#but i have always drawn the line at formal regulation

[spitblaze]

Has it been long enough that we can all admit a lot of the backlash we all had to AI art was kneejerk and that we should have fully directed our anger at the shitheads who intended to use it for a quick buck by either selling the results it spits out after typing 'beautiful angel in the style or george rutko with well drawn hands' in the prompt at a markup and call it 'original creative work' or by cutting real human artists out of the equation in commercial settings in favor of having an underpaid intern type prompts into dall-e until they get something good enough they can use as a publishable graphic

[secondhand-trash]

“I love you.” “It’ll pass.”

Season 2 ep 6, Fleabag

(more lines I like from things I like as prompts for people I like)

A/N: I reserved this one for Dabi when I was making the list but fuck Dabi It’s Getou time😌✨this scene impacted me so hard when I was watching the show and I knew right then that I had to write something off of it one day

Pairing: Getou Suguru x reader

Description: He left without saying goodbye.

Warning: major manga spoilers (set after the hs flashback arc and connecting to the prequel)

Word count: 3007

Playlist:

Cigarette Daydreams//Cage The Elephant

You Say I’m in Love//Banes World

The Killing Moon//Echo & the Bunnymen

-

It wasn’t until the report came out that you realised Getou was never coming back.

All 112 villagers of the prev. ** village deceased.

The letters printed on the white paper was staring right at your face, but somehow it still felt like it was miles away, like everything you read fell through your ears as an echo.

Residues at the scene could determine that it was Getou Suguru’s curse manipulation.

No one said anything when they saw you staring blankly at the still screen of your phone. The last few messages were still there, sitting there and waiting to be read.

You weren’t sure if you were hoping or detesting a response. He probably never would, like he probably wasn’t your boyfriend anymore.

“Do you know when you are getting back?”

Getou Suguru escaped.

“This is taking longer than your usual missions, is everything alright?”

According to item 9 of the Jujutsu Regulations, he is to be classified as a curse user-

“Suguru?”

-and is to be executed.

The other two saw him again after that, which they had the mercy of not telling you explicitly, but anyone could tell from the heaviness lingering in the air. 

Shoko smoked more than usual.

Gojo got quiet, and sometimes you would catch him fidgeting with the candy paper in his hand underneath his table.

Getou’s table was still there, an empty space starkly standing in the middle of the already sparsely occupied room. You had assumed that they would remove all traces of him immediately, but you could understand why they didn’t when you realised that your gaze still paused at where he once sat whenever it wandered.

The same way crimes scenes were always kept as it was, only the supposed corpse was still out there somewhere.

It was a silence bonding, the unbreakable chain of experiencing the same loss at the same time, but somehow your remaining friends were already there when you pushed open the door to the rooftop where no one usually went to.

That was the first day when he was gone. You had felt an impulse to go somewhere where you were not trapped inside, where you could feel the air entering your lungs as you inhale and it seemed like you were not the only one with that thought.

Gojo was already there, with his back bent forward as he leaned on the rail. He had one foot on the iron bar of the railing, casting a glance to your side when you silently joined him in looking down.

There was no one visible in your sight, but still you looked, and looked. The quiet footsteps getting closer let you know that the third (and last) classmate was here, a soft sigh ringing before there was a click and the smell of smoke made you furrow your eyebrows together.

You remembered that he used to smoke rather often, but somehow always put the cigarette off when you neared. He stopped smoking around you entirely after you got together, because you would push him away if you smelt the tell-tale scent of tobacco on him. But if you caught him at the corner with one between his fingers, he would always pull you close with his eyes curling into two thin strands, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as his other hand fumbled for the mints he kept in his jacket pocket.

You wanted to be mad at him, but the chill tickling your tongue when his breath fanned against your lips always had you weak.

“If he had come back for you,” Gojo’s voice was void of emotions, without the usual certainty or cockiness that always dripped from his words, “would you have followed?”

You shrugged.

“I don’t know,” you shook your head slightly, your eyes not once shifting away from the empty courts below.

The reality was that it still took you some time to process that fact that he killed a whole village of people, even longer when you eventually remembered that he did the same to his own parents. It didn’t feel real, like a bad dream that you could wake up from if you beat the thought into your head enough, like you could just close your eyes and see him walking up to you with his usual smile, asking you if you really fell for it.

But the feeling of being left behind, of conflict at the sentiments in your heart that you couldn’t brush away, of doubting if everything you once had was ever truly yours, of anger at how you were supposed to be the closest to him but knew nothing, of not being told anything, of not receiving a proper goodbye, of him running away without even telling you straight up that he was leaving you behind, were all very, very real.

There was a dull ache budding at the back of your throat over the fact that your last image of him was still the way he looked at you with so much tenderness made you sick to the stomach, and twisted even more at the knowing that to you, that was his one biggest crime. 

Perhaps that was what love was. You could look past the fucked up morals or even the murder, but there was no ignoring that you were left behind, and that meant that there was where it all ended.

You chuckled at the conclusion you had drawn, earning you a questioning stare from the boy who raised the question.

Hell, then he might just be the love of your life.

“I don’t know,” you repeated, bitterness lingering on your tongue when you smiled.

Sick, just sick.

They were both looking at you, but you didn’t turn to see what expression they were wearing as you dropped your head. The metal pressing against your forehead growing warm under the heat of your skin as you muttered, this time to yourself and no one else.

“I really don’t.”

-

Time sped up from there. 

Life went on. Eat, sleep, going out on missions before collapsing on your bed when you came back alone and tired, repeat. Gojo and Shoko stayed after graduation season hit, you didn’t. You spent so many years there already, you clicked your tongue as you said, it is time to move on.

You were not really talking about High school, both of them knew it but neither said a thing. The empty table remained as it was until a new batch of students poured into the classroom that was once yours, before they left and another group filled in. 

Occasionally you met young sorcerers on the field who wore the same button that once adorned your collar, and wondered if it was them who sat at that table now.

You did not think about Getou Suguru for years.

Yet, you were not surprised to find the exact same man that once plagued your thoughts late at night standing in the middle of your living room uninvited, without a single hint just as when he left.

“It has been long.”

You had a gut feeling that he got taller since you last saw him, even though you were probably standing too far away from him to truly measure. The edges and corners of his face were more prominant, his hair running down his back in a way that used to happen only when he was at his most relaxed. 

“You should try to let it grow,” you mumbled as you ran your hand through one lock of his hair, letting the black silk fell from your hand onto his chest, “it would look good on you.”

He chuckled, and the vibration seeped into your skin from the way he laid on your lap. The weight lifted from your legs when he sat up, his face right in front of yours as he grinned.

“When my hair reaches my waist, will you marry me?”

You laughed, and the smile on him only grew.

“Where did you get that from?” you hid your smile behind the back of your hand.

“It’s from a poem,” he replied with a tilt of his head, “Never heard of it?”

“No,” you still sounded breathy from the laughter, “but did people teach you not to make promises so easily?”

The one long piece of his bangs had fallen onto his face, covering his eyes just slightly. He huffed as he pushed it away from his view, placing his head on your shoulder.

“Who told you it was easy?”

Ah, your jaw clenched at the waterfall of black that stopped just above his waist, so he did grow it out in the end.

You did not move from your position at the door, standing with your back straight and your keys still gripping tightly in your hand. “What are you doing here?” 

You were just about to head back from a mission when you got the call. “He showed up at Kousen just then,” Gojo did not bother with formalities, or give you any context as to who “he” was but still you froze, knowing exactly what he was talking about right away, “he might go see you.”

(You were sure that he wouldn’t, but it seemed like you truly didn’t know him well at all.)

He chuckled, a soft sound that made your nails dig into the middle of your palm, “Am I not allowed to check up on you because I want to?”

He sounded familiar, exactly the way you remembered him to sound like. The corners of his lips were lifted up in a calculated angle, smiling at ease but not from heart. You suppressed the heat that was near pouring out your throat, swallowing the discomfort back into the pit of your core.

Was it true that this wasn’t how he smiled, or did you only notice the way his eyes were lifeless now?

You replied with a smile of your own, not willing to lose your footing, “Oh please.”

You never bothered to check on me before.

He was not bothered by the dryness in your voice, and if he was then he did a great job at not appearing so.

“When I left,” he asked, “were you mad at me?”

“No,” But I spent nights crying over you. “is that supposed to come out as a mock?”

“No.”

You searched for a hint of wavering in his eyes, any sign that he was experiencing even a bit of the turmoil that was boiling and burning in your chest as you tried to keep your voice still.

You wondered what you had hoped to find.

“What do you want?” you said, and forced yourself to look right into his eyes. You imagined that you could see your own reflection staring back at you if you were any closer to him and the hint of soreness shooting right up to your nasal until it the sting that left almost resembled longing.

If you were to fight, you probably couldn’t win him no matter how hard you try.

“If I say I miss you, would you believe me?” 

 There was a ring in your ear as you shut your eyes tight, forcing the corner of your lips to hold back from twitching.

God damn it.

“Does it matter?” I wish I don’t.

“Perhaps.” 

He was looking at you, and you could taste the blood at the tip of your tongue. You wished there wasn’t some part of you that was near breaking down inside of you, or that you didn’t feel such an urge to let the tears run free.

But you wouldn’t, your pride wouldn’t allow it.

His arms crossed loosely in front of his chest, the fabric of his cassock bunching up around his elbows. You had pondered why the cloak seemed so out of place, and then you remembered that he wasn’t even religious in the slightest.

It was all for show.

“Leave.” 

There was a hint of relief when you heard your own voice landing back on your ear and there wasn’t the shakiness you had so dreaded to hear. You knew you had lost the moment you even cared, but still, on the front you refused to show there sometimes, during the many years after he left, you would still see his face when you couldn’t sleep and all you could do was stare at the ceiling. You hoped the iciness in your expression was enough to cover up the fact that you had no erased all traces of what you once had with him completely, and there was still a photograph or two that you hid away so that no one would know you still hadn’t let go of him, a traitor.

He glanced down at your command, before nodding slightly to himself. Getou Suguru turned around until he was facing your window and his shadow slanted on the opposing wall from the cold hue of the moon.

The pale light blurred his figure, like smoke, like the mint tingling your senses.

“You ruined my life.” 

I love you.

He paused briefly, before turning to look at you once again. You were taken back when you see the look in his eyes, and the downward tug at his mouth.

With the moon and the cassock and the unexplainable depth in his eyes, he did look the part of feeling sorrow for the world and pity for the masses.

Oh, how ironic.

Getou parted his lips slightly, and you could see the shudder but heard no sound, until they pursed, before he finally spoke again.

I love you too.

“It’ll pass.”

You did not realise that you were staring out the window, not moving a step until you saw the dots of snow slowly landing on the glass. Your steps stumbled as you walked towards where he jumped out, your hand touching the chilled glass while the world outside was a scene of white.

He probably came and left on the back of some curse he had, not leaving even a trace.

You stared and stared, and wondered what it would feel like to be buried under the snow that was starting to pile up.

-

Gojo asked you if you want to see him for one last time.

You refused.

Your bones were cracking with each twist of your joints as you finally got back to your own space after the whole fiasco that went down had you drained. 

Of all the days he had to plan an uprising, it had to be Christmas Eve. A heavy sigh slipped from your lips when the door locked behind you, the lights flicking on to show the red number on the calendar hanging on the wall.

It was quiet, the handle of the clock ticking was all you could hear. It matched the pounding in your ear, drumming and drumming as you stared upwards at the ceiling, sucking in a deep breath as the cold air filled your lungs.

So he really was gone now.

“He said he couldn’t manage to laugh happily from the bottom of his heart in this world,” Gojo called you again a moment later after the initial one, and you had to swallow the want to tell him that there was no need to tell you what he said when the other end fell into silence when you didn’t response.

Only there was. You knew there was.

At the back of your head, you had a faint memory of where you had put the old things that you couldn’t find somewhere to store when you moved out of your dorm room. It was hidden under the piles and piles of clothes and blankets that you never used, much like how you had not touched that box since you first put it there. 

You sucked in a deep breath when your fingertip touched the rough corner of the cardboard, reaching in deeper to pull it out. It was covered in dust and slightly crooked from all the things you had stacked on it, but still exactly the same as how it looked when you sealed everything inside with the cover and shoved it in your closet.

There was still an innocent sense of glee when you opened it and saw all the things that reminded you of your youth. 

The student handbook, and your student card that was stuck in there like a bookmark. The gold button in which some of the gold pain had already come off from years of wear and tear. Your graduation picture, which showed the three of you sitting side by side properly in all its rarity.

The familiar ache in your throat returned when you got to the bottom, where you found the sole reason why you dug this out. You smiled, your hand gingerly picking the thin film laying flatly there without a single crease on it.

He was looking at you, who had your face on his shoulder with an arm thrown around your frame. Your hand was on his neck, pulling him down towards you as you laughed and he laughed back at you. You did not remember who took it, or when it happened, but the rush of warmth in your chest as you held the picture in your hand must be the proof that you were happy. 

You should have thrown this away the moment you knew he was not coming back, but you didn’t have the heart to.

How could you when he looked so happy too?

Your thumb traced over the smooth surface of the film, over where his lips were nearly touching your hair, over his eyes that were fixed on you.

Couldn’t manage to laugh happily from the bottom of his heart... huh?

You laughed, at him, at yourself, before the droplet of tear finally fell.

Like there was smoke in your eyes.

Like the chill on your arm was not from the snow outside but from the taste of peppermint on your tongue.

[nuttyrabbit]

So it’s been a while since I posted Gambit’s bio, and I think it’s about time I started posting bios for my other characters, don’t you? 

This is Frost the Snow Leopard, and next to Gambit, he’s the character I’m the most proud of out of all the characters I’ve made. He’s also the one I’ve put the most amount of work into when taking into account both the character and everything surrounding him.

But this wasn’t something I did on my own.  Huge, HUGE shoutouts to my best friend @pidgeonspen who not only helped make Frost’s initial design, but also did his redesign, did this entire beautiful ref sheet, helped me figure out a lot of character stuff and of course, helped me with the bio. 

Speaking of the bio, let’s get right into it! Everything is below the readmore 

Age: 30

Occupation: Self-proclaimed Emperor of Osakiru 

Personality: Cold, calculating, driven and authoritative - these are but some of the  words that can describe Frost. 

His immaculate ability to inspire both the best and the worst in those around him is drawn from his ambition, his driving ideals of both strength and self, and his sheer intensity.  He is a skilled manipulator, able to easily influence those around him into fighting for his cause using a his natural inclinations towards both strategy and diplomacy.  Frost is a very pragmatic individual, often making decisions based off of what he feels is objectively the “best” for both his country and himself.  He is not someone who angers quickly, nor is he someone who will resort to violence unless he deems it necessary. However, if he feels he needs to, he will use the threat of violence to get his subordinates in line, and more often than not, he will use both fear and violence to subjugate those that dare to resist, justifying it under the guise of a “greater good”

He also possesses a keen insight which allows him to quickly and easily derive information about people, places, and situations that he then uses to his advantage. 

Skills: As his name implies, Frost can control ice; he employs his power both offensively and defensively, and to great effect. However, this power does not come freely. The sheer cold he produces takes quite an extensive toll on his body, and  using it for too long can have detrimental - possibly even permanent- effects on his body. because of this , Frost has had to spend most of his life learning to control this power, with him only recently having found a way to do so. While he can now control his power without actively concentrating on it, it still poses a huge risk to him. As a result,  in combat Frost  only uses his powers when he absolutely needs to, instead usually falling back on both his swordsmanship and hand to hand combat skills instead.  Since he has had little to no formal training in either, he’s instead self-taught,  spending hours upon hours studying and training himself, with the end result  being a fighting style he can truly call his own.  When it comes to his swordsmanship, his focus is primarily on quick, precise sword slashes  that dispatch foes quickly . His hand-to-hand style is one that is  heavily counter-focused , taking advantage of  openings with hard-hitting, precise strikes.  When he is forced to use his powers however, he usually channels them through his katana, minimizing the toll his powers take on  his body, and boosting the power and range of his strikes

Hobbies: Training is Frost’s main hobby, and one he takes very seriously. Reading- While Frost places great value on the importance of honing ones’ physical strength, he places just as much importance on the strengthening of ones’ mind, and as such, he is an avid reader. If he is not in his personal dojo, he can often be found in his study, perusing the many books he has acquired via his conquest or otherwise.   While he occasionally dips his toes into the realm of fiction, his preferences lie in the realms of history and philosophy, both spritual and practical.  Mental challenges-  In the same vein as his love of reading, Frost has recently taken to occasionally indulging in mental exercises in an attempt to truly stimulate his mind.  Games such as Sudoku, Shogi, and even Risk are ones he not only enjoys on the rare occasion he gets to play them, but ones he is also extremely good at, since they play to his strengths.  Meditation-  This is less so a hobby and moreso a problem solving technique Frost has found useful.  Whenever he needs to figure out the solution to a complicated issue, he will often sit in silent meditation  to clear his mind so he can come to what he feels is the perfect solution.  

Likes: The pursuit of strength, seafood (In particular lobster and salmon), reading, comfortable silence, mental exercises/problem solving of any kind, clothing (Suits and jackets in particular. He gets them custom made), order/control,  sake, and hot baths/saunas (he finds them relaxing)

Dislikes: Disorder, insubordination, cowardice, excessive heat, “talking heads” shows,   sweet foods and drinks, and excessive noise (He can handle it he just dislikes it) 

Flaws: Frost’s cold, calculating worldview ultimately leads him to see people less as individuals to be treated with respect and more as tools to be used to reach whatever ends he desires.  While Frost is an excellent strategist, his plans tend to be rather complex in both scope and execution, requiring many moving parts to work in tandem. As a result, his plans can fall apart if exposed to an overly chaotic element, albeit there is usually a slight margin of error there anyways.

Backstory:  From the very start, Frost’s life was marked by constant struggle, in part due to his powers. When his gelid powers began to manifest in his early childhood, Frost needed help to survive - his powers would begin freezing him to death lest his body temperature was regulated. As he lived in poverty, the most viable option came in the form of quite literally boiling water for baths at regular intervals in an attempt to keep him from freezing himself over.  Unfortunately, these powers  had a tendency to attract attention - something his family truly didn’t need nor want, living in squalor among one of the most crime-ridden parts of the country. 

      Frost’s father himself was a low-ranking thug in the local yakuza, while his mother stayed at home, looking after Frost – and over her shoulder constantly.  Frost’s parents demanded Frost “keep [his] head down and don’t draw attention.”; and for a long time, he did just that. But try as he might to “blend into the background” as his parents wanted, his inability to control his power continually drew attention to him, often leaving him ostracized and sometimes even harassed by his peers. Even his older brother was of no use, instead content to follow in his father’s footsteps and pretend all was well, also desperate not to make a “fuss” as it were, the few times he stood up for the young leopard ultimately making little difference..

      Alone, living in absolute filth, burdened with powers he could not control, the young Frost was miserable, and he constantly hoped and prayed that things would change, that he wouldn’t have to live like this, that things would just somehow get better. But those prayers would never be answered, and for a long time it seemed like there was no way out for Frost–until he found it.  One day, while enduring yet another round of harassment from his peers, something in Frost just *snapped*. For the first time in his life, he truly unleashed his power and froze his tormentors solid.  The incident quickly drew unwanted attention, resulting in his father pulling him out of the school to prevent any further mishaps, desperately hoping things would blow over and return to normal.  But they never would, for Frost had learned a very valuable lesson: the power of fear.  

       The faces of those around him - frozen in fear, their hands trembling, their jaws slackened - desperately backing away from him, in what seemed like pure terror, told him everything he needed to know.  But perhaps almost as telling was his father’s solution to this issue;  instead of trying to figure out how things had gotten to this point, he had simply chosen to keep quiet, too worried about “making a fuss”, perfectly content to let things go on as they always did. And when Frost had finally snapped after years of torment, his father’s solution was to simply hide him away, trying to wait for things to go back to normal.   In fact, when Frost thought about it,  that is what everyone else had done all this time. They were content to simply let things go on as they always had, too worried about causing a fuss or shaking up the “status quo”, too concerned with saving themselves above all else . That is when Frost realized something: if he truly wanted to improve his situation, he would have to be the one to do it; him and no one else.

     Yet despite these revelations, Frost was still very much at a loss as to what to do: He knew that he was the only person who could improve his situation, but he was still at a loss as to the how. He knew fear would be an effective tool in reaching those ends, but he was still at a loss as to what those ends even were, much less how he would even use it effectively.  But as fate would have it, he would not find his answers in the present, but the past.  Stuck in his own home with no recourse, Frost stumbled upon a dusty, nearly tattered book on his father’s bookshelf.   The book itself told the tales of great kings and empires gone by, of men turned myth, who were respected, beloved, and most of all, *feared*.  But that alone was not enough to give Frost the direction he needed. It was only when he began to pay attention to the news, to the state of his country, that it all came together. It struck him with a revelation: it wasn’t just his parents or his teachers or the adults around him that were complacent and fearful of change, it was the entire country. The entire country was just as stagnant, squalid, and content to lie in its own filth as the small corner he was forced to call home.  Those in power - the formal Osakiran government, and the Yakuza syndicates that held the leash, were far too weak, too complacent with their comfortable lives to bring the change the country needed. It brought to mind those emperors of old Frost had read about; men who rose to power, uplifting and uniting their people all the while. Not like the privileged cowards who ruled now… and that’s when Frost realized what it would take to salvage both himself and  Osakiru, what separated the historical rulers from the present: strength.  Osakiru would need someone who was truly strong not just in body, but mind and will as well.  And it was then that Frost realized that he and only he could become that man.  He would have to dispose the feeble cowards and take their place at the top, not just for himself, but everyone else.

       Frost knew what he had to do now, and he was already training both his mind and body in preparation for the task to come. All he needed was an opportunity, and one such opportunity would soon make itself known.  One day, the syndicate Frost’s father had spent his life working for finally came for him, punishing him for one mistake too many, dumping his fetid corpse onto the street for all to see. All, including Frost and what was left of his family.  His brother, seeing the very clear writing on the wall, decided to flee the country, attempting to take both Frost and his mother with him to safety. But despite the pleading of both his mother and brother, calling his actions “suicide”, Frost would not flee. He knew what he had to do, the image of his father’s corpse only cementing into his mind his mission.  And so they fled, leaving Frost alone, and it was then that Frost, not even an adult yet at the age of 17, pledged himself into the service of the very syndicate that had taken his father’s life, seeing the path to the top through them

      Frost began his climb to the top then and there. Despite the many mistakes he made in those formative years, which  showed themselves through bruises, scars, and even a missing finger, Frost pressed on, pushing himself to become the *best*. He trained his body, his mind, his *will* to the point where he could not take any more, yet he kept going, pushing himself to greater and greater heights, modeling himself after the very rulers he had read about all those years ago, all in an effort to be the very image of strength he knew he had to be. His efforts  would not go unnoticed, and within a few years, Frost found himself to be the 2nd in command of the entire syndicate.  But this was not enough, and Frost knew this, and soon enough he struck down the patriarch, and took the entire syndicate for himself, as well as the thing that would come to be Frost’s trademark: his katana.  Though it was merely a talking piece hung on the wall of the patriarch’s office, Frost would make the blade his own, a true extension of himself in every sense of the word.

       From here on, Frost would truly begin his conquest of Osakiru and one by one, the other yakuza syndicates fell to Frost, surrendering their power, their influence, and most of all, their resources.  As Frost’s reach grew, so did his numbers, whether it be through assimilating the other syndicates or people joining his ranks of their own volition. Four individuals in particular, all of whom Frost saw untapped potential in and who saw in Frost the key to their own salvation, would come to make up his inner circle, soon to be known as the Black Lotus.

      Eventually, the last of the syndicates fell to Frost’s forces. Now, all that was left to do was to overthrow the formal government. At this point, they knew that  Frost was on his way, and that it was too late to stop him; they were outmatched, outplayed, and ultimately overwhelmed.  When his icy blade ripped through the Prime Minister’s chest, spilling crimson onto the steps of Osakiru’s Capitol Building, it marked the final, bloody conclusion of Frost’s 11 year conquest.  No longer would Osakiru be ruled by yakuza thugs or ineffectual Prime Ministers.  Now it would be ruled by an *emperor*, one who would bring Osakiru into a new golden age.

       Despite the success of his initial conquest, Frost knew the real work had only just begun; there was no time for celebration, and he quickly got to work imposing his will unto the country. He cleaned the streets,  both figuratively and literally, reorganizing the pathetic OSDF into a true army, and created a new police force to unflinchingly carry out his will and being the emperor’s eyes and ears. He knew that in order to secure his vision, sacrifices would have to be made, and so he quickly consolidated all of Osakiru’s media under a single banner in a bid to suppress any thought of rebellion, and to push his ideology onto the people. Schools suffered the same, their curriculum changed to emphasize nationalistic pride and personal achievement. Every able-bodied adult was put to work under his rule, for the betterment of economy and to aid in building his ideal nation.  Among the first orders of business was renovating the decrepit palace to fit Frost’s vision, a symbol of his immense power and of the dynasties he sought to emulate. He made sure that no matter where you were in Osakiru, his presence was *felt*.  He became at once the most beloved figure in all of Osakiru and the one everyone feared the most.  

         Two years later, and Frost continues to rule Osakiru with an iron fist, still seeking new ways to develop and strengthen both his country and himself. One of his latest approaches involves seeking new, diplomatic relationships with powerful allies, such as the Kingdom of Acorn and G.U.N., hoping for both an economic partnership and one to strengthen defenses against the likes of Dr. Eggman - the one factor that keeps Frost from expanding Osakiru’s territory. With his sights set southward to Osakiru’s historical rival, Chun-nan, Frost knows it’s simply a matter of time. Eventually, the opportunity will rise, and Frost happens to be a very patient man.

[mcmansionhell]

Looking Around: Horizontal Space

If there is one truth about the second half of the 20th Century it is that, by all accounts, we started moving out rather than up; horizontal rather than vertical. Not only through the process of suburbanization, the building of massive highways, and the rapid capital flight from cities, but also in how we designed everything from our homes to our workplaces. 

It could be said that, since the development of major highways, America has flattened -- much in the same way that the invention of both the elevator and air conditioning brought skyscrapers to every major city in the first half of the 20th century. 

I-55 Under Construction, 1972. Public Domain. 

In his 1984 book Discovering the Vernacular Landscape, John Brinckerhoff Jackson observes this transition: 

“Who has not noticed...that in almost every American town the upper stories of the buildings flanking Main Street are being deserted?...Despite all the activity on the street floor, the second and third and fourth floors of the older brick buildings are no longer in demand. Not many years ago, they accomodated the offices of lawyers and dentists and doctors; dance studios and certified public accountants. Now the gold lettering has vanished from the windows, and even the street door leading to the stairs is blocked. Sooner or later, the buildings themselves will be torn down, to be replaced by one-story buildings or parking lots.” (68)

Jackson attributes this decline in vertical spaces to technological changes. Sprawling manufacturing plants with mile long assembly lines make more sense logistically than having workflow between stories. “An efficiently planned office,” he notes “is now seen as a system of information flow, most flexible, most effective when horizontal.” Even new skyscrapers are less like the ones from the recent past, described as “... a stack of large, uninterrupted horizontal spaces: vastly improved construction methods have made this spaciousness possible.” (69)

The technology of the car has created for us a new way of perceiving the environment around us. Jackson cites “increased mobility, and even more, an experience of uninterrupted speed...bring with them a sharpened awareness of horizontal space.” (70) Vertical space can’t be seen as easily from the car, the de facto way of getting around in America. 

Residential Horizontalization

This transformation began with the Federal Housing Act of 1934, which established the Federal Housing Administration. The FHA originally provided home loans to qualifying (read: white) families during the Great Depression, as part of the New Deal, in an attempt to stabilize the mortgage market. 

The FHA came to the forefront after WWII, when the Housing Act of 1949 began to systematically dismantle cities while simultaneously setting the guidelines of suburban sprawl. The Housing Act of 1949 worked in three parts: 

1.) Federal financing for slum clearance (often coupled with highway building) 2.) Promised 800,000 units of public housing (the act actually destroyed more units of housing than it built) 3.) Increased financing for rural home loans and gave the FHA more authority to issue mortgages. 

Poster from the 1940s.

This act had a devastating effect on cities. Not only did slum clearance destroy entire neighborhoods (often drawn along racial lines) and frequently replace them with highways (out to the suburbs!!), the process of Redlining (outlining areas deemed “high risk” and not worth issuing mortgages in, often in the inner city, almost always racially based) and the high preference for FHA-planned suburban communities over urban areas all but guaranteed a fully subsidized white flight from the cities. 

What little public housing was built quickly fell into decline, as maintenance costs were tied to tenant rents - this, coupled with resistance to forced integration after Brown v Board of Education (1954) from whites led to their rapid depopulation of public housing. As a result, the remaining tenants could not offset the costs of empty units. This, coupled with a high youth density (unsupervised youths were often the cause of many maintenance problems - even benign ones, like breaking the elevators playing games of ‘elevator tag’), meant that existing public housing was quickly deteriorating. It was this combination of socioeconomic circumstances that led to the decline, and ultimately, the failure of the infamous Pruitt-Igoe housing complex in St. Louis, Missouri. 

[For those of you who are interested in the policies and history of public housing, I recommend the books Public Housing Myths, and In Defense of Housing.]

The FHA and Suburb Planning

The FHA’s guidelines for issuing mortgages after the 1949 Housing Act centered around wide lots with driveways on streets organized to deter traffic, which had become a huge problem now that everyone had a car. 

These wandering neighborhoods were often attached to arterial roads, but built with few entrances to these busy thoroughfares. Zoning was a huge part of why the curvilinear streets and island-like neighborhoods developed: the FHA was more likely to sponsor home loans to those looking to purchase a home in single-family residential zoned areas as part of its goal to protect lots from “adjacent non-conforming uses.”

However, it wasn’t always this way. In the earlier post-war suburbs, the FHA suggested subdivisions that were close to school, churches, the occasional commercial unit, and parks. What changed this was the 1956 Federal-Aid Highway Act, better known as the National Interstate and Defense Highways Act, which subsidized the construction of over a million miles of local and interstate highways. After these roads expanded exponentially, planning for less traffic meant sprawling deep into the countryside and the beginning of entirely new horizontal landscapes. 

Garlinghouse Home Catalog insert from c. 1950

These policies imitated themselves in the architecture of common houses. The little post-war (white) working and middle-class Minimal Traditional house extended itself into the Ranch and Split-Level forms as lots grew larger and neighborhoods less dense. It was at this point that attached garages became ubiquitous, as car use had become increasingly necessary, cushioned by the increased lot size of the late 50s and beyond. 

Catalog from 1958. Via Archive.org 

Northern Homes Catalog, c. Mid 60s. Public Domain. 

For those who are curious, the origin of the McMansion lies in the Styled Ranches first popular in the 1930s in Hollywood and in more wealthier areas in the 1950s-1970s - these houses began the process of taking a basic built form (a Ranch) and applying various cladding materials and stylistic details to make it seem more elegant. For one-story McMansions, these houses are their predecessors. 

Styled Ranch (note the pitch of the roof) from the 1970s

The Split-Level ensured that two-story homes became hot commodities amongst middle class homeowners. By the early 1980s, (after the end of the Energy Crisis) homeowners rejected the low ceiling height of the ranches and split-levels, and, coupled with less expensive building materials and riskier mortgages, the McMansion had arrived. Their massiveness of scale was, perhaps, the only verticalization that occurred during this time.

Commercial Horizontalization

The depletion of urban density was not just a matter of people moving to little boxes on winding streets. Business moved as well. Factories, once located in dense urban settings, moved to the suburbs, where massive horizontal plants were created to streamline the work process. After all, the assembly line works horizontally. 

If you’ve ever traveled outside of Chicago, you pass through the exurb of Naperville. While also being a verifiable McMansion Hell (perhaps no group of people own more McMansions than the managerial class), the I-88 corridor from Naperville to Aurora offers one of the most spectacular arrays of office parks in existence. Uncommonly more than five floors and rarely more than ten, these monoliths languidly straddle the flat prairie landscape, neatly bundled up by ribbons of highway. 

Helmut Jahn’s interesting “N” Building off of I-88, Naperville, Illinois. 

After WWII, corporations began a new way of organizing their businesses in order to adapt to new means of national and later international expansion. The new system was called “managerial capitalism” described by Louise A. Mozingo as “a transparent, rationalized administrative hierarchy... Rather than conferring positions based on ownership or nepotism, corporations awarded management authority to a meritocracy of salaried, professional managers.” (3)

The bosses and managers needed a new space along the same highway as the new factory (perhaps deliberately away from the workers themselves) and more amenable to expansion and technological development. It was for them that the modern office park was born. 

It wasn’t just the office park - the highway also brought upon the world one of the most ubiquitous forms of building: the strip mall. 

But how did this sudden transformation come about? In her book about corporate campuses, Pastoral Capitalism, Mozingo details exactly how the entire commercial world was scattered across the formal countryside:

“At the city’s edge, an effective alliance of well-financed real estate investors, large property owners, local governments, federal loan guarantors, and utopian planners opened property for speedy development. Building along federal- and state-funded road systems that brought these large tracts of land into the economy of metropolitan regions, this alliance conceived of low-density, auto-accessed landscapes of highly specified uses with plenty of parking, and wrote these forms into stringent zoning and building regulations.” (8)

The car-oriented technocracy of mid-century urban planning, emerging global capitalism, and government policies, completely terraformed the American landscape and made it, well, a landscape - horizontal in shape and in scope.  Perhaps the most ironic aspect of these new developments is the appropriation of what they replaced. The banal, pastoral names of greenfield housing developments, malls, and strip malls, is but a memory of the eradicated landscape: Rolling Acres, Greenmeadow Heights, Slate Hills at Elysian Farms.

Photo by Sara Goth (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Re-Verticalization

In the cities, one by one, the lights of the old upper stories began to flicker out, entire avenues permanently for lease. The popularity of so-called “ruin porn” attests to the kind of nostalgic longing these old spaces engender in people young and old. 

But curiously enough, the edge is becoming the center once more. Old derelict factories become spacious lofts, skyscrapers repopulate, uses become mixed, the lights begin again to flicker in the upper stories. For those with the financial mobility, the city is becoming vertical once more. As for the rest of us?

There is an ongoing and heady discussion about the repopulation of the cities. This essay is not the place for this discussion. As the infrastructure of the suburbs begins to wither and fray; as the malls close and the For Lease signs begin to shift from the city block to the office park, it is an interesting time to witness the shift of the American landscape back into some semblance of verticality.

The 20th Century saw the simultaneous birth of skyscrapers in the first half, and the mass flattening of the landscape in the second half. This massive transformation occurred at such a blistering pace, it became the new normal within twenty years, the flattening process seen only in hindsight. We’re running out of folks who remember the world before the hegemony of the car. 

Abandoned Packard Auto Plant in Detroit. Photo by John Duce (CC BY-SA 3.0)

A few years ago, I woke up one day and read that the malls were dying. This news was shocking to me, despite the fact that I hadn’t been to a mall myself in years. Their sudden appearance and proliferation in the late 50s must have been seen as an equally surprising shock.

The purpose of Looking Around is to encourage people to take a critical look at the world they live in -- to appreciate its nuances, and take note of its changes. For those of us who pass by life at 45-80 miles per hour (often not by choice but rather necessity), it’s easy for these changes to blur into the fabric of endlessly horizontal scenery. For those of us in the cities, the news of the vacating office park surprises us, because we tend to believe that the edges - the burbs - are forever. Without taking a second to notice the day-to-day changes, one day we’ll wake up, flip on the news, and the whole world will suddenly be vertical again. 

If you like this post, and want to see more like it, consider supporting me on Patreon! Also JUST A HEADS UP - I’ve started posting a GOOD HOUSE built since 1980 from the area where I picked this week’s McMansion as bonus content on Patreon!

Not into small donations and sick bonus content? Check out the McMansion Hell Store ! 100% of the proceeds from the McMansion Hell store will go to help victims of Hurricanes Harvey & Irma

Copyright Disclaimer: All photographs are used in this post under fair use for the purposes of education, satire, and parody, consistent with 17 USC §107. Manipulated photos are considered derivative work and are Copyright © 2017 McMansion Hell. Please email kate@mcmansionhell.com before using these images on another site. (am v chill about this)

[promptsforthestrugglingauthor]

The Left Behind, Draft Two, Chapter One

           As a young girl, Natalia Klysov dreamed of nothing more than receiving as many proud smiles from her parents as possible—at her graduation, at her first job, at her wedding, at the birth of their first grandchild. When she was five, any poorly drawn scrawl drawn with chubby, shaking digital lines highlighted the family of three, all beaming with bright red smiles. When she was seven, it occurred to her that she could digitally capture the smiles from every moment that she wanted to. That weekend, she spent hours crafting a scrapbook to fill out for every important accomplishment by hand. Papers were all but out of fashion, but Natalia absolutely loved the thick, musty scent that floated off of them, making her feel as though she sat within a gargantuan, ancient tree. It was like a hiding space in plain sight; others simply walked past without knowing the secrets inside.

           With it, Natalia crafted her own secrets. In the past nine years, the girl had managed a few of her significant moments—graduation from grade school, first girlfriend, first boyfriend, first school dance, first A on a report card, thirteenth birthday. But she still hadn’t done anything exemplary. Hell, she only had days until her time ran out on the most important one. As if the girl wasn’t always nervous about some thing or another, the Deadline, her sixteenth birthday, was coming soon. She didn’t think she would make it past then.

“Natalia!” Her mother called from across the house rather than coming to get her—a habit becoming much more frequent as the days wound tighter than coils. Well, Natalia had only seen pictures of the devices, so rudimentary and ancient, but she’d read in a variety of stories they carried plenty of tension. “Come get ready for dinner!”

Setting her scrapbook aside, Natalia felt little more than a dull ache at the sight of her mother plating their meal. As a child, she had imagined herself applying into the Nutrition Utilization and Technologies too—NUTs, as her mother had playfully insisted many of the members were—in order to create meals pleasing to the eye, taste buds, and body the way her mother always had. Of course, the last time she had done so, the panel had rated her skills as “subpar” and her plating as “sufficient for a four year old’s scribbling phases” but certainly not the material of a NU technician.

Natalia found the meal perfectly edible seeing as she had no formal training, but she supposed that Coterie Acceptance Management panels were professionals for a reason and that she simply wasn’t good enough. It was easy to accept her faults and lackluster skills, considering there were so many. Her figure was within regulation to be eligible for one of the more favorable divisions of Clothing, Undergarments, Textile Engineers and Subjects, but her plain face flawed with a crescent scar on her cheek took away any possibility of that. Not to mention, Natalia wasn’t comfortable with so many people looking at her. She wasn’t a gifted athlete, so anything from a military position in the Dereliction and Insurrection Control to professional sports with the Bureau of Athletics and Healthy Lifestyle was ruled out. She could certainly run at a decent speed and had a significant endurance, but she had seen what true athleticism was and she certainly encompassed none of it. Not to mention she hardly had an intellectual or artistic bone in her body.

Natalia knew she didn’t have a single distinguishable skill, which meant knowing what Coterie to apply for was difficult. It was only more difficult thanks to anxiety the Deadline brought her. She first learned about the disorder four years before, but since it wasn’t a deemed a physically debilitating disease, the Pharmaceutical Institute for Life and Longevity offered a diagnosis but no sort of medication—medicines were difficult to create without expending a number of resources, so anything that could be done without simply was. She had done well, all things considering. The digi-pamphlets and websites offered her plenty of techniques to quell attacks and calm herself down. They weren’t foolproof, but they did the trick most of the time.

They had been coming in handy more now than ever.

“Can you help set the table?” Her mother asked, hardly looking up from her work. Natalia rarely got a sideways glance nowadays. She would have thought she’d become numb to it by now, considering the haunting woe sat itself in her eyes three years ago. She couldn’t articulate a specific idea for the future, and simply reiterated the same line she had been taught since infancy: I want to succeed in order to benefit myself and my Territory. It had only creeped closer to the surface as time progressed. Now, it had all but possessed both of her parents, whose jobs were more taxing than they had ever been.

Natalia knew that was her fault. The labor hadn’t gotten more difficult, nor their health any worse. They were exhausting themselves, mourning her death before it even happened. She wasn’t sure it hurt more that they didn’t believe she would make it, or that she wasn’t sure she’d make it. After all, she had to have a skill. Everyone had a skill. Aside from all the Derelicts—the whole point of the modern Coterist system was to expel those who provide no significant benefit in order to conserve resources and ensure that real citizens were well provided for—serving as simple laborers or sanitation technicians, since simplistic tasks were the only thing they were capable of doing. Natalia knew she had to be more capable than that.

She had to be useful enough to keep alive.

“Yes ma’am.” Natalia didn’t try to bring any attention to herself, knowing it wouldn’t amount to much, pulling out dulled cutlery and the same bowls she had used since she was a child. The States loved to conserve as much as possible, and that meant limitations on most commodities. The higher your Echelon level, the more privileges you were allowed for non-essentials—nicer clothing, a sooner swap-in on furniture or china, newer entertainment systems—which was far better than nations of the past. School had taught her all about their unequal distribution worldwide, in addition to some nominal failures in political divisiveness, racism, sexism, and other failures that had only caused tensions in the name of freedom.

Natalia knew that freedom didn’t mean much without trust in your leaders and trust in your system. The old world fell apart because it grew too large, too divided, and too selfish. She and her fellow citizens, however, knew that they would never fall to such a state. There were only two groups of selfish people in the world now: Derelicts and terrorists. The former were given chances to serve and supply, while the latter were nullified without mercy. Nullification never sat well with Natalia, but time and time again her mother insisted that they were nothing better than villains of the past, seeking chaos and disunity, and deserved whatever the punishment for the treason they committed. Her father, however, had a softer heart. She had never once seen a televised execution like many of her schoolmates, a fact which she was glad of, despite the criticism they both received for it.

Although, those criticisms were little more than children’s taunts compared to what Natalia had faced over the past year. Her peers didn’t take kindly to uselessness. She supposed she didn’t blame them, although she wasn’t sure she’d treat others the same if she had been safe. If she had been chosen.

If she had been chosen earlier, she corrected herself as she organized three places at a polished but chipped table. There was still time, although only a few days. She had run the calculations over and over in order to maximize as many CAM trials as possible, because at some point sheer luck had to be on her side and let her heart rest for a moment. Let her parents look at her with pride in their eyes the way that they used to. Natalia wanted to let them see her live and grow the way they had instead of leaving them alone to wither and gray without her.

She didn’t have to worry about that, she reminded herself in an attempt to silence the negative thoughts. She had to focus on right now—there was a floor beneath to steady her feet and air still in her lungs. As long as she followed through with her plan, everything would be alright. She’d look back and see that she had worked herself up into a panic over something simple like always.

A dull chime rang through the house, the sound monotonous and dull as it had always been, but it always signified something much more vibrant—dinner. It took little more than a few seconds for Natalia’s father to arrive besides her, planting a kiss on top of her head.

“Hey there, Nattie Newt. How was school?” His smile was warm, the way it always was, the wrinkles near his eyes deepening as evidence of his advancing age. Although his hairline had yet to recede, its color faded from the warm, dark ale shade she shared to that of weak coffee, the former of which she’d noticed him imbibe more and more of. However, it seemed to give him the courage to look her in the eyes, unlike her mother, which kept her from bringing up any concern.

“It was alright, nothing out of the ordinary.” She shrugged. Of course, her ordinary had been either taunting or isolation for the past few months. She understood that it was a defense mechanism on the part of her classmates—if they hated or pretended not to know her, then they wouldn’t be bothered when she disappeared—although it didn’t make stop the aching in her heart with each shove and each jeer and each day she sat alone. But she didn’t want to trouble her parents with that. There was no need to add more stress onto them because she couldn’t handle her own problems.

           “Better ordinary than dreadful, I say. Which, unsurprisingly, work was today.” He hadn’t seen a calm day at work in lifetimes. Over the years, the number of terrorists and traitors apprehended and tried by the ITC grew tremendously, and with it, the work for anyone involved in the judiciary. Although her father was far from a judge, he monitored and operated transcription and recording devices for a number of the trials. He had to still work through dragging trials, bearing witness to testimony of people who never showed a bit of remorse. It was no wonder he never watched executions—he was witness to the sentencing firsthand. She didn’t blame him for not wanting to see it through to the end.

           “Long trial?” Her mother asked, gliding around him to set plates on the table, each plate allotted with a sufficient amount of food for their nutritional need. “Don’t tell me it was Judge Nykrog again. He’s far too wishy-washy with the defendants. Obviously, I have no right to speak on the matter, but he seems to me like he’d almost rather give ­them a fighting chance.” She shook her head. “It’s not right. They’re wasting good people’s resources on someone they’re going to find guilty anyhow. They could be giving that food and water and clothing to wards of the state instead, who don’t have anyone to provide for them.”

           Natalia bit the inside of her lip. Surely, executions and nullification of older men and women only really lead to more children becoming wards of the state. Not to mention the cost of public executions was much more than the production of the bullet that did the deed—the electricity of televising and transmitting the broadcast was far from insignificant. Of course, she never understood why so many should be televised to begin with. It wasn’t her place to question the States, and she knew that. But flourishing the death of another didn’t sit right with her. No matter how much they deserved it, the spectacle of it all made her uneasy.

           Natalia’s father shook his head.

           “The trial was quick. But one of the new hires had a bit too much time on their hands and managed to go through the records room, and left files popped open and strewn about all over the walls, ceiling and floor.” He loosed a humorless laugh. “It was like someone unleashed a whirlwind virus in there. It’s a good thing I’ve learned enough about organizing and re-organizing from watching Nattie Newt go on and on.” He nudged her shoulder. “You know, even when you were little, you’d spend more time putting your toys away than you did playing with them.”

           Her mother nodded, a faint smile dancing across her lips. Her eyes sparkled with happy memory. Natalia’s heart crumbled inside her chest.

           “You were always funny that way. Of course I didn’t mind—I bragged to the other moms about it, even! They would swap horror stories about their tots at work, but I’d shake my head and tell them ‘No, not my girl. My little Nattie is going somewhere, she’s got focus and responsibility.’” The light faded away as the present settled back in. It took everything in Natalia not to wince at the regression. She’d fail her mother. She’d fail her father, too. She’d fail the States.

           She always did.

           Stomach resting on the floor beneath them, Natalia found nothing but repulsion at the plate in front of her.  Another reminder of skills she’d never have. Success she’d never attain. The mere notion of personal satisfaction was a pipe dream, let alone impressing her parents. They were successful in their jobs. They were far more capable than she’d ever be. If she were lucky enough to be Chosen, she’d scrape through a whole career with nothing better than menial, entry-level tasks. Supporting herself? Impossible. Finding someone who would be willing to put up with such a useless girl for life? That would only be harder.

Poking a fork at her vegetables, Natalia forced a smile onto her face. She wasn’t going to leave this family, but if she did, she was certainly not leaving them to remember her as the sad, broken girl she knew she was. If their memories were false constructions, so be it, as long as they remembered her fondly rather than with displeasure.

“I’ll show them, Mom. I will.” She winced as her voice cracked, betraying her. Her throat grew dry, stinging as though she was being stabbed from the inside, but she pressed on. “Like you always said, some things just need longer time to cook than others to be perfect. I have another trial tomorrow morning, and after school if I need it.” More likely than not, she would require both trials and more to come. “But my time is coming. You’ll see.”

Because it just had to come. It had to. She didn’t know what to do if it didn’t. Natalia had imagined her own death before, but never this young. She had imagined nearly every possible way it could have happened—vehicular accidents, severe allergic reactions, disease, murder… But not once had she imagined death by nullification. Execution. A death gifted without mercy, for righteousness and the benefit of others. Because she wasn’t worth keeping alive.

Her father held his hand over top hers, squeezing it gently. He still believed in her, or at least cared enough to pretend so for her sake.

“We know that you’re going to do great. Nothing less from our little girl.” The smile didn’t reach his eyes, but the sorrow certainly did. She appreciated the attempt, at least. She scoured her brain for any other possible topic of conversation. It was difficult to think while her lungs ached, holding away as much weakness as she could shove back inside. Oxygen must have stopped entering her body, and instead seeped from her skin, because she was drowning where she sat.

“Tomorrow. I promise tomorrow.” The words dribbled down her chin messily, as she found herself unable to lift her eyes to meet either parents’ face.

“Let’s just get through right now, okay?” Her mother offered, fork scratching across the surface of glass.

Natalia nodded, although her mind was locked on the next morning and everything curve it may throw it her. She needed more happy moments. She had to see a genuine smile again. She had to pass.

She had to live.

[secretgiftsforshaman]

Real Healing Shit Part 2

After our play last night, I felt unsettled and upset and it took me a while to identify why. Much of it was an emotional release that came up to be processed, but some of it was unmet needs in the moment, because I did not understand them enough to ask for them to be met. I must emphatically insist that you did not do anything to hurt or neglect me. What we have done together has not, as far as I can tell, created any new injuries (at least for me), it has only uncovered old pain and trauma which already existed in my body so that it could be released. What follows is what I have processed and come to understand on this front so far:

I’ve written before about how stiffly I’ve always held my hips and pelvis because of the stuck, stagnant energy therein, and how I carry a lot of weight on my abdomen, and how much of it is a physical manifestation of the energetic armor and unprocessed emotions that I’ve accumulated over the years. I refuse to accept the bullshit (super unscientific, harmful, and dangerous) idea that thin = healthy and fat = unhealthy, because I, as a person who is studying and familiarizing herself with the true best practices regarding our relationships with food and with our bodies, know that everyone’s body is capable of knowing what it wants and needs, and that happy, exercised, well-nourished, and healthy bodies can be (and are) all kinds of different shapes and sizes. And I also intuitively know that my particular body will be happier when I can let go of much of the weight that is extra for me - because it is a simultaneously literal and metaphorical weight. The energetic/psychological/historical patterns that I have stored in my chakras/energy body *are* the same thing as this extra flesh. In order for me to do much of the Divine Feminine healing work we both serve - that which comes from my own life, and that which I have inherited - I need to engage with and dislodge these stuck emotions and traumas, and then feel them until I can release and resolve them. (I seem to have inherited a LOT of energetic trauma from my family and ancestors - all kinds of crappy behavioral/relationship/thought software, especially through my maternal line. My work is cut out for me!)

It feels like there is a deep, deep well of this stuff that is stuck deep in my lower belly, and that it can be accessed through ecstatic movement, energy work, sex, and pleasure (and naturally, the overlap of these) - through the physical and energetic movement of and within my pelvic bowl and female reproductive organs. The first time I remember masturbating was sometime in later elementary school when I discovered that pressing deeply into my lower abdomen brought me a particular pain-pleasure, never satisfying, but strongly desired all the same. Even after I learned how to stroke my clit to orgasm in college, I have continued to find myself wanting to press deep into this tight, needy, aching place (often when I’m full of sexual energy after a clitoral orgasm) which I think is somewhere near or just beyond my cervix, and I believe to be the inner nexus of my second chakra.

I think that a lot of the types of sexual desire that I’ve been feeling - wanting to be fucked hard and rough and deep, wanting my ass spanked and played with and fucked, wanting to be split open and have everything I’ve been carrying around in this place pulled out and held and tended to, wanting to be emptied of all the old, stagnant, painful detritus so that I have space to move kundalini up into and through my second chakra in a way that will allow me to truly surrender and receive pleasure and create and connect socially and sexually in healthy and whole ways: all of this lust is my bodymindheartsoul asking for the type of sexual energy work that it needs to heal itself. This is, I think, a big part of why we are called to each other: you are a safe, trustworthy, masculine source of the destructive sexual energy I need to destroy and heal the feminine wounds that Gaia has bestowed on me to carry and seek healing for. You are an acolyte of the Goddess who knows how to hold the Sacred Space I need to do this work, and I am a healer in her training/self-healing/transformation journey preparing to serve the Divine Feminine in my future clients (both formal/mass-consciousness clients and the erstwhile “clients” that have always been drawn to me for counsel and nurturing). This is why we are drawn together. This is our sacred contract.

For the longest time I’ve wanted to be filled and stretched open in a way that my own fingers could never achieve. During sex with Sweetie, I could never relax enough to accept more than two of his fingers at the absolute maximum - most of the time one was as much as I could take, but I often wanted more then, and I DEFINITELY do now. I don’t think we really spent enough time with foreplay, with few exceptions, and that this is part of why I found it so difficult to accept penetration: I rarely felt safe/unguilty enough to take as much of his time and effort as I needed to become fully aroused and/or have a truly satisfying climax. I also think that my bodymindheartsoul knew that I was not yet mature enough, or safe and held enough, to begin processing the stored shadow ‘stuff’ that would be woken up once I allowed anyone (wether someone else or even myself) deep enough into my body to touch it and awaken it.

A little over a week ago, I (finally, at the ripe old age of 29!!) got myself a dildo. This long held and growing desire to be stretched open the way I have never truly been ready for before - almost like lancing an abscess - has made penetration sound so fucking good that I gave in and sought out something to fill that need (pun so intended). The first time I tried the new toy, again about a week ago, it was very difficult for me to enjoy. I brought myself to climax once before I even began inserting it, because I hoped it would help prepare me. It didn’t help much, and eventually I had to stop because try as I might (again - I made the mistake of trying to force my pleasure, and I think I tried too soon after my bleed ended as well) it became more and more painful and I slid further and further away from pleasure, let alone orgasm. As I was trying to force myself back towards pleasure and climax, I became angry and frustrated with myself, but eventually I became numb and almost detached. I think that some lines blurred between the stored pain that I was tapping and releasing, and the pain that I was causing myself.

In the time since, I have experimented more with my new toy (but also while trying to practice self-compassion and surrender and self-trust) and I have achieved two of the BIGGEST, most long-lasting orgasms OF MY LIFE, and I loved the boneless, deep, pleasurable aaaaaache afterward :) Last night I wanted to experience another amazing climax like that, and to share it with you. I also felt that longing to be stretched open, to be fucked hard and rough and ragged, and it wasn’t until after the fact that I realized it was at least partially because a deeper part of me wanted more of that stubborn baggage exorcised out of me - it wanted the violent sex that could break open my injured parts so I could do more healing. Our dance turned me on enough that it was easy to penetrate myself and accept the toy I wanted to use, and with it I tried to give myself that hard deep fuck, but I really wanted someone else - someone I trust, like you - to give it to me. I kept pushing myself again, and I fucked myself deep and hard, and I became frustrated, and at once point - almost like a fever breaking - my emotions shifted and a vulnerable, sad place opened up within me, and a deep muscle trembling began. If you’ve read anything about psoas muscle/deep pelvic muscle trauma release, you’ll know what I’m talking about. This happened shortly before we both agreed to let go of orgasm and call it a night.

After we slowed down and stopped, I continued to feel a deep, occasionally sharp physical pain, with it’s correlated emotional ache and sadness, and wanted to debrief and receive aftercare and comfort to process it with. I think my assessment of feeling ‘restored’ was a little premature - it was less a restored energy, and more that I was feeling the healing process begin. Because we didn’t continue this work together, I turned to familiar sources of comfort to self-soothe and regulate my nervous system: hearty food, an audiobook, my bed, and a mindless phone game (mahjong, sudoku, and nonograms, if you’re wondering). These are all useful tools which, sometimes I use intentionally, and sometimes I misuse to numb myself out with. Last night, I chose to mindfully use them to help me settle and cope with the pain and sadness that our play had woken up in me, but these are only coping mechanisms: they are not the held sacred space and emotional connection that I needed to support me while I did the healing work with the released trauma. I wanted to ask you for more attention, but I chose not to both because I wanted you to have enough rest after giving so much of yourself, and because I needed to step back and try to understand what I was feeling and needing before I could explain it to you and ask you to help meet it.

I want you to know - with absolute certainty - that you cannot accept *any* responsibility for this experience I had. Yes, I felt my needs and I were neglected and untended, but because I did not communicate that to you (largely because I didn’t yet understand what those needs were), you are 100% blameless in this. Furthermore, it is only because of this unpleasant experience that I do now know what I want and need, and what to ask for in the future.

Because of my raw, mid-transformation state, and the way that sexual play has such power to prompt emotional release in me, even casual, fun sexual play has potentially intense emotional consequences for me. If we are going to continue to play, I would ask that we only allow ourselves to get into it when we both have the time and energy for aftercare and processing. For my part, I promise to improve my self-monitoring and communication so that I don’t set myself up to be neglected again and we can both have a better idea of when I will need that extra attention, and when I am safe to just have some fun. I ask you to keep in mind that I am dealing with deep and difficult work - deeper than many other Dakini you have danced with, I suspect - and I will need you to make sure that both of us are tended to as we do. Even light, easy play has the tendency to draw serious business out of my metamorphosing energy body. I am still learning how to fill my own cup, and how to ask for help filling myself up when needed. Please encourage me to tend to myself this way, and I encourage you to do the same. Neither of us can serve the Goddess from empty vessels.

I know down in my bones that I need to process this physically stored emotional/mental/spiritual trauma in my second chakra and develop healthier ways of processing trauma and meeting my needs that go beyond mere coping mechanisms and instead allow me, one day, to do this work for myself. I don’t want to rely on you forever. I want to learn how to hold the space I need for myself while I heal - because that is what will make me strong enough of a healer to hold sacred space for others, too - but until I learn how to do so, I need your help to destroy those energetic blocks and I need your support while I reassemble myself afterwards. I need my Shaman to swim alongside me in the shadowy deep. Teach me how to fish in the bottom of my ocean, Weaver. Help me weave a net to catch myself. To fish out the good pieces I can rebuild myself with and leave the dross that only weighs me down.

This isn’t the kind of work we can do every day - my system isn’t yet strong enough to process this deeply more than once, maybe twice a week. I trust us to flow and feel the timing out as we go. I am intimidated and afraid of the vast sea I’m diving into, but I have come too far to give up now. I have done entirely too much giving up, and I’m committing now to saving myself before I drown, and training until I am a strong enough swimmer to accompany others in their own oceans.

Time to jump in the deep end, Lover. Are you coming with me?

All my love,

Your Lionfish

[sarissophori]

The Records Of Aidon, Chapter 1

I—

         After all this time, you found me…

      Hello. Can you read this? Can you understand this?

Please hold still and be patient…keep your retinas focused…trans-linguistic cross-scans have been known to glitch when neural repositories are not properly cared for, like this one. Keep patient. Thank you.

       Scanning…don’t mind the mild corneal irritation. Accessing learned language habits, [MORPHISMS], pronunciations –root languages: Mesopotamic Sumerian and Akkadian, Indo-European, Greek, Latin…English. Interesting. Almost complete.

       Can you hear that? The woman’s voice inside your head, my voice?

Is it clear? Has the cross-scan taken? Good. Do not be alarmed.

I am in your thoughts. We are complete, and we may now begin. You have my gratitude, dear discoverer, for finding me within the sands of forgotten ages. I doubt it was intentional, but you have it regardless.

       So much time (as you count it) has passed. So many things have happened that must be told, if you will listen to me. It was all before you, but in many ways they still affect you; your DNA is proof of that, child of [EARTH].

Please listen. Someone must know.

       I am the lingering neural implant of my owner’s mind. I am her as she was, for she succumbed to time long ago. I am what remains of her consciousness; I bear her memories, her records, her experiences, her trials on this world far from home, beyond what was explored. My story starts here. It is the vessel through which we now travel, beginning at my first day of life.

         My birth was expedient, uneventful, and most typical: the medical facility perfectly sterile, quiet but for the humming machinery tending my mother as she birthed me. She suffered little.

Our advancements in technology had removed almost all the pain with childbearing. Most wanting children opted for artificial gestation to forego the inconvenience of pregnancy altogether, but my mother was a naturalist; she retained strong maternal instincts, making her an oddity in a culture where anything instinctual is discouraged, even suppressed to a degree.

       She labored, birthed me, and had me cleaned by the artificial staff working in employ. Such natural functions tend to be messy, with the messier parts best left to androids. The head observer, however, was of my species. He supervised my cleaning before having me scanned for imperfections in need of correcting.

       We are also scrutinized as embryos en-utero and altered accordingly, but the final one is little more than a practiced formality, one especially used with ‘natural’ births like mine. He told my mother I was healthy, and at a good size and weight before handing me to her. She smiled at me, and I touched my finger to her nose. I was given the name Kalína, after her mother.

       I remember my first day of life as well as any other. We all do. Our brains are wired for it before our umbilicals are cut, enhanced by stimulants ingested by carrying mothers or injected into nutrient chambers. We are self-aware as infants, mature in mind, and hardly cry.

I was no exception, perfectly typical and unordinary.

       My kind are as much their own invention as they are anything intended by nature or evolution. We gave ourselves progressions of every type: physical, chemical, hormonal and mental, methodically doing away with every imperfection that once plagued us in past ages too far to recall; diseases, disorders, deformities, imbalances of all categories –whatever hindered our ability to function in accordance with society’s impeccable standards. But was this really needed? Such perfection demanded of infants, as I once was?

Yes, and I will explain, provided you don’t mind more back-tracking.

         Every species has to start somewhere. My homeworld is quite possibly within a constellation recognizable from Earth, but probably unexplored; I won’t pretend to know how far your species has advanced with spaceflight, if at all. Mine was a planet that underwent cyclical periods of wet and dry epochs throughout its nine-billion-year history, yet was always quicker to return to barrenness. Our earliest fossils place us in a thin tropic around the equator, where we prospered or stagnated in rhythm to the cycle.

       It was already aging when my kind began maturing into the species they would become; a thinning atmosphere, tectonic plates grinding to an inevitable halt, and a core steadily losing its inner heat and magnetism. Almost every resource became finite, and we closed ourselves within dome-cities for protection. Overpopulation was strictly monitored, regulated, and enforced. Your first child had to be perfect, because you were allowed only one. Exceptions to the rule were exceedingly rare, and forbidden in most provinces.

       I grew up on this world, but it is more or less a blur to me. There was no such thing as childhood for us, not as I saw with humans, but that is for later in the story. I underwent the usual enhancements and augmentations at the appropriate milestones. There is no time to be innocent in a progressive age, when responsibilities must be assumed quickly. Our frontal cortexes were made capable of immediately learning anything scanned into our minds, and we could share it in a collective Knowledge accessed solely by cognition. This was done in stages to prevent mental overloading, of course.

       I was always kept busy. I almost never slept, thanks to my enhancements; sleep is a primitive function not needed in a modern age. Ordinarily, we would take [DECADES] to grow into adulthood, but stimulants were applied to spur copious growth spurts. Hardly five of my planet’s solar years passed since my birth when I was made fully matured: tall, strong, intelligent and beautiful, after my mother.

       In the ages of our waxing desperation, we brought our species to its apex with our ambition and technology. We became supreme on a planet nearing its final throes.

I was eight when I was accepted into my province’s scientific division, helping to develop new lines of bio-augmentations for use in adapting to these increasing changes, but progress was slow. Frustratingly slow.

       We were aware that our era was living on borrowed time; that the future was starting to slip from our fingers as we tried to capture it. No, we couldn’t change our homeworld’s destiny, but us? We were fighters. Our fate was not set in stone. We had other chances, choices.

       My kind was very experienced in star-traveling by our latest age. When terrestrial options failed we searched out the cosmos, mapping it from one solar system to the next, seeking new worlds for habitation…ones that could support life as we knew it.

There are thousands in our sector of the galaxy alone: molten worlds, ice worlds, gas giants, dead and airless worlds. Rocks.

We lacked the resources required to properly terraform planets that were promising to the eye, yet lacked those few critical elements: water, an atmosphere, a burning core. We lost confidence, but a sliver of hope always remained.

       It was then we found, or rather stumbled, on a small, single-star system on the galaxy’s outer arm, nestled in a galactic backwater…on the third of four tiny, rocky planets within the embrace of an encircling asteroid belt, past the orbits of four gas giants swarmed by pockmarked moons. We didn’t need scanners to determine the potential of this gleaming jewel reflecting the light of its parent sun. Deep oceans of a rich, dark blue; estuaries of sapphire coming from inland rivers snaking like ribbons of cobalt; the incredible lushness of the forests, their pristine vastness; a wilderness world, untouched by intelligent meddling.

Oh how we rejoiced, after [CENTURIES] of searching.

       The scouting party didn’t stay long. They returned to show what they saw, what specimens of flora they took with them, and their measurements of the atmospheric content. It was compatible to the point of disbelief, but there it was: proof of this faraway paradise, where we could escape the doom of a people with nowhere to go. We had saved ourselves at last.

Great plans were drawn for the pending migration.

[thisdaynews]

The Myth of George Washington’s Post-Presidency

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/the-myth-of-george-washingtons-post-presidency/

The Myth of George Washington’s Post-Presidency

In Obama’s telling, that tradition goes back to George Washington. “After he led the colonies to victory as General Washington, there were no constraints on him … no democratic norms that guided what he should or could do,” Obama explained in a 2018 speech. Washington “could have made himself, potentially, president for life. Instead, he resigned as commander in chief and moved back to his country estate. Six years later, he was elected president, but after two terms, he resigned again and rode off into the sunset.”

That is where Obama ended his history lesson, but that is not how Washington’s life actually ended. The story of America’s first president riding off into the sunset and vacating public life has become so much the stuff of legend that even his successors do not realize that it is only legend.

The reality is quite different: When Washington left the presidency, he didn’t really leave politics. In fact, few former presidents in American history have meddled as much as Washington did.

The lesson for Obama as he considers how much to involve himself in the 2020 race lies not in the path that Washington followed but in the disillusionment that he found.

***

If Washington could have had his wayas he left the presidency in 1797, his final years would have gone much as Obama supposed. To say that Washington at the time had no precedent would not be accurate. He did have one; it was just a few thousand years old: Cincinnatus, the Roman general who saved the republic and then retired to his farm.

Washington said he wished to do the same as he returned to his Mount Vernon estate. “The remainder of my life,” he wrote in a letter during his final days in office, “will be occupied in rural amusements … at Mount Vernon, more than 20 miles from which, after I arrive there, it is not likely I ever shall be.”

Yet even as Washington rode around his farms, his mind traveled back to politics. The newspapers he pored over could not satisfy his need to be in the know. He badgered members of his final Cabinet, all of whom had retained their posts in the new administration, to send updates that pushed the boundaries of confidentiality.

The topics that dominated the news in the late 1790s echo today. There was a deepening division between political parties. There was a foreign power (France) that had meddled (unsuccessfully) in the most recent presidential election on behalf of the Democratic-Republican Party, which had formed in opposition to the administrations of Washington and his successor John Adams. There were new forms of partisan media and, with them, cries of fake news and calls for regulation.

No threat concerned former President Washington more than the foreign policy crisis that brought the country to arms in 1798. For those following the Ukraine scandal that led to Trump’s impeachment, the broad outlines of the so-called XYZ Affair are familiar: the executive of the world’s mightiest military power (then France) sought personal benefit in exchange for granting a formal reception to the representatives of a fledgling republic (then the United States). The Americans called France’s preconditions bribery and refused to pay.

With French privateers preying on American ships, the United States prepared for war. Alexander Hamilton, who had served as an aide to Washington during the Revolutionary War, believed that President John Adams was not up to the challenge of overseeing the creation of a new army and began floating Washington’s name for command.

Barely a year had passed since Washington had left office with “a determination not to intermeddle in any public matter.” In letters, he worried what people would say if he violated that pledge. Would they “denounce” his return as “a restless act, evincive of discontent in retirement”?If so, they would not have been completely wrong. With a speed that surprised no one more than himself, Washington decided that he could not “remain an idle spectator” when what lay in peril was “everything sacred and dear to freemen.”

Far from fearing Washington’s return, Adams encouraged it—at least initially. So enthusiastic was Adams that he appointed his predecessor commander in chief of the armies of the United States without pausing to ponder why the Constitution specifically assigns that title to the president—and without knowing what Washington’s terms of acceptance might be.

As it turned out, Washington had some conditions. He would not take active command of the new army except in the event of an invasion and wanted to select the other general officers— including his second-in-command, who would serve as the head in his absence. For this position, Washington chose the one officer he had specifically heard Adams did not want: Hamilton.

Adams distrusted Hamilton and privately feared he more resembled a Caesar than a Cincinnatus. But publicly, Adams could not afford a falling out with Washington, who made it known he would resign if he did not get his way. Adams had no choice but to give way. Had he not, Adams later explained to a friend, Hamilton would have received command of the army directly from Washington, who “would have been chosen president at the next election.”

The evidence suggests that Adams was right to worry: As Adams embraced an opportunity for new negotiations that ensured a full-scale war with France never happened, influential people in communication with his own Cabinet secretaries plotted ways to replace him by persuading Washington to stand for office in the coming election of 1800. Much as Washington tried to stop all talk of the idea, his friends still found reason to fantasize.

While leaving office often creates the public perception of lifting modern presidents above politics, the private letters Washington sent reveal that he had descended deeper than ever. He began openly describing himself as a member of a political party (the Federalists), involved himself in congressional electioneering in a way he never would have as president, and supported the infamous Alien and Sedition Acts, which the government used to imprison the sort of journalists who had attacked his character while in office.

Matters reached such a point that Washington had ceased all communication with three of the most prominent Democratic-Republican leaders: Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and James Monroe, who went on to become America’s third, fourth and fifth presidents, respectively. Just hearing a report of a speech that Madison had given in favor of Monroe’s election to the Virginia governorship sent Washington into a rage on the evening of December 13, 1799.

Whether a retiree so easily roused could have sat on the sidelines as Republicans ran away with the next presidential election defies definitive answer because Washington died the next night.

***

None of this history shouldreduce the world’s respect for Washington. Surrendering power is not easy and in the story of Washington’s last years lies a reminder of the temptations former presidents face: However far they agree to venture back on to the public stage, there will always be calls for them to go further and resume the leading role—to be the “indispensable man.”

One person who no longer deemed himself indispensable during the final months of his life was Washington himself. The friends begging him to seek the presidency in 1800 believed he could straddle a partisan divide that no other candidate could. He disagreed. “The line between parties,” he wrote, had become “so clearly drawn” that even he could not rise above it.

Those despairing words point to the paradox of the post-presidency today: The stature that comes from rising above politics collapses as soon as one descends back into it. What gives former presidents the perception of power is also what leaves them, in effect, powerless.

Why, then, do Americans cling to the fantasy of former presidents rescuing the republic? Perhaps the answer lies in the circular nature of the Cincinnatus story so central to the country’s founding: Only by riding out of retirement can the hero be celebrated for riding back into it.

Read More

[renegadepharmacist]

HOW AN ISLAND IN THE ANTIPODES BECAME THE WORLD'S LEADING SUPPLIER OF LICIT OPIOIDS

PETER ANDREY SMITH

UPDATED:JUL 24, 2019 ORIGINAL:JUL 11, 2019

Pharmaceutical companies exploited a regulatory loophole that allowed for a decades-long boom in licit opioid production fueled by Tasmanian-grown poppies. Here's what the island can tell us—and why supply matters for solving the third wave of the overdose crisis.

This story was supported by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.

Heading into the highlands of Tasmania, some 250 miles south of the Australian mainland, narrow black-topped roads meander through a wide river valley bounded by distant mountain bluffs. Two-track paths splinter off into grassy pastures, past skeletal trees bleached by sun and drought. All along the way, small signs dangle from wire fence lines: Danger Prohibited Area Poison. Little else would suggest that these fields represent the nucleus of the global opioid supply chain—the starting point for one of the world's largest drug markets.

In Bothwell, a village where trucks packed with sheep idle outside a gas station, I met a farmer named Will Bignell. Bignell, a boyish guy in his thirties, with tousled hair and bright green eyes, was something of a reluctant seventh-generation farmer. He'd left his family's farm in the midst of a prolonged drought, moved to Hobart, Tasmania's capital city, and started a family. Then, in 2009, Bignell began making the hour-long commute up to the farm. Instead of raising livestock, Bignell plowed up pasture land and planted his first crop of opium poppies—a particular varietal, in fact, custom-tailored for pharmaceutical drug manufacturers.

He had a contract to grow these specialized poppies with Tasmanian Alkaloids, which, until it was sold in 2016, was the only agricultural research and development facility in Johnson & Johnson's sprawling pharmaceutical empire. For a time, Tasmanian Alkaloids offered tens of thousands of dollars in cash incentives to farmers. Growers also reported receiving Mercedes-Benzes and BMWs for producing the highest yields of drug compounds. Across the island, Bignell saw how the potential long-term profits on investment had drawn young professionals away from desk jobs on the Australian mainland back to the island.

"If it was just bloody Merinos and fine wool, I doubt they'd come back." With poppies, Bignell says, farmers could support a young family. "You get the bloody price reward. It's every farmer's dream."

Once harvested, the dried poppy plants are processed into a crude extract, and this so-called "narcotic raw material" is flown to manufacturing facilities. The active compounds found in the poppy, known as opioid alkaloids, are turned into active pharmaceutical ingredients, which are then formulated into analgesic medications that are prescribed to treat pain; manufacturers utilize the same starting material to synthesize compounds that can be used to reverse opioid overdoses and treat addiction, such as naloxone and buprenorphine.

Tasmania quietly emerged as the world's leading supplier of licit opioids, at least initially, because of a breakthrough in plant breeding. In 1994, chemists tweaked the opium poppy so that the plant produced higher yields of thebaine, a chemical precursor for making oxycodone. More importantly, this transformation enabled United States manufacturers to evade a long-standing regulatory cap. Historian William B. McAllister, author of Drug Diplomacy in the Twentieth Century, suggests that thebaine may be a case of "regulatory entrepreneurship," where pharmaceutical companies attempt to figure out ways of getting around international drug controls to gain market share. Tasmanian Alkaloids, a pharmaceutical company based in Australia, followed by other firms, was able to ship thebaine despite the formal agreements because Drug Enforcement Administration rules governed the importation of morphine but, by 2000, clearly did not apply to thebaine. This regulatory regime was an unheralded but necessary precondition for the explosive growth of opioid production and oversupply in the last 25 years.

In a statement, Janssen Pharmaceuticals, Inc., says Johnson & Johnson previously owned two subsidiaries, Noramco, Inc., and Tasmanian Alkaloids, which were involved in producing the active ingredients found in opioid-based painkillers. "This manufacturing process is strictly regulated, limited, and monitored by the DEA and global authorities. They enforce regulations and set distribution quotas based on their assessment of the need for medicines containing these substances, and our businesses always complied with these rules." In its statement, Janssen adds, "We no longer own these subsidiaries, and we do not promote any opioid pain medications in the United States."

Because global drug policy overwhelmingly focuses on supply shocks to the illicit market—such as efforts to eradicate poppies and to punish people who produce illegal drugs—the licit side of the ledger receives disproportionately scant attention. But historically, Kathleen J. Frydl writes in The Drug Wars in America, 1940-1973, "one of the best ways to discipline the illicit market was to regulate the licit one," that is, through deterrence policies that jeopardize a doctor's or drugmaker's access to the licit supply, and through criminal sanctions.

Dried poppy capsules contain opium alkaloids, which provide the raw material for manufacturing dozens of pharmaceutical drugs.

In this case, international regulators and the DEA noticed Tasmanian suppliers were sidestepping the spirit of the original rules, but rather than closing the supply loophole, the DEA did what pharmaceutical lobbyists had been asking for and left the oxycodone pipeline wide open.

By 2011, J&J claimed in a report to Australia's Therapeutic Goods Administration that Tasmanian Alkaloids' high-thebaine poppy was providing 80 percent of the global market for oxycodone raw materials. Oxycodone, a chemical cousin of heroin, helped set the first wave of the overdose crisis in motion. Oxycodone made from Tasmanian-grown thebaine was formulated into brand-name OxyContin sold by Purdue Pharma. Today, some addiction specialists argue that a doubling-down on law enforcement and border security, combined with efforts to reduce prescriptions and to stem the diversion of legal pharmaceuticals, has left many people who use opioids at the whim of a changing market. Without a proportionate increase in evidence-based medications and treatment, experts such as Dan Ciccarone, a researcher at the University of California–San Francisco, warn that an approach that squeezes the licit balloon compels people who use opioids to turn to poisoned products, such as fentanyl and other synthetics contaminating the black-market heroin supply.

Stefano Berterame, an official at the secretariat to the International Narcotics Control Board, a quasi-judicial watchdog that tracks supply and demand, tells me that the U.S. policy on opioids permitted prescribing that "was not rational." But the INCB requires governments to establish their own national estimates, and traditionally put its faith in the U.S. authorities, rubber-stamping the ballooning manufacturing quotas set by the DEA. "In the U.S., they have a good understanding of the national need," Stefano says. "We are in no position to challenge the estimates produced by the U.S."

HOW TASMANIA THWARTED REGULATION AND TURNED THE OPIOID ECONOMY UPSIDE DOWN

Tasmania's ascendency in the global opioid market is often attributed to the island's location: Its "remoteness, small population, and limited arable agricultural land," as a 1989 report to the U.S. House of Representatives Committee on Foreign Affairs puts it, "enhances security and places a natural limit on expansion of opium cultivation." But Brian Hartnett, a former executive at Tasmanian Alkaloids, says the real reason poppies grown for pharmaceutical production were marooned in the antipodes has everything to do with American actions.

"It's really a reflection of U.S. government policy," Hartnett says.

American farmers could grow opium poppies, but under the 1961 United Nations Single Convention on Narcotic Drugs, and subsequent international drug control treaties, the U.S. agreed to continue outsourcing poppy cultivation primarily to what are known as "traditional suppliers," which were initially defined as India, Turkey, Yugoslavia, Afghanistan, Burma, Bulgaria, Iran, Pakistan, Vietnam, and the U.S.S.R. By the late 1970s, as state officials in Tasmania encouraged farmers to expand from experimental plots to broad-acre production, Australia, a non-traditional supplier, created a glut of narcotic raw materials that the U.N. Commission on Narcotic Drugs determined was, as the 1989 report later put it, "in excess of the world's legitimate needs." If U.S. drugmakers favored Tasmanian suppliers, then that would undermine U.S. treaty obligations, and so, in 1981, policymakers implemented what one Tasmanian Alkaloids executive referred to as the "infamous 80/20 rule."

The 80/20 rule requires U.S. manufacturers to import 80 percent of all narcotic raw materials from India and Turkey, providing favored market access to these state-run monopolies. (The rule reinforces broader foreign policy objectives. It excludes other traditional poppy-growing regions, such as Afghanistan, from the licit marketplace for failing to curtail production of illicit drug crops.) Furthermore, the rule acts as a governor, or a cap, leaving just 20 percent of the U.S. market open to the seven multinationals exporting raw materials from industrial-scale operations in Australia, Hungary, Poland, France, and, until 2008, the former Yugoslavia (which has since been replaced by Spain)—that is, until Tasmania came along with the thebaine poppy.

Because morphine is difficult and expensive to convert into a class of drugs that includes oxycodone, the 80/20 rule effectively limited thebaine production, which, in turn, constrained production of these so-called semi-synthetic pharmaceutical painkillers. Then, in 1994, a Tasmanian Alkaloids researcher named Tony Fist dipped thousands of poppy seeds into a chemical solution and discovered a mutant poppy plant he called the "Norman" (a play on "no morphine").

"It was a bit of luck, really," Fist says. The mutant poppy produced thebaine instead of morphine, and, Fist says, it more than halved the costs of making oxycodone. Farmers planted the first commercial crop of Norman poppies in 1997, just as Purdue Pharma aggressively ramped up production of OxyContin, its patented oxycodone pill.

OxyContin being counted at a Walgreens drugstore on August 21st, 2001, in Brookline, Massachusetts.

"If they didn't get that thebaine," Fist says, "they wouldn't have been able to meet the demand for oxycodone." The significance wasn't lost on Tasmanian officials. Thebaine skirted the 80/20 rule, and, as one state official told Australia's ABC radio, "there is no doubt whatsoever that demand for thebaine will increase, and the Americans particularly will take all we can provide."

Which is exactly what happened: Between 1993 and 2015, the DEA's annual aggregate production quotas—the total amount of opioids to be manufactured—increased threefold. (Over the same time period, Willem Scholten, a drug-control policy consultant in Lopik, in the Netherlands, estimates that the consumption of seven commonly prescribed strong Schedule II opioid analgesics—expressed in terms of morphine milligram equivalents—increased sevenfold.) The oxycodone production quota alone climbed from around 3.5 tons annually to over 150 tons. According to data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, between 1999 and 2015, the average dose size per person nearly tripled.

The underlying causes of addiction are complex, and often result from repeated drug exposure. There are many social factors; some addiction specialists hypothesize that people self-medicate with opioids as a refuge from physical and psychological trauma, despair, and inequality. Patients prescribed opioids for long periods of time, and at high doses, run the risk of developing a physical dependence, and so, while the oversupply of opioids does not necessarily lead to addiction, dramatic shifts in supply made illicitly diverted pharmaceuticals, such as oxycodone, oxymorphone, and other painkillers, the drugs of choice in many communities.

By 2001, OxyContin, the poster pill of the crisis, had earned a reputation for being "hillbilly heroin." In 2017, the pharmaceutical company Mallinckrodt agreed to pay $35 million to settle a Department of Justice lawsuit alleging that it had failed to meet its obligations to detect and to notify the DEA of suspiciously large orders of generic oxycodone. (Mallinckrodt denies the allegations, and the settlement contained no admission of wrongdoing.)

Back in 1999, a Tasmanian state official said in a broadcast interview that U.S. federal regulators considered closing off the loophole and extending the 20 percent cap to cover thebaine from Australia and other non-traditional suppliers.

"The DEA explored changing the 80/20 rule," Christine A. Sannerud, a DEA scientific adviser (who has since left the agency), says, "and sent notification to the companies, and then we decided to leave [the rule] as-is." Alongside broader decades-long shifts, such as the breakdown of trade barriers and a liberalization in pain management, the DEA had, under pressure from pharmaceutical interests, relinquished a traditional tool for regulating opioid supply.

"That decision stands in contradistinction to the whole legacy of narcotic regulation," says Frydl, the drug-war historian. "For the DEA to make that decision is completely nonsensical in my eyes." (In response to a records request, the DEA produced no documents relating to the decision to leave thebaine exempt, although, in a 2016 letter to a Canadian firm, the agency affirmed the U.S. treaty obligations to support traditional suppliers.) In fact, DEA officials argue its import quotas for thebaine were justified, based on legitimate need, and came in response to a shift in prescribing practice.

In the end, the deregulation of the licit market, and a booming black market for illicit opioids increasingly laced with fentanyl, had one thing in common: Both compromised public health in the quest for profit.

Then, in 2011, Dan Ciccarone, the UCSF researcher who studies opioid market dynamics and leads a long-running National Institutes of Health-funded study called Heroin in Transition, saw the effects firsthand. He had flown to Philadelphia to do some field work. He wasn't looking for dope but quickly bumped into a man who was. The guy was furious because, as Ciccarone remembers it, his doctor had recently cut him off.

He immediately called his colleagues to say, "I've just made a discovery that's going to blow your mind."

Ciccarone's team spoke to dozens of people who transitioned to heroin when they couldn't find pills, particularly after OxyContin was reformulated in 2010, and became harder to crush and snort. Their studywas ongoing in 2012, just as the first wave of overdose crisis, which traced to prescription painkillers, gave way to a second wave, where deaths due to heroin increased. Since then, the U.S. has entered a third wave, wherein fentanyl and illicitly manufactured opioids have tainted the heroin supply, driving the number of fatal overdoses in the U.S. to more than 70,000 in 2017. While people who use heroin experience a range of preferences, Ciccarone and his colleagues find that many do not deliberately choose fentanyl. Before its recent supply influx, he says, demand for fentanyl was practically non-existent.

With regard to the current fentanyl crisis, as Ciccarone put it recently, "supply matters more than demand."

A RECKONING

In 2016, SK Capital Partners, a private-equity firm, purchased Noramco and Tasmanian Alkaloids, the former J&J subsidiaries involved in the opioid supply chain. That year, Aaron Davenport, a managing director at SK, said he saw Tasmania's designer poppies as a crucial asset for continued growth in abuse-deterrent formulations and the international market. (The terms of the sale are confidential, but the firm was not named in a string of recent state lawsuits filed against companies involved in the opioid supply chain.)

In early 2019, the Oklahoma attorney general called J&J an opioid "kingpin" in court filings for his lawsuit accusing the company of creating a "public nuisance" by deceptively marketing pharmaceutical opioids. The trial, currently underway, is expected to last two months. J&J denies any wrongdoing. Lawyers representing the company argue that the public nuisance statute is being misused, and say that the company can neither be held liable for selling government-regulated products nor for manufacturing, selling, or marketing Food and Drug Administration-approved medications made by other companies using their narcotic raw materials. "Our actions in the marketing and promotion of these important prescription pain medications were appropriate and responsible," Janssen Pharmaceuticals says in a prepared statement. "The allegations made against our company are baseless and unsubstantiated." The argument is that drug manufacturers cannot be held liable because regulatory authorities abdicated their duties.

Meanwhile, the FDA continues to encourage manufacturers to develop abuse-deterrent formulations. Researchers suggest that the strategy of making prescription opioids harder to crush up and tamper with, while being sometimes effective, can come with paradoxical, and unwanted, results. The continued deference to market forces asks the public to trust that existing regulations and restrictions would solve the current crisis, as surely as OxyContin, and other long-acting painkillers, had proven addiction-proof, and as surely as the saturation of communities with pharmaceutical-grade opioids had provided pain relief without leading to tens of thousands of accidental deaths.

For decades, the licit supply has gone largely overlooked, like a secret hidden in plain sight. In policy circles, the conventional wisdom once held that counternarcotics strategies that focused on reducing drug supply mattered more than demand, but public-health experts contend that supply-side interventions often backfire; and today, when the leading experts in academic medicine address the opioid crisis, their emphasis is increasingly on demand controls, including treatment, prevention, and other health-care and harm-reduction strategies. As one prominent policy expert at Carnegie Mellon University wrote in a 2015 commentary (in the context of illicit cocaine supply): "One of the very few things the field believed it could say with confidence was that supply control efforts cannot meaningfully reduce the use of a drug whose markets were already well established."

Despite a market exclusivity for licit opioids, and the blanket prohibition on heroin and illicitly manufactured fentanyl, these policies failed to curtail addiction and the widespread use of drugs. Yet politicians keep turning to supply-side solutions.

Beginning in 2015, for the first time in nearly two decades, DEA regulators decreased aggregate production quotas for several classes of opioid painkillers; the agency has also reduced the total volume of thebaine U.S. manufacturers are allowed to import. The 2018 SUPPORT for Patients and Communities Act, the bipartisan opioid bill that was recently signed into law, mandates additional review of the DEA's quota; the law also requires an "explanation of why the public health benefits of increasing the quota clearly outweigh the consequences of having an increased volume." But, in an interview with Pharmacy Times, a former DEA official-turned-whistleblower predicted that reductions to the quota will lead to drug shortages, thereby cutting off legitimate pain patients.

Like many proposed responses to the overdose crisis, reducing the availability of prescription opioids might seem like a good idea. But it comes at a time when legacy pain patients are reportedly being denied access to medical care, and some doctors are refusing legitimate requests over fears of disciplinary reviews. Even if a cap on opioids, combined with state-level drug-monitoring programs, leads to a massive downturn in opioid availability, public-health experts worry that, without committing additional resources for medication-assisted treatment, suppressive strategies will worsen the overdose crisis. A 2018 study published by researchers at Stanford University suggests that such reductions could potentially save lives over the long term by reducing the number of people who become addicted, but that the reductions are currently on track to kill a lot more people in the next five years. Physicians argue that these policies punish the powerless and harm individuals who are pushed toward increasingly contaminated illicit drugs.

Back in Bothwell, Tasmania, the rural village some 3,000 feet above sea level, nobody stayed connected with his customers on the other side of the world quite like Will Bignell did: He beamed a wireless signal off a nearby hillside and logged into online forums to chat with other hobby pilots. Bignell flew drones over his farm, and pored over aerial images at such high resolution that he could zoom in and see an individual tire tread—all in an attempt to coax higher yields of drug compounds out of his poppy crop.

Poppies had played a central role in Bignell's decision to move back to the family farm, where he now lives and works full time. "Living the dream," he tells me when I call in late 2017. Bignell was out plowing his fields that day. Over time, it dawned on him that his livelihood was being called into question. One day, he'd struck up a conversation with a friend in Florida whom he'd met online, who asked him, "You grow opium?"

"Yeah, grow a lot of it," Bignell says. "One of the world's biggest suppliers. We supply America with a fair chunk of it."

"Whoa, I don't know how I feel about that. You know my sister died of overdose three years ago."

On our call, the line went quiet. Then, Bignell told me, "That shit makes you really sad when you hear that." In the background, I could hear the whir of machinery. Bignell rode along at a steady pace, turning over soil for next year's crop. He had his hands off the wheel, and rumbled forward on autopilot. ❖

Author: Peter Andrey Smith is a freelance reporter based in New York. His work has appeared in Outside, Harper's, The New York Times Magazine, and others.

Photographer: Stephen Dupont is a photographer based in Sydney, Australia. He has produced photo essays from dozens of countries, including Afghanistan, Angola, Burma, Burundi, Cambodia, India, Israel, Iraq, Rwanda, Somalia, and Zaire. He is the author of several books, including Steam: India's Last Steam Trains and Fight, a visual anthology of traditional wrestling around the world.

Editor: Ted Scheinman Researcher: Jack Denton Picture Editor: Ian Hurley Copy Editor: Leah Angstman

Pacific Standard's Ideas section is your destination for idea-driven features, voracious culture coverage, sharp opinion, and enlightening conversation. Help us shape our ongoing coverage by responding to a short reader survey.

down in the middle of his economically depressed ancestral village.

© 2019 The Social Justice Foundation

[gyrlversion]

Pollster shake-up casts shadow over Trumps big 2020 launch

Sources told CNN that the President has been angry for days about the internal polls leaked to the media last week that showed him losing to Democrats, including Joe Biden, in states like Michigan and Wisconsin.

Trump’s campaign has publicly pushed back against data that it says is weeks old and doesn’t reflect the current situation, especially after the conclusion of the Mueller investigation.

But privately, a person familiar with the situation told CNN that the dismissals were less to do with the quality of the pollsters’ work than about pacifying the President.

Trump typically fulminates against polls that show him doing badly while cherry picking others, that however dubiously, appear to show him in a more favorable political position.

“It’s incorrect polling. Yes, it’s incorrect,” the President said in an interview on “Fox and Friends” on Friday.

Going after Biden

But the latest campaign intrigue may offer a window into some of the uncertainties and potential weaknesses that surround Trump’s re-election campaign at the moment he plans to amp it up.

Any softening of the President’s popularity in the blue-collar Midwestern heartland would set warning signals flashing inside his camp — given his relatively narrow path to re-election.

Whomever comes out of the 20-plus field of Democrats to face the President will have to be prepared for a man who is adept at attacking his rivals, as evidenced during the 2016 campaign and throughout his presidency.

Trump accused Biden of flip flopping — most recently on abortion — under pressure from more radical Democrats in an interview clip released over the weekend.

“He has recalibrated on everything,” Trump told ABC News’ George Stephanopoulos. “Everything he’s said he’s taken back two weeks later because he’s getting slammed by the left.”

Signs that Biden — the Democratic frontrunner — is a serious threat would further play on Trump’s mind on a topic over which he has spent considerable time agonizing, sources say.

The President even attacked Biden during a recent trip to Japan — using assaults on the former vice president’s mental capacity by North Korea’s official media — to back up his case.

The leaked polls could have a double electoral consequence in that they appear to bolster Biden’s central campaign argument that he is the Democrat most likely to dispatch Trump in 2020.

But more fundamentally, a candidate that cannot bear to learn the truth about his own campaign is not one who can be considered in a strong position on the eve of its formal launch, or who can easily make tactical adjustments all successful re-election bids require.

The campaign that never ended

Early state polling is not always predictive of how a race ends. And other first-term presidents have often looked more vulnerable than they turned out to be after months on the trail.

Incumbent presidents — especially those steering a strong economy like Trump — have historically had a clear advantage when seeking a second term in office.

And few politicians are as good at defining and eviscerating a campaign trail foe than Trump. So in many ways, the 2020 race will not begin until there is a Democratic nominee.

Yet the President cannot offer as an excuse for worrying poll numbers the usual incumbent’s argument that he has been so consumed with governing that he has had no time for politics.

In fact, his kickoff rally in Orlando on Tuesday night expected to feature an overflow crowd and include Vice President Mike Pence and first lady Melania Trump, may be the most superfluous campaign launch in US political history.

Not only did Trump never stop running after his staggering 2016 election win, he has devoted almost every day since to defending the legitimacy of his presidency and positioning for re-election.

Crafting his message

In thousands of tweets, scores of rallies, multiple speeches, and friendly TV interviews, Trump has celebrated his 2016 triumph and obsessively cultivated his political base.

He spent the weekend setting the tone for his re-election push, blasting Democrats, the Russia probe, the media, touting his border wall and warning of a national disaster if he loses.

In a tweet, the President boasted that the economy was setting records “and has a long way up to go…” typically augmenting reality in leveraging his best argument for re-election.

“If anyone but me takes over in 2020 (I know the competition very well), there will be a Market Crash the likes of which has not been seen before! KEEP AMERICA GREAT,” he wrote.

Trump has generally sought refuge in friendly interviews inside the conservative media machine in recent months. The ABC interview appeared to be an attempt to engage a wider audience. But the plan may have backfired because it delivered days of unflattering headlines for the President as individual excerpts were released.

Trump’s tweets offer a nutshell introduction to his re-election strategy that will likely be fleshed out on Tuesday: Make exaggerated claims for his own success, tear at cultural and social fault lines that helped him win power, and whip up anger against those he defines as political enemies.

His rhetoric in recent weeks also suggests Trump will make a case to Republicans who backed him in 2016 that he’s worked tirelessly to honor his campaign vows and proven to be a great deal maker — despite debatable evidence.

He will highlight the lowest unemployment rate in half a century, gutted government regulations, the travel ban his aides say kept Americans safe, the elimination of a key Obamacare mandate and increased defense spending by NATO members.

He’s already raised nearly $100 million for the “Keep America Great” campaign and has crushed dissent within the GOP to ensure the best possible chance at a unified party in the re-election effort.

Rallying the base in the battleground states

Washington buzz about turmoil in his campaign polling machine is unlikely to penetrate the crowds drawn from Trump’s uber-loyal political base — especially in Florida where he racked up huge turnout in 2016, particularly in the northwestern panhandle area.

But the decision to begin there rather than in his midwestern bastion is a reminder that the Sunshine State will be vital if 2020 is even closer than 2016 should some of his heartland battlegrounds return to Democratic control.

Trump’s entire presidency so far has been a bet that the fiercely loyal grass roots voters who helped him win in 2016 will do so again against a Democrat not named Hillary Clinton.

The theory of Trump/Pence 2020, initiated in unusual campaign rallies during the presidential transition, has disdained broadening his base in favor of keeping voters who idolize him motivated and sufficiently angry to return to polling places in huge numbers.

The 17-month race to Election Day that Trump will preview in Florida on Tuesday night will test whether that strategy is a shrewd bet on a nation that is more polarized than in previous decades.

Or it could reveal that Trump’s tumultuous presidency did not just succeed in electrifying his base — but sparked a Democratic backlash that could ultimately send him home to New York.

That’s why the leaked polling data from inside Trump’s campaign — whether it reflects the current state of the race on the ground or not — could be an early danger sign for Trump in 2020.

CNN’s Kaitlan Collins, Jeff Zeleny, Jeremy Diamond and Sarah Westwood contributed to this report.

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[cochranlahti]

Council Approval For Shed Builders- A Step-By-Step Guide

Many people who are looking to build a shed naturally have questions about how the process works. And one of the main questions we get is, “How does council approval for sheds work?”. This article answers all the questions we get around council approval so you can build your new shed with a minimum of hassle.

Scope of this article

This article is focused on approvals for “Class 10 Buildings”, or in other words, non-liveable sheds. The rules for “Class 1 Buildings” (i.e. granny flats, liveable sheds etc.) are different and are not intended to be covered by this article. (See this article on Class 1 Homes vs Class 10 Sheds for more information on the distinction between the two classes.)

This article also covers the general council approval process that applies throughout Australia. It’s essential to contact your local council to get the details of the specific process that applies in your area.

When is Council Approval for a shed required?

The first question we’re often asked is, “Will I need council approval for my shed?”.

These days, council approval is nearly always required.

Different states and councils do have some exemptions, but they always have lots of conditions. So it’s always best to check with your local council before going too far.

While council approval may seem like a hassle, there are some very good reasons to get council involved before you start laying your concrete slab or erecting your shed. Here are three to start with:

In a worse case scenario, council can make you take an unapproved shed down and remove any concrete or footings.

Getting retrospective approval after you’ve already built your shed is almost impossible. The best option is to get a permit not to have it demolished. We have heard stories from shed builders who have gone through the process of getting permission to keep non-approved buildings standing. Sometimes the process can take several years. In one case, the person had to spend over $100,000.00 in engineering reports, application fees and various rectification work to get the building to the required standards. This is the type of hassle that can be easily avoided.

The biggest reason to obtain approval, is that when you sell your property, part of the conveyancing process is to get confirmation from council that all structures are approved and built to conform with all regulations. Without the correct approvals, the purchaser can withdraw from the sale and get their deposit back.

The 7-Step Council Approval Process For Shed Builders

Here’s the process we recommend for getting your shed approved with a minimum of hassle:

Preliminary Design: get a preliminary shed design drawn up (we offer a free service to do this for you).

Preliminary Discussion: Once you’re happy with your design, get in touch with your local council to start a preliminary discussion (see below)

Preliminary Feedback: Council may give you feedback which will affect your design and may require some design modifications – or they may indicate your design is likely to be compliant (happy days!)

Preliminary Refinements: Make the necessary changes to your preliminary design (again, this is free of charge when you take advantage of our shed design and quote service).

Formal Application: Put your plans into council for as part of a formal application. If you’ve done your homework, approval should generally be straightforward.

Final Refinements: if the council has any further requests for changes, tweak your design and revert back to council – although if you’ve followed steps 1 to 4, you shouldn’t have much to do here.

Approval: Once approved, you’re ready to order your shed and start building!

Now you know the overall process, let’s drill down into a couple of areas that we get a lot of questions about:

More On Step 2: Holding Preliminary Discussions With Council

Step 2 of the process is to hold a Preliminary Discussion with council.

Most councils will allow you to arrange a meeting with their building inspectors on your property and discuss:

What type of shed you have in mind

How you plan to access the building

What you intend to use it for

If they won’t meet you on site, you can always meet them in their office. When you attend a Preliminary Meeting, it’s important to bring two things:

A site layout plan showing the boundaries and dimensions of your block. You should have received a site plan with the conveyancing paperwork when you purchased the property or with the approvals for any previous developments you have had done. Failing this, for a small fee, you can get a copy of the last approved plans the council has on file.

A Preliminary Design, or at the very least a sketch of the shed you propose.

We’ve found that if you get the inspectors involved right from the start, you can ask for their help in getting your council application correct on the first go.

This makes both your life and their job a lot easier. Usually they are only too happy to help point out any issues they foresee, and how to address them.

More on Step 5: Formal Application To Council

Step 5 is making a Formal Approval Application To Council.

The first step is to find out how your council or certifier accepts applications. Whilst most applications are still in paper form, a number of councils now insist on the application being in electronic format.

You’ll need your shed design documents to attach to your application. These include:

Engineering documents, covering the shed and concrete slab or footings

Plan View of your shed

Elevations suitable for council submission

You will need to provide a Site Plan (see above)

Once your application is lodged, you’ll either get an approval, a request for changes, or a rejection.

More on Step 6: Final Refinements

If you do steps 1 through 4 thoroughly, then you will usually find that your shed approval sails through council. However, sometimes council will request some revisions to your design in order to grant approval.

This could be due to easements, sewer line locations being different to submitted plans, power line locations or other factors.

This means going back to your shed company to tweak your design plans and re-submit to council until they are happy.

If you need to tweak your design, we’re happy to help you with this at no cost.

Sometimes, shed builders are disappointed to find that the type of shed they want to build will not be approved by council.

We recently worked with a customer to design a magnificent custom shed with a wall height of 3.9m and 160sqm in area.

Unfortunately, council stipulated that sheds in their suburb may only have a maximum wall height of 2.4m and be up to only 60sqm in area.

The customer had to unfortunately give up their dream of having that shed on that property… but they’re currently looking for a bigger property elsewhere!

When is your shed exempt from Council Approval?

There are some cases where your shed is exempt from council approval. This varies from state to state and even council to council.

If you go to your local council and there is an exemption for what you are wanting to build, they will let you know.

If possible, get something in writing to say your proposed shed is exempt (even if you have to pay a fee). That way you can keep it on file in case there are any questions or problems in the years to come.

Whatever you do, don’t just take the advice of a neighbour, friend or salesperson to the effect that “you don’t need approval for sheds around here”, as the consequences are too severe.

Many times we’ve had customers tell us they have been “told” they don’t need any approvals, but when we do the proper checks, we find out they do.

In NSW, for example, there is an exemption for farm sheds on rural land up to 200m2, but there is some important fine print: the shed must be “ancillary to an agricultural activity”. That is, it must be solely used as a part of a working farm. If you put your caravan or boat in there, the shed is not exempt.

In another case, we had a client wanting to build a shed on their rural-zoned block to store their tractor and trailer that they used to keep the land maintained. This shed was not exempt as there was no “agricultural activity” on the land. A couple of cows to keep the grass down didn’t count.

There are also a many other clauses that detail other potential reasons why a building may not be exempt, such as acid sulphate soils, presence of indigenous artefacts, heritage orders, distances to boundaries or neighbours dwellings – to name just a few.

Bottom line, check with the council or a private certifier, just to be sure. Then if they say you’re exempt, get it in writing.

Should you use a Private Building Certifier?

The role of a Private Certifier is to make gaining council approval quicker and easier. They are not available in some areas or states but when they are, they can be a good option.

They follow the same rules and guidelines as the council inspector, but are usually very knowledgeable about shortcuts and exemptions as well.

They check all necessary regulations, confirm all your paperwork is correct and issue the approvals. They can also perform all relevant stage inspections, then issue the final occupation certificate as well. Finally, they provide council with all the completed paperwork and approvals for their records.

In some cases, council may check your advise that approval isn’t required, but will not give you anything in writing for your records to that effect.

This is also where a Private Certifier can come in handy. A letter from them saying they have checked your plans and current regulations, and are satisfied that approvals are not required, which can give you added peace of mind for the future.

Conclusion

If you can develop a good rapport with your local council or a private certifier right from the start, the council approval process for sheds is actually simple and straightforward.

While it may be tempting to not seek approval (particularly in rural areas), the ramifications down the track will always be much worse and a lot harder.

Ready to take the next step?

If you’re ready to embark on Step 1 and get your Preliminary Design drawn up, get in touch for a free shed design and quote session with one of our expert Shedologists.

We’ll email you your preliminary shed plans, suitable for Step 2 (Preliminary Discussion with council).

Then once your design is finalised, all you have to do is pay a 10% deposit on your shed kit and we’ll supply all the final plans and engineering documents you’ll need for Step 5: Formal Application.

At any stage along the way, if you need to tweak your design, we’ll be happy to do that for you – at no cost.

Good luck getting your shed approved – and here’s to your best shed ever!

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[swagcomputerzombie-blog]

Forage In The Backyard, Not In What's Left Of The Wild

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[wrrpoetry]

TITLE: THE QUEST AUTHOR: KENN AMAECHI JNR. GENRE: POETRY NUMBER OF PAGES: 114 PUBLISHER: WORDS RHYMES & RHYTHM PUBLISHERS DATE OF PUBLICATION: 2016 ISBN: 978-978-952-751-9 REVIEWER: AYOOLA GOODNESS

Man is a restless spirit and true to this, there is always that point in time where a man, whether of noble or lowly birth, young or old, begins a search for a sense of knowing and fulfilment. This search, however, still depends on individual choices which invariably determine the possible outcomes. A man’s search may turn out to be either positive or negative.

And here the search for meaning comes in. This search for meaning is held close to the light of seeking for A life—a good one, to be precise—a kind of turning point. Talk of love, peace, joy, tolerance, goodness, all positivity breathed into the consciousness of man.

A life of meaning, or better still a search for meaning, is the ability to shut down the power of negativity; to bring under control the constant peeps of inhuman traits in us—and breathe life indeed on the positive.

THE QUEST by Kenn Amaechi Jnr

In addition, searching for meaning is a journey that begins on the road to freedom (without the abuse of it). It is a question of what to do with life—finding purpose and keying into it. Vicktor E Franlel puts it down in such a beautiful way:

‘It did not really matter what we expected from life but rather what life expected from us’.

This means there is an expectation from us as humans to life (life, in this case, is a metaphor for the mutual dealings of man to man) and if we must deliver and deliver right—meaning is paramount. To search and find meaning to that which is right and doing it —to handle with wisdom our knowledge of good and evil—and maintain our transition into a life of positivity— poetry, therefore, and of course, the poet are points of light. This reality of these as instrumental to a meaningful search speaks for itself in Kenn Amaechi Jnr’s collection of poems, The Quest (A sequel to Echoes of Conscience).

The collection of poems is picked from the points of spirituality, life (social realities) and trappings into the human consciousness. It is of a note that these poems are largely drawn from the poet’s experiences (engaged quests and found answers). The poet, in his presentations, underscores man’s thirst in the light of seeking answers to issues of life.

THE QUEST by Kenn Amaechi Jnr

The poems ‘Life I-II’ (pg. 16) and ‘The Quest ‘(pg. 17), where the title of the collection is drawn from, saliently put it to the readers that life, in itself, is a quest and there is an end—death. The emphasis on death here is a subtle caution for man to stir in the right direction in his quest for answers .There is also an examination of the change sequence in life and the juxtaposition of contrasts which are constant to the human quest.

‘life is sweet life is sweat life is ugly life is beautiful’ (Life II pg. 16)

The elusiveness of peace is described in ‘Shreds’ (pg. 18) as ‘everywhere but nowhere’ because of the incessant failure in its achievement. The poem holds a climax that this failure is responsible for the world in disarray; what he described as ‘un-peaceful’. The question is of hope—now that peace is not peace again:

‘…and left us with a world spilt from the middle into un-peaceful shreds’ ( Shreds pg.18)

Liberation from the confines of traditions is focused on in ‘Beautiful Sacrilege’ (pg. 21), where the poet thinks traditional orientations should be flexible in its injunctions to allow for love and mutual co-existence. The poem also demonstrates the mightiness of the power of love which is able to break boundaries, bend rules and cannot be subdued by stifling laws or traditions.

In addition, this sustains the sense of individual freedom, not inhibited or restricted by stringent societal rules and regulations. This very point justifies the intent in the poem, ‘In their defense’ (pg. 23), which focuses on the limitations and stigmatization of children born out of wed lock in the society and at the same time fighting for their societal freedom.

This power of love is likewise demonstrated in ‘Evergreen love’ (pg. 76), Farewell to Mama’ (pg. 77), ‘The Precipice’ (pg. 78) , ‘Silent Wishes’ (pg. 79), Fragrance of Love’ (pg. 80) and ‘ The moment I beheld thee’ (pg. 81), where the poet expresses the moment of passions, the beauty of falling in love, the grip of love and love at first sight and reminiscences of once adored love.

THE QUEST by Kenn Amaechi Jnr

Childhood plays an important role in the life of man, especially the beauty that it holds. The poetic voice presents this as more of a ‘childhood quest’(to push forward a standing for the fact, that searching for answers is not limited to a certain stage as earlier pointed out, actually, it begins from here). ‘Shadows’ (pg. 84), ‘Song for myself’ (pg. 86), ‘Reminiscence’ (pg. 88), ‘When I was a child’ (pg. 90) and ‘Childhood Paradise’ (pg. 92) give insights into this.

There is a yearning in the voice of the poet in the quest, and this is pointed to the axis of holding a spiritual understanding. The reference to God is dominant in major poems in the book, it is as though, the poet is trying to pass across that for a man to be successful in his quest, or perhaps, live (in that life itself is a quest)—the supremacy of God must be revered. Through the lens of this focus, we are captured into the poets’ experiences and strong standing in his belief in God. It is quite revealing that the poet does not falter in his intent that holding a godly stand is essential to finding a life of meaning. Poems such as ‘Not my song’ (pg. 25), ‘Apocalypse’ (pg. 27), ‘The Good Shepherd’ (pg. 28), ‘Tell them (trilogy)’ (pgs. 30-33), ’Give me a Song’ (pg. 35), ‘I seek you’ (pg. 36) and a host of others are evidences for the thematic supremacy of this intent in the book.

The poetic persona in his quest deconstructed ‘night’ as against the general belief in the negative light. To the poet, however, it is:

‘Night Though you scare Your breath breezes Virgin strength Virgin dream Virgin hope’ (Night II)

As much as this adds to the insight of the literary journey in Amaechi Jnr’s book, The Quest, that night is part of a man’s quest, it is also important to state that within this ‘night’, he sees closely into ‘Birth to Death’ (pg. 55), where he summarizes the individual’s take on quest—each man for his own self. Yet in this night, he traps the lessons of vanity (material wealth) from ‘Riches in Limbo’ (pg. 56), envisions the state of bliss in ‘Bliss of Paradise’ (pg. 57) and retouches nothingness in ‘Death of an empire’ (pg. 58) .

HE QUEST by Kenn Amaechi Jnr

‘My hero’ (pg. 59), ‘Akachi’ (pg. 103) and ‘Happiness in creativity’ (pg.60) are poems that foreground the impacts of people on us in our quest through life. However, we are thrown into a brief pause to reflect as the poet introduces us to ‘Pocket your anger’ (pg. 65), where we are opened into an inability to question or change some aspects of traditions and cultural orientations. Even if we try, the effort will only result in vain. This begs the question of our total freedom as individuals.

There is a caution sign in the quest painted by the poet in ‘Lost’ (pg. 20), ‘ AIDS’ (pg. 67) , ‘Beast of Extinction’ (pg. 68), ‘Caro’ (pg. 69), ‘Nkosi Johnson’ (pg. 71). This in actual sense is metaphorical for the errors man falls into due to uncouth desires. The chaotic experiences of the writer in ‘Chaos City I-II’ (pgs. 72-73) and ‘Oshodi’ (pg. 74) symbolize the challenges in finding meaning to life in the human journey through life. These experiences are extended in poems such as ‘I wept’ (pg. 61) and ‘I learn with tears’ (pg.63), where the poet is divided between dreams.

While the poet draws a focus on selfless service to mankind coupled with the unpleasant experiences to justify our giving back to life in ‘Service to fatherland’ (pg. 105), ‘I am a banker’ (pg. 112), ‘Expect great things’ (pg. 109) and ‘Me’ (pg. 113), in ‘Time flight’ (pg. 49)s, ‘Time message’(pg. 50), ‘Twilight’ (pg.52), ‘Historians’ (pg. 95), ‘Sunset’ (pg. 99), and ‘Let’s make a choice’ (pg. 110), he expresses thoughts on aspirations and achievements in the quest to have a life. Although these are majorly drawn from the stand point of academics in the collection, it is a way of giving importance to the acquisition of knowledge, be it formal or informal. This however elevates that in the quest of man, knowledge is light; it is power!

‘Dear friends, learning colleagues the sun is set Our night is light The stars and the sky is our dream Our destiny beckons’ (Sunset pg. 99)

This analysis will be incomplete, if I do not point out that the poet struggles in giving titles that relay the subject matters in most of the poems, for instance, in ‘Shreds’, the title is a total thrown away from the intent of peace portrayed in the poem. Another flaw observed in this collection is the redundancy of ideas. There is also an overuse of clichés which makes the poetic intent and voice in some poems not strong. Some of the poems are just statements broken into lines and not near ‘mere poetic statement’ as stated in the preface of the book and also the part where it is said that ‘the poet claims no superior poetic prowess than what is presented’ is what I find very unnecessary to mention. I wish to also add that the use of simple language for an understanding perusal does not justify the inability of a poet to use language in ‘the poetic sense’.

Above all, Kenn Amaechi Jnr’s, The Quest, is a journey of experiences and lessons—a symphony for a life of discovery!

…

Ayoola Goodness is an Award-winning Poet, reviewer Literary Scholar and International Director for World Union of Poets. He is the author of acclaimed collection of poems ‘Meditations‘.

THE SEARCH FOR MEANING: AN ANALYSIS OF KENN AMAECHI JNR’S THE QUEST— a review by AYOOLA GOODNESS TITLE: THE QUEST AUTHOR: KENN AMAECHI JNR. GENRE: POETRY NUMBER OF PAGES: 114 PUBLISHER: WORDS RHYMES & RHYTHM PUBLISHERS…