reasons why "Real Lord English" and "Copy of Lord English" is a false dichotomy, based specifically in an area of Homestuck's worldbuilding that doesn't really get talked about so much:

Jack Noir's version of Lil Cal is just a copy too! Roxy banished the one containing Lord English's soul into nonexistence, so that in Caliborn's words it will "FLUTTER THROUGH THE SHADOWS FOR ETERNITY. SURFACING IN THE NIGHTMARES OF THE UNSUSPECTING." Gamzee is not a Thief of Void, he can't steal things back out of the darkness; he's simply a psychic whose chucklevoodoos can "amplify fears through dreams." The Lil Cal that emerges in Dave's dreams, is adopted by his Bro, and one day makes the journey to Jack's prison cell is just a manifestation of Dave's fear of puppets; the one that Roxy banished is still out there.

First rule of jujus, bro: "THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE!" "if there ever appears to be more than one of the same, it is only a mirage of caUsality!"

cultured readers will be able to draw the line between the two phrases i've put special emphasis on. Homestuck uses the terms existing terms "voodoo" and "juju" to deliberately evoke an anthropological concept which is found around the world but is most pop-culturally associated with African and Afro-Carribean spirituality: Lil Cal is a fetish. his power comes not from the fact that he is composed of some special material (or because, as you suggest, he has some kind of unique or special genes), but from the fact that spiritual power is ascribed to him. think of a religious idol; there can be a million idols to the same one deity, but the power of each idol will be exactly the same, because each has the same spiritual significance.

put in overly-simplistic terms which aren't necessarily accurate but speak to a recurring theme in Homestuck: a juju works because of the belief that it works.

this is what Calliope and Caliborn mean when they speak of "bad juju", some kind of mystical force which Lil Cal is filled with. the "juju" isn't the object at all; it's an enchantment associated with the object. Calliope says a juju can't ever be destroyed, and yet Lil Cal is torn to shreds and repaired on multiple occasions - it's the magic, the juju, that persists. this is the only way an object with a self-perpetuating origin could possibly exist, or else the object would just keep becoming more and more worn with each loop of its timeline.

Scratch and Caliborn both say it: "Instances of [Scratch] have spawned in countless universes", just as Lil Cal will continue to infiltrate the dreams of infinite children and take Caliborn "FROM UNIVERSE. TO UNIVERSE. TO UNIVERSE." importantly, it's implied actually quite early on in the comic that you can't really "clone" a "soul", because paradox clones kind of follow similar rules to jujus; there can only be one TRUE clone, who will always travel back in time to become their own origin, and all other clones are "MALFORMED MUTANTS" with no bearing on the timeline. so the exact circumstances through which Cal arrives in each universe, be it via ectobiology or clown voodoo, don't matter: every copy is either a) inert or b) actually the same Lil Cal at a different point in its circuitous timeline.

in other words - thanks to a time loop of his own orchestration! - all versions of Lord English have to be decapitated and/or collapse into a black hole at the end of their lifespan because they all have to ultimately return to the void. you're really not that far off the mark in that there is a tragedy in the fact that Caliborn believes he will "GET STRONGER. AND OLDER. AND BIGGER. AND BUFFER!" each time he destroys a universe. the tragedy is just that he thinks turning into Mobster Hulk is the end goal when in fact by making himself immortal he has ensured there IS no end goal: he's trapped being reborn as new Lil Cals in new universes forever and ever. no matter how many brief excursions he takes out into the universe to play the villain, his essence is trapped in the void for all time.

[fatherfigurefusion]

My personal design headcanons for the choir (but I don't use the 2016 cast as inspiration)...

(Bet you can't guess my favorite cast!)

Uniforms: (primary inspirations: McCarter Theatre, Chance Theatre, and Roxy's Downtown) dark blue and silver argyle sweater vests (with their school's insignia on the front) over white long-sleeved dress shirts and red ties/ribbons, grey pants for the boys, grey skirts for the girls

Ocean: (primary inspirations: Jackie Wilberton, Juliana Balzano, Addison Ward, slight inspiration from Nat Beaumont) 5 ft 4 in, long and wavy brown hair with a headband, has bangs, pale skin, a wide smile with a noticeable snaggletooth, wears a black blazer over her sweater vest and a sparkly red bowtie instead of a ribbon, black tights, and brown loafers.

Noel: (primary inspirations: Erwin Guerrero, Benjamin Michael Hall, slight inspiration from Ricky Johnson, Miclo Gonzalez, and Andres Lagang) 5 ft 11 in, Mexican, long and straight black hair that is often in either a bun or a low ponytail, chubby build, tanned skin, nails painted red, lets his hair loose and switches to a black dress, red feather boa, ripped lace leggings and arm warmers, and black heels, when playing Monique.

Mischa: (primary inspirations: Wyman Wheeler, Eli Mayer, Brad Hutchinson, slight inspiration from Jared Machado) 5 ft 9 in, curly dirty blonde hair in a faux-hawk, has stubble all over his chin and is attempting to grow a soul patch, slightly pudgy and stout build with "tattoos" scribbled all over his skin, pale skin with noticeable eyebags, wears a blue hoodie over his dress shirt instead of a sweater vest, stuffs his tie in his pants pocket, has rings on his fingers and a golden heart necklace that holds a picture of Talia in it.

Ricky: (primary inspirations: Ciara Kenny, Yannick-Robin Eike Mirko, Bennet Preuss, slight inspiration from Josh Otero and Link Hagerty) 5 ft 3 in, half-Puerto Rican, wears a backwards cap and glasses, shoulder-length curly dark brown hair, slightly-tanned skin, perpetual cat smile, wears black fingerless gloves that help with their joint issues, short and skinny build, is often seen with either forearm crutches or in a wheel chair, switches to a galaxy printed bodysuit with a purple and silver jacket and a matching star-studded and fur-lined cape over it, grey boots with cat paw prints on the bottom, clear purple glasses and white cat ears on their head, when performing "Space Age Bachelor Man"

Jane Doe: (primary inspirations: Em Flosi, Mary Jane Oken, Scout Graham, slight inspiration from Bryn Studer, Sara Dukes, and Janelle Catherina) 6 ft, primarily based on a Raggedy Ann doll, is tall and gangly, flops around like a ragdoll when she moves, has slightly charred red hair that falls over her eyes in uneven twintails, a stitched-up smile and cracks all over her face, wears an oversized white sweater that's charred and torn-up over her equally charred and torn-up school uniform, has mismatched black and white socks, and one missing shoe.

Constance: (primary inspirations: Tiffany Polite, Zoë Lewis-McLean, slight inspiration from Sereniti Patterson and Melissa Goldman) 5 ft 3 in, African-American (is part First Nations), has long curly black hair with two afro puffs on the top, the left puff is dyed pink while the right is dyed blue, the bottom of her hair is dyed purple, chubby build, wears a dark blue cardigan with a rainbow design instead of a sweater vest, wears short white socks and blue Converses on her feet.

[jayesprite]

smiles and waves.

young bro strider (dirk sprite) edit with a leather jacket (sleeves rolled up&fingerless gloves if there's arms) and a grey "🚫" symbol on his shirt?

also snakebites and a scar running up his right cheek (left from reader pov)

ermm if you don't mind two rqs in one can i also have young mom lalonde (roxy sprite) with more afro-textured hair with a puff tied to the side over her normal hairstyle

& a pink scarf with a wineglass shirt symbol and legwarmers?

they're toxic doomed moirails /hj tysm

jacket & symbols edited from @deepseaspriteblog :)

[ex-january]

alpha kid counterpart to my sprite edits lmao beta trolls to come soon

[somethingimworkingon]

Zanele Muholi, Tate Modern

Walking into the Zanele Muholi exhibition at Tate Modern is like discovering another country.

In 2017 Muholi’s ongoing self-portrait series, Somnyama Ngonyama/Hail the Dark Lioness, was exhibited in London’s Autograph Gallery. In press reviews and posters on the tube that autumn, the images were unmissable and unmistakeable: stark black and white photographs of an impassive face crowned with Brillo pads or clothes pegs, festooned with vacuum cleaner hoses. At the time, Autograph wrote, the artist: “uses her body as a canvas to confront the politics of race and representation… Gazing defiantly at the camera, Muholi challenges the viewer’s perceptions while firmly asserting her cultural identity on her own terms: black, female, queer, African.”

Fast forward to 2020, and Tate Modern’s major Zanele Muholi exhibition. Visiting hours at the museum flicker in and out of existence as we navigate COVID lockdowns – now you can come! No, wait, sorry, you can’t. Try rebooking for a month’s time.

When I finally squeaked in, in early December, I expected more Dark Lionesses. I had a vague idea that Zanele Muholi was a bit like a South African Cindy Sherman.

I was wrong.

This exhibition shows the breadth of Muholi’s practice, of which the self-portraits are just one strand. The range and energy of the work is astounding. Especially given that in 2012 their studio was burgled and five years of work on hard drives was stolen.

Another mental adjustment: Muholi’s pronouns are they/them/theirs.

Born in Umlazi, South Africa, in 1972, at the height of Apartheid, Zanele’s father died when they were a baby and their mother, Bester, a domestic worker, had to leave her eight children for employment in a white household. Zanele was brought up by extended family. They started working as a hairdresser, then studied photography at Market Photo Workshop in Johannesburg, graduating in 2003, and going on to be awarded their MFA in Documentary Media from Ryerson University in Toronto in 2009.

On returning to South Africa they started to document the lives of the LGBTQI+ community.

Aftermath (2004)

The exhibition opens with a group of deceptively gentle images. In the first, Aftermath (2004), a torso is cropped from waist to knees, hands modestly clasped in front of Jockey shorts, a huge scar running down the person’s right leg almost like a piece of body art. In another, Ordeal (2003), hands wring out a cloth in an enamel basin of water placed on a floor. A third image shows a cropped, seated figure, again waist to thighs, hands folded in their lap, plastic hospital ties around their wrists. These pictures have a softness and beauty which completely belies the fact that their subjects are all survivors of sexual violence and “corrective rape”.

As the caption to the last picture, Hate crime survivor I, Case number (2004) explains, “Corrective rape is a term used to describe a hate crime in which a person is raped because of their perceived sexual orientation or gender identity. The intended consequence of such acts is to enforce heterosexuality and gender conformity.” This horrific practice is by no means unique to South Africa, but the term seems to have originated there – feminist activist Bernedette Muthien used it during an interview with Human Rights Watch in 2001 – and its effects on the community resonate throughout this exhibition.

Ordeal (2003)

They don’t, however, dominate. While the exhibition starts by showing the evils of intolerance of gender nonconformity, Muholi goes on to reclaim, elevate and celebrate that same nonconformity.

With Being (2006 – ongoing) we move on to photographs of naked bodies entwined – again tightly cropped, again soft black and white, but now without outside interference. They are sensual, personal, and owned. A series of portraits of two female lovers, Katlego Mashiloane and Nosipho Lavuta (2007) switches to colour and full figures. The couple sit entwined, laughing: they kiss, and bathe side by side standing in an enamel basin, in a warm, defiant echo of the scene in Ordeal (2003) across the room.

Katlego Mashiloane and Nosipho Lavuta, Ext.2, Lakeside, Johannesburg (2007)

The series Brave Beauties, started in 2014, is “a series of portraits of trans women, gender non-conforming and non-binary people. Many of them are also beauty pageant contestants.” The queer beauty pageant is many things: a celebration – and redefinition – of beauty, a declaration of independence by contestants, a challenge to “heteronormative and white supremacist cultures,” and an attempt, as Muholi puts it, “to change mind-sets in the communities [the contestants] live in, the same communities where they are most likely to be harassed or worse.”

Melissa Mbambo, Durban, South Beach (2017). Melissa Mbambo is a trans woman and beauty queen, Miss Gay South Africa 2017

Roxy Msizi Dlamini, Parktown, Johannesburg (2018)

Akeelah Gwala, Durban (2020)

These portraits are made collaboratively, Muholi and the subjects choosing clothing, location and poses together. Some of them, like the picture of Roxy Msizi Dlamini (2018) have the quality of a classic glamorous studio shot. Others, like Akeeleh Gwala, Durban (2020), posing in a bikini against a scruffy brick wall in what seems to be a deserted brick alleyway, are a reminder of the vulnerability of the subject. Akeelah Gwala’s “Testimony” in the exhibition catalogue says: “I am 24 years old. I am a transgender woman. Growing up was very difficult because your parents think this is a boy… I was raped when I was 16 years old…” The rapist, a well-known pastor, threatened Akeelah’s family, forcing them out of their home. Akeelah refers to Muholi as “Sir Muholi” and says, “I have taken part in several beauty pageants. I perform because as a Brave Beauty, it is important to be visible and make others know about us and respect us as human beings.”

Miss Lesbian I-VII, Amsterdam (2009)

The theme of beauty pageants also features in the series of self-portraits Miss Lesbian I-VII, Amsterdam (2009), where Muholi casts themself as a beauty queen, an early identification with the wider community prefiguring Brave Beauties. The 2009 series brings together several of Muholi’s themes: the beauty pageant and the fashion/fashion magazine world; who gets to perform and who gets to watch; who gets to choose what beauty means? And, as an aside that may sound trivial but isn’t, kitchen utensils as headgear.

As the exhibition unfolds, we discover other projects. Muholi describes themselves as a visual activist, and they have a large network of collaborators, including the collective Inkanyiso (“Light” or “Illuminate” in isiZulu), a non-profit organisation focused on queer visual activism. We see images documenting marches and protests, weddings and funerals, and “After Tears” – gatherings held after burials to celebrate the life of the lost loved one.

Nathi Dlamini at the After Tears of Muntu Masombuka’s funeral, KwaThema, Springs, Johannesburg (2014)

Death is a constant presence in Muholi’s community and work. The largest space in this exhibition is given to Faces and Phases (2006 – ongoing), a collection of portraits – 500, and counting. The images “celebrate, commemorate and archive the lives of Black lesbians, transgender and gender non-conforming individuals.” People appear more than once. Some spots on the walls are empty, marking a portrait yet to be taken or a participant no longer there. One wall is dedicated to those who have passed away.

Not only is this a powerful and moving project, it’s an extraordinarily beautiful set of pictures. As are the last works in the show, the series that started in 2012: Somnyama Ngonyama, Hail the Dark Lioness.

In this work, Muholi has darkened their skin and whitened their eyes, and composed the picture in the manner of a classical, perfectly-lit studio portrait, posing with found objects as “costume” – a footstool as a helmet, say. There is so much to unpick in these images – references to colonialism, Apartheid, to the politics of race and representation, to femininity and “women’s work”.  Muholi presents us with a kaleidoscope of views of injustice, equal parts beautiful and brutal. The photographs were created in different parts of the world, at different times, combining what could almost be witty accessorising with intense cultural and political commentary.

Quinso, The Sails, Durban (2019)

The intellectual focus of every picture is slightly different. Zamile, KwaThema (2016) shows Muholi draped in a striped blanket, as used in South African prisons during Apartheid. In Quinso, The Sails, Durban (2019) Muholi’s hair is adorned with silvery Afro combs, a symbol of African and African diaspora cultural pride. In Nolwazi II, Nuoro, Italy (2015) their hair is stuffed with pens – a reference to the “pencil test” whereby, under Apartheid, if a pencil pushed into a person’s hair fell out they were “classified as white”.

Nolwazi II, Nuoro, Italy (2015)

As mentioned above, Muholi calls themselves a visual activist rather than an artist – though galleries, like Tate Modern, might beg to disagree. Walking through this exhibition, I came away with the impression that their work is on the intersection of art and documentary photography – but also that everything is documentary: everything is story telling, and bearing witness, and the place where “documenting the community” and “expressing oneself as an artist” is continually blurred.

Maybe it’s not just like discovering a new country: maybe Zanele Muholi is showing us a whole new world.

Zanele Muholi is at Tate Modern until May 31, 2021

[leahlillith]

i hope this doesn't sound rude i'm just kinda venting but. don't you ever feel tired of the hair cc in the sims? all the pretty girl hair, straight long hair, white girl hair? sometimes i wanna see messy ugly mullets, shaved sides, choppy hair, winona in welcome home roxy carmichael hair, deathhawks, sasha banks at ringside fest 2019 hair, textured hair, cornrows, afros that look good! not like those awful balls the game has! i understand that some of these styles are hard to create, but god i wish i saw more diversity. maybe i'm just not looking in the right places, or maybe we should all make more efforts. i'm just a little frustrated in general

Believe me I know what you are talking about. I, myself, would also want to create some more different hairstyles, but those different hairstylse are often hardly doable to make them look right and be suitable for the game. I am in love with natural black hair and I wouldn’t mind highest polycount of it was possible to make it decently work it the game. I am also in love with the viking kind of hairstyles with crazy braids creating crazy and beautiful structures. But then We, as creators, have to remember that people want in their games something, that won’t crash their game. 

 I am not sure if this will make you feel less frustrated,but often the fact that we don’t have certain things in the game, means it is impossible to create it the correct way, so you can use it comfortably in game without saying “lord, that looks like shit”. 

You have no idea how many hairstyles I trashed, just beacuse I wasn’t able to reduce the polycount or they has just terrible transparency issues. It is as irritating for me as it is for you, believe me. Though... I can and will try to do some mullets and cornrows... I will find a way to make it look good^^ 

[biromantickarkat]

(id under the cut)

[id: a digital drawing of roxy and dave, standing next to eachother, smiling and looking towards the right. dave has brown skin, white hair thats shaved on the left side, lip piercings, wearing a cropped baggy red hoodie with the word “time” on the chest in white, along with the time aspect symbol on the ends of the sleeves and shoulders, a black shirt underneath, red sweats with a white waistband and black stripes on the sides, and a half nonbinary half greyro pride pin. shown with his left arm at his side and twirling one of the hoodies strings around his other hands index. roxy has dark brown skin, afro - like white hair, a nose piercings, pink eyeshadow, wearing a cropped baggy blue hoodie with lighter blue and white stripes on the sides of the sleeves and a strip across the chest, with blue and white stars dots and hearts scattered on the ends of the sleeves and on the chest, a black shirt underneath, ripped grey jeans with the holes decorated with fluffy looking black cloth and black stars dots and hearts as well , along with a white string tied around her waist, and a nonbinary pride pin, shown holding up both of her hands at chest level. the background is a light grey, with a messy red border around roxy, and a messy pink border around dave. end id]

[lockedstuck]

sorrow that you keep

March 2021 - Sollux Captor

“Vitals!” Dirk announces, rapping on your door with his knuckles. “C’mon, let’s get this over with so I can serve breakfast!”

When you walk out of your room, there’s already a line leading out of the treatment room. The person in front of you, a dark-skinned kid with an Angela Davis-style afro - Karkat, you think his name is - curses up a blue streak while he waits in line.

“I don’t see why I had to get a prissy fucking bastard with insomnia as my goddamn roommate. I didn’t ask for any of this fucking shit. Fucking involuntary status, fucking dumbshit Eridan, I hope this fucking hospital burns down.”

It’s too early to put up with this guy, especially with the migraine you woke up with.

“Not tryna piss you off or anything but do you think you could keep it down with your tirade?”

If looks could kill, the glare Karkat shoots you would have rendered you to a pile of smoldering ash.

“I haven’t had a cigarette in six days, it’s seven oh fuck in the morning, my roommate wakes up seventeen times a night, and I might be losing my job because my shithead brother signed me into this fucking place, so you can go straight the fuck to hell,” Karkat replies.

“Are you this obnoxious later in the day, or did they just forget to give you your ativan last night?”

“I don’t even take ativan, dumbfuck.” He squares up. Maybe if he weren’t five foot one, you’d actually be afraid. “I’ll knock you out if you keep talking, though.”

Behind you, a guy with eyes so dark that they might be violet moves to plant a hand on Karkat’s shoulder. It’s your roommate, Gamzee Makara, who appears to sleep for fifteen hours a day. Karkat surprisingly refrains from flinching or scowling. You probably wouldn’t scowl at this guy if you had the opportunity either; he’s easily six foot four, his hair curling around his ears and sticking out worse than Karkat’s.

“Now there’s no reason to get up an’ motherfucking truculent with the new guy so early in the morning.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “Makara, if you tell me to calm down and wait for the morning miracles, I’ll kill you too.”

“There’s no need to wait, Karbro. The sunrise is a miracle in and of itself. When I looked at the ceiling in my room, I saw miracles. Everywhere.”

“They need to put you on haldol, man.”

“I don’t need no helldogs telling me what to do. I just go with the flow.”

“Of course,” Karkat says, almost fondly. “You and your motherfucking miracles.”

When it’s nearly Karkat’s turn for vitals, Dirk escorts Roxy over to the nurses’ station. She blows a kiss at Karkat, who raises his hand in half-salute. Ignacio walks out of the charting room and takes a look at her.

“Miss Lalonde, I have medication for you. This’ll help with the shakes, hypertension, and sweating.”

Roxy puts her hands on her hips and winks at him. “Again, cutiepie?”

Ignacio rolls his eyes at her and shakes his head, his mohawk moving slightly with the motion. He hands her a medication cup and a paper cup of water. She swallows her medication down fluidly, without drinking any of the water. That has to be an xbox achievement.

During breakfast, as Eridan continues to scowl and bitch about his lack of breakfast (he has ECT today), and Karkat tells him to stop being an overdramatic fuckass before he stabs him with a fork, Dr. Vandayar pulls you aside for one of his “no big deal” discussions.

Otherwise known as morning check-in.

Truth be told, you rather like Dr. V, or Krishna, which is what he told you that you could call him, even though he has a doctorate.

He got you access to sharps, your body wash, and your clothes. He means well, and aside from when he checks in every morning, he doesn’t force you to talk if you don’t want to.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Captor?” he asks.

You shrug. “I’m okay, I guess. Pretty much the same as yesterday.”

Then come the “one to tens”, as you’ve come to think of them. Krishna has his little clipboard balanced on his thigh.

“Urges to hurt other people, one to ten?”

You think of Karkat Vantas and that smug fucking look on his face.

“Two.” It’s always less than three. Maybe that’s why he starts with it.

“Urges to hurt yourself, one to ten?”

You contemplate yesterday’s DBT handout, Roxy’s outburst about self-destruction, and its many varying connotations.

“Eight,” you reply.

“Suicidal thoughts, one to ten?”

“Nine.”

“Active or passive?”

“Passive, mostly. Fleetingly active. I don’t want to live if I’m going to burden people, the usual.”

“Do you have any plans to seriously harm yourself on the unit?”

“No. Not here,” you say. “Everything I’d want to do would require me to be outside.”

“I see,” Krishna says. “Have you been seeing or hearing things that aren’t really there?”

“No.”

“What about feeling like people are out to get you, or sending you special messages?”

“No. Nothing like that. I get enough of that shit at home.”

Dr. V does not laugh at your attempt to joke about your chaotic home life.

If you were to be completely honest, you’re wondering when your medications are going to start working, or if they’re going to start working. Talking to the other patients has been a double-edged sword. So many of them have been on a million different drugs without relief.

Logically, you know that it’ll probably take whatever you’re on more than a week to cure you, but… You’re scared. You’re not in full control and it scares you. There’s a reason you slit your throat. There’s a reason you’re here.

You’re scared the melancholy will wrap itself around you like a shroud, and never relinquish its hold. You’re scared you’ll hate yourself and this life forever.

“I thank you for your honesty, Sollux,” Dr. V says, once he makes his notes. “Any uses of target behaviors that I should be aware of?”

“I cut myself with a plastic knife on Friday evening. Not deep enough to need medical attention, though.”

You scan his expression for evidence of emotion, but he has the mother of all poker faces. All he does is write your answers down in his incomprehensible shorthand,

“How did that make you feel?” he asks. “Remember, it didn’t necessarily have to make you feel anything.”

You shrug. “It helped relieve the tension in the moment, I guess.”

“But it also made me feel disappointed later on,” you go on. “Disappointed at myself. I’m such a fucking idiot for relapsing.”

Dr. V jots this down as well, and shuffles through his papers.

“I wouldn’t use that language to describe yourself. Ridding yourself of maladaptive coping mechanisms can be quite difficult, especially if they have worked for you in the past,” he says. “Nevertheless, do you think you need to be on one-to-one for a few days? So that you stop hurting yourself while you’re here?"

You shake your head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I won’t do what I did again.”

“That is reassuring to hear. I’ll refrain from filling out the paperwork that would put you on constant observation for self-injury. That said, though, there is something you also need to do to prevent that.”

You roll your eyes a little. “You want me to contract for safety, don’t you? Like, filling out one of those sheets that says I’ll grab someone else before I decide to hurt myself. Otherwise I end up on one-to-one, right?”

Dr. V nods at you, before going on. “Yes, that is the general idea. You may either fill it out with me later on in the afternoon, or with a member of the staff with whom you are more comfortable.”

“I’d rather fill it out with you, to be perfectly honest. I trust you.”

He smiles. “I am very glad to hear that, Sollux. I don’t have any further questions for the moment.”’

You get out of your conference with Krishna, and walk into the dayroom.  

Gamzee sits there, watching Good Morning America. He’s got a small smile on his face, and a faraway look in his eye, like he’s both here and not. You call his name to get his attention. It works, his dark eyes trained on you.

“You mind if I sit down?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “Naw, it’s cool. You can even change the channel if that’s somethin’ you wanna do.”

He’s built like a linebacker, all broad shoulders and muscles. He could probably snap you in half if he wanted to. You take the seat next to him and he smiles serenely at you.

“So what’s up?” he asks.

“Nothing, man. Just got outta session with Dr. V. He wanted to make sure I didn’t want to hurt myself.”

Gamzee looks thoughtful. He pulls a red paper flower out of his shorts and hands it to you.

“I folded that a couple days ago. You can have it, if you want.”

“For what?”

“For when you need to up an fuckin’ remember the miracles. Like we talked about last night.”

Last night, Gamzee harangued you at length about the Mirthful Messiahs, and the Dark Carnival, and with a practiced skill you have learned from your sibling’s rants about the NYPD following them, you tuned him out utterly. You really hope he doesn’t count you as a believer in his weird ass faith, which seems like some kind of psychotic juggalo cult.

He’s a nice guy, though. You know he’s not utterly harmless, but he seems easygoing enough. You fiddle around with and tear at a piece of paper until you have a square, which you then use to make a paper crane.

“Hey, Gamzee,” you say. He glances up at you.

“Yeah?”

You hand him the paper crane. “You know, the Japanese believe if you fold a thousand of these, you get a wish. I’m not folding a thousand cranes, but this is for you.”

“I will cherish it every day of my motherfucking life.”

You think he means it, too.

Art group is at 11. Katya herds everyone who wants to show up into the art room. So far, that’s you, Roxy, Karkat, June, Gamzee, Calliope, and Porrim. Karkat nods his head at you, and then inclines it toward the door. He wants to talk to you one-on-one. Whatever the fuck about?

He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon before he deigns to speak to you, all pursed lips and narrowed eyes. You’re tempted to ask him what the fuck’s eating him, and then he speaks.

“Listen. I want to apologize about earlier this morning,” he says. “I was in a foul fucking mood, and I need to work on not taking that shit out on other people.”

Wait, seriously? He can’t actually think you’re still upset about that; you get cursed out worse by your sibling on a daily basis, and that’s when they’re in a good mood.

“Accepted,” you reply. “Don’t worry about it, man.”

Faint relief breaks out on Karkat’s features.

Katya has all of you gather around before she constructs a box out of a weirdly shaped piece of cardboard that looks as if it’s been cut so that a small briefcase sized box could be constructed.

“These are what I like to call coping boxes. You make the box, and then you decorate it. You can put anything in here. Things that make you feel good, or that make you think, or handouts you get during other groups. Whatefur you want!”

She hands a box to each of you, after she puts out tempera and acrylic paint, colored markers, gel pens, and colored pencils.

You weren’t planning to keep any of your distress tolerance handouts in the box, but maybe you should. Gamzee’s staring at you while he paints, and that’s kind of weird, at least until you get a good look at how he’s decorating his coping box.

He’s painting halfway decent pictures of you, Roxy, Karkat, Calliope and Eridan on the front part of the box, with the word “friends”, in purple cursive.

He counts you as a friend even though the only thing you’ve really had to do with him was vaguely listen while he spouted his weird theories about the mirthful messiahs?

You have to hand it to him, though. Kid’s a real artist, probably - no, definitely - good enough to paint portraits for money over in Washington Square Park or something. Karkat gets a decent look at what Gamzee’s painting and blushes.

“Oh, come on, you didn’t have to put me on the damn box,” he says.

“But you are my best friend in the whole wide motherfucking universe,” Gamzee replies.

Karkat splutters something and looks like he’d like to object, then just sighs, and tells him to make sure he gets Karkat’s good side. 

“Hey, Gamzee!” Roxy calls.

“Yes, Roxybro?”

“Does painting that mean you’re gonna paint me like one ‘a’ your French girls one of these days?”

Gamzee gives this a good half-minute of thought.

“I ain’t up an’ got any motherfuckin’ French girls.”

Meanwhile, you focus on your tree. It looks like a lollipop with antennae, but whatever, that’s going to be as good as it gets. You ask Katya if you can get a piece of paper to paint on, she “of course”s you and hands you a piece of printer paper.

What will you paint today, Sollux Captor? More trees?

Tears spring to your eyes, and just when you think the worst is over, they start trailing down your face. Roxy recoils and apologizes to you, thinking she’s done something, and all you do is cry harder, you fuckup. You can’t do a goddamn thing right. Only things you’re good for are fixing computers and having nervous breakdowns.

Katya looks up from praising Calliope and Gamzee’s collaboration, and walks up to you.

“Hey - no, it’s okay, mew don’t have to cover your face - what’s wrong?”

She crouches so that she’s eye level with you as you sit in your chair. It somehow makes you feel even worse, like you’re some small child that can’t control their emotional outbursts. Come to think of it, you were like this as a kid, too. Tuna was the outgoing twin who made all the friends, and you were the twin who would start crying if you accidentally colored outside the lines.

“It’s alright. If you don’t want to paint, maybe you’d like to go for a walk?” she asks. You shake your head emphatically.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “It’s just that I’ve never really been good at artistic stuff. Sorry I suck so bad.”

“Art group is not about being good or bad stylistically,” Katya says. “It’s about expressing yourself. As long as you’re doing that, you’re fine. I like your tree. You and Roxy are both excellent at trees.”

Roxy, who has been sitting next to you, using highlighters to draw what looks either like a really bad tree or a neon colored mushroom cloud, gives you a small little smile.

“Wanna draw with me?” she asks.

At first, you assume she’s found some oblique way to hit on you the way she does everyone else, but then she hands you the bottle of black tempera paint and a couple of colored markers. You don’t know what she expects you to do with them. Your tree sucks way more than hers.

“If you can’t think of anything to draw, why not try making patterns?” Katya asks.

You guess you can do that. You start drawing red and blue circles on your piece of paper, clustering them closer and closer together. 

Apropos of nothing, you remember the time in undergrad where you and Ray couldn’t get back to campus in time to beat the blizzard. You and she slept overnight in your car, parked in a gas station. Outside, nothing but a vast, enveloping white, what you imagine death or infinity must look like. The whole world rendered down to the slope and curve of dunes and valleys.

If you think hard enough, you can feel the wind rocking the car, can imagine the sound of Ray’s teeth chattering, or the occasional slip of her hands as she does a tarot reading. Another one. Another one down, another one down, another one bites the dust, Queen playing through your radio speakers. She sits in the front passenger seat, one leg bent beneath her.

“You think we’re ever gonna get out of here?” she asks.

At this moment, you ask yourself that same question. It’s a little different, now.

You wish you could take your seven eighths of a computer engineering degree and come up with a way out of this, but you can’t. That’s your problem. You’re only you, and you’ve never been good at managing your emotions.

[eightball-records-digital]

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[eightball-records-digital]

Full Mix on YOUTUBE NOW https://youtu.be/JdHNmeuJjnY #Remastered from original DATs these timeless #NewYorkHouse tracks can sound current in any #House #DeepHouse sets of #DJs all over the world. #MannyCuevas aka #DJM-TRAXXX is #EightballRecords choice for this live #DJ #remix. Tracklist as follows: 1.Fred Jorio - Matt Wood -– It's So Right (Balo Remix) 2. THE GIRL FIRED UP (dub mix) 3. Louie Balo Guzman - OK...Kid (Mix 1) 4. Attitude! (Makes You Move) (Your Attitude Mix) Edited By – Louie Balo Guzman 5. Roxy And The Effects_ The Art Of Sampling (Dub) 6. Louie 'Balo' Guzman - No Felicia 7. Reach For The Sky (Spiritual Heritage Mix)_Edited By – Louie Balo Guzman 8. Louie _Balo_ Guzman - Keep It Simple 9. Wave - Enjoy Life (Afro Dub) - Louie 'Balo' Guzman EDIT 10. Mood II Swing Presents Wall Of Sound _ I Need Your Luv (Balo's Banji Mix) 11. Mac Vibe - Mr. Meaner (Louie Balo Guzman Edit)