#and what does it say of me that the consequences wrought by my demand to be seen and treated as an adult

[variantoutcast]

Do you ever feel like every interaction with a member of your family is directly leading to the "destruction" of the "family" ?

[queerofthedagger]

I'm really curious about the Uther things you mentioned?

Ahh hey! Yeah I can talk on that a bit (for context, I think I said that I do find his character intriguing and that my opinion on him has evolved quite a bit, influenced by mostly disagreeing with what a lot of people tend to say?)

So the thing about Uther is that I feel people tend to either go "He's evil, everything he does at any given time is evil, I hate him and there is nothing more to it," or they go "Oh but he loved his children!!!" in a kind of, redeeming-quality-kind of sense. I'm somewhat hyperbolizing, of course, but I do think fandom tends to a very black and white view.

Don't get me wrong, I hate Uther. I hate Uther with a burning passion, and I love to hate him. He's terrible. But I do think the show actually did go to quite an effort to make him complex beyond a simple "tyrannical son of a bitch" (that he was) or "Oh okay but he loved Ygraine and his kids 🥺" (which he did!).

Of course he is terrible. He murdered hundreds if not thousands of people over the guilt he could not bear to live with, that was, in the first place, the consequence of his own actions. I do believe he didn't know that the price would be Ygraine's life; he was still willing to sacrifice someone's life. Which is very Uther. Yes, at the root of that lies grief, and at the root of grief lies love, but the thing (and also imo the crux of Uther's character) is that being capable of loving people doesn't somehow, magically (ha. sorry) make you less of a bad person.

Terrible people can love other people. In fact, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find people no matter how atrocious their actions, who don't have people they love. And most people don't set out to "do something evil;" Uther, in all his atrocities, always had justifications to himself.

I think it says a lot that despite the brutal war he wrought, he was by and large not considered a bad king, per se, by his people and allies. We could dismiss all those instances where the show makes a point to reiterate this as fear of speaking up - and I'm not saying that didn't play a part - but I think that's making it too easy. There is a whole other essay on propaganda and how the war on magic worked, but I'll get to that another time. My main point is that, as uncomfortable as the thought may be considering just what horrors he wrought, he wasn't a frothing, mad bag full of cartoonish evil.

That doesn't mean that he "wasn't that bad, really." Which kind of brings me to the other side of things, the way people like to throw "Well, but he loved his kids," into the mix as a kind of. I don't know, counterpoint to the "tyrannical son of a bitch" side. And like, the thing is, he did. The thing is, that doesn't change a thing.

Yeah, Uther loved both Arthur and Morgana. We see enough proof of that through the seasons, whether it's in the Excalibur Episode where he fights in Arthur's stead at any cost, or in Le Morte d'Arthur where he openly weeps, or with Morgana in various instances to a degree where some people think he loved her more (and again, yet another essay on how his love for Arthur is tangled up so much in his guilt and the hatred that caused, but I digresss), not least in how her 'betrayal' broke him.

Ultimately, though, he also put Arthur in harm's way again and again. He certainly rarely ever told him he loved him, to the point where Arthur is shocked to hear it. He puts his children in chains and locks them away and drugs them and threatens them in all manners, he lies to them and hides the truth from them (Ygraine/Morgana's parentage in the first place) to the detriment of their well-being, and so on. His love is conditional. His love demands obedience and submission. We could argue until we're blue if that's really love in the first place, but at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter all that much.

People can love other people, and it can be entirely inconsequential, because frankly, most parents love/"love" their kids. That doesn't mean they're automatically good parents, or even good people. In Uther's case it really isn't a redeeming quality at all. It just makes him complex and interesting and multi-dimensional as the villain/antagonist. Because it makes us grapple with the really very unfortunate but inevitable fact that even terrible people are still people. They aren't some removed monster that no one can ever relate to. They love and they laugh and grieve, and they can still turn around and burn people in their frontyard on the daily without missing a beat. They can be willing to die for their children and threaten violence and exile in the next breath.

I think with Uther, at the end of the day, for me it's really both. His atrocities started out of love, and his love is steeped, inevitably, in the violence and twisted moral framework of his character; it's not an either/or thing at all, it depends on each other. And he is a goddamn son of a bitch, of course, even if every once in a bluemoon he still sheds honest tears for his unfortunate children.

[alexanderwesker]

it has been 639 days near exactly since I first read A Twin of Light, and it's permanently shifted the way I interpret characters, relationships, and fic (as well as normal writing) as a whole. I re-read it every four months or so and it's never any less incredible.

ATOL jump-started my own fic-writing experiences, and haunts my brain; it's the quality baseline for anything I read, the source of my standards for things I write. I've drafted fic-of-fic for it more times than I can count, I've scribbled General and Soot designs on the walls of my room; when I'm bored driving or much anything really, I tend to invent new stories for them, new scenarios taking place in that wonderful world you've made.

ATOL is my favorite fanfiction. Full stop. I can count on one hand the number of fanfics that have changed my life, and make no mistake ATOL is on that list. (The House Always Wins is similarly incredible; your dedication to what you do, what you write, keeping it up no matter how long it takes to complete, is insane.)

In about three months will be the two-year anniversary of my reading ATOL, and if I had even a fraction of the wherewithal I wish I did, I'd be making some huge animation or art piece in celebration, but I don't know how I'd ever manage to capture all that ATOL means to me in something like that, let alone how I'd ever manage the motivation- but if I could, I would in a heartbeat.

The relationship between General and Soot-- I've only read a relationship in fic even somewhat like it *twice* in the near two years since first discovering ATOL, and still nothing comes close to the way their bond was woven into every fucking aspect of that book in a way I've never seen since.

Your meticulous world-building, too; the way you craft gods and goddesses and magic and turn Minecraft into something *real*, the unique systems and ideas and consequences and costs of everything the characters do- it's so fucking good. It's so so well thought out , I can't imagine how long it must have taken to flesh out.

ATOL has gotten me through some really hard times in my life; knowing I had a fantastically made escape, knowing I could slip into the universe you've so carefully wrought, has let me get up and keep going on days I felt I'd never get back up. And it's all because of you and your passion!

You do this for fun, and because you want to, and I think that's the most stunning thing of it all! Human passion, human joy, used to make something like ATOL, something that impacts perhaps thousands of others, imprints on them for the rest of their lives-- I can't imagine anything more beautiful.

Thank you.

Thank you so, so, so fucking much.

Whatever you do, whatever you write, you will always have my Internet - stranger self's undying support.

----

I've also got some questions pertaining to your realistic!verse & the ATOL characters, if you don't mind! :)

1. What exactly happened with Quackity and the Sky Gods? What game, what demands, etc?

2. How do others perceive Jack with his Nether-type power; did Wil ever treat him differently for it (while he was, y'know, without his General, before everything went down?)

3. Are the Sky Gods two entities, one, or more?

4. Are there stories told about Soot and General post-ATOL? How is their relationship seen in those tales?

5. What does Phil do about Wil's disappearance once in the real world once , more? (You do not need to answer this if it makes you uncomfy, as always :)

6. How did Soot and General feel during the Tommy -blessing misunderstanding discovery? How would the story have changed if their relationship had been more romantic?

7. Is fic-of-fic accepted for your universe? Any ground rules, yes/no's of what one could write?

----

Thanks for your time in answering, and thanks for everything you've written & given us all. ♥️

I don't know what to say, Anon. It really means a lot to me to hear that my story means so much to someone else other than me. And know that your words made me really happy to read, I've been going through a rough patch recently and your message means the world to me. To know that Soot and the General and their relationship helped you, that the world I made could be of help. Really from the bottom of my heart, Thank you for your words and I hope you have a wonderful day ^-^ --- To answer your questions(and don't worry I'm always up to answer questions ^D^) 1. Quackity challenged the Sky Gods, specifically Scott, though he is called Dawn in the Realistic!Verse, at a game of Poker. The game was played with as prize, if Quackity won to get the power to reach his goals(the Gods gave him his magic seeing eye because of that), and if the Sky Gods won for Quackity to be their plaything forever. There is to say though that even if Quackity won the Sky Gods did not fully keep to their promise. 2. The people in L'Manberg are the most normal about Jack's Situation, and those that don't know the whole story think that he is just some kind of Nether Hybrid) about Soot he didn't treat him that much different from how he did before, but he did keep him arms distance away because he wasn't sure if he could really trust him(like all others) 4. The Sky Gods are multiple, their names are based on the phases of the Sun in the Sky and the oldest of them is the Sun itself. And of course, the youngest of them, being Night. 5. That is a good question, I think Phil would try to help people come to terms with the fact that their streamer would not be appearing anymore, but if he can he would still try to reassure them that he is okay, but other than that sadly there wouldn't be much he can do. Since he would be hiding, as best as he can, the particular traits that that world left onto him. 6. They were kind of embarrassed about the whole situation once they discovered what Tommy had been thinking was going on between them but I can't see that changing anything on how they act towards one another. As for the second question, I don't believe the story, or the way it was told, would have changed that much had the Burs had something romantic going on, if only because their relationship is already so profound and close (even being platonic) that I cannot see it change in any particular way had their love been romantic, though they would have probably had even more gestures(not to say that they don't have many already in my canon) to show each other their love and care. 7. I am completely fine with people writing fanfics of my stories, and I'm always happy to see what you guys come up with and what ideas to explore. I just ask to have the original story linked(even better to get a related story link so I can directly connect them to my work :D) I don't have any hard 'No's when it comes to fics of my fics ^^ As for ground rules the only one I have is for the characterization of the characters to be based on my own than the DSMP one because then it wouldn't really be a fic about my stories :P Other than that feel free to write whatever scenario you imagine be it following my canon or being an AU, a "missing scene" kind of thing or a slice of life. I welcome all fanworks ^D^

Thank you again for your ask ^D^feel free to ask more questions if you have any more.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Today in Tolkien - February 16th

This is the day when the Fellowship leave Lothlórien and begins their journey down the River Anduin. Quite a lot fits into the day, so I’m going to track it chronologically.

First, in the morning as the Fellowship is packing up, elves of Lothlórien come and bring them lembas and elven-cloaks. Both are an example of the value and dignity of practical crafts within elven society; Galadriel personally works on making the cloaks of Lothlórien (“she and her maidens wove this stuff”), and of the nature of “elf-magic” being tied to their close relationship with the natural world (“leaf and branch, water and stone: they have the hue and beauty of all these things under the twilight of Lórien that we love”; and “grey with the hue of twilight under the trees they seemed to be; and yet if they were moved, or set in another light, they were green as shadowed leaves, or brown as fallow fields by night, dusk-silver as water under the stars”). It’s quite possible that this is the first time non-elves have been given lembas since the time of Túrin Turambar, and the second time in all Elven history.

After having breakfast, the Fellowship are preparing to leave the site where they have camped for the last month. Haldir comes to meet them as their guide (he’s come a lomg way from the borders, so it’s likely that the “guide” thing is an excuse and he’s come to say good-bye). He tells them that “The Dimrill Dale is full of vapour and clouds of smoke, and the mountains are troubled; there are noises in the deeps of the earth” - likely consequences of the battle between Gandalf and the balrog.

As they walked through Caras Galadhon the green ways were empty; but in the trees above them many voices were murmuring and singing. They temselves went silently. At last Haldir led them down the southward slopes of the hill, and they came again to the great gate hung with lamps, and to the white bridge; and so they passed out and left the city of the Elves. Then they turned away from the paved road and took a path that went off into a deep thicket of mallorn-trees, and passed on, winding through rolling woodlands of silver shadow, leading them ever down, southwards and eastwards, towards the shores of the River.

They had gone some ten miles and noon was at hand when they came on a high green wall. Passing through an opening they came suddenly out of the trees. Before them lay a long lawn of shining grass, studded with golden elanor that glinted in the sun. The lawn ran out into a narrow tongue between bright margins: on the right and west the Silverlode flowed glittering; on the left and east the Great River rolled its broad waters, deep and dark...One the bank of the Silverlode, at some distance up from the meeting of the streams, there was a hythe of white stones and white wood. By it were moored many boats and barges. Some were brightly painted, and shone wuth silver and gold and green, but most were either white or grey.

New word for me: hythe. Even my 1950s OED doesn’t know it! Fortunately, Google knows everything, and tells me it is an “archaic” word meaning “a small harbour or landing-place,” which is what I expected from the context.

There are thee boats for the Fellowship, and elves provide them with rope, to Sam’s satisfaction. The Fellowship practice with the boats by rowing a ways up the Silverlode. They meet Galadriel and Celeborn in a great swan-ship:

The water rippled on either side of the white breast beneath its curving neck. Its beak shone like burnished gold, and its eyes glinted like jet set in yellow stones; its huge white wings were half-lifted.

This matches the description of the swan-ships of the Teleri that Fëanor stole and destroyed, described in the Silmarillion: “Their ships...were made in the likeness of swans, with beaks of gold and eyes of gold and jet.” Galadriel’s mother is Telerin, and so the ship, as much as her song of lament (“What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?”), is a sign of her homesickness.

The Fwllowship, Celeborn, and Galadriel return to the green lawn at the angle of the two rivers for their parting meal. It is a fitting place: still within Lothlórien, but looking across the rivers to the mallorn-less shores beyond its southern and eastern borders. Galadriel seems changed to Frodo, and it may be not only his perception, but the result of her choice, refusing the Ring, to “diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel”:

She seemed no longer perilous or terrible, nor filled with hidden power. Already she seemed to him, as by men of later days Elves still at times are seen: present and yet remote, a living vision of that which has already been left far behind by the flowing streams of Time.

Celeborn gives the Fellowship advice on their onward journey, speaking of the Brown Lands and the Emyn Muil, of the rapids of Sarn Gebir and the falls of Rauros, of the Dead Marshes and the plains of Gorgoroth, of Rohan and the Forest of Fangorn. Since all this territory is likely familiar to Aragorn, this is likely as much for the reader’s benefit as the Fellowship’s. He warns them not to become entangled in Fangorn, “a strange land, and now little known”; with the spread of Men across the plains of Rohan, it is likely now many years since the Elves and the Ents have spoken.

Boromir, showing more warning signs, though subtler than the previous night, dismisses the stories of Fangorn as “old wives’ tales, such as we tell to our children”, and then digresses to brag/complain about his difficulties in reaching Rivendell: “A long and wearisome journey...and it took me many months, for I lost my horse at Tharbad, at the fording of the Greyflood. After that journey, and the road I have trodden with this Company, I do not much doubt that I shall find a way through Rohan, and Fongorn too, if need be.” He is clearly feeling both proud and aggrieved. Notably, Aragorn, with far broader experience and travel of Middle-earth that Boromir, says no such things.

Galadriel then gives gifts to the Fellowship. To Aragorn, a scabbard overlaid with tracery of leaves and flowers of silver and gold, with words in gemstones spelling out that it in Andúril, reforged from Narsíl, the blade of Elendil. And along with this, the Elessar, the elfstone, which Arwen gave her to give to him: “a great stone of a clear green, set in a silver brooch that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings.” The Elessar is, from some versions of Unfinished Tales, an enhancement to healing abilities; the fact that Galadriel gave it to Celebrian and Celebrian to Arwen suggests that Celebrian and Arwen may both have used healing abilities as well. (Arwen, as Elrond’s daughter, would be particularly likely to be trained in it. Wouldn’t it be neat if the gemstone she gives to Frodo at the end, to help him in times of sickness and ill memory, was one she made herself, a combination of jewel-craft and healing?)

And, for all the fandom focus on how many people Elrond has lost, it’s worth remembering here that Galadriel is parted from her father and mother, her brothers are long dead, and her daughter departed for Valinor terribly ill and broken-spirited after having been captured by orcs; and unlike Elrond, at this moment she does not know if she will ever be able to see them again. Elrond at least knows he will see his parents and his wife again, in time. Galadriel also knows she is going to lose her granddaughter; indeed, she had a hand it it, practically matchmaking Aragorn and Arwen on the occasion when they became engaged.

Galadriel’s gift to Sam, of the earth and the mallorn-nut, is particularly touching: she knows from his vision in the mirror that the Shire will likely not be untouched by the war, and that the loss of the trees in particular distresses Sam; and she gives him a gift that can amend it.

And Gimli, of course, asks for a strand of Galadriel’s hair, and recieves three. I could say more on the interactions between these two, but I’ll try to keep it to this: in all the language concerning Gimli and Galadriel, Galadriel’s beauty is not used simply or even mainly to mean physical appearance, but to stand in for goodness, kindness and understanding. Gimli’s answer for what he would do with the hair is “treasure it...in memory of your words to me at our first meeting,” when she understood and defended the dwarves’ love of their home and spoke their place-names in the dwarf-tongue. Similarly, when he demands Eómer “acknowledge Galadriel as the fairest of ladies” if ever he sees her, he is responding to Eómer insulting Galadriel’s character, not her looks. Beauty here means something more than beauty.

And to Frodo she gives the Phial of Galadriel, holding the light of Eärendil’s star that is the Silmaril; a parallel and inverse of the Silmaril, a gift to be given rather than a possession to be clung to; and fitting for the end of the Noldor’s presence in Middle-earth, as the Silmarils drove their arrival there.

The Fellowship at last departs from Lothlórien, and Galadriel’s song in Quenya flows down to them on the wind.

So the Company went on their long way, down the wide hurrying waters, borne ever southwards. Bare woods stalked along either bank, and they could not see any glimpse of the lands behind. The breeze died away as the River flowed without a sound. No voice of bird broke the silence. The sun grew misty as the day grew old, until it gleamed in a pale sky like a high white pearl. Then it faded into the West, and dusk came early, followed by a grey and starless night.

[drwcn]

Discordance!verse part 2: there are consequence to loving someone you shouldn’t. 

in which wwx is lxc’s husband through political alliance, and there is an affair. 

[8] | [7] | [6] | [5] | [4] | [3] | [2] | [1] [synopsis]

Objectively, massacre was not the correct term to describe the sight before him, but it was the only word that came to mind as Lan Wangji stepped dazedly across the threshold into the courtyard of Songfeng Shuiyue Pavilion.

At some point during the hour before Nie Huaisang arrived and broke him out of jingshi, it had begun to rain. 

The swoosh of the discipline whip being wrought through the air howled louder than the easterly wind, and like lightning it came shooting down, delivered with a thunderous crack as it made contact with a young man’s back. 

Two ninety nine. 

Technically I’m your brother too now... Let’s be friends!

But there was no light, no brief moment of wonder in the aftermath, just the echo of a sickening splatter. The cotton under-robe between whip and skin, once pristine white, had been reduced to strips and tatters. Drenched red, it was nearly indistinguishable from the raw overturned flesh.

“Er-gongzi!”

We can’t - I can’t... I’m your, we’re - Lan Zhan, mm, Lan Zhan please - 

In the periphery of his awareness, Lan Wangji heard disciples yelling his name, ghostly hands pulling at him from all directions, but it was beyond his capacity to heed those warnings now. Transfixed, he gravitated towards the man under the whip, who made not a sound even as his body convulsed with every merciless stroke. 

Three hundred.

I’m not afraid. The future doesn’t frighten me. I have you. Nothing else matters.  

Wei Wuxian laid face down along the surface of a flat long bench, stripped of his outer robes and deprived of his guan. His hair, swept over one shoulder, dipped into a puddle of rain water, cloudy and pink from the blood that dripped down his chin. 

Inside the dry refuge of the pavilion hall, Uncle and the Elders sat in witness. No one showed any inclination to stop this insanity.

Three hundred and one. 

Don’t panic, let’s not panic. We will explain ourselves. Everything is going to be fine. Lan Zhan, look at me, do you trust me? 

As he drew close enough, Lan Wangji saw the thick strip of leather clenched between Wei Wuxian’s teeth and bound back at the base of his skull. But it was hardly the gag that kept him silent - Wei Ying was barely conscious. 

There was water running down Lan Wangji’s face. Whether it was rain or tears, only the gods knew.  

The whip sailed through air again, cutting off raindrops in their paths, but -

Clang! 

Nie Huaisang’s saber swung into the disciplinary weapon, knocking it out of the hands of the disciple.   

“LAN WANGJI!” 

I’m not afraid. 

I have you. 

I have you.

You do have me.

That single thought thrust him back into the present, freed from that far away place suffocating him inside a thick fog of utter hopelessness. 

“You cannot wield my saber. Your meridians are locked. Your core is muted. But take it anyway. At the least, it’ll intimidate. But remember, if you really try to use it without spiritual energy, it will damage you.” 

So be it. 

The rain pelted down around them, and Lan Wangji found himself surrounded by eight senior disciples pointing their swords at him and at the saber in his hand. Without his cultivation, the early spring downpour felt like ice against his skin, and Qinghe’s first class spiritual weapon weighed more than gold. 

"Lan Wangji! Remember yourself!" 

His uncle had stepped out under the eave, along with five other Elders. 

“Stop this.” Lan Zhan demanded, as if he had any rights to make demands. As if he hadn’t been defiling the sanctity of his brother’s marriage behind his brother’s back, as if he hadn’t broken the trust of the one person who had always, always been there for him. 

His uncle was so angry he couldn’t speak, but Elder Zonghui beside him, the most senior and respected of the thirty-three did not have such a reactive temper. 

“Put down the saber, Wangji. Your sense of righteousness is misplaced. Nothing is happening here that isn’t deserved and agreed upon.” 

“Agreed upon by whom?” Lan Wangji gritted his teeth, seething. 

“By all parties involved, of course. Requested even,” said Lan Zonghui, his unaffectedness towards the violence being committed before his very eyes chilled Lan Wangji to the core.  

“Wei Ying requested to be whipped three hundred times?!”

“Four hundred times,” corrected Lan Qiren, cutting into the conversation. “Your actions have violated a dozen precepts of our clan, but for the four most salient transgressions we issued fifty lashes each, totaling two hundred. As you are both participants, you were both to receive them, but Wei Wuxian offered to bear the entirety of the punishment.”

At his uncle’s words, the pain that tore through Lan Wangji was akin to being gutted by his own Bichen. 

“Take Lan-er-gongzi back to his room. He is not in his right mind."

“Do not move!” Lan Wangji commanded, as loud as his nature allowed. “I am not leaving without Wei Ying.” 

A beat of silence. 

“Nhn....” 

Wei Wuxian clung perilously to the edge of consciousness and pleaded at him through hooded feverish eyes. From where he clutched at the front edge of the bench, a trembling hand reached out and tugged on Lan Wangji’s robes. 

Just like that, like a taut string on his guqin plucked with a force too great, the tension inside him snapped, and all the fight that kept him going melted from his bones. Lan Wangji lowered his arm. Qinghe’s saber slipped from his grip and landed on the ground with a splash. 

“Wei Ying...” He fell to knee, uncaring of the eyes judging them as he smoothed back Wei Wuxian’s wet, matted hair and caressed his face, undoing the gag in the process. 

The rain had stopped, but Lan Wangji continued to cry. “Why...”  

Wei Wuxian reached for his cheek, brushing the teardrop collecting at the groove of his nose with his thumb. He smiled, a chasm of crimson red. 

"Lan Zhan...”

“I’m here, I’m here. You have me.” 

“No, no...shouldn’t be here.” Wei Wuxian shoved at him weakly. “My penance... I deserve it." 

But Lan Wangji could not stand another second listening to such words, such lies. He removed his outer robe and laid it across Wei Wuxian’s ruined back. Then, as carefully as he could, he rolled the other man over and into his gentle embrace. 

Strengthened by resolve, he turned to the mixture of faces that watched him with anger, mortification, and disgust, and said, “It takes two for a sin like this. If Wei Ying is culpable then so am I.”

"No.” gasped Wei Wuxian, struggling in protest. “Go, go -” 

“Three hundred and one. There are still ninety nine lashes left, aren’t there? I am here, and I submit before the ruling of the Elders and the Lan family precepts.” 

His Uncle shook his head, sweeping back his sleeve and sighed long and loud, as though all his anger had been defeated by a sense of profound disappointment and resignation. 

Lan Zonghui stepped forth, down the steps towards them. His eyes cut like frozen glass as he examined the spectacle. 

"Even your mother knew decorum,” he said, glancing from Lan Wangji kneeling the on wet ground to Wei Wuxian cradled against him. His gaze lingered there. “Or, perhaps not. The fruit does not often fall far.”  

Lan Wangji wasn’t sure if Zonghui had meant his mother the murderess, or Cangse Sanren the sectless wanderer, but in his arms, Wei Ying seemed to hear the connotation behind those callous words. He took shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and turned his face into Lan Zhan’s chest.

The fist that grasped at the front of his lapel trembled, tight knuckles blanched as white as his robes. 

Lan Wangji felt ill. What could Elder Zonghui have possibly insinuated for Wei Ying to hide himself away like this? As if what was said was too cruel for him to brave, as if the three hundred or so lashes he endured were nothing compared to this carefully chosen insult. 

“Words are unnecessary. You know what you know. We have nothing further to say.” Lan Wangji curled around Wei Wuxian, covering him as much as he could. 

“I’ll take the whip.”

“Your meridians are locked,” countered his uncle, a trace of worry lacing his tone. 

But Lan Wangji could not be dissuaded. “The whip, if you please.” 

Too weak to protest further, Wei Wuxian stared up at him despairingly, dark doe eyes brimming with tears. He was frightened, despite having shown no signs of fear just moments ago. Releasing Lan Zhan’s robes, his cold hand curled around Lan Zhan’s neck, bringing him closer. 

Lan Wangji went willingly, eyes falling shut, and let the press of their foreheads together anchor him to what was real, what was true. 

He heard the whip before he felt it, and when he did -

He always knew the discipline whips were painful. They were created for such purposes, charmed by the most clever and fickle of their spells. It did not kill, but it tortured. And now he understood. 

Excruciating. 

The pain was excruciating. 

The second hit followed soon after the first, and when the impact exploded along the column of his back, he felt Wei Ying quiver against him and heard the sob strangled in his throat. 

Lan Zhan did not envy his position, for he understood completely now that although the discipline whip hurt, it would hurt him more to know that it landed not on himself, but on the man he loved. 

The third hit never came. 

“That’s enough!” 

All eyes turned to the source of that outraged bellow, a seldom phenomenon within Cloud Recesses. 

Lan Xichen stood under the courtyard doorway, the wind at his heels, long hair flying about him, seemingly descended from the sky. Behind him, Nie Huaisang peeked out nervously, pointing to the saber on the ground.  

“Uhm - if I could just -” 

“Xichen -” Elder Zonghui started. 

But Lan Xichen did not allow him to finish. “When has it become acceptable at Cloud Recesses to abuse the Sect Master’s heir and husband without the Sect Master’s knowledge or consent?”

He stepped up to Wangji and Wuxian and physically put himself between them and the congregation of clan elders who had all come out to greet him upon his arrival. 

Uncle sighed, for what seemed like the umpteenth time that afternoon. “This is not abuse, this is punishment.” 

“Oh?” Lan Xichen tilted his head, eyebrows rising innocuously. “For their sexual relations, I assume?”  

This was perhaps the first time ever in Gusu Lan history that a Sect Master had rendered the Elders so utterly speechless. 

Lan Xichen turned to the senior disciple still holding the whip in mid swing. “Put that away before you hurt yourself.” 

"We have not told them to stop,” objected one of the Elders in the crowd, as though he was unable to fully process what was happening.

The glare that Lan Xichen cast over his shoulder was cold and pointed. Without raising his voice, he said, "But I have. And the last time I checked, Wei Wuxian is still my husband and I am still the Sect Master of Gusu Lan and the head of this family."

“Xichen-” Uncle interjected then. “You don’t understand -” 

“On the contrary I understand perfectly. Each year, I, as Sect Master, am granted one allowance to veto the council’s decision. I have never in my life used that privilege before, because I have trusted in the wisdom and guidance of my Elders. However today, forgive me Uncle, Elders, for saying that you are all mistaken.” 

Not waiting for a response, Lan Xichen knelt down beside the two young men.

Lan Wangji stared at his brother with wide, anxious eyes and held Wei Ying closer. He could face his uncle, he could face the Elders and all the world, but for his brother Xichen, the subject of his betrayal, he did not know how to begin to atone or what he would do next.  

“Xiong-zhang, I -”

“How is he?” His brother’s brows were furrowed tightly as he scanned Wei Ying up and down. 

Of course, thought Lan Wangji. Of course his focus would be on Wei Ying. Xichen was not like Uncle, not like the Elders; he knew better. He knew Wangji. And because he knew Wangji, he would know that the one to blame in this wretched situation was not Wei Wuxian. 

Lan Wangji hung his head. His whole face felt hot with shame, and he could not bear to look at his brother anymore. 

“Not good.”

Nestled against him, Wei Ying swayed in and out of consciousness. With the adrenaline of Lan Zhan’s punishment fading, the effects of the freezing rain and his earlier punishment were quickly catching up to him.

“How many?” 

“Three hundred and one.” 

Lan Xichen cursed under his breath. 

A stream of pale blue light flooded into Wei Ying’s left temple. Lan Wangji let out a breath of relief. His brother was strong, of cultivation and of heart. He was kind and forgiving, and undeserving of all that Lan Wangji had done to him, but at least...at least he could forgive Wei Ying, if not his little brother. That was mercy enough. 

The infusion of spiritual energy jolted Wei Ying awake. Sucking in a sharp breath, he grabbed onto Lan Xichen’s wrist. 

Lan Wangji watched with twisted pain and guilt as Wei Ying turned those doe eyes on his husband, “Zewu-jun -” 

“Wuxian, conserve your energy. All can be said later.”  

"No, no, Zewu-jun.” Wei Wuxian shook his head, “Don’t save me. If you do... Please...don't send me back to Yunmeng. I can't go back like this. Madam Yu and Uncle Jiang - I can’t. I know what I have done. I know I deserve everything - anything - but please I beg you, I am willing to die, but let me die here at Gusu. Please the disgrace on my family, on Yunmeng -"

Lan Xichen dabbed his clammy forehead with the edge of his sleeve. "Shh, enough of that. You're delirious, A-Xian. You know not what you speak. No one is going to die, and I will not send you back to Yunmeng." He laid the back of his hand against Wei Wuxian’s temple. “Heavens, he’s burning up - Wangji!” 

Lan Wangji did not realize he had faded off to that hazy place again until his brother shook him by the shoulder. A cool hand pressed against his forehead. “Dear gods, you too. What - what happened to your -”

“It’s been locked,” piped up Nie Huaisang, clutching his saber. Amidst the chaos, no one seemed to be questioning his presence and what he was still doing there. “I tried but I couldn’t -” 

“No, you wouldn’t be able to. The spiritual seal of Gusu Lan can only be undone by the natural momentum of the cultivator’s core. It’ll take time. Come help him, Huaisang.” 

Nie Huaisang threw an arm around Lan Wangji’s shoulder as Lan Xichen lifted Wei Wuxian into his arms. 

Together, they rushed towards Hanshi. 

Update:

[part 3]

[awintersrose]

ObiKabu for kinktober #15 would be interesting.

Kinktober Prompt 15 - Impact Play (From this list of prompts)

This one is more rated M...

*

*

*

His skin is the first thing to draw the eye, genetically unique and begging for adornment. Adornment is something Kabuto can easily give. 

The true challenge is the pride in the older man's eyes, his stance, the line of his spine. It would require building up, breaking down. Exploration, study, and a trained hand. 

Working over a submissive is quite like a complex dissection at times - taking a specimen apart using the very building blocks of systemic response and release. Only these specimens, both precious and conscious, have the benefit of learning who they are, who they could be, who they would be under his control.

Kabuto is well accustomed to bestowing such gifts on deserving targets. 

From the moment he sets eyes on Obito, the decision is made, the plan formed, right down to the implements, namely a sweetly crafted leather martinet gifted to him by his first master.

Learning from the best has had its benefits. Namely exposure to Leather culture steeped in tradition and protocol, most of which he’s adopted as part of his chosen play style. The rest is all his own, and that’s what leads him here, with an especially wondrous specimen all too willing to be tied and plied with pain and the prospect of pleasure.

“I bet no one’s ever used that on you before.”

Kabuto pauses. There’s no need to allow anyone to see him ruffled by such a statement, and really, it’s a silly one.

“I was mentored by a leatherman, and thus spent a lot of time in that community. I’ve bottomed before.”

“Yeah, but did you enjoy it?” Obito’s lips quirk in a slightly cocky smile.

It’s annoying. It’s entrancing. It feels a hell of a lot like a challenge.

“I don’t see where that’s of consequence. It was educational, as it was meant to be. I take it you think you can do better?” Kabuto loops jute rope around Obito’s chest, threading the ends through the bight.

The taller man stoops slightly so that his mouth is close to Kabuto’s ear. “I know I can.”

Definitely a challenge. One that Kabuto would be apt to ignore were it not for the hairs standing on end along the back of his neck and the curiosity that runs rampant at a single thought.

“Then I suggest you put your money where your mouth is. Prove it.” He smirks, letting the rope fall. “I presume you know what you’re doing, yes?”

Somehow their positions are reversed against the wall and Kabuto’s not quite sure how it’s happened. All he knows is that Obito is very warm and very close, with fingers poised at his chin - staring him squarely in the eye.

“I know what I’m doing, cutie. Take your clothes off and I won’t ask you to call me Master.”

“I would have undressed anyway,” Kabuto grumbles, unbuttoning his shirt and laying it aside, followed by his pants. “And you’ve not earned the title so that’s a moot point.”

“Well now you get to undress for me. Same limits as we discussed, or do you have anything more I should avoid?” Obito’s right hand spans Kabuto’s throat, tracing the fluttering pulse there and noting its urgent beat.

“No, my list was comprehensive. I’ll safeword if I need to.” Kabuto peers up at him, rendering a dare of his own. “Shall we begin? Show me what you were so confident about.”

“Oho, aren’t you demanding? I will. One thing first,” Obito traces his jaw then deftly removes Kabuto’s glasses, setting them aside. “Now turn around and put your hands up on the cross.” He gestures to the St. Andrews cross nearby.

Effectively blinded, Kabuto reaches up to hold onto the rich mahogany with a slight sigh. The relief, however, is short lived as leather falls run the length of his spine, then pure warmth presses flush against his back. 

“If you safeword or take your hands down, I’m going to stop. Understood?”

“I understand,” Kabuto replies.

It takes active effort on his part to suppress the shiver that lingers somewhere around his spine, but when a hot exhale rushes across the nape of his neck, his ear, his reactions are rendered involuntary. He can practically hear Obito smile.

“I’m not going to expect you to count, but I am going to expect you to feel every. Last. Bit.” That teasing voice turns darker, almost purring, as if the man has become another person entirely. “And maybe, just maybe you won’t keep those sharp teeth gritted the whole time.”

At once, there is cool air at Kabuto’s back and the first strokes fall, criss crossed lashes laid one at a time across his shoulder blades, their warm points of impact radiating outward. The sensation steals his breath for all that the strokes are light. 

He’d nearly forgotten what a good flogging feels like. The martinet’s falls are shorter than is usually optimal, but they are lavish and well tooled - and they bring Obito closer in proximity. Besides that, Obito wields it well. 

Kabuto does own twin bullhide floggers that would be even more appropriate for the task, but as additional strikes are laid with almost mathematical precision several times over, he forgets all detail of the implements - too focused on the here, and the now. Obito seems to read his reactions in an instant, switching the pace, increasing it, laying incendiary stripes down the muscles of his back and his hips with near flawless technique.

Each fall leaves a mark, even if invisible, stealing away a piece of his sanity, his resolve. It’s as if the dark stranger is weaving a spell wrought in pain and slow-burning pleasure, turning Kabuto’s very nature against him. He had no intention of truly surrendering to his chosen submissive, merely enduring this little challenge, and yet he hears Obito laugh softly in response to something. 

It takes him a moment to realize it’s because he’s uttered a sound. 

“Kabuto - it’s alright if you like it. Let me hear you.” Obito’s broad hand runs the length of Kabuto’s spine and hot lips brush the skin of his neck just below his ear. “I want to.”

The unexpected softness leaves him reeling just before Obito draws away and lays another series of deft strokes across his buttocks and thighs, the martinet whipping through the air so swiftly that Kabuto can hear the tell-tale sound in anticipation. 

Like it? Is that what’s happening? He could yank his hands away from the polished wood, call red and stop the scene in its tracks. Could, but doesn’t. The way that his mental capacity is drifting slowly from his grasp is alarming to say the least.

As leather makes contact with skin, another sound, a gasping sort of cry, gets bitten off in his hearing. The husky voice behind him still urging him on confirms that he is in fact the one guilty of the utterance, and the slight humiliation makes him feel as if he’s teetering on the edge of something.

He just might fall.

It’s strange. Nearly discomfiting. A soft haze lingers short of his inner sight, blurring the edges of sensation and emotion - a bit too far to reach. This is just as well when he’s not so sure he wants to relinquish a logical headspace. Yet as the scene meets its pinnacle, it seems it’s no longer his choice; everything becomes gently fuzzed over, less sharp… better than he imagined. 

So, this must be subspace.

Obito’s hands, now free of the implement, trace the fiery heat glowing upon Kabuto’s skin, as if to soothe, never losing contact as they glide up his shoulders and slowly toward his wrists. His chest meets Kabuto’s back as he guides both hands away from the posts and secures Kabuto in a solid embrace. And just like that, the scene is over.

“Such a good boy.” Obito’s whisper is nearly tender, an unexpected anchor. “Thank you, Kabuto.”

Being called anyone’s boy should rankle and twinge, but somehow it doesn’t. Perhaps in combination with the play session, this is something to be documented in full, perhaps tested once more for the sake of confirmation. Being thanked, on the other hand, feels just right, and as he leans back against Obito, he turns to give him an imperious look. 

“You’re welcome. I admit your technique was satisfactory - you didn’t lie. But next time - I get to do as I like with you.”

A smug grin crosses Obito’s lips as he leans in closer, brushing lips against Kabuto’s cheek. He can feel his new play partner’s breath stutter in his lungs. “Something tells me we'll see about that.”

AO3 Collection

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Not to bother you, but I've been wondering what would happen next in that Inner Demon! Kuro au. It randomly popped into my head and now im curious lol. I'm not asking for another chapter if you dont want to write it, I just wanna know what u think would happen next! Your ideas are amazing and I love hearing from you! 🧡

Ah, you’re so sweet! Don’t take this too seriously as I haven’t planned any of it and barely edited it LOL but here you go my dear~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Alright, and what am I supposed to make of that?"

It was hours later, or perhaps just minutes, and Mahiru found himself staring up at the slightly damp, bug riddled ceiling of the cave. He seemed to have fallen to the ground after Kuro had released his grip; maybe he had taken too much blood? The thought froze his muscles in visceral terror and his mind in a bid to remain sane immediately rejected the idea. Either way, he did distinctly remember hearing Kuro say that he belonged to Mahiru now, or something to that effect, and really, who wanted to have a psycho like this?

"What does what means?"

 Kuro's eyes popped in to view over Mahiru's face and he flinched back, bashing his head further on the cold stone. Frowning in irritation, at the pain in his skull, the situation in general, he sighed. "What do you mean you're mine?"

 The bright red that had flooded through Kuro's irises hadn't faded, in fact it seemed to have almost solidified against the former blue, looking like a small pool of swirling metallic paint splashed across the sky. As he watched, entranced, Kuro grinned.

 "Pretty, right?" He blinked slowly, demonstratively. "The red is a nice touch, a very easy way to identify contracts."

 "Contracts?" Mahiru repeated curiously. "What- no, I mean, how did your eyes change color?"

 "This is your blood, Mahiru." Kuro said matter-of-factly. "I didn't expect it to be so beautiful, to be honest. Most blood mixes in like mud. Such a disappointing shade of brown. But this!" Kuro paused, fluttering a hand in front of his face.

"This is gorgeous. We must be compatible."

 "Compatible..." Mahiru echoed, laughing weakly. "Great."

 "You wanted to go home. I'll take you there."

 "Hold on just a second." He pushed out a hand into the scant air between them and Kuro obligingly sat back, his head cocked in innocent puzzlement. "How do you know where I live?"

 "I know everything that is YOU, now."

 "Again, what exactly does that mean?"

 Kuro smiled wickedly, leaning forward suddenly, a blur of vitality in the dank air of the cave. "Take it literally. Anything that means something to you, makes up a part of your identity, it's mine now. And in exchange-" He gestured down at himself, "you get this, anything you could possibly want."

 Startled into silence, Mahiru felt his tongue form the sardonic comment before he could think better of it. "You're quite confident." As soon as the words were out he regretted them, praying that the offense they caused wouldn't be enough to get him ripped into little pieces, but Kuro only laughed, lighter and softer than anything Mahiru had heard before.

 "Of course I'm confident. Do you still not know who I am, Mahiru?" His lips curled up mischievously and he ran a graceful, delicate finger, along Mahiru's jaw. "You're a bit thick, aren't you? Ah well, no matter! You're mine as well now, no turning back." Before Mahiru had the chance to feel offended, he continued. "I knew you were special the second I saw you."

 The conversation was running in circles and it was only a matter of time before Mahiru got motion sickness trying to follow it, so, trying to decide the simplest course of action, he chose, simply, to ignore it. Obviously Kuro was not who he had originally thought, the eyes, the horns, the preternatural speed, no, there was no way to fake that, he was something else entirely, but the question was, what? Mahiru glanced over to find Kuro staring at him raptly and he couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped. "Where am I supposed to hide you?"

"Is this just something that people like you can do?" Mahiru asked flatly, staring down at the tiny kitten at his feet. It turned it's wide, luminescent eyes (red like his blood, he thought) up to him and blinked. "I don't know what that means."

 "You really are a demanding little one." Kuro muttered as he phased back into existence, occupying the space the cat had previously. "Of course not all of us can, it is something unique to I and a few others." He paused, seeming to think carefully before speaking. "Eight total."

 There are seven others that can turn into animals?"

 Kuro nodded slowly, almost regretfully. "Yes. Seven. But you don't need to worry about them."

 "I'm not particularly worried." Mahiru sighed. "More like amazed." He watched for a moment as Kuro crept around his room, so cat like in his movements Mahiru almost laughed, and began to poke at several of the books piled haphazardly on his desk. "I do have a question."

 As though he had been in anticipation, Kuro spun on his heel, books and exploration forgotten and a lopsided smile in place. "Yes?"

 "Well, er-" Mahiru hesitated, biting his lip. "Not to be offensive or anything but, you're acting very... different now."

 "Oh?"

 "Uh, yeah..."

 "How so?"

 "Well." Mahiru glanced over, quickly looking away again when he met Kuro's amused gaze. "Well, to be blunt, you're not acting like a total nut job anymore."

 "A nut job." Kuro paused, digesting the phrase for a moment. "I do not know that one either." Four rapid steps had him directly in front of Mahiru again and he grinned. "There's so much you must tell me! But before that, what is the question?"

 "Why?" Mahiu blurted. "Why are you suddenly..." He trailed off and, at a loss for definition, gestured vaguely at Kuro. "Like this?"

 Shrugging casually, Kuro raised a brow. "One would act differently after becoming someone else, no?"

 Putting a finger to his brow in fatigued annoyance, Mahiru groaned. "No w I just know you're fucking with me."

 "Not yet, I assure you." Kuro said brightly, his grin widening impossibly when Mahiru blanched. "What can I say to make you understand?" He crossed his arms, gaze traveling lazily around the room. When his eyes lit upon the chair near the door and he paused. "I took from you and so you must take from me." He glanced over, his eyes shining through the shifting blacks and whites of his hair. "Give and take, tit for tat, you are a part of me and so I must honor that change. Act according to the new blood."

 Mahiru frowned, attempting to construct something realistic or even vaguely understandable from what Kuro had just said. "So, you're different because of me?"

 "Precisely. Perhaps if you were less stubborn I would not be quite so composed?" Kuro laughed, just a shadow of the maniacal, wild abandon from previously and shrugged. "It's an interesting change." He raised his eyes to the ceiling, as though looking up into the sky. "Not unwelcome. Certainly different from what I am used to."

 "What you're used to?" Mahiru prompted him after a moment.

 "Things at the court can be unbalanced." Kuro said slowly. "And so for the most part we are... unpredictable."

 Forgoing asking who exactly "we" was because he was fairly certain he didn't want to know anyway, Mahiru frowned darkly, remembering the shattered stalls and engulfing flames he had so barely escaped earlier."You seemed like a psycho."

 Kuro laughed happily. "That sounds like a compliment!"

 "It's not." Mahiru said flatly. "Psycho is bad." He too glanced around the small room quickly, taking in the limited space and lack of guest furniture. "So now what? I accept that you are some kind of- of- mythical creature. But I do not accept that I am stuck with you."

 "Whether you accept or not is of no consequence." Kuro sang, reaching out and plucking a sweater from where it lay draped over the foot of the bed. "We have a contract." He began to twist it back and forth, inspecting it from every angle, eyes wide in puzzlement.

 "About that. I didn't agree to any contract. So I don't really think it's legally binding." Mahiru crossed his arms, attempting his best impersonation of authority.

 Kuro shrugged, pulling the sweater over his head, horns turning to a bright translucent fog for a moment to allow for the collar to pass over them, and smiled, something quick and genuine, and Mahiru felt his heart skip a beat. "Unfortunate for you then that the fae do not care for legality."

It was an hour later, Mahiru standing in front of the cupboard contemplating it's bare shelving, that he finally admitted to himself that he was not the best at entertaining visitors. Not even a spare loaf of bread. He slammed the door shut in frustration and glanced into the living room, finding Kuri still curled up on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Mahiru had turned it on in desperation about forty minutes ago and Kuro had not moved since. It was currently airing some strange episodic gum commercial but judging by Kuro's expression you would have thought it was a documentary of the end of the world.

 "How do they do this?" Kuro asked suddenly and Mahiru turned fully, watching as he pointed to the screen upon which was a helicopter view of the city.

 "Do what?"

 "Record this? Is that what you called it? It's so detailed!"

 Mahiru wandered closer, unable to ignore the impulse and peered over Kuro's shoulder. "You said you were some magical being but you've never seen a TV? Where have you been all this time?"

 "In the woods, mostly." Kuro answered casually. "It seems I should have ventured farther into town sooner!"

 Briefly imagining the utter devastation Kuro would have wrought unchecked had he indeed entered the heart of the town Mahiru held back a shiver and shook his head. "No. No way. You are way too much trouble."

 "It is not I that wishes for such destruction." Kuro said, flicking his sharp gaze up to Mahiru. "I only embody what you desire."

 "You keep saying that." Mahiru muttered, looking away in discomfort. "Listen. Do you need food? Or..." He trailed off in embarrassment, completely gobsmacked that the next words were about to leave his mouth. "Or are you actually a vampire?"

 "Vampire." Kuro rolled the word around for a moment and shrugged. "Call me what you will. You humans have always had such curious need to name everything. Regardless, it will not change that I simply am."

 Mahiru sighed. He really was getting so tired of all this mystical bullshit. "So then, did you want to get dinner?"

 Kuro froze, his shoulders going taut beneath the blanket he had huddled up in. "Dinner?" His eyes were darting from side to side as though in worry, though there was nothing but an innocuous soap opera preview on.

 "Yeah? You know, we go somewhere and get food? I honestly hate the idea of bringing you in public, but I don't have anything here." Mahiru admitted, frowning. "You have to behave."

 "Ah, I see." Kuro turned, fixing Mahiru with a strange look. "You need to eat then?"

 "I take it, based on this conversation that you don't actually require food." Mahiru muttered sarcastically. "But yes, I'm hungry."

 "Very well. Let's go." Kuro stood in one quick move, the blanket falling from his shoulders and to the couch and Mahiru flinched back a step, having completely forgotten just how tall Kuro really was. At his jerking retreat, Kuro raised a brow and a mocking smile flew across his face. "Do you truly find me so frightening?"

 An immediate affirmation withered on Mahiru's tongue as he studied Kuro's expression. It was neutral and empty but somewhere, deep beneath the veneer of indifference, he thought he could see a wiggling of disappointment. He didn't know what possessed him to do what he did, or even why he would care to do so in the first place but he found himself snorting and reaching out to wrap his hand around Kuro's wrist, tugging him roughly around the back of the couch and towards the kitchen. "Of course not, idiot. What's scary about you?"

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S4 Ep 13: Yugi Dies in California, Makes Everything Awkward

Hey guys. Yugi’s DEAD. (again, but way earlier in a season than I thought he’d be)

So lets get into it.

Last we left off, Pharaoh got imbued with the powers of Lime Green. A green that I swear used to be more Aqua, but seems to sort of shift and change depending on if it’s day or night.

As a consequence, Yugi now can’t have any communication with Pharaoh. I guess this makes it so now Pharaoh is split with his “light” side but like...both Yugi and Pharaoh have both light and darkness so...I see the metaphor going on, but I don’t think the metaphor actually...worked when you think about all the screwy stuff Yugi has done even without Pharaoh around. So just don’t think about it.

The big consequence of the Yugi Banishment was more that Yugi wasn’t there to tell Pharaoh how the Oricalchos card works because--and I say this a lot--but Pharaoh doesn’t know how to read.

Pharaoh’s biggest downfall isn’t so much his greed or pride this episode, it’s his goddamn illiteracy. If he took just five seconds to study the fine print then...he wouldn’t have even cast the Oricalchos in the first place. He did it because he wanted to protect his dragon Timaeus on the field, but the Oricalchos made Timaeus immediately disappear so...Pharaoh cast this for no reason other than the plot really wanted him to do it.

Just kinda shocking that Pharaoh, of all people, made such a huge card mistake when he’s supposed to be from where all cards came from. Then again, he’s separated from Yugi who I guess had more card input than I realized, because the rest of this episode is just Pharaoh playing kind of like a dumbass.

And on the voice acting side, the guy who plays Pharaoh had to try and talk even deeper--which was kind of funny when he’s already as deep as he can go. So...it just seems like Season 1 Pharaoh to me, except he laughs more.

TBH Pharaoh was WAY more rude to PaniK than he ever was to Rafael.

(read more under the cut)

Meanwhile, Rex and Weevil have joined the pack.

Only to be hassled by the pack.

And so, since this is a show about cards, how do you make Pharaoh look like a bad person when he...always plays cards, and is usually a good person for doing this same card playing thing?

And as the person in charge of the Death Count, sorry Yugi, that doesn’t even make sense to me. If you’re telling me that JUST NOW cards are suddenly real and not 10+ episodes ago, and if you’re telling me that all of the other times Dark Magician Girl died didn’t count?

If I had to count every time that a card died when I’m pretty sure they were real then we would also have to count most Bakura duels, probably that Pegasus duel, any Shadow game, really, and like...I don’t want to do the math so I am not counting Dark Magician Girl, y’all.

She was alive at the end of this episode, and as far as I’m concerned, her prime function--the reason she exists--is to die a lot. She’s a card, that’s what they do, and I doubt she even felt bad about it. Like...I don’t think the cards are mortal. Does that make sense? I just...maybe it hurt her but like...does she care? She’s a god in this universe.

You can’t kill Zeus. And like maybe people can hassle Zeus but like it would be maybe the sensation of an itch to Zeus if you stab him directly through the throat--that’s how I feel about Dark Magician Girl. She can take a beating and won’t even know it’s happening. Girl is freakin Zeus.

A lot of this Rafael arc is about making a false reality to justify your actions. Rafeal’s was a pretty extreme case involving cards that are angels and that are still cards...or something. Pharaoh’s was “I’ll be fine, I’ve always been fine, I’m very good at this, I’m the exception to every rule.” which is a much more approachable and relatable fake reality than Rafael.

Thing is, Pharaoh’s not entirely wrong. That’s usually true for him. He usually is the exception to every rule bending RNG to his every whim. Like there’s a reason why he took the chance on the Oricalchos, it really should’ve worked out.

And TBH, would have liked to see Pharaoh do this for longer than one episode, especially since him going his brand of cray only lasted during a card game, which I don’t really watch anyway. But eventually all good things must end, and it catches up to him when he realizes the horror he has wrought.

Spoiler, it’s not that horrifying.

Like for reals, I have seen Pharaoh do some THINGS and maybe this is a sign I’ve seen too much Yugioh when I’m like “lol Pharaoh went nuts and that was it???”

I cannot believe he did not pull out even so much as a single knife this entire episode. The hatchets are right there. Then again, his puzzle powers don’t really work in the Oricalchos realm so he has to play normie style. But knives are pretty normie. I feel like Pharaoh should have pulled out some sort of makeshift brain teaser involving knives, but youknow, this season is very much more for kids than previous seasons of Yugioh.

Again, what he did to Panik is about 1000x worse than making a Halloween Kuriboh.

But, now that all the cards he sacrificed to the Shadow Realm are being resurrected and used against him, he looks into the blank face of Dark Magician Girl and accepts his defeat.

Which is very similar to what happened to Kaiba in the earlier seasons of this show. Pharaoh got Pharaoh’d.

But...while it is a throwback, heaven forbid that this show used a real ass human as a stand in for Dark Magician Girl in this scene. Could’ve had just any actual person standing around here to make Pharaoh realize a change of heart--maybe even the kid he banished in his head? But nah.

It was Dark Magician Girl for this emotional beat.

I mean we are watching Yugioh but lol, that was a decision the writing team made. Joey Wheeler’s right over there. Maybe remove Tea from that RV? No? Want to use Dark Magician Girl instead? OK then.

Anyway, now that Pharaoh was shamed enough by a paper card to remember how to be slightly more human, Yugi holds his Puzzle high over his head and screams “BY THE POWER OF THE MILLENNIUM PUZZLE!” or something and does his own brand of magic. Surprise, it’s punching stuff.

Punching stuff is always the answer.

So apparently the puzzle is more powerful than Oricalchos. Which we basically knew the whole time, I mean...Pharaoh got possessed by Oricalchos and all it did was make him play cards.

I can’t believe no one got set on fire that entire sequence.

So, since the Oricalchos demanded a soul, Yugi figured out a loophole.

And again, another Yugioh game was ended by someone threatening to kill himself, and this time it was Yugi. Who died so that Pharaoh’s yummy soul would not resurrect the Great Leviathan.

Because, while Yugi may be a soul-copy and somewhat reincarnation of the Pharaoh? Or something? He’s still not yummy enough. Not yummy enough for that Leviathan tummy.

Which lead to this great scene that I’m sure you’d remember vividly if you ever saw it even once. This is so unexpected and wild and everyone should see it.

This is moments following a very heavy death in the show--Pharaoh’s lowest point--and it is just SO JARRING AND FUNNY in context. I don’t think they meant it to be that way but I had to rewind like 8 times.

First off, enjoy this wtf helicopter, and then...

Wow.

A+ animation, I would never have been so bold as to do drop Pharaoh like a sack of potatoes from 50 feet in the air right after killing Yugi Muto on screen. 10/10. Amazing.

And after it happens, Duke kinda looks over and has the gall to ask... “Are you guys all right?” It’s just...

Wow.

I’m applauding at my computer, I am so glad that whole sequence exists. I’ll probably lift it eventually just to have.

And then the rest of this episode is Pharaoh trying to tell everyone what happened but Everyone still doesn’t quite get it, despite how wildly blunt Pharaoh is.

Cue the endless crying, because if this show loves anything, it’s men in eyeliner openly weeping into the dirt at their feet. Thankfully, Yugi had the foresight to get waterproof mascara, because if he’s gonna die, he doesn’t want Yami to blow up that perfectly cut stiletto heel line.

MAN I am so jealous of this teenage boy’s makeup.

And since I asked the void nicely for Yugioh to be in PAD, and now that PAD put Yugioh in there as if it heard me, I will now turn my attention to Sephora.

Please, Sephora, make me a Yugioh makeup line that is waterproof as hell so I can ugly cry in the hottest desert in America and still not smudge, thx.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand Yugi Muto is officially dead!

Didn’t expect that, being real.

Wow.

Really I thought that they would die if ever they ever got separated, but apparently Pharaoh is fine he just...lacks his Yugi half that knows how to read stuff and had a slightly longer attention span.

I can’t believe they cured Yugi of his curse! Congrats, Yugi! You are no longer possessed! 

Y’all. Lets just appreciate the Yugioh Episode 13 curse for a bit.

First episode 13, Bakura killed everyone with like no warning

Second Episode 13 was Ankle-slicing Bandsaw Clown

Third Episode 13 Noah revealed he was Seto’s Secret Already Dead Brother trying to take over Seto’s body

Fourth Episode 13 Yami finally managed murdering Yugi.

Like I dunno if they planned for all 13s to be all the WTF ones, but I’m glad it’s managed so far. I should’ve known when I started this episode that it was a 13, but I just...I just forgot.

Really thought Yami was going to survive this one and we’d have to bury Rafael on this mesa. Lucky for them and the local police, it’s just paranormal murder today.

Anyway...there’s like a lot more episodes of this season left and I don’t know where it’s going anymore. Should be fun. At the rate we’re going, we’re gonna take a bike ride over to New York City to do more card games on the desert Mesas of NYC. Lets see how long Yugi will remain dead.

Maybe next episode Pharaoh will just throw on a bedsheet and Rebecca’s shower sandals so he can go full Egyptian Era? Maybe the eyeliner will be drawn all the way to his freakin ears? Y’all what if he gets really into beads and gold now?

(and if you just got here, this is a handy link to read all of these recaps in chrono order. There’s a lot of them.)

[kewltie]

“Kacchan,” Izuku starts off, trying for casual which in itself is suspicious enough, “are you free on the 7th?”

Katsuki grunts, feeling a large headache incoming. “What do you want?” he demands with narrowed eyes.

“Well,” Izuku smiles brightly, enough to ring the alarm bells in Katsuki’s head, “Papa wants you to come over for dinner.”

Immediately, “No,” he answers.

Izuku’s eyes widen like’s he honestly dumbfounded at Katsuki’s sudden rejection. His lips stretch out in sulky pout. “Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know maybe because he’s the head of the largest yakuza organization in Japan and I’m a damn cop, tasked to throw people like him in prison,” Katsuki says dryly and then, looking down pointedly at his left arm that still gives him phantom pain into the night. “And he nearly killed me last time we’d met.”

Izuku winces. “He promised me he’d only roughen you up a little.”

“Tell that to my broken arm and two fracture ribs,” Katsuki says wryly. “I was out of commission for two whole weeks while your old man didn’t even get charged with pointing a gun at my head.”

“Papa had just mistakenly assumed you were the one who kidnapped me!” Izuku insists, bristling with defense. “He didn’t know that you were actually the one who’d rescued me the first place.” He looks chagrin now. “That was his fault for jumping to the conclusion so quickly, but he realizes he was in the wrong and he’s very sorry about that. That’s why he only wants to meet up with you to properly apologize over dinner with my family.”

Katsuki thinks of the last time he’d faced Midoriya Hisashi in a head-to-head confrontation: Katsuki’s eyes were hazy with blood dripping from his head and his arms bound tight behind him as Midoriya had all but threaten to chop him into pieces and throw him into the river for getting within ten feet of Izuku, his precious and only son. “I don’t think that’s all what he wants to do to me,” Katsuki drawls, with the full knowledge it isn’t Midoriya Hisashi who will be the death of him but his son instead. It will be Izuku, calling to him from the bottom of the Sumida River and Katsuki will walk right into it with eyes wide open.

Izuku’s entire being deflates and expression is wrought with concern and hurt. “Sorry, if I asked too much of you. I know you don’t like Papa and what he does,” he looks forlornly down at his lap, “but he’s my Papa and you can’t choose your family.”

Katsuki sighs like its pains him. It most definitely does.  “Fine,” he grits out, “but if your father pull a gun on me again don’t be surprise if I actually shoot him back.”

Izuku’s jerks his head up, face lighting up and he launches himself at Katsuki. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I promise you will have a great time there!” he says, squeezing the life out of Katsuki.

“Fuck, get off,” Katsuki protests, but doesn’t even bother to fight Izuku’s forceful hug.

Love is such a fucking bullshit.

Also, a bullet to the head, but whatever Katsuki was already mad from the start to think he can fall in love with the crown prince of the underworld without consequence while Izuku’s father, the most notorious criminal in history, is watching Katsuki with sharp bloody teeth ready to devour him at any time.

[elinor-sutton]

Fuck MAGA: Then & Now

I started this blog right after the 2016 election.

I was angry, and it was an outlet that I needed, but after a few posts, I did not consider my rage a priority worth my time.

I was told that it might be unhealthy to indulge an anger so deep that it began to form, for me, an existential foundation of being—almost always in hair-trigger battle mode, rhetoric and righteous anger at the ever-fucking READY.

BUT I have a life that needs attention and only occasionally merits ferocity, so I gave up blogging.

And now? All this time later, I am still in a near-constant state of slow burn, and it’s been way too long without an eruption.

In the year-and-a-half since I let the blog slide, the Perpetrator-in-Chief has lived down to the worst of my expectations, and he shows no signs of improvement. It’s a narcissist thing. He CANNOT improve because he cannot recognize ANY of his infinite faults. Here’s one: GROWN-UPS don’t play Keep Away or Made You Look or the fucking Dozens with psychotic nuclear-arsenal-wielding tyrants. [It should go without saying that, if at all possible, nuclear arsenals should not be handed to psychotic tyrants in the first place, but MAGA, or whatever, right? If you live, maybe you learn. FINGERS CROSSED!]

But really, are we STILL living in a world where the safety of [at least] half the planet comes down to a man-child measuring contest?

Dear President Prick-for-Brains,

If you have to start a motherfucking WAR over it, it’s NEVER going to measure UP!

Sincerely,

Elinor S. and—oh yes, the ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD SO JUST STFU ALREADY!

Yep—still SUPER-PISSED!

If you’re looking at the world—and the supposed leader of those parts of it which are purportedly “free”—and you’re not losing your damn mind, you must have some sort of pre-established lunacy. [I’m not speaking of mental health problems. Mental health and mental healthcare are legitimate issues ignored by the thoughts-and-prayers crowd unless they need a scapegoat/catchphrase for the walking, shooting consequences of MAGA-indoctrination.] I’m thinking of the WHITE-NATIONALIST-NAZI-RACIST-MISOGYNISTIC-PATRIOTISM-BEFORE-PEOPLE-BUT-REALLY-ME-FIRST-AND-FUCK-EVERYONE-ELSE psychosis that passes for conservative politics since 45 first got his ridiculous feelings hurt by a black man and a “nasty woman” who were—and ARE—undeniably his betters. Or maybe since Mitch McConnell crawled out of his deep, dark shell and STOLE A SUPREME COURT SEAT while we sat on our hands and muttered, “Can he do that?”

Evidently, he can! AND with ZERO consequences—not for him or any other limp-dick Sentry of the Status Quo tip-toeing his way across the Glass Ceiling, stroking his Keys to the Kingdom, or hiding under his Protector of the Patriarchy parasol because HE KNOWS—they ALL know—that “Zero Consequences” comes with a big, fat, fucking YET, and she is a BOSS BITCH—woke and coming ready with a to-do list several centuries in the making. Her list says, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” It says Black Lives Matter, Me Too, My Body/My Choice, LOVEisLOVE, NoH8, and NO MORE. She’s got Science-based, Evidence-based, Fact-based TRUTH with ZERO Alternatives because TIME is fucking UP!

And that means White Male Privilege [WMP—pronounced “wimp,” right?] is coming to an end. I can’t pinpoint the starting line, but scared-shitless white men with money and/or guns have been running THE REST OF US down since well before this “great” nation was founded, and there are far too many of “the rest of us” who buy into their bullshit—53% of white women [pronounced “silly twits”]?! If you don’t fall into any category that benefits from WMP, and you voted/plan to vote for more of this nonsense, your patriotic duty, as of this moment, is to wake up every morning and punch yourself in the fucking face until something like SENSE prevails. Side effects MAY include REASON and a newfound appreciation for ACTUAL FACTS as opposed to the alternative variety, but if that fails, it is my heartfelt hope that when you make your way to the voting booth—to do what is, of course, your civic duty—you may just do us all a favor, and GET LOST!

[On a friendlier note, if you benefit from WMP and DID NOT vote in favor of our present national tragedy, congratulations on your conscience! Please take your place in the crowd, and resist the urge to act like you know everything. Instead, memorize this mantra and repeat to yourself as often as necessary to convert words to action: I’VE HAD MY TURN TO TALK. NOW IS MY TIME TO LISTEN.]

I am still angry, and I will remain so as long as “Making America Great” looks like:

1. Children murdered at school with unregulated guns or ripped away from immigrant parents who thought they could find safety in this “great” country,

2. Law enforcement abusing and KILLING men and women of color without consequence,

3. Tax cuts designed to further line the pockets of the few at the expense of the many and promote the “trickle-down” bullshit we’ve been forced to swallow, off and on, since the fucking 80s—when it didn’t work the first time.

4. Ordinary Americans struggling, or going without, while working full time for LESS THAN A LIVING WAGE,

5. Ignoring veterans who are homeless, wait months for promised healthcare, and/or commit suicide at more than twice the rate of civilians,

6. Women facing unconstitutional restrictions on access to reproductive healthcare and a choice that is STILL A LEGAL RIGHT,

7. LGBTQ+ people living with discrimination from bathrooms to bakeries and everywhere in-between—including public schools and the workplace,

8. People with disabilities at risk of losing the protection of the ADA, and disabled children at risk of losing their right to a “free and appropriate public education” under IDEA,

9. Underserved children, or those who suffer illegal discrimination in schools, losing protection from the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights,

10. Environmental protections rolled back to protect corporate profits,

11. The sex offender/demagogue/imbecilic slab of semi-sentient slime—AND the soulless mob of Republican/MAGA-minions fighting to stroke his [gross] ego—that we have given ourselves in place of legitimate leadership,

12. And the untold number of HUMAN BEINGS suffering from the tragic FOLLY of a deluded minority of voters.

For as long as this country is attacked by toxic overgrown toddlers who play at governing, and in their incompetence, damage its environment, menace its people, abuse the fundamentals of democracy and the republic, and terrorize those who protest, I will NURSE this rage and STOKE its fire.

This is MY COUNTRY. I love it, and I recognize that TRUE LOVE does not ignore fault. This country has NEVER achieved “greatness” for all of its people. It is fortunate for “the rest of us” that patriotism does not demand blind loyalty. It does not hinge love of country on absolutes, and it does not forever marry us to White Male Privilege and what has been done in its name. We pledge allegiance to an IDEAL, and then we work the phones, yell ourselves hoarse, march until our feet bleed, and fucking VOTE to mold OUR COUNTRY into what it should be.

We DO NOT forget the progress we have made. We remember every step forward even as we recognize that the ignorant, forgotten [whatever], and privileged—with their long-overdue last gasp—forced us to take two steps back. We didn’t NEED to go backward. Nobody needs this bullshit—EVER. But we can use this. We can take a look, MARK what we missed and LEARN where and HOW we can do better. We can do what needs to be done to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

Step One: EMBRACE the anger. We can be appalled at all the FUCKING BULLSHIT the MAGA-goons have wrought and amazed that WE STILL HAVE FUCKS TO GIVE. We can revel in the madness that living in this time brings us—because progressives know how to USE rage. We know how to mine it. We have a long history of crafting change from righteous anger, and [always] moving on—an inch or a mile at a time—pushing a reluctant nation to keep its promise of “LIBERTY and JUSTICE for ALL.”

Numbers, time, and momentum are on OUR SIDE. We need to get MAD, and we need to do it TOGETHER—FOR FUCK’S OBVIOUS SAKE—and then we need to run these backward motherfuckers down with an ever-loving TIDAL WAVE OF PROGRESS that will put two steps back so far beyond the last red mile marker that even Donald Trump and Mitch McConnell will regain consciousness in the gender-neutral bathroom of an inclusive, well-funded public school with no fear of shooters, fully aware that Black Lives Matter, wearing a pussyhat, shouting TIME’S UP, and feeling grateful for the motherfucking PRIVILEGE!

So yeah, I’ve been paying attention, and I’m still angry, and it’s long past time to start talking about it again.

Stay tuned.

[mazmisc]

The Poetry of Michael Dolce

Links to Michael’s books can be found at the bottom of the page.

Michael Dolce

A Universe to Come   8/19/08

I imagine the smell of earth in the mist of the sweet jungle’s humidity, Caressing my dry face, Bringing sweet and powerful tears to my cheeks, Half of my own making and half not. I can taste the water of this sacred savannah on my tongue With the gracious passion of a man too long denied its sustenance, Lost in a wilderness of wind and unfertile sand. I cool my overheated fingers in the damp mud of Mother Earth’s wet soil, And when I return them to my face, I smell a perfume that brings peace to my restless spirit And inspiration to all parts of my being. Then with the posture of a god atop Gaea’s highest peak, Bedecked in naught but the flesh that carried me from the ocean to this land And bathed in the light of Helios on high, She comes to me, A muse and a dark prophecy of sublime promise; An angel and a harlot, A song of terrible ardor and a whisper of confident purpose. She descends upon my skin as hot rain, Falling in surprising softness upon me, Flowing from my head to my toes in sanguine rivers of joy That speak to me like tongues of fire In a forgotten language no mortal mind ever had a name for. Upon my right and pure propitiation to her, Infusing her with consecrated heat, She rewards me by taking the world off of my back and smiling at me; A girl and a whore, A wife and a courtesan, A daughter and a mother. Her hands draw from my being every last ounce of poison Corrupting the sanctity of my immortal temple, Wrought from the wars of the civilized world. She finds the seat of my power, Where this deity’s machinations are seeded, The indomitable, indefatigable throne of my kingdom. She takes her seat as my queen, Radiant and magnificent, A goddess in these moments, Even unto other goddesses, Who can scarce contain their own adoration of her. As I worship. She holds a place of mystic guardianship atop the watch tower of my domain, And for all of its stolid solemnity, She makes it a beacon that lights the way for the Divine light to bless my great reign. As the sea meets the shore, we collide. She makes the earth from magma at my core, Pushing it to the surface in delightful chaos that replenishes the fertile realm. In the following calm, In the grace of profound silence. The ancient ritual is accomplished. The universe is reborn.

  Join Me           05-26-04

Anyone could blame it on the mushrooms, Especially the people who’ve never taken them And see merely the incomprehensible chaos it brings to people, Causing them to laugh uncontrollably And express leaps of child-like logic that their aging minds have long forgotten.

But it was beyond psilocybin, Beyond the mind, And beyond the flesh and bone that serve as my conveyance.

My soul spoke. My Great soul.

I sat on a dirt hill beside my best friend. We’d joked all night And had howled with hilarity; Two intelligent innocences struggling to cope with the illusory trappings of the Age of Pisces, The iron age of tyranny, political correctness, violence and abject humorlessness.

I remembered having a religion imposed upon me. I remembered the indoctrinational practices of my schooling. I imagined Jews and Palestinians killing each other over who had the best invisible friend, Busily fighting the great unknowns of human mortality. I imagined a world in which the followers of Elwood P. Dowd Committed acts of rape and murder out of an outrageously enflamed belief in an intangible six-foot tall rabbit named Harvey, And this made as much sense to me as the Crusades, the witch burnings & the jihads.

It struck me then.

It was like looking all around the house for a misplaced wallet And finding it finally in your back pocket.

Love is the thing.

Love is everything.

I could send it from my heart through my hands and heal this planet if I really meant it.

I gazed in immaculate awe up at the stars And gratefully into the eyes of my friend, And I spoke words that had come from a source beyond me; A memory of lessons learned, A prophecy of learning yet to come.

“I just want to love.”

My mind was a cool breeze. My heart was a gentle blaze. My spirit was a calm, healing stream. My body lay serenely prostrate upon the soil.

“I just want to love.”

I knew it was the truth of my existence, My destiny, My road less traveled.

I was absolutely myself, In all worlds, When I said it.

An eternity thrived in the scant seconds of my uttering, And I knew myself for the first time.

Decades have since passed.

Fear, greed & anger have come to fight a last battle for supremacy on earth. Confusion, apathy and disillusionment hold humanity from its inherent greatness, And, Imperfect vessel that I am, I understand it now.

I had spoken words that had come to me from a source beyond me; A memory of lessons learned, A prophecy of learning yet to come.

“I just want to love.”

Join me.

Death and resurrection.

Join me.

  I Met Your Girl           

I met your daughter at a Motel 6. She was calling herself Candy. I didn’t ask her for her real name. She never asked for mine.

A box of Huggies was visible Behind the closet door, Left inadvertently ajar. What was she, 18? 19? Already a mouth to feed.

She had a scar under her right eye. Did you give her that When you came home drunk And angry because You couldn’t be accountable For why you earned minimum wage?

What was she, 18? 19? She looked 30. The shadows under her eyes Were as deep as those cast by trees and buildings At sundown.

Maybe it was lack of sleep. Maybe it was drugs.

Did she roll her first joint for you? Did she have her first swallow of rotgut from your bottle? Did monkey see and monkey do?

She took it like a champ, And to the untrained heart, She feigned sincerity with practiced efficiency.

Did she learn that from you too?

The tattoo on her lower back Featured a skull and cross bones And read “here to go”. What was she, 18? 19? And here to go?

Well, I’m no saint obviously, Or I’d never have been in that hotel room With your daughter, Whose name I’ll never know, But by absent god, I’d never have enjoyed her company For that indecent half hour If you’d been a real man to your girl, Instead of …

…Well… Instead of whatever it was you were to her.

The River

The river swallows what it wishes. Water is potent beyond words. Walking beside the river is the purview of the bold, Because if the river wishes, it commands, And the hero, Regardless of imagined quests, Is drawn into unknown, unknowable currents Into which compassionate resolve sinks or swims. Every call to adventure is a call to love, And the manner of the challenge is a bizarre surprise Born of strange occurrence.

It must be so. For if the hero could choose the battles, They would all be encounters the hero was certain to win.

Heroism is the ability to be instructed by such as a river, Flowing with it as it dictates So that one’s formulas may be disproven, False faiths may be rent asunder And one’s own agnostic kindness may be given the breath of true life.

The river calls you. Fall willingly into it, To be bathed and purified, To have this ego drowned in sacred remembrance of universal unity, To rise a perpetually transformed spirit.

God is the river, The lake, The sea, The ocean.

You are a drop in the water, And you surrender So that you may move as the water moves, And in this submission, Your temporal being with a temporary name Is given the grace and force To perform feats of magic in a sterile atmosphere And to wield a candle’s flame Dispelling darkness.

The river calls. Answer.   Allow. Act.

  Boundless Love Sometimes I curse this flesh and bone because The limitations brought are hard to face, And what this damned trapped ego does Can never seem to stretch beyond its place. The truth of love is not the same as fact, Because this ego’s litany of fears Demands at least the semblance of contract, Imposing boundaries so we fend off tears. Would that this were not so, and we were free From form, from terror and from consequence, To say that you are yours, but you’re with me. Both come with some collateral expense.           I wish we had the minds of gods above,           For then we might enjoy a boundless love.

Michael’s books can be purchased here:

Zero the Clown: and a Lovely Garden of Flowering Weeds Desire and Dust Slap & Tickle Magic & Malarkey 69 Sonnets

from WordPress http://bizarredatanoise.com/?p=3981

[annastrxng]

Insatiablevalor: YOU COULD HAVE DIED!!! ~ Annlett~

@insatiablevalor

“Edmund, I could have lost you! Why? Why didn’t you leave for Scotland?!!! So many people wish to kill you!” She relinquishes a heart-heavy sob. “Why? Why did you stay?” Anna sharply demands. Her entire body quivered violently with all the power of the adrenaline rush.

insatiablevalor  answered:

Edmund looked down at his black boots as she pleaded with him, not knowing exactly how to go about answering her— not just yet at least. She had been the woman that he once loved, and he had even thought about giving up everything for just a chance to be with her and to make her happy. Deep down, those feelings for her had never truly went away and yet being in her presence made the white hot sting of betrayal burn even hotter than it had before. “That is precisely why I had to stay.” he said, finally looking back up at her. “I realized that I was running away from all of my problems, but… I then I also realized that problems have a tendency of catching up to you… eventually.” Then something else stuck out to him. “You could have lost me?”

Concern radiates in the concentric confines of honey-dipped maple-syrup hues as she studies the Major. A nagging pain grips its icy weed-like tendrils into her heart, till it threatens to suffocate every beat. Lungs burn with the flames of shame’s caress. Guilt settles between the breath of her diaphragm like a heavy cannonball. The Rebel spy knows she has no right to demand answers- not after all she had done. Yet, that does not keep her from such persistent pursuit.

Anna’s trembling hands want to reach out to Edmund. Hell, she contemplates acting on the desire to seize hold of his uniform lapels and give him a good shake, until he returns to his senses. Or at least until he understood how deeply she loves him. Was Edmund being so reckless because she had refused to answer his question about loving him? Was this all her fault? By trying to solve a problem, had she unintentionally gone and made it worse? Perhaps, Ben was right to have offered her back up to Selah so quickly. Maybe… all she did was create messes, break hearts, and destroy the things she meant to protect and preserve. Just look at the disasters that her love had wrought with Abraham, Selah, Cicero, Abigail, her home, the tavern, and even the Cause.

The brunette had partly contrived the notion to walk away and accept that she was no longer something he cared for- nor someone he wished to answer to. But the sudden sound of his pleasant gravel-filled voice brings her to pause.

Anna considers letting his words stand, met only with her stunned silence; even though she holds a few cards that he could not have foreseen. Edmund wouldn’t want to hear about her intrigues, the things that drew her into skulking about in the dead of the night with the expectation of results. Would he?

No, damn it! He deserves to know. The brunette internally argues with herself. Keeping secrets is what had done damage to the beautiful thing they had growing between them in the first place. She could not keep the concealed information in any longer for fear that Edmund may yet again, find cause to believe she was being insincere- instead of biding her time by being evasive and reflective. “We only needed a little more time…” Anna whispers. The rebel-spy despises the sound of her own voice in the same way she is repulsed by Simcoe. “Time to make another plan and execute it without any more loss…” She continued, albeit hesitantly.

“B…but you “had” to come back. You “had” to put yourself in harms way again. This time, in a place where I could not defend you from him!” She spits in complaint, her tone bordering on the soft but still accusatory side. Anna isn’t entirely angry. No. Edmund’s return pleases her. It is the situations that he has put himself into that cause her the greatest distress. 

Her gaze bashfully drops downwards until she is practically inspecting every grain, scuff-mark, and notch in the wooden floor below.”Aye.” A one word confirmation is followed by a labored sigh. One hand frees itself from the comforts of her skirts before landing delicately upon his arm. Her stance shifts as she considers the right words to use. Words, that would bring mending to all of the wounds she had caused and inflicted. But such powerful vocabulary seemed to lay just outside of Anna’s extensive and highly developed lexicon. For what compilation of letters smashed together could ever restore a severely shattered heart? Anna can think of nary a one.

Would Edmund even believe her? Dubious. Hell, does she even trust herself anymore? No. The thundering traitor taps out notes on her rib-cage that can be felt reverberating through every muscle, tendon, and fiber of her being. It declares it’s own war against the spinning-wheel called logic that resides in her mind. Silver sweeps of agony fall across dark hues and threaten to cling to long, delicate lashes. Pale-raspberry lips quiver with the need to explain but feel burdened, nearly mute.  

Hadn’t she already lost him the very day she could not bring forth a confession of love from a dangerously divided heart? ‘Have you found some…some hidden love for the ENEMY? ANNA, have you forgotten who your ENEMY is…?’ Abe’s poison and spite filled lecture clogs her ears. The speech brings with it the first drops of rain which, slickly slide down the gentle curves of her cheeks; although they are indoors. A shaky inhale is sucked in with the hopes of quieting the tide of sobs moving through her seemingly hollow chest.

She loved him. A stubborn more unrelenting part of her knew it was genuine; more tangible and pursuit-worthy than anything else she had ever found. Anna doubts she could ever feel the same way for another person even if she lived to be 300 years old. Still, Anna feels she must beg his forgiveness. “For…forgive me. I have spoken out of turn. I ha….have no right to presume that you were ever mine. Nor that you were ever mine to lose….” Her apology bores like acid through the final enduring piece of her soul. There was nothing more she yearned for than Edmund and still, he could not see it. Her infinite affection was not transparent enough through her actions and deeds. The Major was not fluent in her love language and he needed a translator. “I meant no offense..” The suffering brunette chokes out, the tangle of emotions making the words difficult to pry free of a twisted tongue. Her eyes squeeze shut in an effort to stop the maddening torrent but one drop of silver seems to latch on to another, till wave after wave crashes over her lids and spills pathetically down her face.

Keep yourself together she internally chastises. Pushing away the tears with her trembling fingers Anna further elaborates. “I meant only that I was .. worried over your safety and feared…I… I would find you dead….somewhere in a s…shallow grave…” A visible shudder over takes the brunette’s slender figure as her gaze refocuses on him through the smoggy blur that had befallen them. She wonders if he will catch on to the more subtle confession - that she had been searching for him with every visit into the city.

Having seen at least twelve shallow graves in Washington’s camp, the mutineers seeking what they were due for their services, the images of death were forever branded upon her mind. How many nights had passed since, that she awoken with the same terrifying nightmare plaguing even the deepest of rests? Hewlett’s face was cold and ashen. His uniform soaked in his own scarlet tide. Her fingers clutch his un-moving figure to her own curvier one, only to discover that he was beyond revival. Edmund was taken and she was left behind to suffer the miserable consequences of having loved something that could be so easily snatched from her- again. How many nights had she forced herself to ignore the burden of an invisible weight crushing down upon her, battling for air as she contemplates the places that Edmund could wind up? Hadn’t Simcoe left countless dead in his wake? Even Magistrate Richard Woodhull, the law of Setauket, had not been immune to the Ranger’s trap.

Presently, Edmund stands before her flesh and blood, more than the ghost or the corpse, she had imagined she’d find when Abe told her that he had reappeared on the shores of York City. All she wanted to do was embrace him, to finally confess the three words she had been unable to share before.

But what if Major Hewlett had moved on from her? What if he was happy with his life and her admission would only drag him further into an abyss of misery and darkness?

“You could have died…” Anna amends, in a hushed entreating tone. That was the same as a confession of caring if not, love- without having to say those exact words. Was it not? Her heavily quaking hand moves to tuck a few strands of his straying dark hair away from Edmund’s face. Her callous fingertips accidentally brushing against the contour his cheek. She knows not what else to say other than. “I’m so glad that you’re alive. Please, don’t make a habit of scaring me like that.” It was lame, all things considered but at least it was the Gospel truth. The second phrase was more of a desperate plea on the behalf of her poor aching heart.

[thesnhuup]

Pop Picks – June 15, 2020

What I’m reading: 

I am almost in despair for the way the pandemic has reduced my reading time, some combination of longer days, lack of plane time, and mental distraction, I think. However, I just finished Marguerite Yourcenar’s magisterial Memoirs of Hadrian, a historical novel, though I hesitate to call it that because A) she would likely reject the term, B) it is so much more, and C) it stands among the towering pieces of mid-century literature for so many. It’s that last point about which I feel so sheepish. As a reasonably well-read person, how did I miss this one? It is a work of stunning achievement (don’t miss her exhaustive bibliography or end notes), highly refined style, and as much philosophy as anything else. It won’t be for everyone and you have to power through the first chapter, but it is a remarkable book. I’m intrigued to use it as a reading on leadership.

What I’m watching:

When I can finally turn off the computer screen, I find myself drawn to the television screen for its less demanding passivity. Pat and I absolutely reveled in the ten-minute installments of State of the Union (Sundance Channel), written by Nick Hornby, one of my favorite writers. It is stunningly good – witty, smart, warm, painful, and powered by the chemistry of its two utterly charming leads, Rosamund Pike and Chris O’Dowd. It’s just two people – funny and smart – trying to salvage their marriage and talking, in ten-minute snippets, in a pub and no one writes dialogue like Hornby. We devoured it. If you asked me to watch two people talk about their marriage for 100 minutes, I’d have said “no thanks.” But this was sheer, unequivocal delight. And because all great comedy is closely related to tragedy, there is more substance and depth and complexity here than sheer delight might suggest.  

I don’t usually do two recommendations in my categories, but we also watched Spike Lee’s Da 5 Bloods. It is long, flawed, and uneven – but Spike Lee remains one of our most brilliant directors and Delroy Lindo already has my vote for Best Male Actor for his Shakespearian performance as one of the four buddies who go back to Vietnam to reclaim treasure, find the remains of their friend, and address the trauma of the war they fought then and the war fought against them as Black men in America. Even flawed Spike Lee is better than 95% of what makes it onto the screen and while made before George Floyd’s death, it feels so well suited for the time. Powerful.

What I’m listening to: 

Protest music. Chronological and cleaned up for listening at home (if we could include the f-word, it would be a lot longer (see Nipsey Hussle or Kendrick Lamar), Pat put it together and you can find the playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3z1W5Dbfcn7F9LBFcayTqa?si=u2oxkMTkSFef7_sQy3cNXw

Archive 

April 1, 2020

What I’m listening to: 

Out of nowhere and 8 years since his last recording, Bob Dylan last Thursday dropped a new single, the 17-minute (the longest Dylan song ever) “Murder Most Foul.” It’s ostensibly about the murder of President John F. Kennedy, but it’s bigger, more incisive, and elegiac than that alone. The music is gorgeous, his singing is lovely (a phrase rarely used for Dylan even in his prime), and he shows why he was deserving of his 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature. It’s worth listening to again and again. The man is a cultural treasure and as relevant as ever.

What I’m reading: 

The Milkman by Anna Burns, the 2018 Booker Prize winner, felt like slow going for the first bit, a leisurely stream of consciousness (not my favorite thing) first person tale of an adolescent girl during “the troubles” in 1970’s Northern Ireland. And then enough plot emerges to pull the reader along and tie the frequent and increasingly delightful digressions into the psychology of terror, sexual threat, adolescence, and a community (and world) that will create your narrative and your identity no matter what you know and believe about yourself. It’s layered, full of black humor, and powerful. It also somehow resonates for our times, where we navigate a newfound dread. It’s way more enjoyable than I just made it sound. One of my favorite reads of this young year.

What I’m watching:

I escaped back in time and started re-watching the first season of The West Wing. It is a vision – nostalgic, romantic, perhaps never true – of political leadership driven by higher purpose, American ideals, and moral intelligence. It does not pretend that politics can’t be craven, self-serving, and transactional, but the good guys mostly win in The West Wing, the acting is delightful, and Sorkin’s dialogue zings back and forth in the way of classic Hollywood movies of the 50s – smart, quick, funny. It reminds me – as has often happened during our current crisis – that most people are good and want their community to be a better place. When we appeal to our ideals instead of our fears, we are capable of great things. It’s a nice escape.

February 3, 2020

What I’m listening to: 

Spending 21 hours on airplanes (Singapore to Tokyo to Boston) provides lots of time for listening and in an airport shop I picked up a Rolling Stones magazine that listed the top ten albums of the last ten years. I’ve been systematically working through them, starting with Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. I just don’t know enough about hip hop and rap to offer any intelligent analysis of the music, and I have always thought of Kanye as kind of crazy (that may still be true), but the music is layered and extravagant and genre-bending. The lyrics seem fascinating and self-reflective, especially around fame and excess and Kanye’s specialty, self-promoting aggrandizement. Too many people I know remain stuck in the music of their youth and while I love those songs too, it feels important to listen to today’s music and what it has to tell us about life and lives far different than our own. And in a case like Twisted Fantasy, it’s just great music and that’s its own justification.

What I’m reading: 

I went back to an old favorite, Richard Russo’s Straight Man. If you work in academia, this is a must-read and while written 22 years ago, it still rings true and current. The “hero” of the novel is William Henry Devereaux Jr., the chair of the English Department in a second-tier public university in small-town Pennsylvania. The book is laugh aloud funny (the opening chapter and story about old Red puts me in hysterics every time I read it) and like the best comedy, it taps into the complexity and pains of life in very substantial ways. Devereaux is insufferable in most ways and yet we root for him, mostly because A) he is so damn funny and B) is self-deprecating. But there is also a big heartedness in Russo’s writing and a recognition that everyone is the protagonist of their own story, and life’s essential dramas play out fully in the most modest of places and for the most ordinary of people. 

What I’m watching:

I can’t pretend to have an abiding interest in cheerleading, but I devoured the six-episode Netflix series Cheer, about the cheerleading squad at Navarro College, a small two-year college in rural Texas that is a cheerleading powerhouse, winning the National Championship 14 times under the direction of Coach Monica Aldama, the Bill Belichick of cheering. I have a new respect and admiration for the athleticism and demands of cheering (and wonder about the cavalier handling of injuries), but the series is about so much more. It’s about team, about love, about grit and perseverance, bravery, trust, about kids and growing up and loss, and…well, it’s about almost everything and it will make you laugh and cry and exult. It is just terrific.

January 2, 2020

What I’m listening to: 

I was never really an Amy Winehouse fan and I don’t listen to much jazz or blue-eyed soul. Recently, eight years after she died at only 27, I heard her single Tears Dry On Their Own and I was hooked (the song was on someone’s “ten things I’d want on a deserted island” list). Since then, I’ve been playing her almost every day. I started the documentary about her, Amy, and stopped. I didn’t much like her. Or, more accurately, I didn’t much like the signals of her own eventual destruction that were evident early on. I think it was D. H. Lawrence that once said “Trust the art, not the artist.” Sometimes it is better not to know too much and just relish the sheer artistry of the work. Winehouse’s Back to Black, which was named one of the best albums of 2007, is as fresh and painful and amazing 13 years later.

What I’m reading: 

Alan Bennett’s lovely novella An Uncommon Reader is a what-if tale, wondering what it would mean if Queen Elizabeth II suddenly became a reader. Because of a lucked upon book mobile on palace grounds, she becomes just that, much to the consternation of her staff and with all kinds of delicious consequences, including curiosity, imagination, self-awareness, and growing disregard for pomp. With an ill-framed suggestion, reading becomes writing and provides a surprise ending. For all of us who love books, this is a finely wrought and delightful love poem to the power of books for readers and writers alike. Imagine if all our leaders were readers (sigh).

What I’m watching:

I’m a huge fan of many things – The National, Boston sports teams, BMW motorcycles, Pho – but there is a stage of life, typically adolescence, when fandom changes the universe, provides a lens to finally understand the world and, more importantly, yourself, in profound ways. My wife Pat would say Joni Mitchell did that for her. Gurinder Chadha’s wonderful film Blinded By The Light captures the power of discovery when Javed, the son of struggling Pakistani immigrants in a dead end place during a dead end time (the Thatcher period, from which Britain has never recovered: see Brexit), hears Springsteen and is forever changed. The movie, sometimes musical, sometimes comedy, and often bubbling with energy, has more heft than it might seem at first. There is pain in a father struggling to retain his dignity while he fails to provide, the father and son tension in so many immigrant families (I lived some of that), and what it means to be an outsider in the only culture you actually have ever known. 

November 25, 2019

My pop picks are usually a combination of three things: what I am listening to, reading, and watching. But last week I happily combined all three. That is, I went to NYC last week and saw two shows. The first was Cyrano, starring Game of Thrones superstar Peter Dinklage in the title role, with Jasmine Cephas Jones as Roxanne. She was Peggy in the original Hamilton cast and has an amazing voice. The music was written by Aaron and Bryce Dessner, two members of my favorite band, The National, with lyrics by lead singer Matt Berninger and his wife Carin Besser. Erica Schmidt, Dinklage’s wife, directs. Edmond Rostand’s 1897 play is light, dated, and melodramatic, but this production was delightful. Dinklage owns the stage, a master, and his deep bass voice, not all that great for singing, but commanding in the delivery of every line, was somehow a plaintive and resonant counterpoint to Cephas Jones’ soaring voice. In the original Cyrano, the title character’s large nose marks him as outsider and ”other,” but Dinklage was born with achondroplasia, the cause of his dwarfism, and there is a kind of resonance in his performance that feels like pain not acted, but known. Deeply. It takes this rather lightweight play and gives it depth. Even if it didn’t, not everything has to be deep and profound – there is joy in seeing something executed so darn well. Cyrano was delightfully satisfying.

The other show was the much lauded Aaron Sorkin rendition of To Kill a Mockingbird, starring another actor at the very top of his game, Ed Harris. This is a Mockingbird for our times, one in which iconic Atticus Finch’s idealistic “you have to live in someone else’s skin” feels naive in the face of hateful racism and anti-Semitism. The Black characters in the play get more voice, if not agency, in the stage play than they do in the book, especially housekeeper Calpurnia, who voices incredulity at Finch’s faith in his neighbors and reminds us that he does not pay the price of his patience. She does. And Tom Robinson, the Black man falsely accused of rape – “convicted at the moment he was accused,” Whatever West Wing was for Sorkin – and I dearly loved that show – this is a play for a broken United States, where racism abounds and does so with sanction by those in power. As our daughter said, “I think Trump broke Aaron Sorkin.” It was as powerful a thing I’ve seen on stage in years.  

With both plays, I was reminded of the magic that is live theater. 

October 31, 2019

What I’m listening to: 

It drove his critics crazy that Obama was the coolest president we ever had and his summer 2019 playlist on Spotify simply confirms that reality. It has been on repeat for me. From Drake to Lizzo (God I love her) to Steely Dan to Raphael Saadiq to Sinatra (who I skip every time – I’m not buying the nostalgia), his carefully curated list reflects not only his infinite coolness, but the breadth of his interests and generosity of taste. I love the music, but I love even more the image of Michelle and him rocking out somewhere far from Washington’s madness, as much as I miss them both.

What I’m reading: 

I struggled with Christy Lefteri’s The Beekeeper of Aleppo for the first 50 pages, worried that she’d drag out every tired trope of Mid-Eastern society, but I fell for her main characters and their journey as refugees from Syria to England. Parts of this book were hard to read and very dark, because that is the plight of so many refugees and she doesn’t shy away from those realities and the enormous toll they take on displaced people. It’s a hard read, but there is light too – in resilience, in love, in friendships, the small tender gestures of people tossed together in a heartless world. Lefteri volunteered in Greek refugee programs, spent a lot of interviewing people, and the book feels true, and importantly, heartfelt.

What I’m watching:

Soap opera meets Shakespeare, deliciously malevolent and operatic, Succession has been our favorite series this season. Loosely based on the Murdochs and their media empire (don’t believe the denials), this was our must watch television on Sunday nights, filling the void left by Game of Thrones. The acting is over-the-top good, the frequent comedy dark, the writing brilliant, and the music superb. We found ourselves quoting lines after every episode. Like the hilarious; “You don’t hear much about syphilis these days. Very much the Myspace of STDs.” Watch it so we can talk about that season 2 finale.

August 30, 2019

What I’m listening to: 

I usually go to music here, but the New York Times new 1619 podcast is just terrific, as is the whole project, which observes the sale of the first enslaved human beings on our shores 400 years ago. The first episode, “The Fight for a True Democracy” is a remarkable overview (in a mere 44 minutes) of the centrality of racism and slavery in the American story over those 400 years. It should be mandatory listening in every high school in the country. I’m eager for the next episodes. Side note: I am addicted to The Daily podcast, which gives more color and detail to the NY Times stories I read in print (yes, print), and reminds me of how smart and thoughtful are those journalists who give us real news. We need them now more than ever.

What I’m reading: 

Colson Whitehead has done it again. The Nickel Boys, his new novel, is a worthy successor to his masterpiece The Underground Railroad, and because it is closer to our time, based on the real-life horrors of a Florida reform school, and written a time of resurgent White Supremacy, it hits even harder and with more urgency than its predecessor. Maybe because we can read Underground Railroad with a sense of “that was history,” but one can’t read Nickel Boys without the lurking feeling that such horrors persist today and the monsters that perpetrate such horrors walk among us. They often hold press conferences.

What I’m watching:

Queer Eye, the Netflix remake of the original Queer Eye for the Straight Guy some ten years later, is wondrously entertaining, but it also feels adroitly aligned with our dysfunctional times. Episode three has a conversation with Karamo Brown, one of the fab five, and a Georgia small town cop (and Trump supporter) that feels unscripted and unexpected and reminds us of how little actual conversation seems to be taking place in our divided country. Oh, for more car rides such as the one they take in that moment, when a chasm is bridged, if only for a few minutes. Set in the South, it is often a refreshing and affirming response to what it means to be male at a time of toxic masculinity and the overdue catharsis and pain of the #MeToo movement. Did I mention? It’s really fun.

July 1, 2019

What I’m listening to: 

The National remains my favorite band and probably 50% of my listening time is a National album or playlist. Their new album I Am Easy To Find feels like a turning point record for the band, going from the moody, outsider introspection and doubt of lead singer Matt Berninger to something that feels more adult, sophisticated, and wiser. I might have titled it Women Help The Band Grow Up. Matt is no longer the center of The National’s universe and he frequently cedes the mic to the many women who accompany and often lead on the long, their longest, album. They include Gail Ann Dorsey (who sang with Bowie for a long time), who is amazing, and a number of the songs were written by Carin Besser, Berninger’s wife. I especially love the Brooklyn Youth Chorus, the arrangements, and the sheer complexity and coherence of the work. It still amazes me when I meet someone who does not know The National. My heart breaks for them just a little.

What I’m reading: 

Pat Barker’s The Silence of the Girls is a retelling of Homer’s Iliad through the lens of a captive Trojan queen, Briseis. As a reviewer in The Atlantic writes, it answers the question “What does war mean to women?” We know the answer and it has always been true, whether it is the casual and assumed rape of captive women in this ancient war story or the use of rape in modern day Congo, Syria, or any other conflict zone. Yet literature almost never gives voice to the women – almost always minor characters at best — and their unspeakable suffering. Barker does it here for Briseis, for Hector’s wife Andromache, and for the other women who understand that the death of their men is tragedy, but what they then endure is worse. Think of it ancient literature having its own #MeToo moment. The NY Times’ Geraldine Brooks did not much like the novel. I did. Very much.

What I’m watching: 

The BBC-HBO limited series Years and Years is breathtaking, scary, and absolutely familiar. It’s as if Black Mirrorand Children of Men had a baby and it precisely captures the zeitgeist, the current sense that the world is spinning out of control and things are coming at us too fast. It is a near future (Trump has been re-elected and Brexit has occurred finally)…not dystopia exactly, but damn close. The closing scene of last week’s first episode (there are 6 episodes and it’s on every Monday) shows nuclear war breaking out between China and the U.S. Yikes! The scope of this show is wide and there is a big, baggy feel to it – but I love the ambition even if I’m not looking forward to the nightmares.

May 19, 2019

What I’m listening to: 

I usually go to music here, but I was really moved by this podcast of a Davis Brooks talk at the Commonwealth Club in Silicon Valley: https://www.commonwealthclub.org/events/archive/podcast/david-brooks-quest-moral-life.  While I have long found myself distant from his political stance, he has come through a dark night of the soul and emerged with a wonderful clarity about calling, community, and not happiness (that most superficial of goals), but fulfillment and meaning, found in community and human kinship of many kinds. I immediately sent it to my kids.

What I’m reading: 

Susan Orlean’s wonderful The Library Book, a love song to libraries told through the story of the LA Central Library.  It brought back cherished memories of my many hours in beloved libraries — as a kid in the Waltham Public Library, a high schooler in the Farber Library at Brandeis (Lil Farber years later became a mentor of mine), and the cathedral-like Bapst Library at BC when I was a graduate student. Yes, I was a nerd. This is a love song to books certainly, but a reminder that libraries are so, so much more.  It is a reminder that libraries are less about a place or being a repository of information and, like America at its best, an idea and ideal. By the way, oh to write like her.

What I’m watching: 

What else? Game of Thrones, like any sensible human being. This last season is disappointing in many ways and the drop off in the writing post George R.R. Martin is as clear as was the drop off in the post-Sorkin West Wing. I would be willing to bet that if Martin has been writing the last season, Sansa and Tyrion would have committed suicide in the crypt. That said, we fans are deeply invested and even the flaws are giving us so much to discuss and debate. In that sense, the real gift of this last season is the enjoyment between episodes, like the old pre-streaming days when we all arrived at work after the latest episode of the Sopranos to discuss what we had all seen the night before. I will say this, the last two episodes — full of battle and gore – have been visually stunning. Whether the torches of the Dothraki being extinguished in the distance or Arya riding through rubble and flame on a white horse, rarely has the series ascended to such visual grandeur.

March 28, 2019

What I’m listening to: 

There is a lovely piece played in a scene from A Place Called Home that I tracked down. It’s Erik Satie’s 3 Gymnopédies: Gymnopédie No. 1, played by the wonderful pianist Klára Körmendi. Satie composed this piece in 1888 and it was considered avant-garde and anti-Romantic. It’s minimalism and bit of dissonance sound fresh and contemporary to my ears and while not a huge Classical music fan, I’ve fallen in love with the Körmendi playlist on Spotify. When you need an alternative to hours of Cardi B.

What I’m reading: 

Just finished Esi Edugyan’s 2018 novel Washington Black. Starting on a slave plantation in Barbados, it is a picaresque novel that has elements of Jules Verne, Moby Dick, Frankenstein, and Colson Whitehead’s Underground Railroad. Yes, it strains credulity and there are moments of “huh?”, but I loved it (disclosure: I was in the minority among my fellow book club members) and the first third is a searing depiction of slavery. It’s audacious, sprawling (from Barbados to the Arctic to London to Africa), and the writing, especially about nature, luminous. 

What I’m watching: 

A soap opera. Yes, I’d like to pretend it’s something else, but we are 31 episodes into the Australian drama A Place Called Home and we are so, so addicted. Like “It’s  AM, but can’t we watch just one more episode?” addicted. Despite all the secrets, cliff hangers, intrigue, and “did that just happen?” moments, the core ingredients of any good soap opera, APCH has superb acting, real heft in terms of subject matter (including homophobia, anti-Semitism, sexual assault, and class), touches of our beloved Downton Abbey, and great cars. Beware. If you start, you won’t stop.

February 11, 2019

What I’m listening to:

Raphael Saadiq has been around for quite a while, as a musician, writer, and producer. He’s new to me and I love his old school R&B sound. Like Leon Bridges, he brings a contemporary freshness to the genre, sounding like a young Stevie Wonder (listen to “You’re The One That I Like”). Rock and Roll may be largely dead, but R&B persists – maybe because the former was derivative of the latter and never as good (and I say that as a Rock and Roll fan). I’m embarrassed to only have discovered Saadiq so late in his career, but it’s a delight to have done so.

What I’m reading:

Just finished Marilynne Robinson’s Home, part of her trilogy that includes the Pulitzer Prize winning first novel, Gilead, and the book after Home, Lila. Robinson is often described as a Christian writer, but not in a conventional sense. In this case, she gives us a modern version of the prodigal son and tells the story of what comes after he is welcomed back home. It’s not pretty. Robinson is a self-described Calvinist, thus character begets fate in Robinson’s world view and redemption is at best a question. There is something of Faulkner in her work (I am much taken with his famous “The past is never past” quote after a week in the deep South), her style is masterful, and like Faulkner, she builds with these three novels a whole universe in the small town of Gilead. Start with Gilead to better enjoy Home.

What I’m watching:

Sex Education was the most fun series we’ve seen in ages and we binged watched it on Netflix. A British homage to John Hughes films like The Breakfast Club, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, and Pretty in Pink, it feels like a mash up of American and British high schools. Focusing on the relationship of Maeve, the smart bad girl, and Otis, the virginal and awkward son of a sex therapist (played with brilliance by Gillian Anderson), it is laugh aloud funny and also evolves into more substance and depth (the abortion episode is genius). The sex scenes are somehow raunchy and charming and inoffensive at the same time and while ostensibly about teenagers (it feels like it is explaining contemporary teens to adults in many ways), the adults are compelling in their good and bad ways. It has been renewed for a second season, which is a gift.

January 3, 2019

What I’m listening to:

My listening choices usually refer to music, but this time I’m going with Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcast on genius and the song Hallelujah. It tells the story of Leonard Cohen’s much-covered song Hallelujah and uses it as a lens on kinds of genius and creativity. Along the way, he brings in Picasso and Cézanne, Elvis Costello, and more. Gladwell is a good storyteller and if you love pop music, as I do, and Hallelujah, as I do (and you should), you’ll enjoy this podcast. We tend to celebrate the genius who seems inspired in the moment, creating new work like lightning strikes, but this podcast has me appreciating incremental creativity in a new way. It’s compelling and fun at the same time.

What I’m reading:

Just read Clay Christensen’s new book, The Prosperity Paradox: How Innovation Can Lift Nations Out of Poverty. This was an advance copy, so soon available. Clay is an old friend and a huge influence on how we have grown SNHU and our approach to innovation. This book is so compelling, because we know attempts at development have so often been a failure and it is often puzzling to understand why some countries with desperate poverty and huge challenges somehow come to thrive (think S. Korea, Singapore, 19th C. America), while others languish. Clay offers a fresh way of thinking about development through the lens of his research on innovation and it is compelling. I bet this book gets a lot of attention, as most of his work does. I also suspect that many in the development community will hate it, as it calls into question the approach and enormous investments we have made in an attempt to lift countries out of poverty. A provocative read and, as always, Clay is a good storyteller.

What I’m watching:

Just watched Leave No Trace and should have guessed that it was directed by Debra Granik. She did Winter’s Bone, the extraordinary movie that launched Jennifer Lawrence’s career. Similarly, this movie features an amazing young actor, Thomasin McKenzie, and visits lives lived on the margins. In this case, a veteran suffering PTSD, and his 13-year-old daughter. The movie is patient, is visually lush, and justly earned 100% on Rotten Tomatoes (I have a rule to never watch anything under 82%). Everything in this film is under control and beautifully understated (aside from the visuals) – confident acting, confident directing, and so humane. I love the lack of flashbacks, the lack of sensationalism – the movie trusts the viewer, rare in this age of bombast. A lovely film.

December 4, 2018

What I’m listening to:

Spending a week in New Zealand, we had endless laughs listening to the Kiwi band, Flight of the Conchords. Lots of comedic bands are funny, but the music is only okay or worse. These guys are funny – hysterical really – and the music is great. They have an uncanny ability to parody almost any style. In both New Zealand and Australia, we found a wry sense of humor that was just delightful and no better captured than with this duo. You don’t have to be in New Zealand to enjoy them.

What I’m reading:

I don’t often reread. For two reasons: A) I have so many books on my “still to be read” pile that it seems daunting to also rereadbooks I loved before, and B) it’s because I loved them once that I’m a little afraid to read them again. That said, I was recently asked to list my favorite book of all time and I answered Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. But I don’t really know if that’s still true (and it’s an impossible question anyway – favorite book? On what day? In what mood?), so I’m rereading it and it feels like being with an old friend. It has one of my very favorite scenes ever: the card game between Levin and Kitty that leads to the proposal and his joyous walking the streets all night.

What I’m watching:

Blindspotting is billed as a buddy-comedy. Wow does that undersell it and the drama is often gripping. I loved Daveed Diggs in Hamilton, didn’t like his character in Black-ish, and think he is transcendent in this film he co-wrote with Rafael Casal, his co-star.  The film is a love song to Oakland in many ways, but also a gut-wrenching indictment of police brutality, systemic racism and bias, and gentrification. The film has the freshness and raw visceral impact of Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing. A great soundtrack, genre mixing, and energy make it one of my favorite movies of 2018.

October 15, 2018 

What I’m listening to:

We had the opportunity to see our favorite band, The National, live in Dallas two weeks ago. Just after watching Mistaken for Strangers, the documentary sort of about the band. So we’ve spent a lot of time going back into their earlier work, listening to songs we don’t know well, and reaffirming that their musicality, smarts, and sound are both original and astoundingly good. They did not disappoint in concert and it is a good thing their tour ended, as we might just spend all of our time and money following them around. Matt Berninger is a genius and his lead vocals kill me (and because they are in my range, I can actually sing along!). Their arrangements are profoundly good and go right to whatever brain/heart wiring that pulls one in and doesn’t let them go.

What I’m reading:

Who is Richard Powers and why have I only discovered him now, with his 12th book? Overstory is profoundly good, a book that is essential and powerful and makes me look at my everyday world in new ways. In short, a dizzying example of how powerful can be narrative in the hands of a master storyteller. I hesitate to say it’s the best environmental novel I’ve ever read (it is), because that would put this book in a category. It is surely about the natural world, but it is as much about we humans. It’s monumental and elegiac and wondrous at all once. Cancel your day’s schedule and read it now. Then plant a tree. A lot of them.

What I’m watching:

Bo Burnham wrote and directed Eighth Grade and Elsie Fisher is nothing less than amazing as its star (what’s with these new child actors; see Florida Project). It’s funny and painful and touching. It’s also the single best film treatment that I have seen of what it means to grow up in a social media shaped world. It’s a reminder that growing up is hard. Maybe harder now in a world of relentless, layered digital pressure to curate perfect lives that are far removed from the natural messy worlds and selves we actually inhabit. It’s a well-deserved 98% on Rotten Tomatoes and I wonder who dinged it for the missing 2%.

September 7, 2018

What I’m listening to:

With a cover pointing back to the Beastie Boys’ 1986 Licensed to Ill, Eminem’s quietly released Kamikaze is not my usual taste, but I’ve always admired him for his “all out there” willingness to be personal, to call people out, and his sheer genius with language. I thought Daveed Diggs could rap fast, but Eminem is supersonic at moments, and still finds room for melody. Love that he includes Joyner Lucas, whose “I’m Not Racist” gets added to the growing list of simply amazing music videos commenting on race in America. There are endless reasons why I am the least likely Eminem fan, but when no one is around to make fun of me, I’ll put it on again.

What I’m reading:

Lesley Blume’s Everyone Behaves Badly, which is the story behind Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and his time in 1920s Paris (oh, what a time – see Midnight in Paris if you haven’t already). Of course, Blume disabuses my romantic ideas of that time and place and everyone is sort of (or profoundly so) a jerk, especially…no spoiler here…Hemingway. That said, it is a compelling read and coming off the Henry James inspired prose of Mrs. Osmond, it made me appreciate more how groundbreaking was Hemingway’s modern prose style. Like his contemporary Picasso, he reinvented the art and it can be easy to forget, these decades later, how profound was the change and its impact. And it has bullfights.

What I’m watching:

Chloé Zhao’s The Rider is just exceptional. It’s filmed on the Pine Ridge Reservation, which provides a stunning landscape, and it feels like a classic western reinvented for our times. The main characters are played by the real-life people who inspired this narrative (but feels like a documentary) film. Brady Jandreau, playing himself really, owns the screen. It’s about manhood, honor codes, loss, and resilience – rendered in sensitive, nuanced, and heartfelt ways. It feels like it could be about large swaths of America today. Really powerful.

August 16, 2018

What I’m listening to:

In my Spotify Daily Mix was Percy Sledge’s When A Man Loves A Woman, one of the world’s greatest love songs. Go online and read the story of how the song was discovered and recorded. There are competing accounts, but Sledge said he improvised it after a bad breakup. It has that kind of aching spontaneity. It is another hit from Muscle Shoals, Alabama, one of the GREAT music hotbeds, along with Detroit, Nashville, and Memphis. Our February Board meeting is in Alabama and I may finally have to do the pilgrimage road trip to Muscle Shoals and then Memphis, dropping in for Sunday services at the church where Rev. Al Green still preaches and sings. If the music is all like this, I will be saved.

What I’m reading:

John Banville’s Mrs. Osmond, his homage to literary idol Henry James and an imagined sequel to James’ 1881 masterpiece Portrait of a Lady. Go online and read the first paragraph of Chapter 25. He is…profoundly good. Makes me want to never write again, since anything I attempt will feel like some other, lowly activity in comparison to his mastery of language, image, syntax. This is slow reading, every sentence to be savored.

What I’m watching:

I’ve always respected Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, but we just watched the documentary RGB. It is over-the-top great and she is now one of my heroes. A superwoman in many ways and the documentary is really well done. There are lots of scenes of her speaking to crowds and the way young women, especially law students, look at her is touching.  And you can’t help but fall in love with her now late husband Marty. See this movie and be reminded of how important is the Law.

July 23, 2018

What I’m listening to:

Spotify’s Summer Acoustic playlist has been on repeat quite a lot. What a fun way to listen to artists new to me, including The Paper Kites, Hollow Coves, and Fleet Foxes, as well as old favorites like Leon Bridges and Jose Gonzalez. Pretty chill when dialing back to a summer pace, dining on the screen porch or reading a book.

What I’m reading:

Bryan Stevenson’s Just Mercy. Founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, Stevenson tells of the racial injustice (and the war on the poor our judicial system perpetuates as well) that he discovered as a young graduate from Harvard Law School and his fight to address it. It is in turn heartbreaking, enraging, and inspiring. It is also about mercy and empathy and justice that reads like a novel. Brilliant.

What I’m watching:

Fauda. We watched season one of this Israeli thriller. It was much discussed in Israel because while it focuses on an ex-special agent who comes out of retirement to track down a Palestinian terrorist, it was willing to reveal the complexity, richness, and emotions of Palestinian lives. And the occasional brutality of the Israelis. Pretty controversial stuff in Israel. Lior Raz plays Doron, the main character, and is compelling and tough and often hard to like. He’s a mess. As is the world in which he has to operate. We really liked it, and also felt guilty because while it may have been brave in its treatment of Palestinians within the Israeli context, it falls back into some tired tropes and ultimately falls short on this front.

June 11, 2018

What I’m listening to:

Like everyone else, I’m listening to Pusha T drop the mic on Drake.��Okay, not really, but do I get some points for even knowing that? We all walk around with songs that immediately bring us back to a time or a place. Songs are time machines. We are coming up on Father’s Day. My own dad passed away on Father’s Day back in 1994 and I remembering dutifully getting through the wake and funeral and being strong throughout. Then, sitting alone in our kitchen, Don Henley’s The End of the Innocence came on and I lost it. When you lose a parent for the first time (most of us have two after all) we lose our innocence and in that passage, we suddenly feel adult in a new way (no matter how old we are), a longing for our own childhood, and a need to forgive and be forgiven. Listen to the lyrics and you’ll understand. As Wordsworth reminds us in In Memoriam, there are seasons to our grief and, all these years later, this song no longer hits me in the gut, but does transport me back with loving memories of my father. I’ll play it Father’s Day.

What I’m reading:

The Fifth Season, by N. K. Jemisin. I am not a reader of fantasy or sci-fi, though I understand they can be powerful vehicles for addressing the very real challenges of the world in which we actually live. I’m not sure I know of a more vivid and gripping illustration of that fact than N. K. Jemisin’s Hugo Award winning novel The Fifth Season, first in her Broken Earth trilogy. It is astounding. It is the fantasy parallel to The Underground Railroad, my favorite recent read, a depiction of subjugation, power, casual violence, and a broken world in which our hero(s) struggle, suffer mightily, and still, somehow, give us hope. It is a tour de force book. How can someone be this good a writer? The first 30 pages pained me (always with this genre, one must learn a new, constructed world, and all of its operating physics and systems of order), and then I could not put it down. I panicked as I neared the end, not wanting to finish the book, and quickly ordered the Obelisk Gate, the second novel in the trilogy, and I can tell you now that I’ll be spending some goodly portion of my weekend in Jemisin’s other world.

What I’m watching:

The NBA Finals and perhaps the best basketball player of this generation. I’ve come to deeply respect LeBron James as a person, a force for social good, and now as an extraordinary player at the peak of his powers. His superhuman play during the NBA playoffs now ranks with the all-time greats, Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, MJ, Kobe, and the demi-god that was Bill Russell. That his Cavs lost in a 4-game sweep is no surprise. It was a mediocre team being carried on the wide shoulders of James (and matched against one of the greatest teams ever, the Warriors, and the Harry Potter of basketball, Steph Curry) and, in some strange way, his greatness is amplified by the contrast with the rest of his team. It was a great run.

May 24, 2018

What I’m listening to:

I’ve always liked Alicia Keys and admired her social activism, but I am hooked on her last album Here. This feels like an album finally commensurate with her anger, activism, hope, and grit. More R&B and Hip Hop than is typical for her, I think this album moves into an echelon inhabited by a Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On or Beyonce’s Formation. Social activism and outrage rarely make great novels, but they often fuel great popular music. Here is a terrific example.

What I’m reading:

Colson Whitehead’s Underground Railroad may be close to a flawless novel. Winner of the 2017 Pulitzer, it chronicles the lives of two runaway slaves, Cora and Caeser, as they try to escape the hell of plantation life in Georgia.  It is an often searing novel and Cora is one of the great heroes of American literature. I would make this mandatory reading in every high school in America, especially in light of the absurd revisionist narratives of “happy and well cared for” slaves. This is a genuinely great novel, one of the best I’ve read, the magical realism and conflating of time periods lifts it to another realm of social commentary, relevance, and a blazing indictment of America’s Original Sin, for which we remain unabsolved.

What I’m watching:

I thought I knew about The Pentagon Papers, but The Post, a real-life political thriller from Steven Spielberg taught me a lot, features some of our greatest actors, and is so timely given the assault on our democratic institutions and with a presidency out of control. It is a reminder that a free and fearless press is a powerful part of our democracy, always among the first targets of despots everywhere. The story revolves around the legendary Post owner and D.C. doyenne, Katharine Graham. I had the opportunity to see her son, Don Graham, right after he saw the film, and he raved about Meryl Streep’s portrayal of his mother. Liked it a lot more than I expected.

April 27, 2018

What I’m listening to:

I mentioned John Prine in a recent post and then on the heels of that mention, he has released a new album, The Tree of Forgiveness, his first new album in ten years. Prine is beloved by other singer songwriters and often praised by the inscrutable God that is Bob Dylan.  Indeed, Prine was frequently said to be the “next Bob Dylan” in the early part of his career, though he instead carved out his own respectable career and voice, if never with the dizzying success of Dylan. The new album reflects a man in his 70s, a cancer survivor, who reflects on life and its end, but with the good humor and empathy that are hallmarks of Prine’s music. “When I Get To Heaven” is a rollicking, fun vision of what comes next and a pure delight. A charming, warm, and often terrific album.

What I’m reading:

I recently read Min Jin Lee’s Pachinko, on many people’s Top Ten lists for last year and for good reason. It is sprawling, multi-generational, and based in the world of Japanese occupied Korea and then in the Korean immigrant’s world of Oaska, so our key characters become “tweeners,” accepted in neither world. It’s often unspeakably sad, and yet there is resiliency and love. There is also intimacy, despite the time and geographic span of the novel. It’s breathtakingly good and like all good novels, transporting.

What I’m watching:

I adore Guillermo del Toro’s 2006 film, Pan’s Labyrinth, and while I’m not sure his Shape of Water is better, it is a worthy follow up to the earlier masterpiece (and more of a commercial success). Lots of critics dislike the film, but I’m okay with a simple retelling of a Beauty and the Beast love story, as predictable as it might be. The acting is terrific, it is visually stunning, and there are layers of pain as well as social and political commentary (the setting is the US during the Cold War) and, no real spoiler here, the real monsters are humans, the military officer who sees over the captured aquatic creature. It is hauntingly beautiful and its depiction of hatred to those who are different or “other” is painfully resonant with the time in which we live. Put this on your “must see” list.

March 18, 2018

What I’m listening to:

Sitting on a plane for hours (and many more to go; geez, Australia is far away) is a great opportunity to listen to new music and to revisit old favorites. This time, it is Lucy Dacus and her album Historians, the new sophomore release from a 22-year old indie artist that writes with relatable, real-life lyrics. Just on a second listen and while she insists this isn’t a break up record (as we know, 50% of all great songs are break up songs), it is full of loss and pain. Worth the listen so far. For the way back machine, it’s John Prine and In Spite of Ourselves (that title track is one of the great love songs of all time), a collection of duets with some of his “favorite girl singers” as he once described them. I have a crush on Iris Dement (for a really righteously angry song try her Wasteland of the Free), but there is also EmmyLou Harris, the incomparable Dolores Keane, and Lucinda Williams. Very different albums, both wonderful.

What I’m reading:

Jane Mayer’s New Yorker piece on Christopher Steele presents little that is new, but she pulls it together in a terrific and coherent whole that is illuminating and troubling at the same time. Not only for what is happening, but for the complicity of the far right in trying to discredit that which should be setting off alarm bells everywhere. Bob Mueller may be the most important defender of the democracy at this time. A must read.

What I’m watching:

Homeland is killing it this season and is prescient, hauntingly so. Russian election interference, a Bannon-style hate radio demagogue, alienated and gun toting militia types, and a president out of control. It’s fabulous, even if it feels awfully close to the evening news. 

March 8, 2018

What I’m listening to:

We have a family challenge to compile our Top 100 songs. It is painful. Only 100? No more than three songs by one artist? Wait, why is M.I.A.’s “Paper Planes” on my list? Should it just be The Clash from whom she samples? Can I admit to guilty pleasure songs? Hey, it’s my list and I can put anything I want on it. So I’m listening to the list while I work and the song playing right now is Tom Petty’s “The Wild One, Forever,” a B-side single that was never a hit and that remains my favorite Petty song. Also, “Evangeline” by Los Lobos. It evokes a night many years ago, with friends at Pearl Street in Northampton, MA, when everyone danced well past 1AM in a hot, sweaty, packed club and the band was a revelation. Maybe the best music night of our lives and a reminder that one’s 100 Favorite Songs list is as much about what you were doing and where you were in your life when those songs were playing as it is about the music. It’s not a list. It’s a soundtrack for this journey.

What I’m reading:

Patricia Lockwood’s Priestdaddy was in the NY Times top ten books of 2017 list and it is easy to see why. Lockwood brings remarkable and often surprising imagery, metaphor, and language to her prose memoir and it actually threw me off at first. It then all became clear when someone told me she is a poet. The book is laugh aloud funny, which masks (or makes safer anyway) some pretty dark territory. Anyone who grew up Catholic, whether lapsed or not, will resonate with her story. She can’t resist a bawdy anecdote and her family provides some of the most memorable characters possible, especially her father, her sister, and her mother, who I came to adore. Best thing I’ve read in ages.

What I’m watching:

The Florida Project, a profoundly good movie on so many levels. Start with the central character, six-year old (at the time of the filming) Brooklynn Prince, who owns – I mean really owns – the screen. This is pure acting genius and at that age? Astounding. Almost as astounding is Bria Vinaite, who plays her mother. She was discovered on Instagram and had never acted before this role, which she did with just three weeks of acting lessons. She is utterly convincing and the tension between the child’s absolute wonder and joy in the world with her mother’s struggle to provide, to be a mother, is heartwarming and heartbreaking all at once. Willem Dafoe rightly received an Oscar nomination for his supporting role. This is a terrific movie.

February 12, 2018

What I’m listening to:

So, I have a lot of friends of age (I know you’re thinking 40s, but I just turned 60) who are frozen in whatever era of music they enjoyed in college or maybe even in their thirties. There are lots of times when I reach back into the catalog, since music is one of those really powerful and transporting senses that can take you through time (smell is the other one, though often underappreciated for that power). Hell, I just bought a turntable and now spending time in vintage vinyl shops. But I’m trying to take a lesson from Pat, who revels in new music and can as easily talk about North African rap music and the latest National album as Meet the Beatles, her first ever album. So, I’ve been listening to Kendrick Lamar’s Grammy winning Damn. While it may not be the first thing I’ll reach for on a winter night in Maine, by the fire, I was taken with it. It’s layered, political, and weirdly sensitive and misogynist at the same time, and it feels fresh and authentic and smart at the same time, with music that often pulled me from what I was doing. In short, everything music should do. I’m not a bit cooler for listening to Damn, but when I followed it with Steely Dan, I felt like I was listening to Lawrence Welk. A good sign, I think.

What I’m reading:

I am reading Walter Isaacson’s new biography of Leonardo da Vinci. I’m not usually a reader of biographies, but I’ve always been taken with Leonardo. Isaacson does not disappoint (does he ever?), and his subject is at once more human and accessible and more awe-inspiring in Isaacson’s capable hands. Gay, left-handed, vegetarian, incapable of finishing things, a wonderful conversationalist, kind, and perhaps the most relentlessly curious human being who has ever lived. Like his biographies of Steve Jobs and Albert Einstein, Isaacson’s project here is to show that genius lives at the intersection of science and art, of rationality and creativity. Highly recommend it.

What I’m watching:

We watched the This Is Us post-Super Bowl episode, the one where Jack finally buys the farm. I really want to hate this show. It is melodramatic and manipulative, with characters that mostly never change or grow, and it hooks me every damn time we watch it. The episode last Sunday was a tear jerker, a double whammy intended to render into a blubbering, tissue-crumbling pathetic mess anyone who has lost a parent or who is a parent. Sterling K. Brown, Ron Cephas Jones, the surprising Mandy Moore, and Milo Ventimiglia are hard not to love and last season’s episode that had only Brown and Cephas going to Memphis was the show at its best (they are by far the two best actors). Last week was the show at its best worst. In other words, I want to hate it, but I love it. If you haven’t seen it, don’t binge watch it. You’ll need therapy and insulin.

January 15, 2018

What I’m listening to:

Drive-By Truckers. Chris Stapleton has me on an unusual (for me) country theme and I discovered these guys to my great delight. They’ve been around, with some 11 albums, but the newest one is fascinating. It’s a deep dive into Southern alienation and the white working-class world often associated with our current president. I admire the willingness to lay bare, in kick ass rock songs, the complexities and pain at work among people we too quickly place into overly simple categories. These guys are brave, bold, and thoughtful as hell, while producing songs I didn’t expect to like, but that I keep playing. And they are coming to NH.

What I’m reading:

A textual analog to Drive-By Truckers by Chris Stapleton in many ways is Tony Horowitz’s 1998 Pulitzer Prize winning Confederates in the Attic. Ostensibly about the Civil War and the South’s ongoing attachment to it, it is prescient and speaks eloquently to the times in which we live (where every southern state but Virginia voted for President Trump). Often hilarious, it too surfaces complexities and nuance that escape a more recent, and widely acclaimed, book like Hillbilly Elegy. As a Civil War fan, it was also astonishing in many instances, especially when it blows apart long-held “truths” about the war, such as the degree to which Sherman burned down the south (he did not). Like D-B Truckers, Horowitz loves the South and the people he encounters, even as he grapples with its myths of victimhood and exceptionalism (and racism, which may be no more than the racism in the north, but of a different kind). Everyone should read this book and I’m embarrassed I’m so late to it.

What I’m watching:

David Letterman has a new Netflix show called “My Next Guest Needs No Introduction” and we watched the first episode, in which Letterman interviewed Barack Obama. It was extraordinary (if you don’t have Netflix, get it just to watch this show); not only because we were reminded of Obama’s smarts, grace, and humanity (and humor), but because we saw a side of Letterman we didn’t know existed. His personal reflections on Selma were raw and powerful, almost painful. He will do five more episodes with “extraordinary individuals” and if they are anything like the first, this might be the very best work of his career and one of the best things on television.

December 22, 2017

What I’m reading:

Just finished Sunjeev Sahota’s Year of the Runaways, a painful inside look at the plight of illegal Indian immigrant workers in Britain. It was shortlisted for 2015 Man Booker Prize and its transporting, often to a dark and painful universe, and it is impossible not to think about the American version of this story and the terrible way we treat the undocumented in our own country, especially now.

What I’m watching:

Season II of The Crown is even better than Season I. Elizabeth’s character is becoming more three-dimensional, the modern world is catching up with tradition-bound Britain, and Cold War politics offer more context and tension than we saw in Season I. Claire Foy, in her last season, is just terrific – one arched eye brow can send a message.

What I’m listening to:

A lot of Christmas music, but needing a break from the schmaltz, I’ve discovered Over the Rhine and their Christmas album, Snow Angels. God, these guys are good.

November 14, 2017

What I’m watching:

Guiltily, I watch the Patriots play every weekend, often building my schedule and plans around seeing the game. Why the guilt? I don’t know how morally defensible is football anymore, as we now know the severe damage it does to the players. We can’t pretend it’s all okay anymore. Is this our version of late decadent Rome, watching mostly young Black men take a terrible toll on each other for our mere entertainment?

What I’m reading:

Recently finished J.G. Ballard’s 2000 novel Super-Cannes, a powerful depiction of a corporate-tech ex-pat community taken over by a kind of psychopathology, in which all social norms and responsibilities are surrendered to residents of the new world community. Kept thinking about Silicon Valley when reading it. Pretty dark, dystopian view of the modern world and centered around a mass killing, troublingly prescient.

What I’m listening to:

Was never really a Lorde fan, only knowing her catchy (and smarter than you might first guess) pop hit “Royals” from her debut album. But her new album, Melodrama, is terrific and it doesn’t feel quite right to call this “pop.” There is something way more substantial going on with Lorde and I can see why many critics put this album at the top of their Best in 2017 list. Count me in as a huge fan.

November 3, 2017

What I’m reading: Just finished Celeste Ng’s Little Fires Everywhere, her breathtakingly good second novel. How is someone so young so wise? Her writing is near perfection and I read the book in two days, setting my alarm for 4:30AM so I could finish it before work.

What I’m watching: We just binge watched season two of Stranger Things and it was worth it just to watch Millie Bobbie Brown, the transcendent young actor who plays Eleven. The series is a delightful mash up of every great eighties horror genre you can imagine and while pretty dark, an absolute joy to watch.

What I’m listening to: I’m not a lover of country music (to say the least), but I love Chris Stapleton. His “The Last Thing I Needed, First Thing This Morning” is heartbreakingly good and reminds me of the old school country that played in my house as a kid. He has a new album and I can’t wait, but his From A Room: Volume 1 is on repeat for now.

September 26, 2017

What I’m reading:

Just finished George Saunder’s Lincoln in the Bardo. It took me a while to accept its cadence and sheer weirdness, but loved it in the end. A painful meditation on loss and grief, and a genuinely beautiful exploration of the intersection of life and death, the difficulty of letting go of what was, good and bad, and what never came to be.

What I’m watching:

HBO’s The Deuce. Times Square and the beginning of the porn industry in the 1970s, the setting made me wonder if this was really something I’d want to see. But David Simon is the writer and I’d read a menu if he wrote it. It does not disappoint so far and there is nothing prurient about it.

What I’m listening to:

The National’s new album Sleep Well Beast. I love this band. The opening piano notes of the first song, “Nobody Else Will Be There,” seize me & I’m reminded that no one else in music today matches their arrangement & musicianship. I’m adding “Born to Beg,” “Slow Show,” “I Need My Girl,” and “Runaway” to my list of favorite love songs.

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[araitsume]

The Desire of Ages, pp. 124-131: Chapter (13) The Victory

This chapter is based on Matthew 4:5-11; Mark 1:12, 13; Luke 4:5-13.

“Then the devil taketh Him up into the holy city, and setteth Him on a pinnacle of the temple, and saith unto Him, If Thou be the Son of God, cast Thyself down: for it is written,—

“He shall give His angels charge concerning Thee: And in their hands they shall bear Thee up, Lest at any time Thou dash Thy foot against a stone.”

Satan now supposes that he has met Jesus on His own ground. The wily foe himself presents words that proceeded from the mouth of God. He still appears as an angel of light, and he makes it evident that he is acquainted with the Scriptures, and understands the import of what is written. As Jesus before used the word of God to sustain His faith, the tempter now uses it to countenance his deception. He claims that he has been only testing the fidelity of Jesus, and he now commends His steadfastness. As the Saviour has manifested trust in God, Satan urges Him to give still another evidence of His faith.

But again the temptation is prefaced with the insinuation of distrust, “If Thou be the Son of God.” Christ was tempted to answer the “if;” but He refrained from the slightest acceptance of the doubt. He would not imperil His life in order to give evidence to Satan.

The tempter thought to take advantage of Christ's humanity, and urge Him to presumption. But while Satan can solicit, he cannot compel to sin. He said to Jesus, “Cast Thyself down,” knowing that he could not cast Him down; for God would interpose to deliver Him. Nor could Satan force Jesus to cast Himself down. Unless Christ should consent to temptation, He could not be overcome. Not all the power of earth or hell could force Him in the slightest degree to depart from the will of His Father.

The tempter can never compel us to do evil. He cannot control minds unless they are yielded to his control. The will must consent, faith must let go its hold upon Christ, before Satan can exercise his power upon us. But every sinful desire we cherish affords him a foothold. Every point in which we fail of meeting the divine standard is an open door by which he can enter to tempt and destroy us. And every failure or defeat on our part gives occasion for him to reproach Christ.

When Satan quoted the promise, “He shall give His angels charge over Thee,” he omitted the words, “to keep Thee in all Thy ways;” that is, in all the ways of God's choosing. Jesus refused to go outside the path of obedience. While manifesting perfect trust in His Father, He would not place Himself, unbidden, in a position that would necessitate the interposition of His Father to save Him from death. He would not force Providence to come to His rescue, and thus fail of giving man an example of trust and submission.

Jesus declared to Satan, “It is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.” These words were spoken by Moses to the children of Israel when they thirsted in the desert, and demanded that Moses should give them water, exclaiming, “Is the Lord among us, or not?” Exodus 17:7. God had wrought marvelously for them; yet in trouble they doubted Him, and demanded evidence that He was with them. In their unbelief they sought to put Him to the test. And Satan was urging Christ to do the same thing. God had already testified that Jesus was His Son; and now to ask for proof that He was the Son of God would be putting God's word to the test,—tempting Him. And the same would be true of asking for that which God had not promised. It would manifest distrust, and be really proving, or tempting, Him. We should not present our petitions to God to prove whether He will fulfill His word, but because He will fulfill it; not to prove that He loves us, but because He loves us. “Without faith it is impossible to please Him: for he that cometh to God must believe that He is, and that He is a rewarder of them that diligently seek Him.” Hebrews 11:6.

But faith is in no sense allied to presumption. Only he who has true faith is secure against presumption. For presumption is Satan's counterfeit of faith. Faith claims God's promises, and brings forth fruit in obedience. Presumption also claims the promises, but uses them as Satan did, to excuse transgression. Faith would have led our first parents to trust the love of God, and to obey His commands. Presumption led them to transgress His law, believing that His great love would save them from the consequence of their sin. It is not faith that claims the favor of Heaven without complying with the conditions on which mercy is to be granted. Genuine faith has its foundation in the promises and provisions of the Scriptures.

Often when Satan has failed of exciting distrust, he succeeds in leading us to presumption. If he can cause us to place ourselves unnecessarily in the way of temptation, he knows that the victory is his. God will preserve all who walk in the path of obedience; but to depart from it is to venture on Satan's ground. There we are sure to fall. The Saviour has bidden us, “Watch ye and pray, lest ye enter into temptation.” Mark 14:38. Meditation and prayer would keep us from rushing unbidden into the way of danger, and thus we should be saved from many a defeat.

Yet we should not lose courage when assailed by temptation. Often when placed in a trying situation we doubt that the Spirit of God has been leading us. But it was the Spirit's leading that brought Jesus into the wilderness to be tempted by Satan. When God brings us into trial, He has a purpose to accomplish for our good. Jesus did not presume on God's promises by going unbidden into temptation, neither did He give up to despondency when temptation came upon Him. Nor should we. “God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.” He says, “Offer unto God thanksgiving; and pay thy vows unto the Most High: and call upon Me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify Me.” 1 Corinthians 10:13; Psalm 50:14, 15.

Jesus was victor in the second temptation, and now Satan manifests himself in his true character. But he does not appear as a hideous monster, with cloven feet and bat's wings. He is a mighty angel, though fallen. He avows himself the leader of rebellion and the god of this world.

Placing Jesus upon a high mountain, Satan caused the kingdoms of the world, in all their glory, to pass in panoramic view before Him. The sunlight lay on templed cities, marble palaces, fertile fields, and fruit-laden vineyards. The traces of evil were hidden. The eyes of Jesus, so lately greeted by gloom and desolation, now gazed upon a scene of unsurpassed loveliness and prosperity. Then the tempter's voice was heard: “All this power will I give Thee, and the glory of them: for that is delivered unto me; and to whomsoever I will I give it. If Thou therefore wilt worship me, all shall be Thine.”

Christ's mission could be fulfilled only through suffering. Before Him was a life of sorrow, hardship, and conflict, and an ignominious death. He must bear the sins of the whole world. He must endure separation from His Father's love. Now the tempter offered to yield up the power he had usurped. Christ might deliver Himself from the dreadful future by acknowledging the supremacy of Satan. But to do this was to yield the victory in the great controversy. It was in seeking to exalt himself above the Son of God that Satan had sinned in heaven. Should he prevail now, it would be the triumph of rebellion.

When Satan declared to Christ, The kingdom and glory of the world are delivered unto me, and to whomsoever I will I give it, he stated what was true only in part, and he declared it to serve his own purpose of deception. Satan's dominion was that wrested from Adam, but Adam was the vicegerent of the Creator. His was not an independent rule. The earth is God's, and He has committed all things to His Son. Adam was to reign subject to Christ. When Adam betrayed his sovereignty into Satan's hands, Christ still remained the rightful King. Thus the Lord had said to King Nebuchadnezzar, “The Most High ruleth in the kingdom of men, and giveth it to whomsoever He will.” Daniel 4:17. Satan can exercise his usurped authority only as God permits.

When the tempter offered to Christ the kingdom and glory of the world, he was proposing that Christ should yield up the real kingship of the world, and hold dominion subject to Satan. This was the same dominion upon which the hopes of the Jews were set. They desired the kingdom of this world. If Christ had consented to offer them such a kingdom, they would gladly have received Him. But the curse of sin, with all its woe, rested upon it. Christ declared to the tempter, “Get thee behind Me, Satan: for it is written, Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.”

By the one who had revolted in heaven the kingdoms of this world were offered Christ, to buy His homage to the principles of evil; but He would not be bought; He had come to establish a kingdom of righteousness, and He would not abandon His purpose. With the same temptation Satan approaches men, and here he has better success than with Christ. To men he offers the kingdom of this world on condition that they will acknowledge his supremacy. He requires that they sacrifice integrity, disregard conscience, indulge selfishness. Christ bids them seek first the kingdom of God, and His righteousness; but Satan walks by their side and says: Whatever may be true in regard to life eternal, in order to make a success in this world you must serve me. I hold your welfare in my hands. I can give you riches, pleasures, honor, and happiness. Hearken to my counsel. Do not allow yourselves to be carried away with whimsical notions of honesty or self-sacrifice. I will prepare the way before you. Thus multitudes are deceived. They consent to live for the service of self, and Satan is satisfied. While he allures them with the hope of worldly dominion, he gains dominion over the soul. But he offers that which is not his to bestow, and which is soon to be wrested from him. In return he beguiles them of their title to the inheritance of the sons of God.

Satan had questioned whether Jesus was the Son of God. In his summary dismissal he had proof that he could not gainsay. Divinity flashed through suffering humanity. Satan had no power to resist the command. Writhing with humiliation and rage, he was forced to withdraw from the presence of the world's Redeemer. Christ's victory was as complete as had been the failure of Adam.

So we may resist temptation, and force Satan to depart from us. Jesus gained the victory through submission and faith in God, and by the apostle He says to us, “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and He will draw nigh to you.” James 4:7, 8. We cannot save ourselves from the tempter's power; he has conquered humanity, and when we try to stand in our own strength, we shall become a prey to his devices; but “the name of the Lord is a strong tower: the righteous runneth into it, and is safe.” Proverbs 18:10. Satan trembles and flees before the weakest soul who finds refuge in that mighty name.

After the foe had departed, Jesus fell exhausted to the earth, with the pallor of death upon His face. The angels of heaven had watched the conflict, beholding their loved Commander as He passed through inexpressible suffering to make a way of escape for us. He had endured the test, greater than we shall ever be called to endure. The angels now ministered to the Son of God as He lay like one dying. He was strengthened with food, comforted with the message of His Father's love and the assurance that all heaven triumphed in His victory. Warming to life again, His great heart goes out in sympathy for man, and He goes forth to complete the work He has begun; to rest not until the foe is vanquished, and our fallen race redeemed.

Never can the cost of our redemption be realized until the redeemed shall stand with the Redeemer before the throne of God. Then as the glories of the eternal home burst upon our enraptured senses we shall remember that Jesus left all this for us, that He not only became an exile from the heavenly courts, but for us took the risk of failure and eternal loss. Then we shall cast our crowns at His feet, and raise the song, “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honor, and glory, and blessing.” Revelation 5:12.