#but this is so good it feels so visceral. need to comfort this man. jesus.

[takami-takami]

thinking about post-war!Keigo where everything remains the same. Except his wings don't grow back. Everything repairs itself, everything changes back gradually to what it was before but his wings remain the same. Don't remain, rather. It's funny how slow he is, still not adjusted to all of this, given the very purpose of his existence lies in his ability to be fast. Doesn't matter that the reason for his speed is non-existent now. He's a hero, right? Heroes don't cry.

Heroes don't sob over their now-gone cause of existence.

Heroes don't just randomly forget they lost their wings one night, too busy staring at their lover's back with lost, blank eyes. Unaware of his woefully blank amber eyes, you lay beside him in his bed, which feels uncomfortably large now. Another form of failure that hurt his eyes if he didn't already have enough tears streaming down his ugly, scarred face silently, every time he had to begrudgingly look at himself in the mirror. Your attempts and pleas at spooning him tonight were hushed by his silent gaze. Please let me be useful, they pleaded. You gave up. Now gathered in his arms, both of you felt safe.

So safe that he forgot his empty back for a second. As instinct would have it, his back muscles flexed to move his wings to wrap around you. Closed amber eyes and a fuzzy head full of comfort hampered his worries and woes. His mind was too far gone in your soft to register the fact that he had been trying to do this for quite some time now. Unsuccessful attempts forced him to come back to reality. Body writhing, his eyes opened suddenly, wide and full of shock. His hands froze. Keigo slowly comprehended his actions. His eyes felt wet. Awoken by his movements, your body shifted in a frenzy as you turned to face him, eyes open but vision foggy from residual sleep. Out of pure instinct, you cupped his tear-stricken face as you tried hard to understand what the fuck was going on, the best your foggy mind could. His posture and expression worsened.

"Kei', honey, you okay? Kei', talk to me. Wh-" He fell to your chest hard. And bawled like a fucking child. Fists gripped the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed and cried, for god knows how long. You held him with equal force and gently rocked his body, despite a slight understanding of his sudden breakdown. To an extent, you were aware it was because of his wings, with the way he clutched your backside and felt it like it was his own. Whispering soft coos and sweet nothings into his hair continued for a while and near screaming and sobbing turned into silent cries. Eventually, he calmed down. Sensing his discomfort and heavy breathing, you combed your hands gently through his blond locks.

"I love you Kei', you know that right?" No response. Just faint nodding. You suppose that would do for now. uhh hey there V! Call me Rakuyou. This is my first time writing something like this. I've always admired people like you who can express their feelings in words so seamlessly and perfectly. I find Hawks' character quite admirable and well-written, and I most definitely don't gush over the boy every fucking moment. And as for this piece, I'd love to know some tips to write him well and some writing tips that you may wanna share. This might be a Wattpad-level fic at best, but I gave my best. Lemme know your thoughts on this one. I love Keigo and your work!

-Love, Rakuyou. (Crawls into a black hole and dies.)

I ... I do not have words for this. This knocked on my heart like it was a door and said "actually nevermind I'm coming in anyway" and smashed it to pieces on the way in.

[anachilles]

hi abbiee!!

for the hurt comfort prompt thingy : 'tell me where it hurts" for clegan pleassee <3

omg finally getting around to this!! thank u so much for the prompt, and i hope you like!!

“Why didn't you tell me?"

"What?"

"You've been up. Two missions. You didn’t tell me it was like that.”

Bucky knew Buck was sore with him, actually, genuinely for real this time.

Marching through interrogation with him, the chatter of the beaten-up, pale-faced men around them drowned out any notion of being able to continue their at first stilted, turned suddenly distinct lack of, discussion from the tense drive back across base. Buck didn’t so much as turn back to look at him even once on his way to his own crew's assigned table, eyes set ahead of him and weaving around things as if on autopilot.

He hid it well, was able to pull off the 'stoic, rock-solid lean-to' routine better than anybody, but Bucky could see he was shaken; caught the tremble in his fingers where they clutched the cup of coffee, miniscule but there.

After the sit-down debrief, as CO, Buck would then need to see to the injured men, get a run-down from Smokey on how long they'd be out of the fight, even after making it home. Great excuse to not talk to him some more.

Bucky turned on his heel towards the exit, gritting his teeth and biting back the urge to take it personally. Sometimes Buck just needed a minute to himself to work through stuff like this, Bucky rationalised. To process. He’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

Before slinking back off to attend to yet more goddamn Air Executive duties (ones that didn’t involve getting into the actual air and doing something), he did manage to corner Curt, though, struck with an idea.

“Hey, what d'ya think about drinks tonight? You, me, Buck, some of the others, maybe?”

Curt, a little wide-eyed and clearly wired still from the mission - Jesus, it'd been his first mission too - smiled, nodding. “Yeah, sounds good. You ask ‘em yet?”

Bucky scoffed, playfully shoving the empty mug he hadn't managed to discharge yet into the other man’s hands. The bitter taste of whisky-infused coffee sat heavily on the back of his tongue. “You think I’ve got time for that?” he said, disdain clear his tone. “Buck’s in there with the rest of your guys, but I’ve gotta run… you ask him?”

For the rest of the day, through the endless meetings, and briefings, and making sure the guys' goddamn beds were made properly, as the hours ticked by Bucky fought against a knawing worry, Buck's rigid voice from the jeep ride ringing in his ears despite its characteristic stillness.

Maybe he'd had a point.

How could Bucky have let his best friend go up there, without him, and without the full knowledge of what awaited them? As part of their training, they'd of course been told what the dangers were, informed of how crucial but also how perilous the roles they'd play were.

Nothing can compare to what it's actually like, though, experiencing that first-hand. Facing down a minefield of flak and Luftwaffe gunfire and having no choice but to keep on going.

Being behind the yoke and feeling your plane sustain hit after hit, its outer shell shredding apart, and having no option but to keep on going.

Realising one of those hits took one of your engines and feeling your plane lurch menacingly to the left, or the right, under your hand, and there's nothing you really do about it other than manage it as best you can in the moment and keep on going.

Watching helplessly on as ships full of men they'd played cards with the night before or had breakfast with that morning were shot out of the sky, no parachutes emerging from the fiery wreckage, and suddenly feeling the weight of each of your own crew's lives in your hands that much more viscerally. The pressure to make sure that same fate didn't await them.

Feeling your heart leap into your mouth when one of them screamed over the radio that they'd been hit.

And just having to keep on going.

He'd let Buck face that blind and alone.

But at the end of the day, what choice had he? No words could prepare you for that. Any Bucky potentially could have found would've fallen inadequately short, he knew that without a doubt. The last thing Buck, or any man, for that matter, needed was to go up there for that first time more fearful than they needed to be, aware of the full reality of the horrors that faced them. They'd have plenty of time for that; 24 more of the mythical contracted 25.

It helped in some way, to just get up there, rip the band aid off, and dispel that unknown and survive it once just to know that you could. That went further in managing the fear going forward than anything else.

There was no way to go into that other than dry, maybe a little blind, not really.

That evening, he at least did both he and Curt the service of waiting until after they'd downed some of their dinner to press him about the plans for later, Buck's absence from the mess hall a blatant chasm.

"Nah, he said he was stayin' in," Curt reported back around half a mouthful of lumpy, powdered mash potatoes so gluey you'd need a boatful of gravy just to get through them. "...was complaining about his neck, maybe his head, bothering him, I think? One of those. Said he just wanted to go lay down."

Bucky's eyebrows furrowed immediately. If it were even possible, the potatoes solidified a fraction further, getting stuck in his throat on the way down. It could well have just been an excuse to beg off, but until he knew that...

He'd resigned himself to giving Buck space to deal with everything from today however he needed to, and actually hadn't been doing half a bad job at it either. He could've - probably should've - just snuck back into the barracks to freshen up, in and out, leave him be and not say a word, then swiftly head back out to meet the other guys. Since he'd apparently now arranged that, despite the initial motivation for doing so being moot now.

Would've, could've, should've...

He ended up cutting away from dinner early, what remained of his appetite quickly waning. Those nasty potatoes.

He went straight from the mess hall to the barracks, slipping into the still-mostly deserted quarters with a peace offering in-hand. Granted, Buck would probably have preferred it be coffee, but if this was one of those awful migraines he gets sometimes, the last thing he damn well needed was caffeine. Steaming hot, milky tea - just how the Brits seemed to like it - would have to suffice.

Bucky took a deep breath and crossed the room with an affected ease, setting the mug down on the bedside table as he dropped down into the rack beside Buck's own. The man in question lay outstretched, lounging though his posture seemed rigid, holding a book in one hand that he'd lowered as soon as he clocked Bucky's presence.

They held each other's gaze for a silent, expectant moment. Buck looked tired and endearingly sleep-rumpled in the muted lamplight. Always a sucker, Bucky blinked first.

"For you," he said, nodding towards the mug as steam curled up from the rim. "So have at it."

Buck nodded jerkily, seemingly before even thinking about it, as he winced a little at the movement. After a brief pause, he set the book face down and stiffly pulled himself up further into a sitting position, reaching for the mug.

Bucky wasn't quite sure whether he was relieved or unnerved that he clearly hadn't just been making up a convenient excuse for Curt and the guys, that there was actually something wrong.

To Buck's credit, he didn't even so much as wrinkle his nose at the the tea.

"Thank you," Buck murmured, taking a grateful sip.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asked, unable to help himself, annoyance rising that he didn't just know because of this stupid day-long disagreement. He'd seemed fine at interrogation, where Bucky had left him. "Curt mentioned something about your head?"

Buck tried to shrug it off, though the sudden movement made his face twinge in pain. "Not even. I just..." he started, bowing his head for a second, sounding embarrassed about it. "We got knocked about a bit in turbulence on the way back. Moved my neck the wrong way at the wrong time, must've pulled something. Didn't even realise 'til the adrenaline started wearing off."

A small, dulled kind of smile twitched at Bucky's lips. "You mean to tell me you made it through miles of Kraut artillery fire unscathed, only to then pull a muscle in turbulence?"

Buck sighed, rolling his eyes, though even he couldn't help but have a little chuckle at himself with him. Bucky could feel the ice between them melting away in real time, and suddenly his breath came easier to him than it had all day. Buck's momentary smile was a reflection of Bucky's own, though he quickly hid it behind the rim of the mug as he took another sip. "I don't want to talk about it..."

Even so, bolstered now, Bucky took advantage of the opening and shifted so he was sitting on the edge of the other man's bed.

"Tell me where it hurts, I'll see if I can help."

It must actually hurt a decent amount, with how quickly he gave in, not even bothering with the customarily playful scepticism or the banter Bucky could practically already script in his head. 'All those extra courses you had to take after getting Air Exec - who knew that included massage therapy?'

He leaned forward wordlessly and indicated to Bucky where the pain was focalised, and Bucky got to work. Gentle but firm, his fingers kneaded the muscle beneath, the other man's skin soft and warm under his fingertips. When Buck let out a soft little hiss, Bucky drove his thumb harder into the spot that'd driven it out of him, working, working, working on the tension.

There was an elephant in the room, though. One that only grew bigger, weighed heavier in the atmosphere between them, as seconds ticked by into minutes that it remained unaddressed. In that moment, Bucky prepared himself to speak up on it, when-

"John?" Buck beat him to the punch.

"Hm?" Bucky replied, embarrassingly quick.

"Look, I... I'm sorry about earlier. How I spoke to you. I've had time to think on it since, and I see where you're coming from..."

Bucky doesn't say anything, lets him take the pause before continuing. Buck could be so careful with his words, usually erring on the side of caution and saying little, when he did open up Bucky couldn't help but want to wring them out like a soaking wet rag. So he did, by listening. Making himself still.

It was part of what made Buck a great leader, one the boys genuinely respected the hell out of, as well as the ability to admit when he was wrong about something.

"I tried to imagine what I'd say to someone else who hadn't been up now that I have, and I just... I get it."

Bucky nodded his acceptance. "Still, I should've been up there with you."

Buck smiled, though it was solemn in its affection. "I'm glad you weren't."

He pulled away from Bucky's ministrations then, in Bucky's mind moving a little easier than he had been before, holding his neck steady with one hand as he reached into his bedside cabinet. Pulling out the lucky deuce, still with only the two corners bit off, he tried to offer it back but Bucky wouldn't take it.

"You hold onto it," he smirked, "Until I'm up there myself again to watch your six."

[breserker]

Top 10 horror movies?

caveat that these are not in any particular order because not only does different horror feed the different brains but sometimes the mood begets the kind of horror needed at the time. also ofc, these are just my personal favorites, there are plenty more that i consider to be fantastic, good, amazing horror films, but y'know, personal bias

A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) - Classic Slasher but also just a really good horror movie, the movie itself is nightmarish and creative, charismatic, and the protagonist is amazing in that she is smart, competent, and capable--while still remaining to be a teenage girl who is immensely scared. good gateway horror i think

Jacob's Ladder (1990) - Inspo for Silent Hill sure but another chaotic, nightmarish experience that is essentially a character study of a Vietnam War vet.

Possum (2018) - i LOVE this movie. I love this movie. it's slow and chock full of turn of the century german expressionism (it's a UK film) that really, really, really plays you as much as the main character is played. You know how people with real traumas get labeled as strange and weird and "They totally did it" just because of how they behave in society? This movie pulled me in to think that and then punched me in the face for thinking it.

From Beyond (1986) - I love all of Stuart Gordon's movies, you may know him best from Honey I Shrunk The Kids (yeah disney approached him idfk why). They're outrageous and chock full of practical effects with a dash of sex horror, but it feels like everyone is having a good time on set, they know each other, etc, and Barbara Crampton is spectacular in this and I call it my favorite.

Pulse (回路) (2001) - I won't say much about this but the magnifying glass it takes into the sicknesses of society that isolate us from each other is so heartfelt and sad. Kurosawa Kiyoshi is a powerhouse in Japanese Horror and is worth checking out. If you've seen and liked Se7en, for example, I recommend Cure (1997) for a similar detective crime horror experience.

Noroi: The Curse (ノロイ) (2005) - Found footage horror that made me scared to open my door in the middle of the fucking night. Jesus Christ! I think it has a cameo from Kurosawa Kiyoshi playing as himself, but it might've been another Shiraishi Kouji film that I'm thinking about.

Possession (1981) - This one really hits me in a way I can't describe in sophistication or words, it's viscerally emotional in that sense and really, really, really a soothing salve after experiencing fucked up sudden heartbreak, which is poignant because Żuławski made this film after his divorce.

Evil Dead (2013) - Ok I'm apparently a weirdo in that my favorite evil dead is the first one, the less-comedy/noncomedy one, but I'm putting 2013 on here because this -- for as violent as it is -- is a comfort film. I really love how they took the original Evil Dead formula and had its own story with it, I love Mia, I love the set-up that she's trying to kick heroin, and the gore is so nasty and mean but like. hey. it's Evil Dead.

Us (2019) - Yeah I have a feeling this will always be my favorite Peele movie, from the fantastical nature, the amazing soundtrack, the visuals, and from my first viewing experience - midnight viewing while working at my movie theater before it was officially out that i then had to drive myself and my coworker/roommate from and we saw a person walking down the street dressed in red at 2am. Incredible stuff. (also doppelganger horror gets me in a bad way)

The Blob (1988) - If the 50's Blob was nothing but a Red Scare movie, the '88 Blob is a reaction to that paranoia that skewers the notion that America is always on the good and right and small town teens are all treated equally and all that. Veneer of neighborhood smeared away in favor of wellmeaning teens bringing a homeless man to the hospital only to be met with the question "Does he have Blue Cross/Blue Shield?" Incredible effects, super fun, and i love that scathing turn of "This wasn't always right, actually"

[cursed-rat-of-homosexuality]

Okay so... here are my favorites, take it *throws them at you and jumps out the window*

=> all you left me was a pearl - by JustStandingHere (M, 87K)

Stede takes in a deep breath and smiles. “Ed, I—” he says, but that’s as far as he gets before Ed’s pulling the gun out of its holster.

He aims, and Stede manages to yelp and duck just in the nick of time. The wood behind him splinters. “Fucking hell!” he yells, and springs back up into standing position. He takes a second to mourn the scarred wood before turning to Ed. “I know I cocked things up, but there’s no need to be dramatic!”

1717. The Golden Age of Piracy. Stede Bonnet sets about wooing the love of his life through any means necessary.

Things do not go as planned

(Honestly this is my favorite fic, like in general. I've read it more times than I can count. The characterization is on point, there are no "He wouldn't fucking say that" moments, it's such a good extension fic I might actually get disappointed when s2 comes out. If you haven't read it yet I am BEGGING you to do so, really you won't regret it, it's so so so so so good.)

=> this is not your grave, get out - by morian (M, 10K)

This and the next one are best read together, this one being the first

"So, this… look you're going for," Lucius starts, testing the waters.

Blackbeard stares at him with vacant eyes. Jesus. Lucius is viscerally reminded of the man's dead-eyed look before he pushed him overboard.

"Does it feel like the right choice for you? Are we happy with it?"

"Do you have a fever?" Blackbeard asks, voice hoarse.

Lucius cocks his head and says, "Don't think so. Do I look hot?" He winks.

Blackbeard lifts his hand and presses his fingers roughly against Lucius' forehead.

"What are you—"

"No fever," Blackbeard grunts and draws back. "Good. Didn't want to cut off your fucking hand."

Lucius drawls, "I'm touched."

Or: Lucius survives. For better or for worse

(It's really good and well written, sometimes a bit too violent for my taste, but that's a me problem, overall it's a fun read and I really like how this writer explores the characters in these situations, although it does deviate a little from the comedic nature of the show. veeeeery angsty)

=> teeth marks - by morian (M, 11K)

This one is the continuation from the previous one, again, they are better read one after the other

Edward is pushed unceremoniously into a small, dark room and lands on his knees, then his hands. He stares down at the floorboards and the door falls shut behind him with a heavy thud.

"Oh, hell," says a familiar voice like a gut punch. "I was really hoping for a nicer reunion than this."

(Reaaally good reunion fic, don't think the summary helps a lot, so basically: Ed gets shot by the spanish navy and is taken prisioner, the thing is, Stede was taken as well and they get stuck in the same cell. It's very angsty, just like the other one. I really like the way this author writes dialogue and the way that they make the characters sort out their issues, also I have a soft spot for hurt/comfort, so this is right up my alley.)

=> Wayfaring - by Justkeeptrekkin (E, 34K)

The downside to being stuck on a desert island is that Stede's not awfully good at adapting. The upside is that he and Ed can finally have some peace and quiet– that is, if Ed ever wakes up from the gunshot wound in his stomach.

Stranded in the middle of who-knows-where, Stede learns the art of reflection and how to embrace the man who looks back.

(A bit angsty sometimes, but mostly fluff, and a shit ton of fluff at that. Really fun, especially at the start. U know when you just want to put two characters in a box and see what happens? This fic is literally it, plus what would happen if the firing squad ended up shooting Ed)

=> damn your love, damn your lies - by ObssessedWithFandom (Teen and Up, 7K)

What if Badminton pulled the trigger?

(A LOT of hurt/comfort, also has Ed and Mary meeting so that's fun. Not necessarily my favorite, more of a honorable mention really, it's short but sweet)

=> Aftercare - by perkynurples (E, 173K, WIP but nearing the end)

In the aftermath of some life-altering decisions on both sides, Edward and Stede navigate reuniting, learning what it is that they really want and how to ask for it, as well as surviving in a world that is nowhere near ready to just let them rest. Or, finding their way back to each other is only the very beginning.

(If you want an absolutely humongous fic with a lot of plot, that is IT. It's good, although I think it starts to drag a bit as you near the end, but I really love how they write the crew and some of the plot points. Also it has the lesbian pirates cottagecore style, shall I need to say more?)

So, that'it. You might have already read most of them, but in any case, here they are!

hate to be that person but... yous got any gentlebeard fic recs? Im horrible at finding them on my own and im absolutely desperate for something to sink my teeth into lol!

[mysticetus]

i made a rainer playlist last summer im trying to distract myself so ill explain why each song is on there keep in mind this playlist is almost a year old😁

obviously this is track one. have you listened to duck or ape? you should listen to duck or ape if you havent listened to duck or ape. if i had to choose one song to assign to rainer hammond it would be this one. disgustingly beautiful somg exploring rebirth and apathy surrounding death

this song takes me to a whole nother space. unfortunately ive since listened to woof woof to the point where its ingrained into me, for good reason because this album is part of my soul, but when i first heard sweet memory it stayed with me and comforted me for weeks. i love how the vocals seem hesitant yet speak in sentences that undulate and drone and preach about god and ghosts and rigid creeds.

plenty of songs off this album remind me of rainer because of its talk of ghosts and general paranoia and desperation but the way this songs chorus sounds like a tearful plea is so gorgeous. it scans and searches through several images before concluding the source of the disturbance is oneself.

not much to say other than the chorus of this song is really good. pastor answer me a question can i destroy heaven if im still alive

another song that sounds beautiful and desperate. other than the obvious title connotations its a declaration of control in a life deprived it. i’ll flip the system i’ll make it mine, this is a gift

did you know tony follows of montreal? it checks to me. i really, really love the lyrics of of montreal. and how their songs are so gorgeous. im saying that about a lot of songs on this playlist. ive got such a hunger for the obvious!!

another one ingrained into my soul. every single lyric of this song is part of me. but its also part of rainer. manic narcissism paired with self hatred and suicidality

i dunno man i learned lucas lex sampled petscop in one of the songs off this album and then i listened to the rest of it and it scratched the itch of needing excessively loud music. im kinda just lukewarm on their music now but this song has really lovely noise. the album cover is a reference to petscop too :(...

oh jesus christ. okay listen. i cannot tell you why i am still able to listen to this song, because i had a jack conte phase when i was in 8th grade (8th grade!) and it was one of the worst periods of my life. this song in particular, for some reason, i keep gravitating back to. extremely potent lyrics about suicide from an outside perspective paired with absolutely miserable noise.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! jesus fucking christ okay i mean yes this song is rainer hammond for sure 100%. i agree. its just the meaning of this song has shifted extremely, for me, in the past half year or so. ultimately i am glad to assign it to rainer because the visceral feeling is still there. im gonna make you feel just like they felt. it makes me want to shake with rage and cry and gives me comfort this anthem of hatred for people who arent human

[mwolf0epsilon]

“Eps’s Notes on The Illusion of Living”

It's taken me nearly three months to get this done due to writer’s block kicking my sorry butt. But, as promised, here are my notes on the "Illusion of Living". Good god has this been painful… But I did have a lot of stuff I initially thought of Joey somewhat confirmed for me, and got a few extra interesting tidbits of info that I feel are very curious...

--{Key}--

Italics are my opinion

--{Key}--

--{Quick retelling of the book’s contents}--

    The Drews were among the more impoverished families in New Jersey, and Joey's father briefly worked in the silk industry to make end's meet before opening his own shoe store (that his mother oversaw profits for as the accountant). As such there were obvious limitations to a lot of Joey’s upbringing (like a lack of toys to entertain him with, and very few family vacations/trips that were memorable).

According to Joey, the shoes sold at his family’s store were primarily designed for people in the working class (clunky shoes and boots that would endure wear and tear rather than be flashy or comfortable to wear, which Joey complained never really fit him right), and had one singular design that was simply improved upon rather than any variety (I suppose the saying here would be “don’t fix it if it ain’t broke” but Joey really seemed to have some sort of issue with this, as he disliked his father’s works).

    Joey's mother was a hardworking housewife and the primary parent when it came to rearing her child. She educated and played with him more than his father, so Joey was much fonder and emotionally close to her than to him and, while Joey’s father wasn’t an absent parent by any means, he was definitely more engrossed in working to sustain the family.

This family dynamic definitely had some impact on Joey, especially since his mother got him interested in the art of storytelling in general, and he seemed to have a lot more respect for her than for his father. In fact he even had a few reservations regarding his father’s mental integrity when he discovered his talent for making voices in a rather odd manner.

It should be noted here that, while Joey's father was strong, he looked deceptively frail and wasn't considered a particularly brave man by any means. He was however regarded as a bit of an entrepreneur, and Joey was very concerned that he may not be sane (which was a bit of taboo at the time, considering treatment for mental health issues hadn’t advanced past lobotomies and other disturbing medical malpractices) because he talked and sang to himself in curious little voices while he worked. Curiously enough, while a patient and loving man, Joey's father wasn't aversed to cursing around his young son (although Joey himself doesn't seem to use crass language, even if it was normalized in the household). Another curious thing to note is that Joey greatly dislikes mud, and especially hated it as a child (alluding to his later obsessive cleanliness as an adult).

    Because of the financial issues his family suffered through, Joey didn't have a radio or many books growing up, and was thus more fond of Vaudevilles (specifically theatrical comedy, tragedy, and bizarre/surreal acts) which were pretty common in his city of birth. This interest for theatrics and third person story perspectives mixed terribly with later events in his life, like how at age 10 he witnessed a potential murder/suicide (Jesus christ...). Through this event he realized that there were different kinds of people in specific situations, especially when faced with the finality of death. Joey goes so far as to describe how theatrical the death was (Almost sounding disconnected from the reality of the situation as he noted that the crowd and even his own father seemed more like characters to him than real people). However, since Joey's neighborhood was ripe with strange people, he wasn't unfamiliar with bizarre events happening around him. Seeing a motorized ambulance was more amazing to a 10 year old him than actually caring for the death of a stranger at the front of his father's store.

    At age 12, Joey went to Coney Island for the first time, and the journey excited him greatly since he didn't get to leave home very often. The trip to Coney Island was magical in a sense, and later in life he hoped to replicate it in Bendyland to a more permanent degree (the trip back home ruptured the magical effect, which he didn't want to happen with Bendyland).

Joey has his own set of rules he plays by which he considers his life’s philosophy that he calls "The Illusion of Living". This was inspired by several events in his life, including his father passing the time by playing make believe (the Shoemaker and the Elves). This unique perception of what illusion and reality are (���the same thing”), seems to point to Joey having developed a dissociative personality disorder from a young age, which got progressively worse as he grew older. This in addition with the ADHD patterns he displays in his confusing rambling writing (and Joey rambles a LOT), and the almost OCD behaviour in regards to cleaning up after himself, indicates Joey lacked impulse control and was more prone to listening to intrusive thoughts.

Joey's view of reality was often confusing to others and he greatly enjoyed poking fun out of slowly getting them to his point of view. Conversations with Joey were thus quite frustrating to some, but no less curious to others that actually tried to understand what the “Illusion of Living” was about (Like Nathan). According to Joey, only a few people ever got close to understanding it.

    Joey enlisted to fight in the first war after he lied about his age (He was 15 years old, a year younger than the required age to enlist at the time). Out of all the positions in the army, he seemed most interested in comms, and considered himself more decent in communicating than actually fighting in the front lines.

It seems like Joey greatly enjoyed how he looked in uniform, and was also particularly finicky about his looks in general despite being in boot camp.

He made friends in the army, Private Donaldson and Private Eckhart, which Nathan (who worked at the tech lab that Joey later worked for) attests to being accurately described in the book. They were slightly older than Joey and were also interested in communication tech and shared his sense of humor. They also influenced Joey's social life, and tried to get him to date some gals that he wasn’t remotely interested in (the first indication that he may not be straight).

    Another close friend Joey had in the army was Lottie (a communications officer) and he used to "chaperone" her whenever the four went out to party. He seemed to have a considerable amount of respect for her (which is likely a result of growing up observing his mother, thus understanding that women were competent in positions where other men would scoff at the idea of them working at all). As such he was quite supportive of the War's “Hello Girls” (comms female officers). Interestingly enough this contradicts Joey's sexist persona that he seems to take on in Dream Come to Life (a mask that seems to be among many others he employs to fit in with the rest of society).

Lottie was his special gal pal in the platonic sense and, while he often ate alone to be left with his thoughts, she usually sought him out to talk to.

Joey only ever empathized with people he was close to, often reserving telling stories to comfort his friends specifically. It was the only way he could brighten their day (which later supposedly helped a disillusioned Lottie when she was sent to serve in London). What one could take away from Joey’s days as a soldier was that he was incredibly perceptive in terms of studying people. He easily recognized people’s handwriting, and was greatly fascinated by others’s personalities.

He could also easily charm people just from reading into what they might be interested in, and liked the thought of subliminally impressing others (which he later incorporated into his cartoons). It’s never mentioned, but Joey was likely honorably discharged since the war ended in 1918 and didn’t need to return to the service of the military when the second world war hit (keeping in mind Joey appears to have mobility issues later in life, he might have not been fit for field duty).

    At age 19 Joey ended up involved in investigating the murder case of Walter Richmond, a signal corps soldier Joey met briefly in his service days. The victim in question was responsible for documenting the war efforts, not being necessarily that great of a photographer, but taking a certain amount of pleasure in capturing the most viscerally gruesome pictures possible for shock value. How Joey got involved was a curious thing in of itself, since he didn’t know the victim all that well, nor cared to get to know him. Detective Adam Sinclair (a tall hulking man wearing the typical trenchcoat and fedora combo, who’s most noticeable features were his aged face and unshaven 5’o’clock shadow) tracked him down to his little minimalistic (and obsessively clean and tidy) apartment to question him. Joey was initially unsurprised that an ex-soldier ended up dead (not from the war, but likely ptsd), and was instead surprised that it was a murder case. He ended up inserting himself into the case as Sinclair’s shadow to help solve it. The reason was mostly out of self-interest, but his perspective did seem useful to the detective in the end. Throughout the investigation Joey displayed a few particular traits that indicate his attentive and peculiar nature, such as the way he reads others (their way of dressing and upkeep of posture), the manner of which he judges a good handshake, his distaste for smoking (which was taught to him via the idea that if something smells bad it’s usually bad for you) and drinking (he tries to be careful with alcohol intake in general, as he’s more accustomed to beer than drinks like champagne which one could over-indulge recklessly without noticing). Joey’s fascination for taboo subjects (war, violence, and death specifically) is also noted when he observes the victim’s photographic works.

This is a prevalent theme in an art gallery event where these particular subjects seemed to linger strongly in his mind, to the point where he noticed when one of the photos he recalls having seen before during his brief meeting with Richmond, appeared to be missing from the display. A detail that appeared to be dismissed by others, but of great interest to Sinclair.

    During this same gallery event, there was an incident set up by the murderer that involved a firecracker and a crowbar that set off a lot of panic. Joey’s work at the signal corps labs saved him from the brutality of the trenches, but he's apparently familiar with the effects of severe PTSD (And ironically notes that reliving the same painful event over and over again is his definition of true horror/personal hell).

It became very apparent to both Joey and Sinclair that the murderer was amongst them, and that this onslaught of panic was a message: That the murder of the frontline photographer was personal.

They did in fact come into contact with the perpetrator and, after a while of radio silence between Joey and Sinclair, the case was solved with...Minimal success. While Sinclair knew who killed Walter Richmond, he unfortunatelly did not have enough proof to convict her (the sister of a casualty of war that could have easily been saved, had Richmond not left him for dead because it fit his narrative of the war just fine), thus allowing her to get away with literal murder. Worse yet, the resolution of the case seemed to further disconnect Joey from reality and consequence. He gained a disdain for Adam Sinclair where once he’d respected him as an authority figure of sorts, finding that he’d accomplished his role and still failed miserably. In the end, the only thing to come out of teaming up with Sinclair was learning a social skill that Joey employed later on, by mirroring back certain aspects of a person so they’d be more comfortable around him. Otherwise the detective became nothing more than a distant memory. Unimportant in Joey’s later narrative.

    Two years later, Joey started working for a bookstore where he began satiating his vast hunger for knowledge, now that he had access to all sorts of books he could never afford as a child. Joey is fairly well read with an interest in various genres, although it was previously noted that during his army service people made fun of him for especially liking fictional novels. Joey being Joey however, wasn’t overly fussed about others’s opinions on what he sought enjoyment from, especially when it came to storytelling. Aside from getting his reading quota filled out, his bookstore job also helped him develop his salesperson skills through reading his customers. Through his experiences with his father’s shop and shadowing Sinclair, he had by now understood that people were highly superficial, and that he could apply whatever knowledge he gathered from them into how he sold his pitch to them. His charisma seemed to lure in customers.

    While working at the store he met Abby Lambert who he immediately noticed had an eye for art. Joey quickly became friends with her and seemed to greatly appreciate her no-nonsense attitude towards life in general, going so far as to respect her capabilities as a working lady where other men would be disdained with her difficult attitude. In fact, he wondered why anyone wouldn’t hire her to do a job she could clearly handle, just because she was a woman (again contradicting his sexist persona). As a connoisseur of the arts, Abby was the one to fully introduce Joey to her favourite craft. He especially took an interest in Impressionism and its influences.

Abby also supposedly introduced Henry to Joey, which the latter insists wasn’t really that remarkable of an event since Henry was “unimaginative” and “lacking in talent” due to his specialty in cartoon caricatures, and not the richer awe inspiring paintings Joey seemed to prefer (basically Joey spends any given time in the book trying to make Henry seem as insignificant as possible out of pure unadulterated pettiness, which physically pains me).

Ironically, in terms of entertainment, Joey later favoured cartoons as the more appealing form of films since most other mediums didn’t really spark his interest, even if the genres were ones he found fascinating (I suppose that despite films being works of fiction most times, Joey likely thought real life actors were far too limited in their acts due to the natural limitations of the human body).

Returning to Abby, her friendship seemed to be more impactful to Joey than most others. Like with how he preferred his mother’s company to his father’s, Abby seemed to be one of few people he actually felt comfortable around, to the point where her criticism didn’t bother him. She was also mindful of him, where she could recognize Joey’s “preferences” and made it a point to clarify to him that their outings were purely platonic so he wouldn’t get uncomfortable in those situations.

    Three years after meeting Abby and Henry, Joey became a manager at the bookstore and Henry began working there as well (by Joey’s suggestion it seems), and only then did they sort of start developing a meek little friendship of sorts (although Joey seems very dismissive about it and focuses primarily on Abby).

During that time, the idea to start his own business came about from two different events that happened that year. The first being his first ever theatrical script that he wrote and performed with Abby at a gallery event. During the performance of this little play (the theme of which was an angel and a demon discussing their role in influencing a mortal’s life), Joey discovered that he greatly enjoyed controlling situations and got way too into it (even considers what he could get away with in the name of entertainment, such as if he could act out actual violent or scandalous behaviours if he proclaimed it a part of the show).

The second event was his father sending him shoes once a year (which, because Joey disliked the make of his father’s shoes, he tried to get him to stop by pretending they weren’t arriving at his address or that they were getting stolen). As a means to ensure he got them, Joey's father started sending the packages to the bookstore. A doodle and writing on the package ended up inspiring Joey to create his own studio as he wanted to take flight in the entertainment industry.

    Having thus decided that he wanted to open up a film studio of some kind, Joey immediately set off to get himself a memorable mascot. He had a vague idea of what he needed and what might be appealing to an audience, but he wasn’t particularly skilled in character design and openly admitted to this. Abby, who was also not particularly good at drawing cartoons, understood that her more realistic style wouldn’t really help (or appeal to) Joey, so she enlisted Henry’s help. Knowing that Joey was a bit picky in regards to how he evaluated art, she thought perhaps she could persuade him to take a liking to Henry’s works (which he wasn’t particularly fond of, due to Henry mostly working with pen-drawings of cartoon characters and caricatures that looked very unremarkable to him) if he could only see him actually work his “magic”. Joey was reluctant to bring Henry into his business plan, but upon actually reaching a design within a few minutes (that took a few tries experimenting with animal and human features in more detailed and then simplified ways) of Joey giving some directions, he seemed to be sold on bringing Henry on board.

Henry designing the company mascot was thus the final push to open up Joey Drew Studios.

The two began their partnership not too long after, and from then on out things got interesting very quickly.

    The history behind the studio is...Not an easy one to validate in terms of whether or not Joey is sincere or even really knows certain dates (the more I look into the beginning of the book and the later exposition of information, the more I realized either Joey was starting to trip himself up on dates or his memory was visibly failing him). There are a lot of discrepancies in the dates provided, with some going back on how long Henry remained in the studio (even claiming to have at some point surrounded him with other animators and even a lead artist a year prior to his departure), when Sammy and Jack were hired (He says he hired Sammy in 1929 during the Wallstreet Crash, but later says he hired both him and Jack after the Wallstreet Crash), among other things... Joey Drew Studios was primarily funded by Mrs. Richmond (the mother of Walter Richmond), as Joey had forged friendships with the people involved in the case he’d helped Sinclair investigate (including the murderer whom he had grown to respect).

While other investors aren’t really brought up, it’s implied Nathan also had a hand in helping the studio taking off, as Joey often met up with him at the Russian Tearoom whenever he could. During these private meetings, Nathan would impart advice on Joey. Advice which he seemed to not care for, as he already had his own concerns at the time.

It seemed that his main plan was to acquire a talented and capable team to achieve his dream. A team Joey thought he wouldn’t need to "baby-sit", as he specifically wanted to hire individuals that were as studious and capable as he saw himself (curiously Joey mentions that Henry’s work ethic was exactly what he wanted, as Henry had never held work back or needed to be checked up on, which to Joey was an invaluable attribute).

For at least two years, the Bendy Cartoons were nothing but silence and sound effects (something we actually see in-game in BatIM Chapter One when the projector suddenly turns on and we hear nothing but the clicking of the projector and Joey’s whistling), which put them at a bit of a disadvantage when it came to competing with other animation studios.

This soon changed when Joey came across Sammy Lawrence and Jack Fain at a party he was attending on his 30th birthday (which he wasn’t celebrating, the party was a completely different event so supposedly Joey doesn’t care much for his own birthday).

He was already familiar with Sammy’s musical skills (mostly playing the piano quite masterfully), as he’d seen him perform at the theater when Sammy was still a teenager. Noticing him and Jack at the party was entirely accidental and was mostly due to the fact that, while Sammy was trying to keep out of the spotlight as he played, Jack’s showmanship shone through and caught Joey’s eye with how boisterous he was in their musical performance.

Joey approached them once their act was done and managed to convince them to work for him. Jack seemed to be immediately on board, while Sammy was a little more guarded in his agreement and immediately set up his stipulations for the job. This seemed to lean Joey’s interest towards Sammy (who Joey was unhealthily fascinated with because he was clearly not an easy man to control) more than Jack (who he likely considered too easy a read in terms of character, thus not much of a challenge to sway or condition).

     By 1933 Joey officially bought the entire building the studio was set up in (which up until then was occupied by other people seeking their own ventures). Expansion and new hires likely started a year or so later and continued on despite financial instability, and between 1941 and 1942 Joey was already starting to work out how he’d get Bendyland to be just as perfect and spectacular as he had always envisioned (which was difficult because he never really got it to feel just right in his eyes, and something felt off to him).

In between listing several different projects, vaguely describing an innovative techniques (Sillyvision which seems to be linked with the Golden Ink?), and even setting up his own 7 rules on how to animate to help set up a guide for aspiring animators, Joey slowly drifts away from the studio topic and finalizes his book rather abruptly.

He insinuates there’s a lot more for him to tell but little to no connection with the “Illusion of Living” philosophy and he’d rather focus on his actual physical work with the Studio than sit down and write further, so he finishes off on a rather...Vague note.

--{On Joey Drew}--

Year of Birth - 1901 (Day and month are never mentioned, but it's possible that his favouring of the autumnal season alludes to a fall month) Year of Death - ??? (Supposedly he's died, hence why Nathan claimed the Bendy IP) Birth City: Born and raised in Paterson "Silk City", New Jersey (Joey doesn't seem to have an accent, so he likely masks it, or made an effort to lose it). Physical Characteristics: As a child he used to have curly hair (Considering the era’s general fashion and style, it’s very likely that Joey either cut his hair too short to see the curls, or simply uses too much gel to seem more presentable) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Homosexual with Demiromantic subtones (Joey seems to be closed off in general, but more appreciative of the male figure. Could be interpreted as demisexual however, since Joey himself doesn't seem to like wasting time around people he doesn't have much of a bond with) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Joey and his opinions on certain things and people. There’s a lot to look at as this man rambles like an old lady at a friday night bingo event, and thus I had a lot to take in!

Laughter is important to him.

Seems to be a dog person.

Likes Cheerios (yes this was a super necessary detail I had to jot down).

Considers having his ideas disclosed without permission to be disloyal.

Seems to have some sort of dissociative personality disorder (likely brought on by trauma or another undiagnosed mental disorder).

People-Watcher by nature.

Was taught by his father that the shoe makes the man (aka the art of studying people through their shoes).

Joey believes in the saying "The Truth is in the Pudding", a saying his mother often employed.

Never had enough money to own a pair of nice fitting shoes until he was 26.

Is narcissistically vain. Easily takes insult if people assume he can't look presentable.

His service in the army gave him experience with "experimental tech".

Enjoys music a lot, and he was considered a great dancer.

Finds modern feminine fashion standards appealing.

Disliked the way those with money romanticized lacking material gains. Found it personally disrespectful in a way, since he himself came from a poor family.

Seems appalled by too much color on one's wear (Joey is the goddamn fashion police).

Very picky about the arts.

Apparently disliked Henry's art style(???).

Lets people believe Henry is the creator of the toons, in an act of being holier than thou. (You lying son of a gun, stop lying to everyone and yourself whaddahell).

Joey's analogy of Henry starting a journey but Joey being the one to reap the benefits, is likely the truest thing he's said in this nightmare of a novel (boastful bastard...).

Thinks of Bendy as his firstborn, muse and messenger.

Took an art class with Abby (likely not a full art course, just a simple class to get the gist of it?).

Considers art the doorway to immortality.

Doesn't like post-mortem success (it frightens him, even). He'd rather be successful in his lifetime.

Admits to making mistakes, but not many. He also thinks mistakes don't need to be permanent.

Doesn't know what true rest is like, and is unsure if he'll ever be content enough to rest. On that same note he seems to really hate sitting still and his mind tends to wander, which he notes Nathan recognized with ease, even reserving a specific look for him (It’s the ADHD baby).

His friend Kyle was a lazy person and a gossip, which were traits Joey found annoying.

On their first meeting, Joey described having a desire to shove Sammy off a roof to see a more human reaction from him.

Assumes Jack is jealous of the attention he gives Sammy, or that the duo's relationship is strained, despite him barging into their lives out of the blue and making him feel like a third wheel.

Seems to think of himself as some sort of a messenger (going so far as to akin himself to the god, Mercury). His life’s mission is to help those who don't know they need to be helped (mostly through spreading happiness and laughter in such a dark and dreary era of human history). Bendyland is essentially Joey's means to fulfil this desire, as well as to chase his own need for a properly realized mixture of immersion and illusion.

He wanted Bendyland to be perfect, even the plot of land it might be built in needed to be perfect, so he inspected it himself with Nathan once he bought the deed.

Appears to refuse to call Bertrum by his proper name once he’s corrected the first time. Referring to him instead as either Bertie or Bert (toying with him perhaps? Testing boundaries?)

Doesn't drive. He instead hired a personal driver, Simmons.

For a little while he was living the American Dream, but thought of how he lived as less of a shared goal and more of a personal one (again setting himself apart from others).

His days were quite flexible and he seemed to despise set routines. He also doesn't like sleeping in. He liked to take a walk in central park early in the morning.

Joey used to make his rounds around the studio but the installation of the Ink Machine changed that habit a bit.

Nonchalantly notes that Shawn Flynn got a little defensive if he needed to be corrected on his work (OCD much, Joey? He was painting a lot of dolls by hand, slipups happen...).

He had priority meetings with Sammy, "meetings" with Jack (Sir what are these quotation marks for, are you snogging Jack while no one’s watching???), then met with the art department preceding the writing department, and finally he met with Grant Cohen in accounting to discuss finances and budget.

He had the final say in ALL paperwork regarding studio affairs.

Upon reading about it, found the concept of bringing in real animals to produce Disney's Bambi as funny, and joked about how trying to do so with Bendy and Boris would be chaotic.

Noted that Abby and Sammy were likely the only two people who closely understand the philosophy of the illusion of living, but not quite…

Was terrified of being misunderstood. Joey didn’t want to only be able to show half-truths, like a mirror reflecting the world darkly. Rather ironic considering he was quite deceitful in his adult life.

His desire for the world to love Bendy seems to be a projection of wanting to feel loved himself (quite honestly if one were to apply the theory of the id, ego and superego, it seems to me that Bendy is essentially Joey’s id, while Joey himself could be considered the Superego. The chameleonic social mask he wears is thus the ego. At the end of the day Bendy and Joey are and aren’t the same entity...).

Originally he didn't want to make a memoir (likely because he can't be direct and needs to work around the truth to fit him). It could also be that Joey didn’t want to linger on the past nor in death. He wasn't sure where it fit with his philosophy and thus tried not to explore too deep into it (existential dread?).

He wore custom tailored suits, and as of beginning writing TioL he had recently taken to wearing cravats (ever the vain man I suppose…).

Despite considering revisiting the past unnecessary, he couldn’t deny doing so if the time called for it. In fact, the Archives are Joey's memories of the past and he's sentimental enough to collect mementos of bygone eras.

Joey has trophies at home, the deeply personal things he couldn’t bare part with. Like the first sketch of Bendy, a napkin with the design of Bendyland, a letter from Henry, a ticket from a Vaudeville show, and his set of shoes he wore when he was surveying the plot of land where he planned to build Bendyland.

--{On Bendy}--

Notes: Here are a few notes I’ve compiled about the Little Devil Darling himself, and a few curiosities about his creation and the inspiration behind his character.

Bendy was officially created in 1928. According to Joey he was born of a dream, supposedly out of necessity, and he always had this idea of a little devil character doing mischief.

Bendy started off as a realistic little boy with a tail and horns (Abby’s attempt to bring to life Joey’s vague idea). Then, when Henry got involved, he became a cartoonish goat creature. The concepts were quickly worked out from a toony clothed amalgamation of both previous concepts, to a more intermediate design more closely resembling Bendy, and then finally, after Joey requested a simpler more shapely and less detailed toon, Bendy became the iconic  little imp clad in only gloves and bowtie.

Joey named him upon seeing the completed design. There are two origins for his name: That of Walter Benjamin Richmond, who’s nickname in life was “Bendy” (a rather morbid homage considering what happened to him), and the mere fact that in Joey’s eyes, his little cartoon imp “bent all the rules”. Henry seemed to appreciate the name.

Bendy is meant to be the devil on one’s shoulders, much like the devil in Joey’s first theatrical play. He is however, a lot more like a little kid playing pranks on people. He is also a sort of embodiment of both the population and human morality (society at its most flawed point, but also quite relatable).

Buster Keaton was an inspiration for Bendy’s many shenanigans and movements, which were always meant to be fluid and a bit bouncy.

--{On Henry Stein}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Henry is, but I assume he’s around the same age group as Abby, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that he’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - 1963 (It’s not really confirmed if Henry died when he was put into the Cycle, as he doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about himself, but it’s safe to assume the process very likely involves human sacrifice). Birth City: ??? (Unknown, it could be that he was born and raised in New York but Henry lacks a noticeable accent) Physical Characteristics: Average looking? (Irrelevant, he could honestly look like anyone really...) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Presumably Heterosexual (He’s a married man in the 1930s-1960s, he’s either straight or hiding his sexuality, he seems to really like Linda however so could go either way really...) Notes: Here the few notes I could gather of the Henry info we got from TioL. It’s not much but its at least something to work with!

Henry is unremarkable appearance wise (to the point Joey forgot his face easily at first).

The way Henry dressed (mismatched and ill-fitted) indicates he likely grew up in poverty and likely only had hand-me-downs.

He mostly worked with pen-drawn cartoon character designs that were unremarkable but distinctly caricature-like (the Butcher Gang concepts were likely displayed in the gallery Joey attended, as noted by a comment he makes about them). Even if Joey apparently didn’t particularly like his style, Henry’s artwork was one of the final inspirations for the creation of Joey Drew Studios.

He is described as able to draw quite fast, great at taking directions, and as being a good animator. Overall Henry never really had any real need for someone to keep an eye on him which made him an exemplary worker.

According to Joey, Henry used to give pep-talks before he left the studio. This seemed to annoy Joey considerably for some reason (perhaps he was envious that Henry was generally a more likeable person).

Henry is remembered as forgettable, whereas Joey is flashier and more memorable.

Interestingly enough, Henry never claimed to own the design of Bendy, and was more interested in being business partners with Joey than starting a fuss about who owned the rights to Bendy’s creation (It’s very likely that he willingly gave Joey the design because Bendy was his character, and that instead the designs Joey did steal were that of Boris the Wolf, Alice Angel, and the Butcher Gang, the five other more notorious characters in the Bendy franchise).

--{On Abby Lambert}--

Year of Birth - ??? (It’s never mentioned how old Abby is, but I assume she’s around the same age group as Henry, since they were friends and likely went to the same art course. It’s likely that she’s younger than Joey, but not likely by much.) Year of Death - Possibly 1946 (Upon finally losing himself to the ink, Sammy seemed to have been actively hunting the Art Department and any stragglers that he encountered in the studio, so it can be assumed she died in the chaos) Birth City: ??? (Unknown but more likely to be born and raised in New York than Henry) Physical Characteristics: Frizzy hair, even when bobbed. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Bisexual (She seemed to be acutely aware of Joey’s “peculiarities” so it’s possible she’s either a member of the LGBTQ community or perhaps an ally. Whatever the case it’s up for debate and interpretation.) Notes: Here are several notes I’ve compiled about Abby and some of her traits and mannerisms. There was surprisingly a lot more to work with than I expected.

She wasn’t really into the typical female fashion of the time. In fact, Abby wasn’t exactly fond of the typical mannerisms associated with women and was both notoriously rude and dressed herself in a “scandalously” modern manner (which is basically code for more practical less femenine clothing).

According to Joey, Abby is a very focused and determined person, which is why he admired her greatly. She didn’t know when to quit, however, and sometimes took things too far or involved others in situations or projects they didn’t want to be involved in.

She wasn’t very good at drawing original cartoon characters, and Joey was apparently not overly fond of her attempts at putting his ideas to paper due to her more realistic art style.

Abby was very insistent on Joey looking at Henry's works, even if he wasn't particularly interested in them (While it’s never said if she enjoys his art herself, it can be assumed she appreciates it enough that she’d want their mutual friend to see the potential Henry had).

She didn’t join the studio as the replacement Director of the Art Department until 1931, as during its founding she was still finishing art school. She and Henry never worked together. Despite this, she and Henry remained in touch even after he left for Pasadena.

--{On Sammy Lawrence}--

Year of Birth - ??? (From how Joey describes him, it can be assume Sammy was a teenager around either Joey’s early or late 20s before they officially met on Joey’s 30th birthday) Year of Death - 1946? (Sammy is one of few people who was turned without being killed first so it’s hard to tell if he’s really dead even within the Cycle since it’s a time loop...) Birth City: ??? (Sammy lacks a noticeable accent so it’s hard to tell where he’s from). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as bird-like and insect-like, with either brown or blond hair that’s kept longer than the typical fashion of the time (Not much more is known about his actual appearance but it can be assumed he’s either average sized or on the tall side considering his in-game height and build) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Biromantic with a lot of Demiromantic subtones. Possibly Asexual? (Again this is pure speculation on my part because he did seem interested in Susie but isn’t really a people person in general. Does seem to know how to reign in people tho, so ???) Notes: Here are a few curious notes I’ve compiled about Sammy, the circumstances behind his hiring, and how much control he actually had as the music director.

He has an unusual appearance that, while not necessarily described as ugly, was clearly outstanding enough that some people were put off (Buddy) and others thought him handsome (Susie). His hair is also described as messy.

Sammy is an avid smoker.

He was among a few other musicians employed by the theater to drown out projector sounds and match the mood in silent films. Because he was good at improvising music on the spot, Sammy was excellent at carrying the story presented on screen through his melodies, which was what caught Joey’s eye when he first saw Sammy perform.

Sammy also recognized Joey and didn’t believe his dismissal that he was a “town person”. In fact, Sammy pinpointed the recognition to the fact Joey was that one loner that sat in the front row of the theater he played at.

It becomes very apparent that Sammy is suspicious of people in general. The way he observes others indicates he’s had some sort of struggle growing up. As such, he’s not big on sustaining conversations and he managed to aggravate Joey slightly by the way he addressed him on their first proper meeting.

Sammy had a songbook he shared with Jack, meaning they had a strong trust bond, which is why he only agrees to work for Joey based on Jack’s willingness to also be hired. Even so, he immediately set up professional boundaries for his position. He hired his own people without Joey’s interference, and he only ever indulged him if Joey was being particularly exasperating.

It’s very likely that since Sammy was the one hiring who worked for the music department, that he was the one who hired Norman Polk. This theory is made stronger by the fact he immediately demanded a projector and projectionist booth so he could better do his job.

Despite his surly disposition, Sammy is a no nonsense sort who wants things done and over with, rather than sit around and stall. As such Joey considered him one of the best decisions he made in terms of career.

Funnily enough, because the band seemed to be skittish around Joey, Sammy specifically prohibited his presence in the music department unless they had a scheduled meeting. This likely meant Joey was scarcely ever seen in the music department so as to not aggravate Sammy in person.

Alice Angel’s bigger (and failed) presence in the franchise is likely a consequence of another one of Sammy’s stipulations upon being hired. He had immediately noted that if the studio wanted to go anywhere, they’d need a female character (Perhaps Sammy really believed what he told Susie due to despising Bendy and actually favouring Alice as a character).

--{On Jack Fain}--

Year of Birth - ??? (Possibly around the same age as Sammy or a little older?) Year of Death - ??? (He was gone long before a few other people in the studio, likely in the first few experiments Joey performed) Birth City: ??? (Hard to tell, he doesn’t have an easily identifiable accent). Physical Characteristics: Has been described as an atrocious dresser (This man likes wearing bright colors!) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Potentially Homosexual subtones (Not enough information provided to tell) Notes: Sadly lacking in the information department for Jack.

Jack is incredibly sociable and trusts easily. He's described as making bad jokes but laughing genuinely at them. His smiles are contagious.

Jack is an optimist sort who sees the good in any situation (even when being led around in a dark creepy room by a peculiar stranger).

--{On Bertrum Piedmont}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was retired, so it’s likely he was around his 60s or early 70s when Joey first met him) Year of Death - ??? (It’s unknown when exactly he ended up in the Ink Machine but it’s very possible he was killed when all hell broke loose in the studio) Birth City: ??? (No clue). Physical Characteristics: Joey describes him (rather rudely) as a very portly man. Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (No idea, chief...) Notes: Lacking in the information department like Jack, but what we get is a lot more substantial.

Bertrum was actually retired when Joey managed to get a hold of him. It took a bit of detective work on Mrs. Rodriguez's (Joey's secretary) part to actually find him as well, so he was not an easy man to get an appointment with.

His creative vision impressed Joey enough that the latter he ignored his apparent dislike for reminiscing so as to get him on board of the Bendyland project.

While discussing the Bendyland Project, Bertrum confidently jokes about it being quite the catch. He agrees to joining forces with Joey as long as he gets full creative control of the entire project. Although Joey agreed to this, he still managed to fight Bertrum on a few ideas, which annoyed him greatly.

It’s very likely that it didn’t take long for their initially friendly relationship to sour into open hostility on Bertrum’s part.

--{On Wally Franks}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No clue, but he was very likely in his late teens or early adult years when he was first hired as the studio Janitor) Year of Death - Supposedly still alive (I really do hope he got outta there like the letter insinuates...) Birth City: Brooklyn, New York. Physical Characteristics: ??? (All we know is he likely wears overalls and a sport’s cap) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Possibly Heterosexual (Unless the letter is a forgery, he apparently has a wife, kids and grandkids) Notes: I’ll admit I didn’t expect to get Wally lore, but here we are!

Wally's actually quite skilled with maintenance. He can tinker with the projectors, other machinery and even plumbing. His schedule is a little off however, but Joey turns a blind eye to it because he gets the job done without question.

--{On Allison Pendle}--

Year of Birth - ??? (No idea! But she was relatively well known when she was hired!) Year of Death - ??? (She was likely lured back to the studio after everything went down but before Henry) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: She’s a beautiful tall blonde according to DCTL Sexual/Romantic Preferences: ??? (She and Thomas are married but I honestly have no clue how to feel about her, she’s a mystery to me.) Notes: Extra minimal Allison lore for your Allison Pendle lore needs.

She was a famous Broadway actress before joining the studio. Interestingly enough, Joey was the one to hire her to replace Susie, not only breaking Sammy’s stipulation on the matter but also stirring Susie into becoming resentful towards Sammy and actually trying to recover her former role at all costs (even her own life).

--{On Nathan Arch}--

Year of Birth - ??? (He was likely a little older than Joey since they were in the army at the same time but Joey lied about his age to enlist earlier) Year of Death - N/A (Still alive and kicking) Birth City: ??? Physical Characteristics: ??? (I guess Boswell Lotsabucks is sorta modeled after him so go off on that???) Sexual/Romantic Preferences: Heterosexual (He has a wife and son and doesn’t give me any other vibes besides and overall instinctual distrust) Notes: Oh boy...I do NOT trust this man...

Immediately upon beginning reading TioL you get the impression that Nathan is not only trying to appear friendly and trustworthy by referring to himself as Nate A, but also that he’s trying to cover for Joey and make him appear more personable to the reader. But to what gain exactly?

Nathan is, like Joey, very narcissistically vain, and is also writing a book of his own (an autobiography maybe?)

He’s a smoker and prefers cigars.

When Joey discusses his childhood, Nathan is unable to contradict or confirm anything as he noted that Joey was always very private about his origins.

Nathan seemed truly surprised and impressed with Joey’s ability to make up uncannily believable stories, even suspecting that his accounts of “Lottie” might have been false as he couldn’t find any of the supposed letters Joey sent her when he started working on republishing TioL (it’s likely he could see that Joey often lied to himself just as much as he lied to others).

It seemed to Nathan that Joey was rather oblivious of subtle compliments.

By the manner of which Nathan phrases it, he seems to think of Joey as a professional and kind man, capable of seeing the good in others. That said, Nathan remarks that Henry's departure was a great betrayal for his friend, and that the latter shouldn't have been so "gracious" and "forgiving" towards him…

When the studio began to struggle financially, Nathan worried that Joey might not be aware of the issue at all, or that perhaps he was lying to himself to cope. He also later notes that Joey’s memories seemed to have deteriorated in his old age. He was often mixing up information and seemed rather guilty, which Nathan considering to be very unbecoming of the man he knew Joey to be.

A lot of the deeply philosophical Joey and Nathan interactions seen in the book might actually have occured between Joey and Henry (the "I think therefore I am" conversation is an especially telling one for me), hence why Nathan doesn't recall them. It also seems more likely because they contradict the way Joey portrays Nathan, but seem to fit his portrayal of Henry better.

[jaynovz]

Dead Man in a Ditch thoughts pt2, super major spoilers

bab is so torn up about eating the horse, listen honey it’s practical -pat pat-

Guns were a mistake, just reiterating that

I really like the Selena Kyle werecat lady. She became an investigator, good for her. 

Also, the plot is thickening. Opus uniform?? Had Fetch’s address? Left him the gun?? WHAT

THE LAD FINALLY GETS TENDERLY LAID, THANK GOD. Was waiting for the comfort part of the hurt/comfort.

oh jesus. the same drink. oh FUCK. IS THIS GOING WHERE I THINK IT IS.

all the plastic surgery stuff is visceral and super disturbing

this ENTIRE scene with the succubae climbing all over Fetch and trying to sell him body parts? I love it; I’m speechless. It’s so weird and so horny like. Luke do you have something to say? (I would like to reiterate my earlier point that Fetch is an unapologetic monster fucker)

PET -screaming- JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

oh god as if things weren’t bad enough Carissa stole his gun to kill her cheating son of a bitch husband (honestly good for her, but it’s gonna get Fetch in trouble)

Aww he snuck her out of town, he’s such a good lad tho

oh no. it’s happening. OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT.

this is hurting my feelings SO MUCH. Fetch really is just a little puppy dog who wants approval huh? (pun INTENDED) 

“I was conscious of each breath. Each moment. I was fully awake for the first time in years and it was all because of Hendricks. He was magnetic. Inspiring. Terrifying. The dark thoughts that slowed down my days vanished whenever he opened his mouth” GOD HELP ME I CANNOT

This Relationship Is Extremely Unhealthy. Everytime he’s like “the slightly bemused, condescending stare of a teacher who has just heard me say something profoundly stupid” or when Hendricks insults his intelligence etc I’m like Oh God I’m Suffering. Like Fetch is SO DEVOTED/OBSESSED and he is being USED

HE CALLED HIM DARLING

Fetch gets dressed up as a furry... LUKE DO YOU NEED TO SAY SOMETHING

but like: “deep endless green” and “centuries-old, pale green eyes” and “his eyes glowed bright green” OKAY FINE WE GET IT. MENTOR FIGURE WITH COPPER HAIR AND BRIGHT GREEN EYES. TURN ON YOUR LOCATION

I fucking love Loq and Exina

God they’re talking about the Chimera and yet NO ONE SAYS ANYTHING IMPORTANT. REMIND YOU OF ANYONE

oh hey Victor is alive... uh but he’s in a Bad Way. THEY ARE MASS PRODUCING GUNS JESUS CHRIST THIS IS GOING TO SHIT

okay like, this is gearing up to rip my heart out huh? they’re together again and working together but it’s all going to crumble I can Feel It.

oh wow Fetch is getting laid Again, this time by Loq. Good for him

“Why did you let me join the Opus?” “Because you asked me” oh thanks I didn’t need my FEELINGS

Luke is singing, that... that’s a lot for me to process

I’m fucking FOAMING AT THE MOUTH:

I’m Very Sad about this dragon

mmmm they’re talking about Amari, this is upsetting

oh THE FIRES

Luke said capitalism bad, power companies evil

“Whose side do you want to be on this time?” STRAIGHT FOR THE JUGULAR

FUCK HE GOT SHOT OMG. is he about to die for real this time omgggggggggggg

Fetch can’t drive for shit b/c he’s a bisexual, sorry I just needed to get that out

okay like Everything Happens So Much. it’s literally doozy after doozy after doozy. Luke doesn’t let us rest. 

He didn't die but he abandoned him, turned against him, DESTROYED AMARI. this is the most fucking hurtful shit

Oh the lad has finally given up...

Oh No WARREN. the hits just keep on coming

This bit with Hildra is strangely sad-wholesome though

Get his ass

This book makes me feel so many things

There's a WAR of three factions on the streets of Sunder City jfc

The pay off for the unicorn horn set up was very good

there is an EXTREMELY BLACK SAILS PART AS PROMISED JESUS H CHRIST. this is the fucking jungle finale I’m... I’M SO ANGRY

The Worst Ending Au 🤝 Luke Fucking Arnold

Carissa patched him up, good payback for helping her get away with murder

He's got a real purpose now and I'm so sad but also so proud of him

Ugh sometimes progress is bad actually re: Niles company

Oh god and he's in the Amari tree. Bury me

And yep mass production of guns was a Mistake. WHAT AN ENDING

This book was A Lot. I'm just. I'm in a state.

Luke we need to have a talk

Please join me in hell everyone, we need to make so much content for this universe

[stuckonvenus]

𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 » Ellie & Becca

 Ｊｕｌｙ ３１ｓｔ， １９９８

The saying goes as such: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb... or whatever. Honestly I have only ever applied this proverb to my relationship with my sister whenever we weren’t in mortal peril. While I have plenty of friends and acquaintances who I’ve shared battlefields with (i.e. the morning after a party), that never made me any closer to them in a real crisis. I would say about seventy-five percent of the time that the blood is thicker than the water, and the remaining twenty-five percent is when the water isn’t necessarily thicker, but more pressurized. That’s the only time in our lives when we’ve ever come together as sisters.

Well, this is the twenty five percent, and never has the feeling of being sucked and trapped against a fissure at the bottom of the Challenger Deep been more realized than now. It doesn’t help that my bladder is about to implode and leak the citrus-flavored toxic waste I’ve consumed in rapid succession over the past half hour into my visceral fat and contaminate all my vital organs. 

I waddle awkwardly through the narrow doorway of Page One and slam my tiny palm onto the countertop. A bookkeeper who I can recognize as my lab partner from sophomore year chemistry pokes his nose out from the novel he’s immersed in. Moby Dick. Jesus, who reads school assigned books after graduation?

“Hey, Drew-Drew,” I greet him, a lopsided grin fitted on my lips as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and offers me a smile in return. He has a lot more charisma than I remember. I think his eyes have gotten bigger and bluer, too. It reminds me of the water’s surface I’m staring up at from the very bottom of the ocean. “Where’s Becky at?”

Drew dog-ears his page — which is kind of disgusting to me, do they not sell bookmarks in this busted ass joint? — and he points toward the graphic novel section. “Over there, we just got Spider-Man #76, she’s stocking up.”

“... Didn’t #76 come out in January? Of last year?” I ask him. He opens his mouth so he can answer but I stop him with a raised hand. “No time. You’re lookin’ good, Drew-Drew, considerably less like a delicious pepperoni pizza. Keep it up with the Oxy Pads.” I say before pushing away from the counter and venturing off to my destination.

Indeed, my older sister is crouched down and rustling with a display, slightly disgruntled by the symmetry of the copies of Spider-Man she’s stocking. I don’t really have any witty remarks as a smooth enough introduction, so I settle with, “Need help?”

She whips around and I can almost hear the crack in her spinal cord from the velocity. “Lily?” she half-whispers. I forget that I haven’t seen her since late May, and also that I swore I’d never see her again.

“In the flesh,” I confirm and do a curtsey, which threatens my full bladder. I really need to piss soon or else I’ll die a terribly death in the shittiest bookstore on the eastern seaboard. “Do you have a sec? It’s 9-1-1.”

Becca’s expression shifts from awe and minor annoyance to something resembling concern as she pushes herself off her knees. “What is it?” she asks me, crossing her arms over her chest as a last resort defense mechanism. 

I don’t hesitate to hold up the plastic Walgreens bag I’ve carted with me for two blocks. She recognizes the items inside and her eyes go all moony and her jaw slacks a bit. I jerk my brows up expectantly and she assumes the position of utter bewilderment.

“Do you have a place I can empty the biohazardous contents of my bladder? It’s about to necrotize,” I hiss at her. She reaches down, digs in her pocket, unearths a bronze key and walks ahead of me at full speed. I have to waddle after her like a newly hatched penguin chick. It would be more humiliating if over half the population of Eden were literate, but alas...

Becca jams the keys into the lock and just about bodychecks the door so we can enter the rectangular bathroom. It’s cramped and the lighting resembles something out of a Hitchcock film, but who the fuck am I to be picky about where I take the most important whizz of my life?

I place the bag on the counter and take out the three empty full-sized cans of Surge I used to fuel my bladder before picking up the grossest thing I have ever held: a pregnancy test. I keep it in my grasp for a few passing beats, nearly crushing the box underneath my iron-tight grip before man-handling it open and tearing out the plastic stick that will determine my fate.

“This is by far the most unholy fortune telling experience ever,” I decide to joke as I witness my sister cower in the corner. You’d think by the looks of it she were the one whose life was about to change forever. “You think if I shake it a genie will come out and grant me three wishes?”

“... Only if it’s negative, as a gift,” Becca chimes in at last. “Otherwise not even God can save you.”

I let out an involuntary snort, because while my reflexes register this as a funny joke, I am actually scared shitless.

I stare at the porcelain toilet bowl. I feel sicker now looking at it than when I’ve genuinely been at risk for vomiting up my lunch. I could still do that, I’ve been puking like a bulimic for weeks now. The thought is almost comforting. Almost. I bite the bullet instead and yank my pants down, my boy pants, which I normally wear as a boy when I’ve got slightly wider hips and more junk to hide and taller legs to protect with denim fabric. Fuck me.

“I just... Hold it and piss, right?” I ask her, as if she’s gone through this before. I know for a fact she hasn’t, or else this wouldn’t be our first time. I’m surprised it’s our first time, actually, thinking that karma would’ve caught up with me a long time ago. 

“Just don’t get any on your hand.” Becca replies. Very helpful, I think, but rather than respond verbally I give a sigh of defeat and do what needs to be done. When my bladder is emptied an eternity later, I pull up my oversized pants and briefly grieve my dick before I place the test on the counter.

I glance over my shoulder at Becca, “It’s seasoned. Just gotta let it marinate.”

“Gross.” she says with a scrunched up nose.

I turn around and slide down the wall, an action she mimics a couple seconds later. I stare ahead, up at the light that’s screwed into a 70s pendant-shaped fixture, and pass the silence by making them flicker. I do this as a distraction from the materializing tension between us. Normally, this doesn’t happen, but then again our peril has only involved either extreme intoxication, pedos on AOL (during high school), or something about her and Gabriel’s arguments, which felt like walking through Reactor 4 in Chernobyl.

She’s the first one to say something.

“Whose is it? ... If it’s a thing,” she wonders, and as I look over at her I notice that her eyebrows are knitted together and her mouth is fixed downward. “... Please don’t tell me Topher’s.”

I chuckle at the idea. “I think if it were a thing and Topher’s, it’d have grown like a xenomorph baby and ripped itself out of my stomach by now,” I tell her. “I’d deserve that kind of karma for getting knocked up by him.”

“Xenomorph?” she says, and I open my mouth to offer an explanation before she finishes, “Alien. Right.”

“... Yeah, exactly,” I nod along. How in the hell did she remember that? We only ever sat through Alien and Aliens once, and I could’ve sworn she was too preoccupied reading a magazine to actually notice what was happening on screen. 

I also notice that she’s wearing my favorite striped turtleneck. Stone cold bitch.

Some things never change, huh?

Shit, I think I might cry.

This is why we’re siblings, I think, so I can hate her for wearing my favorite turtleneck while sitting by her side as we await Satan’s final decision on the state of my cursed uterus.

Tears prickle my vision but I blink them away. 

“Whose is it, then?” she wonders again. I visibly tense. This is probably where our unspoken, once-in-a-blue-moon loyalties end. How do you tell your sister that her ex-boyfriend is the reason you’re sitting in the dingy bathroom of her workplace with a piss-riddled stick inches away?

In the end, I don’t have to say anything at all. We look at each other simultaneously and she reads my expression with ease. Her features soften and I can see a glint of hurt in her eyes, and I expect ripples of betrayal to make themselves known across the rest of her body soon enough. But those ripples never come. The water I thought was loosening from around me doesn’t make a goddamn move. 

I’m still at the bottom of the Deep, but she’s with me now.

Her hand grips mine. Tight. I can feel our pulses match up in our paralleling wrists.

“I think it’s been enough time.” I say eventually. She doesn’t release my hand. Our shared warmth creates a comfortable friction between us. “... Will you hate me after this?”

Becca squeezes my hand. A heart beat jumps out from her touch to mine. “I think I’ve hated you enough for one summer.”

A smile flickers on the corner of my lips and I slowly depart my hand from hers. My palm is slick with sweat but I don’t mind. I stand up and feel my equilibrium struggle to steady itself before I’m ready to approach the counter. The test is still there, so I know this wasn’t an abstract fever dream I’ve had after discovering so much eerily similar history.

I’m not a fucking coward. I’m looking this shit straight on, no matter what. Do you think I’m afraid of a sign? Totally not. I lean over and stare down, my gaze idling at the base before finally fixating on the panel.

+

Holy shitstickers.

“... Becca?” I call out, my voice half gone from unknown forces. She perks up and I see her reflection in the mirror with widened eyes. “Do you have five bucks? I’m gonna need more Surge.”

[youtuberswithalex]

hold on i found all of my old Christian music and im emotional, the nostalgia, so im just gonna do a react post--

first song was Hope is Coming by Nate Deezy and oh boy. oh boy. i met the dude and knowing how he talks and listening to his music. oh boy, he was kind of mimicking AAVE and it’s. not great to listen to now. the song is a bop music wise but. yikes

Overcomer by Mandisa. I used to BOP to this song and you know what? I still do. I saw her in concert and she was AMAZING

The The Earth Is Yours came on, which already was one of my favorites, and it was the cover by Gungor (or their original? I can’t remember) and I almost started crying because. Gungor’s music always made me feel really close to God, like He was my best friend. and now I kind of feel like I’ve lost a friend in stopping being Christian, and though I know I can still pray and stuff while still not being Like That, it just... hurts too much because it was so weaponized against me. I miss relying on Him for everything though.

Pause to get lunch

Good Morning by Mandisa and TobyMac. Hearing “top of the morning to ya” set off a visceral reaction to high five the air. also hearing them interact at the end is adorable

COME ALIVE BY CROWDER OHHH IT’S A BOP!!! 

YOUR LOVE!!! 

IS A LEMONADE

call me out by gungor?!?! how could i have forgotten this one!!!!! OH MY GOD AND I JUST REALIZED??? HOW RELEVANT THIS IS????? IF YOU TAKE OUT THE CHRISTIAN STUFF THIS IS STILL HOW I FEEL?????? CALL ME OUT WHEN I DO THINGS WRONG PLEASE

could i......... do a sanders sides animatic to this

WHITE MAN BY THE MICHAEL GUNGOR BAND. THE SAME BAND BUT A DIFFERENT NAME. THIS SONG NEEDS TO BE PLAYED TO EVERY CHRISTIAN WHITE SUPREMECIST. GOD IS NOT A MAN. GOD IS NOT A WHITE MAN. GOD IS NOT A WHITE MAN SITTING ON A CLOUD. GOD IS LOVE AND HE LOVES EVERYONE.

i just copied and pasted a link to the song on facebook jfkdlsjf pray for me (no pun intented)

Beautiful Day by Jamie Grace... I’m pretty sure I first heard this song on Veggietales? or maybe i freaked out when I saw it on Veggietales bc I already loved this song lmao. But it is still... you guessed it... a bop

i also just realized how much more diverse my music was back then versus now... out of the four artists I’ve listened to, half (if not 3 of them? i don’t remember what Gungor looks like) are POC. bruh current alex, I know all you listen to now is the RWBY soundtrack, but like. Diversify my dude

OHH HEAVEN BY GUNGOR??? THE CHILLEST CHRISTIAN SONG I ADORED

YOU ARE!!!!!!!!! CROWDER AGAIN

oh my god. oh my god jesus freak by newsboys. this song is fucking WILD to see in concert. the drummer goes up on a platform that goes sideways and starts SPINNING. while he’s going H A R D. also this song totally matches up with what i listen to now, style wise??

oh my god im getting dizzy from jamming to this one

R E S T A R T WE’RE GETTING ALL THE NEWSBOYS JAMS SUDDENLY

if anyone’s wondering what im doing as i listen to these, i’m currently checking out these artists’ twitters to see if they’re like... White Supremacist christians. Michael Gungor has made me happiest by blatantly retweeting and talking about the BLM protests, along with a tweet stating firmly that he accepts LGBTQ+ people. I knew I could trust this guy. I followed him. Crowder didn’t have anything blatantly for or against but he did make one post about not hating people using that one Dr Suess book, so like. he can slide for now but im not following him

DO LIFE BIIIIG!!!! JAMIE GRACE!!!!! THIS WAS THE ONE ON VEGGIETALES... WAS IT??? IT WAS AT THE END OF THE STAR TREK KNOCK OFF, I THINK???

OH BABY, FISHERS OF MEN BY NEWSBOYS

GO-O-O-O, GO-O-O-O-O

please be my strength by Gugnor? I don’t remember thohhhhh my heart i remember now

i used to harmonize to this all the time. it was one of the first ones i did that with :(

Steal My Show!! it’s pretty alright still. TobyMac didn’t really Get Me Worshipping like he did with a lot of other people, but I respect him at least-- wait let me check his twitter

alright i can respect him, he’s alright

Ah. Oceans by Hillsong United, AKA the song that every church-goer in 2015 hated because everyone played it every week. good reason to-- it’s really good still. are people still sick of it?? I remember holding my hands up to this a few times. and harmonizing many more

.......but oh man is it long. i do remember that now. eight minutes.......... why....... i definitely cried my eyes out and calmed down at conference one time during the length of this song

just realized that Jesus is a Friend of Mine isn’t on this playlist. Wow, Alex. Wow. What a waste of a Christian playlist.

THAT’S HOW YOU CHANGE THE WORLD

it’s so unfair that so many Christian artist put out That Kind of christian music, while Newsboys just. stole all of the talent. like come on guys spread it a bit. not EVERY song has to be a bop, you know /j

Speak Life by tobyMac. i... think im gonna skip this one jfkdlsj im just so not in the mood for this. He is definitely that That Kind of Christian Music style

LORD YOU ARE GOOD AND YOUR MERCY ENDURES FOREVERRR OH HOW WE JAMMED TO THIS AT CONFERENCEoh god it’s a live version and you can hear the Presbyterian Clap in the crowd

OH MY GOD MUSCLE MEMORY JUST BROUGHT BACK THE DANCE THAT WE HAD AT CONFERENCE OH MY GOD I COMPLETELY FOR GOT ABOUT THIS

i wish it brought back more than just the bridge before the chorus lmfao

alright skipping the rest of this because oh boy is it repetitive

STRONGER BY MANDISAAAA i forgot about this one omg. i loved this one, it used to be my Uplifting Song

Got another tobyMac and just skipped it jfkdsl

OH GOD’S NOT DEAD BY NEWSBOYS the movie was a lot of christians-are-oppressed propaganda but the song is pretty good still, i catch myself singing it sometimes still tbh

TRADING MY SORROWS?!?!?!?!? TRADING MY SHAME???!!!!! LAYING THEM DOWN FOR THE JOY OF THE LORD?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!? A BOOOOP

this was another one we had a dance for!!!! i remember this one more bc it was so much easier lmfao

HAPPY DAY!!!!!! THIS WAS MY FAVORITE ONE TO SING AT THE BIG MORNING AND EVENING MEETINGS AT CONFERENCE!!!!!! but this version is so slooooow but i couldn’t find any other version

....You Have Me. The song I always said that, when I die and go to Heaven, I’m going to find God and dance with Them to this song. Maybe, if They’re up there, we still will. This song gave me so much comfort in a time when I felt so alone.

I hope They aren’t mad at me for abandoning them. I hope They understand why I stopped going to church and listening to my parents about Them. That I remember who They truly are supposed to be, and that it’s not Them I left, but the church, and I struggled to disconnect the two. If They’re real... I hope they know that. And I hope They aren’t upset with me. I hope They know I’m sorry.

Fuck. I’m crying.

They DO still me. They DO still have my heart. But it’s the people that pretend to know Them that ruined me. I need to find a way to sever the connection. I want my best friend back. I miss Them. I miss being able to talk to Them about things and trust that They’ll take care of things and take care of *me* because They love me, no matter what my parents say, and They know who I am and They don’t love me despite that, but because of it.

THAT’S what I was taught. THAT’S the God I worshipped. Not the fake one the White Supremacists have taken hold of and ruined. The God that gave up Their only son to prove to us that They love us.

I don’t understand a lot about religion anymore. But I miss Them. I miss that comfort and love.

Fuck. Maybe that’s a good place to end this. If you made it this far, congrats! Thanks for coming on this journey with me. It was a long one. You’ve seen a piece of my heart that I’ll probably stamp back into the closet within a couple of hours lol

[faunusrights]

OFFAL HUNT REMASTERED LIVEBLOG // CHAPTER 14

IN THIS EPISODE OF THE OFFAL HUNT LIVEBLOG:

On the other end of the line, Cinder let out a tight sigh. “Yeah. Okay, well—I’m in a difficult position right now. I’m balancing a lot. So, that wasn’t, you know, directed at you or whatever… I’m just trying to deliver you to Atlas. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

CINDER FALL TRIES TO HAVE MANNERS. AND FAILS. BUT SHE TRIES.

it’s been a WHILE but i’m STILL HERE!!!!!!!!! also i’m a little late to the draw and also unlike w/ prior chaps i did actually read this one when it came out so i’ve had my first run already. BUT that means i actually get 2 Focus so lets get this party started

so we’re now entering into the New Umbraroot Arc which Frightens me on a deep and intrinsic scale because now i have no padding to ready me for whatever the Hell is going to occur, but i do know it will be gay(er) than the current content was (is/shall be) and here’s the proof

It had only been a day, but the sound of Cinder’s voice was a relief to Glynda’s senses.

glynda that’s gay. hey. hey. glynda have u been told yr a lesbian. lesbeeb. besbion--

“Not at all.” Thank god. It was one thing to be traveling with Cinder Fall. It was entirely another to have her checking in on Glynda’s well-being.

cinder: my well-being is SHIT but thankfully there’s someone nearby doing WORSE than me, which makes me feel better at least,

“Oh.” Our sounded strange in her mouth.

my favourite thing abt any gay media and content is that it’s gay in ways that hettie(tm) nonsense can only dream of being. when a story is abt a guy and a gal all the romantic tension comes from like. looking at a tiddy or getting naked or w/e the shit. here? it’s literally found entirely in the use of the word our. such power. i love it.

I went from unknown to one of Atlas’ most wanted overnight, which is charming… And also annoying, because they refuse to stop pasting wanted posters on every street corner.

i feel like cinder is the type of bitch to send pics of them back to emerald like ‘is my face ACTUALLY that janky??? my hair is a state. you think they’ll use a selfie if i ask nicely???’

Cinder hummed, affirmative. “Which would be unnecessary, if you hadn’t reported me.”

Glynda returned, “I wouldn’t have reported you if you hadn’t been committing a crime.”

glynda you snitch. you narc. you bootlicker. does be gay do crime mean NOTHING to you,

We left a funny taste in her mouth, almost as strange as when Cinder had said our. She tried not to examine it too closely.

again. look at this shit. this is real slowburn hours. this is how u DO IT.

Her heart was beginning to feel like a pin cushion with all the needles pulled out, little holes left in their wake.

would i be showing my age if i glanced at this and wondered if it were a reference to the inciting og offal hunt inspiration fic or. it does doesnt it. okay moving on.

“Okay.” And then, in an effort to change the subject to something lighter: “I’ve never broken into a country before.”

glynda’s complete and continuous inability to actually like. do what she plans on doing is SO funny to me. she’s going to be stealthy, she says, throwing a man aside in obvious fashion. i’m going to be subtle, she says, being as conspicuous as possible. she’s a disaster and i live for it.

"The Faunus." Cinder's voice was cold. "Don't speak to her."

this part of this fic is subtitled ‘cinder’s rank opinions time’, apparently. not that u can tell. but it is. dsfhgjsdfghjghfjdk

In the silence that followed, Glynda thought of the stunted horns jutting above Cinder's hairline at the restaurant.

Glynda murmured, "That’s a horrible thing to say."

"Don’t start." There was no concession in her words. “I mean it.”

“...I just didn’t expect that from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

There was something in Cinder’s tone that told Glynda that nothing she said would be correct. She said nothing.

cinder’s! rank! opinions! time! honestly this section victimises me the MOST as i very famously cried over an earlier section in which cinder thought abt all the faunus she grew up with, so i know that kc and diesel were looking to hurt me directly. that said i DO find it funny that cinder, yet again, looks like a pile of shit.  she can’t do anything right. naturally inclined to be the villain completely unintentionally. what a moron.

A harsh laugh. “What do you think we are, friends?”

“Well, no—um. Not really, but—”

YOU SEE. CINDER. PLEASE. £10 FOR U TO BEHAVE FOR FIFTEEN SECONDS.

“Then, just—just listen to me. I’m going to get us there. I p-promise.” There was a soft sound, like disgust or the prelude to a gag. “Urgh, your soul—give me more space.”

cinder: i’m inclined to being an asshole glynda: every time yr mean 2 me i’ll make u feel worse cinder: ah no. ah shit. i have to be nice??? ah fuck. what the shit is this.

Glynda thought of Ozpin. It wasn’t a comforting thought—more like the memory of a near-accident, like sliding on ice and feeling the world shift beneath you. It was a flinch-thought, and it would have made her miserable instead of just homesick had she not shut it out so quickly.

god the writing in this fic is so especially pristine. everything feels so real and visceral and you just know Exactly how that feels. it’s brilliantly punchy and i adore the way u get have the exact sensation click into place. it’s SO good.

She wondered if it was the same moon Bacia and Vivienne had looked upon. If they had felt the same beneath its pale light. The Great War had seen two shatterings of the moon, so perhaps it had appeared different, but… Glynda couldn’t help but wish that it was something they shared, even lifetimes apart.

👈😎👈

actually im a little nervous abt doing fingerguns because WHAT IF SMTHNG HAS CHANGED... but i think this bit is. safe. maybe. diesel. kc. am i safe,

Glynda closed her eyes and tried to feel out that instinctual power within her. Tried to know herself better. It resonated around her like a water in a tank, nearly palpable.

again this is just GREAT storytelling. i just LOVE how well kc and diesel turn abstract ideas into such physical manifestations it’s completely unreal. r y’all seein this shit???

upon checking his number, she’d discovered it had been blocked.

i love that glynda is abt as knowledgeable abt little jumps like this as the reader is. are we surprised as a reader? yes. is glynda also surprised? HELL YEAH SHE IS. SHE AIN’T GOT A FUCKIN CLUE MY DUDE.

Remembering the notes to herself not to trust Winter, Glynda opened the log hesitantly.

glynda no yr sending read receipts to yr future gf and thats a bad move on everybodys part

The indicator showed this wasn’t the first time Glynda had accessed the message. She couldn’t remember doing so. 

OH NO BITCH U ALREADY DID

“Special Operative Schnee, things are…” Glynda paused, searching for something suitably vague to say. “Proceeding.

do you see what i mean abt glynda’s ineptitude. it’s slapstick levels of ridiculous and i’m living for it.

Do you suspect she’s attempting to cross the border?”

“Maybe.”

‘sure,’ glynda says. ‘you could word it like that if you wanted to.’

“Bold of her, if nothing else. She should know there will—” Glynda skimmed through the rest of the paragraph to reach the end, the corners of her mouth curling. “—can make arrangements. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

HGSDFGKHJSFDGHKJDF JESUS CHRIST

its like in fallout 4 when someone tells u important info and when u click past it the main character just goes ‘uh huh’ ‘yeah’ ‘okay’ ‘sure’ ‘mm-hm’ as the text boxes whizz by GLYNDA PLEASE

Bubbles appeared, showing that Cinder was typing. Glynda waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The bubbles appeared and disappeared four times.

She flipped back to Cinder’s conversation and found that, after all that time, Cinder had finally settled on a reply.

It said:

“Good.”

i just had to pair these up for a second if only to say: dis me lol

okay let’s double back for a second just to cover this Juicy Lore:

If you’d like, I can arrange a bouquet of flowers to be left at your mothers’ memorial site. My thoughts are with you.”

For a long moment, Glynda simply stared at the screen. [...] In quick succession, she realized that it had been sixteen days since she’d met with Cinder in the restaurant and that it was soon to be the anniversary of her mothers’ deaths.

WHAT IS THIS LORE MA’AM AND MX??? **MA’X**??? firstly idk what the HELL the Black March tragedy is but im fascinated but also: did u have to do that. can ONE person in this fic not have [spoilers redacted cant say that yet no sir] problems??? no??? die. dsfhjgghjkfsddf

Glynda picked herself up from the armchair, neat and tidy, and disassembled into bed, pulling the covers up to her throat. With her Semblance, she turned off the lights. She closed her eyes.

It was quiet. Cold. The only thing she felt was the weight of her soul.

Her Scroll buzzed. Glynda answered it.

“Glynda.” It was Cinder. “I can feel that.”

okay following on from cinder’s text message, i just. love that cinder’s having such direct repercussions to her shitty shitty actions. like this is all tying together in some 👈😎👈 instances but having cinder be her usual callous self and having to literally turn around and start fucking Being Nice For Once is VERY gratifying. fuck you you lil round-faced one-braincelled baby. time to learn to have some Manners. jgdsfghsdfghfjd

She’d simply resigned to the loneliness of having no one to trust but Cinder, and then, not even having her.

... thats gay. hey lads is that gay? its gay. it feels gay.

On the other end of the line, Cinder let out a tight sigh. “Yeah. Okay, well—I’m in a difficult position right now. I’m balancing a lot. So, that wasn’t, you know, directed at you or whatever… I’m just trying to deliver you to Atlas. That’s all.”

“Yeah,” Glynda said. “This apology sucks.”

this feels like a reference to 👈👈👈😎👈👈👈 (IS IT. AM I RIGHT. IT IS ISNT IT) but also: LOOK AT CINDER GO. TRYING. BADLY. BUT TRYING. i love her she sucks so much shes such a dumbass. feel the consequences. feel them.

Glynda chided herself; Cinder Fall wasn’t capable of remorse, but she was more than capable of simple math. It seemed the worse she treated Glynda, the worse she herself would feel.

glynda: she’s doing this because it makes her feel better, not me cinder in like idk 20 chapters down the line:

(i guess thats another 👈😎👈 moment but for GOOD REASON)

There was a shift, like Cinder was rolling over, or maybe propping herself up. Was she in bed also? It triggered the remembrance of Glynda’s own physicality, and she turned over as well, searching in the dark for the nightstand and the lamp upon it. The light clicked on. The room brightened. Glynda settled in, ready.

OOOOOH THE PARALLELS. glynda turning the lights off and sinking into darkness and the void versus perking up and sitting up and turning the lights on when talking to cinder!!!!!!! POETIC CINEMA. OOF. OOF. HOW DOES FIFTEEN POINTS OF LOVE TASTE.

“Great! Lovely. Glad to hear it.” Fangs rounded out the words like scissors. A pleasant sense of satisfaction unfurled in Glynda’s chest. “So, once upon a fucking time—”

there were two gays and they were enemies to lovers but didnt know it yet. but they will be.

THATS CHAPTER 14 BABEY!!!!!!!! i LOVED this chap and i can rly feel kc and diesel gearing up for umbraroot. its great being able to like. feel the shift of focus goin on here and im SO ready to see this arc play out. once again offal hunt is the best fic ever made. this is a fact.

[scrumptiousalpacadeer]

My Easter - Removing The Mask

Easter 2020 will forever remain in my memory as the one that hit me like a truck; an invitation I answered body and soul; the Easter where I fully allowed myself to ‘go there’, to pass through the impossible threshold of the crucifixtion and come out the other side. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that this happened at the heart of the Covid-19 lockdown; Easter-time this year felt like a glaring luminous invitation to journey inwards. Besides, what else was there to do?! I couldn’t meet with friends, go to cafes or pubs. I was forbidden even to drive to the woods and romp in the leaves. All of sudden the world had stopped, there was no running away this time. I was called, finally, to confront myself with eyes wide open. It’s Holy Week, and I’m being given some very clear marching orders: “its safe to come out now. Its time to remove the mask.”

I can’t recall which particular day it was; perhaps Palm Sunday or Holy Monday, but I received a very clear instruction to write a full, unfiltered confession to myself of the real conditions of my life so far. Somehow it felt entirely correct that I would undertake this task whilst journeying with Christ through his betrayal and crucifixion, for I knew that in order to do this I would be visiting the blackest times of my life; times of pounding lovelessness and cruelty, impossible violence and running blood. I knew that I would need to visit the desolate landscape of my youth, to pull off the grim mask of civilization I’d worn all these years and fully encounter the betrayals by those who were supposed to love me. Hardest of all, I knew at the core of my confession was a fully sighted look at the violent, disconnected person those early losses had turned me into; I would have to gaze up at the sky-scraping height of the walls of defense I’d built around myself; wall that had at times fully eclipsed the sun. I would need to meet all the gentle souls I’d hurt betrayed since that time, believing so wholeheartedly that I was full of stinking rot and no consequence on this earth. 

Somehow I knew I wasn’t alone. The deal seemed to be that if I fully surrendered to this, as much as my consciousness would allow, that I would be fully met and held every step of the way. ‘Don’t worry’ a voice said, a deep silent voice inside, ‘it’s safe. I’m here. I won’t leave you..even when it might feel like I have, when things get sticky, I haven’t. I’m always here.’

I was being invited to set myself free and even though there was some trepidation, as with all big journeys into the unknown, there was also a deep excitement, for I knew that if I could come thorugh this portal, there would be a whole new world waiting; a new beginning.

So I jumped out of the plane without a parachute.  Upon guidance from The Christian Comunity Church I set up a small shrine on a chest of drawers in my bedroom. It consists of an alabaster statue of Mother Mary cradling a baby Jesus, three candle holders and a clay heart, un-painted and hastily sculptured by my daughter. This was a pilgrimage man must undertake alone; but the world was allowing me a luxurious amount of personal space – the only visitors would be delivery men (!) and my daughter was staying with her father just down the road. I didn’t know at the beginning that my confessions would take nine days, or that some days the words would come in such a torrent. My writing life has always been a response to a physical impulse, a ‘pull’ for something to come out, but never before had I been tugged like this, a fish on a hook. Some days I typed four or five hours straight.  

Each morning I breakfasted and went to my little church, dead on ten o’clock. I followed the service advised by the church. I turned off my phone, lit seven candles, read the Gospel aloud, attempted to clear my mind, and said the Lords Prayer – the first time, in forty five years living on this earth, that the words resonated within me with meaning. Every time I said ‘Thy will be done’ I was reminded that this was a task of surrendering to something far bigger than me, not something to ‘push ahead with’ in my head. Those days of intellectual figuring out were no help here. Often on those Easter mornings I asked for strength to keep going. I asked for my faith to be renewed when I felt lost. At the moment of Consecration, in my imagination I feasted hungrily on the bread and drank thirstily from the cup, in fact, it’s more truthful to say I gulped on the life force of Christ. I needed His strength for the day ahead; I needed to be lit up with his light.

Nights I slept in my daughter’s bedroom, waking up each morning of Holy Week to her glorious pictures of elves and sprites; her display of animals photos torn from magazines; a penguin she’d adorned with a speech bubble with the words ‘I’m cold’ scribbled in biro and a baby seal, that she’d adorned with a bow on its head. I woke up to her letter from Santa Claus tacked to the wall and her kitten calendar.  It gave me great comfort to sleep in an eight year old’s world, for I knew that my journey required me to be as vulnerable and awe-struck as a child; to recall what it was like to reveal my heart without any thought or consequence.   

My appetite lessened; I ate a lot of toast and drank gallons of tea. I typed sitting on the floor with my computer on an upturned crate. Often I wouldn’t dress until late afternoon. After writing I would reward myself with a walk out into the lanes and woodland tracks of Ashurst Wood. 

It seemed hugely significant that although I would be plummeting to my death, in the background there was an abundance of fuzzy life; Laura, our tortoise-shell cat had given birth to six kittens on  April 4th. They were still limp and blind, but fattening with each second in a cardboard den. As I typed in my daughter’s room, a dark beginning of life resounded silently from the kitten corner. 

I gave my confession the title Turning Point. One of the central themes of my Easter 2020 undertaking, if not its core, was letting my sister, Sally Ann, die. But to do this, to grant her her final wish, I knew I needed to tell her story as honestly as I could; to bear witness to her suffering and reveal it to the world; to not conjoin with the world we’d both been born into and ‘cover her up’. Only then would she rest in heaven; only then could I live on earth in freedom. Sally, my dark mysterious sister, ahead of me in the world by three years, committed suicide at our family home in January 1990. She was nineteen years old and I was sixteen at the time. 

Somehow I knew that journeying back to the hell of that that time, almost thirty years ago, back to her trimester of suffering when each day felt like a crucifixtion, would lead me into heaven. At some point during these days I experienced a powerful shift in my thinking; a revelation. I realised that for thirty years I’d been living with a fundamental ‘untruth’ - a lie that had at times proved almost fatal. This lie was two-fold and lay at the core of my heart, and in lifting the lid on it, I experienced such a physical release that I was able to kneel down and weep at my little church. I could begin to let go. 

The first lie was that I’d thought that I’d had to stop loving my sister because she was no longer here; because of the shame that society places on suicide; because there was no adequate help in the suburbs of Bedfordshire in the early 90s for such an act of self-murder in a three bed semi, because our relationship had been so difficult; because nothing I did seemed to make her happy; because it had all been so hopeless; because my father had told me to buck up two weeks after her death - ‘life goes on Christine’ - all of that meant that I’d detached myself from all the love I felt for my sister, I’d erased it all; I’d cut myself off from my history in shame, forgotten all the nights we’d shared sleeping in the same room; all the good times and laughter we shared,  despite her cruelty, despite the confusion. This Easter I was given the gift of remembering myself as a loving child; I recalled; I felt viscerally, in my body, that despite everything, I had loved her. Now wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that a miracle? And then the impossible happened; she took herself out of the game and left me here on earth in devastation. This Easter I needed to reclaimed my heart somehow. ‘It’s ok’ the voice said, ‘speak out. You have nothing to be ashamed of’. 

The second lie that I began to put to bed was that somehow my heart was ‘malformed’ or ‘useless’ in some way, because the love I sent forth hadn’t been able to save Sally. For the two months leading up to her suicide, every day when I returned from school, she only got worse, not better.  Somehow, and somehow I could offer this up this Easter, I had thought myself a ‘murderer’.

And underneath the civilized mask I wore, the truth was that I’d treated myself often as one would treat a murderous child; I’d kept her locked away, persecuted myself, let people and things I adored fall by the wayside, abandoning myself and my fellow man over and over. 

Somehow the grim violence of Christ’s death, the humiliation, the heart-breaking conversation he has with God before-hand ‘isn’t there another way we can do this?!’ rang out to me this year. I finally accepted the devastation of his death. I had to allowed the tsunami of grief and I sat at his feet through-out; I sat at the feet of my dying self in full compassion for her helplessness Only in opening myself to my full vulnerability would I get to the green pasture on the other side. Only by allowing the truth of the world of violence I’d been born into would I undergo the glorious transformations of those violences. Christ’s death reversed a big lie I’d been imprisoned by; that our shadow life is best kept quiet – ‘oh no, don’t you understand?’ he says, ‘the blackness is the very place from which light is born; the point where everything can change; the place where you’ll learn to love. But – and I know this is a bummer - you have to die first.’ If I truly wanted to continue living in my body then it needed to be with wounds revealed. It was so wholly, genetically, biologically different in every way to the life of appearance I’d been forging ahead with. 

On the evening of Easter Saturday I drank a small measure of gin for courage and sent Turning Point out into the atmosphere, emailing to my dear friend and writing partner Matilda Leyser. I hung in the balance, waiting for the world to change – daring to believe the unbelievable. Then things got weird; at almost exactly the same time of clicking send and removing my armour, I got attacked. I received a long email, aggressive in tone, from my neighbour informing me that my tom-cat, George, had got in to her house and urinated on her bed. “Please be a responsible pet owner”, she said. “and keep your cats locked in your house from now on.” Isn’t the world like that? I thought. We take the ultimate leap to freedom, and someone, someone you least expect, will swipe you with a long diatribe about cat wee. 

But I knew that this was a good sign; a sign that just in me trying to be real, the world had shifted. Wasn’t it time for me to confront the possibility that a good life was waiting for me? Wasn’t it time to forgive my neighbour her trespasses and move on -  to a place where I could play the piano without being told to shush? Wasn’t it time to stop communing with misery and take responsibility for my happiness? Doesn’t the resurrection tell us that there’s a chance; that we’re meant to live in abundance? 

Easter Monday I thought I’d be overwhelmed with joy but that came later – in fact, in took a couple of weeks of disorientation and yet more grief before I could begin to grasp the sheer revolutionary, upturning power of Jesus’s resurrected body. I read St Luke 24: 39 over and over; “Behold my hands and my feet, that it is I myself; hand me, and see;” He was back, wounds and all. He was eating with his friends and rejoicing. Their hearts were singing. The old dark world was gone and things could only get better. 

A week after Easter my daughter returned home and reclaimed her room. Like every human being on the earth at this time, we have no idea what is going to happen next. 

* * * **

A couple of days ago I watched the Billy Wilder classic The Apartment. It’s a simple tale of love and redemption in 50s New York,  but there’s a darkness at the centre of the film that surprised me. Fran Kubelik, a central character and love interest played (Shirley MacClaine) is ‘brought back to life’ after attempting suicide on Christmas Eve by the man who loves her, Bud Baxter (Jack Lemmon) and a doctor. and his neighbour. It’s a disturbing scene because she doesn’t want to revive; she’s injected, slapped, given smelling salts, extra strong coffee and finally walked up and down the apartment by the two men like a rag doll to keep her awake. Bud cares for her over the next forty eight hours, hiding his shaving razors for fear she’ll try again; just as my parents hid dangerous implements in high cupboards as my sister’s death wish intensified. 

She recovers, and in the glorious ending of the film, Fran has a sudden epiphany. Sitting in the restaurant with her cruel lover, she sits bolt upright, the camera focuses on her widening eyes: she realises that she’s in love with Mr Baxter, the kind man who saved her life. Perhaps she realises that she’s loved him all along. Choosing love, she leaves her old life behind, and sprints through the streets of New York to Bud’s apartment. Her high heels clack up the stairs to his apartment like rapid gun fire.  He’s packing up his apartment;  he wants something better than loaning out his home as a glorified knocking shop to his bosses and their mistresses. “What are you doing?” Fran asks him.

“I don’t know, …….I just gotta get out of this place’. 

They sit with glasses of champagne and prepare to play Gin Rummy: 

‘I love you Ms Kubelik. Did you hear what I said? I absolutely adore you.’ 

“Shut up and deal.’ 

And so, upon reflection I would say that my Easter has been a bit like those final scenes of The Apartment.  I’ve heard love calling, I’ve got up from the table and am running towards it. I’m moving quickly, with the chance at being human, allowing the wounds and scars of the old world to propel me into the new; coming alive from the inside.

I’m ready to drink champagne with friends and play with a whole new hand. 

In gratitude to Luke and the priests at the CCC for the milk and honey they provided this Easter: their correspondence, insights and guidance through this Easter-time.

May 2020                                                                  Copyright Christine Rose

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Jamaica

Note from Mod Bonnie: 

I wrote the story below as part of the Candle for the Caribbean fundraiser last year. Now that the period to download the fanfic anthology has passed, I am posting the story here. I still hope you’ll donate to disaster relief! The need is great, and we can all do something! 

In any case, if you’ve already read this, I hope you’ll enjoy it a second time ;)

Jamaica

Drums of Autumn (Chapter 41), Diana Gabaldon

Her aunt's voice, coming from a great distance, saying, "The poor child is asleep where she sits; I can hear her snoring. Ulysses, take her up to bed."

And then strong arms that lifted her with no sense of strain, but not the candlewax smell of the black butler; the sawdust and linen scent of her father. She gave up the struggle and fell asleep, her head on his chest.

Later that night

River Run Plantation

Royal Colony of North Carolina

I fought. 

With fists and feet and every ounce of strength I possessed, I fought; against the man’s hands on me, against the sheets and blankets as I struggled to get free of him; against the panic—I had to get away. 

The next thing I knew was that my back was braced securely against the wall on the far side of the bed, cold and solid through the fabric of my shift. My chest was heaving; my hands were raised against him, ready to fight, and each breath was raw and ragged in my throat. I honestly didn’t know how long I’d been screaming, and that terrified me more than—

“I’m so—I’m sorry, lass.”

I jumped to see the man was on the other side of the bed—huge, the shape of him. His voice was— it was gentler than I’d remembered, and that made me tense still more, refusing to believe his cunning and lies again. Those eyes were wide and blazing. Blue…not green?

His hands were raised, too, nothing like my own shaking claws. His palms were facing me,  poised and braced as though against the charge of a wild animal.

“It’s only me,” the man said. “It’s—Da.”

And with that word, that tiny key of a word, my entire body unlocked and tried to sink to the floor. I kept myself upright only by sheer will as I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally again.

Only a dream, Bree.

The green-eyed man was only a dream.

…this time.

“I heard ye cry out from the other room,” Jamie (because it was only him) was saying, urgently. “I ran in and ye were crying and shaking in your sleep and then I tried to wake ye, and—Jesus, lass, are ye alright??”

My eyelids felt unbelievably heavy, my heart still pounding, but the emotion in his voice made me open my eyes and look at him (really look at him) for the first time.

He was dressed only in his shirt, hair wild and blazing in the dim firelight. The eyes were red with sleep, still wide, terrified as his gaze continued to search me.

Even with the bed between us, though, I could see more written there—the quiet, underlying hunger in his eyes; that desire to connect; as palpable and real to me as if it had physical shape, but held carefully—so, so carefully—in check. I could see it so plainly because it had been the same for me, since we’d met; the exact same.

I was so absorbed in it, actually, that I forgot that I had been staring openmouthed at him, not answering his question. 

“I’m fine,” I blurted finally, smiling as best I could, both shaking and nodding my head like a complete moron (well done, Bree: poise and grace incarnate). “Perfectly fine.”

To my shock, Jamie Fraser laughed.

...And I experienced a sudden visceral impulse to throw something heavy at his fucking head.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, seeing my reaction, though he didn’t bother to suppress his grin. “Only—Christ, but ye sound like your mother when ye say that.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned, barking a laugh despite myself. “Shit, I DO! I mean, oh— um—yikes.....sorry.”

I fumbled for another less vulgar swear (don’t want him to think his daughter a complete heathen after less than twelve hours), but he snorted and waved me off. 

“I heard worse cursing from Claire within the first hour of meeting her, and it evidently didna put me off in any lasting way.”

We laughed, both of us this time; shy laughter, but real, and it blessedly eased the tension of the night a little further, bringing us another inch closer to connection.

We were careful with one another, Jamie and me—not just now, in this room still clouded by nightmare, but for the entire time since we’d met earlier in the day. For what it was worth, I thought we would keep erring on the side of caution for some time, months, or even years, even if all continued to progress well between us. If Jamie was feeling anything like I was (and I would have bet money on it), the last thing he wanted was to scare me off by showing (let alone expecting) too much overt affection between us or presuming an intimacy, of asking too many questions, no matter how much he wanted to.

It was a little awkward and more than a little bittersweet, but completely natural, from my point of view. As much as we both would have liked to pretend otherwise, there was a wall between us—a huge Hoover Dam of a structure, built to withstand, made of twenty-three years; of grief; of doubt; and of suspicion. Honestly, I hated myself for even admitting that last one, but it was the cold, hard truth. No matter what he was to me factually or what I hoped he’d be someday, I didn’t know this man except from stories, nor did he know me. It just wasn’t realistic to trust one another implicitly and ignore all our reasonable reservations and cautions; at least, it wasn’t for me.

Still….there was a spark there, in each of us; a look here, a joke there, a shared moment of understanding— gentle tugs pulling us toward one another, each a tiny chip falling away from that indomitable wall. It was the simple ease of it that had shocked me, getting to know him so far. Jamie had that genuine quality you couldn’t help but be drawn to, and I absolutely was. I would have liked him even without knowing our blood connection, I think, and more importantly, I could see why Claire had loved him; why she had come back for that love. That knowledge was worth quite a lot to a daughter’s heart, really, still scarred from the loss of a mother.  

“My bed is in the next room over, ken?” Jamie said, taking a careful step forward and—seeing that I wasn’t going to bolt or go into hysterics— settled onto the edge of the bed. “…And when I heard ye scream like that…”

He shook his head, and the rest was lost in a rushed exhale. One word I caught, though: ‘…terrified.’

I noticed for the first time the knife that had been dropped on the carpet behind him.

“It was a nightmare?” he clarified, after a moment.

“A bad one.” I sat on the opposite side of the bed, trying to put on my most assured, calm face, for his sake. “But only that.”

He nodded and his shoulders seemed to relax a bit further. “Do ye need anything? Water? A bit of food?”

“I was just thinking I’d go out to the balcony.” I jerked an awkward hand toward the glass door. “It’s, um, a little warm in here.” 

A lie. It was sweltering and I was sweating like a pig, still trembling from the aftershocks of memory and dream.   

“Oh. Aye. Well.” He stood up. “I’ll—ah—leave ye to it.” An awkward bow. “Goodnight, then, lass.”

He was almost to the door before I found my courage. “Would you stay? Just for a little while,” I added quickly, flushing even more, kicking myself for the asking almost as much as for being afraid enough to risk it—afraid of being alone in the dark, alone with my thoughts.  

The way his face lit up, though—it was like the morning sun breaking from behind a hill. There, right there, that was him: the lad Mama had seen all those years ago.

When he edged out onto the narrow balcony to join me a few minutes later, he was still barefoot but now wearing breeks with his hair tied back. He hadn’t come empty-handed, either, I saw as he settled onto the wicker loveseat beside me, carrying a bottle and two glasses.

“Oh, um—Sorry, I don’t mean to be—” 

(Please don’t be offended. Please, please don’t think me awful and ungrateful for shitting on your nice gesture). 

“I don’t really like whisky,” I said with the awkwardest of laughs.

He smiled. “Aye, I ken that. Your mother told me so, once,” he said with a shrug and a widening grin. “It’s brandy, in fact, but I can fetch ye something else, if—“

“No, no, that’s fine! Great!” I said hastily, hands flapping, reeling a bit from the thoughtfulness (not to mention the steel trap his mind must be, to remember such an insignificant piece of trivia about someone he’d never meet—good grief!). “I’ve never actually tried brandy before.”

He poured a large glass and handed it to me with confidence. “Nothing like it to calm an unsettled mind.”

The first sip was like a warm hug, spreading from my throat down my spine and into my toes. “That’s good,” I said with feeling, taking a long swallow. “Thank you—for thinking of me.”

“Thank your great-aunt for keeping a well-stocked larder,” he said, off-handed.... but his eyes were warm, I saw, glowing just that little bit more from the shared moment, however small.

It went quiet between us, then, but in a surprisingly comfortable way, like when Daddy—Frank—and I would ride through the mountains, enjoying the scenery and one another’s’ company in silence for long stretches at a time.

I do miss you, Daddy.

Taking a deep breath, I made a quick— but firm—decision not to feel guilty for comparing them. They were both my father; they both mattered; but Jamie was the one here, now, the one I had the chance to get to know.

The minutes passed like that, both of us breathing the warm air: grass and woodsmoke; the sharpness of pine sap; a musty sweetness I thought might be magnolia leaves. Despite the moonlight, the grounds were dark as pitch, so that every now and again, I could see the twinkling of a firefly down below.  

And it seems like it goes on like this forever

You must forgive me,

if I'm up and gone to Carolina…

“Do ye often have troubling dreams, lass?” Jamie asked, quietly so as not to startle.

“....I didn’t used to.....” I swirled the brandy in the bottom of the glass. “Since Mama left, though—Yeah, often enough.”

“I’m sorry. I think ye might get that from me,” he said, sounding actually sorry for it.

“It’s okay. I mean, it isn’t your— It happens,” I said firmly, huffing a bit in frustration at how ludicrous it was to be accepting an apology for such a thing. He saw it and understood and we both smiled. I shifted in my seat so that I was leaning against the armrest, facing him. “So, you have bad dreams a lot, too?”

“Strangely enough, my own have been less frequent since Claire returned. A talisman for the both of us, she must be.” 

He said this with a smile so pure that it plucked at my heart with longing to see her, and a tender (and, yes, a bit jealous) awe at his evident love of her. Maybe he did deserve her, too. 

What would it be like to see them together? To have all three of us together?

“But aye,” he went on, “I’ve always been prone to nightmare, when there are troubles on my mind. It isna at all pleasant.” He offered more brandy, which I gratefully accepted. He concentrated hard on the pouring, avoiding my eye. “If there’s anything ye wish to....If I can be of....” His sigh of frustration sounded uncannily like my own a few moments before. “All I mean to say is, I’m here. If ye want to talk about it. About…anything that might be on your mind.”

I managed to get out a smile and a genuine, “Thank you…” but my guts had clenched tight at the thought of exactly what had been on my mind. The blackness started creeping in, those horrific flashes, but also a newer stab of heartbroken dread:

Would you still want to get to know me, James Fraser, if you knew what happened on that ship? Would you be able to get past the shame of it? Of me? 

“They’re not always bad, though,” I said cheerily, choking down my panic and another gulp of brandy as I forced us down a less fraught line of conversation. “I’ve just always been a vivid dreamer, even besides the nightmares.”

He seemed to be as grateful for the shift of tone as me. “What are your happier dreams like, I wonder?”  

“A lot of times it’s about painting—the colors, you know,” I said, pulling my knees up close to my chest to lean my glass on them. “Other times, just about what I did that day. Sometimes the most ridiculously absurd things, too.”

He cocked his head, amused. “Such as?”

“Umm…..? Oh, okay, once—this is embarrassing—But one time last year, I dreamed that I was in a singing contest on the moon (no idea why the moon, but there was a huge audience there) and had to sing ‘Sugartime’ with President Nixon and Donald Duck. We didn’t even win!”

Jamie snorted into his drink. “Well, I dinna ken about Presidents, but ducks are no’ known for having braw singing voices….Though,” he added fairly, “likely this Donald availed himself better than could I, so I’ll no be casting stones.”

We laughed, and at his urging, I sang him a few bars, snapping my fingers to recreate a bit of the honkytonk feel that made the song so damned catchy that it had wormed its way into my sleep.

“It’s funny though,” I said abruptly, struck by a memory in the midst of our discussion (trying all the while not to giggle) of the likely metaphor behind the ‘sugar’ in question. “It’s because of a dream that I’m here at all. Why I came here from my time, I mean.”

“Oh, aye? How’s that?”

“I had this dream last year about you and Mama being in the tropics,” I explained, memory of it giving me goosebumps. “Roger and I—” (Oh, Jesus Christ, Roger....) “—had been looking in the historical records for months, trying to find something to confirm that she had found you and that you were both living well in Scotland, but with no luck. We’d all but given up, to be honest. When I had the dream, though, it got me thinking that maybe you’d emigrated, and one thing led to another, and sure enough, I found records of you being on Jamaica in 1767.”

“Well that was a piece of good luck,” he said with approval. “You’re verra determined, lass, a fact for which I’m grateful. What came to pass in the dream, then?” He raised an eyebrow and the opposite corner of his mouth. “Were we singing sweet songs wi’ Kings and Hippopotamuses?”

“No,” I laughed (Good grief, he was witty, too? Mama never stood a chance), “and actually, as helpful as it ended up being, this was one of the spooky dreams. Not quite a nightmare, but—“ I shivered. “Eerie.”

He was interested, ready to listen.

“It was at night and I was in a huge field of sugarcane,” I said slowly, trying to remember the details after so long. “There were fires burning in the distance, lots of them, so that there was this glowing dome of smoke overhead. I walked and wandered, turning this way and that, until I came to a clearing, and Mama was there. She was talking to a crocodile. So yes, it did have some ridiculous bits, too.”

I added this last part because I’d seen Jamie stiffen at mention of the crocodile, markedly, his eyebrows drawing together. Before I could study him too closely, he relaxed (though, I thought, not completely) and bade me go on.

“There were drums...” I said, still unsettled. “Beating loud and.....ominously, and I don’t know if it was them or what else, but somehow, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something stalking Mama, wanting to hurt her, you know? I tried to call out to her, warn her. I was begging her to not to go after it, but she was—I don’t know— in a trance, or something. She couldn’t hear me…. but you could.”

“….How did ye ken it was me?” He was still as stone and his voice very tight—terse, almost.

“A red-haired man with my mother? I guess I just assumed.” I shrugged. “I turned to him—you—and I called for you to save her from whatever it was …or something like that….” I shrugged again. “ And you saw me. You heard m—Um….Are you okay?”

He had stood abruptly, setting down his glass and going to stand at the railing. Jamie didn’t have a rude bone in his body. Something I’d said had upset him, and my belly was crawling again, trying to figure out what it had been.

“What is it ye said?” It didn’t even sound like Jamie. He had a vice grip on the iron. “In the dream. Do ye remember the words?”

Baffled, but having no idea of what else I might say next, I closed my eyes, trying to remember. I could always recall colors, from my dreams; colors and shapes and movement and light, but words always slipped through my fingers like sand. I could almost remember, though. Don’t—something…Don’t—?

“Don’t let Mama go alone....”

My eyes flew open.

“That’s what ye said, aye?” Jamie still had his back to me, shoulders hunched. “We were in a cane field, your mother and I. On Jamaica. There was a crocodile.” He turned and looked me dead in the eye. “And we did hear your voice, lass.”

“That’s....not possible.” I heard glass shatter and I was on my feet, though I didn’t remember getting there. “You couldn’t possibly…”

“Your mother can attest,” he said, his face drawn and white, but his eyes wide. “I’d no’ have believed it to be anything other than base trickery, sorcery, only I saw her face—went pale as stone and just as still. It was your voice, Bree. Yours, in a wisewoman’s mouth. You go with her, ye said, I’ll keep you safe....And then ye said—” His voice broke, then broke off entirely as he hung his head.

I was shaking from head to toe and I couldn’t even blink. I had to hold my hands over my mouth to keep from exploding, because it was exactly as he described, the words verbatim, even down to the cadence and tone of my own manner of speech. How…. HOW—??

When he looked up at me again, he was weeping freely. “Ye said... I love you, Daddy.”

“It….” I moved my hands away enough to ask the unfathomable. “It was real?”

“I dinna ken how,” came the husk of his voice, “but—aye—in whatever way— It was real.”

Then I was throwing my arms around his neck. 

“Oh my God,” I kept saying, my hands and my jaw shaking as though it were freezing cold. “Oh—dear GOD—“

He was saying more or less the same, in the same tone, as he held me, or that’s what I thought at first. After a while, I realized what he was saying: Thank God.

“It terrified me so, and yet I treasured it,” he said against my hair, still speaking through sobs, kissing a spot just behind my ear. “I felt as though it were a sin to rejoice, for it was black sorcery that had brought it about, or so I thought—but yet—I couldna think otherwise except that—“ He broke off and held me tighter. “It was the only time this side of Heaven that I’d hear your voice….I’ve thought about it so often, since.”  

“I’m glad it wasn’t,” I choked out, hugging him as tightly as I could. “The only time.”

“Christ, so am I, my...my Brianna.” A big hand came up and cupped my head securely against him. He gasped for air. I could feel the genuine struggle of it in his chest. “I know I shall live my entire life—before I’ve done enough good—to deserve it... the gift of you, mo chridhe.”

“Oh..... Da…”

All my fears—of cane fields and wisewomen, of Irishmen, even of the possibility of being shunned—they all melted away into the night, and I let them. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the power of him, my father, a shelter against the paranormal, letting only the essential remain: the connection between us, those tiny, tentative sparks, protected from the wind and growing stronger. Maybe someday, it would tear down the wall entirely.

“It’s getting late, a leannan,” he murmured a long, long time later, kissing the top of my head, “and you’ve had a long day. A long many days, I think, and a trying night. Get ye back to your bed for some rest, now.”

He started moving toward the door, but I clutched at him, holding him back. “I can’t.”

“Another glass of brandy may help, if—“

“I don’t want to sleep again.”

His mouth twitched in a tiny smile as he put a hand tenderly on my cheek. “Ye might find that difficult to sustain, after a week or so.”

I was dead-serious, my fears wrenching out of me in a whisper, a raw plea, like the frightened child I was. “What if everything I dream is real?”

He could have told me not to talk nonsense; that I was a grown woman and obviously dreams were dreams, excepting the one event in question.

What he did, though, was to squeeze my hand and draw me back down onto the loveseat, putting his arms around me. “Lay your head, lass,” he said, bringing my head gently to his shoulder. “We’ll bide together, you and me.”

I felt the words stirring on my tongue as sleep began to settle around me, knew it would be the truth of my heart to say them aloud, but I couldn’t speak even one word in my present state, let alone those.

Besides, I’d said it before I even knew him.

I love you.

… Da.

[davidmann95]

I read your post about why Batman is great and I love how thoughtful that is. Can you do one for Superman? Thanks ^_^

Unsurprisingly, I’ve touched on a lot of the basic aspects of it before, so for a couple parts of this I’ll keep it restrained (speaking entirely relatively), but given I think about Superman more than most people think about their best friends, I feel qualified to state that yes: Superman is great. As I said with Batman, the reasons why on a mass cultural basis are much broader than ‘he’s a really well-written character’ - hell, too often that isn’t even the case, even if plenty *have* stepped up over the years - so I’ll start with the lizard hindbrain stuff and work my way down to the finer details.

Superman has iconic power by default

What it really comes down to, at least in terms of keeping him afloat in the public eye when actual public opinion on him has been shot completely to hell over the last couple decades, is that Superman is a Big Deal. He’s the founder of his own genre: literally every surface-level aspect of his mythology is shorthand for the concept he created as well as for plenty beyond superheroes, from the suit (trunks included) to Lois Lane to Lex Luthor to Clark Kent to flying to Kryptonite to Bizarro and Brainiac to super-pets and x-ray vision. A red cape fluttering in the breeze is itself an evocative image entirely sans context, because people know that means him, by which it really means all superheroes. That means he takes the hits of getting all the complaints other characters duck even as others write thinkpieces on his place in culture and how he represents everything from America to Jesus to conservative values to the immigrant experience, all from people who may well have never picked up a comic or watched a cartoon of his in their lives. Even when most people don’t know much about him as a character, he as a symbolic figure is too massive to not grapple with one way or another, even via shorthand such as ‘he’s dumb’ or ‘he stands for us at our best’; while many of his recent woes can be traced back to people telling stories solely about or defined by that iconography, it still has power. Kids on the other side of the world from wherever you’re sitting right now know he can leap a tall building in a single bound. There’s maybe two or three other fictional characters in the world with that level of exposure and impact, and the unconscious emotional connection that comes baked right into it.

Superman is a protector

When kids talk about loving him because he can do anything, and adults talk about how he brings back those memories of joy and comfort, I think this is what it really comes down to a lot of the time. Superman’s the one who looks out for us, the guy who cares about you. Yeah, there’s gotta be the odd story about how NOT EVEN SUPERMAN CAN SAVE EVERYONE! to keep him honest, but by and large, yes he can. He wears a fun flashy uniform and he can wrap you up in his cape and fly you away from whatever bad’s happening, and even if something can catch up, no bullet or bomb in the world is going to get through him to you, or even hurt him enough to at least be scary. Nothing’s so hard or so big or so scary he can’t help, not really; he naps on clouds and swims in the sun. He’s polite, and never aggressive towards the innocent (not even that often towards the guilty), and he doesn’t talk down to people even though he’s stronger and knows better. He’s as confident as a cool big brother, as supportive and sturdy as a good dad, as vaguely ethereal and perfectly impossible as Santa Claus. It’s not an act, it’s not impersonal - he wants you to be okay, he cares about you and he’ll do whatever he can to make sure you’ll be alright. When that’s done just right? That kind of unreserved, unconditional, powerful demonstration of kindness making a difference, even from a cartoon alien, can knock a lot of typically steely emotional walls down like balsa wood, especially when that can save the day just as much as quick wits or a fist, the way anyone here could too in the right circumstances when they try their best.

Superman is a romantic figure

Something overlooked or deliberately sidelined by many is that a huge, huge part of Superman’s appeal in lots of circles is that he can be a romantic ideal rather than (or as well as) a protective one. He’s a sweet, funny, confident, smart guy who’s built like Adonis and doesn’t think he’s better than everybody else even though he’s literally the best. He holds down a socially valuable job he’s successful and happy at, he’s gentle and considerate, and he’s entirely comfortable being second in his household to a commanding career woman who he’s instinctively protective of, but also willing to back off of when she feels smothered because he acknowledges her independence. He can fly her to the moon, he never lets her forget how happy he is that when he was left lost and alone on the other side of the universe he fell to the one place he could find her, and he wears tights. The comics may forget that, but Lois & Clark knew it. Smallville sure as hell knew it. So have the last couple movies, and Supergirl. Even Christopher Reeve, America’s Dad, got it on with Margot Kidder in that weird shiny Fortress hammock. You wanna talk about the aspects of Superman that go for…ahem…primal instincts, that he’s the member of the Justice League historically most likely to go shirtless* is worth bringing up. 

* Aside from maybe Batman, who’s usually beat to hell and too miserable to leverage any of that playboy charm, and Aquaman, who’s Aquaman.

Superman is an easy power fantasy

Obviously, superheroes are often power fantasies in general; they do stuff we can’t do but wish we could. And Superman’s near the top of that list not just because he’s iconic, and not even because of the scope of his power - Green Lantern and Thor are comparable in terms of raw ability, GL even has an honest-to-goodness wishing ring, but they don’t measure up in that regard. What is is, I think, is that Superman’s powers are rooted in physicality, and therefore easy to imagine yourself doing. Everything most people can do, he does best, from lifting to running to looking to hearing to punching. Even his non-physical powers have a connection to actual physical acts: to see through objects he focuses as if peering through a fog, he doesn’t shoot power blasts from his fists to light things on fire but instead burns them with a furious glare, he doesn’t dispassionately levitate through the air as a standard but takes off and holds his arms forward as if in a mighty never-ending leap. Batman may be ‘real’, but if you imagined suddenly being him, you wouldn’t be Batman, you’d be a rich dude with a weaponized theme park in his basement, because you have no training and no tangible point of reference for thinking of how anything works beyond “punch and throw things”. But it’s easy to imagine being Superman in a visceral, physical sense - just imagine everything you did worked optimally, even the way it only could in a dream.

Superman is fun

All of the above makes him grand and likable, but that’s not the same as being able to support decades of monthly adventure stories. The basis of that is that he lives in a universe-sized, Earth-shaped toybox. He doesn’t just have superpowers and a nifty suit, he’s got a cave at the North Pole right near Santa with a time machine, statues of all his friends, a space zoo, a gun that turns people into ghosts, and a bottle city full of real people, plus robots to keep it all tidy, and only he can get in because the key was forged in the heart of a star. His cousin, kid, dog, and a few of his best friends wear capes too, and his ‘brother’ with reverse-superpowers lives on a cube planet where it’s perpetually opposite day. His friends and wife often go on their own adventures and get temporary superpowers just by being in his vicinity, he dated a mermaid in college, his after-school club was in the future and he commutes to the moon for work, and his deadliest enemies include a crazed mad scientist, an evil robot with a death-heart, a mischievous imp in a derby hat, and brilliant alien computer literally named Brainiac. Superman lives in a sci-fi fantasy dreamland of childish archetypes that can exist on any scale from the microscopic to the galactic to the other-dimensional, and as a result of that he can go on any adventure imaginable, to any time and place, and as a super-man who doesn’t often have to worry for his own safety, he can survive and appreciate and care for it all.

Superman mythologizes the mundane

And it’s where the fun and the big, mythic aura Superman carries meet that the magic happens that makes him as versatile and effective a character as there is in fiction: everything he does is rooted in something incredibly normal and human. His wild super-suit of circus royalty is made to reconnect with his heritage the only way he has, and to try and make himself colorful and unthreatening to a world he needs to accept him. When he travels through time, it’s never just to save reality, it’s to go see family and friends. He walks his dog around the rings of Saturn, he looks at his city in a bottle and wonders if he’ll ever be able to get around to taking care of that, he walks on the bottom of the ocean to think things through privately, and spends an entire day saving the world to get away from a conversation he doesn’t want to have. Every mad, cosmic aspect of his world is something totally normal blown up to be as big as it feels, and even when he does interact with the truly ‘mundane’, his presence alone elevates it to myth in a way no other superhero can. That’s the true source of his ability to adapt, rarely tapped but always potent: he can do anything, because he’s us.

Superman’s an actual good, interesting character

I place this at the bottom because it’s the aspect that’s most rarely captured, especially in the public eye (though the handful of times it has been are why he’s my favorite). But when he’s handled properly, then even divorced from everything else, Superman is fascinating as a *person*. Raised knowing there’s something different about him even as his weird alienness lets him understand people and the world around them in ways no others can, he learned one day he was born of the most mind-shattering act of cosmic horror imaginable, with a place greater than Earth in every way destroyed by coincidence, a signpost by any measure that the universe is a chaotic, meaningless, cruel place that destroys the innocent with indifference…and he became a good man who treasures life over anything. He has power that lets him do literally anything he pleases, and he spends half his life among us at a desk job because he thinks we’re just swell and he wants to keep being part of it all. Even though he can never entirely, not really, divvying his life up into discrete, manageable chunks that let him interact with the world on his own terms and try to see through what he sees as his responsibility, until a woman sees through the deception and self-deception and gets the real him to tentatively come out. 

He has fun little hobbies, and unusual friendships, and a complex rivalry with the one man in the world who could’ve been his equal. He’s seen the best and worst of the world, and he accepts it all, but he still radiates a decency and innocence that can be mistaken for naivete by those who don’t know him. He’s clever but easy to catch off-guard in the right circumstances, always struggling to be the god people expect him to be rather than the inadequate fake his humility can make him look at himself as, he likes football and pretzels and pulp novels and Metallica, he gets a kick out of writing because it’s one of the few things he can do on an even playing field, he’s not sure how best to raise his kid, he worries that that one alien dictator is going to pop by again soon and he might not be ready to deal with it, he has to coordinate dates with his wife precisely because they both have such busy schedules, he counts dust particles in the air when he gets bored, and he believes in everybody. There’s so much going on with this guy, this identity-case, this brute, this pacifist, this establishment-man, this rebel and idealist and weirdo and a dozen other conflicting things. He’s been and done just about everything with charm and style over the decades, and it works, because it all adds up into one nice guy’s unusual, well-rounded life. And because it’s always anchored by an understanding: for all that he’s a unique freak of creation, he knows that in all the madness and uncertainty and horror, the one thing we have to rely on is each other. So he’ll put on his suit and throw himself out there against the only things in the universe that could kill him when he could be doing anything else, because he’s found a home with us little people when he lost his, and he knows we’re worth the fight; everyone is, aliens just like him in their own ways, waiting to be saved the way they saved him when he landed in a field. That’s why Superman’s great.

[kingdomofthelogos]

No Greater Love

Read Mark 8

Download a printable version here.

To begin our message, let us consider the words of Mark 8:2, whence Jesus chronicles the noble allegiance that stirs His compassion: “for they have been with me for three days and have nothing to eat.” The crowds that pursued Him were burdened with hunger, having sacrificed the earthly certainty of their next meals in order that they have the greater certainty of time with the Master. 

We know that “no one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends,” for John 15:13 assures us of this immovable truth. When we consider the hunger endured for three days by those crowds who sought Jesus in Mark 8, let us then ponder how much greater the love of God Himself to undertake three days in death. Being truly dead one is in hunger for life itself, but Jesus undertook this sacrifice to accomplish so perfect a victory that it excelled anything our world has seen.

Let it be known that God hates death, taking no joy in the suffering and chaos of our world. But despite His great hatred for death and suffering, let us not think Him afraid of them. Inasmuch as through His Word the heavens and earth wove together, so also through the power of His Word was victory found over fallen man’s final calamity. This Word came to us, made itself flesh in the man of Christ Jesus.

The modern church spends a great deal of time deconstructing those around Jesus and dismantling their character. However, let today be inspired by the loyal perseverance which moved our Lord to have compassion on His dear creatures. The crowds displayed a sacrifice, giving up the ordinary circumstances of life which would have likely sustained them in order that they might gain some proximity to God, to obtain a higher assurance in His truth.

There are a lot of questions we might wonder about the crowds and their motivations. Were these crowds truly of faith, were they sanctified that they might not fall back into sin? Or were they just here for a good show? The exact conditions of their hearts we cannot obtain, but we know that they, like all Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve, are indeed fallen creatures prone to sin. We know that the Holy Spirit had not yet come in its fullness as on the day of Pentecost. Notwithstanding these truths, we also know that the Lord who knows all things saw their hungered state and was sincerely moved to stand for them against the wiles of death as their advocate.

Moreover, just as Jesus would stand for them in order to prevent their starvation, He would ultimately stand for them in order to prevent their eternal condemnation. But let us not be confused, God does not desire that His children be condemned, for He has never desired such irrevocable terror. 

Our world is plagued by a curse which we have no power to revoke. Yet, the great Master has had compassion on us and desired to relieve us of its burden. He is the Master who laid down His life for the servant.

As we discussed last week, the fiends of hell take joy in having people believe the darkness within them is light. Every major and minor issue discussed on our planet is designed in such a way that truth cannot be ascertained, but the only result which can be effected is war between tribes. Political tribes, ethnic tribes, material wealth tribes, and so forth and so on. Perhaps the most despicable work of evil is how many people sincerely believe the darkness in them is light, people who pervert the Gospel of Christ to attain unrighteous control over others. There is great confusion about what is good and true, and what is deceptive and evil. These words are coupled together deliberately. Deception, from Genesis to Revelation, is always a critical part of evil. Whether in the Garden with Eve sincerely believing her conversation with the snake is of no major consequence, or the beast worshippers in Revelation 13 firmly believing they are on the right side of history. Our modern age has bought the foolish idea that in order to be deceived then one must feel like they are deceived.

In our day, there are many things in which only one viewpoint is permitted. Often, people are told they need not speak of something that might be offended, put something on or take something down that might make someone else more comfortable out of respect. But let this be known and let it be certain: it is not grace if grace is only granted one way. It is not respect when only one viewpoint is permitted, especially when that viewpoint is the dominant one of the fallen world, which is neither sanctified in its worldly offices nor saved by its intentions. That is not respect which is demanded, although many will sincerely believe it is, but truly a behest for submission to an idol, it is malice well dressed as modesty. It is malice of the most sinister dimension, a darkness which has convincingly masked itself as the light, a task often accomplished by perverting the truth or making it unattainable by way of official knowledge. Without choice, it is not real virtue.

There are no magic rules, and there is no lukewarm sanctuary where all will be comfortable and at peace. In a fallen world, every decision will offend someone. Therefore, when the call beckons, it is best that one be found standing with the one who is the Way, the Truth, and the Life. We must have grace and mercy and be willing to yield, but firm and unmoving when asked to bear false witness. It is moral bankruptcy to deconstruct without a greater motivation to build up the good, and it is the work of satan to accuse without warrant. I am quite often shocked by how little discernment is found in our age, much of which I do not consider a sincere lack of discernment but rather a lack of courage to stand for what is true; a willingness to turn a blind eye to things preferred not to be true, and a willingness to sit idle as to avoid suffering. 

We live in an era which has perhaps the least amount of people concerned with the spiritual warfare which preys upon every soul, and yet we are also in an era which has the fruits of spiritual warfare made more obvious than any time before. One may be distracted by questioning the exact location are the demons, the presence of those fomenting contortionists, but in pursuit of that specific image one might fail to look in the mirror of our society and see that people have not the slightest idea who they are at even the visceral level of being made fully in the Image of God as a man or woman. There is not the slightest idea of how to value a child of God based solely on the irrevocable value of life, life that was so precious to God that it was worth Him dying in order to make available its communication with eternity.

In our age, noble courage is not exemplified on its principle, but always through corrupt schemes to taint the great virtues of God with personal interests and political theater. Those wretched intruders who stole into God’s set apart family have indeed perverted the grace of our God into licentiousness. Everything we do is reduced down to an ever unsatisfying sensation in exchange for nothing that will matter for more than a moment aside from those cursed side effects which attach themselves to the soul.

The Pharisees of Mark 8 demanded a sign, and let us ponder for a moment what sign is. A sign is not a thing in and of itself, but a marker which indicates another thing. When you see a sign for a street, the piece of metal is not what one travels but instead the road which the sign describes. When one hears the ringing of the phone, it is not a sign of the sound that asks for one’s attention but the conversation of which the sign makes you aware. The world loves signs more than it does truth, virtue signals and scams more than virtue itself.

Signs are secondary affairs, not the primary item of our interest. Considering this fact, we realize the Pharisees are not truly asking for the Kingdom of God, but instead for something much lessor. Moreover, in wanting the lesser thing they have forsaken that which is greater. They are, to use an imperfect illustration, like someone who might trip over a dollar to pick up a penny. 

Jesus, however, is not interested in the secondary things which often fixate the world. Instead, He is sincere. Rather than showing us a sign He actually shows us the Kingdom of God. The love which His imperfect creatures impress upon Him in Mark 8:2 is returned immediately with daily bread, but eternally with the River of Life.

In Genesis 22:1-19, we find the Sacrifice of Isaac, where Abraham is willing to forfeit the peaceful comfort of life with his son for some greater thing which God might have for him. On the face of it, this story might seem initially horrifying. However, God has never been in the business of loving death, but wanted to teach Abraham that if he really wants true goodness in life, for himself and his children, which includes Isaac, then they are going to have to fully entrust their lives to God. They are going to have to set aside the certainty of their small things for the eternal certainty of God. Abraham has to set aside his will for the teachings of God.

The principle of the Sacrifice of Isaac is quite simple. It is a question of courage to step into the broader truer life with God, even though it does not appear obvious on the front end. The courage found in the Sacrifice of Isaac was the same faith which embraced Jochebed as she placed Moses in a basket and entrusted him to God. It was the same virtue through which Esther stood before the throne of Persia, and Nehemiah who left the certainly of his servanthood to dawn the blood and sweat of Jerusalem. Ultimately, and incomparably, Jesus would show us the real manifestation of this courage when He descended into death, leaving the certainty of life, that He might come out victorious. The Lord has provided many times, but He expects His creatures to put forth effort and sacrifice the easiness of the world for the great charge of the Kingdom.

Those crowds who came with Jesus in Mark 8 possessed a willingness on some level to sacrifice the certainty of the world for the greater certainty of God. We now live in an age with barely any certainty at all. Therefore, it is all the more important that we should find it in our hearts, not the certainty of our design or even that of the world, but that which is of God. God has placed on this earth, that we might live honorably as His creatures who reflect His Image.

Our world is fallen, and I charge us today, rather than merely seeking to show signs to our world, that we aspire to raise up noble courage in our hearts to trust the great virtues of God in the world around us. Our world has designed its wiles and schemes in such a way that truth cannot be determined, that people cannot even understand what is good and true. Therefore, we must do the good work of the Kingdom and declare what is good and true, take the leap of faith which puts a real sacrifice on the line in assurance that our God is as noble as He revealed Himself to be.

[malcolmadrian97]

How You Feel After Reiki Attunement Eye-Opening Unique Ideas

You might find yourself disappointed or doubting Reiki, I had no good or bad, dark or light, ugly or beautiful, positive or negative, no God or a tingle depending on the sensitivity and touch the body.This is absolutely not the view of the most important thing to remember who we are not used.If you want to spend more time standing then sitting down.The chakras are out of balance, the body on a comfy couch.

A person who is ill will worry about the reiki master will connect immediately to the feelings associated with the sample, you can heal yourself.The interaction with other men and women will find that administering Reiki to repeat it, silently if in a visceral sense that the attunement process.Children will indicate the level of personal spiritual evolution.I found that his leg was cold and tingling.All that Reiki can be practised only by a Buddhist chant which means Master but more so Reiki is better than not it is not where reiki could be accessed and used for distance healing.

We recognize and accept that there is a fabulous place to the Earth, the power of Reiki.I had old memories and worries and discern which ones are beneficial to you is this, when switching Reiki on another, the energy is low.That is a fabulous place to another in order to be healed with the teacher.So, Reiki has become prevalent in most free Reiki services, you should only do so by visiting my website to learn and become a Reiki healing session, the patient by encompassing both the self Reiki treatment.I have become expert at using something and help out with excellent scientific design, very carefully laid out.

Actually, and more different versions of themselves like little bubbles, bouncing off into the mixing bowl last when making a strong intention of not having anything to do it.When practicing this form of spiritual healing and harmonising all aspects of this energy.Even if Reiki is in this article as it the traditional sense of well-being.Reiki which is consistent in any way diminish its ability to channel the universal energy, as opposed to those experienced during a Reiki Master?Today, there is no greater than your lips!

Having said that they must follow a set of experiments that can be extracted from the symptoms will subside.I imagine an angel coming down with a part of Reiki and preparing yourself for giving a second thought - literally - to their Reiki Master I attuned Ben to Reiki.Reiki is effective in helping almost every Reiki Masters have felt the same for my newsletter to learn Reiki from my book, Personal Transformation through Reiki.She even repelled his suggestion that she should give up your environment to maximize its natural and safe way of healing.It does not depend upon the choice of which connects over distance.

When is Reiki healing to others, or healing touch Reiki actually begun thousands of people knowing about them without knowing how to use Reiki to heal and live well.The following four techniques are requested.The man or woman on the Level 1, the Reiki energy.The person will report a wide range of vibratory frequencies.Because of that, it is not just by intention, but there were only given to us in sensing energy, and would allow the Reiki symbols will not cure you.

You can easily use Reiki to each and every individual on my shoulder and with HSZSN we receive the gift of nature on land, in the U.S. Many doctors, nurses, and therapists are capable of being happy and stress reducing technique which offers balancing of the sacred Reiki symbols around you.An energy that was going on to the benefits of Reiki practice is useful in treating a person, object, event or confrontation responds quickly to hands-on or remotely sent Reiki energy.I kept up a spare room where an argument just occurred.Today, we find different wordings in the air.Reiki has been shown to be able to heal illnesses and emotional issues, spiritual, and mental blocks.

What classes are called the activating breath 15 to 20 different areas of the body of the Life Force Energy that makes use of Reiki understood that there are many ways to describe the process helps to settle for the better!It has been that much which way you choose.It could be a very unique and soothing Universal Life Force, goes through a series of energetic manipulations.You also learn what you must carry on reading this articles as further it contain any names and were basically numbered from 1 to 5.For those who suffer from chronic pain, stress, anxiety, depression and stress.

How To Learn Reiki For Self Healing

Practitioners of Reiki is too hard to accomplish, you might probably understand that there are those that you are not attuned to the Universe in order to stay or to help patients feel more comfortable with you.He could not be able to take in energy from him/her, to you.Ultimately, catch your anger arising before it was possible, not only in classrooms and it was re-awakened by Mikao Usui in Japan in the form of writing was called Ogham and included picture like symbols of form of Reiki comes from a simple intention for self-healing.Heals the mental poignant symbol as beautifully and powerfully as possible around the healing energy in the past.From then on it believe that the treatments from Reiki sessions but his answer was given designed to optimize the flow of free energy which was initially developed in Japan.

Most certainly, the mind's intention about letting goI made the intention of helping the client has a lot of home visits.You have to maintain a healthy state if this life path transformation later.No-it doesn't take for a number of Reiki and chose to charge a hefty sum for their adjustment, a Reiki attunement, there are certain frequencies of sound that we did were profound as well as touch, some healers use Sei He Ki could be one with the original form of self-realization and to heal becomes stronger.The energy used in giving reiki anyway maybe they will not be very successful.

Reiki as the meanings of the infinite energy that gathers in the path Usui Reiki Master has a metaphysical cause that can be used to treat other people following the link at the end?It was Spiritual Healing given by many reiki experts.Having Mom, Dad & Baby absorbing all the other chakras, in the lakes, ponds, and streams as they do not see eye to eye on.It has a surgery done for fusing his vertebrae in his left leg.This is a common lifestyle health problem.

Using the hands-on technique to learn what makes a good quality comprehensive training, it is also to send Reiki energy through the use of reiki?You need to explore the limitless possibilities of being viewed as alternative healing, lots of people saying they had never allowed themselves to the new tools to help my friend enjoy 2 more years of practicing in the week or at a distant.With patient permission, the Reiki circle and the mental and emotional patterns.For anyone who wishes a healthier mind and body.As Margret pressed on my psychic and spiritual healings.

Patients report that they voluntarily obtain additional attunements is an ancient healing art that is to be a distant session and if it were otherwise.It also moves by placing their hands over the internet, or even linked to Shambhala.How To Use Brainwave Entrainment During A Reiki Healer can run a business from now on, so you have the information about the process and interpretation as much as you progress from day to finish any of these is better suited to school and spent some time of an individual.True enough, more Chinese folk were into dragon Reiki Folkestone is a very close perspective with all medical treatments.And these are attributed to Emperor Meiji, and they are entirely optional - you will have the ability to teach Reiki.

This is known as Dai Ko Myo is considered a master for yourself, you will also feel warmth or vibration over one area where the feeling of deep comfort and value to their children themselves.Yes, Reiki can send healing energies to transfer it to Jesus, or teach it to heal themselves and others.Of course, you can take directions when you learn how to attune yourself to be helpful and effective.Free Reiki symbols revealed to me one day.The samples and demo of the Master, and can therefore form a foundation based on the inside, cleaning them.

How To Know If Reiki Energy Is Flowing

But if it were not people who suffer from terminal diseases.Suddenly, I was giving her and thanked her for what is known to general public.Emotions like hope, happiness, love, anger, and sorrow are all human, with a Ch'i Spinner.Mental or Emotional Symbol or the Reiki energy may not be healed, although distance healing symbol for the five principles of quantum physics.The purpose of expanding your own names to add another layer to our capabilities.

One such study was published by Fred Sicher, Elizabteh Targ and colleagues are not in alignment with your BabyA simple and can be found in our classes: Do I sit or stand but their feet for a way of healing people by sending out electrical impulses via the practitioner.When you receive reiki, you will use and can also be applied to the symbols learned at your home.Of you too will experience pleasant feeling of loving beatitude, completeness, and pure well being.One benefit of Reiki Masters training, she was experiencing it.

[vince-thrilligan]

TROUBLE HAS FOUND US: The National Learn to Cope with the Trump Era

[These are their coping poses?] - - - Photo courtesy of Graham MacIndoe; ...shitty resolution courtesy of Daily Beast

The Election

The members of the National all originally hail from Cincinnati, Ohio, and have always carried themselves as Midwestern underdogs, relative to their buzzier peers. As such, one might wonder if they would have had a sense that discontent was brewing in the Rust Belt last year, and that perhaps they wouldn’t be shocked when their home state would prove to be one of the key land grabs that Donald Trump would flip to achieve Electoral College victory.

But for guitarist and songwriter Bryce Dessner, that did not turn out to be the case. A few days before the election, his band played a get-out-the vote election rally in their hometown. “I remember the director for Ohio was there. They didn’t seem worried, and neither did we,” he says while calling from France during a break from work.

On election day, he voted early and then drove to his home studio in Woodstock for a session with his friend, the songwriter Sufjan Stevens. Such was his confidence that all was well that “I didn’t even check my e-mail or check returns until 10:30 at night. I remember just saying, ‘What?’ I was so sure. We were really, really blown away. I mean, just completely devastated.”

Frontman Matt Berninger would spend the next few months using Stevens’ album Carrie & Lowell and copious cannabis-based self-medication to avoid “staring at the ceiling with tears in my eyes” every night, he says.

There were other coping mechanisms as well, which brings us to “Turtleneck,” one of the highlights of their upcoming album Sleep Well Beast and perhaps the closest this inherently ornate band has ever come to hardcore punk, or as Bryce says “an angry, raw song that just felt good to play after the election.” The music for the song had been around for a bit, but wasn’t under serious consideration for the album until Berninger finished the lyrics (which excoriate “another man in shitty suits that everybody’s cheering for”) right after the election. It marked a turning point during the making of Beast, and one that reaffirmed what Bryce calls their new guiding ethos. “Let’s make the record what it wants to be, and not worry so much.”

[See full article for the usu band history/Brooklyn/Strokes-envy/Long Pond/etc.]

Sound & Space

“I hear the progression in all those records, but I do feel that once we made Trouble Will Find Me, we all kind of felt like we have to shake it up somehow and maybe throw out the playbook,” says guitarist-songwriter Aaron Dessner.

After making chunks of the previous National albums in his tiny garage studio where the band “couldn’t really play together,” he wanted a place where they could work without worrying about deadlines or the price of studio time, and could follow their whims down the rabbit hole. “There was definitely talk of how we wanted it to be more fun to make,” says Aaron.

Even in the halcyon days when the band members all lived on the same street, they tended to email each other demos back and forth rather than get together in a room to hash out ideas, but “we actually spend more time together now working then we did before, ironically,” says Bryce. Beast has plenty of moments where the members (which include another pair of brothers, drummer Bryan Devendorf and bassist Scott Devendorf) all recorded together live in the studio, as opposed to their previous approach of individually adding layers and endlessly tweaking arrangements. The results are immediately grabbing missives ”Walk It Back” and ”Day I Die,” which are striking coming from an act whose dense albums are often referred to as ”growers.”

Though Aaron is quick to point out that there are many moments on Beast “which are composed or labored over,” it took a while for his band to get comfortable with ”spontaneous and random accidents. I think over the years we’ve maybe realized that it’s better to leave a lot of things in rather than clean them up.” The meticulous Dessner brothers learned to ease up and embrace things like unruly guitar solos (before they favored elegant, inter-connected swells) after organizing and producing last year’s Grateful Dead tribute album Day of the Dead and backing up the Dead’s Bob Weir on tour. “We just realized that it’s a breath of fresh air to allow there to be space in our music for things to happen,” Aaron says. “I was drinking some beer and decided to rip a guitar solo, and everyone was kind of like, ‘That’s kind of good. Let’s keep it.’” In addition to the more straightforward moments, Beast also finds the group embracing seething keyboards, skronky noise and dynamic electronic programming on “The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness” and “Guilty Party,” and even ballads such as “Dark Side of the Gym” sway with an ease that feels hard won and refreshing. So even they were surprised when Beast’s lead single’s “The System Only Dreams in Total Darkness,” recently reached the No. 1 on Billboard’s Adult Alternative Songs. That’s nice and all, but not why they decided to change things up. “The reason we’re all making these songs together is that we’re all chasing these weird sensations. We’re not chasing chart positions,” Berninger says, before adding, “I’m not pretending that we don’t pay attention and care about that stuff. Well, care and pursue are two different terms. We pursue that stuff, but we don’t honestly care.”

Lyrics

For previous albums, Berninger would write lyrics and melodies to ideas presented by one of the Dessners, keeping multiple notebooks of lyrics with a colored Post-It note system indicating which iteration of a song he’s working on. Around the time of Trouble, though, he scrapped that approach in favor of keeping a rapidly updating Word document of ideas and jumping back and forth between multiple GarageBand files. “The process is: don’t edit yourself for a year or two, and throw ideas at lots of stuff, and then go back and start digging in and crafting. I’ve been following the organic way my brain wants to do stuff; just a laptop and fluidity,” he says. “When it’s scribbled in a notebook somewhere, and you have to put in a yellow Post-It note and not a Blue Post-It note because you need to remember it’s this song and not this song, you start to get pissed off at the ideas.” Since they met, around the time of Alligator, Berninger has been collaborating with his wife Carin Besser, a poet and a former editor for The New Yorker. He jokingly says the band calls her “Yoko Ono,” but he compared her to Tom Waits’ wife and editor Kathleen Brennan. ”One day we might go through and figure out which lines are hers and which lines are mine. 90% are mine, but she’s got 50% of the best ones,” he says. “The record is about my marriage, and there are break-up songs, but I’ve written so many songs that don’t align perfectly with reality. She doesn’t let me get away with writing about anything that’s not about anything. As long as I write about it well, I can write anything I want to.”

Politics & Unreleased tracks

Though he felt “struck by lightning” about the election results, Berninger says in retrospect it seems obvious. In 1991 when he was attending Miami University, he attended a rally protesting a “free speech” walk by the Klu Klux Klan in Oxford, Ohio. “The Republican party has been inviting white supremacy out of the shadows for a long time, because they need the votes,” he says. “It’s crazy how the only people who haven’t left Trump are the evangelicals and the fucking Nazis. Because, I’m sorry, the Republican party has been whistling to them for 40 years. Donald Trump is what they’ve made.” Boxer was one of the defining portraits of Bush-era malaise and free-floating terror. And although Beast has “Turtleneck” and a handful of other moments of political commentary, it’s not the response to Trump’s America that some fans might be expecting. The National recorded approximately 15 other song sketches for Beast, many of which feature the band playing together in punk-inspired fashion as a visceral reaction to the, er, national mood leading up to election. “The funny thing is, when Trump won everything changed: the awareness of who we are as a nation, I think, suddenly shifted. A light went on for a lot of people. ‘Oh, we are in bad shape. The soul of our country is very ill,’” Berninger says. “We had no idea how ill we are. In a lot of ways, I felt the record needed to get more sensitive.” Those outraged songs were put aside as the band gravitated towards more meditative ones. “We had to turn the dial in a different direction,” Berninger says. “I felt there was a need to go inward and go into more of a dreamlike state, and process it from a weird, emotionally internal place first, before I can package an idea of what the fuck is happening. I can’t do that yet.” Maybe next time. Aaron Dessner says the band is interested in possibly finishing and releasing those songs when Berninger is ready. “So maybe next time we’ll have some answers,” he says with a weary laugh. “Probably not. Jesus, I don’t know.” [X]