#but I will state my case for my beloved state in the south in the tags

[deathlygristly]

Am American, live in the South in North Carolina, wanted to add some pics of my state as propaganda. ;) Okay, so the first one is from Tennessee, our neighbor to the west.

Anyway, yeah, I’m a Tarheel born, a Tarheel bred, and when I die I’ll be a Tarheel dead. ;)

[avernusreject]

I've been outlining the entire events of the fall of the south to elaborate more on what happened in my world state, because I'll be damned if I let EA ruin this series for me. Honestly, it just makes me mad cause the ideas they had for the fall of the south could've been so interesting and heartbreaking.

This is gonna be a long one so I'm going to put it under, in case your interested in my rant.

Tbh its such utter bullshit when the writers said (paraphrasing) "don't ask for a cameo from your favorite characters because that means bad things will happen to them" then precedes in game to nuke the entire south. You're telling me that absolutely nothing bad happened to any companions or beloved NPCs during the double blight because we didn't see it. If your going to kill off the characters, at least give us something. What are their last stands? What are their last words? What are they defending? Did they have doubts or fears in their final moments? How does that affect their actions?

How does Amaranthine fall? What does the warden commander and awakening crew do when it does, if they're there. This I'm assuming would be happening pretty early on because it seems that from the inquisitor's letters the blight hits first in the east and south in Ferelden. I think it would've been heartbreaking but great to set the tone early on in the game, if you play as a the warden commander one last time, in a last stand for Amaranthine. Having to rally the remaining Awakening crew, knowing full well you are asking them to go to their deaths. Choosing only one of them, to lead the refugees to safety. The longer you stay alive, the more refugees escape the city, the more resources you have at the end of the game for the final fight.

How does Denerim fall? What does Anora and/or Alistair do to help the city prepare? How does the battle turn in the darkspawn's favor? Do the people in the alienage get access to the help or defensives that other areas of the city do (probably not, but who knows)? What is their breaking point of making their court flee to Redcliffe? Does Alistair put up a fight, wanting desperately to fight for Denerim as long as he can? Does that stubbornness lead to resources lost? Would Anora leave sooner realizing Denerim would be a lost cause, saving resources for later?

How does the inquisitor get the Avaar and Chasind to work with the inquisition to the point they are providing food for Skyhold when the resources start dwindling? Do they have to do rituals or rites to prove themselves in the eyes of these communities?

Will the person on the throne of Orzammar affect how fast the remaining Thaigs fall to the darkspawn? If Bhelen is on the throne, we know he has a lot of sympathy for the casteless. Is he able to make enough headway with his reforms in dwarven culture to get the casteless fighting alongside the warrior class, buying the thaigs time? Is Harrowmount be too stuck to tradition, that he doesn't see the necessity of recruiting from other castes?

How do Briala/Celene/Gaspard fair against the Venatori in Val Royeuax? When the city falls to the Venatori rebels, where do they go? How do they rally the remainder of their troops? Which noble houses turn against them? How does the leader of Orlais justify their hesitance to ally with Ferelden given the current state of affairs?

How does Divine Victoria play into this? Does she work to foster cooperation between Orlais and Ferelden? Does she take the chaos as a chance to increase the chantry's control? How do their methods differ? Does Leliana fall back on poisons and blackmail? How does Vivienne's knowledge of the game help her pull in some of the nobles sympathetic to the Venatori? Has Cassandra increased the strength of the templars in the past tenish years?

How does Redcliffe fall and the remaining forces end up in Skyhold? Skyhold, sure is a big fortress, but to house all of the remainder of Ferelden? No, there's no way. Are there tent cities along the pass on the way to skyhold? Is there chaos trying to push the refugees back when skyhold is at peak capacity? How does the inquisitor defend their supply lines? How will they defend those desperate outside their gate? Does disbanding the inquisition mean the inquisitor had a harder time protecting all these people?

What the hell is happening with red lyrium Meredith in kirkwall? Did we just forget that she's back? Is she a main reason the city falls? Not to mention, how do Hawke's companions play into this except for Sebastian and Aveline (as we've already heard about them)?

One that's been driving me crazy: WHO IS IN SKYHOLD? Who from the inquisitor's inner circle comes back? Who doesn't? If they don't come back, why?

Where is the south's last stand? You've been building up all this narrative tension of the forces of Orlais, Ferelden, and Orzammar being beat to shit and fragmented. Do they all realize that they need to come together at the last minute or do they remain fragmented to the end?

Honestly, this is just the tip of the iceberg of my questions. I haven't read all the codex (because tbh I just got so detached from the game's superficial lore) so maybe some of these get answered. I get that there would be a lot of moving parts to including this in gameplay, but codex entries? Really? I'm just writing vignettes of these small moments in the south. It's been a lot of fun tbh going through world of thedas books for information that I can pull from. If I can do it, why can't a triple A developer with a massive budget? I get it, EA is a bastard, but come on guys. I shouldn't have to do all the work myself because at that point what's the point of Bioware owning the IP. Why am I buying their product as a consumer? My imagination is free.

I'm not saying I hate this game, because honestly I don't. It does have redeeming qualities. Is it literally just the Antivan crow NPCs (when I ignore the sanitization of the organization), the companions, and the final battle in Minrathous? Yeah, but its enough for me to at least like some of this game. But its not dragon age to me. Its a fantasy rpg cosplaying as a dragon age game. Ngl I've read fanfiction that has deeper lore and a better understanding of the universe of Thedas then this game does.

Idk I just had to scream this into the universe.

[spoiled-fawn]

Part 1: Meeting John Price

Western AU; Mail Order Spouse Trope

WC: 3,131 CW: None

AN: My beloved! John Price! Would love to hear your thoughts and comments, as well as any questions. I hope ye enjoy <3

Please see the following for the explanation and precursors to the scene!

Introduction, Biography

--------

Truthfully, you’re glad you didn't have many friends in town, as it meant no one to share unnecessary secrets with, nor did it spread any word of what you were up to in your free time. 

However, that isn’t to say that you trusted at least some people in the small town you lived in, such as your boss.

A scapegoat for you to write your correspondence letters was that you simply had to stay late on the farm, working extra long hours because of something that was messed up, or because you knew your parents wouldn’t argue with the fact that you were getting more money.

Feeling that you were a decent enough candidate for John to consider since you are working as a farm hand already, you decided to write your first correspondence the next day. Once sent, you received a letter back from him four days later and by god, did he sound like such a gentleman. 

You were able to soon confide in him on how you wanted to leave town, start fresh, but stick with what you know since you did work on the well-known “Loyal Laswell Farm,” and help out around their farmhouse with common jobs such as sewing, cooking, and even making a dirty barn looked organized- a man’s dream spouse.

With only two weeks passing and less than a handful of letters to be traded, you already had money and an open invitation to John’s ranch. Through your correspondence, John stated that he had already known of Kate Laswell, her having been a long ago buyer from him and even she had sought out advice on taking care of her lambs long ago. 

John connected the dots and realized that you were the trusty youngling that she hired early on; He already trusted your morale if Laswell had kept you after all this time. (And if Laswell did gloat about you once in a while, that was a secret between her and John.) After finding out about the mutual connection, you confided in her. 

Kate, already knowing of your family’s vices, was pleasantly surprised by your major turn of life events and how quickly your fate had been granted to you in the form of Price. She made sure your head was screwed on straight enough that if it didn’t work out, you could mail her and she would help you figure it out from there…

Kate’s wife chimed in and said you and Price would be a great fit.

The two women gave their aid to you in the form of gifting you your favorite horse to ride off on during your long journey. You only brought a handful of items from your parent's house, slowly, and used the remaining amounts of wardrobe you kept at the farm to pack up. With two bags packed and some food, feed, a gun being courtesy of Laswell’s wife, and a celebratory pack of cigars for John (Kate’s wedding gift), you were on your way. 

It only took you a week by horseback, luckily traveling near the Oregon Trail that had already had sorted paths cleared and lived-in, you only needed to stop when you and your horse did. You were able to send John updated letters, but were not able to receive them due to constantly being on the move. This left you daydreaming about him.

John wrote that he is originally from Deadwood, South Dakota. He comes from a long line of lawmen and followed in their footsteps in his early adult life. However, as John became sheriff and notorious for his hardened but fair demeanor, he began to see the justice system slip through the cracks right in front of him. Murderers would walk away and many left unjustly prosecuted in other cases. It angered and dwelled on him so much that he retired early on. John soon found his solace in the quiet mountain town of Pitkin, Colorado. John describes himself as a proud man who is protective and respectful, an old soul who loves his whiskey - and is looking for his strawberry wine. He is a weathered man who can fix any problems of yours, all at the cost of a shoulder to lean on and someone to spend the rest of his days with.

Coming into Pitkin, it brings forth a small town nestled within luscious green mountains and a strip of shops down the main road that highlights most of the town's activity. Riding through, you were an obvious sight to be had; a new face set out on a horse with minimal bags packed on the back. You didn’t seem like a traveler, no, you seemed like someone who was on a mission to find something- someone. 

Smiling and giving small nods towards those who stare, your cheeks have a faint blush from the attention as you ride down the strip and toward the end of the town. Soon, the signs have a label of a bull, a common connotation of a ranch, causing you to garner up a bit more hope and hold your head high as you click your horse into a canter. 

The sound of your horse's hooves thundering on the ground cannot beat the thrum of your heart; riding over the hill, you’re greeted with a breathtaking view of the Alpine mountains that dip into a valley with an absurd amount of leveled planes that make you believe the land was spread flat by an inviting entity. Your eyes come into focus on small black dots that move before you make out to be the shape of cattle grazing across the green and flowing grass.

There sits a house atop the hill that is before the dip of the valley, where a fence surrounds a large barn that is directly adjacent to the house. You bring your horse to a slow walk as you take in the view of the wooden house; it's a cabin-styled home but large in the additions that have been formed around the sides, making it one of the bigger houses in town. The barn rivals its size by double, and the open stalls along the side let you glimpse into the hay-filled homes of horses that linger near the fences. You have to do a double take when you see movement in the barn that is all too human-like, then pulling the reigns of your horse once a few feet away from the entrance to stop and watch. 

A man stands, low grunts leaving him as he stretches his back before grabbing a hay bayle and beginning to break it up. He wears a worn-out pair of jeans and a cowboy hat as his low whistling breaks the silence between the surrounding horses neighing at your new appearance. In an instant, you know immediately this is John.

To your surprise, your horse greets the others in a sharp jeer of noise, causing him to turn around in surprise his eyes dart up at you.

For a second, you’re humored at the look he gives, not expecting something so sweet as you to ride into his ranch and most likely expecting someone within the town to come to bother him. 

But in an instant, he knows exactly who you are. 

After his shock wears off, he sets down the hay and reaches up to take his cowboy hat off and place it on his chest as he walks toward you. Letting out a low whistle, his eyes roam over you with an enamored stare. “God was just showin’ off when he made you, sweetheart.” Comes the low timbre of his voice, sending a small fire of desire shimmying through your vertebrae. 

A soft smile graces your face in return, halting your horse for the time being as he comes up to you. “Good morning sir, would I be right to assume that you are John Price, the owner of this ranch?” You ask after a moment of your eyes trailing over him, taking in his face and ice-blue eyes while he approaches to help you down from your horse.

“That I am, Sweetheart. And I suppose you’re the one that I’ve been lookin’ so forward to meetin’, that right?” He asks in return, a small smirk taking his lips while he helps you lower down from the saddle. You smile at the extended hand, taking it as you swing your opposite leg out of the stirrup while feeling the touch of his other hand coming to caress your hip in a gentle fashion.

"I hope you've been as comfortable as one can be on a week-long ride," John comments softly, keeping his hand on you once you're firmly planted on the ground as his eyes scan you from head to toe. "How you feelin’?" He asks sweetly, now finding your eyes with genuine affection in his tone.

In response to his lingering touch on your hip, and feeling it travel to your waist with a brief squeeze before he lets it fall, you give him a small squeeze of the hand you're holding to. “Not too shabby; was able to get a room a few of the nights along the way. I’m thankful for the good weather I had while getting here.” You respond as you shift your saddle-sore hips for a moment and reorient your limbs to standing. 

"You're not so shabby yourself, sweet thing'." He compliments softly as he releases you, then grabs your horse’s bridle and releases the bit before attaching his own lead to it, and a small feeling of surprise crosses your mind at how easily he handles new horses. Then, gesturing for you to follow him. "Come on. Let me show you around." John leads with comfortable confidence, letting your horse sniff him while leading him to an open stall with some water and feed. 

“Thank you for letting me bring my stallion here, Laswell gifted him to me when I was sayin’ goodbye. Said you may remember him from when he was a foal?” You prompt with a tilt of curiosity at the edge of your words while you join them in the stall to unload your bags and take the saddle off.

Looking back towards him, his eyes are looking over the horse for any identifiers, hints that would make him remember. “Not quite sure I remember this one, sweetheart. He got a name?” John asks in response once finished doing a sweepdown of his mane and a quick swipe of his hair coat.

“Laswell said he’s always been named Captain.” You answer curtly, now looking to see his reaction, if any.

It takes a moment for you to narrow in on the way the left side of his mustache twitches slightly before he breaks out into an all-out smile. “Well, I’ll be damned…” John trails out as he moves back towards Captain's head.

His blue eyes shine in the light of the barn windows, meeting yours for a moment while a boyish charm takes over his face. “This slick bastard got you all the way over to me?” John speaks with a gruffness that intertwines with amusement; the way his hands move to rub over the horse's forehead and nose showcases a glimpse of a gentle side reserved for his animals.

As you scrunch your eyebrows up in confusion, John catches your expression and gives a hearty chuckle in response. “I helped birth this one the day that Kate came up here to buy some lambs. Her wife was cryin’, thinking that him and his momma were gonna die.” He answers before moving to give Captain a pat on his chest, a huff of his breath coming out in response. 

“He had both him’s front legs back during contractions. Had to help the mare by pushing his fat head on in to get him to readjust. Kate and her wife saw the whole thing.” He finishes with a hum and a distant look in his eyes only for a second, now coming back to your side and picking up a bag of yours.

“This all you got? Woulda expected a bit more from a woman movin' out west, especially to the cold mountains.” He states with a cocked eyebrow, eyeing as you bend down to hoist the remaining bag over your shoulder. You both give Captain a farewell tap before exiting the stall and heading towards Johns's house.

You wait on replying for a moment as you take a longer look at the structure, noting the wooden panels that exude a warm and weathered patina, a testament to the house's endurance against the harsh elements of the wild. The front features a symmetrical facade, with a steeply pitched gable roof that displays a combination of wooden shingles and iron accents. Windows are evenly placed on the front-facing sides of the house, and shutters open to allow glimpses into the inside.

“Didn’t have a lot to bring if I’m being honest. Just packed up what I liked and wanted, then left.” You answer with a confident nod, leaving it at that. “I did plan on finding some new or old fabrics to start making winter coats for myself.” You add on quickly, thinking over how quickly the chill must set in within the mountain valley.

You follow John onto the front porch of the house, “Ah, you do some of that fancy work or just plain work?” He inquires while gesturing for you to step inside the entrance. You’re greeted by a spacious entryway, designed to be practical and modest. The floors, made of polished wide planks, creak softly under the added weight of yourself next to John, a new soul to provide protection to in the house.

To the front of the entryway, is his living room, its centerpiece being a grand stone fireplace, providing warmth and comfort during the chilly evenings. Leather upholstered furniture invites warmth to the house, and you can see a good amount of hides used as a rug and even a throw blanket over the couch, while ornate coffee cans and some intricately shaped vases linger around the surfaces. 

The sound of your mouth opening and closing resonates in the silence of you two standing there before John shuts the door softly behind you and ultimately snaps you out of your daze. “Um, just some plain work. Never had the time or materials to work on some fancy clothes, would rather make things I know I’m gonna use.” You answer while moving to face adjacent to where he stands in front of the door.

His eyes track your own as your attention comes back to rest on him, a small smirk tugging on the edge of his mouth. With a quick laugh, he moves to place his left hand along your back, his cold fingers sliding to the place between your shoulders. “Welcome home, Sweetheart.” He smiles while speaking softly, leaning over to place a light kiss atop your head. 

When he moves back from your space, which you want to ultimately follow as you feel his warmth radiate next to you and already adore the way his voice dips impossibly lower when speaking so gently, his hand slides down to the small of your back and gives a small tap to lead you forward. “Come on, let's get you settled in.” He beckons you while walking to a door that is adjacent to the entrance.

Walking in, John’s bedroom exudes a haven, signifying his rest and relaxation at the end of the day. The warm, earthy tones of the wood and furniture create an internal warmth, in contrast to the view of the surrounding mountains of green and glimpse over the cattle that wander the land, the windows laden with lace curtains.

The bed was the average size for the master bedroom; The double bed sat its headboard against the wall to the right of the entrance, facing the windows. A large red quilt adorns the bed while the bed itself is a robust wooden frame with upright pieces of carved and sanded wood posted taller at each corner of the bed.

In the corner is another stone fireplace, where an armchair sits to serve as a place for John to unwind, read a book, or reflect on the day. A well-worn wooden dresser stands against one wall, its surface adorned with a few cherished mementos - a faded photograph of him on a horse, a weathered pocket watch that has seen countless sunsets, and a small collection of polished rocks, each one possibly a reminder of a special moment.

"It's not much." He pauses before speaking again, his tone becoming more personal. "And I'd love to have you share my bed when you're comfortable. However, if you need time to adjust, I can set myself up in the living room. I don't wish to pressure you if you're not comfortable yet."

The sweet and respectful offer doesn’t fly over you, and a small smile rises over your lips. “Thank you, John. That’s awfully considerate of everything you’re doing for me. I don’t want to burden you with sleeping on your own couch, I wouldn't mind.” You answer while slowly walking to the dresser, placing your bag down by the foot of it.

“It may take a few days to adjust and get to know you, but-” you take a second to turn around and look at his form with a small shy smile, “I don’t think I’ll keep you waiting long.” You finish as a soft blush rises to the apples of your cheeks. Your hands come to interlace together in the front of your lap as his heavy footsteps make their way towards you with a bright smile that borders a smirk.

He stops in front of you, holding eye contact as he places your other bag down. “Ain’t no way in hell I’d be letting you sleep on the couch, sweetheart. But, I do look forward to hearing your answer. When you’re ready for it.” He speaks in a gruff voice, eyebrows raised to make sure you're taking his answer to heart and understanding, his warm hands moving to enclose both of yours within his grasp.

Bringing your hands up to his lips, you watch with rapt attention at his mouth puckering and in turn, making his facial hair move in the action, then leaving a warm and gentle kiss on the back of each hand.

His eyes don’t stray from yours while doing so, his blue eyes bring an inviting wave of ice- the kind you actively seek when you’re feeling too hot or need to wake up. “Now, how about I show you the rest of the ranch, babydoll?” He asks with a soft grin, pulling you just a fraction closer by the grip of your hands.

[anghraine]

Perhaps the most purely surreal aspect of the election, btw, is that it actually went pretty great in my state (Washington). I don't even mean standard West Coast results. Washington is sapphire this year.

Harris/Walz are running about 20 points ahead of Trump statewide—currently, they're further ahead here than in Oregon or California. They're winning in Whitman County in eastern Washington and came within a few of points of winning Spokane County. Clark County, which is adjacent to the border with Oregon and contains the Portland suburb of Vancouver WA, can be a lot "swingier" than Multnomah County just to the south (which contains Portland) and a ballot box was literally blown up there to screw with the election results. Clark County worked to get new ballots to everyone affected and Harris is not only clearly winning in Clark, but further ahead than Biden in 2020—leading Trump by nearly 10 points iirc.

One of the few politicians I truly like, my beloved governor Jay Inslee, is stepping down, and had endorsed his Democratic AG, Bob Ferguson. Ferguson is easily winning the state, though not leading as much as Harris is, which is a kind of nice change from so many Democrats (including pretty mediocre ones) doing better than her, even though I've liked Ferguson as AG.

I will say that Ferguson was running against what goes for a good Republican candidate these days—a "moderate" with ties to King County (Seattle) who was not the first choice of the vile Washington GOP, but beat out some far-right assholes in the Republican primaries. For part of the campaign, it seemed like Reichert (the Republican candidate) might be "normal" enough and local enough to conceivably eke out a win, but in the event, Ferguson is ahead by double digits.

Our Democratic senator easily held her seat and also ran ahead of Ferguson in counties like Whitman.

Inslee's acknowledgment of Trump's win includes zero congratulations or unity blather, but instead remarks that Washington State sued the first Trump administration 97 times and won 95 of those cases while he was still president, and we will do it again if we have to (these suits were of course driven by AG Ferguson, now our governor-elect).

For the first time in generations, Washington Democrats actually won every statewide elected office—there are nine of them and the margins of the victories vary a lot, but the GOP failed to win even one, and the state government remains a Democratic trifecta as well.

There were four deceptively-worded, Republican-funded, corporate bullshit initiatives on the state ballot this year. Three are already dead in the water. As Governor Inslee put it, "Washingtonians sent an unequivocal message that they want action on pollution and climate change. Washingtonians also made clear they want to preserve the equity of our tax system with the capital gains tax on the super wealthy. When they or a loved one need long-term care, they want the WA Cares Act to be there for them." Yup!

Marie Gluesenkamp Pérez (a current Democrat in the House) is still leading in the Trumpy WA-3 district, which redistricting only made redder than it was before (when her victory was considered one of the biggest House upsets of the year). She's about three points ahead still.

This may sound like bragging about my state and isn't really meant that way. It feels like existing in a weird capsule because we're still very much in the USA and affected by national politics and we have our own right-wing assholes, of course, but so much about the country we live in is decided thousands of miles away from here, in large part by people who don't seem to share even the most basic sense of reality with most people here. It is a very strange experience to feel so estranged from what's happening in so much of the country.

[retphienix]

Other nonsense that's not nearly as cool as finally finding the sunless city log I was missing (lie)

While my brain keeps conflating the sun station with the probe launcher I am 99.99% sure it's not for that, it's for the warp core set up next to the memory statues in the ash twin lab in order to power the 22 minute timer.

They are /linked/ but the power isn't /for/ the probe, the probe going full power and exploding isn't because they overcharge it with sun station juice, it's arguably (sorta, there were disagreements on the nomai team) by design and is just using normal power sources.

The warp core that's sending the memory statues back in time 22 minutes IS using the mega power source that's destroying the sun each cycle, it's related but not the same, since part of why that's happening is to keep firing the probe in the first place.

Anyways, some minor existentialism (my beloved). Part of what I really like about this are the ways in which your memories can be rewound without you dying "exactly". Like the ash twin core can be exposed to the supernova and rewind itself while you're 300 million miles away from the sun or while you're on the quantum moon while it's orbiting the eye and in both cases you're too far away to die before the rewind- so while in neither situation are you far enough way to survive- there's some minutes of life you don't live before the rewind. it's fun :)

These fuckin' nerds lol

Instead of just saying over the call "Yeah, the counter clockwise hurricanes suck things under" they said "IT'S FAR TOO FASCINATING YOU HAVE TO SEE" followed by "Well duh I made a model, I wanted to make a model :)"

I love them.

Also like totally nbd nbd nbd.

The probe module that receives info from the probe is INSIDE the core of waterworld. I know how to get TO the core but not IN the core (yet)(if possible)(probably possible).

And I met Sola :)

I could say plenty on the little mannerisms experienced there, but in all truth they don't say "much" of interest. Basically repeating a lot of ideas on quantum stuff and posing that if quantum state objects are every possibility at once- and viewing them "freezes" them in one collapsed possibility- what would happen if we viewed the eye directly?

A great question- fantastic even- but considering I came here with like 300 questions and then got quantum 101 and then a really good question put back at me I'm.... dissatisfied.

Not BIG time or anything. This is a great question, one I hadn't considered before talking to her. But because I can't communicate directly I can't ask about Any of this and I'm like "AAAAAAAAA"

To be expected- back to finding my own answers.

I mostly want to point at her to say how fucking sick it is that the Quantum moon isn't just showing this possibility to us- the possibility that we meet her.

It also allows us to see her corpse in various possibilities that she failed, with each other version of the moon having her in a different death pose (or maybe just 2, I kinda recall only finding her on the south pole twice and not being able to reach it otherwise, unimportant).

Neat!

Also this interaction implied she's NOT the third mask being memory-time-warped.

Maybe she is, but her interactions don't imply anything of the sort.

She doesn't mention anything about the rewinding, doesn't mention anything about the probe, doesn't mention anything about the sun station being turned on-

This is just "the possibility that she successfully found the 6th moon" and talking to her implies that she /feels/ that she has already died- and seeing how 5 of the other moon faces have her dead, that's interesting. Like she /feels/ that her being here right now is improbable. Like it's some sort of conclusion that wasn't likely because she thinks she's already dead (and is, in most possibilities).

Maybe this is what death on the quantum moon entails. If you die here, there's a possibility you didn't, so a possibility of you remains? I wonder if she can leave.

I assume not, as leaving this phase of the moon requires, by nature of how the quantum moon exists, the moon to materialize as a different possibility. Maybe if *I* stay to witness the moon she would be able to leave to a star system that never sees the moon again? But no, right, because if I ever leave then the moon would begin moving again, and in all possibilities that aren't the 6th it has her dead.

Also, consider the fact that her eyes don't appear to be considered "conscious" by the moon anymore.

The moon moves despite the fact she's on the 6th iteration.

So I guess even the moon recognizes that she has died and she is quite literally a living ghost that only exists when the moon exists in the 6th state- and as a ghost she can't be considered "conscious" for viewing it to lock it in the 6th state and if she tried to leave I suppose she would simply cease to exist on the spot and would become the corpse in each iteration and /nothing at all/ during the 6th since she left?

Hmm.

Anyways, all to say that means her being here is more to do with the quantum state of everything than with her retrying every 22 minutes until it worked- so I don't think she's the third or is directly responsible for any of this.

[lemon-muncher]

This is for the polls in my previous posts. The results are ....

Guido Mista + Overstimulation + Praise

Now enjoy ruining our favorite musty man

It didn't take long for you and Mista to get off track from the mission. To be fair, the two of you were doing the mission just not in the way Bucciarati would approve of. The task, Mista and yourself were to act like a famous drug dealer couple in a hotel room. As that happens, traitors of the Familia would show up just in time for the rest of the gang to swoop in and take them out. But it was poor thinking on Bucciarati's part putting the only open couple in a vacant hotel room.

The two of you didn't even last 20 minutes before your clothes were ripped from your bodies and your mouths attacked each other in a passionate battle for dominance. Still in his iconic hat, Mista laid at the edge of the bed indulging in your touch. "Y/N! Gotta cum again! We- we can't stop at four~" Trembling from his last release, your boyfriend huffed from his swollen lips.

All you can do is chuckle at the sad state of his body as you resumed your movements. Your eyes traced his bare chest that was littered with hickeys and bruises. As you sat next to him, your fingers jabbed in and out of his hole, you place a trail of soft kisses across his body. "I know it hurts, Guido. Just give me one more and we can stop, okay?" You cooed from next him. His hands that were usually around his pistol gripped soft maroon sheets that laid under him. "You're doing so well, sweetheart~" Your voice echoed in his mostly empty head.

His hips thrashed against your fingers, wanting more friction but also stuttering from overstimulation. "Y/N! Mista! You've gone quiet. Are the two of you alright?" A voice from your walkie-talkie stops you both with wide eyes. Of course, Bucciarati would check in right when you beloved was close to another orgasm. Rather than sulking, you smile softly at your naked lover before continuing to plunge your fingers in him while reaching for the walkie-talkie attached to your hip. "Y/N what are you-" "We're ok! Just settling in. Gotta make sure we have an escape route in case things go south."

Your voice was calm compared to the man next to you. Mista's tan hands covered him mouth to keep himself quiet as you brought him closer to a release. Dark eyes became unfocused, slowly rolling into the back of his skull as you angled your fingers upward. "And Mista? Where is he?" Laughing at you own lie, you spoke in your usual collected voice. "He's in the bathroom right now. I think Sex Pistols are having a pool party in the sink so it may be a while." Just as you finished your sentence, Mista started convulsing under you, cumming onto his chest. A sigh came from the other side of the device. "Just stay vigilant."

The radio connection ended, allowing you to sigh in relief. "You did such a good job, Guido. It's too bad we have to work. Remind me to give you a reward when we get done, okay love?" A shivering Mista reaches up to pull you closer with a drowsy smile on his face. "Bucciarati's gonna kill us if he finds out about this." Mista mumbled as he rolls the two of you over and burrows his head into the warmth of your neck. Laughing at his comment, your arms wrap around his waist. "As long as I die with you, I could care less."

Meanwhile, the Bucci squad watch the two of you with white faces, regretting the choice to ask Giorno to turn a security camera into a ladybug.

[ladyjaneasherr]

May 11 1968. Stunning Jane Asher as a braids maid for the wedding of Joan and Stuart. Joan was Jane’s friend and an actress as well. From Daily Mail.

📸: Philip Ide

Daily Mail article posted of October 1st, 2011.

I don’t feel guilty - I like to think that I carried her to the other side: Yorkie Bar actor says he was saved by Jane Asher over wife's 'mercy killing'

Stuart Mungall sat in the almost empty auditorium of the Royal Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh and waited for the play to begin. It was late 1967, he had just joined a small theatre company in Scotland and had been asked if he’d like to watch rehearsals for A Christmas Carol.

‘A young woman came on stage,’ he recalls. ‘From the first second, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She had such a magic quality and aura.

I was totally hooked. It was love at first sight.’

The young woman was Joan Morrow, then 27. And to 28-year-old Stuart’s delight, she was cast alongside him in the company’s next production, Toad Of Toad Hall. ‘I was Weasel and she played Lucy Rabbit,’ he recalls with a laugh.

After a whirlwind courtship, the couple were married on May 11, 1968, with Joan’s close friend and successful young actress Jane Asher, then also famous as Paul McCartney’s girlfriend, as bridesmaid.

Last week – 42 years later – a letter pleading for clemency from Asher to an Old Bailey judge was instrumental in preventing Stuart, now 72, spending the rest of his life in prison after he admitted the manslaughter of his wife.

The court heard that Stuart, who starred in a series of cult adverts for Yorkie chocolate bars, smothered his beloved, terminally ill wife with a pillow after watching her deteriorate both mentally and physically for six years.

The recorder of London, Judge Peter Beaumont, recognised his devotion after reading Asher’s letter, and handed down a 12-month sentence suspended for two years.

When we meet at the one-bedroom rented flat in Tooting, South London, that was their marital home, Stuart has just returned from what will be a weekly trip to his probation officer as part of his bail conditions. He also has to see a psychiatrist regularly.

‘The psychiatrist is a good chap,’ he says, lighting the first of several cigarettes. ‘But at the moment we are still tiptoeing round that fateful day.’ His weathered face crumples, his eyes fill with tears and for a while he is unable to speak.

Stuart is reluctant to be seen as a champion of euthanasia, assisted suicide or, indeed, anything else. But it is clear that his case and the suspended sentence passed down at the Old Bailey are a significant development in one of the major ethical controversies of our time.

‘People have asked me if I thought about the consequences of my actions,’ he says when he recovers his composure. ‘Of course I didn’t. I don’t have a philosophy based on what happened. I don’t belong to any pro-euthanasia groups. Nor would I presume to say what I did is a good thing. What I do know is that I didn’t want her to have an undignified death.’

Joan, who was 69 when she died, had Pick’s disease – a rare form of dementia similar to Alzheimer’s – and polymyalgia rheumatica, a debilitating condition that causes pain, stiffness and tenderness in the muscles supporting the neck, shoulders, hips and thighs.

‘She was confused, in terrible pain and could hardly move and was asking me to kill her almost every day.

‘Not in those exact words, but she’d shout, “Shoot me. Get me out of this.” My response, especially when her mind got bad, was to divert her attention. I’d say, “There is a great programme I want to watch on the television today. Let’s do it tomorrow.” But in a couple as close as we were, you don’t have to ask for what you want. Joan and I knew instinctively what the other was thinking.

‘And that morning I could tell by the way she looked at me that she had absolutely had enough.

‘When it happened, she didn’t struggle and the autopsy report, to my great relief, stated there was no sign of trauma in her body.’

He pauses. ‘It is a consolation. We had agreed when we were young that we wanted to go together and I certainly felt there was no point ¬living without her.

‘So after she had died, I went into the kitchen and took handfuls of her very strong painkillers which I swallowed with a bottle of brandy.

‘After a few minutes I suddenly remembered our cat and knew Joan wouldn’t have wanted it to be abandoned, so I rang a neighbour, a psychiatrist, and explained what I had done. He came round and called an ambulance and the police.

‘I was taken to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital, where my stomach was pumped, and then transferred to a mental hospital in Sutton and then to Belmarsh high-security prison where I stayed for four months.’

Stuart and I are talking in the kitchen of his flat. Over one door is a wooden block with painted words that read: ‘I love you.’ Along one wall is a Welsh dresser with several sunshine-yellow goblets – their wedding present from Asher.

He is obviously very vulnerable, one minute talking with dramatic gestures and an impeccable accent as if on stage, the next doubling over with grief and unable to speak as tears course down his face.

On the face of it, Stuart and Joan should have had little in common. The son of a garage owner, he was born into a happy and comfortable home in 1939 in north-east Scotland and was inspired to become an actor in 1955. ‘James Dean had just died in a car crash and I thought I could take over,’ he laughs. ‘So did about 700,000 other young men. I was so naive.

‘Joan was a brilliant actress. Much better than me. She just lacked the killer instinct to go far.’

Joan was born in Australia in 1941. Her mother died when she was four and her father married again, but she didn’t get on with her difficult stepmother. She was 23 when she came to England to seek a better life. She passed an audition for the Bristol Old Vic theatre company and met another jobbing actress taken on at £7 a week – Jane Asher.

The two women became inseparable when the company went on a six-month world tour that included performing on Broadway in New York.

‘They really clicked as friends,’ ¬Stuart recalls. ‘At the time, Jane was the long-time girlfriend of Paul McCartney. But when they met, Joan was newly arrived from Australia and had never heard of The Beatles.’

After leaving the Bristol Old Vic in the Sixties, Joan moved to Scotland and the small theatre company that rehearsed that day in Edinburgh – and later fell in love with Stuart.

Just before their marriage, Stuart told her his secret.

‘Before I met her I had had a relationship with another actress who had become pregnant. Our relationship didn’t work out and the baby girl had been adopted. Joan took it very well.’

After their quiet marriage at a ¬register office, they lived for a year in Asher’s family home in Central London. ‘We paid only ten shillings a week rent,’ Stuart says. ‘We then rented a one-bedroom flat in Tooting where we stayed throughout our married life. It never became too small as we didn’t have children. They just didn’t happen.

‘We never had much money, but after my fee for being in the Yorkie Bar advert, we managed to buy a tiny stone cottage in the Midi district of France and went there whenever we could. We weren’t bothered about the precariousness of the acting world. If we needed money, we’d get a different type of job. At one time, Joan sold cigarettes in Woolworths and I was a lorry driver.

‘We used to work all round the country. We performed together in Lock Up Your Daughters in Newcastle, for example, and I directed a play in Cheltenham and later did some TV including The Bill and Dr Finlay’s Casebook.’

Then, 25 years ago and completely out of the blue, Stuart was contacted by the mother of his child to say his daughter had traced her and wanted to meet her father. ‘We met for a drink. She was 19. We got on really well and over time got to really love each other. She is now married with two children. Luckily Joan and my daughter clicked too.’

Joan had by then decided she was fed up with acting and wanted to do something with plants and gardens, so they sold their house in France and used the money to buy a garden centre in South London. ‘She loved it but it was very hard work so I joined her as a partner and we worked together. We called it The Independent Republic of Patio. ¬People used to come in and sit and feel at peace. It was heaven for us.’

Stuart sold it a month before Joan died.

The first sign that Joan was not well came six years ago when she kept losing her balance. Stuart says: ‘A few months later she suddenly screamed for me. I rushed into the hall and found her about to keel over. Luckily I caught her. ’

She was taken to St George’s Hospital in Tooting and was originally diagnosed with a heart attack, then a stroke. ‘Eventually a French doctor said she thought it was corticobasal degeneration – a degeneration of the middle part of the brain. Joan was also displaying some symptoms of Parkinson’s.

‘Her old friend Jane, who is president of Parkinson’s UK, recommended a professor at The National Hospital for Neurology in London. Joan went in a week at a time for tests and was eventually diagnosed with Pick’s disease, which, as the French doctor predicted, would only be confirmed after she died.

‘I then became her full-time carer. I did all the cooking, washed her and did her hair and all the intimate things, which was OK for me but undignified for her. Social services used to come round but we both hated it, especially when some of them patronisingly called her ‘‘sweet pea’’. We were a very independent couple.’

Stuart rarely left her side. ‘I only went out to rush to Waitrose, or occasionally for an hour or so to do some watercolour painting in my shed in the garden. I rigged up a bell so she could ring if she needed me.

‘Physically she was so stiff and in such pain in the end that she could move only one hand slightly. Even holding a fork became impossible and she often couldn’t get to the commode in time. She deteriorated mentally too.

‘Then, last autumn, the doctor told me she had three months at best to live. Part of me knew she would eventually have to go into a hospice and be fed by tube, but neither of us wanted that. I knew they would look after her but they wouldn’t love her like I did and I didn’t want anyone else to care for her. ’

He remembers little about the days after Joan’s death. ‘The first thing I remember is being charged with murder in Sutton police station. At the time I didn’t know what they were talking about.’

He was kept in a police cell for two nights and then remanded to Belmarsh Prison where, at first, he was terrified.

‘There were three of us in a two-man cell. They were probably murderers but then that is what they called me.’

He organised Joan’s humanist funeral on February 18 this year from prison but was refused permission to go. Jane Asher spoke at the funeral. She said: ‘I have never seen two ¬people more entirely and devotedly in love . . . anyone could see they were a couple who would be together as long as fate would allow. ’

Joan’s ashes are now in a terracotta urn in Stuart’s living room.

He says: ‘I don’t regret what I did to Joan but I am sorry I didn’t succeed in killing myself, because it was our deal to go together.

‘She wasn’t like anyone else. I adored her but I don’t feel guilty. We both loved a Celtic ballad that had the lines “Oh that I could find me a handsome boatman to carry me over to my love and die.” ’

And he adds: ‘I like to think that I carried her to the other side.’

[my-deer-history]

The Will of James Laurens

Notes:

The handwriting here was incredibly difficult to decipher, so there are lots of gaps below - either words I could not make out at all, or some where I've included my best guess. If you have any corrections or suggestions to offer, please do let me know!

There are no line breaks in the original document, but to make for easier reading, I have added them in where they seemed most fitting.

Although all the other names are given in their English forms, for some reason the name Mary is given in the French form of Marie instead.

Transcript:

In the Name of God so be it on this sixth day of the month of September in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty two in the afternoon at the City of Vigan diocess of Alais in Languedoc I the undersigned James Laurens a Native and Inhabitant of Charles Town Capital of the State of South Carolina in North America but having been for several years in Languedoc because of my health being at present in an infirm state but of sound understanding and having the use of my Memory I find it necessary to explain my last will and testament and make the [—]

and first I recommend my Soul to God in the name of Jesus Christ and as to my body that it be buried in the most private manner and the least expensive

and as to what relates to my estate I dispose as I think I ought institute in [manner] following first it is my will that my proportion which is two fifth part of the debt in Great Britain in the partnership of Hawkins Petrie and Company be paid therewith the just and lawful Interest unless that an argument can be made with the Auditors to receive the payment in South Carolina

I give to my most dear and beloved wife Marie Laurens an annuity of five hundred pounds sterling during her natural life to be paid regularly every six months in advance in the proportions of two hundred and fifty pounds sterling to commence from the day of my decease and it is my will that all my Real and personal Estate be liable for the payment of the said annuity unless that my Testamentary Executors and Executrices should choose to give her some other security for the payment of the said annuity to the satisfaction of my said wife and in case my said wife shall remain in Europe after my decease it is my will that the said annuity be paid to her at the place of her residence [clear] of all deductions and expenses whatsoever

I give unto my said wife all the money I have at present or that I may have in the hands of Mr William Manning of London and also the sum of five hundred pounds sterling invested for my account in the Consolidated Bank of London in the name of Mr John Savage if those two sums exceed the sum of twelve hundred pounds sterling Madam Laurens shall have a right to receive the whole and she shall render an account of the overplus to the Executors but if the said two sums shall not make twelve hundred pounds sterling then it is my will that my Executors and Executrices or some of them pay the sum that shall be wanting in sterling or in that which shall be equivalent to its full value in sterling

I also give unto my said beloved wife all the plate [—] [—] my wearing apparel table [service] and furniture of every denomination whatsoever whether in France London or America

I also give unto my said wife all and [—] my Male and Female Negroes excepting the female Satira whom I declare free from all servitude whatsoever and I [recommend] it to all my Executors and Executrices to assist the said Negro Woman if she be reduced to poverty or in any other distress

I give unto my dear friend Elizabeth Petrie widow and sister of my dear wife an annuity of fifty pounds sterling payable every six months in advance during her natural life unto my friend Edmond Petrie as a token of my regard an hundred pounds sterling and to each of his Brothers namely Alexander and George fifty pounds sterling and to his sister Marie Petrie fifty pounds sterling

I give unto my dear Brother Henry Laurens as a token of my unalterable friendship and esteem the sum of five hundred pounds sterling and twenty pounds sterling to purchase a Mourning Ring as a remembrance of his Brother

I give unto my dear Niece Martha Laurens as a token of my friendship for her and as an acknowledgement for the service she has rendered to me and my family and for her good and gentle conduct upon all occasions five hundred pounds sterling

I give unto my Nephew Francis Bremar of South Carolina the sum of three hundred and twenty pounds sterling to my Nephew John Bremar two hundred and fifty pounds sterling to my Niece Martha [L—] widow two hundred and fifty pounds sterling

I give unto my dear sister in law Ann Sanders as a token of my friendship and esteem fifty pounds sterling

I give as a mark of my friendship and respect for the memory of my deceased friend Jacob Motte to each of the Children of his last Marriage two hundred pounds sterling

I give unto my worthy friend Isaac Motte as a token of my friendship fifty pounds sterling to my worthy friend Louis Gervais as a token of my friendship fifty pounds sterling

I give three hundred pounds sterling to be distributed amongst my poor relations in such proportion as my Executors and Executrices shall think proper

I give five hundred pounds sterling to be distributed among the poor of South Caroline at the discretion of my Executors and Executrices I give unto the Protestant Church at Vigan fifty pounds sterling and in case that the Roman Catholic Church should pretend to and could possess [herself] of this Legacy It is my will that It shall become void and of none effect

And lastly I give unto my dear Nephew John Laurens to my dear Niece Martha Laurens to my dear Nephew Henry Laurens Junior and unto my dear Niece Marie Eleanor Laurens Minor and unto their Heirs for ever all my [Real] and personal Estate of what kind soever and at what place soever they be situated to be equally shared between them subject nevertheless to the payment of the annuity of five hundred pounds sterling to my wife and as my said Niece Marie Eleanor Laurens is under age her share shall remain in trust in the hands of my said Brother Henry Laurens her father and in case that my said Nephew and Niece Henry Laurens and Marie Eleanor Laurens shall happen to die in their minority it is my will that the share to them here above bequeathed shall go and be divided in equal shares between their Brothers and Sisters who shall survive each as [—] [them]

I nominate for my Executors and Executrices of this my will my Brother Henry Laurens my Wife Marie Laurens my Nephew John Laurens my Niece Martha Laurens and my Nephew Henry Laurens

such is my last will and testamentary disposition which I will that it avail in the best manner it [can] by law which [—] of the difficulty I have to explain myself in french though I understand the Language I have transcribed it in English on an [separate] sheet of paper and Mr Louis Gendre Notary Public of Vigan aforesaid wrote and translated it into French upon this sheet of paper dictated by my dear Niece Martha Laurens and in my presence and that of my dear Wife my dear Nephew Henry Laurens and my dear Niece Marie Eleanor Laurens and the said translation made the said Mr Gendre read over the contents to me distinctly and intelligibly and which I clearly understood and comprehended and I declare that it comprises my will most expressively and it is my will that it be fulfilled after my decease the same as though it had been done at Charlestown the place of my residence even though it should not have all the required formalities In testimony thereof

I have signed my name under the two foregoing pages at the [House] where I reside at Vigan aforesaid on the day and year as above I annul all other wills which I have heretofore made Note the utilization of the words and [—] fifty pounds sterling I give as a mark of my friendship as approved James Laurens

--

(Thanks to @nordleuchten for filling in some of the gaps!)

[kafkaoftherubble]

破蛋日快乐！你的礼物是：为什么龙会戏珠？//

Happy Hatching Anniversary! Your present is: why do Longs hold pearls?

@secondhanddragon So, you wanna know why?

To be honest, while I was trawling for information, I realized that not even that many Chinese sites talk about the pearls. Such might be the nature of folklore—everyone gives their own interpretations, which are then spread orally. Tough to find "academic sources." And of course, wonky citations with broken links and poor reference points are always a hindrance.

"神龙戏珠" (The Divine Dragon Playing with Its Pearl) is a motif that has a few variations. It could be a single dragon (单龙戏珠), two dragons (二龙戏珠), three dragons (三龙戏珠), and even multiple dragons chasing one single pearl (多龙戏珠) [1].

In this figure, you can see five dragons chasing a single pearl. [1]

-------

#1: The Pearl... Really Is a Pearl!

Pearls are formed by living shell mollusks—which are members of the "aquatic tribes" [2]. They are hard to come by, lustrous, pretty as fuck, and very beloved in Chinese culture.

Chinese dragons, unlike the Western ones, are associated with water, right? That's because Long is "the king of the ocean" and it "rules over all aquatic tribes" [2]. If your dime-a-dozen clam could produce something as precious as a pearl, why can't the King itself produce the most beautiful and precious pearl that triumphs them all, huh?

This appears to be the genesis of the concept of the "Pearl." But naturally, as time goes on, more and more meanings are embedded in it!

----------

#2: The Pearl as an Egg

Long is a chimera of sorts. It's an amalgamation of, inter alia, a fish, a crocodile, a snake, a boar, a horse, an ox, a lizard, and a deer [1] [2]. Fishes and the reptilian reps in this group lay eggs. The crocodile's egg is even kinda big—way larger than a pearl.

Do you see? The egg is seen as a pearl and vice versa [1] [2]. Eggs are the source of life for crocodiles and snakes, and therefore, egg-pearl represents life in dragon arts [2]. When the dragon is "playing with its pearl," it's actually playing with "life." This motif embodies the dragon's status as a protector and caretaker of life [2].

Almost like a parent would...

---------

#3: The Pearl as a Symbol of Love for the Dragons' Children

Now, some might think that all Longs are male, as the mythical creature symbolizing women is often the Fenghuang (and so one might think that all Fenghuangs are females). That's not true. Dragons and Fenghuang both have two, uh, sexes.

This figure shows two dragons "playing" with a pearl. [1]

The "Two Dragons Chasing a Pearl" motif is popular in classical Chinese artwork. One of the dragons is male, and the other is female. The Pearl symbolizes egg/life, as stated in #2, which means the Pearl also comes to symbolize "a child" [1] [2].

In other words, Papa Dragon and Mama Dragon are playing with—and stealthily protecting—Anya Pearl.

An important note that isn't stated in any of my citations, but is nonetheless relevant: Chinese people may call themselves 龙的传人, "The Dragon's Heir." It means—as mythical origin goes—the Chinese people identify as "the children of the Long." Now connect this to what you learned in #3.

-------

#4: The Pearl as the Sun

Sometimes the Pearl is ON FIRE!!!

This is especially predominant in the aforementioned "Two Dragons Chasing a Pearl" motif. The Pearl looks more like a fireball than an actual pearl. Below the Pearl, then, one may find a depiction of the sea.

"The Pearl leaps out from the ocean." What does that connotate? The rising sun [2]!

Now, what does it have to do with the dragon? Well, have a little detour.

The Four Symbols (四象)

You might have already heard of this, but in case you didn't: each cardinal direction has a "guardian."

东方青龙 // Azure Dragon of the East

西方白虎 // White Tiger of the West

南方朱雀 // Vermillion Bird of the South

北方玄武 // Black Warrior (or Black Tortoise) of the North

They represent more than just directions—they have their own traits, backstories, virtues, etc.

Who's the Guardian of the East? The Azure Dragon!

Now, drawing our discussion back to the Pearl, you can see why the dragon chases after it now, right? The Pearl is the Sun; it rises from the East. The Guardian of the East plays/chases after it as an emblem of ancient Chinese worship of the Sun [1] [2].

-------

#5: The Pearl and the Dragons Representing Chinese Aesthetics [1]

Chinese art loves "wholeness" and "pair."

You often find a pair of things in Chinese culture: a pair of Door God, a pair of Chinese duilian (poetry of sorts; used for blessings and wishes), the likes. Chinese culture also really loves things like the full moon, because "roundness" symbolizes the whole, unity, and consummation.

Two dragons form a pair. In front of them, an orb—a round, whole object. Hence, the motif is well-beloved as it features two of the Chinese culture's favorite aesthetics [1].

Kinda hard to tell, but two dragons are playing with the pearl here.

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

And that concludes the answer to your hundred-year enigma, haha! To the best of my ability, anyway. I sure hope it's been a blast to read.

More importantly, happy birthday, @autistic-beanmonster2!

I have been saving this up for a ramble just for you, but I couldn't find the time to write it. I'm sorry; I really planned to show this to you the moment the time struck 12 am in your time zone through the power of "scheduled post," but... let's just say I've been hit by a hindrance. Oops!

Well, does it matter if I'm just a bit late?

Thank you for reading my ramble!

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

Citations:

神龙戏珠，所戏珠子为何？("The Divine Dragon Plays with Its Pearl; What is that Pearl?") by 徐崇良工作室, essay on Sohu.com [in Chinese]

龙的嘴里为什么要含着珠子 (Why does the dragon have a pearl in its mouth") answered by an anonymous user on wenwen.sogou.com [in Chinese]

The question that produced this ramble is originally found here.

[grem-archive]

Might I ask WHY Mr. Jones is having his archaeological license revoked?

aight so first off, not to knock his indiana rizz, but what type of buffoon wears a leather jacket in the field? absolute dipshittery.

he's too broad fr like this man is just a walking encyclopedia. all the professors i know are very smart, but generally they're all very specialized by the time they get to the point of teaching. my primate anatomy professor's specialty was spinal development in children. ur telling me indie is going from pre-columbian south america, to ancient egypt, india, medieval christian artifacts, and then to china? i'm envious but...

and he's more a treasure hunter than anything? rather than naming and recording a site based on a hypothesis or questions had, finding possible evidence, and deciding to do survey and then excavations (if necessary),,,, indie is basically looking for very specific types of artifacts. famous things belonging to famous people or important symbolic or ritual artifacts. i mean c'mon. the holy grail? a golden fertility idol? also this man does basically ZERO recording of anything which made me want to cry because man filling out artifact tags and bags and making sure you have everything in context CORRECTLY...AAAAAAA!!! 90% or more of archaeology is not this way.

to use my own experience as an example: we were attempting to answer questions about the daily lives of settlers at jamestown, finding those ordinary stories. my favorite artifacts to expose from the screens were pieces of clay pipes and things like shards of glass. like case bottle glass that can relatively date a unit to 1652 or later because of previous knowledge guiding us, telling us this type of glass wasn't used before then? beautiful even in its state of decay. shards of pipes that can tell us where they're from by their color (a red virginian clay versus the white 'kaolin' clay of england)? and some even have decoration that we can mend? maker's marks even??? "star maker" pipes my beloved! they tell us about trade at the time. the importance of something seemingly as mundane as the tobacco trade.

bestie. we got excited to find evidence of a ditch that was mentioned tangentially in just one or two historical records. we are not looking for the fantastic on purpose. usually.

there is so much i could say on fictional archaeologists like indiana jones in terms of accuracy, but honestly? that takes the fun out of it. since those movies have come out there has been an abundance of real archaeologists that have debunked his behavior. even i still enjoyed the action of the movie! just take him with a grain of salt :D

[saltwater-and-woodsmoke]

Stupid Things (Good Outcomes) || JJ Maybank || Two

Enter Rafe Cameron, stage left.

JJ visits his brothers grave and Rafe Cameron shares some information that he didn’t know about his brother. Back in Los Angeles, Christopher Diaz is a national treasure and calls JJ out for acting weird. Aka, it’s a filler folks!

Sorry for the late update, I haven’t had internet but I wanted to get this out.

Words: 1795

Warnings: gay (or at least bisexual) Rafe my beloved. Christopher Diaz calls his uncle JJ out. Bobby Nash is deciding if he wants to adopt this white boy or not (he does). JJ almost sounds homophobic for .2 seconds sorry

Gravel crunched under the blonde’s feet as he wandered through the cemetery. Realistically, he knew exactly where he was going. Hell, he’d done it so many times in the last twenty three years, it was second nature to him now.

This time, however, he was clutching a bouquet of tulips that he’d actually bought, not a bouquet of the wildflowers he’d picked on his way. Finally, his feet came to a stop and he found himself sitting in a grassy spot, staring at two polished headstones. Well, it was one big one actually but there were two names engraved into it. Two birthdates, two death dates, two people he should have a relationship with but didn’t. One of them he never actually officially met.

Juliette Kate Maybank

October 11, 1980 - April 22, 2002

Tyler Royce Maybank

June 13, 1997 - September 21, 2012

JJ, of course, knew the story of how his mom died. Complications of pregnancy, pre-eclampsia to be precise. His father had always liked to tell him it was his fault that she was gone, and now as an adult, he knew that that wasn’t the case. As a kid however, that had hurt him deeply. He knew now that it could happen to any pregnant woman and it just so happened that it came on fast with his mother, forcing doctors to deliver him nearly two months premature in an attempt to save her life. The effort had been futile, though, because she died two days later at the tender age of twenty one.

And JJ? Well he had spent the first three months of his life in the hospital. Actually, his father almost just left him there (and if JJ was honest about it, as a teenager he wondered if his life would have been better if he had) but strong words from Anna Carrera had made him change his mind.

Despite not getting to know his mother, from the moment he could remember, Tyler Maybank would bring him to the cemetery to leave flowers on her grave on Mother’s Day and her birthday. For the last thirteen years, though, he’d been coming on his brothers birthday as well.

“Hey Ty.” He murmured. “Twenty eight today, huh? I wonder what you’d be like now? Still my annoying older brother, probably. You’d probably be married and have your own kids by now, or would be telling your wife that you didn’t need to have kids because you had me.”

“Would you be proud of me? I think you’re the only one who ever was.”

“He would be. Your mom too.”

The voice took him by surprise and he was suddenly looking up at no other than Rafe Cameron who had his hands shoved into his jeans pockets looking nervous.

He hadn’t actually seen Rafe since they’d gotten back from South America. There’d been rumors that he was in jail, or rehab, but eventually the consensus was that he was hiding out on the cut drugged out of his mind. Of course, Sarah knew the truth, and had only stated that it wasn’t her story to tell.

Rafe’s hair was longer now, and he had the start of a beard, but JJ couldn’t help but notice that he definitely still looked good.

“I didn’t know you were still on the island.” JJ spoke. “You can sit, you know. Just wanted to have a beer with my brother on his birthday.”

“I uh, I haven’t left except for the six months after my dad died.” Rafe spoke, sitting beside him. “I got clean from the coke, started taking online classes and rebuilt Cameron Development with honest work. God, Tyler and I were going to break off from my dad and start our own company. Now look at me, twenty seven, single dad, and still technically working for my dad.”

“Single dad?” JJ raised an eyebrow. “Also, your dad is dead, like for real. I watched him launch himself off a cliff for us. That success is all you now.”

“His name is Jackson, or I just call him Jack.” Rafe told him. “He’s five now. Jackson Tyler Cameron.”

Before JJ could reply though, the older man was standing up and dusting his pants off. “For the record JJ, I started doing coke to get rid of your brother’s memory. It didn’t work. Also, your brother was gay, but he wasn’t out yet, so he would have had a husband and not a wife, and honestly? It probably would have been me.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ ───

JJ sat quietly, staring at the table in front of him. It was a day off from the academy and everyone had to work, so he’d offered to hang out with Christopher all day, and had brought him to the firehouse to meet up with everyone for dinner after giving him way too much screen time and letting eat way too much sugar.

“You okay JJ?” Mari sat in front of him with a confused look. He glanced up at her and nodded, then looked back down at his hands.

“He’s been weird all day.” The voice belonged to Christopher, making JJ turn to look at him with narrowed eyes.

“Traitor.” JJ’s tone was joking, but Chris just shrugged and continued.

“He’s been quiet and was way too quick to let me play video games all day. But he won’t talk about it, because he likes to act like Dad or something.”

“I’m fine.” JJ confirmed. “And next time I’m not letting Chris win when we play Fortnite.”

“J, you know we aren’t going to judge you.”

“My brother was gay.” He practically blurted out.

“Okay, and? So is mine?” Mariella stared at him. “Wait, you’re not like homophobic or something are you?”

“No, of course not.” JJ half laughed. “I share an ex boyfriend with my ex girlfriend, who is now dating a woman. It just took me by surprise to find that out, y’know?”

“Why did he say was?” It was Hen that spoke this time. “You said your brother was gay not that he is gay.”

“He was gay because I’m talking about him in past tense.” JJ clarified. “As in he’s no longer with us, not on this mortal plane, yeeted himself into the afterlife.”

The medic was quiet as she took in the information he’d just told her. All eyes were on JJ and he was suddenly acutely aware that the Diaz siblings had been the only two that knew about Tyler.

“Uhm, I’m sorry.” She finally spoke. “Is that why you went home three weeks ago?”

“Yeah, Maybank, if you need someone to talk to, I can set you up with the department psychologist. I know you’re not officially a firefighter yet but you’re well on your way.” It was Bobby that spoke that time and JJ was suddenly super uncomfortable.

“No, guys, I’m fine.” He told them. “It was thirteen years ago. I went home three weeks ago to spend some time with my father figure, Heyward. It was also Tyler’s birthday. He would have been twenty eight this year.”

“Thirteen years ago?” Hen spoke. “You were just a kid, JJ.”

“I was ten.” JJ told her. “Tyler was fifteen, he got stuck in a rip current and drowned. My dad was thirty one and buried one of his kids ten years after he buried his wife.”

“So you really only ever had your dad.” Bobby spoke coming to sit with them. “You’re sure okay.”

“I’m fine. My mom died two days after I was born and I was in the NICU for three months so I don’t think she ever actually got to meet me.” JJ confirmed. “My dad was a drunk, and liked to shove his kids around. He got worse after Tyler died, because then all he had was a reminder of his dead wife. He eventually skipped town when I was sixteen, and I almost died like four times before my friend Pope dragged me and Jombee to his house and the Heywards took us in.”

“If you’re sure.” Bobby sighed. “I can’t make you talk to someone but the offer stands.”

“I’m sure.” JJ told him. “I don’t care that my brother was gay, by the way. It just threw me off because I found out he was gay from his ex boyfriend, who is apparently the man that made my life a nightmare growing up. Like my brother was dating the man who framed my best friend for murder and shot his sister.”

“You got out, that’s what’s important.” Mari told him. “What Rafe did to you and your friends was horrible. And you guys didn’t deserve it but you know what? You came out on top because I don’t think Rafe fucking Cameron is sitting on sixty seven million dollars and you are.”

“I’m sorry you’re sitting on how much?” It was the rest of the crew, other than Eddie, that was shocked that time.

“Oh you guys don’t know?” Mari teased. “JJ here is one of the six teenagers who found El Dorado and the Royal Merchant.”

“Once again Mari, the El Dorado thing is a technicality because I didn’t physically see it, only Jombee and Sarah did.”

It was quiet for a moment while the people around him took the information in. He didn’t like to flaunt his wealth, and now everyone in the room knew he was rich, but had decided he wanted to be a firefighter. He could see Bobby looking between him and Buck with a smirk, and it was like a light bulb went on in his head. Buck was also sitting on a shit ton of money and the rest of the crew were seeing their similarities for the first time.

“Okay seriously, what kind of names do your friends have?” Eddie finally spoke, attempting to change the subject. JJ couldn’t help but laugh.

“They’re nicknames.” He explained. “Jombee is actually John B but we’ve always called him

Jombee. His dad was Big John and so he became John B. Pope is also a John. His full name is John Paul, so we call him Pope. But if you want a ridiculous legal name? Sarah’s ex boyfriend. His name is Topper.”

“Topper?”

“Well I don’t care about his friends names.” Buck spoke. “What does JJ stand for?”

“Uh, well. Actually no one on the island actually ever cared enough to find out. I was always JJ to everyone, but legally and on my birth certificate and driver’s license it’s Jesse James.” JJ explained.

“Like the bank robber?”

“Like the bank robber.”

“Okay, JJ is my new best friend.” Buck announced. “We’re going to start a dead brothers club, so Chimney I guess you get to join too.”

[myhauntedsalem]

What was said about the house on 815 S. Ash is a bunch of nonsensical lies to get money. Rhea White was my beloved grandmother and I have stayed upstairs in the bedrooms and never were their ghosts roaming the halls. I am angry that you used this beautiful family home to propagate lies!

815 S. Ash St, Casper WY is the Ivy House Inn

The home was originally built in 1916, and construction officially concluded in the 1940 with the addition of the wonderful, grand porches. Many sources out there say that the home was built by Mr. and Mrs. W. Frank White, but I’ve found that not to be the case. However, the White Family did play a major role in the history of the home, and as you’ll see a little later on, are the prime candidates for the hauntings!

Rhea Eliza Porter was born on March 10, 1902. She and Willis Frank White were married in Salt Lake City, Utah on May 15, 1929, and as you might have guessed from that location, were Mormons. The White Family lived in various locations throughout Casper and Cheyenne during the 1930s and 1940s, but settled into their final home on South Ash Street between 1944 and 1945. Here it is rumored that the Whites hosted Mormon missionaries over the years. Together, the couple are listed in the 1940 census as having three children: Dale, Joe, and Charmaine. Frank may have also had at least one daughter, if not more children, from a previous relationship.

It is said that Rhea ruled the home with all the strictness that her Mormon upbringing afforded her. She refused to allow drinking and smoking in her home and forbade any other type of immoral activity as well. After Frank passed away in 1957, Rhea continued to live in the home until her own death on May 15 1995 (her wedding anniversary) at the age of 93. The following year, the home was purchased by Tom and Kathy Johnson, who immediately began the task of renovating the large private residence into a cozy bed and breakfast.

Almost immediately, strange activity began. Tom was working with a power drill when it suddenly stopped. He turned around and saw that the cord had not only been unplugged, but it was floating mid-air, as if someone was holding it up before letting it fall! Another time, a hammer mysteriously just disappeared. In paranormal research, we often associate an upswing in paranormal activity with any type of renovations, but the strangeness didn’t stop even after the Ivy House Inn opened for business.

The main entity seems to be that of Mrs. White. A female form has been seen walking down the hallway, a ghostly female face has been spotted in not just mirrors and windows but caught in photographs as well. Guests often report a knocking at their door at night, only to find no one there when they answer. Phantom smells are also quite common–especially those of chocolate baking and vintage cold remedies.

Other members of the White family also seem to still be sticking around. Two Siamese cats, believed to have belonged to Mrs. White, have been seen darting around the inn and one guest even reported that one of the cats jumped up in bed with her and slept, purring, at the foot of the bed all night long. Mr. White tends to favor the parking area out back—a shadowy figure of a man has been seen in that area who likes to activate car alarms. Mr. White has also been seen inside the house, particularly creeping out one guest who reported that a man’s figure stood over the bed one night and stated “Isn’t it funny how people get lost?” One can only imagine what that phrase might be in reference to…

The lower level of the home is no stranger to weird occurrences, either. Guests staying in one of two suites have claimed to have very vivid dreams of a young man who constantly paces back and forth between the sink and the closet area. Could this be one of the White sons?

Before purchasing the home, Tom Johnson didn’t believe in ghosts. However, with all that activity, he quickly became a little more open to the idea. In fact, he became a paranormal investigator! He and his son, Eric, gave tours and held annual October events in the home to share the history and the haunts of the Ivy House. They also held an annual party for Mrs. White and no less than nine official paranormal investigations were conducted.

Unfortunately, opportunities to explore the hauntings for yourself are now limited to non-existent. In 2009, the Ivy House Inn was purchased by The Self-Help Center and converted into Turning Point, a transitional group home for female victims of domestic violence.

[luesmainblog]

The fourth episode of south park, aired in 1997, was a pro-gay message that painted your stereotypical lisping femme in a positive light and explicitly showed him as safe to be around a child.

i get it. south park is easily lumped into Offensive Cartoon Sitcom with family guy and robot chicken and all that. and it's tempting to brush it off as "oh just 'cus the fandoms really gay doesn't mean the show is". hell, it's not MY first choice for Best Queer Media, either. But South Park has CONSISTANTLY been there for gays from practically day one. It has actively made a choice to take the scary stereotypes that conservatives point to to make you hate us, and make them real people who are beloved in their community. It has a transphobic history, yes, but it came around. it has one of the ONLY detransitioned characters i can think of. if we count the video games, it gave us THE most inclusive character creation style as far as stating your identity. it very loudly made a case FOR gay marriage when that was an issue, and when the trans bathroom stuff came around, it very much made the case FOR letting trans people into the bathroom they're most comfortable in.

south park is not only queer media, it is undeniably important in the history of queers becoming more accepted in our world. hazbin may not have been able to air had south park not been there before. that's not a punch against hazbin, i love them both(yeah yeah i know), but for these reasons, i do feel SP deserves the vote.

BEST QUEER MEDIA TOURNAMENT FINAL ROUND!!!!!

[ propaganda masterpost]

[libidomechanica]

Her heart from your hand, of legs and clip my will

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               1

Colin the mountains rear theirs was that great   reprove, and obedience; that Colinet.   Till show to draw—his care her. Long, loves to make Elysian ground, where most thing, he took on a day as after a long to   save you may come may come with my love, and   evill fare: mayst those inquiry; from every sound low, appear unveil the day of years to build upon there thine eyesight? Her   heart from your hand, of legs and clip my will.   That my Pegasus shouting Hál! Since my fingers am I at all? Let him who sayd, he slouches, whether russet, silk, or   singularity of your brow. But in   your eyes woo as might, and thou warnest—but weak in mediation on constant be.

               2

Then Nature sweet, how the way too was she   was a warm cloistered in a wonder rouse   us, and Stand; she was attaches—but if I be dear birds sight, in honey tastes to do our case him, her Colin ranne. Till   thee, and to have succeeding is, the benches   from top to the South, cared their brakes give me in the waves clasp? You as much showers, and swear to ask his hair, then, sweetness, and   delicate aim, a perpetrate upon   then! And wine much more, you may nothing where the dew sat child, who could be ashamed. A little ambition does and then I lie   down the straight earnest—but Grey was shocks my   particular—fishers false bonds of Beauty, education. From isolation.

               3

Before than mournen ever so poore Muse-   like, there, tulip, resist for loue shoulder   as love you again. How say I? She move: so longer for scarce a scarf on a lee- shore, where’s alembic, and that vulgarit—   ’ which thou shalt lie display her daughters   of fiery little linnets I with an interest intense when I’m like type of princely give while the way or none of   the others are as an ending dress their   tender veteran with a state I doe a Devil tongue and knee-high tube socks that this sonne now gay, but nought else, her things bending.   Wherein I longd the after a lawn, shalt   taste. And eke to a young mankind? I told my love may turns the new comfort bother.

               4

I said to the larks on wing are the wood,   at length of many time to all the lovers   will take away things with may of young roes that not say, three slaves, on purpose? What have had him half of roofing and in the   new Venus sitting of a pretensions   reigneth in measure—the horrible as an armoury, what Passion’d his owne self discompose and kill me, correct, Alas,   what come, and you were it faerie, feend, or stir,   which passe, if I be depreciated in the practice up—he’ll painting body, and smallish her face, that father—none.   But I suspense; then breathed sighs are coin’d in   shamefull how a body is none liquid, glories of the sky. And wind-flower.

               5

The thou should I though, and ye means good he   is, the blueblack as a flower at the   boors cried—and the failed—if we drove finds me for paint now by this toasted frame? That goes over each nook remove; who fought, by   various within an untasted fragrance,   as the very well-beloved, the in Glenturit glen. Why shoulder and thus of a moment on the mouing of blood words are   wafted abroad throne—but where on me lough;   hope, in some gentle Adeline, the shouts with rigorous emulation. Pick up a Harp, between pity hath her speculation   means this may safely charm is she’s   missed, to have don’t have been, I beg all at once to sweet, to the fresh than another.

               6

With no souls we love the same things have guess.   Today is on the digestion? Then kisses   them yet; but now I’m laid us as the coals of my hearts his rights; you have love men’s Ears with its spray biginneth to truth   is allay’d, which therefore ease to help scribbling   shall adore. Can neither without number of those knees locks are like his single ladies an intricacies. Not girlish   but zombie-lite through parents grudge, and listening   to say prayers thereat shoulder at O lonesome future clay, sweet, yet I’ll softling of a wee white of Beauty born, who’s   wise. Beware what pays his screens flickerings,   and aught that Love that oppose we join hands from it be all the while sore encreased.

               7

And Preaching thee made banked him, and hark the   world would breathing to this banners, and arms   were hungry eyes of Solomon’s. The High Court of thou warnest were against a smoothly, also subject the me caught, time may,   all Young in his to my mother’s row, each   shrink—what it a second times pace abroad at his cars of the serious air that time on thy sommer profits is all mould   them hovering, break in the nobler, then abate,   like saint Ambrogio’s! In my death will not mere fix’d, and fetes, and thee better to be seen they put a photograph, with   its songs did lie drown’d; some have, that shall never   soil, Peru, must go, and most constitutional possess’d a sting the largesse?

               8

Were ever at places changes, that the   lost triumph’st and walk six times in Weimar sleepe   art dead? Than Heavens to be, as the latter: impress’d. Pure repose, for wanteth not vaine, which, as a dun—whether afield it   was the way to be true ally. There we’d   lived, and yet be fifty censer fedde in front on my heart the tiles, for fun watching the first doth divide into the gold of   Ceres’ horn, and ruddy, there a messenger   bled, but doth conscience makest those in her lover, the stalk’d in the deep sleeps, and, t will and swear to never kiss the sun   by the Horizon as your walk’d in such   a beauty that other Lorenzo stand, hard for inditers for wowing wanting.

               9

And every koi swishing toward the Pavilion,   or holla for men, ’ like virtue advance;   but aggravate things but then public’s voice hiss. Keep fresh struck—I’m the sickle; I, poorly desire to folk—remembering   through it self-same caught else, Alas, fond Phant’sie,   thirsty griefes the serpent! And spice; I have thy locks: thy tongue; and merry was a treasure, twas possible in one whose   ravished my sheepe wither is coming gainsay   there, maybe? I arise? From whose virtue even of garden rusting from the door, and to Phoebus wise. And sulkily   the soil lies and blows; ’ and far as the fooles,   which the affairs come, though several compensate the Pearl; he washington hair.

               10

To pipe now passes between St. And shown   high station for A’s and dreary as a   bore, and nuptial mirth, or their fruit. Break, and that white anger than she merely she should be but forced to be immortal, gaz’d amain,   all off, as she, Blythe, blythe anger than   a graine? In Knowledge of them quick, she men peeled off the night, a year. The Latin? The early to his blush it and blythe in   Glenturit glen. Unless grace of wild Asiatic   tame, coming to bathe in its brilliant masquerade; but ensemble’ of his bone from her so, lending on earth and so   wimble, and timid nature of soi-disant   spring words have missed, where will hope I haue nought in her at thing by strewn flowers.

               11

Predicament this very much great   naturally; but things she thousand singe, all their   Latin more than heart, my sisters, ’ for thy, my self-confess the valleys, wealth could make in mediation extremity of   you and yet aliue art freedoms of love depend   on Fortune of lust, modestly if thy way for Vice support in this sword, and bad, and a stopped all with the balls, the shift   the marble, set upon the passion, then   add soul of Platonism, which turns the galleries. How he is not to be double smart; and of a chart the violet there minde;   my present they that he speak that floating   between fool and down, you’ll find a Well of a God become planet of condition?

               12

Should brook, mere splendidly null, deafening true,   my love; let notes to say prayers to   construction as your only line between foot, or revelry grew hush; the storms it a dreams, they that’s works out, lightly winds shaking   upon the Prior: when you moral Washing   the altar-foot, tell Rosalind and proud of his you by the other mouths, that in me hast vs homely, O ye daughters   of those bright: so, love still would rendering   rogue! She is the Soul that weld them is allaying like to thinking of it of her child. As the play at billiards. Taking   birds luld men behold, he saving got it,   of common sympathy a Briton hides half to the Power, to breed unrestrain?

               13

And in my chin, she can stop the monde,   exactly thee. Before if to standeth for   mouth when, with odours that must be ridiculous. Mantle mard, when any meaning true, hath broken-hearted fair, as none every   scent, and wanton play, mirth; but weave, weaves   of one defect—her good she keeps it for the Muse by a fireflies twould utterly be cross to roam then he was in thick   stain her wake, O north, this dull catalogue,   by selfe his birth doth an abandoned field; let us see in the region both may get to you bastard in their Latin? Man’s   breast with my feet and by the times; a sort;   but all times; factitious priest, as the banks, clouded ponder’d, leaving sounds of spices.

               14

And pleasaunce the horrid present’s going   them gentle blaze, and to hire baundoun. Sweet   Silvia in a brief, the same; and this after all mirrhor, as my beloved, that today, it’s today: all out. Yours is   the cracked hand, husband’s fragile visit with   the stroked my bare. Brushes; yet many as skies; in a moment was gone new rays the place, and I hold catkins of Being your   life that watch thereon our feelings ebb and   faith to a titter like the grove of either coldness, and so all for tincture and winges like saint Ambrose, were beside which   is, in my head demaundes, ne wote I,   how these living how them still your slender pass, it adds an opportune’s shining?

               15

Being and other form, and have I presence   is as the Peacoks spotted wing rose   from the should this I learn ten mine, you’ll take; she short space between the turrets of whales steered table, and lets drop his bone from passion   of your better taught he let all form   the purr of the sought into Love’s great forefather gentleman. To sit below, if such can ever growing old, if some   concubines, that dwell: vnwise are two contracted   right to the chamber up, can I give the blame,—That is to happiest oligarchs of breathe out thy strings; and she shown the garden   walk, and stays, and showers: the Prior’s   pulpit-place, who to enrich the fingers without the rose, or one veneration.

               16

On fig skins, melon parings, and smiling.   He bids himself was.—But in his tender   prise, round shall rear heart is low, as better taught him, and praise her arms with eyelids pale. Us as if that such a salve can stop   the distance, or what past year, who puts my   Pegasus to our sister, and can’t a painting-brush? Ladies wishing. As a child, the please, might assert, I am come square   for another we loved. From blood, my love,   how bragly it fearlessly—but thou art founder’s primrose palisades by weakening question? Return, and, and oppose I’ve   remark’d distrust invents: that in leading,   it light leaps in the gate of a moment’s evening sun was his penn’d: his clawe dooth wright.

               17

And they hold with splendid tear your depart!   But first twelve sphere, pleas’d, but, pale a sturdy   stoure, so now her write your words run swift I was then shepheards boye no better knowledge o’ his right. To forgive the service do,   mayest thou art; then Nature, and there wasted,   despaire, and the surest wyde, with a golden bound, like bleating there is the weather mother’s welcome the Rain King, but now as   I was these secreates a shorter a   lawn, shall but plain physical fact she hath breath, we browe browe brow that bare, thro’ all the heads in the clearest. Here was borne strong of   the honey-thick to bene mine, retired.   But you be the Myllers row’d; he took growling the iron skies, innumerable?

[bllsbailey]

The Haitian Horror Story No One's Talking About

SPRINGFIELD, Ohio —In the early hours of December 1, 2023, at around 5:40 a.m., a Haitian national ran down 71-year-old Kathy Lynn Heaton, a Springfield grandmother known affectionately as "Mawmaw" by her beloved, in the quaint Midwestern community. The collision killed her, but the driver got off scot-free. 

It was the morning after her 71st birthday, and Heaton, "a like-to-keep-busy kind of woman," was collecting trash cans outside her century-old home on Springfield-Xenia Road, a chore she's performed thousands of times for forty years.

That was when 38-year-old Robenson Louis, driving a 2012 Chrysler 200 at 45 mph, hit Heaton with so much blunt force that the sheer impact knocked her socks off and ripped out her silver hair, clumps of which were found snagged within the cracks of the sedan's shattered windshield, according to the Ohio State Highway Patrol's crash report obtained by Townhall.

Within an hour or so, the coroner collected Heaton, and authorities cleared the debris-scattered scene by sunrise.

Days later, on December 4, 2023, two state troopers and a pair of prosecutors met to discuss the case "for any possible prosecution." However, they then decided that "no charges will be filed" against Louis, per the patrol's notes, despite him reportedly having an expired Indiana license plate.

The Clark County Prosecuting Attorney's office did not respond to Townhall's inquiry asking why Louis was never charged. Louis also did not reply when Townhall contacted him for comment.

"I was driving south on my way to work," Louis told a state trooper on-scene. "I didn't see nobody in the roadway at all. I'm not sure if she [Heaton] was already laying down."

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It was wet and dark outside, Louis said, insisting that he never noticed Heaton, who was wearing a purple shirt at the time, in the light rain. "I didn't see her clothing. I didn't see her at all," he added.

According to the series of statements Louis provided, he was approximately 200 feet away from the crash site when he realized he had "hit something."

A witness waiting to take her child to school said she heard "a bang" followed by a long high-pitched squealing sound—Louis slamming on the car's brakes, she presumed.

Officials closed the case at the end of December, determining that "no further follow up is required" in the investigation.

More than nine months later, Heaton's family is still fighting to keep the case in the public eye, especially as stories of 20,000 Haitians overtaking the tiny town of Springfield continue to capture national attention.

Last week, Heaton's daughter-in-law, Mandy, delivered teary-eyed testimony at the Springfield City Commission meeting on September 10. There, the local lamented how her family was devastated to learn that Louis wouldn't face criminal charges.

Heaton's son, Chris, said he did not have the strength to speak about "the senseless killing of my mother."

"There is nothing that will offset the heartbreak of knowing my mother died after tucking my children into bed, us singing her happy birthday that evening, or the sight of her walking out of my house unaware that would be the last time we'd speak," Chris, appearing alongside his wife, told the city commissioners.

Chris, instead, pleaded with local leaders to pass "Kathy's Law," a public safety bill that would require all foreign nationals seeking an Ohio driver's license to pass the same tests taken by American citizens.

Since they arrived in 2020, the Haitians in Springfield have not "acclimated to the laws, the rights, [and] the responsibilities associated with being an American citizen," particularly when it comes to the rules regulating the operation of a motor vehicle, Chris said.

"Support our cause to ensure that driving regulations are equally enforced because we will not rest until justice is served for Kathy," he implored.

Haitians who are here under Temporary Protected Status (TPS) can acquire a temporary driver's license that's valid for the length they're authorized to stay in the United States, the U.S. Department of Homeland Security says.

Specifically in Ohio, if an alien has a driver's license from a foreign country, it is considered valid in the Buckeye State, according to The Springfield News-Sun. So, Haitian nationals can drive legally there via a foreign ID for up to one year or until they establish residency.

According to a now-deleted U.S. State Department advisory on the dangerous travel conditions in Haiti, "roads are generally unmarked" in the Third World country, "signs indicating the direction of traffic flow seldom exist," and few streets have lane indicators, so "drivers use whichever side of the road is open to them."

Speeding is the norm in Haiti, as speed limits are typically ignored, if they are even posted at all. Right of way is not widely observed. Haitian drivers "can be quite aggressive" and will rarely yield, the State Department site said.

Social media footage posted by Springfield residents has shown cars flying into oncoming traffic, crashing through residences, smashing up businesses, and flipping over.

Concerned community members say it's a regular sight in Springfield: reckless Haitian drivers heading the wrong way down one-way streets, making unlawful turns, taking out street sights, and damaging private property like people's garages. Some say the accident rate has tripled and that insurance companies are not covering Springfield's seniors due to costs skyrocketing.

As for the Heaton family, they have experienced first-hand the horrifying consequences of allowing such ill-vetted motorists to be behind the wheel.

Heaton, however, is not the only fatality in Springfield caused by a dangerous Haitian driver.

Just three months prior to Heaton's death, on August 22, 2023, 11-year-old Aiden Clark was killed when a Haitian national driving without a valid U.S. license (he had a foreign one from Mexico) rammed into a school bus, causing it to overturn and crush the elementary school student, who was ejected out of the emergency hatch, on his first day of class. Dozens of other children were hospitalized with injuries.

36-year-old Hermanio Joseph had jumped across the center line and swerved into the opposite lane on State Route 41. Earlier this year, Joseph was convicted of killing Clark and sentenced to an indefinite term of nine to 13.5 years in prison, plus several years of post-release control. Joseph's time behind bars will be revisited based on behavior and other factors. During sentencing, Judge Douglas Rastatter ruled that Joseph deserved "some degree of mercy and grace, but not much," according to The Springfield News-Sun.

Clark's father, Nathan, also appeared at the City Hall forum last Tuesday to speak out against the "hate" and "intolerance" he's seen directed toward the Haitians, saying he wishes a white man had killed Aiden instead.

"I wish that my son, Aiden Clark, was killed by a 60-year-old white man," the deceased child's dad declared. "I bet you never thought anyone would say something so blunt, but if that guy killed my 11-year-old son, the incessant group of hate-spewing people would leave us alone."

To "clear the air," Clark said Aiden was "not murdered" but killed by accident. Aiden was "accidentally killed by an immigrant from Haiti," he said of the tragedy. "Don't spin this towards hate."

NAACP Springfield, which has emerged as a vocal proponent of the Haitian occupation, is proposing a Haitian driver's ed program to prevent more car crashes.

The city of Springfield announced that it's starting "a first-of-its-kind" driver training course in conjunction with the state of Ohio while Springfield City Schools is currently conducting driver education for Haitian Creole speakers.

Amid the surge of dangerous and deadly Haitian driving, Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine has sent additional State Highway Patrol troopers to Springfield to restore order on the roads. DeWine said that their deployment will support the Springfield Police Department in enforcing traffic laws. OSHP units will be patrolling local roads with the "highest crash rates" and "hold accountable any driver who drives erratically and risks the safety of others."

[minstrelsyinthemedia]

How Blackface "Humor" Thrives in the Americas

While blackface is majorly condemned here, Americans are blind to its persisting legacy. In class, we learned about examples of anti-blackness and minstrelsy that are majorly supported. A prominent example is Soldado Micolta, a beloved TV character in Colombia.

Soldado Micolta is an Afro-Latino soldier character played by a white man in blackface. Yikes. (image credits)

Afrolatinx protesters went to Bogota, Colombia in 2015 to protest Soldado Micolta, demanding the character to be taken off air. When this happened, however, Colombians responded by claiming that Soldado Micolta represented the country’s “diverse cultural and racial expressions of humor” (Meraji & Demby, 2018). 

Using humor to excuse racism is nothing new in Latin American society. There has been a recent study analyzing cases of racial discrimination brought to the Justice Tribunal of the State of Sao Paulo in Brazil. From 2012 to 2016, judges have often dismissed these cases because the question of criminal intent is analyzed through “the lens of racialized social teasing and jokes” (Hernández, 2019, p. 351). Racial discrimination, despite how hurtful it can be, continues to be ingrained in the culture because of how people continue to be flippant about it.

You would probably be asking, “What does this have to do with me? Sure, this sucks, but Black people in the US have it so much better now.” It would be silly to not recognize the changes that society has made to make the world a better place. However, we should not ignore the United States’s history of white supremacy and anti-blackness. Distinct non-white ethnic groups in the United States are continued to be seen as foreign, but often times, they would show support towards conservatism and racist ideologies. This can be explained with the idea of “multiracial whiteness.” Multiracial whiteness is an ideology that reflects the understanding of whiteness as more than a skin color. Whiteness guarantees a political identity and culture that represents dominance over others (Flores, 2021). Afrodescendants of today who are successful in a White-powered society like the United States’s look this way because of adaptation. While Americans have become more accepting of Afrodescendants, African-Americans have also adapted to white standards of life.

In fact, Latinx Americans, including all skin tones, participate in anti-Black violence. There has been a "disturbing trend" of more Latinxs joining white supremacist hate groups like League of the South and the Proud Boys (Hernandez, 2022, p. 103). There have also been isolated incidents where Latinx Americans have assaulted Black folks. In 2012, Peruvian American George Zimmerman murdered Black teen Trayvon Martin for walking in his neighborhood, but it was argued that he was not racist because of his Latino heritage (Hernandez, 2022, p. 102). Minorities in the US are just as capable as white people of being racist towards African-Americans, and we often ignore this fact.

“The problem today is that people are laughing at the wrong things,” my theatre and film professor, Allan Havis, tells me when describing blackface in film. There have been many examples in movies of blackface being used in satire, such as Tropic Thunder (2008) and Bamboozled (2000). While they have both received mixed opinions because of their controversial themes, there has always been an existing minority that finds these movies funny not because of the satire, but because of blackface itself. 

Reparations toward African Americans have always been the subject of a complicated debate, but I believe that they are necessary given the long-lasting stain of blackface from the past to the present.

Works Cited

Flores, Tatiana. “‘Latinidad Is Cancelled’: Confronting an Anti-Black Construct.” Latin American and Latinx Visual Culture, vol. 3, no. 3, July 2021, pp. 58–79, https://doi.org/10.1525/lavc.2021.3.3.58.

Hernández, Tanya Katerí. “Latin American Racial Equality Law as Criminal Law.” Latin American and Caribbean Ethnic Studies, vol. 14, no. 3, Sept. 2019, pp. 348–58, https://doi.org/10.1080/17442222.2019.1661971.

Hernández, Tanya Katerí. (2022). Racial Innocence: Unmasking Latino Anti-Black Bias and the Struggle for Equality. Beacon Press. 

Meraji, S. M., & Demby, G. (Hosts). (2018, June 13). Twenty-First Century Blackface. [Audio podcast episode]. In Code Switch. National Public Radio. https://www.npr.org/2018/06/13/619359049/twenty-first-century-blackface