#but also while this grief is here it will channel from sadness to irritation and more and being ignored because that is the greatest offense

[goblin-alchemist]

Do you have any tips for getting a hang of characterizations? You always do so amazingly, especially with Gabriel!

Thank you!

I have talked about this with a few friends prior, so I'll see if I can put it into words again.  This might be redundant to those who remember discussing this with me before, but here we go.  I'll focus upon Gabriel since he seems to be the trickiest for people to write.  I'll also reference some of my stories to give examples.

Gabriel's primary motivation, in my mind, is Emilie.  I default everything back to Emilie.  If Gabriel gets absorbed in something and forgets his grief/goals, etc, I have him suddenly think “Man, if Emilie were here we would be able to watch Adrien experience these milestones together” or “I wish I could hold Emilie's hand like Adrien is doing with Marinette”.  And then he gets sad again.  It's an instant grounding focus for him, and thus leads to renewed determination.  “I am doing this because the ends justify the means.  I just want Emilie back.”  I kind of play with the sunk-cost fallacy with Gabriel, too.  At this point, he's put in so much to being Hawkmoth that he can't back out now.  (Until I slam something in his face that gets him to stop abruptly, like him discovering the heroes' identities).

So that's his primary motivation.  But now to address a lot of the rest of his personality.

The fandom likes to emphasize that Adrien is the face of the company and he has to put on a mask, and only when he's Chat Noir does that mask slip and he's allowed to be his “true self”.  I feel Gabriel is also in the same boat.  He's the head of his company.  He's expected to maintain certain social graces just like his son (if not more so).  He's quiet and reserved and polite, but he's not very forthcoming because of fears of industrial sabotage, or revealing a weakness to competitors that can be used against him, or getting taken advantage of (all of which as an adult, he should have experienced at one point in his life).  His stoic poker face was developed as a result of his life experiences.

However, we're shown he's not really reserved and in control.  Just like Chat Noir, we have canon evidence that Gabriel is as ham-fisted, emotional, and pun-filled as Chat Noir.  We see it in every single Hawkmoth monologue, in every time Hawkmoth transforms and gets giddy with excitement that he might win, and with every anger-fueled declaration of vengeance.  (The argument of 'are those Gabriel's legit emotions or does the butterfly miraculous emphasize those emotions from his victims?' is a nice angle to play with in fiction as well).

But as Gabriel, he's not excessively impulsive (Miraculous-stealing opportunities aside).  He lets people speak their case before forming judgment (more on this in a moment), but once the judgment is formed, it's hard to get him to change his mind.  He's stubborn.

So if I'm writing the story or scene from a third-person-perspective, like Marinette, I can't delve into his thoughts on paper.  I have to show the audience what he's thinking through other cues.  Since he's a man of little words, I'll have him silently scan a room before speaking.  He allows people to speak and give them the opportunity to screw up in his presence before he says a word as to his opinion.  Once that opinion is formed, however, good luck getting him to change his mind.  I have to show this using his glowers, frowns, squared shoulders, and clenched hands.

If something pops up that's great dramatic irony (when he was secretly overjoyed that Marinette designed a Hawkmoth-themed dress, for example), I'll show it as flashes of amusement in his eyes, twitching of lips, the relaxing of his posture, and the crinkling of his eyes.  The key here is to show subtle ways of expressing emotions without outright stating that's what's happening, because Gabriel schools himself and his emotions in front of others.

But when I write directly from his POV, that's where the fun begins.  There, I can describe his internal monologue, which is inspired by his actions as Hawkmoth.  I can have Gabriel sit silent, glowering at anyone who approaches while he observes and dryly comments on everything around him.  He won't say his sarcastic thoughts aloud, but he'll be thinking them, and here's my opportunity to channel the exasperation.  Somethings things will just slip out because honestly, is everyone around him an idiot?!  He'll recover and glower away any funny looks aimed at him, because his intimidation is as much a weapon as his silence is.

Frustrated exasperation is what I usually write Gabriel as a lot of times.  As Hawkmoth, he releases that frustration.  As Gabriel, it has to be kept bottled up inside and it only comes out in internal sarcastic remarks.

If I feel Gabriel strays too much into the OOC/cracky territory (which happens a lot in my stories, I admit) when I channel a bit too much Hawkmoth through his civilian form, I stick Nathalie in there as his straight man. She displays even less emotion than Gabriel and ends up being a really nice balance when I go a bit overboard on Gabriel's emotional outbursts.  A few pointed phrases or deadpan replies that juuuuuust touch upon inappropriate for an assistant to talk to her powerful boss, but she helps ground Gabriel into more of his realistic canon personality instead of complete OOC crack.

He's a man of few words as Gabriel, and he's used to being in a position of power, surrounded by yes-men (Nathalie and the Gorilla).  He isn't used to having anyone challenge him.  So, he doesn't need to explain his reasons to people.  When Marinette was rambling on about why he of all people was bidding on her dress design, he halted her mid-ramble and merely said “I like it.”  The end.  He keeps his cards close to his chest, and the only time I've actually seen him let down his guard is oddly, to Nooroo.  I'm certain this is just a narrative device for us, the viewer, but the fact is Gabriel is weirdly forthcoming to Nooroo and pretty much lays out his thoughts, plans, and analysis on the situation at hand.  I use that to my advantage in my stories when writing the Nooroo/Gabriel relationship, and how subconsciously, Gabriel might view Nooroo as a mentor (even if he disregards all of the advice Nooroo freely gives).

He's the head of his multi-million euro company.  He didn't get there by being lax and lazy.  He has super high standards, and isn't afraid to verbally rip apart his peers if it's warranted.  However, he's not entirely unfair, I don't think.  He allowed Marinette to defend her hat design in Mr. Pigeon before coming to a judgment on it.  He allowed Nino to propose his last-minute plan in Bubbler to throw Adrien a birthday party before he denied it (and then interrupted Nino and got angry with him only after the boy continued to push the point).  He allowed Marinette to explain how she stumbled across his Miraculous book before saying anything to her.

To me, the fact he actually went and met with these people in the first place shows a lot about his character.  He's willing to hear people out, but he makes fast judgments and doesn't budge from them. People have to get into his good graces right away or it's hard to change his mind later.  He has flashes of anger, but its not sustained, because he's already moving onto finding a solution to the problem (like in Volpina when he got that phone call about an issue with his designs).  Sometimes, I wonder how much of his anger and irritation is a result of his real thoughts and emotions, or just him seeing an opportunity to akumatize someone by riling them up further.

In this manner, he's calculating, very calculating, and if something reflects him in a poor light its probably for a reason (staging his 'temper tantrum' in Collector).  I ignore the canonical inconsistencies toward his waffling degrees of intelligence and treat Gabriel as very smart, but oblivious and arrogant.

I see him actually as very much like Marinette, only bitter and jaded.  She's clever and creative, and so is he.  The only difference between the two is that life has struck him down with angst.  He's lost his soulmate.  He's experienced the lows of being a starving artist.  He's encountered failure. Marinette has yet to go through any of that.

I could probably go on further and delve into different aspects of different scenarios (his wish, etc) but I think I've rambled on long enough and seems like I've jumped erratically between a bunch of different points  :)  Let me know if you have any additional questions and I hope this has helped at little at least.

[douxreviews]

Jessica Jones - ‘A.K.A. Hellcat’ Review

"I've got this."

For the second time this season, Jessica Jones pulls the 'Let's see all that from someone else's perspective' trick. Once again, the second perspective is Trish's. Once again, it really, really works.

When the episode titles were announced and we were dividing up which Agent of Doux was going to review which episode, I saw the title for this one and thought to myself, 'Oh good, I get to do the one where Trish has her big hero debut that we've been waiting for. That will be neat.'

That was not what this was.

Since her funeral is the emotional core of the episode, why don't we start by talking about Dorothy. Last episode we saw most of the events of Dorothy's funeral, and what was surprising was the number of people who approached Jessica and Trish and told them inspiring stories of how Dorothy genuinely helped them in their careers. I was a little concerned about this, because I thought it might be the indication that we were going to go ahead and Hank Heywood Dorothy, and I really hate that trope.

If you don't follow Legends of Tomorrow, first of all let me say that you should be watching Legends of Tomorrow. Unless you hate things that are awesome. Secondly, I'll explain the reference. Hank Heywood was the father of Nate, one of the titular Legends. Hank was regularly shown to be an emotional abusive, self involved piece of garbage whose go-to move was to try to destroy as much of his son's self esteem as possible. Then Hank died, and at his funeral we heard one nice story about one singular time that he did something decent, and everyone acted like he was totally absolved of everything forever and has always been just like Jesus.

Obviously I'm still a little irritated by this. Hang in there, I'm coming around to my point.

Since then, 'Hank Heywooding' (v.) has become my own personal shorthand for that thing that TV and movies like to do in which they bestow retroactive sainthood on an intrinsically negative character for the sake of shoehorning in a 'redemption arc'. When the first few testaments to 'Dorothy saved my career' started coming in I really thought that's where they were going. with her. But then the show did something really interesting. Without disavowing or minimizing the times that Dorothy had honestly been a positive and supportive force for people, it went on in this episode to show us Dorothy at her most manipulative and emotionally abusive, pushing Trish into getting her big break through the most reprehensible means possible.

And just a side note, in case anyone is in any way unclear on the point; telling a girl that age that the financial well being of her whole family is entirely on her shoulders is not even the tiniest bit OK. To say nothing of adding on, 'now you're responsible for all of the cast and crew having jobs too.'

I like how they handled this overview of who Dorothy was as a person. It's complicated, and it's messy, and it feels realer than we generally can expect from television.

So, while we get 'Secret Origins: It's Patsy', what we're really being told is exactly what Jessica said both here and in a previous episode. Trish is who she is because of Dorothy. Good and bad. It just turns out that Trish is a lot more broken inside that we'd had an opportunity to see before, and her grief at Dorothy's death is being channeled into the worst possible interpretation of 'You're obligated to give it everything you've got.'

Great usage of misdirection leading into this episode. At the end of the previous one we interpreted Erik's look of shock when he entered the construction site office as, 'Oh my God, Trish is the killer!' It turns out that what he was really shocked by was how completely Trish had lost control. In fact, all of the 'do over' scenes that we get here are reinterpreted in fascinating little ways now that we know Trish's side of the story. That's good storytelling.

I felt just awful for Erik through most of this one. He's right, the situation is completely dicked. It was endearing how dedicated he was to rescuing Jessica from being arrested for the crime that he himself was at least partially responsible for. It did however make me sad inside to find out that he was lying to Jessica by omission last episode. I really wanted to believe in him. Wonderful detail as well that Erik called the cops on Jessica in order to stop her from preventing Trish from attacking Mr. Arsonist and thereby giving Jessica an alibi. Erik and Jessica are going to have one hell of a come to Jesus talk at some point very soon.

So, final score at the close: Jessica was mostly absent. Trish is deeply scary now and completely off the rails. Erik's heart is in the right place but he continues to make poor choices. And Dorothy was capable of being both very good and very bad. RIP Dorothy, and bring on the final two installments.

Bits and Pieces:

- Young Trish's red wig was absolutely horrible.

- The flashback of Trish attacking Sallinger didn't give us any new information, but set up the structure of the episode really nicely. I liked how they handled that.

- Was Erik's expression after Trish punched him just pain from the punch or was he feeling evil from her? Was the punch a plotting contrivance to justify why he didn't sense evil from her at that moment?

- What the everloving hell was up with Omar 'Satan wins when the forces of light stand idly by’ the Doorman? That's a super messed up thing to say to someone whose mother was just murdered. I notice that we didn't see his face when he said it though. Are we going to find out that that was just in Trish's mind?

- Erik and Trish continue to have amazing chemistry with one another as performers. Also, most irresponsible vigilante team ever.

- It was good that the kick that killed Nussbaumer didn't look any more over the top than anything else she'd done. That sold the 'it was an accident' vibe.

- I suppose leaving the badge behind with victim number two should theoretically clear Jessica of the first murder.

- I have a million questions about whether evil is a tangible and finite substance, based on Erik's reaction to the first death.

- Did anyone else get a real Logan Echolls vibe off of Erik through most of this episode?

- Did Erik leave the trailer because Trish was giving him a headache there at the end? Because that was my read.

- I actually experience a groin pull just watching Trish put her foot on Jeri's throat. I can't be the only one who thought Trish was going to attack her.

- Jeri is now blackmailing Trish in order to get her to help solve Kith's problems. That's nice plot dovetailing. There is now no shortage of people who might kill Jeri before the season's end. My money's currently on Trish, although Jessica might be the dark horse in that race.

- I love the worldbuilding detail that cops have to take into account how various superpowers affect their perp investigations.

- Trish is totally going after Sallinger now, right?

- This episode was written by Jane Espensen, my favorite TV writer of all time.  I wrote her a love song once.  You can google it.

Quotes:

Dorothy: "What did I tell you about parentheticals?"

Trish: "Despite everything on my side, the good, the right, they still win."

Trish: "Was I bothering you? Because your wife beating was bothering me."

Erik: "I can take a hit. When it’s righteous."

Dorothy: "You take that holier than Mom look off your face."

Trish: "You blackmail guilty people." Erik: "I’m re-thinking that career path."

Erik: "If you get hurt chasing my bad guy, Jessica is going to kick my face in and I’ll let her."

Erik: "Christ. This is so dicked up."

Another solid installment which fills in the answers to a bunch of questions that we didn't know we should be asking yet.

Eight out of ten groin stretching exercises.

---

Mikey Heinrich is, among other things, a freelance writer, volunteer firefighter, and roughly 78% water. 

[cosmosogler]

i keep putting off talking about my Many Feelings About Dead Pets and i know it’s not helpful but thinking about it makes me so sad.

i miss snoopy so much. i miss genevieve and i know i’m never going to see her again and i couldn’t be there to make sure things went as smoothly as they could when she was dying. i know she was laying there suffering and she was probably hanging in there so hard because she thought i might come back. because we belonged together. 

that’s something i can never give her, now. that’s something she never got to have. this is just how her life went and it will be how her life and death went, forever. 

i can’t describe how angry i am at my dad. he’s a coward. i can’t stand it. i can’t stand that there’s nothing i can do about it and there’s nothing i can do for eve. she didn’t deserve that. 

there’s nothing that feels pathetic quite like starting to cry while you’re trying to eat food. or crying while you’re doing homework. i keep feeling like i’m going to throw up. i’m so upset. nothing is really making it better. it just keeps coming in tidal waves. 

i know if i talked to people i might feel a little better but i don’t really want to spend energy interacting with people. there’s lots of people i LIKE talking to... but when i say “ok, well we’re feeling bad, so let’s pull up a friend’s chat window and say hi” my brain screams “NO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

and then when someone blessedly comes up to ME to say hi my brain screams “NO!!!!!!!!!!!! I DON’T WANT *THAT* PERSON” no matter who it is. 

even close friends! 

i haven’t even said anything about what’s going on with me on facebook... and i’m usually the first to complain publicly about my life. i guess, when usually i want to be around people, lately i just feel like i want to be left alone. even though i still want to be around people. it’s not a good combination.

how am i supposed to “feel” all of this? how do you “process” “an emotion”? my psychiatrist said i should do some kind of, like, memorial for my pets. but even thinking about it makes me start crying a lot. doesn’t matter if i’m cooking, or biking to campus, or even just laying in bed. thinking about writing a letter to snoopy? boom, instant tears. what would i even say? “i love you and i’m sorry”? do i need to write that down?

i feel so embarrassed about earnest expressions of, like, affection. most emotions in general but ESPECIALLY genuinely caring about something and saying something about it makes me feel super guilty if i see it again later. doesn’t matter what it is. if i tell a friend “i love you” i get antsy about it later. i can announce to the world “i love my puppy” and i’ll mean it, but if i try to say something, like, specific about eve? if i try to convey in words the exact extent to which i care? 

god forbid i try to say something POETIC about it. or use some kind of metaphor or arrangement of words that might not mean anything grammatically, but emotionally resonates with me. 

and then talking on twitter or here about how much i’ve been crying doesn’t feel good either. it kind of half feels like a joke. i joke that i cry when i see a dog on tv. how could i not joke about every time i do it regardless of context. i have to make it not matter. if it matters it’s bad... i don’t want people to worry about me... i feel pathetic... i’m just acting pathetic for attention... etc etc. 

i decided against it, but yesterday i was gonna make some kind of comment about the emotions the characters experience in my comic and the ones i’m experiencing right now. like, “good thing i wrote out how they all deal with grief ahead of time!! because i totally nailed it.” or, “haha wow i wrote a whole story about how it’s bad to pretend you’re not feeling your emotions and then i immediately proceed to do everything possible to avoid my emotions!” 

i’m a real winner.

i drew for a while today... i got 2/3 of a page done, which is a good solid pace for one day. i had to stop because i started feeling really restless and irritable about it. like, i wanted to keep going, but i also very much Did Not Want to keep going. it’s like that with the little written bit i’ve been working on, too... i want to write it, i want to tell my story and i want to express myself with some art, but i also just. i don’t want to do anything at all. i just want to throw up and cry a lot. 

but i’ve got things to do... and i don’t like crying or throwing up. they feel bad. and life will keep going on without me if i don’t try to keep up. not that it matters. it’s not like they can double fail me out of the grad program. i haven’t been keeping up with my grading, which is like the one thing that is an actual obligation to people outside of myself. homework is making me miserable.

my psychiatrist recommended i spend more days doing absolutely nothing except things that make me happy, just to try to rest, but... 

nothing is making me very happy. i don’t want to do anything. i have to spend a huge amount of energy just to get my game console turned on. the weather’s been kind of grubby so i haven’t wanted to go for a bike ride, let alone spent energy trying to convince myself to do it. it took me a lot of psyching myself up just to watch some youtube videos i had in my bookmarks. absolutely miserable. 

vanessa got me to go to the medieval fair with her last weekend, but outside of that no one’s really approached me about keeping me busy. i feel kind of abandoned and isolated. even though i don’t even really want to talk to anyone. ian grabbed chipotle with me on friday night. that was nice. but it was also my idea and i had to get myself to club and then sit down for the whole three hours. i also read out chapter 3 of my comic, and THAT took a huge investment of my energy... 

at least people liked it. 

ruby from the discord channel has been leaving a lot of very nice and thoughtful comments on the art that i post there, and on one of the side comics i drew. owl has also been sending me long and very nice messages most days... there are people there. i just... still feel really bad. 

so it comes back around to “i should probably do something to officially ‘grieve’ for my friends” but i guess i don’t feel ready. i don’t know what to say. i don’t know what there is TO say. thinking about it, thinking about starting or even just the concept makes me cry. then i want to avoid it. maybe it’s too soon... but i know it won’t be healthy if it is “too soon” forever. i should probably do something at some point. 

i guess i can trust myself to get around to it whenever i feel ready. i am a person of action. i feel comfortable saying that about myself. so if i’m not doing it, it’s probably because i’m not ready. right...? i do things when i’m ready to do them... even if i don’t really want to. 

i wonder if that’s true or if i use it to justify putting things off. maybe it’s a little of both. maybe it’s another stick i just use to beat myself over the head even though i’m doing a fine job. 

haha. “people like my comic and really relate to blue? better beat myself up because WHAT IF I STOP DOING IT GOOD ENOUGH?” “i get the things on my to-do list done when i can, and can trust myself to get my chores / grieving done when i have the energy for it? WHAT IF I HAD THE ENERGY FOR IT ALL ALONG AND I’M JUST LAZY? LAZY!! SO LAZY!!!” 

“but if you just tried harder...”

it always comes back to that, doesn’t it. if i just...  ţ̻̭͉͐̑̍ͅr͈̫͇͚̦͇̥ͮͧ͊̇i̠͚̹̖͓̣̽͂e̩̲̯̩d̦͎͉̭̺̮ͤ̆̍ͮ͆͗ͅ ͛̆̓̓͂ͩͪ̀ ́͑ͭh̢͔̮̼͎̾̂̓͛̈͆̇ ̛͕̦̖̩̿a̺̹͓̳̮̹͠ ̼͓͕̝̘͎͙ͦ̐ŕ̉ͤ҉̣̬͉̼ͅ ̧̺̮ͦ͂̅ͮd̕ ̣̩̠͔ͯ̉ͣͩ̆̓e̝͛͌ͥ ̺͚̲̺̰̥̈ͫrͪ̓ͩ҉̼̭̟͕ͅ.............

if i tried harder... what? my dog wouldn’t be dead? my cat? i would still be in my phd program? i would have a job? i would be finished with chapter 4, which i wanted to be done with by the end of last year?? 

could i even try harder? i feel like i’m going at 100%. can i try harder? i don’t know how. i don’t know how to do anything different from what i’m doing (other than, like, not doing things, or being an asshole. i can do those things... i can also not do them, and i am currently trying very hard to not do them). 

i know that my trying isn’t good enough. i guess that’s the source of my uncertainty and my guilt. it’s not good enough. how do i make it good enough? will it ever be good enough? maybe not... where does that leave me?

i’ve been thinking about something from group therapy for the last entire week. one person said they were jealous of their peers. i asked what that meant for them. they said it mostly felt like being really frustrated with themself. 

i said... i said something like “oh i feel like that all the time but i don’t call it jealousy.” and... that’s true. 

i’m so afraid of doing something bad or feeling a Bad Emotion that i’ve been trying so hard to reframe all the thoughts and emotions. but... the word fits. i feel jealous of all the successful people. i don’t like admitting that, it doesn’t make me feel very good at all, but it feels true. 

i’m jealous of all the people who get more followers than me more quickly, even though i feel like i’m doing everything that they do. i’m jealous of my classmates who can pass tests even though i’m the one helping them with homework (yeah i know it goes both ways but IT GOES BOTH WAYS, I AM THE ONE HELPING SOMETIMES, I AM THE ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS, SOME OF THE TIME, AND YET THEY ARE IN THE PROGRAM AND I AM NOT). 

i don’t like this about myself. i don’t like these things. i don’t like feeling like this. i know that’s just how it is and i gotta deal with it. but i don’t know how to change how i feel about it. i’m not even jealous of the skill or anything. i know how good i am at physics, at art, at telling stories... i’m jealous of the attention i guess. knowing that about myself is makin me miserable. 

miserable on top of snoopy. on top of eve. on top of how my group therapists broke The Rules. on top of the school obligations. on top of losing the whole reason i moved out here, to get an education... on top of my brother sinking deeper into his abhorrent political and moral identity. on top of my dad being a coward, on top of mom jumping down my throat to get a new cat and get a job and get all these things done and just try harder. on top of hating eating food because it makes me so sick half the time. on top of not getting any sleep, not enough sleep for so long. on top of every one of the hundreds of minor inconveniences and annoying things that pop up every single day. on top of feeling lonely and isolated and unable to keep myself, like, socially stimulated i guess. i’m tired and restless and exhausted and agitated and i never get any rest. 

i feel like, no matter how hard i work to be a good person, no matter how much time i spend plugging up all the holes in the dam with my fingers and “fake it til you make it” and “you are what you practice” i’m still going to just be bad and worthless. i’ll mess up at some point and everyone will realize how much i suck and then they’ll all leave. it only takes one slip up.

i know tumblr’s whole “callout culture” thing gets to me. i don’t even... do any of the major “talking points” that come up with that sort of thing. but i know how easy it is to just make it up or take something i said out of context. i’ve been physically beaten up over it before, taking my words out of context... it’s not just tumblr that stresses me out even though i know tumblr specifically is SUPER not helpful. i know how dangerous it is to be queer-ish and female. participating in a fandom again feels like i’m throwing myself out into a spotlight. or maybe a microscope light. i know attention is bad. but i want attention. but i know it’s bad. but i want people to see what i made. but i know it’s bad...............

i miss my kitty. i loved her so much. i can’t get over that at the end she was trying to comfort me. i miss diogi. i miss brushing her and all those little moments where she seemed truly happy under the anxiety. i miss genevieve. i loved her more than anything. and i could show her that, i know she knew that, but i couldn’t show her forever like i wanted to. i wanted to be with her forever. i know that’s not how it works, but deep down it’s what i wanted...

[cat-the-dragon]

Even Now We Feel The Shape Of Your Absence

I blame @camsthisky and @comicroute for this. If you are not them, I am sorry, this is very angsty, and things aren’t getting fixed afterwards.

Read on Ao3

Damian swung through the Gotham sky.

He was alone, that wasn't in any way particular now, he'd grown tall and strong enough that no one particularly worried for him anymore. And he had been avoiding crippling or killing for long enough that they didn't particularly feel the need to protect Gotham's disreputable nightlife from him either.

But even without that, this wasn't a night where his family felt like monitoring him anyway.

Every year, when the anniversary came around, no one felt like butting in on anyone else's business, each one of them much too preoccupied with guilt and grief.

This was the night for mourning.

All of Gotham knew it. They knew this was the fifth year anniversary of one of their vigilante’s death. They knew it was the night when none of the Bats felt particularly benevolent. Some had tried to use the memory of their loss against them, maybe they thought the heroes would be sloppy on the anniversary. They weren't. They were furious and easy to anger because that was an easier emotion to process than the crushing guilt.

No one tainted their lost member's death anniversary with crime nowadays.

The streets were eerily calm as a result.

A full body cast didn't particularly appeal to people after all.

The outside heroes didn't contact them either.

They either understood and shared their pain and loss (and some of the guilty feeling); or at least were wary of setting of the Bats' tempers by disrupting their gloom.

Damian landed down on The Street.

It was bare of anything or anyone.

It hadn't been like that at first.

There had been candles and flowers all along the sidewalk and on the roofs around for the whole week after they found the body.

People had come by to pay their respects on the first anniversary too, left tokens.

But it had been a long time since the tragedy, other things had happened to push that one particular death away from the Gothamites' minds. Other deaths, other problems.

But not for the family.

Not for any of the Bats.

Or Robin.

The sidewalk was grimy but intact.

Damian felt there should at least have been a dent on the sidewalk to mark all the hurt this place had inflicted on his family.

But it wasn't the sidewalk's fault. Or even the rooftop up above's.

It wasn't even their departed member's fault.

It was their fault. Collectively, as a family. As allies.

They should have seen this coming, but they hadn't.

They had all been too absorbed in their own selves and their own problems that they hadn't seen the obvious. Hadn't predicted the predictable. Hadn't prevented the preventable.

Damian remembered the moment he'd discovered the tragedy. The moment they'd discovered they were one short.

How could he not?

It was engraved in his memories like an unhealing brand.

He remembered with shame how he'd first scoffed at the inquiry for his older ally. How he'd then said something insulting about his then already dead ally.

He remembered the tension mounting, the dread seeping in on their com channels.

He remembered the ping on the untriggered emergency beacon, the Batpeople converging toward This very Street.

He remembered the gasps, the questions, the mayhem.

He remembered Alfred asking if he needed to prep the medbay for emergency medical treatment.

He remembered the chocked up "no" that had felt like someone just announced the end of the world.

No.

No, no emergency medical treatment.

Nothing could have been done to save their lost partner.

He remembered the reality hitting him in the face like a sledgehammer along with the grief filled negation.

He remembered his own numbness as he made it to one of the surrounding roofs and saw the confirmation with his own two eyes in the form of a dislocated body painting the sidewalk... Not red, no, not on a black ground, just, glistening moisture and sparse reddish reflections where some light managed to reach the puddles.

He remembered the crowd of civilians gathering, curious and horrified.

He remembered the tentative way Father had reached for the prone form then lifted it.

He remembered the horror of having to do an inventory check amongst the blood.

He remembered the even bigger dread at hearing the words "intact grapple" and "spare line". At reviewing all the ways their ally could and should have saved themselves from the fatal end to their fall.

After that... After that was hard to remember amongst the haze.

They had needed to disguise the death, craft cover stories...

Father haunted the Wayne graveyard for months. In fact this was where he was this very night.

Damian... Didn't want to intrude, or otherwise disrupt any of the other's grieving, so he had found his own place to pay his respect.

So while Alfred cleaned the deceased's bedroom and Grayson sat in from of the costume cases and looked over pictures, hurting himself by seeing all the way in which he should have seen the decline in cheerfulness as a warning sign, Damian came here.

It didn't feel as intrusive this way.

Damian stalked to the small altar he had made here years ago.

It was modest, two plexiglass sheets as walls and a couple of clear glass roof-tiles to protect burning candles from the weather. The departed's two crests; the one they died in, and the one they had once worn; secured in a little cement slab on the ground under the shelter, so people passing by could know who was being grieved here.

After a cursory glance to confirm no one would be brash enough to try and attack him in this very place the day of his ally's death anniversary, Robin bent to his knees, then sat on the dirty sidewalk. He riffled through his utility belt to get his candle out. It was a big one that should burn on for hours, Damian had engraved his lost comrade's emblem on the side of it earlier in the day with a heated blade, as a preparation for this night.

The engraved emblem and sitting down was a special, annual thing. The candles were not, he swung by to light one at least once a month, usually a smaller one.

Damian took out his lighter and lit the candle then carefully placed it in the center of the altar, then he took out his other offerings.

The bouquet of blood red roses went with a bit of water in the small acrylic pipe he'd included to the side of the shelter to serve this purpose, then he artfully wrapped the black satin ribbon over it.

The drawing of the young (at the moment of their death) hero, being made on a cardboard drawing sheet, could stand on it's own at the back of the shelter without risks of becoming a fire hazard, though Damian took care to tape it securely for this exact reason anyway.

Now that the objects were out and arranged, there was no reason to keep putting back the next bit...

"They all miss you." Damian whispered, touching his fingertips to the old Robin emblem set in the altar. "They all..." He didn't choke up, but he had to take a deep breath. "I miss you too. I never thought this would happen, but you made it happen anyway, didn't you?"

Damian thought back on all the insults and attacks. He didn't drown in guilt for it anymore. Five years was a long time to learn to swim in one's guilt without going totally under. "Hireath. That's a Welsh word. It's a type of nostalgia for something that is forever gone and can never be recovered again. I miss the opportunity to have gotten a bond with you. I also miss the time before you left. They changed without you. They are always sad. They fight more too. Even Alfred has started to be irritable and confrontational toward Father. And Black Bat never comes by anymore. I think she feels guilty that she was on Hong Kong when it happened."

Damian didn't cry, that wasn't something he did. "She's not the only one. Everyone feels guilty that they missed the signs." I feel guilty that I was part of what might have pushed you to jump, he didn't say. "Nothing is the same anymore. I don't think I have to tell you about Father and Nightwing, I bet they're already apologizing to you. Oracle has become even more paranoid and controlling. I don't like her that much, but I'm starting to worry for her. She's overworking herself. Always tracking us, always demanding updates."

Damian rubbed at his brow. "I don't mean to whine, but. I wish you were back."

And they would never be.

Not only because no one who loved them was selfish enough to force them to come back to this life after they committed suicide, but also because there was no body anymore.

Damian went up to his knees, then climbed to his feet.

They could all thank Jason for that last one. And Damian in fact did.

When the death had been confirmed, Gordon had sent the family the vigilante version of their will; that had been left with her for safekeeping. It stated clearly to cremate their body so nobody could revive them.

Father had stalked off after hearing that, Damian didn't know whether Father would have respected that last wish, because Jason had stolen the body and cremated, then buried the ashes at different locations himself, before anything else could happen.

The lack of a body, thought problematic at first, had been a reason why they managed to disguise the simultaneous deaths by declaring them missing in a private plane accident rather that looking for a cover story with a body as evidence.

It also meant that that they had needed to wait for a whole year before they could hold the burial of an empty casket. That had not helped with Father's temper.

There was a flash of purple in the corner of his eye, and Robin turned to see the other hero who preferred to pay her respect in This Street. She tended to come by a bit later than him, so it didn't bother him.

He wondered if he was the one who ran late, or if she was early, but shrugged it off. He was done, he could let Batgirl have his place.

He prepped his grapple to fly away again, keep protecting this city, in their name as well as his own.

"Please rest in peace, Red Robin." He whispered as he took flight again over the rooftops of Gotham.

[sir-radcakes]

HP + the Cursed Child - 1/3/2017

So on Wednesday I went see the play for the forth and final time (probably) before Jamie leaves in May (as rumoured). 

I knew I’d be in London to see Dan Radcliffe at the Old Vic so I had been keeping an eye out on the Nimax tickets for a premium seat - as luck should have it, a normal priced Row C Stalls ticket popped up at the right time which I quickly snagged.

I was right on the end of the row but thankfully the rake is quite steep there so I had a near perfect view (albeit a side view!) of everything. 

Noma was out so I got Nicola Alexis as Hermione. I wasn’t sure about her in Part 1 but I thought she did a great job in Part 2. Adam McNamara was on as Hargid, etc and he definitely doesn’t have the same stage presence as Chris Jarman. Other than that, I think the rest of the cast was as it should be.

Paul Thornley remains the best Ron we could have hoped for. I’m a little bit sad that he’s basically used as comic relief throughout the whole 2 parts, but he’s brilliant at it. My memory is foggy but one of his lines got an epic reaction from the audience that they had to wait a few seconds for the crowd to go quiet. 

The more I see of Alex Price’s Draco, the more I love him. He was on fine form yesterday and generated a lot of laughter from the audience. The first funny moment was in the EGM where he talks about Harry saying things for attention with “My scar is hurting, my scar is hurting!” and when he walks into Harry’s office and  says about the alternative reality where he’s head of the DMLE, he ended the line with an actual “Mwaha ha ha.” It was funny, but also actually quite a sweet thing as he was clearly trying to cheer Harry up. Also when Ron comments on Draco’s pony tail, Alex went really haughty and swished it in perfect Malfoy fashion.

Poppy Miller has restored Ginny to the brilliant character she is in the books. She got right in Draco’s face with the “so is mine” line.You can really tell that her and Jamie are very close as they have amazing chemistry when they share a scene. The kiss was especially good - and in the brief moment I dragged my eyes away from Jamie while they’re watching Harry’s parents die, I could see how much anguish she was showing for her ‘husband.’

Anthony Boyle and Sam Clemmett were both as good as ever as Scorpius and Albus. I enjoyed Anthony’s performance quite a lot actually - he barely spat at all yesterday (which I’ve previously found a tad distracting). He again brought a lot of humour to his performance - one bit worth noticing was at the end scene on the stairs he swished his cloak with a bit too much flourish and got wrapped around it for the rest of the scene - he carried on regardless.

And finally, we come to Jamie Parker. Oh my Harry. <3333 As much as I love and adore the Radcakes, Jamie just IS Harry Potter. He’s everything I could have hoped for and more. I love just how fucked up his Harry is while equally loving his family without hesitance. I love how he shows Harry trying to open up to his son (undoing his waistcoat) and then closing his emotions down again (buttoning up the waistcoat). I love how utterly devastated he is that he can’t connect with Albus. I could go on and on about all the things I bloody love about his Harry but here’s some memorable bits from this show in particular:

- When Albus incendio’d his Hogsmeade letter, Jamie properly brushed down Albus’s cloak to get rid of the ash - very father-like and irritated.

- During the big argument between Albus and Harry, Jamie got right up in Sam’s face. He was just completely engulfed in rage and his body chemistry changed so quickly after he says he wished Albus wasn’t his son. Probably the best version of the scene I’ve seen. 

- I could go on and on about how much I love the polyjuice scene - it gets funnier every time I see it. Jamie was spot on in his Anthony Boyle as Scorpius impression; from the brushing of hair behind his ear to the pulling down on his sleeves. When he swished his cloak after telling Albus to go to his room, he got properly tangled (which made the bit with Anthony at the end of the play even more perfect). Jamie was ridiculously high pitched and giddy in this scene - I would gladly watch it over and over. 

- The first nightmare scene was just as good, if not better. Jamie really conveys how distressed Harry is about it, to him fidgeting on the bed afterwards, to curling his toes with anxiety, to him trying to calm Ginny’s fears that he’s alright (when he really isn’t). I also loved Poppy Miller in this scene - they really have amazing chemistry and you totally believe they have this incredible backstory with the trauma they went through as children and how that’s connected them throughout their marriage.

- Another relationship I enjoyed watching was between Draco and Harry. The fight in the kitchen reminded me so much of the books/movies. As previously mentioned, this was the scene in which Jamie broke his chair. Alex laughed at this moment, but I’m not sure whether he was laughing at Jamie’s situation or whether it was in character at Ginny’s comment about Harry doing most of the cooking. I also bloody love the scene in Harry’s office. It’s a great moment between these two characters and finally brings the start of a friendship of sorts.

- Something that I thought was a new take was just before everyone transfigures Harry into Voldemort, Jamie was smiling quite a lot - normally he’s quite serious at this point so it was a different take to what I’ve seen before. My view was that he was trying to reassure everyone that he was okay with what was about to happen. 

- And then we have the bit where they are watching Harry’s parents die. Jamie is absolutely one of the best actors I’ve seen on stage and how much energy doing this scene must take, especially after doing the play for so long now, is incredible. I’d hate to think what he uses to channel all that anguish and to that level. Again, I think this was my favourite version I’ve seen. Jamie was literally clinging on Sam Clemmett for dear life (as Poppy was clinging on to Jamie) and when he collapses in grief - fucking hell. All the awards, sir. All of them. 

- Finally, I did wait by the stage door to see if I could catch Jamie leaving. I did - however I decided not to bother him as no one else had spotted him and I didn’t want to bring any attention to him as he was getting on his bike to go home. I did get immense pleasure at seeing him stopped at the traffic lights as loads of Harry Potter fans walked past him oblivious to the fact he was ~right there. I feel certain that I’ll get another chance to speak to him one day so I was happy to let the moment pass.

So yes, that’s my review. Hopefully I’ve not rambled on too long. Feel free to ask me anything about the show as I’ve probably missed out loads.

[supere1113]

The Conflict Within Myself - Track 11: Stretched and Compressed

Wow. What do you follow such a climactic song as Polaroid with? Well, it could go either of two ways: The conflict within the person consumes them and they are corrupted and destroyed (.ie dying by suicide), Or.... they are somehow saved from their darkness and led on a different path. Shall I continue the story?

****TRIGGER WARNING****... again. probably the last one, though.

So last time I left off, It was early October 2017, I had just survived the closest-call suicide attempt of my life. After I didn’t die, I knew that if I were to try again, I would get even closer, and closer, and closer till I actually died (didn’t have that far to go that last time, but still). I didn’t want that to have to happen, so I decided that if I was going to go on, I would need help. Of some kind. I doubled down on getting my parents to understand what was going on with me by writing a letter and printing it out for them to read that night. It blew up in my face, and I lost a chunk of hope a little bigger than most of the other ones I was losing almost daily (At this point, they thought I was trying to drop out of school, potentially to pursue music full-time. That couldn’t been further from the truth. I can’t give one passion up for another, I’m a renaissance man. I mean, have you heard my song Multipotentialite from the last album? It surprised me that that didn’t click for them. I imagine they were scared too, though; whether they’d ever say it out loud to me or not. Sad situation it was). All that happened during a weekend where I went home to visit my parents. After I got back on campus, my mood swings continued to intensify. I every time I was in an extreme state, I would quarantine myself in my dorm (I feel sorry for my sophomore roommate. Thankfully, he was out doing things around campus during my most rapid descents into madness. I won’t say his name here, but I love you, bro. Thank you) and I eventually only left to eat... occasionally. My psych evaluation finally came on October 17th. I was mentally close to death. My mom brought me over there, I did the evaluation, and then, knowing what she did about my current mental state, the psychologist asked me if I wanted to be hospitalized, saying she could make it happen, even if my mother still didn’t get it after that. I went in the car, waited for my mom and the psychologist to finish their conversation and then, after she got in the car, mom called dad and said she “wasn’t playing around with this anymore.” She was finally willing to go through with getting me the help I needed, the way I needed it at that point. The unfortunate part is that after you’re so far gone, meeting with a counselor each week just isn’t enough. Though I wasn’t in immediate danger, I was still quite suicidal, and my parents couldn’t guarantee to the psychologist that they could protect me from me, not long-term. So, mom drove me home, and that night brought to my family the full impact of what was happening with me. Since may parents couldn’t keep me safe enough, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital near my childhood home the next day. My dad never wanted either of his children to be institutionalized in any way, so this was especially crushing to him. We didn’t know how long I’d have to be there, so for that reason, among others, I was medically withdrawn from school. While I was there, my results from my psych evaluation came in. I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder with psychotic features and Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Crazy. In every sense of the word. You could smell the stigma on me.

I never wanted it to be that way. I mean, I got access to the help I needed, but at what cost?! Even over 2 years later, there’s a lot about that that I’m still, even if only a lil bit, angry about, which surprises me. It was just a crazy time. And in the time after the realization, I would hear for the first time my parents say to me that they missed something. That shook all of us.

~~~~~

Anyway, the end of Polaroid marks the beginning of a new phase, a new suite in the album (Act III: The Explosion). This song, along with the remainder of the album, takes place in a psychiatric facility, and, similar to Polaroid, kind of explores my thoughts while I was in there, and what changes were finally able to take root in me (fitting for an album titled ‘The Conflict Within Myself’ to explore inner thoughts, huh?).

Stretched and Compressed is really a song about the general realization that I had mental illness. My own, mostly. Even though that realization occurred long before I was hospitalized, I simplified the sequence of events on here to make the album more universal, as I stated before. As a result, S&C also explores my parents realization of my new mental reality. This was unintentional, but this song could potentially be divided into two distinct halves, The first being Stretched, the last being Compressed. The music even corresponds to those titles. The sounds of the Stretched half heave upwards as if they are being stretched by a magnet. It’s meant to channel the surprise and pain of realizing, and accepting, a new reality. In contrast, the Compressed half covers moreso the small part of you that dies in the face of that reality, and the grief, the sadness and the depression that can flood your life when you realize that this is not the way you thought your life was going to go, nor what you intended, or after something traumatic happens.

I put a little nugget in the Stretched half that I think will be looked on in awe in the future. Just before the second verse, you can faintly hear me say “I’ve been suicidal, you can’t kill me ‘cause I tried it.” This is a direct reference to a line by one of my favorite rappers, Itsdink! I call him Cody. He and I have been friends for over a decade in 2019, and earlier in the month of October of this year, he dropped on Soundcloud what I believe to be his best work yet: Want Me Dead. This album was therapeutic for him to make and for both of us to listen to because it showed all the struggles he had endured since we last saw each other face-to-face (as I stated in my song Normal off my last album, The Artist In Me, I had to leave our childhood school in 2010. Cody and I haven’t been in the same place together since then). I had been through different things than him, but much of the mental damage that ensued, we had in common. Anxiety, depression, paranoia, Suicidality, all that. It broke my heart that he had to go through that, and also blessed my heart to know that he went through it and it didn’t consume him. We were both survivors, and we were both going to drop the albums that chronicled and helped us through our struggles on opposite ends of the same month: October 2019. I wanted to connect these albums so that history may remember Want Me Dead and The Conflict Within Myself as transcendent projects, connected to each other.

The Compressed half of Stretched and Compressed is even more somber than the preceding half. This is when the stigma of having multiple mental illnesses (or even just one) really hits me; and it hits hard. When I was in the hospital, I thought I had lost everything, and in a sense, I did. My sanity, my grades, an important part of my relationship with my parents, my ability to be a good student (or any student for that matter), my scholarships, my certainty, and a whole lot of other things associated with those things. I was relieved I was getting help, while being frustrated that it got so bad that I had to be there, saddened by that fact and just in a general state of shock from all that I had endured. Those mood swings I was talking about, that was what people in the mental health community call Mania. I was manic ever since July of 2017 when Chester died. The Mania is the high end of those mood swings. Depression is the low. And being manic doesn’t always mean being happy. I describe mania as being an amplifier to whatever you’re feeling. So if you’re happy and Manic, you are ELATED! If you are angry or irritable and manic, you get beyond furious and so irritated that you may turn suicidal. Actually, though. I suspected I had bipolar, but who ever wants to be right about that?

I had a lot of fun making Stretched and Compressed, especially the last 2 minutes. That transition from Stretched to Compressed is crazy. You ever heard something like that? then when the drums and plucky mental, metal guitar kick in on Compressed.... it’s over, bruv.

Stretched and Compressed is interesting because, much like Synchronized Sound and When Your Brain Is Fried, its instrumental was thought out years before Conflict even came out (the idea, though not yet carrying the S&C name, is probably as old as songs off of Identity, so circa 2015)! The pain of the Stretched half gave me Stephen Richards and Aaron Lewis vibes from their performances on P5hng Me A*wy and Krwling respectively off of Linkin Park’s remix album Reanimation. So I channeled them in the choruses (sprinkled a little bit of Jonathan Davis from Korn in there, too. ;) He also featured on that album on 1Stp Klosr). The Compressed half is much more genre-fluid than the Stretched half. But among many others, I was really inspired by the work of MUNA and The Red Hot Chili Peppers for that part of the song.

So you’re admitted to a hospital. You’re getting help, but you’re still reeling from all that led you there. Where else could the mind take us, I wonder...

[ask-angels]

Do You Often Wake Up Between 3-5 AM? This Can Be A Sign Of Spiritual Awakening! But It Can Also Be Something Else... Find out what it means for you now! For further support check out these videos as well: Simple Emotional Release: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tfl_LsJ5kYI Emotional Healing ~ A Simple Emotional Clearing Process to Bring Healing to your Emotional Body: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZlV22GuTqvQ Instantly Open Your Third Eye with This Powerful 3rd Eye Meditation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CKh0HtyfNE0 ✨Transcript Here: ✨ Hey earth angels, Melanie Beckler here. And in this video we're going to look at what it means when you keep waking up between three and 5:00 AM without planning on it. So this can be a sign of spiritual awakening, but it can also be something else. And so we're going to look at what it means to wake up between three and 5:00 AM from three different perspectives so you can identify for yourself what it means for you. So before we dive in, I do just want to say that this time period between three and 5:00 AM coincides with what is known as the witching hour. So this is a time in which the veil is thin and accessing the higher realms of spirit becomes easier. It's a time of internalized consciousness when most people in your local area are still sleeping. And so it can facilitate further awakening, clear communication, and receiving clear guidance from spirit and even opening your third eye. So more on that in a second, but first, let's dive into the first layer of meaning about what waking up between three and 5:00 AM means. Because it's not always a sign of spiritual awakening. And while I personally am not a Chinese medicine expert or practitioner, I know just enough about Chinese medicine to understand that different periods of the day are associated with different organs and systems of the body. So from a Chinese medicine perspective, waking up between one and 3:00 AM can be a sign of liver chi stagnation. So the energy of your liver could be stagnant in some way. So if this is you, if you're waking up between one and 3:00 AM, it would be good to ask yourself, have you been experiencing signs of liver energy stagnation, like irritability and anger? Were you drinking alcohol before you went to sleep? Or are there other factors that you're aware of that can validate this Chinese medicine perspective that your liver may be crying out for some help between one and 3:00 AM in the morning now from three to 5:00 AM in Chinese medicine, this time period is associated with the lung. So waking up between 3:00 and 5:00 AM without planning on it, without an alarm clock. Of course this can be a sign of a lung imbalance that your body, your lungs are literally reaching out for help for your awareness. So if you're waking up between three and 5:00 AM, it's a good thing to ask yourself, have you been experiencing sadness or grief, which are correlated with the lung and maybe contributing to that imbalance of lung energy? And if the answer is yes to either of those for liver or for lung, it would be a good idea to do a little more digging and research a about how to clear those emotions. That can be the cause and trigger of an imbalance and blockage in your physical body. But then also to step up the self love and care for your physical body, for your lungs, for your liver. So that's the first perspective. And in that area, it's not exactly a sign of spiritual awakening, but it is a sign that your body is reaching out, reminding you to do the emotional clearing work. Because when your emotions are clear and centered, higher light is able to flow through you and you're also able to access clear divine wisdom and guidance within because your emotional state is balanced. Now onto the second layer of meaning about what it means when you're waking up between three and 5:00 AM from a spiritual awakening perspective. So I mentioned before that this coincides with the witching hour, which is sometimes seen as being from 3:00 AM to 5:00 AM it's sometimes seen from being 2:00 AM to 4:00 AM but either way, it's about these early morning hours being a time when the veil is thin. And so with this you're waking up at this time could be a call from spirit, a call from your team of guides, a call from your soul to get you aware and alert at this hour so you can progress in your awareness and consciousness to unlock further levels of your clairvoyant perception and receive higher guidance that is available to you to guide you, to support you in your life... Then, if you haven't already, subscribe on YouTube here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9Dp8ZbT2aUR-w2P0MC0K2g?sub_confirmation=1 ✨💜☀️🙏🏻☀️💜✨ Let's Connect! 👉 IG @askangels 👉 TWITTER @askangels 👉 FACEBOOK: https://ift.tt/28SFM8n 👉PINTEREST: https://ift.tt/2ohTY3L ✉ Business inquiries: support@ask-angels.com

[theconservativebrief]

The world doesn’t make sense anymore.

The wrinkles in the simulation were inconsequential at first. The Chicago Cubs won a World Series. La La Land was the Best Picture for about two minutes, until it wasn’t. The Atlanta Falcons gave up a 28-3 lead and lost a Super Bowl. These events — which all happened within six months of each other — were weird, to be sure. Unless you were directly involved in one of the aforementioned properties, however, you probably just enjoyed the oddness of it all.

But the wrongness of the world has turned more sinister, to many. The exit of the UK from the European Union, the rise of alt-right nationalism, the election of Donald Trump — these are things that aren’t supposed to happen. And yet here we are, in a world that feels like it’s tearing itself apart, a 2-year-old caught in an eternal temper tantrum.

If you spend time on Twitter or Facebook, this voiceless howl becomes all the more inescapable. If you doubt me, click on literally any tweet announcing major political news from a media personality and watch as the chasm deepens the further down you scroll. The message is clear: There has to be a failsafe. There has to be a button to press, a piece of footage to find, a magic word to speak, to put everything back on track, to get back to the world as it was — safe and predictable and a little taxing but largely fine, right? Largely fine.

Enter Tom Arnold, the ’90s comedian and ex-husband of Roseanne Barr, who’s going to find that magical bridge back to the world we thought we lived in, or utterly tank his reputation trying.

What’s a show like this without a giant wall of evidence? Viceland

The most 2018 thing about Viceland’s new series The Hunt for the Trump Tapes with Tom Arnold is how impossible it is to tell which portions of it are self-promotion and which parts of it are sincere. On some level, I really do think that Arnold wants to take down Donald Trump, by any means necessary. On another level, though, I don’t understand why he thinks he’s the guy to do it beyond the fact that it will get him back on TV.

I’ve only seen two episodes (out of a proposed eight), and each of them is at once 22 minutes and 13 years long. In the course of watching the first — in which Arnold tracks down tapes of Trump’s appearance on Howard Stern’s radio show, tapes that he gets from clandestine operatives in a motel room in the middle of the night, but which he probably could have just torrented if he really wanted them — I was pretty sure the episode was just wrapping up, only to realize it hadn’t even reached its first commercial break.

Yet there’s something oddly watchable about Arnold throwing himself against the rocks of reality, trying to wear them down. He possesses the same lack of shame that Trump boasts, which means he’ll do anything for his show, or to promote his show. And he at least targets not Trump directly but those who enabled him on the way to the presidency, men like Apprentice producer Mark Burnett, who is rumored to possess a bunch of footage of Trump saying racist and/or sexist and/or homophobic things on the set of that show. (Now Arnold is reportedly claiming this footage has made it into the hands of Ronan Farrow, the New Yorker journalist.)

But it’s here where things become even murkier, because Arnold and Burnett had … some sort of confrontation at an Emmys party over the weekend, which Arnold claims involved Burnett attacking him, while Burnett’s wife (Roma Downey) claims the reverse. (Arnold, at least, has filed a police report.) And presuming an altercation happened (and there are enough witnesses to suggest one did), it’s not clear if Arnold got into a fight to promote his show, if Burnett did so because he feels rattled by Arnold’s irritating persistence, if one man was goading the other, or if it was some combination of all of the above.

Having watched the series, I find it possible to assume any of those scenarios is true. It seems at least plausible to me that Burnett has something to hide. (Rumors of Apprentice outtakes that contained jaw-droppingly offensive statements from Trump predate the man’s run for president.) But watching Arnold in his show is like being cornered by a Trump-hating relative at a family barbecue on one of those long, hazy days in August. He has his hand on your shoulder, and he’s in your space, and he’s talking at way too loud of a volume. And even if you agree that Trump has to go, boy, you wouldn’t mind talking to literally anybody else for a while.

This is Arnold’s “strength” as an “investigative journalist,” I guess. He keeps chiseling away at the wall he’s certain separates him from the truth, using his lack of shame and too-big personality as his tools. But the best moments of the show come when he tries to enlist others in his circle — his wife, his millennial writing partner — into his adventures, and they seem uniquely uninterested in whatever it is he’s doing, hitting their marks for the camera but little more.

Perhaps the most telling sequence involves Arnold staking out the favorite restaurant of his old True Lies costar, Arnold Schwarzenegger, in the second episode. When Schwarzenegger appears, Arnold tries to get him to open up about Trump, to say something inflammatory on camera, but he forgets to ask Schwarzenegger if he heard anything from the crew during that one season when the former governor hosted The Celebrity Apprentice.

There’s something approachably sad about this whole sequence, about Arnold trying to be best pals with someone who’s still so much more famous with him, about how he forgets his core mission in that moment, perhaps because he still longs for fame, too. Schwarzenegger became governor, and Trump became president.

But what happened to Tom Arnold? He disappeared. And now he’s returned to rebalance the scales of justice. Honestly, if he did, it would make about as much sense as anything else that’s happened of late.

Tom Arnold (left) and executive producer Jonathan Karsh discuss The Hunt for the Trump Tapes at the 2018 Television Critics Association summer press tour. Jesse Grant/Getty Images for A+E Networks

In its own way, The Hunt for the Trump Tapes underlines a certain brand of the anti-Trump #resistance, a brand that believes Trump is a once-in-a-lifetime aberration, a nightmare that can be stopped if the right piece of information can be found to wake everybody up — and not, instead, a manifestation of a certain American id that has always and will always be there. These arguments seem, to me, to ignore that the right piece of information has been found over and over and over again, and yet those who support Trump continue to support him because he has no shame.

Maybe this makes Arnold the ideal person to bring Trump down, then, because someone with a similar lack of shame might be just the person to fly into the maelstrom, Captain Ahab style. (This ignores, of course, that Captain Ahab dies, and he drags nearly everybody else on his ship to the bottom of the ocean, too, while Moby Dick presumably escapes.) Maybe if Arnold turns the end of a presidency into just as big of a sideshow as its birth was, everything will revert to normal.

I’m not holding my breath, though. The Hunt for the Trump Tapes is illuminating in that it underlines how much Arnold’s qualms with Trump stem not from policy differences, but from the thought that Trump is just kinda, well, gross. He doesn’t want to find the tapes of Trump saying racist and sexist things on the set of The Apprentice because he deeply believes those things should not be said — though that’s one of his motivations. No, he first and foremost wants to find the tapes of Trump saying racist and sexist things because he believes that’s the easiest way to end a presidency.

As with much of the knee-jerk, anti-Trump stuff that floats around social media, there is a kind of grief in The Hunt for the Trump Tapes: a grief that never got past the bargaining stage, that never could accept the idea that so many citizens voted for a man who bragged about committing sexual assault, who made fun of a reporter with a disability, who early in his campaign called Mexicans rapists.

It is a grief of a man who seems to believe that if just the right piece of footage is found, if just the right sequence of images is exposed, Trump voters will cower at the sheer, bright, dazzling light of its truth, then be forced to admit they were wrong.

But throughout Trump Tapes, Arnold runs into people who say, “Well, uh, what could you possibly find that’s worse than [insert damaging piece of Trump footage here]?” and Arnold admits that he doesn’t know, but he has to keep going. He has the TV show, sure, but he also has his certainty. He must know, on some level, that even the worst footage he finds would be rationalized away by Trump supporters within a news cycle and that Trump’s vilest behaviors are treated as added value by many of his supporters.

But he keeps going, because at some point, he’ll bump into the thin curtain that separates this reality from the one that must exist elsewhere, where no Chicago Cubs World Series victories exist and where the president is some boring woman everybody complains about, and then he’ll be able to pass through and maybe bring the rest of us along with him. Tom Arnold wants to ditch Trump, sure, but what he really wants is a sense that the world he once thought he lived in wasn’t a lie.

The Hunt for the Trump Tapes with Tom Arnold debuts Tuesday, September 18, at 10:30 pm Eastern on Viceland, which is a cable channel you might get. I didn’t mention that every time the show cuts to commercial, you get to see some old-school VHS tapes getting splashed with a yellow-ish liquid, so presumably there’s going to be a Very Special Pee Tape Episode. Get excited, America!

Original Source -> The Hunt for the Trump Tapes with Tom Arnold, explained

via The Conservative Brief

[mattkeepsrambling]

Escape (5/3/18)

The smell of stale coffee radiated throughout the station from the stand in the corner and the dozen or so other passengers stood around either with their heads looking down at their phones or staring blankly outside at the line of busses. Not Clarke though. Clarke stood, music playing on her headphones, lost in thought, eyes staring straight ahead, focusing on nothing and everything. Her time had come, she was finally going. Her bags were packed, and the bus to anywhere else was about to board. She was about to leave, for good, the city in which she had spent more than half her life. While that thought made her a little homesick already, she knew it was for the best. She may be leaving a place she loved; she was also leaving all the baggage it held. She was leaving a job where she spent her days covering for and fixing the messes of her coworkers. It was a job where she was told to deal with problems without any help or backing from her supervisor who, by the way, was never in the office. She was leaving being overworked, under-appreciated and vastly underpaid. She knew she had settled for this job, but she had seen it as a stepping-stone for other opportunities that never seemed to materialize. She was leaving her thankless work and unsupportive higher-ups. When she had started, she had hoped it would lead to other opportunities within the company. She took the job because there was a genuine chance to move up the ranks and make a name for herself. Those opportunities never materialized, and those times when the spotlight should have been on her, it was stolen by others. She saw others with better connections get the promotions that were rightfully hers. Her supervisor promised that the next time something came up, she would be in serious contention, but her moment never came. One of the more incredible injustices was when a son-in-law of a board member got a job for which Clarke was immeasurably more qualified. When his incompetence almost cost the company one of its clients, Clarke got assigned to double-check and fix every mistake he made. She had become a glorified babysitter whose sole purpose was to make someone else look good. Although it was never explicitly said, they dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her if she continued to help the company in this matter. She was also leaving a relationship where she was putting in more than she was getting out of it. She was tired of making big romantic gestures like homemade dinners or weekend getaways. She was tired of picking George up when he had "been out with the boys" and was too wasted to get home. She was tired of being chastised for spending time with her guy friends when he saw nothing wrong with the hours-long conversations he had with "just a girl from work." She needed to stop justify staying with him. They had met, like some a weird modern fairy tale, when they moved into the dorms during their freshman year of college. She was struggling with one of the boxes full of her stuff and he, like a Prince Charming in jorts and a backward baseball cap, swooped in and offered to help her. They started spending a lot of time together as friends after that day. It was not until after winter break that their relationship shifted. They would text back and forth over the break, and one night after their conversation, she found herself lying awake and all she could think of was him. It happened every night for the next week. When she returned to campus, she walked into his room to see him. He was just on his way out. "I was coming up to see you. I think we need to talk." They went into his room and sat on his bed. There was a long uncomfortable silence between them before George broke it. "I like you and, unless I am completely misreading this, you feel the same." Clarke felt herself start to smile, but he did not seem to notice as he was so focused on the words coming out of his mouth. "Do you want to go on a real date and see..." She didn't let him finish. "Of course, you dummy," she said, punching him in the arm for good measure. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. She got up from the best and said, "How 'bout now?" He stood up and grabbed her hand as they walked to the dining hall for their first real date. Clarke fell in love, and she fell fast. She found herself mentally categorizing her time into "BF time" and "everything else." They became, according to their friends, "insufferably inseparable." A term they embraced whole-heartedly. He was a psych major and she a marketing major, so they didn't have classes together, but whenever possible, they would meet one another between classes and have a "mini-date." They would grab a cup of coffee or find some secluded part of campus and talk or make out. Those "mini-dates" were the very essence of their first year together. As with most relationships, there were ups and downs, but what mattered was they always stayed together in the end. In hindsight, she could see when they started to grow apart. It was when, in their junior year of college, their quality time together began to dwindle. They still made time for romantic evenings out, but date nights started to consist of meeting friends at a bar to hang out and drink. Where they once would spend hours alone talking about nothing of importance to anyone but themselves, they now spent the evenings on the opposite side of a dirty booth at the bar while their friends shouted at each other over the drunken celebrations of the other patrons. They still made time for one another, but it was much more of an effort. Clarke set up real date nights, going to shows or cooking meals together. He planned weekend getaways and fancy dinners out. It was these things she focused on when they were in the same booth in the same loud bar with the same people. Now, less than a year removed from graduation and the spell cast by the "college experience" had worn off. Where Clarke once was contemplating spending the rest of her life with him, she was now planning a life without him. She wanted to get away from the double standards and continually being made to feel like she was in the wrong. She wanted a life where taking care of herself, and her needs trumped making someone else feel needed. As much as she still loved the city, it just held too much heartbreak now. Its streets had become filled with sadness and reminded of her failures. She could barely turn a corner without being confronted with regrets, missed opportunities and unfulfilled promises. Even now as she wandered around the bus station sipping her coffee, she could see the building where she didn't get her dream job. It was not all bad; there were a lot of good memories too. A few blocks down from where she stood now was where she experienced the moment she fell in love with the city. It was her first summer here, and she had gotten a waitressing job downtown. She had worked the late shift and had helped to close. She stepped outside, exhausted from the busy shift and the city still felt alive. She saw a couple snuggled up on a bench next to the train tracks. The bars were humming with activity as patrons spilled into the patios. As she walked back to her apartment, she saw the audiences from concerts and plays file out and into the warm summer night. It was close to midnight, and there was still so much this place had to offer. It was then, at that moment, that she knew she never wanted to leave this city. But that seemed like such a long time ago. Sadness had infected all the joy and excitement the city once held. The fights she had gotten in with George, watching her dreams slip away and feeling like she was settling in all aspects of her life that had become all she saw as she walked the streets of her once beloved home now. All her good memories had become tainted by the overwhelming feelings of regret and grief. There was no inciting incident to her actions now, no preverbal "straw that broke the camel's back." It just happened. She had woken up one day and realized she needed to get away; to where she did not know. All she knew was that she needed not to be here anymore. In movies it seemed so simple, you get up and go, but this was not a movie: she had responsibilities: namely a lease that was not going to be up for three months. It was just three months. She could stick it out for three months. It was not easy. Once she got the idea to leave, it burrowed deep and stuck. It made her anxious and often irritable as she felt the need to get out only grow stronger. She channeled that energy into laying the groundwork for when she left. She made a list, picked a destination, started saving and for the first time in a long time, focused on the future. Things were going to get better; she just needed to prepare. And that is what she did. The first thing she did was she end things with George and kicked him out of her apartment. It felt like it lasted for hours when in reality it was mere minutes. "I'm leaving," she told him. It was a shitty opening line, but it got the ball rolling. "Going where" he responded. It was at that moment that she realized how vague she had been. It was too late to back off now; she was in it so she might as well do what needed to be done. "Away. From here. From this city,: she said. "Why?" came his response. Clarke paused. She wished the words would come more natural, but she couldn't for a coherent thought. This was the first time she had said any of these thoughts out loud and her mind would not calm down. "...because...I just need a break," she told him. "From what?!" He was starting to shout, something she had heard more and more in the past few months. "From work," she began. She took a deep breath, and for the first time, she took her eyes of the stain on the living room carpet and looked George in the eye. "From you," she told him with all the conviction she could muster. For the first time in a long time, he was silent. "You had to have seen this coming. I mean, we have been in a funk for months. We go to the same shitty bar with the same shitty people..." "But you..." he started, but she was not going to let him interrupt her anymore. "It's okay now and then, but every single week...come on. I have tried my damndest to change things up, but you....you want things to stay the same. You seem content to coast through the remainder of our relationship. I have already made up my mind. There is not much more for me to say. I'm quitting my job in the next few days. It is time to end whatever the hell this has become." She was done, but he wasn't. This was when the real screaming started. George went on for a while, but Clarke didn't pay attention to what he was saying. Her mind was made up, and she had to move on to the other preparations she needed to make. She was so deep in thought that she didn't realize he had stopped talking until he said, "Well...?" "What more do I need to say. This is what I am doing." "So just like that, you are going to throw away almost six years of our relationship because of a few lousy dates!?" She had stayed calm up to this point, but this last comment got to the heart of the matter. She felt her breath quicken as her chest heaved as she felt the mental dam break and all the anger she had felt since this conversation started could be held back no longer. "If you think that is what all this is about, you have NOT BEEN PAYING ATTENTION!! Those 'dates' are not the problem; they are a symptom of the problem. The problem is, and you might want to sit down for this news bulletin, THE WORLD DOESN'T REVOLVE AROUND YOU! I am done compromising MY sanity, MY happiness for someone who refuses to do the same for me. So, yea, we had some lousy dates, but the fact is I AM MISERABLE. The fact is I am 75 percent sure you are cheating on me with Chelsea and the fact is I am 100 percent done with YOUR BULLSHIT!" She was done talking. She sat down on the couch as George hurled insult after insult at her. She refused to dignify anything he said with a response. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew it. He started to stumble over his words as he saw that nothing he was saying was registering with her at all. When he had finally worn himself out, George took what few items he stored there and slammed the door as he left. It was only after Clarke heard his car pull away from that she finally let herself breath again. It was the was the freest Clarke has felt in a very long time. She could focus on her wants her needs and not someone else's. It was the first step Clarke needed; It was just the morale boost necessary to get through the other hardship, her soul-sucking job. And she was going to need it. Clarke went to work and kept doing what she always had done: cover for everyone else. She kept her head down and did what she needed to do. Clarke just needed to bide her time until she was ready for it. Something told her there would be less cursing in that exchange. Then the moment came: the time to put in her two weeks notice. It was the happiest moment of her time there when she could finally tell her do-nothing boss that she quit. She had intended to say what she needed, exchange a few pleasantries, politely decline to do an exit interview and get out. But something happened when she finally said those words out loud she was leaving, something so simple that Clarke was surprised by how she reacted. He asked her why she was resigning. It was such a straightforward and harmless question, and for whatever reason she decided to tell him, to be brutally honest and tell him. What she felt as she let out all her gripes and anger could only be described as euphoric. She let out everything she has been holding in. With that cathartic release, she told him she was taking her paid time off, walked out and grabbed what few possessions she had. She was not going back. Now, at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, it was real. After months of planning, this was it. The announcement came over the PA, the bus was ready to board, and Clarke handed in her ticket. She stuffed her bag in the busses undercarriage compartment and got on. Clarke walked straight to the back and took a seat. She starred out the window at her city, or what once was hers. It wasn't hers any longer. The time had come to pass it on to another young dreamer who sees nothing but potential in the manic pace of the people, cars, trains, and busses. That was a feeling long ago lost to her, and now it was time to move on. She was lost in thought, recalling both good and bad memories when she was jolted back to reality by the bus' engine starting. As the bus pulled out and moved steadily away from over a decade of people and events, moments and memories, she could not help but smile. The bus got onto the highway, and the city disappeared in the morning fog, and just like that, she had escaped.

[anonarat]

Chapter 3 - Sights and Splendour

There was a knock on the side of Aym’s palanquin. Masquerade had gotten used to the guards doing this, so drew back the light curtain shielding her from view.

“What is it,” asked Aym, feigning irritation.

“We are approaching The Rose Court and the city of Ertafye milady, if you wish to witness its splendor,” said the guard.

“One moment. I must compose myself,” replied Aym, drawing the curtain back across the palanquin. Now she just had to hope that her client was telling the truth. Digging into a pocket within her top, Aym withdrew a small vial filled with pills. An astute observer might note that there were enough pills in that vial for a few weeks at most, if one was to take them daily. Said observer would be right. Aym had enough of these pills to last her a month, and not a day longer.

Tipping out one of the innocuous white pills, Aym studied it for a moment, trying to determine anything more about it than what she had been told. No answers were forthcoming, so she threw it into her mouth and swallowed it.

Unlike most human medications and drugs, the pill worked near instantly. Faster still from Aym’s ability to consume glam. Immediately Aym felt a pressure to experience every emotion at once. The grief that she had been using to make her performance more convincing skyrocketed and she choked out a sob. It felt like the world was sharp and keen and tearing at her. She couldn’t keep her emotions in check even if she wanted to. It was a wholly unusual feeling for someone who had kept a tight reign on her emotions since birth.

Tentatively Aym tried to feel something besides grief. Drive, purpose, ambition. It was almost a relief as her emotions balanced out. Now more focussed, Aym began to bring her emotions up and down. As each one went up, she could lower the others. As one went down, the others necessarily rose. It was most disconcerting for her. Yet she had little time to master the vagaries of what the pill had unleashed.

“Open the curtains,” said Aym, the hitch in her voice an unintentional consequence of the sadness welled up inside of her. It felt almost as if she were undone, her body trembled slightly, and tears started drawing tracks down her cheeks. Beyond it all, her mind analysed, trying to balance her emotions so that she might be fit, and trying to understand what had happened to her.

Oh, her client had said that the drug would allow her to blend in with the other sparks, but they hadn’t specified how. The thought of having to consume that riotous cocktail day in and day out was listed quite high on Aym’s opinion of negative sensations. Not surprising really, it was baby’s first taste of always experiencing emotions. Unfortunately for her, it was the only thing that Aym knew about that would keep her from coming under scrutiny. She works it out later, don’t worry. The guards pulled back the light curtains of the palanquin. Ahead stood Ertafye and the Rose Court. Ertafye was a squat, stumbling, haphazard creation of a city, abutting the desert on three sides and the mountains of Ruination on the last. It was grossly impractical as a city location. Much commerce could travel around without needing to go through it. The only water could be gained from deep wells. There was little in the way of natural resources. Yet it was here that the fae of The Rose Court settled. By necessity, humans were gathered to serve.

The Rose Court was entirely and beautifully distinct. High walls grew tall over Ertafye. Graceful spires and curves were hinted at above the elegant crenellations of those walls. Glittering marble, silver, gold and ruby made up the walls, making the court gleam in the sun. It was a demonstration of power beyond mortal hands.

Such a sight allowed Aym to bleed off her grief to wonder without it seeming too out of place, and she relished such an opportunity. The metaphorical weight on her chest began to lift.

“It’s beautiful,” said Aym, almost to herself, yet also because that was what was expected of her.

And so on and so forth. I mean seeing the people of the town might have stirred up some measure of pity in a spark or ordinary human being. Instead Aym used that time to better acquaint herself with the effects of the pill. Mostly that involved spreading her emotions over as wide a range as possible. Even then, everything still felt much more than any humans in her experience could ever really feel. She thought that maintaining this level of emotion must be deeply exhausting day in and day out.

Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret dear listener, her emotions were being boosted to the same level as one might expect from a spark. Where most humans naturally have a fairly dim resting point for emotion, beaten down by the world, sparks are like a bonfire. Why, one spark generates enough emotion, and by extension glam, to be the equivalent of near a thousand humans. Naturally a spark can’t feel all of that emotion, so it all overflows, making it into a much easier to consume substance for the fae.

The palanquin finished its journey for the time, bringing Aym to stand before the grand gates of The Rose Court. Vast doors, made from a wood that Aym could not recognise, were decorated with yet more precious metals. The theme was obvious though, it was a door of roses and thorns, beautiful, deadly and impenetrable. It made a good excuse to shift more emotion to wonder.

Internally, Aym had begun wracking her brains for a way past this wall and gate when the time came to leave. It quickly became apparent that she would likely need another way out. Probably killing a servant and exfiltrating with their body.

A much smaller door opened within the gate, the join where it had met the rest of the wood was seamless. Because the door had glam infused, so yes, I’m being literal here.

In fact, it’s probably better to take a lot of these descriptions at face value, because the fae do so like using glam in their constructions. I’d say they take a perverse pleasure in doing things that mortals can’t do, but that really isn’t the case. Rather, the courts are especially designed to evoke wonder. Emotions fuel glam, and it far nicer to experience wonder than fear, though it does leave one more vulnerable.

A group of what Aym could only assume were servants, who were clad in mostly white, with the design of a red rose wrapping around the body, before flowering over the heart. Such a design was a not so subtle reminder of these human’s place, though time has worn the meaning of the reminder away from human thoughts. Now it was simply the uniform of the servants.

“Greetings Lady Aym, and welcome to The Rose Court. One of the masters is waiting for you, so please step this way,” said the servant at the head of the group.

Aym rose from the bed that had been her transport for the past week, and walked towards the group. She infused herself with some haughtiness, wonder and left some lingering amounts of grief and dread, presuming that this would be what the fae would expect to see. Well not so much see as experience, but you get the idea.

Assuming that the court guards, the bearers and her luggage would be dealt with by the squad of servants awaiting her, Aym simply crossed over to the lead servant.

“I thank you for your welcome. Please, lead the way,” said Aym. At once she realised she may have made something of a gaff, perhaps striding past the servants imperiously would have been more appropriate, but her course was committed now. The lead servant led her into The Rose Court.

***

Aym was led to a large receiving room, domed with a great, stained glass window. Whilst the room should have been in the shade of the wall, it was as if the light streamed through unimpeded. The room had a couple of small water channels that fed lush greenery on either side of the path, and the central circle where one of the fae waited.

Seeing a fae for the first time should fill anyone with dread, or at least, any human. From the outside, they are fickle, capricious things. Powerful, with only unworked iron as a weakness.

Alright, I’ll call it cold iron, I can tell that calling unworked just vexes you. To most folk, there isn’t much of a difference, but the distinction is important. After all, cold iron can mean a number of things, but unworked has a nice specificity to it.

Aym wasn’t just anyone, and she certainly wasn’t human, but she knew well enough to play her part. Dread was allowed to seep into the emotional composite, and Aym’s steps slowed, despite logically knowing that it shouldn’t be an issue.

The fae before her had unnaturally pale skin, near as white as any of the northern barbarians. Rich purple hair flowed down in waves from her head, just barely scraping the floor, and granting the creature modesty. Emerald eyes regarded Aym, the facets of the pupils reflecting the light oddly.

Yes, I am once again being somewhat literal, there was a slight change in hue between the pupil and the iris to differentiate them, but they were emerald. More accurately, I suppose, they looked entirely indistinguishable to emeralds to all natural eyes. Being fae, the creature’s actual shape was rather hidden by this glam that it projected to the world.

Aym took to one knee, and bowed before the fae on one knee as she had been taught by her client.

The fae walked towards her soundlessly, even lacking in the sound of breathing or the displacement of air. It stopped a couple of paces in front of Aym, and she could feel it looming over her. At the edge of her senses she could feel the faintest hint of emotion coming from the fae, trying to invade her with yet more dread and reverence. Remarkably prudently, or perhaps with part of her survival instinct kicking in, Aym let herself be dragged into the currents of emotion that started flooding her for a short while.

“Greetings Aym, formerly of The Court of Heights. I am Ythna, Queen, Sister to the king, and his consort. Be welcome in The Rose Court.”

“Your majesty, I do not deserve your presence,” replied Aym, replying as she had been taught. A high pitched laugh cut the air between the two.

“You need not worry so much about titles here, Courtier of the Heights. We are not so strictly delineated as your court is, we are not in constant competition with each other. We regularly mingle amongst the courtiers, instead of having them seek our approval,” said Ythna, her voice like silk, though silk with a viper beneath it, “We are a court of love and romance. Though your heart may ache at the absence of your lover, perhaps you can find another here who can soothe that ache.”

“I hope it to be as your majesty says,” said Aym in response, with no other option seeming particularly viable.

“Oh, lighten up Aym,” said Ythna gently, “I feel that we shall become the very best of friends, if not something more.”

Then, Ythna leaned down to whisper in Aym’s ear, “after all, I am the one to whom you shall be reporting your findings.”

Aym shivered involuntarily as Ythna drew a finger down her bare arm, pleasure radiating out from the touch. Ythna spoke again.

“What was lost, shall be found. What was old, shall be new again.”

To Aym, this sounded worryingly like a sign, so she had to put her faith in the fact that there was no countersign. Given that she was the only person coming from the Court of Heights; it seemed possible that there wasn’t one.

“As you say my lady,” replied Aym, weighing up possible escapes, and discarding them. The original Aym had kept rather tight-lipped about who her contacts would be, and what communication methods she would use with them once in The Rose Court. There was a near insufferable pause, almost as if Ythna was weighing up whether or not to kill Aym.

“Good,” said Ythna eventually, sounding pleased, though whether she actually was or not wasn’t clear. Ythna once again drew herself up to her full, impressive, height, and then extended a hand to Aym.

“Come. I shall introduce you to some of the other fae of the court and to the other courtiers,” Ythna’s tone brooked no refusal.

***

Ythna led Aym out of the receiving room that she had been in and out into the court proper. It was filled with wonders, both large and small. Plants grew, water burbled and the whole place was pleasantly warm. Statues of surpassing beauty were placed in small plazas. Light streamed through the walls, though no sun could be seen at present due to their height. Near to the walls was many a building, though one dominated the view.

It was a cross between a giant manor and a wizard’s tower. Not that wizards actually exist, but it gives the right sort of image. Many smaller towers branched off from it, making the top seem like a forest of spires. The whole thing was in green marble, accentuated with a bit of red.

There seemed to be a reasonable number of humans and things that were probably not human milling around near where Aym was being led. Given how barren the parts of the court that were further away were, Aym suspected that they had all come to view her, and now were acting nonchalantly.

Ythna raised the arm that was not currently holding Aym’s hand, and pointed to the impressive building.

“That is The Rose Court proper Aym. Do not enter it unsupervised by one of the Lords or Ladies of the court. If you do… unfortunate things shall happen to you, and I would prefer to prevent that.”

Aym nodded in agreement. Despite the fact that it was probably a bad idea in terms of thoughts, Aym had added befuddlement into the mix of her emotions. If she was supposed to be feeling things in greater excess, it seemed safer to have apparently natural reactions, even if logically it hurt her.

As Ythna led Aym through the general courtyard, Aym noted that the hedges and plants had been carefully cultivated to provide a number of hidden nooks and crannies. Based on what her client had told her of The Rose Court, these were no doubt for secret liaisons and trysts. Further, based on the numbers of people and fae she had already seen, there would always be a slight risk of being seen. It was possible this was to add a frisson of danger, but also provide fuel for any rumour mills within the court.

Whilst Ythna didn’t fully understand why this would be desirable, she had so far gotten the impression that whilst the fae seemed to do a number of things on whimsy, there was something calculating behind that. The exact nature of what the fae wanted was mysterious to Aym, but given her experiences so far, they likely wanted people to be emotional. She reasoned through the problem quickly deducing that there was some link between emotion and glam, though what that link was, was still open. Aym was right, of course. Given my emphasis on such things, no doubt you have also deduced this fact as well, but here is some out and out proof. That is, if you believe that I am telling you the whole truth.

“Over here is the recreation building,” said Ythna indicating a large, squat building with a ring of packed dirt around it, “Inside you may find playing areas for various games. I realise that it won’t be on quite the scale you are used to, but we don’t play for rank, only pride. No doubt you will be able to find others to give you game… provided you give them a suitable handicap. There are some others originally from the Court of Heights, and we try to encourage all our courtiers to do at least some exercise. A word to the wise though, sometimes it is more politick to lose a match.”

“Thank you, my lady. I shall make certain to take advantage of this kind provision.”

“Think nothing of it my dear,” said Ythna, running another tantalising finger down Aym’s arm, causing her to shiver slightly as her nerves went into overdrive, “whilst not so much as our… friends… in the Court of Heights, we do still love a good game of skill and athleticism.”

“Come now, I shall show you to your quarters. I think you will find them nicer than the barracks where you lived. I understand that you were mid-tier in your former court. Here, everyone is treated equally, and well,” said Ythna as she led Aym further into the court.

[queensherline-blog]

The Most important thing in communication is hearing what isn’t said- Peter F. Drucker

Photo credits: Pauwels Consulting

Non verbal communication differs from different cultures and knowing our differences and understanding them, is important to avoid us from having troubles and help us interact and work with people from different cultures in a manner that anticipates and respect the type of culture that they have. Cultural background defines nonverbal communication as many forms of nonverbal communication are learned behavior (Businesstopia, 2016). The communication that exists without a word is called non verbal communication. There are different forms of non verbal communication, these channels differs from one culture to another:

First is the Body movements which deliver message to the person we talked to, the bowing which is not done, criticized, or affected in US are shows rank in Japan, Slouching consider as rude in most Northern European areas, Putting your Hands in your pocket are disrespectful in Turkey, Sitting with legs crossed are offensive in Ghana and Turkey, and Showing soles of feet are offensive in Thailand and Saudi Arabia.

Second is facial movements which conveys emotions, feelings and attitudes. Our facial expressions accompanying emotions represented by SADFISH: sadness, anger, disgust, fear, interest, surprise, and happiness.

In Many Asian cultures suppress facial expression as much as possible, while Some see “animated” expressions as a sign of a lack of control.

Smile is common expression to express the joy or happiness that we feel. In some cultures it is seen that too much smiling is viewed in, as a sign of shallowness. For instance, in American culture the smile is typically an expression of pleasure. Many people in Russia consider smiling at strangers in public to be unusual and even suspicious behavior. Yet many Americans smile freely at strangers in public places. In Southeast Asian cultures, a smile is frequently used to cover emotional pain or embarrassment. Vietnamese people may tell the sad story but end the story with a smile. For many Scandinavians a smile or any facial expression used to convey emotions is untypical because it is considered a weakness to show emotions. The way people express sadness also differs. In many cultures, such as the Arab and Iranian cultures, people express grief openly. They mourn out loud, while people from other cultures like China and Japan are more subdued.  In public and formal situations many Japanese do not show their emotions as freely as Americans do.

Third is eye contact, Temperate or excessive eye contact can create different meaning from culture to culture. In America and Latin America eye contact indicates: degree of attention or interest, influences the attitude change or persuasion, regulates interaction, communicates emotion, defines power and status,  not looking the other person in the eye is a sign of disrespect and it might even look suspicious.  In other culture, the Western culture, eye contact is interpreted as attentiveness and honesty, we are taught that we should “look people in the eye” when talking. In many cultures, however, including Hispanic, Asian, Middle Eastern, and Native American, eye contact is thought to be disrespectful or rude, and lack of eye contact does not mean that a person is not paying attention. In Eastern cultures women should especially not have eye contact with men as it shows power or sexual interest. In some cultures, whereas, gazes are taken as a way of expression. Staring is taken as rude in most cultures. Although it is common in Western culture for adults to admire babies and young children  and comment upon how cute they are, this is avoided in Hmong and Vietnamese cultures for fear that these comments may be overheard by a spirit that will try to steal the baby or otherwise cause some harm to come to him or her.  

Fourth is Proxemics, In some cultures, even close physical contact between strangers is acceptable. For European Americans, the average conversational distance is approximately twenty inches. In many Latin American and Caribbean cultures, that distance reduces to fourteen to fifteen inches. In Saudi Arabia, among same-sex speakers, the ideal conversational distance reduces even further to nine to ten inches. People have specific personal space which they do not want to be  intruded.

Fifth, Haptics which rules across cultures, In Asia kissing on the cheek, patting on the shoulder, embraces, or touching other bodily parts interpreted such actions as an offense or even a violation of one's private space. In the US handshake is common even for strangers, hugs, kisses for those of opposite gender or of family usually on an increasingly more intimate basis. Most African Americans touch on greeting but are annoyed if touched on the head. Islamic and Hindus typically don’t touch with the left hand.  It is an social insult.  Left hand is for toilet functions.  Mannerly in India to break your bread only with your right hand. Islamic cultures generally don’t approve of any touching between genders even hand shakes.  But consider such touching (including hand holding, hugs) between same-sex to be appropriate. And In some Asian cultures patting children’s head is very bad signal as head is taken to be sacred.

Sixth, is the artifactual communication which also speaks a lot in our culture, the way one dresses speaks about his/ her personality. Our clothing and artifacts mark our unique or co-cultural identity, the cloth we wear says something about who we are. Americans, for instance, appear almost obsessed with dress and personal attractiveness. The Jewish men may wear a yarmulke to outwardly communicate their religious belief. Similarly, clothing can communicate what nationality a person or group we belong, the Scottish men often wear kilts to specify their culture. In Vienna and Austria it showed that in certain groups of women especially those who doesnt have partners, motivation for sex and levels of sexual hormones were correlated with aspects of their clothing, especially the amount of skin displayed and the presence of sheer clothing.

The Paralanguage or vocal cues which is the seventh also marks our cultural identity. Giggling in Japan indicates embarrassment while in India indicates satisfaction. The vocal qualifiers such as the Loudness indicates strength in Arabic cultures and softness indicates weakness, it indicates confidence and authority to the Germans while indicates impoliteness to Thais and it indicates loss of control to the Japanese.

Asian people control themselves from shouting as they are taught not to from childhood. If you raise your voice during a conversation, chances are that will be interpreted as you being angry or irritated. However, raising your voice is common among many cultural groups as an indication of sincerity or authenticity. some African Americans tend to have expressive voices and are passionate about their speaking points, which can be mistaken for anger.

Eighth is Silence which being used to value what the other person is saying, For instance Americans tend to want conversation to get to the point, where other cultures will use it to build relationship. It is critical in cross-cultural interactions to establish trust. The Chinese culture, prefer silence over verbal communication.

Ninth is Gesture which The Gesture from different culture might be offensive at the other, in other cases, for instance the “thumbs up" gesture or the “OK sign” have vulgar meanings in Iran and Latin America, in Japan some even take it as money.. Yet in other countries the “OK" sign means just “zero", which is not offensive. In pointing the US points with index finger, Germany with little finger and Japanese with entire hand, in most Asians consider pointing with index finger to be rude. Some cultures take snapping fingers to get the attention of a waiter as alright whereas some take it as disrespect and very offensive. Showing feet is taken as offensive in some Middle Eastern cultures. In Polynesia, people stick out their tongue to greet people which is taken as a sign of mockery in most of other cultures.

The use of a finger or hand to indicate “come here please” which is the gesture used to beckon dogs in some cultures is very offensive.

Tenth is Time which also affects communication, how people handle time differs from different culture, It is polychronic when people do many activities at once which is common in Italy and Spain, and monochronic when people do one thing at a time which is common in America. Americans also have a high respect on time.

Last is smell which communicates attraction and identification. The Arabian culture consider their natural body odors as normal, The Asian cultures Filipino, Malay, Indonesian, Thai, Indian, stresses frequent bathing and the USA has fear of offensive natural smells.

Culture form different country is pretty striking. But we must acknowledge our differences and be sensitive to the culture of others. Learning in advance about their nonverbal communication saves us from embarrassment and misunderstandings. We must avoid having fixed impression, Each has a uniqueness and don’t keep ourselves in seeing it.

Source:

Bright Hub, 2016

Andrews, 2016

Levine, Adelman & Hall, 1993

Howard, 2011

      _

[mattkeepsrambling]

Escape (Updated 8/19/17)

The smell of stale coffee radiated throughout the station from the stand in the corner and the dozen or so other passengers stood around either with their heads looking down at their phones or staring blankly outside at the line of busses. Not Clarke though. Clarke stood, music playing in her headphones, lost in thought, eyes staring straight ahead, focusing on nothing and everything. Her time had come, she was finally going to escape. Her bags were packed, and the bus to anywhere else was about to board. She was about to leave, for good, the city in which she had spent more than half her life. While that thought made her a little homesick already, she knew it was for the best. She maybe leaving a place she loved, she was also leaving all the baggage it held. She was leaving a job where she spent her days covering for and fixing the messes of her coworkers. It was a job where she was told to deal with problems without any help or backing from her supervisor who, by the way, was never in the office. She was leaving being overworked, under appreciated and vastly underpaid. She knew she had settled for this job, but she had seen it as a stepping-stone for other opportunities that never seemed to materialize. She was leaving her thankless work and unsupportive higher-ups. When she had started, she had hoped it would lead to other opportunities within the company. She took the job because there was a genuine chance to move up the ranks and make a name for herself. Those opportunities never materialized, and those times when the spotlight should have been on her, it was stolen by others. She saw others with better connections get the promotions that were rightfully hers. Her supervisor promised that the next time something came up, she would be in serious contention, but her moment never came. One of the more incredible injustices was when a son-in-law of a board member got a job for which Clarke was vastly more qualified. When his incompetence almost cost the company one of its clients, Clarke got assigned to double check and fix every mistake he made. She had become a glorified babysitter whose sole purpose was to make someone else look good. Although it was never explicitly said, they dangled the carrot of a promotion in front of her if she continued to help the company in this matter. She was also leaving a relationship where she was putting more in than she was getting out of it. She was tired of making big romantic gestures like homemade dinners or weekend getaways. She was tired of picking George up when he had "been out with the boys" and was too wasted to get home. She was tired of being chastised for spending time with her guy friends when he saw nothing wrong with the hours long conversations he had with "just a girl from work." She needed to stop justify staying with him. They had met, like some a weird modern fairy tale, when they moved into the dorms during their freshman year of college. She was struggling with one of the boxes full of her stuff and he, like a Prince Charming in jorts and a backward baseball cap, swooped in and offered to help her. They started spending a lot of time together as friends after that day. It was not until after winter break that their relationship shifted. They would text back and forth over the break, and one night after their conversation, she found herself lying awake and all she could think of was him. It happened every night for the next week. When she returned to campus, she walked to his room to see him. He was just on his way out. "I was coming up to see you. I think we need to talk." They went into his room and sat on his bed. There was as long uncomfortable silence between them before George broke it. "I like you and, unless I am completely misreading this, you feel the same." Clarke felt herself start to smile, but he did not seem to notice as he was so focused on the words coming out of his mouth. "Do you want to go on a real date and see..." She didn't let him finish. "Of course, you dummy," she said, punching him in the arm for good measure. Then she planted a kiss on his cheek. She got up from the best and said, "How 'bout now?" He stood up and grabbed her hand as they walked to the dining hall for their first real date. Clarke fell in love, and she fell fast. She found herself mentally categorizing her time into "BF time" and "everything else." They became, according to their friends, "insufferably inseparable." A term they embraced whole-heartedly. He was a psych major and she a marketing major, so they didn't have classes together, but whenever possible, they would meet one another between classes and have a "mini-date." They would grab a cup of coffee or find some secluded part of campus and talk or make out. Those "mini-dates" were the very essence of their first year together. As with most relationships, there were ups and downs, but what mattered was they always stayed together in the end. In hindsight, she could see when they started to grow apart. It was when, in their junior year of college, their quality time together began to dwindle. They still made time for romantic evenings out, but date nights started to consist of meeting friends at a bar to hang out and drink. Where they once would spend hours alone talking about everything or nothing, they now spent the evenings on the opposite side of a dirty booth at the bar while their friends shouted at each other over the drunken revelries of the other patrons. The still made time for one another, but it was much more of an effort. Clarke set up real date nights, going to shows or cooking meals together. He planned weekend getaways and fancy dinners out. It was these things she focused on when they were in the same booth in the same loud bar with the same people. Now, less that a year removed from graduation and the spell cast by the "college experience" had worn off. Where Clarke once was contemplating spending the rest of her life with him, she was now planning a life without him. It was going to be a life away from the double standards and continually being made to feel like she was in the wrong. A life where taking care of herself and her needs trumped making someone else feel needed. As much as she still loved the city, it just held too much heartbreak now. Its streets had become filled with sadness and reminded of her failures. She could barely turn a corner without being confronted with regrets, missed opportunities and unfulfilled promises. Even now as she wondered around the bus station sipping her coffee, she could see the building where she didn't get her dream job. It was not all bad; there were a lot of good memories too. A few blocks down from where she stood now was where she the moment she fell in love with the city. It was her first summer here, and she had gotten a waitressing job downtown. She had worked the late shift and had helped to close. She stepped outside, exhausted from the busy shift and the city still felt alive. She saw a couple snuggled up on a bench next to the train tracks. The bars were humming with activity as patrons spilled into the patios. As she walked back to her apartment, she saw the audiences from concerts and plays file out and into the warm summer night. It was close to midnight, and there was still so much this place had to offer. It was then, at that moment, that she knew she never wanted to leave this place. But that seemed like such a long time ago. Sadness had infected all the joy and excitement the city once held. The fights she had gotten in with George, watching her dreams slip away and feeling like she was settling in all aspects of her life that had become all she saw as she walked the streets of her once beloved home now. All her good memories had become tainted by the overwhelming feelings of regret and grief. There was no inciting incident to her actions now, no preverbal "straw that broke the camel's back." It just happened. She had woken up one day and realized she needed to escape. Escape to where she did not know. All she knew was that she needed not to be here anymore. In movies it seemed so easy, you just get up and go, but this was not a movie: she had responsibilities: namely a lease that was not going to be up for three months. It was just three months. She could stick it out for three months. It was not easy. Once she got the idea to escape, it burrowed deep and stuck. It made her anxious and often irritable as she felt the need to get out and grow stronger. She channeled that energy into laying the groundwork for when she left. She made a list, picked a destination, started saving and for the first time in a long time, focused on the future. Things were going to get better; she just needed to prepare. And that is what she did. The first thing she did was she end things with George and kicked him out of her apartment. They got in one more screaming match with him doing his best to guilt her out of it: how dare she throw away the last six years of their relationship over nothing. She stood her ground, and in the end, she won. He took what few items he stored there and left. It was the freest she has felt in a very long time. She could finally breathe and focus on her wants, her needs and not someone else's. It was just the morale boost she needed to get through the other hardship, her soul-sucking job. And she was going to need it. She went to work and kept doing what she always had done: cover for everyone else. She kept her head down and did what she needed to do. Then the moment came: the time to put in her two weeks notice. It was the happiest moment of her time there when she could finally tell her do-nothing boss that she quit. She had intended just to say what she needed, exchange a few pleasantries, politely decline to do an exit interview and get out. But something happened when she finally said those words out loud she was leaving, something so simple that Clarke was surprised by how she reacted. He asked her why she was leaving. It was such a straightforward and harmless question, and for whatever reason she decided to tell him, to be brutally honest and tell him. What she felt as she let out all her gripes and anger could only be described as euphoric. She let out everything she has been holding in. With that cathartic release, she told him she was taking her paid time off, walked out and grabbed what few possessions she had. She was not going back. Now, at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, it was real. After months of planning, this was it. The announcement came over the PA, the bus was ready to board, and Clarke handed in her ticket. She stuffed her bag in the busses undercarriage compartment and got on. Clarke walked straight to the back and took a seat. She stared out the window at her city, or what once was hers. It wasn't hers any longer. The time had come to pass it on to another young dreamer who sees nothing but potential in the manic pace of the people, cars, trains, and busses. That was a feeling long ago lost to her, and now it was time to move on. She was lost in thought, recalling both good and bad memories when she was jolted back to reality by the bus' engine starting. As the bus pulled out and moved steadily away from over a decade of people and events, moments and memories, she could not help but smile. The bus got onto the highway, and the city disappeared in the morning fog, and just like that, she had escaped.