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whatisonthemoon · 1 year

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Don Diligent’s Notes on Moon’s Theocracy, Plus Fascism and Terrorism

▲ John K. Singlaub

An archived WIOTM post from “Don Diligent” on July 21, 2016, “Mr. Moon! You did mean autocratic theocracy! Plus fascism & terrorism! Just ask Gary Jarmin & Neil Salonen!” Significance Of The Training Session Reverend Sun Myung Moon May 17, 1973

My dream is to organize a Christian political party including the Protestant denominations, Catholics and all the religious sects. Then, the communist power will be helpless before ours…when it comes to our age, we must have an automatic theocracy[*] to rule the world. So, we cannot separate the political field from the religious…We have to purge the corrupted politicians, and the sons of God must rule the world. The separation between religion and politics is what Satan likes most.

United States Council for World Freedom - Militarist Monitor

The U.S. Council for World Freedom (USCWF) is the United States affiliate of the World Anti-Communist League (WACL). The first WACL branch in the U.S., the American Council for World Freedom (ACWF), was founded in 1970 by Lee Edwards. Edwards had worked with the Young Americans for Freedom.

In 1980, retired Major General John K. Singlaub went to Taiwan to speak at the WACL annual convention. A year later he was asked to start a new U.S. chapter…Joining Singlaub from the ACWF board were John Fisher, Stefan Possony, Lev Dobriansky, J. A. (Jay) Parker, and Fred Schlafly.

Report from Neil Salonen about FLF November 1969 Page 27

Because Vietnam is now America’s most crucial national issue, we felt that FLF must take a clear and decisive stand, to be responsible to our created mission. Our campus program has been geared toward uniting the efforts of as many students as possible, to create a coordinated response to the radical activities of the violent revolutionists. In a meeting of all those student groups who were interested in supporting our policy of PEACE WITH FREEDOM, a broad coalition was formed with the Student Coordinating Committee for Peace with Freedom in Vietnam; the Washington, D. C., Young Republicans; and the Young Americans for Freedom. The coalition adopted the name STUDENT FAST FOR FREEDOM and formed a steering committee for all planning. Over 40 students in Washington alone joined in the three days of fasting to demonstrate their willingness to sacrifice for the freedom of all people. For all those Family members who participated, the Fast had an even deeper, more symbolic meaning.

The opening rally was held in Copley Lounge at Georgetown University on Thursday, October 10, at 8:00 p.m. The Fast Coordinators, Neil Salonen (FLF) and Charlie Stephens (SCC), opened the press conference with a statement of the goals of the Fast, a briefing to all the participants of the mechanics of the three days, and an appeal to all of America to join in supporting this demonstration of commitment to the revitalization of the American nation. The assembled group was then addressed by Mr. Neil Staebler, Democratic National Committeeman from Michigan, considered one of the senior statesmen of the Democratic Party; Dr. Walter Judd, former Congressman from Minnesota, with 30 years service as a medical missionary in China; His Excellency, Bui Diem, Ambassador to the United States from Vietnam; and Mr. Bernard Yoh, a veteran of a lifetime of guerrilla warfare against communist aggression in Southeast Asia.

ACWF - American Council For World Freedom

1977 OFFICERS

Dr. Walter H. Judd, Honorary President

Dr. Lev E. Dobriansky, President

Dr. Stefan T. Possony, First Vice President

Mr. David Keene, Second Vice President

Mr. Lee Edwards, Secretary

Mr. J.A. Parker, Treasurer

BOARD OF DIRECTORS

Mr. Paul Bethel

Rev. Raymond de Jaegher

Dr. Lev E. Dobriansky

Mr. Ronald F. Docksai

Dr. Joseph Dunner

Dr. Walter Dushnyck

Lt. Gen. Daniel Graham (USA Ret.)

Mr. Lee Edwards

Dr. Walter H. Judd

Mr. David Keene

Mr. Marx Lewis

Adm. John McCain (USN Ret.)

Dr. Robert Morris

Mr. J.A. Parker

Mr. Ron Pearson

Dr. Stefan Possony

Dr. David Rowe

Dr. Edward Rozek

Mr. Neil A. Salonen

Mr. Fred Schlafly

FLF Celebrates Fourth Anniversary - Neil Salonen - August 5, 1973

Receiving the guests prior to the dinner were FLF President and Mrs. Neil Salonen, Congressman and Mrs. Richard Ichord, and FLF Secretary-General Gary Jarmin.

Mr. Salonen completed the program by giving surprise birthday gifts to four people who have been with FLF since its beginning. Honored were Accuracy in Media head Reed Irvine, Congressional assistant David Martin, Committee for Free China representative Lee Edwards, and Bernard Yoh.

Conservative Foreign Policy - CSPAN

Gary Jarmin moderated a discussion, “What Is a Conservative Foreign Policy?” The speakers discussed topics such as protecting U.S. interests, maintaining peace through strength, and the legacy of President Ronald Reagan.

MY COMMENTS:Gary Jarmin introduces David Keene (35:45 - 50:25) and after his talk Jarmin mentions (50:33 - 50:41) that he was the Legislative Director of the American Conservative Union from 1975 - 1979. It is quite apparent then, that when Gary Jarmin “broke his Blessing” in early 1975 and left the UC, he landed on his feet not only with a “new job” but was given a high level position working under David Keene who had strong ties to the World Anti Communist League. By the way, Gary Jarmin also founded the American Service Council.

On the 1962 Reorganization of the Unification Church as a Political Tool of Japan, South Korea, and USA Rev. Moon, the Bushes & Donald Rumsfeld

Moonstruck: The Reverend and His Newspaper Briefly on Moonies Organizing Against Miners, Workers, Communists, etc. On Arnaud de Borchgrave, Editor-in-Chief of the Washington Times and Friend of Gladio Terrorists

Rev. Moon Buys а College, Hires Spooks & Moonies (1992) Moonies offered to pay leaders of the Contras The Reinvention of the Latin American Right VOC, CAUSA & Moonie Anti-Communism in Central America in Bo Hi Pak’s Own Words

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walaw717 · 4 years

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Public health leadership, journalism and political leaders have failed Americans

It began with a fourteen day stay at home order to “help the hospitals not become overwhelmed.” Changed to a 14-day quarantine to stem the spread. Those fourteen days grew to thirty days, then sixty. In some places like California and Michigan they are saying this is “the new normal and will never end”.

Public health leaders told us we did not need masks that six feet away was enough. Then they said we all need masks all the time and that we still needed to stay six feet apart. Cloth masks were ok then they were not. Hard surfaces held the virus then they did not. Public health officials seemed to not be able to make up their minds. Each new study gave a different answer. Then they told us all the computer models contradicted each other and all were wrong.T

he media kept printing the numbers of deaths like a body count in the Vietnam war. Except they never published the rates per million because that would not scare us enough. A 99.03 survival rate would not sound apocalyptic enough. The media disparaged the individual while talking about social rules and social compliance as a sign of individual love. Politicians virtue signaled at every press conference.

People got tired and frustrated. They began to feel like they were being lied to at every turn. They felt manipulated by a media elites who turned this "pandemic" political. Social cooperation devolved into protests to open. Businesses closed too long and people were losing homes, livelihood, personal dreams. Court battles started over violations of constitutional rights. People began to polarize and speak of Red states as free states. Blue states became unfree states or "communist states”.

Child abuse rates, domestic violence rates, anxiety and depression soared. Then the last straw was a video of a cop, who should not have been a cop, abusing a citizen even after that citizen complied. That man not only is a symbol of racial abuse it is a symbol of the systemic abuse of government powers in the last three months. What started as a race issue became a society wide I have had enough issue. Then the riots and looting started

A friend put it to me this way,

“A horse without a job becomes an unruly pushy horse. Put in a small 12x 12 stall he becomes an angry, food aggressive, irritable horse.I've recently seen an EMS worker who attempted suicide. One of how many struggling. ???I've witnessed several nurses who QUIT. For their sanity. One of how many??My disabled sister managed her health challenges by going to a gym and volunteering at an animal shelter. Her means to keep sane and healthy stripped from her by the state.ONE of HOW many???”

Human’s like horses are social animals. The factor that the public health doctors, computer modelers and mathematicians did not enter in their equations was the human need for socialization. And in the abstract models they generated of virus spread they generated fear and even greater personal devastation because they did not take into account the "human costs" .

That Americans complied at first does speak to human caring and generosity. That Americans became tired, frustrated and violent points to a larger failure of Public Health understanding to mental health as part of public health. They relied too much on computers models that cannot take in to account the human spirit and human needs.

I have lived through many “pandemics”. Polio and TB when I was a child. The Honk Kong virus, Sars, H1N1, Mers. Never in my lifetime did we react to a “pandemic” as we have this one. People continued with their lives. In 1968 in the midst of the Hong Kong flu we held Woodstock. The world did not stop, and “millions” did not die as predicted.

My grandparents, both born at the turn of the 19th Century into the 20th, lived through far worse and society did not shut down.

Public health, the medical community and the media have taken advantage of their positions of authority and responsibility. Instead of calm, sane well though out information, public health talking heads and reporters used manipulation and fear to force compliance with flawed computer models. These models did not take into account the one thing that computer nerds do not understand, the deep psychology of the human spirit, the willingness to help each other at great sacrifice. They used numbers to manipulate us, shame us, make people afraid as a way of conducting radical social engineering.

There is a human toll in this that has not even begun to be calculated. There is a toll in mental health, increasing social violence, an even greater distrust of political leaders and the media. We now even distrust each other as we divide into “free people” vs “sheeple”.

Public health failed us because not only was most of the data wrong, it was inconsistent. Science turned into a reactionary force.

This is not the new normal.

Pandemics pass and societies move on. People want to and need to socialize in restaurants and pubs. People need to see each other’s faces without masks, they need to embrace, to touch to shake hands. Life cannot be boiled down to a computer model. We do not need a society born of some dystopian view of life that comes from a total lack of understanding of the human need for each other and for social interaction.

Public health, the media and Politicians have betrayed us in the name of saving us.

It is time for all of us to go back to work, to get rid of masks, to stop fearing being within six feet of each other. We have shown we actually do care. For months we have done our best to follow conflicting and manipulated information. We are at a place where the rioting in the streets is not only about the brutal death of one man by a bad representative of the state but about the brutality of unemployment, social isolation and denial of our rights as citizens and human beings creates by the state claiming to save us.

#covid-19 #public health #masks #social isolation #social distancing #social justice #the new normal

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quakerjoe · 5 years

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This is a long read, but it’s the best damned thing I’ve read in a long time... ~Joe

I stopped watching Chernobyl after the first episode because a lifetime ago, I was a serious physics nerd and everything they were saying was absurd about the levels of radiation. Last night we watched the other 4 episodes and I thought maybe I might try and push the rock up the hill again and maybe open some eyes about where we are right now in this truly dystopic Orwellian nightmare. J. Robert Oppenheimer was a particular hero to me as a teen because he was so brilliant and accomplished the impossible in just 18 months. If you have not read American Prometheus, I highly recommend it because it details a time when we had a government of imbeciles running around with their hair on fire about communists who threw people in jail who wouldn't admit to that old drunk McCarthy that they were communists. Like all demagogues, McCarthy thought he was the lone arbiter of who was and who wasn't a patriot and he rose to such prominence because he was willing to lie about anything to make his baseless allegations. But Joe McCarthy was no patriot nor was his principle henchman Roy Cohn. They used the collective paranoias of stupid people to manufacture a crisis that did not exist. They destroyed lives and relished doing it to what would be referred now as the 'elitist liberals' like Dalton Trumbo and Oppy. Oppy was an extremely educated liberal who spoke to other people like him. Some of whom were communists. This made him a threat in the minds of the men who put Julius and Ethel Rosenberg to death. Ethel was entirely innocent but that didn't matter to a public brought to full froth by the hysteria of the day. Those men beating the drums of patriotism could not conceive of a man like Oppy talking to a communist and not be a communist himself, the same was said of Trumbo. Guilt by association was just enough for the likes of Cohn and McCarthy. "For each lie, a debt to the truth is incurred." Chernobyl Historians have written heroic books about the great generals of WWII, MacArthur and Patton being the most famous and they do deserve their notoriety but they ignored to a large extent who actually won the war for the allies and that comes down to two men: Alan Turing and J. Robert Oppenheimer. By any measure, Alan was the greatest man of the 20th century. Oppy is a bit harder to fit into that calculus and he said so himself because he knew atomic weapons would change the world and not in a good way. It's true the Japanese were whipped and that Doolittle could have continued to firebomb Japanese cities until the Japanese came to heel but that is still speculation. After Nagasaki, the war was over right or wrong, Oppy did that and saved hundreds of thousands of American troops. After the war, McCarthy went after Oppy. He wasn't treated like the hero he was and didn't want to be. He was treated like a Soviet agent and stripped of all of his security clearances because he would not name names. He was threatened with prison, his jobs were taken from him and he was exiled from the community of scientists that *he* built because of the lies of scum like McCarthy and Cohn. Alan Turing didn't fair much better from his government either. The McCarthys of that time didn't really believe in America at all, he wasn't a patriot no matter how loudly his supporters screamed it. McCarthy didn't think the idea of America could survive 'communist infiltration'. He had no grasp of why communism spread in Russia like wildfire because to his primitive and ignorant mind, he didn't know what it was like to live under a Tsar. 'If it spread there then it can spread here' was the thinking because McCarthy didn't understand or believe in the ideals that founded America. To him, they were so weak and feeble that communism would be preferable than what we had in America. That lie destroyed lives, destroyed families and stands as a black stain on our nation's history. The thing about liars is that they have to tell bigger and bigger lies to cover for all the small ones and then that debt to the truth comes due. It came to McCarthy when Joseph Welch lanced the festering boil that was McCarthyism with the truth. Before Welch delivered his fatal blow, he reacted to McCarthy's slander with this: "And so, Senator, I asked him to go back to Boston. Little did I dream you could be so reckless and so cruel as to do an injury to that lad. It is true he is still with Hale & Dorr. It is true that he will continue to be with Hale & Dorr. It is, I regret to say, equally true that I fear he shall always bear a scar needlessly inflicted by you. If it were in my power to forgive you for your reckless cruelty, I would do so. I like to think I'm a gentle man, but your forgiveness will have to come from someone other than me." Then a moment later, he drew the blade that ended the national nightmare when he murdered McCarthy with the indelible truth: Mr. Welch: You've done enough. Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency? McCarthy and Cohn of course had no decency. Cohn delighted in going after homosexuals and destroying their lives while being a homosexual himself. They were the most vile hypocrites the world had ever known. McCarthy incapable of feeling shame, drank himself to death after he was humiliated as the coward he was. I sat there thinking about this as the full horror of what happened at Chernobyl unfolded. The entirety of the Russian government played out exactly like Trump having all of his cabinet praising his greatness, it was vulgar, it was disgusting. Then I remembered all the other dictators I've read about in history who surrounded themselves with sycophants. Martin Bormann being the reference example who served Hitler so faithfully. Bormann was a slack-jowled imbecile who was barely qualified to lick stamps but nobody in the Reich dare cross the thug because he was Hitler's favorite yes man. I remember that day Trump's cabinet took turns telling Trump how honored they were to serve under his super terrifically awesomeness and that they were but boot-licking sycophants. Pence really had to lather up Trump's ass before he could muster a vulgar enough kiss to satisfy that insidious git. I sat thinking that this was the lowest moment in the history of the Republic. What separated them from the Soviet Central Committee under Gorbechev? Not a damn thing. They *all* lie for a living and kiss the dear leader's ass. It was the most unAmerican thing ever done in the White House. It was sheer cowardice by each and every single one of them. Any man who had a lick of honor would have walked out in disgust to save what's left of their honor. The *only* one who got out of this administration with any was General Mattis. And you can see this cult in all of its terrible glory if you just glance at any of the stories coming in from visitors to the concentration camps now open on United States' soil. There are zero testimonials from any objective visitor who says conditions are fine. Last Thursday a government Lawyer argued to 3 appellate judges that giving toothbrushes and toothpaste were luxury items not to be afforded for the $700-$800 a day American tax payers are paying private prison companies to house these thousands of misdemeanor offenders. Republicans have strenuously objected to calling these 'detention centers' 'concentration camps' because nothing offends cult members like the truth about what they are really do. Ask any Scientologist if you're not positive of this undeniable fact. Children are living outside, locked up and fully exposed to the elements without food and running water because the man who concocted this policy is a 32-year-old psychopath named Stephen Miller who has devised schemes to strip parents of their children as a 'deterrent' from coming to the US. I remember wondering as I read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich how so many people were duped into voting Hitler into office and here I am now witnessing it. I see right wing lunatics actually calling people 'Antifa' as if it is some slur. "Antifa'' meaning 'anti-fascist.' They seem wholly unaware that Americans won a war against fascism because we were all against what the Axis was doing. What the nazis knew was that they needed to control the press. What modern fascists like Rupert Murdoch have learned is that it is easier to control the masses with propaganda and to do that is to obey Goebbels' edict to 'accuse the other side for what you are guilty of.' This is where Republicans are now. There is no Republican party anymore. It is a cult of personality except it isn't Hitler being exalted by the hoards of half-literate morons, it's Trump. Trump lies to them and they breath in his lies and they repeat them with a religious fervor because none of them are aware that for each lie they tell, they incur a debt to the truth. In Germany and in Chernobyl, those lies always caused death on a mass scale either through incompetence or outright evildoing. Here we are at a crossroads in American history with an ignorant electorate chanting 'lock her up' as if that's something that's going to happen. The Secretary of the Treasury is openly breaking federal law in full few of all these miscreants and the cult doesn't care. The Attorney General of the United States, the highest law enforcement official in the land openly committed perjury before the US Congress. The President has committed election fraud, violated the emoluments clause and committed more acts of obstruction of justice than can be counted in full view of the American people and the sad fact of the matter is nothing is being done about it. The Republican cult doesn't even want to pretend like they don't want the Russians involved in the next election. They've done exactly nothing to safeguard our elections from Russian interference because they are so easily bought by Putin that they aren't going to do a damn thing to stop someone who is trying to help them win elections. I don't know what it takes before the people take to the streets but if opening up concentration camps isn't appalling enough to put the spurs in then nothing will. This is how it was done, the chipping away of normalcy with outrage after outrage until insanity became the new normal because as Voltaire so presciently said, 'anyone who can make you believe absurdity can make you commit atrocities.' Little children are locked up outside in the elements without so much as a blanket to protect them. They have no rights to anything because the courts are so overwhelmed with cases now that it will take many years before any of these refugees get a hearing. They're standing children up in front of a judge without a lawyer to defend themselves against imaginary crimes of crossing a line on a rock turning 35,000 mph in a small solar system. Republicans stole a supreme court seat and they will continue to lie, cheat and steal to remain in power. That's why Mitch has delivered over 100 carefully selected members of the Heritage Society to fill vacant judicial posts because he does not care about our democracy, he cares about power. As many Republicans have said, they only need someone to sign stuff, they don't care who. Trump is perfect for their agenda and democracy has never been on their agenda, usurping it is. 20 years of Murdoch's brainwashing has gotten us to this point and if anyone really believed in justice in this country, the heads of everyone at Fox would be rolling down main street as a lesson to future ambitious propagandists who mean to undermine our nation as that rogue Australian has done more than any other. To rid ourselves of this seditious scourge is going to take all of us who agree to speak with one voice at the ballot box. It's going to take protests on a scale not seen in the US. Blood is already being spilled in these concentration camps. Edmund Burke's warning that all it takes for evil to succeed is for good men to do nothing is coming to pass *yet again* and here we are at tyranny's doorstep. How much is enough? What atrocity must be committed on American soil before we get off our sorry asses and start doing something about it? If you don't think we aren't at war with a very determined enemy bent on destroying our country then you need to wake up to reality before we wake up that one morning like Martin Niemöller did when he said, "First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a socialist. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— Because I was not a Jew. Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me." Every single Republican in office right now is an enemy of the United States who are conspiring with our foreign enemies to keep themselves in power. So are the people who vote for them because they are no different than the people who voted Hitler into office. I sincerely hope if you agree with what I have said here that you spread this message with any like-minded people because as of yet, I haven't seen any presidential candidates calling these concentration camps what they are. If we don't start preparing for next November today, we could wake up to another 4 years of Trump. Our nation cannot survive such a reckless criminal administration the likes of this one for another four years. The nation will be bankrupt and in its death rattle. We can start speaking in unison this Independence Day by squelching this Trump celebration in DC by turning the real patriots out on a scale he can't imagine. It's time to start fighting and dirty at that while there's still something worth fighting for. #Resist Your very life depends on it as does our future.

- Thomas Clay

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artandculturethursday · 4 years

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Gabriella P. Pereira Artist - Frida Kahlo PRESENTATION SUMMARY ➤Magdalena Carmen Frida Kahlo y Calderón was born in 1907 was considered one of Mexico’s greatest artists. ➤The work she produced during her lifetime is a clear expression of her personal feelings and interpretation of the world around her. ➤As she would describe, her life was very tragic: she had Polio when she was young, suffered a very serious bus accident that left her with chronic pain/bedridden and had a turbulent marriage to Diego Rivera. ➤Involved in politics in Mexico, she was a Communist and later on a Marxist. ➤Her father was German and her mother was indigenous Mexican and Kahlo felt deeply connected to her Latin roots. ➤She believed in Mexicanidad, a movement that highlighted the pride of being Mexican, refusing the colonialism and replacing it with the traditional indigenous culture. She embraced her Mexicanidad and made it present in the way she lived and created art. ➤Her work was mainly focused on IDENTITY, CLASS and RACE. Always intensely connected to her feelings. ➤Almost half of the work she produced during her lifetime were Self Portraits. ➤Other artists considered her a Surrealist, but she never considered herself one. As she once said: "They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.” ➤My costume is representing her in one of her portraits, “Self Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird”. This portrait was painted in 1940 as a reflection of her emotional state after her divorce from Diego Rivera. ➤ This portrait was full of symbolism: the thorn necklace around her neck piercing her; a lifeless hummingbird hanging from it - hummingbirds symbolize life and freedom, and the dead bird here symbolizes how she spent her entire life, trapped on a bed and in pain. The butterflies in her hair are a symbol of resurrection. ➤ On the original painting she had a monkey on her shoulder symbolizing her husband and their turbulent relationship, and I used one of my dog sitting on my lap and looking away as a representation of Rivera. The black car on her other shoulder refers to bad luck and I used my other dog on my feet, to represent her chronic pain and the weight that always pulled her down. ➤Around 1950 Kahlo’s health issues worsened and she was deeply depressed and constantly in pain, resulting in suicidal attempts and other health complications. She died on July 13th, 1954 in Mexico City at 47 years old. ➤She was only recognized later in life, as she was mainly known as the eccentric wife of Diego Rivera. In the late 70s she was used as one of the icons of a feminist movement that began to question the presence of women and non-western artists from the art scene of the time. ➤Nowadays her image is very popular, being considered an icon that represents feminism, her face is in several different commercial merchandise, which she probably wouldn’t be very happy to know - being a commodity was never her intention.

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northofsomewhererp · 6 years

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Your Name, Age (17+), & Timezone: Meg, 22 oof, EST

Your Birthday: January 13th

Jaemin Moon turned 20 years old on September 1st. He’s a freshman at Rosewood University. His faceclaim is Jeongguk Jeon.

Admin Note: We love shy shady so much because shy shady is beautiful. Like, wowza. (I’m still in awe of you.) Welcome back!

Bio (10+ sentences, include brief history, personality, potential plots):

Although he was born and raised in America, Jaemin’s traditional beliefs shine through in his very Korean upbringing. Both of his parents escaped North Korea after their recklessness got his mother pregnant out of wedlock, something very frowned upon in the North. They were in search of a better life, and after many trials, safely arrived in America where they planned to expand their family. As much as they like to pretend they’re perfect and that everything is peachy keen, spending the majority of your life in a conservative country, under a communist government certainly changes your views on the world. And in a place like America, where diversity is celebrated and welcomed, there was an adjustment period. Even so, Yongsun and Taeyong maintained a lot of disturbing beliefs, which they passed down onto their son. Jaemin’s first memory of sexual attraction, now buried so deep within himself that he’s forgotten it, was watching a Korean drama with his father. The main actor was so handsome, so much so that he’d let it slip. After that, he got heavily reprimanded, then locked away in his room. “Man shall not lay with man”, those words echoed in his mind, he repeated them through quiet sobs like a mantra, hoping that maybe he’d start believing them someday. And he did. Now having just turned 20 years old, Jaemin is at a crossroads. He lives two entirely different lives, unbeknownst to his parents. To them, he’s the picture perfect son. He was that kid that was enrolled in almost every extra curricular activity at school, his many talents and hardworking attitude earning him the respect of his parents. He’s currently studying to become a doctor, at his father’s request, and keeping a very clean image to them. He’s polite, calm and collected. But the moment he’s out of sight, the true Min shines; snarky, loudmouth and competitive. Those are just a few words to describe the boy. Drugs and partying are a day-to-day occurrence for him. With his very flawed vision of the world, Jaemin’s made a lot of enemies in his lifetime. He’s hated by most, feared by some. He’s bitter, ready to snap at any moment for any reason, and to be quite frank, he doesn’t know why. He’s repressed his sexuality troubles so far down within himself that he doesn’t even know why he’s angry anymore, why he craves to fight and to scream all the time. But the truth, the one he’s forced himself to forget and the one he’ll forever deny, is that he’s gay. Jaemin’s entire life is a lie, and this lie is swallowing him whole bit by bit, slowly extinguishing his inner light. The question remains, how long will it take for Jaemin to look in the mirror and see himself for who he truly is?

Activity (1-10): 5

Have you read the rules?: removed

Would you like to be paired with a buddy to have character connections with (For new applicants)? uhh, no, not specifically. but when and IF (big if) i’m accepted, i have a plot bunnies page that i incite anyone to peek at and create connections uwu

In the event that you leave, can we keep your biography for future use? no, he’s my special son uwu Any comments/questions?: idek if you will have me back at all, if you want me at all. but i missed this place and i just figured “hey, i don’t have anything to lose by giving it a try.” can you believe i first joined this rp when i was seventeen? that’s insane. i hope i’ve grown as an rper since then but that’s probably false.

also huh, i guess i’ll add a few notes about my son here bc it’s surprisingly difficult to accurately depict a bitter, closeted gay man being homophobic but like internally and deep down being an okay person, it’s hard to make that point come across in a bio. the whole theme of this character will be development, so yes he would be an asshole to start with but yanno.

Sample( 2+ paragraphs): TRIGGER WARNING: homophobia, violence, slight nsfw-ish.

“Come on, Minie… just give me a taste”, the voice was distorted, but Jaemin distinctively felt someone push against him even in his alcoholic daze. His shirt lightly hiked up his hip, skin colliding to skin, simmering hot and so wrong… yet so right. The biting cold of the bathroom mirror contrasted so beautifully with the warmth of the hands crawling across his torso. His breathing was heavy, reduced to pants as lips forced their way against the column of his neck. He bit his lip, trying to muffle down a moan that threatened to burst out of him. Sitting on the countertop, Min’s hands wrapped themselves around whoever the fuck this was kissing him, any shame he would’ve had in a sober state completely jumping out the window.

The truth was, his parents could think he was a goody two shoes all they liked, their perfect son. But Jaemin himself didn’t know in how many women’s beds he found himself in weekly, in a similar drunken haze. He wasn’t about to suddenly develop a semblance of scruple over a woman he most likely wouldn’t remember in the morning, and neither would she. Moon only started getting antsy when he realized how strong those hands were… how pungent this person’s scent was, clinging to his sweltering skin. Men’s cologne. His breath got stuck in his throat, hands shoving blindly forward until the man stumbled backwards, falling in the tub with a grunt.

Jaemin’s eyes were wide open, darting around the room as if looking for a sign to tell him this wasn’t real, this was a dream. He felt sick to his stomach, covering his mouth as if he’d just been violated. “What the hell is your problem, man?” The other guy stood up, rubbing his head where he’d hit it against the edge of the tub.

“Don’t fucking talk to me, fag”, Jaemin’s words were venomous, he almost spat them at this other, innocent man, leaving him speechless, but only for a short moment.

“Fag? Who the fuck you calling a fag, dumbass?” The man got physical, pushing Jaemin right back. “You dragged me into this bathroom, you rubbed your perky little ass on my dick and you’re still fully torqued!” He nodded towards Moon’s crotch, making him cover it almost immediately.

“You must h- have me mistaken for someone else, I… No, I didn’t…” Jaemin trailed off, his gaze blanking out as he tried to recall the events of tonight. He recalled drinking, drinking plenty, laughing with his friends. He remembers… a voice whispering sweetly in the crook of his ear. This wasn’t happening. Even better; this never happened.

His heart was pounding through his skull, sending shockwaves of pain through his nerves. Jaemin coiled up, letting himself fall to his knees as he groaned in agony. “H- Hey… hey are you alr-” The boy didn’t have time to even try to comfort and help Jaemin that he threw himself at him fist first, his screaming getting louder and louder the more his knuckles connected to any part of the other man he could reach. “P- Please! Please stop, I… I- I won’t tell anyone, I just… please don’t hurt me.”

It wasn’t until this boy was curled up on the ground, tears spilling freely from his eyes with a busted lip and with blood dripping from his own knuckles that Jaemin snapped out of it, blinking slow and hard. He stared at what he’d done, his little heart still hammering against his ribcage as he backed up against the bathroom door, eyes never leaving his victim. He patted the surface, desperately searching for the handle, which he quickly found, turned and pulled the door open to escape.

The music was blaring, deafening even. But he couldn’t hear a sound. All he could hear were the sweet nothings this man murmured in his ear, followed by his cries of pain when he rammed into him full force. Bodies pushed up and down against him as he made his way to the crowd, what a crummy party this was, Jaemin regretted even showing up. With a shaky hand, he poured himself another drink when he reached whoever’s kitchen this was. He gulped it all in one go, leaning against the counter and throwing his head back, waiting for the sweet tingle of intoxication to wash away those awful memories.

#rp #roleplay #original character #submission #tw: homophobia #Accepted #acceptance

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gracereligion-blog · 5 years

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An Easy Formula For Faith Can Help You Accomplish Your Dreams

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trinitarian philosophy

When I start telling folks that we were planning to proceed to Germany, I didn't have any clue how we were going to get it done. We did not have the money to cover the movement, we did not know anyone in Germany and that I didn't have any clue how I was planning to locate work. It looked like it was a hopeless dream, but that I did have something going for me, I'd religion.

trinitarian philosophy

It is like one of When David told everybody he was likely to have the ability to conquer Goliath, he didn't have any clue how he was going to take action. The chances were against him and it looked like a hopeless undertaking. However, David didn't have something going for himhe had religion.

Impossible possible, to create apparently unreachable dreams a reality, and also to turn certain defeat to success, the question is: what is religion?

For Many years that I could estimate the definition of religion located in Hebrews 11:1. However, I actually did not know it until I managed to place it into a very simple formula that I discuss in my book"Taking On Goliath." The formula states:

In The formulation need is just what we desire. It is exactly what the verse in Hebrews requires what we hope for. The anticipation component of this formula is exactly what we actually think about what we desire. The Bible requires it material. It is the abstract sense we could have what we need, even though we are not certain how it will take place. The previous portion of the formulation is activity. It is what we do now that's the proof, or the evidence, of what we anticipate.

When I use this formulation to David's struggle The activities he took were to find a crystal clear image in his thoughts of Goliath lying dead on the floor.

For our transfer to Germany, my Then we do it. We purchased a map of Germany and place it on the walls of the dining area where it functioned to remind us of our fantasy. We started to prepare for residing in Germany by analyzing the speech, meeting an older German woman who lived close to usand listening to German music.

What's your fantasy? And how can your religion?

Start By taking a look at your own desires. And from that I do not mean the type of wants a three-year-old could have when moving through a toy shop where most of the brightly coloured packages would capture his attention and he would say,"Oh! By want I mean that type of deep desires you've got on mind which are what you really wish to achieve in your lifetime.

Then Have a Look at your expectation. What do you believe about fulfilling that want and accomplishing your fantasy? Can you think you need to have all of the answers first? David did not. And, like David, all I understood was that hopeless fantasies can come true as long as we are prepared to feel they could.

And about your activities? Have You Got a clear Picture in mind, and perhaps a"map onto the wall" or any pictures of your fantasy which you could use to remind you of your fantasy? Are there any things which you could do now that can allow you to get ready for the day as soon as your fantasy becomes a reality?

Whatever those activities can be, take 1 now and then a different tomorrowand keep doing this day after day. And if you start to feel fear or uncertainty, examine the image of your fantasy, imagine how great it will feel like living that dream, and your religion can allow you to reach it.

It required three-and-a-half Decades Of preparation and prayer before we transferred to Germany and that I would not trade that experience for anything. We spent nearly ten years now living and working in various parts of Germany and also we could proceed to the former communist East Germany soon after the wall fell. We've got friends and memories that'll last us a life.

Still a great deal of preparation and time that had to occur before him Became king. However, his religion kept him strong and that he managed to become Among the most important kings the country of Israel ever needed.

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creationscience5-blog · 5 years

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An Easy Formula For Faith Can Help You Accomplish Your Dreams

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trinitarian philosophy

It is like one of My favourite stories in the Bible, the story of David and Goliath. When David told everybody he was likely to have the ability to conquer Goliath, he didn't have any clue how he was going to take action. He was a shepherd boy and Goliath was a warrior. The chances were against him and it looked like a hopeless undertaking. However, David didn't have something going for himhe had religion.

If having religion is all that it takes to create the Impossible possible, to create apparently unreachable dreams a reality, and also to turn certain defeat to success, the question is: what is religion?

For Many years that I could estimate the definition of religion located in Hebrews 11:1. It states,"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." However, I actually did not know it until I managed to place it into a very simple formula that I discuss in my book"Taking On Goliath." The formula states:

Want + Expectation + Action = Religion.

When I use this formulation to David's struggle With Goliath, David's desire was to conquer Goliath. His anticipation was , God was going to help him kill Goliath like He'd aided he kills a lion and a bear that had assaulted his sheep. The activities he took were to find a crystal clear image in his thoughts of Goliath lying dead on the floor. Since David thought he could defeat Goliath, he soon discovered a way to utilize the abilities he had with a shepherd's sling to kill the beast with one shot.

For our transfer to Germany, my Desire was to reside and work in Germany. My anticipation was that God would work out all of the facts, though I could not see how it was possible. Then we do it. We purchased a map of Germany and place it on the walls of the dining area where it functioned to remind us of our fantasy. We started to prepare for residing in Germany by analyzing the speech, meeting an older German woman who lived close to usand listening to German music.

What's your fantasy? And how can your religion?

Start By taking a look at your own desires. And from that I do not mean the type of wants a three-year-old could have when moving through a toy shop where most of the brightly coloured packages would capture his attention and he would say,"Oh! I need that, and that, and that" By want I mean that type of deep desires you've got on mind which are what you really wish to achieve in your lifetime.

It required three-and-a-half Decades Of preparation and prayer before we transferred to Germany and that I would not trade that experience for anything. The utter delight of seeing a dream come true was unbelievable. We spent nearly ten years now living and working in various parts of Germany and also we could proceed to the former communist East Germany soon after the wall fell. We've got friends and memories that'll last us a life.

For David, the conflict with Goliath was a significant step toward attaining his dream of becoming king. Following he burst on the scene with his victory over Goliath, there was Still a great deal of preparation and time that had to occur before him Became king. However, his religion kept him strong and that he managed to become Among the most important kings the country of Israel ever needed.

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 2 years

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“Orson S. Murray founded Fruit Hills in 1845, near present-day Loveland, inspired by his personally-held principles of atheism, socialist feminism, and economic cooperation. Murray hailed from the radical abolitionist movement, writing in The Struggle of the Hour that slavery “makes men into brutes, driving and being driven, crushing and being crushed.” He railed against church, state, and property as “a trio of monsters” in his newspaper, The Regenerator, and cofounded a group called the Society for Universal Inquiry and Reform. Fruit Hills was one of several efforts by Universal Reformers to translate theory into a practical utopia on the rural American frontier.

Murray once wrote that “Bibles and Constitutions are only the necessities of ignorance—things to be changed—to be outgrown and displaced by better things.” Change seems to have gotten the best of Fruit Hills, however; the commune collapsed within seven years. “All the necessaries of life could be raised in abundance,” wrote one contemporary observer, “but the laborers were mostly unused to agriculture and in many instances lacked industry.” From the vantage of the Meinecke lobby, no definition of success seemed generous enough to encompass the project’s fate.

This story is fairly typical. Inland America is pocked with the unmarked graves of communitarian utopias—primitive socialist and communist experiments—that tried to rebuild the world on what was assumed to be virgin soil. Ephrata, Pennsylvania; Germantown, Tennessee; Utopia, Ohio; Brentwood, New York; Iowa’s Amana Colonies: these and many other towns were originally settled by communalists with lofty visions of abolishing private property, quashing material inequity, and transcending divisive individualism.

It makes sense that those seeking the fringe of a New World might be driven by powerful ideological convictions. But while European settlers dreamed of abolishing old hierarchies in the map’s blank spots, these blanks were always a fantasy. The allure of self-directed freedom in unsullied lands largely folded back into a vanguard of dispossession and genocide, with naïve radicals paving the way for the extension of the very structures they had hoped to escape. Their intentions complicate the mythic image of a land settled by rugged individualists, but their ultimate fates suggest bleak prospects for liberation conceived as escape, rather than transformational conflict.

With my AC in working order, I pressed on from Loveland to survey what remained of the utopians’ dreams.

A Tale of Two Harmonies

New Harmony, Indiana was settled twice: first by the Harmony Society, a dissident religious group, and then by utopian socialist Robert Owen, a philanthropic industrialist whose work inspired dozens of communes across Britain and the United States. The Harmonites believed that the Second Coming of Christ would occur within their lifetime; the Owenites believed in abolishing the ills of capital without displacing the ruling class. Despite their apparently opposed precepts, they inhabited the same buildings, drew overlapping conclusions, and clung to similar myths.

Self-styled refugees of moral rot, the original Harmonites sought southern Indiana for its isolation. Some seven hundred of them relocated there from Pennsylvania in 1814, aiming to live according to a particular interpretation of piety. Property was held in common, labor was performed according to ability, and its yield was distributed equally. In an effort to restore “the harmony of male and female elements in humanity,” sex and marriage were discouraged, if not banned outright.

Despite their industrious work ethic, the Harmonites remained economically tethered to the wider world and often struggled with life at its edge. Their settlement suffered harsh bouts of malaria, conducting trade meant traversing a long, marshy river, and frontier neighbors did not always abide their unusual lifestyle. The group ultimately returned to Pennsylvania after a decade, leaving over 130 communal structures in their wake. What they built from scratch, Robert Owen bought with money.

“If we cannot reconcile all opinions, let us endeavor to unite all hearts.” An engraving in New Harmony attributes this line to Owen, but in fact he borrowed it from Nicholas Vansittart, the son of a British colonial administrator and joint secretary of the queen’s treasury. Owen was not quite so highborn, but his hopes hinged on the sympathies of Vansittart’s class. Having witnessed the exploitative horrors of early industrialization, he prophesied that reform would flow from the reason and good will of those in power, “that truly just spirit which knows no exclusion.” Owen believed that industrial capitalism could only survive in the long run through the parallel evolution of a “New Moral World” built around economic collectivization, scientific rationalism, and popular education. His communes were early efforts to realize such a world.

Owen’s most famous model society was in New Lanark, Scotland, but New Harmony was his most ambitious. He purchased the land with philanthropist William Maclure in 1825 and populated it with a cohort of artists, educators, and scientists. Owen’s followers took up the Harmonites’ housing and tilled the same communal fields, adopting a constitution that emphasized common property, freedom of action, and preservation of health. Childcare was reframed as a collective responsibility, not only because parents were seen as selfish, but because they were believed to carry the old world’s traumas in their patterns of thought. “Children aged two to five were taken away from home and placed in a controlled environment,” said Terri Axton, a modern-day New Harmony resident. “They were taught to get along with others and be polite.”

In Women in Utopia, Dr. Carol A. Kolmerten notes that female New Harmony residents were among the first to observe that Owen’s lofty proposals did not always translate to pleasant living conditions or common sense, writing that “married women who had come to New Harmony with their husbands . . . spent much of their free time plotting their own private rebellions.” In elevating impersonal “rationality” and utilitarian materialism above domestic labor, aesthetic considerations, and personal comforts, Owen’s utopian socialism not only diminished traditional spheres of women’s autonomy but arguably minimized the very qualities that ultimately give meaning to life.

New Harmony was formally dissolved in 1827, just two years after its optimistic launch. “Many here were unprepared to be members of the community of common property and equality,” observed Robert Owen in a farewell address. The project’s failure is variously pinned on its leader’s off-putting zeal, the untenability of economic collectivization, and the fact that its settlers were softies without the constitution for subsistence farming. But there is also the fact that Owen himself hardly spent any time there, preferring to stay back and promote the project on the East Coast and in Britain. He may have initially conceived New Harmony’s second coming, but was he really an authority on its failure or success?

New Harmony’s communal structure formally dissolved in 1827, but its residents did not simply disappear. Educator William Maclure traveled to New Harmony in 1826, for example, but it wasn’t until 1838 that he established the town’s “Working Men’s Institute,” a hybrid library and museum for “mutual instruction” that aspired to educate and empower the working class. The model proliferated across Indiana and neighboring Illinois, spawning 144 such institutes that were, for the most part, eventually absorbed into their respective state library systems. Josiah Warren, sometimes regarded as the first American anarchist, was another early resident of Owenite New Harmony. But it wasn’t until the 1840s that he opened the town’s “time store,” an experimental retailer that exchanged goods for “labor notes” representing agreements to perform work. “People would not buy at home, but came twenty, twenty-five, and even one hundred miles, to the time store,” he observed at the time.

New Harmony did not dramatically transcend the capitalism, but it remained a site of leftist experimentation for some time, and the ideas at its core played a role in establishing significant public works. One of Owen’s sons, Robert Dale Owen—who oversaw much of the day-to-day operations at New Harmony—was later elected to represent Indiana in congress. In this capacity he introduced legislation that founded the Smithsonian Institution in 1846, enshrining the Working Men’s Institute’s public education philosophy on a national scale.

Reconnecting New Harmony’s history with these long-term effects somewhat vindicates the project’s utopian designs, suggesting that a broad and radical vision may have been necessary to create such enduring institutions. Still, even if New Harmony’s collapse was more gradual than Owen asserted, it was nonetheless slowly reabsorbed into mainstream society. The project’s fatal shortcoming was not its imagined ends, but its means: Owens’s excessive faith in morality over muscle. It is one thing to speculate what might be done with power, but quite another to win it.

Those Crazy Swedes

Three-hundred miles northwest of New Harmony, Bishop Hill, Illinois is plastered with the Swedish flag. The general store stocks imported Swedish candies; the diner serves pancakes with lingonberries. The town has become a minor regional tourist destination for its association with mid-to-late nineteenth century Swedish migration to the American Midwest—of which I am also a product. While the king of Sweden personally attended Bishop Hill’s 150th anniversary in 1996, the monarchy was less supportive of its founders.

Bishop Hill was settled as a pietist commune in 1846 under the leadership of self-styled prophet Erik Jansson. Like the Harmonites, Jansson railed against the Lutheran church and preached a communistic flavor of Christian perfectionism. In contrast with Lutheranism’s self-flagellating embrace of imperfection, Jansson preached that eternal salvation, health, and earthly rewards would come only to those of pure faith. Cultish by today’s standards, the Janssonists were fairly typical of pietist sects at the time, stripping away secondary texts and aiming to live strictly by the Bible’s dictates. After coming into conflict with the Swedish government, Jansson and some twelve hundred followers crossed the Atlantic to create a “New Jerusalem” on the American frontier.

Their grandiose optimism, however, quickly met western Illinois. Hundreds of Jansson’s followers perished or defected during the long trek; only about four hundred made it all the way, and a hundred more died during the first winter. The settlement nearly collapsed when Jansson was murdered in 1850, but it managed to re-stabilize under new leadership. Power was transferred to a group of trustees who ran Bishop Hill as a centralized commune, overseeing its growth into a regional hub for crafts, agriculture, and commerce. Land was held in common, residents lived in collective housing, and agricultural profits were shared equally. Having overcome the perilous early years, the commune prospered until its trustees elected to dissolve Bishop Hill’s collective ownership structure in 1861. At that time, almost everything in Bishop Hill was measured, counted, and divided—even women and children received shares, which was then a radical notion.

“I would definitely call them a cult,” said an attendant at the Bishop Hill Heritage Association’s archive, which inhabits a former commune building. “They had bad leadership, or maybe too much leadership.” The fate of Bishop Hill’s socialistic experiment is typically evoked as a warning about the sinister authoritarianism lurking behind collectivization. But in an essay on “those crazy Swedes” of Bishop Hill, librarian Troy Swanson argues that the commune fell victim to the success, rather than failure, of its socialized economy. “After the devastating crisis of 1849 and 1850,” he writes, “Bishop Hill appeared to be the utopia these Swedish immigrants had envisioned.” Swanson cites the colony’s changing population as a key factor in triggering its downfall. Newcomers were less committed to the project, and some wanted to enrich themselves from the arrangement. The trouble, it seems, was not with the true believers.

During my visit, I stayed in a local bed and breakfast run by Brian “Fox” Ellis, who hosts visitors in a building that was once the commune’s hospital. “Fifteen years is a pretty good run for a commune,” he said. “No commune survives the murder of their charismatic leader, but they had their best years after [Jansson] was shot.”

Fox estimated that 20 percent of Bishop Hill’s modern-day residents are descended from the original Janssonist settlers. I met one of them, Marty Ray, who grew up and still lives in a home that was once the colony’s meat storage building. “Anything metal in the basement rusts,” she said, “because the wood is so saturated with salt from when they cured the meat.”

Ray spoke of her childhood in joyous terms of open arms and unlocked doors. “[The town] still has that utopian vibe,” said Fox. “When we first moved here, people just showed up with paintbrushes and said, ‘put us to work.’”

Misguided though it may have been, Eric Jansson’s religious utopianism answered genuinely repressive circumstances, and his disciples showed promise in adapting beyond their leader’s cult of personality. But while Bishop Hill’s modest success demonstrates the fortitude of small-scale collectivization, running away was never a realistic fix; the Old World was always destined to catch up. In the end, the industrial system easily reabsorbed Bishop Hill, along with countless other microcosmic American “socialisms.” The town has remained small enough to cohere a warm and trusting community, but neither faith nor familiarity can reform power at scale.”

- Evan Malmgren, “The Other American Frontier: Exploring the Midwest’s forgotten utopian communes.” The Baffler. April 18, 2022

#united states history #utopian communes #american midwest #utopia #owenites #harmonites #communitarian utopia #utopia of settler colonialism #Janssonists #religious utopia #academic quote

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hethrewmyheartinthecut · 6 years

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The Bride • Chapter 16

The Letter • Decision time. The last chapter.

Chapter 15 • on ao3

It was late in the morning, as Esme could see by the slant of sunlight coming in through her two bedroom windows, and she had grown sorry of lying there, thinking of the night before, and being miserable. Tired of making up reproaches in her mind to Campbell, to Tommy, most of all to herself. Tired of wallowing in helplessness. It wasn’t her natural state.

Tommy had not come by, as he usually did, with a knock on the door (or a kick on the door if he was in a poor mood) to get her up, and she wasn't sure whether to take that as a sign of consideration or to feel a bit amiss about the break in their routine. Perhaps both.

And why shouldn't she have a good day? When she looked in the mirror, the sight of her own neck made her stare as if watching a ship sink; the grotesque, mottled purples and yellows and reds striping her throat in evidence of two hands was possibly one of the ugliest things she'd ever seen in her life. But. She had scarves now. She had scarves now, and it was a Sunday, the sun shining outside, the birds still singing, and she'd had enough of moping about in the last month to last a lifetime. She’d take the day for her own.

With a red scarf patterned in tiny yellow flowers masking her bruises, a thick braid keeping her hair out of her face, and a new dress complete with deep hidden pockets, she was all set to go. There was an envelope slid under her door, rather fat, with Tommy's spidery handwriting spelling out her name on the envelope. He must have had plenty to say, but she didn't want to read any of it, so instead she put it in her pocket.

"The kettle's on," said Tommy. She'd expected him in his office, but he was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper, leaning back in his chair with apparent ease, but also with dark circles under his eyes.

"You're a terrible actor.” If Esme’s voice was more hoarse than usual, he didn't appear to notice. "That paper's three days old. I know you've already read it."

He didn't put the newspaper down, just watched her over the top of it as she picked out a mug and poured out the water and got the tea and the sugar and scrounged for biscuits and--

"I didn't read your letter, alright?" she said. "It's my day off."

"On Easter, it's everyone's day off."

Oh. She'd forgotten. Well, she could be forgiven for that. Despite evidence of scrubbing, there was still a dark stain on the floorboards, and avoiding it as she made the tea was taking up a large part of her mind's capacity.

"Why aren't you out on the town, then?" she said. "The shop's closed."

"Arthur and John are taking Finn for a hunt; he still hasn't taken down a deer by himself, and he's getting to that age."

"Why didn't you go with them?"

He shrugged. "I had to read the paper. And make tea."

That was a gesture of comfort, although one so paltry in comparison to the original offense that it was almost insulting. Every time she so much as looked at him, a hundred words all piled into her mind, clamoring to have their say, and going ignored because she knew that all she needed to say had already been said. She'd never admit it, but having him there was a small comfort. Tea with him at that table was the closest thing to a consistent pulse of normalcy that she had.

"Anyhow," he went on, "Polly and Ada and Lizzie are having a picnic. You're invited."

"When?"

"Whenever you want. The car's outside."

Esme would've preferred to go on the hunt, but it was better not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Instead of heading out the door, she let herself into the office, checked the drawer, and yes, there it was, the revolver that Tommy had offered her. That felt like years ago.

Esme noticed that he'd gotten up and was leaning against the wall, watching her through the empty space in the office door where glass used to be. She didn't try to hide the gun, just checked to see that it was loaded and put it in her biggest pocket, next to the letter.

"You're not going to read it, are you," he said.

"I'm going to have a good day. However much I can."

She was nearly out the front door, car keys in hand, when she heard him say: "I am sorry."

"I know." The sunlight was on her face and she didn't turn. "But in your whole life, Tommy, when have your feelings ever been more important than what you've done?"

He cleared his throat, slightly. "So do you..."

Esme turned around completely to meet his eyes. "What?"

Tommy cleared his throat. “Do you want to know how he did it?"

"Campbell had a key to our house, I assume he got that from you. A crowded pub's an odd place to meet a copper, but a very good place to get pickpocketed. It was obvious that he’d coordinated with the new Chief of Police. Especially when he stopped making speeches long enough to get a telephone call from someone who told him to hurry up and kill me. It was earlier than he was expecting; you left the bar early. You arrived running, so you knew. Maybe the Chief of Police has a taste for making speeches too."

"However bad an actor you think I am, he was worse, actually."

"I don't give a damn," she said, without rancor and without much emphasis. It was a mere fact. "There is sunlight, outside. I am going to go sit in it. There are women who have never tried to kill me. I am going to go talk to them."

There were a great deal of hugs, but nobody made any particular fuss about her neck, which Esme was grateful for. Two cars, four women, one baby, and a basket of food all made for a merry afternoon, especially when that basket turned out to contain a few bottles of wine as well. Out there in the open, Esme felt as though she’d stepped into a pleasant dream, and though it would inevitably end, it was at least

"All right, let's play a game," said Ada, when at last most of the food and half the wine had disappeared down their throats. They were all sprawled out on the big blanket, watching the clouds go by as Karl babbled on from his little bassinet.

"What kind of game?" said Lizzie.

"Questions and Commands."

"Oh, how old are we?" said Polly.

"It'll be fun!" said Ada.

"Sure," said Esme, thinking to herself that one of the clouds looked very much like either a goat or Johnny Dogs grinning. "As long as I don't have to be queen."

"Polly?"

"No." Polly’s tone, and the long drink of wine she took as punctuation, suggested it was a minor miracle that she was tolerating the existence of the game at all.

"Lizzie?"

"Go on, Ada, you're the one who suggested it."

"Yeah, but now I can't think of anything clever."

“Do something obvious, then.”

“Hm.” Ada considered it for a moment, then grinned. “What’s the biggest cock you’ve ever seen?” To demonstrate, she displayed a length with her hands. Fairly considerable, nothing awe-inspiring.

“Ada!” said Lizzie. Polly, apparently either loosened by wine, was already copying Ada. Esme was thinking about it.

After a minute, everyone was goggling at the length Esme displayed.

“That can’t be possible,” said Lizzie, after a moment. “I’d know about it if it was. Who in hell…”

“A racehorse I once saw,” Esme said. “What? You didn’t say it had to be from a man.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Polly, disgusted but also faintly relieved. “Next question.”

“And this time, make it saner,” said Lizzie.

“Fine. How many children do you want to have?”

“Oh, I’m getting older,” said Lizzie. “And who knows if this cunt will survive the twins.”

“Yeah,” said Ada, “But if you could have whatever you wanted?”

Lizzie pondered the question. “The four I have, the two on the way, and maybe a little boy. Maybe.”

“Fuck, that’s a lot,” Ada laughed. “I think I could manage three. Four at most.”

“It’s fine,” said Esme. “If you have them far enough apart, the older ones mind the younger ones, and it’s actually less work, because the younger ones keep the older ones occupied.”

“You’d want as much as seven, then?” said Ada.

“No,” said Esme. “I’m not going to have any.”

The three others stared at her with varying degrees of fascination.

“What?” Esme said. “For one thing, I’d have to fuck my husband.”

“I sent you on a honeymoon,” said Polly accusingly.

“And I slept the night through,” Esme lied. “Best decision I’ve ever made. Can you honestly say that you blame me?”

They considered this. Polly was clearly calculating, Ada did not want to think of the presence or absence of sex in her brother’s life, and Lizzie, well. Lizzie was giving Esme a look paired with a half-shrug that could be interpreted several ways, one of which was: he’s not so bad.

“What about you, Polly?” Esme said hurriedly.

“If I could have whatever I wanted? Two. A boy and a girl.” Polly said it very casually, but Ada was looking at her with such regret that Esme immediately grasped the basics of the situation. She felt a little guilty too.

“Next question?” Esme said, hoping they could move that train of thought along. “Make it something ridiculous, and don’t make it about cocks again, I’m tired of talking about men.”

“Fine. Then let’s talk about communism. Ladies, why have you not yet joined the cause?”

“Oh God,” Esme groaned. “Ada, don’t proselytize, it’s unbecoming.”

“I’m not allowed to talk about children, or men. Now I’m not allowed to talk about politics?”

“Fine,” said Esme. “I’m not a communist because they’re all gadjes.”

“I’m clearly not.”

“Right, well, I’m out anyway. Lizzie?”

“I did go to a meeting, once. But I’m pregnant, I’m about to be married, and life is about to improve for the first time for me in about ten years. Bad timing to be plotting a revolution if you ask me.”

“I went to meetings all the time pregnant!”

“We can’t all be you, Ada! Besides, two babies means twice the sleeping. Twice the eating.”

“Twice the pickles,” offered Esme.

“Yes, exactly,” said Lizzie.

Polly snorted. “I’m not a communist because I’m not one for mad dreams.”

“You pray every day, Pol,” said Ada.

“When I pray, a whole war goes by, and Arthur and Tommy and John come back. When you go to your meetings, years go by and Lloyd George is still at Number 10.”

“Well. I’m a Communist because I believe that a decent life should not be out of reach. I believe that it’s a fanciful dream to ask for a country whose orphans are cared for. And I don’t believe that it’s ridiculous to ask for a government that doesn’t drag your men off to war and make them die in foreign countries for no goddamn reason at all.” With those shining eyes and all that conviction, Ada did look convincing to Esme. Or maybe that was just the wine.

“Run for office, why don’t you,” said Lizzie good-naturedly.

“I will.”

“God have mercy on us all,” said Polly.

Karl, who had previously been quite happy in his bassinet, began to cry.

“Time for his afternoon snack,” said Ada.

Polly checked her pocketwatch. “Time I got back. There’s a bit of business needs taking care of. Canal business. I can’t be late.”

Polly drove the car home, because of course she did.

After the food, the wine, and the sunlight, Esme rather enjoyed it; she dozed all the way into the city, and woke only when they reached Birmingham proper. It was just as well; every time she observed the slow fade from green to grey, she wanted to turn the car around. She'd never get used to it.

When Polly parked the car, she turned to Esme instead of getting out.

"This is who we are, you know," she said. "Going to a picnic with a gun in your pocket. Babies and men trying to kill you in your own home. Sisters, brothers, and coppers at every fucking turn. There is not one without the other."

“I know.”

“You’re not going to change him.”

Esme would have laughed, but Polly looked dead serious. “I haven’t the least intention. I’d be more successful trying Communism than trying to reform that man.”

Polly's dark eyes invaded Esme, and Esme had to bite her lip to keep from saying, what do you want from me?

“I married into the Shelby family myself, under circumstances not too different from your own. People think it’s a wedding band that makes you family, but it’s not. It’s something you prove, and it’s a decision you make for yourself. God knows I don’t need you to have children, and I certainly don’t need you to fuck Tommy; in fact I don’t need anything from you at all. But it will be better for you when you see a future with this family. When you make that decision for yourself. It may seem like all doors closing, but you’d be surprised at what it opens up, too.”

"I understand," Esme said, although she did not. She just wanted those all-seeing dark eyes away from her.

And just like that, the magnetic, almost royal authority in Polly’s voice slipped away, and it was back to Polly, her aunt-in-law, again. "I'll see you tomorrow. Put some honey in your tea for that throat." With that, she climbed out of her car and headed home. After a moment, Esme did the same.

As soon as she came in the door, Esme called, "How’s your old newspaper?"

The house was, of course, empty.

She sighed, hung up her coat, and started in on dinner.

It was well after dinner, as Esme was idly going through one of Lizzie's unreadable books, when there was a knocking on the door, fast and frantic. Hand on her gun, she advanced to the door, then peeked through the lookout hole.

She opened the door. "Jesus, Curly. Do you know what time it is?"

"No." He looked scared. No, terrified. A light rain fell, and he’d apparently lost that hat he always liked to wear.

Esme glanced beyond him and saw nobody following, just the tailor, Mr. Ellis, walking home from work. "Well, come in,” she said.

Curly was wringing his hands nervously. "I can't."

"Why?"

"I have to--have to get Arthur. Do you know where he is?"

"He's gone. John and Finn too, all on a hunting trip. What's wrong?"

"In the stables. They hit Charlie over the head."

"Who's they?"

"The Irish, I think. I think. And they hit Charlie over the head!"

"Why?"

"I don't know, they hit Charlie over the head and they're hurting Tommy."

Esme tugged him inside and locked the door. "Hurting him how?"

"I don't know."

"Then how do you know they're hurting him?"

"I don't know!" The poor man looked like a horse about to bolt.

"Okay. It's okay." Esme put a hand on his shoulder and slowed her voice. "Do you know how to use the telephone?"

"Yes, yes."

"Can you call Polly and tell her exactly what you just told me?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Good man. Lock the door behind me."

When Esme snuck in, the stables were all dust and soft gold in the light of a couple lamps, smelling of sweet hay and horses and saddle soap, altogether too lovely a place for her to be hearing what she was hearing.

"Where are they?" a man shouted over and over, almost screeching really. It would have been funny but for the punctuation of fists hitting flesh.

Esme closed her eyes and tried to think it through. Fists he could take. Polly lived close; by now Curly would have told her everything. She'd send someone. No. She was on the way herself, probably; Esme could picture her striding in and shooting the man square between the eyes, the man dropping like a sack of flour.

"Where are they? Where are they? Where are they?"

"As I told you--"

Crack.

In the silence, Esme winced. That was bone, wasn't it. That was bone. Fuck. And then, into the silence, Tommy said, through his teeth: "All right. 415 Eastwick."

"North or South?" That was a new voice, a second man. Significantly less shrill, quieter, more terrifying.

"South. South Eastwick. I'll take you there."

There was a silence.

"Give him to me," said the second man. There was a note in his voice that sent a chill down Esme's spine.

"Why?" said the first.

"415 South Eastwick isn't anywhere. It's the local cemetery."

A hail of blows, now. "You fucking--"

"Shut up," said the second man, and miraculously, there was silence again. For one brief, blessed moment.

And then a splash. Splashing, a lot of it, from the far end of the barn where they were, where the trough was, and why?

Suddenly the splashing ended and Tommy was panting hard and there were droplets of water falling in the trough and oh, oh, oh. The sound of him almost drowning was far too much like the way he sounded coming out of his worst dreams. That first gasp. She'd heard it a dozen times and it still made her chest clench.

"Enough?" said the second man, very quietly.

Tommy laughed, and she could picture his face, eyes mirthless and mouth stretched wide and bloody and she closed her eyes. Please.

Splashing again, and then suddenly more; he must be fighting back. Longer. How long could this go, Jesus, how long could he hold out? Don't think of him straining against the hands holding him down, don't think of his hands gripping the edge of the trough or the wrists, the wrists like she'd gripped the wrists, like she'd--

And this time when they let him up, he was halfway to choking, body betraying him in the panicked sounds from his chest when he couldn't catch his breath and she felt something flood her, something very cold in every limb. She got to her feet and put her hand in her pocket.

Then she walked into the aisle between the stalls and took aim.

Her first shot tore into the standing man's shoulder and spun him round till he was facing her. In a blur of movement in her peripheral vision, Tommy lunged for the man crouched over him, but she stayed staring, and aiming, at the standing man. Her second shot went a wild miss and her third hit the standing man just above the hip as he looked at her, absolutely astonished, swaying a little now and mumbling out, "Who—" before the fourth shot hit him properly in the chest and he fell hard on his back.

Tommy was wrestling with the second man, no longer making those awful choking sounds but growling primal instead, so she left him to it and walked quickly down the aisle to stand above the fallen man.

He still had on that bewildered look. She realized what that cold feeling was; it was rage.

"I'm his wife," she said to the man on the ground, but he was no longer listening.

She turned from the corpse to her husband. Tommy, kneeling, had gotten the second man in some sort of a headlock and was now shoving him headfirst into the water, submerging him up to his shoulders. Esme watched the drowning man writhe and kick futilely for a second, then walked to Tommy's side.

Tommy held out his hand, and she put the gun into it. In one fluid motion, Tommy yanked the man up out of the water, put the gun to his head, and blew a spray of red all over his face and her dress and the hay.

They stayed like that, she standing, watching him, he holding up the second corpse by its hair, gun in hand, for what seemed to be a frozen moment. But then Tommy let go of both.

He turned around and sat with his back to the trough, still panting hard. He closed his eyes.

Esme laid her hand on his shoulder. Tommy took it in his own, and as his panting slowed, as the sounds of peace (horses moving restlessly in their stalls, the wind outside, a few evening birds) took over the stables again, he interlaced their fingers.

That was how Polly found them. She came in just as Esme had imagined her: gun up, eyes hard. After taking stock of the situation, she put away her gun in her purse.

"What happened?" she said.

"IRA thought we still had the guns," said Tommy.

"And I decided," said Esme.

Polly took one hard look at Esme, which Esme met without force and without apology. Then she nodded. "I'll leave you to it."

As the stable door shut behind her, Esme got down beside Tommy and dipped her free arm in the water trough behind them. Gripping the sleeve in her hand, she washed his face, or at least wiped away most of the blood before it could get too badly caked on.

He wrinkled his nose and submitted himself to her ministrations, like a resigned but disapproving cat getting a bath.

"Is this necessary?" he said.

"This is what wives do."

"Is it?" He looked pointedly at the dead body next to him.

"No. But it's what I do," Esme said firmly.

That was precisely the moment for sarcasm, but he appeared to have forgotten the familiar cadence of their usual sniping. The expression in his blue eyes gave her pause.

"What?"

Now that most of the blood was gone, she could see that come morning, he was going to have a very fine black eye. He already had a split lip, and yet, was that a smile on his face? Perhaps, barely.

"You read the letter, didn't you," he said.

"No. But…" Esme reached into her pocket.

She read silently to herself, though she mouthed the words a little, as was her habit. He watched her, not reading over her shoulder but reading her face instead.

Dear Esme,

I imagine you will have much to say to me after tonight, and if I were to try and tell you anything, you wouldn’t hear me. Nonetheless, there is some things you should know, and the sooner the better. So I write.

I should not have promised you anything. I am not a man who is in any position to make promises about safety to anyone he cares about. It must have been obvious even then, although I chose not to see it.

“You know,” Esme said, without looking up, “I think Polly managed to say as much to me earlier. In far fewer words than a whole page.”

"She said all that?"

But Esme had already continued reading.

What I should have told you instead is the truth: there is no end to this. We will never be accepted or protected by any but our own. Sometimes I allow myself to believe otherwise, but that is only a weakness, a wish to sleep through the night.

There is no excuse for this, but is perhaps an explanation, however insufficient.

When we married, I anticipated little from you, and have been learning my mistake since. Having a wife with so much fight in her is hardly convenient, but from the moment I heard you went down to the jail to see Freddie for yourself, I knew you were a Shelby. Ada says I’m lucky to have you, and out of all our father’s children, she is the one with the best judgment.

I wanted to be the kind of husband that could offer you safety in return, since I could offer you nothing else. There is money, but you chose Hart’s shop over the department store, so I doubt you consider it much of an advantage. I can’t give you the life you want, or the work you want, and I think you know my heart is not my own to offer.

In another life, I could do better. In this one, I won’t make you any more false promises. I am, perhaps despite appearances, pleased to be

Your husband,

Thomas Shelby

Though she had finished reading, Esme continued to stare at the page. “No,” she said slowly. “Polly didn’t say all of that.”

"I didn't think so," Tommy said.

Esme folded up the letter carefully, put it back in the envelope, and tucked the envelope away once more.

“Well?” said Tommy. He’d produced a cigarette miraculously dry, and lit it. (Because of course he did.) Now he smoked, uneasily, and studied the horses in their stalls.

Esme leaned over and kissed his cheek, then settled back against the trough. A comfortable silence reigned.

After a little while, he pointed with his free hand.

"Do you see that?"

"Lovely," she said. It was a black mare, glossy even in the dull lamplight, a little short, sturdy but graceful. Her big brown eyes appeared completely untroubled by all that had happened in her home, and Esme soaked in that incredible placid trust. She hadn't felt the same way since she was a child, but there was something so beautiful about it, even in a horse.

"She's all yours."

Esme rested her head on his shoulder and watched the mare twitch her tail a few times to keep away flies. She smiled. "I love her."

"You love her, eh?" He produced a cigarette from his pocket, miraculously dry, and lit it. Because of course he did.

"Yes," said Esme. "I know I've only just met her, but I love her."

"Well," said Tommy. "I can sympathize with that."

THE BEGINNING

Dear readers: I cannot thank you all enough. Your comments have really gotten me through; I absolutely could not have had the energy to complete this by myself. “I could not have done this without you” is a tired phrase, I know, but it is so completely accurate that it makes cliché unavoidable. I love you all so much, and I appreciate so much that you took the time to read what I’ve written. This has been an incredible 38 days of creative energy and I intend to keep the ball rolling!

Just. WE DID IT! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

On the sequel: I hope you do not find the ending to The Bride too disappointing, especially in light of the upcoming sequel. In The Bride, I set for myself the goal of answering the question: how and why would a person choose to become part of this family? For an independent, self-possessed, opinionated and capable woman, what would the transition from outsider to family look like, what would it feel like? I think I’ve answered that, at least in part.

I look forward enormously to writing the sequel, which I have already begun writing and plotting. It will be a much more explicitly romantic, darker story that follows the two perspectives of Esme and Tommy, hopping between two storylines, one in 1922, and one in 1923. I hope to continue indulging in my love of dialogue, while expanding my plotting capabilities, incorporating more action (as perhaps you’ve seen in the latest chapters), and overall paying very close attention to nuanced, believable relationship dynamics.

I intend to make you sadder, in multiple ways and in multiple directions. But I also intend to leave you more satisfied.

If any of this sounds interesting, reply or ask or whatever and let me know, and I’ll tag you when the first chapter of the sequel is published. For a sneak peek and poster of the sequel, look here.

The Bride on ao3 • masterlist

@blinder-secrets @peakystitches, @prettieparker86, @tommyshelyb, @sympathyfortheblinderdevil, @annaistiredofyourshit, @lolashelby, @peakyrach, @fookingblinders, @theskinofmyemotions, @b000ks, @pure-bastard-extract, @siobhanlovesfilm, @unluckymonaghan, @sameshitdiffernetday (lmk if you want added or removed from tag notifications on The Bride)

#Esme x Tommy #Tommy x Esme #Tommy Shelby #Esme Shelby #Polly Gray #Polly Shelby #Ada Thorne #Ada Shelby #Lizzie Stark #Peaky blinders #Peaky Blinders fanfic #Peaky blinders fanfiction #The Bride #mine #OH MY GOD END OF A FUCKING ERA #STOP IT IM GOING TO CRY #no I'm not no I'm not #still have a sequel to write #OH. MY. GOD. no I'm still freaking out

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flawedconqueror · 3 years

Text

Bluebird

This summer has been a whirlwind filled with instability, whimsical moods

And feeling disorientated

In Florida, I had the privilege of spending time with my friend’s mom who has seen life, experienced loss

She told me the story of the Blue Bird and how we often think going to this place, or that place will acquire happiness

She considers the decisions she made as her children are in different parts of the world and if it was worth it

My time there was short

But it did give me a picture of something I can work towards. When I was young I used to be so goal-oriented. I’ve struggled in recent years seeing it as futile, but it is good to aim for something...

FL showed me to go where the opportunity is as her dad would pack the van with children and go to places such as Indiana, California for a job opportunity later amassing a fortune by having his share in hotel real estate by the end of his life

He was estranged from his parents for decades due to the communist regime not seeing them again until his 40s

The sun in FL also helped with my mood as I had a nervous breakdown a couple weeks prior and I was desperate to go anywhere (aunt in Accra or Norway were very plausible, feasible options despite still being in school) but as God had it happened I ended up in Fl

I then went to NY where I again was given a vision as I’ve been struggling for the past several years with purpose and direction

I ended up staying with my aunt who I had seen 3 years ago. This is a God-thing...

The year of my brother’s death, life was at a standstill for me and I didn’t realize the complexities, implications and layers of grief his death would have on my life. Similar to an onion unravelling I had and still go through a process of grief which has been sheer horror. The same year of his death I had gone gung-ho to Israel not realizing the excess of motion, lights and movement was too much for my precarious, fragile mind. I was despondent and withdrawn throughout the trip. That said, I loved the trip and I feel honoured but I took for granted what my limitations were. After I had gone back from the trip-of-a-lifetime which included offroad driving, floating in the dead sea and spending time with Bedouins I struggled with depression and didn’t go to church for 3 months. I became recluse in my room and a shell of my former self.

The night before I had ordered a ticket to N.Y. to go to the Bronx to look at an apartment. After work, I had my bag and greyhound tickets in tow to go to Union station. I think I was suppose to meet someone in the Bronx. As I was boarding the bus, my aunt who I hadn’t since I visited Ghana almost a decade ago had called me. She was no longer in Accra, but in Queens, NY. Divine intervention. So my trip was redirected from the Bronx to Queens. I told the person I was no longer interested in seeing the apartment.

The several years have been a challenge, but revisiting my aunt also helped paint a vision for my life. After my brother’s death, my friend discussed creating a vision board (the fudge is that). At a church retreat someone with a fancy bank job, some of you may consider a nice bachelor, talked about a 5-year plan and I vaguely remembering thinking how much b.s. that was in light of my bro’s death. You can see I’ve became more cynical and jaded. As I’ve been mostly despondent, and absentminded...depressed...reckless...

My friends told me we're adults but I couldn’t process that. What is an adult? What does that mean? Should I get a house or get married? “Simple” functions like making my bed, taking care of myself became foreign. I stared aimlessly at the computer screen at my jobs I struggled to edit a paragraph for “simple” grammatical errors. It’s funny the year of 2018 I was working towards things, some type of trajectory, but after my brother’s death everything was at a standstill. I wasn’t interested in getting a partner, my executive director noticed a paleness in my complexion and was concerned for my wellbeing.

I was a bridesmaid for my friends wedding, but I felt despondent. I looked pretty but I felt empty....

Back to my aunt’s three years later. She is now renting out a house, a head oncology nurse and selling items back home. She uses the term industrious to describe herself. I see a marriage. A family. Okay, so that is something I should works towards. She notices my absent-mindedness as I forget to place things. Some type of routine is established by forcing me to wake up on time. Hang the towels on the balcony. Sweeping the floor. Although I spent two or so odd weeks there, the routine and order helped jumpstart a propriety and structure that I so desperately needed. But she told me she had a dream, that I should go back home and I was sensing that too.

I was planning to go to Boston. See an old mate. We shared beds in N.Y. and Boston. Good times. I still need to visit her family in Albion. One of my favourite memories of her is slapping her face point-blank when she mentioned my elementary crush (who by the way I spent several nights praying that we’d end up together), a reflection of my impulsive nature. She too I think chased the Blue Bird her images of going around the world, working on humanitarian causes shows an awareness that I perhaps envy or admired. But she realized the top wasn’t all cracked up and she also wants to get paid....

I think now i want to get married, own a condo in FL (rent it out), travel...go back to the random sporadic moments

I think about my uncle old, his gait filled with a limp. Pain, disappointment

as we talk his dialogue shifts to him mentioning that his mom gave him advice about staying away from people with devil-like qualities, I realized my uncle is almost in a trance-like state he is not referring to me, but my brother, tears filling his eyes...

he talks about the world changing

I look at pictures of him from the ‘80s and ‘90s:

Carefree, smiling, jovial, cool

In the ‘80s gold was booming in Ghana and everyone wanted their piece of the pie. My uncle, much like myself, left his town against the advice of his mother for an adventure. He sold gold in neighbouring African countries but, eventually ended up in Israel where he did “business,” People respected him because of his hardworking nature and ability to do a job well. He learned Hebrew, got a jewish girlfriend, came to the realization of: what am I doing in Tel Aviv which led to a journey to Egypt, Morocco, before finally getting a ticket to Montreal.

Along the way he adopts two, feisty, strong-willed children.

But yesterday’s conversation acknowledges a weariness of the world changing, increasing restrictions, and he acknowledges Ghana is not like that

I consider now (God willing) with remote work maybe I can spend time in Ghana

I wonder about the narratives being pushed in Canada and who profits from our ignorance

I think about a time when I used to make shapes in the clouds with my brother, going under cars, somewhat impervious to the ills of the world...

I think about how I wanted to go to NY for what I considered the writing mecca in pursuit of that thing, like the Blue Bird

But realizing how empty those buildings are

But I’m realizing contentment is not a destination but a state of being

How all that glitters isn’t gold

Hey, I may not be married or have a place (yet)

But I’m okay: I got air in my lungs, a few blank sheets of paper...

I think about authenticity, integrity, humility

I think, I think, I think and wander....

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halothenthehorns · 3 years

Text

The Supernatural Gospel

Chapter 2 What Could Have Been

Stanford University

October 31st, 2005

A slutty nurse

A blond woman in a

Sam! Get a move on

Jessica Moore was not in the nursing program, but nobody was going to care about that today. There weren't slutty lawyer outfits anyways. Her long curly blond hair hung around her in waves, causing her hat to go askew again.

"Sam, get a move on!"

She rounded the corner of their very tiny shared apartment to go to the living room mirror, easily maneuvering past a bike, a very old red leather chair, stacks of homework assignments and overlarge books, and right past the very same photo of John and Mary, never knowing the burnt edges in the new frame, and reminded with exasperation, "we were supposed to be there fifteen minutes ago. You coming or what?"

"Do I have to?" Sam pleaded. No longer a six month old, obviously, There were many things he'd rather not encourage Jess to do, stop asking questions about his father and brother, leaving the curling iron on, and her persistence over this particular day were just the top few. He rounded the corner still staunchly in his day clothes, a worn jean jacket over an old unbuttoned blue shirt over a well worn Stanford shirt, floppy brown hair stubbornly itching his neck.

"It'll be fun," Jess encouraged, her smile bright and promising. "And where is your costume?" She called out.

Sam scoffed. She knew better, they'd had this discussion all throughout the month. "You know how I feel about Halloween."

Sam's feelings would not be taken into consideration as she went to his side and wrapped her arms tight around his neck. "Please Sam?" She batted her long lashes at him. "It won't be any fun without you, and you deserve this victory! Besides, it might be the last chance you get to relax until you graduate!"

It was her persistent encouragement that had gotten him this far. As far as he was concerned they could turn on music and throw shots right here and it would have the same affect, she did look quite sexy in that costume and he wasn't sure he wanted to share that with anyone else regardless, but Jess wanted everyone to know about his LSAT's, despite the fact he'd only told her for a very particular reason. Even if this milestone had a bitter edge to him, it would make her happy to share it at this party, even on this particular day.

He grabbed his wallet as answer and knew it would be worth it the rest of the night just to see her face light up like that.

As they walk down the street, a zombie tries to kill the mood by leaping from behind a telephone pole and shouting "ha!"

Sam shakes his head and gives a small smile while Jess full blown, grins.

"What do you think, huh?" Their friend Luis stands proudly displayed.

"Whatever." Sam keeps walking, his friends antics weren't funny on the good days, and this wasn't one of them. Jess and Luis follow, Sam taking Jess' hand.

"At least I wore a costume." Luis accuses. "Man, if your sorry ass was trick-or-treating at my house, there would be no popcorn balls for you."

Sam glances over his shoulder at Luis. "You gave out popcorn balls?" Well that was new at least, as they start across the street.

"You could at least have gone as a slutty version of something." Luis persists. "Slutty Dorothy, slutty Alice, slutty nurse—"

Jess looks back at Luis.

"Hey," she only half heartedly protests.

"I—I didn't mean you." Luis grins.

"Man, what can I say? I just never been a big fan of the whole thing." It's not as if Sam can really explain this any other rational way to a normal person.

"Never been a fan—what, what, are you a Communist? Who doesn't like Halloween?" Luis clearly can't conceive the idea.

Sam, no longer smiling, looks away as they pass a Halloween decoration hanging from a fence: a skeleton in a black hooded cloak.

Next thing he knew he was being towed through a very crowded party, costumes of every level of ridiculous as far as the eye could see as well as hysterical decorations, and not in a good way. An ugly old gargoyle with cobwebs was guarding a beer can and having a baseball cap with the words GET NAKED perched on its head even as he watched, between all this and the obnoxious music this was about as far from his idea of a good time as it could get.

It didn't help that he wanted to laugh at the fake looking vampire fangs and inform the guy those were practically extinct, or rolled his eyes every time he saw a gaudy witches hat. If only they knew...

At least Jess was having a blast though, and that did make up for it in some ways. At least she hadn't made him dress up.

"So here's to Sam and his awesome LSAT victory," she toasted over the music to him and their friend Luis, though Sam kept his eyes downcast through it all.

Still not quite used to getting praised for that. "All right, all right, it's not that big a deal." Sam quickly diminished, clicking drinks agreeably but still studying the liquid instead.

"Yeah, he acts all humble, but he scored a one seventy-four." Jess needlessly reminds as Sam tosses his drink back.

Luis, dressed up as some kind of undead if Sam had to guess, only seemed to have scored his alcohol out of obligation as he then asked, "is that good?"

"Scary good," Jess beamed and knocked back her own.

Luis quickly jumps on the train. "So there you go. You are a first-round draft pick. You can go to any law school you want!" As he plops in a seat beside Sam.

Sam's voice still comes out rather jilted as he says, "Actually, I got an interview here. Monday. If it goes okay I think I got a shot at a full ride next year." Tapping his fingers on the table, the achievement still seemed to hold something half-glass empty to him that had nothing to do with the shots.

Jess grabbed his fingers and made sure he was looking her in the eye this time as she stated with such forcefulness it's as if she expected the universe itself to bend to her. "Hey. It's gonna go great."

Sam finally looked back, his hazel eyes flashing oddly in the neon bar. "It better."

"How does it feel to be the golden boy of your family?" Luis' harmless question finally hit the crux, as a flood of memories swept over Sam unbidden. The fights that grew worse with age, Dean always in the middle, and Sam always on the outs. A door slamming, and unopened for three years.

Yet his nose scrunching up in distaste was all he visibly let show as his eyes fell to the sticky table once more and brushed off, "Ah, they don't know."

Luis is understandably shocked, returning, "Oh, no, I would be gloating! Why not?"

"Because we're not exactly the Brady's." Sam dismisses while tossing a napkin at him.

"And I'm not exactly the Huxtables. More shots?" Luis makes his exit without waiting for a response, dropping the napkin back in Sam's lap. Despite both his and Jess' protests, Luis goes off to do as promised.

Jess is quick to make sure Sam is really looking at her though as she repeats, "No, seriously. I'm proud of you. And you're gonna knock 'em dead on Monday, and you're gonna get that full ride. I know it."

Sam gazes at her for a long moment as visions dreams begin dancing in his head, of what the rest of his life will be like starting next week. There would be no turning back, and he couldn't wait. "What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn." Jess says lovingly. She pulls him in for a kiss that was meant to last felt like a lifetime.

Luis is back to interrupt before things get too personal though, and soon more of their friends arrive. Jessica's best friend Madeline pulls her away to try their hands at the Mystery Bowl, while Brady has joined Luis and Sam. The college bound youths drink their holiday away. It was the best Halloween Sam would ever have.

#Supernautral #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #John Winchester #jessica moore #The Winchester Gospel #fanfiction

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daniella100 · 3 years

Text

I was going to bitch about Instagram. Man, I was there today, what a bore. How many selfies can you take a year? Apparently A LOT. Well there, a tiny bitching. And kudos for the dads pictures in there. Those warmed my heart!

Now to these wise words, fitting for Father’s Day. It’s good to read about this phenomenon. Hopefully we’ll navigate it with grace.

Happy Father’s Day!

📷

📷 The New Era of Lost Friendships A societal disaster. 📷 Jun 1📷 John C Dvorak One of those random articles promoted by the front page of a web browser claimed that 2020 was the year of lost friendships. Chasms widened between Republicans and Democrats, Conservatives and Liberals, cynics and rule-follwers, Christians and atheists, capitalists and Marxists, liberty absolutists and lockdown-lovers, and even free-speech advocates and angry mobs.This article was about lost friendships in 2020 and what changed and why.Trump created this chaos. Whether it was because Trump was Satan himself or the embodiment of the actual underlying American spirit is beside the point. He was never meant to be president and whatever was “supposed” to happen to keep America on some Clintonesque neo-Liberal path toward a backdoor global governance as envisioned by the creeps at the World Economic Forum, the United Nations, and the World Health Organization was derailed or put on hold.This timeline disruption unleashed a horrendous backlash against not only Trump but the Republicans and independents who voted for him. They would suffer to the point that few would admit in public they ever voted for Trump. They did not know what was good for them.This “good for them” meant open borders, no nations, and no old-fashioned nationalism (the root of all evil). Hillary envisioned a Western Hemisphere with no borders from the tip of South America to Alaska. It would be a wonderful Utopia. In the early stages of this super-state, a plan had already been made for the coinage of the Amero modelled after the Euro.📷Some of these were made as collector’s coins. The argument is now made that this was a bogus “conspiracy theory” to begin with. There were never any plans for the Amero. And do you remember the plans for a super highway designed to split the USA in half? It was to go north and south from Mexico straight to Canada to move goods, a forerunner of the Eastern Hemisphere’s belt-and road promoted by the Chinese?Who knows what else would have been dreamed up by these maniacal forces that did not seem to have the interests of the American public (or any public) in mind. During this era, the corporations went global, while the American workforce was replaced with overseas workers—imported cheap foreign workers whom American workers had to train.The irony to me, all along, is that the Democrat Party, which was always promoting itself as “pro labor,” was nothing of the sort as it appealed to the global bankers and the real elites in finance, technology, publishing, and entertainment. America was told to say goodbye to the lost jobs.The American worker, as well as most ethnic minorities, were seen as too dumb, or at least too busy, to notice that their traditional political party was working against them.There even seemed to be an anti-American corporation theme involved as some of the highest corporate taxes in the world were levied on American corporations. Trump’s supposed great economic miracle cranked up the economy and brought jobs back—the sort of jobs Obama declared would never return—with a simple decrease in the corporate tax rates. How hard was that?Since then, Biden and the Democrats have worked to re-establish the old trends.📷 In the meantime, the schism between friends who were once Democrats who disagreed with Republicans but could still have dinner together is over. The source of much of this began years ago before Trump ever came along. It then came to the fore by Trump-haters and the endless nonsense about Russia combined with two “show trial” doomed to fail impeachments. This only succeeded in making the chasm wider.Further, an entire generation of kids has emerged from the educational system who hate this country. These are also the ones who seem to suffer the most from Covid hysteria. To this day in various parts of the country, they wear two masks, a plastic face screen, and those blue gloves, unless they’re soaking their hands in various alcoholic disinfectants.The schools now teach them about identity politics, critical theory, and

— variations on failed 1960s communist ideology. Even Black Lives Matter philosophies include the dissolution of the nuclear family and the overt Marxist world view and mechanism.This is seen as OK by the new generations of Americans who have not seen a vibrant economy in their lifetimes, thanks to the machinations of the neo-Liberals and progressive one-world government mavens who cannot seem to pull off an actual world government, but muck things up trying.In fact, they cannot even come close to a One World Government. They tried with some sort of world governance for climate change (“climate crisis” or “climate emergency” in newspeak), but there is too much skepticism. Would they name Greta Thunberg our new world leader?The Covid pandemic looks like another backdoor attempt, but only after a year of what looked like Keystone Kop world governance. These same people did manage to show that the most well-educated population of the entire globe can all want to take an experimental vaccine. This was through fearmongering and the global suppression of actual debate. Still, it has not gotten us any closer to world governance.All Covid did was damage more relationships as families who have bought into the vaccine will not let any of the unvaccinated near them, begging the question “What are you worried about if the vaccine actually works?” “Well, why take a chance,” they will tell you, parroting the mob boss Remo Gaggi from the movie Casino. OK, so something else is going on here.The result of this is that both sides think the other side is so stupid that they cannot have dinner together lest they come to blows. It boils down to that.What to do about it? I see only one common yet subtle element running throughout this story: the reintroduction and emphasis in education (K-12 and college) of the kind of anti-capitalist, anti-American Communist-Marixist-Socialist globalist rhetoric that was once eschewed by our education system. How did it become okay now?We were warned about it in the 1950's and 1960's. It’s happened. It’s permeated everything, including once-cherished friendships. Good luck fixing it. -- JCDJune 1, 2021 📷

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rauthschild · 4 years

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Trump Convention Sends White Supremacists Fleeing Back Home To Biden And Slave Owning Democrat Party

By: Sorcha Faal,

A fascinating new Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MoFA) report circulating in the Kremlin today discussing key highlights from day one of the 2020 Republican National Convention, says first to notice is that President Donald Trump secured sufficient votes to be re-nominated as his party’s candidate for the 3 November election in a convention that kicked off with patriotic messages of hope and optimism in sharp contrast with last week’s socialist pandemic nightmare Democrat Party convention.

And after re-nominating President Trump to be their candidate, then saw the Republicans putting on full display for the American people the truth about how racially diverse their party truly is—a display of racial unity that saw Hispanic business owner Máximo Álvarez warning the American people about socialist Democrats and stating: “Those false promises — spread the wealth, defund the police, trust a socialist state more than your family and your community they don’t sound radical to my ears…They sound familiar...When Fidel Castro was asked if he was a communist, he said he was a Roman Catholic....He knew he had to hide the truth...But the country I was born in is gone, totally destroyed”—who was followed by famed black NFL football legend Herschel Walker telling about his nearly 40-year personal friendship with President Trump and saying: “I have seen racism up close…I know what it is and it isn’t Donald Trump….It hurts my soul to hear the terrible names that people call Donald”.

Who was followed by black Republican Party candidate for US Congress Kimberly Klacik sounding a battle cry stating: “The Democrats still assume that black people will vote for them, no matter how much they let us down and take us for granted...We’re sick of it...We’re not going to take it anymore…The days of blindly supporting the Democrats are coming to an end”—a battle cry joined by black Democrat Party lawmaker Vernon Jones from the State of Georgia warning: “The Democratic Party does not want Black people to leave their mental plantation...We’ve been forced to be there for decades and generations…But I have news for Joe Biden: We are free, we are free people with free minds…I am part of a large and growing segment of the Black community who are independent thinkers...We believe that Donald Trump is the President that America needs to lead us forward”.

After which then saw Indian-American diplomat Ambassador Nikki Haley scorching socialist Democrats for claiming America is racist and stating: That is a lie…America is not a racist country...This is personal for me…I am the proud daughter of Indian immigrants....They came to America and settled in a small Southern town…My father wore a turban, my mother wore a sari....I was a brown girl in a black and white world. We faced discrimination and hardship, but my parents never gave in to grievance and hate”—powerful truths supported by the evidence showing that this “brown girl” was twice overwhelmingly elected by the majority of white citizens in South Carolina to be their Republican Party governor—South Carolina white citizens that also overwhelmingly elected to office black Republican Party US Senator Tim Scott—the same Senator Scott that gave this convention’s most powerful American Dream speech describing how his grandfather had to drop out of school to work in cotton fields, and his stating: “He lived long enough to see his grandson become the first African-American to be elected to both the United States House, and the United States Senate, in the history of this country…Our family went from cotton, to Congress, in one lifetime”.

All of which caused the mind of CNN leftist fake news host Chris Cuomo to become totally unhinged as he accused black Senator Scott of “carrying water” for President Trump like “higher status house negros” used to do for their Democrat Party plantation slave owners—a beyond shocking racist accusation against a black man now a daily occurrence at CNN, who along with leftist MSNBC, and unlike last week during the socialist Democrat convention, kept interrupting the Republicans for what they called “real-time fact-checks and analysis”—such as when MSNBC interrupted a speech from a nurse who was praising President Trump's response to Covid-19 for saving lives so they could scream out “It's all propaganda…There's no truth to it” without providing any facts to back it up—and CNN interrupting a speech from President Trump so they could say “he often almost seems like Pontius Pilate”.

And while watching, saw socialist Democrat Party leader US House Speaker Nancy Pelosi labeling President Trump and the Republican Party as “domestic enemies and enemies of the state”—who was quickly joined by socialist Democrat Party leader US Congresswoman Ilhan Omar telling the world that COVID-19 was created by “The Jews” to wipe out Muslims—words of vile hatred and insanity one fully expects to come from a socialist Democrat Party that itself has been branded as “The Party of Bonafide Racism”—a socialist Democrat Party that since its founding in 1829, has fought against every major civil rights initiative, and has a long history of discrimination, defended slavery, started the Civil War, opposed Reconstruction, founded the Ku Klux Klan, imposed segregation, perpetrated lynchings, and fought against the civil rights acts of the 1950s and 1960s—and makes it explainable why Neo-Nazi white supremacist leader Richard Spencer has now declared that he’s voting for Joe Biden and the socialist Democrats—that in reality means that all he’s doing is fleeing back to the party he belongs in.

According to this report, President Trump has been the worst “nightmare come true” for both Democrats and white supremacists since he took power in 2017—as at the core of both of them is the racist ideology known as socialism—a socialist ideology that needs racial and class division in order to survive—and was used to catastrophic effect in such nations as the National Socialist German Workers' Party (more commonly known as the Nazi Germany) and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics (more commonly known as the Soviet Union)—both of which were among the failed socialist-communist nations that over the past 100-years have killed 100-million people—and now have their eyes set on the destruction of the United States.

In order to gain power like Democrats and white supremacists are attempting to do in the United States, this report explains, socialist ideology mandates the use of terror tactics in order to keep in fear ordinary peoples—socialist terror tactics aimed directly at free market capitalism—whose underpinnings of history, law, order, truth and justice must be destroyed before socialists can grab power—and is accomplished through the use of socialist revolution terror campaigns such as are now being seen in:

Charlotte-North Carolina—where yesterday socialist Democrats unleashed their Black Lives Matter terrorists to march down streets screaming at fearful citizens “Fuck your Jesus”.

Kenosha-Wisconsin—where yesterday socialist Democrats unleashed their Black Lives Matter terrorists to create in this once peaceful city a “Scene Out of Hell” orgy of rioting, looting and burning.

Denver-Colorado—where this past weekend socialist Democrats unleashed their ANTIFA terrorists to smash windows and burn buildings throughout this city.

Chicago-Illinois—where this past weekend socialist Democrats unleashed their Black Lives Matter terrorists who stomped on “Pig Cop Piñatas” while screaming at residents fearful for their lives.

Portland-Oregon—where yesterday this city saw its two-month reign of terror, sanctioned and protected by socialist Democrats, continue unabated.

In order to fully comprehend what the socialist Democrats and their white supremacist allies are doing, this report details, one must first burst through the leftist mainstream media and Hollywood propaganda to realize the fact that 72% of America is white—a fact known to socialist Democrats and white supremacists alike, who during the past five decades have many times terrified white Americans with displays of black violence—black violence that ravaged American cities to the extent that white people fled from them, like they are doing today—which allowed socialist Democrats to gain undisputed tyrant control of cities, while white supremacists gained power in rural America—and when black communities threatened to upset this balance in the early 1990s, it saw the socialist Democrats in the Clinton Regime using the CIA to flood these black communities with drugs—though when these black communities began rebelling against the drugs destroying them, saw then US Senator Joe Biden leading the charge to pass a catastrophic crime law that threw an entire generation of black men and women in prisons for decades—the same Joe Biden who’s now the current socialist Democrat Party candidate for president.

Seeking to break this demonic unholy alliance between socialist Democrats and white supremacists, this report concludes, is President Trump—who for decades as a multi-billionaire real estate developer began to see the truth that the real white supremacists in America were the privileged white elite ruling class of Democrat Party leaders and their powerful white backers in Hollywood and on Wall Street—who while being aided by never-Trump Republicans and the leftist mainstream media, had effectively destroyed America by changing it from a democracy into an oligarchy by 2014—a shocking determination not made by Trump, but by researchers at Princeton University—and in response to, saw Trump the following year declaring his intention to run for president and take America back for its citizens—thus beginning the war between President Trump and these white supremacist oligarchs still raging to this day—and on 3 November, is a war the American people will be joining in to determine which side is going to win—which is either the side of these white supremacist oligarchs, who if winning will put black peoples back into their city plantations and prison cells so they can be used in the future to terrorize whites for votes—or the side of President Trump, who will break these black peoples out of their city plantations, so like Senator Tim Scott they can live the American Dream, too.

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hotteetrend · 4 years

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consolatione · 7 years

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There is still light

I lie in bed looking at the windows. The nights are still light, but they are getting darker. It's easier to notice the change now that we only come to the country side on the weekends, driving up the coast on Fridays after work, arriving late. Soon it will be pitch black and we won't go here anymore, the house is too cold, and we are selling it to afford to move permanently to some place outside of the city. I can't wait. But I will miss this place, miss going for a morning swim. Miss the house. Miss the cobbled path we made.

In a few weeks, it will be pitch black at this hour, but now as I listen to my son go to sleep, the curtains are backlit even if it is quite late. As he gently snores and drifts away to his childhood dreams, I dream my dreams. I dream of this place. I dream of the place we will settle down in. The hunting season has started, and I dream of that too. To go out early in the morning and sit still waiting as the day breaks. To take care of the game and to cook it with chanterelles and eat it in the company of good friends. I dream of hiking, of going on a long ski trip, to sit around a fire in the winter, to smell of smoke and drink coffee made in a sooty pot.

He sleeps. I go outside and stand beneath the 100-year-old trees that are dark silhouettes against the starry, deep blue sky, and I listen to the strange chirping of the tawny owls, a sound that is very un-owl-like. The Norwegian neighbours are singing. I long for singing at a party with friends too, even if I doubt anyone but my kids long for my singing in return.

All these dreams are of quiet, connected places, and I scurry between them in my mind as if I was in a hurry. Maybe I long for them because I have lost them and have to recreate them. They are mine when I can make them mine, when I can buy their luxury. These things that feel like the most natural thing.

I have spent the day speaking about tech and devices. Thinking about things that should marvel us. I'm not marvelled. Instead I think of paths in the landscape, paths made by man's feet. Over lifetimes people have walked over landscapes, carving their journeys into the ground, even forcing trees to bend their branches so that they grow crooked. These are runes carved by walking, their stories quietly span millennia. The old oak stands witness.

This is Modernity, I think. To ever long for quiet. To be captured by the new, to make a commodity of that which is natural. The man who desired everything, and got it, only to find himself missing wanting itself. Not that I think all that is modern is bad, nothing is ever just bad. If it were, we would get rid of it. We are not victims of Modernity, we are spellbound by it. It's a drug. A spiral.

I read what is said about me. Getting messages from friends who understand. They sigh. I sigh. I tell them I don't care, but I can't help but getting angry anyway, so I postpone writing back. Nothing good ever comes from responding in anger, and anyway, every word I write feels sordid, dirty. Why should I have to reply to such nonsense? I remind myself that they are the voices I wrote about in the Taiga, voices that have no meaning unless you grant them meaning. I wish I had that old poetry collection here, so I could remind myself of those words. They still make sense to me, they paint an inner landscape.

I know how this sounds, I know how any reply to my detractors sounds too. Its dramaturgical. It has an almost Aristotelean dramatic structure to it. I have tried before to explain things prosaically, to explain how Modernity has caught us. My views put into words for people that are stuck in the loop. I remember telling the story of the freedom of the serfs in Russia. They had lived their lives in captivity, but were mostly left alone. They saw their masters a few times in a lifetime perhaps, the rest of the time they lived as they always had. Sang their songs, cooked their food. Toiled. It was a hard life at someone else’s mercy. Then they were freed, millions of illiterate people who for thousands of years had stayed in one place were let go, only to be mangled by industrialism, where Modernity was ready with her ideologies. ‘Escape this!’, she said, and they did, only to find themselves in yet another trap. And just a few decades earlier there had been life that made them humans beyond their destitution and serfdom, something that made things bearable. Expelled from the land they used to be bound to, they had instead looked to employment, and their new masters had clocks for them to punch and quotas to meet. Trying to escape that, they were caught in starvation, brutalism, the anonymity of urban life and the most savage wars. And then, they ran from that into atomisation. Someone thought out a new structure for society, perfect in the minds of ideologues. Straight lines, like borders on a map drawn by colonialists, far removed from the fabric which is actual life.

I tried telling their story, but in Modernity there is no fire to sit around and talk. A fire reduces the pedantry of the listener. Humans have listened to stories like that since the dawn of time, until the stories became archetypical and everlasting. I think that maybe we evolved to listen attentively and without hostility around a fire. But in Modernity we refuse to listen. ‘Would you rather we had serfs?’ ‘No.’ ‘Would you rather we had feudalism?’ ‘No.’ ‘You are suspect anyway.’ ‘I guess.’ You are missing the point. It’s the elk that flees that is driven towards the cliff, not the one that isn’t scared and calmly keeps his head with him. I am not sure the analogy holds up. In any case, the serfs ended up running from poverty and the injustice they knew, into a machine that ground them down and supplied them with an ideology that could only ever make things worse. They were played. In the new economy they were outdated, needed elsewhere. They were told they had to fight for freedom. The old structure which kept them up had to go and they ended up in Modernity’s battlefield.

At one time we were all tribes, tied together by blood. The biggest unit we could muster was that which could organically be upheld. Then arose the centralised state, cracking down on tribal allegiances and social structures, replacing them with institutions. It became possible to organise bigger groups of people, nations. Those who couldn’t make the transition were dominated by those who could. Tribal life was sometimes brutal, but they were never powerful enough to eradicate or colonise. To form a nation state, the kings had to change the structure of society, replace cultures, traditions with institutions the state had control over. Sometimes go to war with people who held on to their local loyalties, whose life wasn’t improved as they were forced to give up power. The nation states were necessary and over time some grew into peaceful, welfare states. Then a new power manifested itself. It had learned how to conquer, it had to attack the social fabric and undermine the institutions in place. Even the demography. The state itself was to be put under the thumb and relinquish its powers. Power, it was decided, should move farther away from people and into the hands of international courts of law; away from the troublesome nation states and demographic hegemonies. Smash it. In with the new. Just one more sacrifice and we’ll reach utopia. Give us the power to rule you and we’ll give you… nothing. Panem et circenses. The bank will own your house, your car, your institutions will lack power and only remain to uphold the bureaucracy to manage it all. You will not belong to anything, you are free, your family bonds are only contractual and temporary. You are an atom. Free as long as you do not rattle the cage.

My grandfather fought in WWI. He detested the generals after that and came close to joining the communist party, only to realise they were just as likely to send him to the slaughterhouse. He chose to bear his demons himself, or so I am told. Taking long walks. Maybe drinking too much. These people that stand before me now are fighting for their own disenfranchisement. They want the super state. They want to give up their institutions. They will get into a rage and froth at the very idea that maybe it isn’t the best of ideas to forever change the demographics of a country. They are marching again, throwing their hats into the air. We’ll be back in time for Christmas. This war will end all wars.

I get defensive, and I really shouldn’t. There's a fire in the fireplace and a stream of smoke rises across a starry sky. You never see the shifts in colour on the night sky in the city. I shouldn't be defensive, because that only means I have already failed to explain. Again. A trap.

The very participation in the debate is a trap. To not participate is the only thing that you can do, and hope there are those who see what you do anyway. To win is to do something else that is outside of their reach. To win is to build. To win is to take those who understand and make something that speaks by existing alone. Then I see that is what we do with these arts as well, but as soon as they are done, Modernity wants it. Demands it. And it uses the same fools it always has, those who find their truths in ideology and tell themselves they are the Good ones. Fighting the Good cause.

Is it too late? There’s not even a silver slither by the horizon. I need to calm down, enjoy the luxury of normality offered on the weekends until we can build something strong enough to withstand whatever this is, while he sleeps and dreams his childhood dreams.

No, it is not too late. I still believe in that which is the essence of being human. To write runes with your very life. To refuse to be caught in a loop and instead build on the love for that which is peaceful and connected. We will not be atomised.

#traditionalism #Peace #quiet #Love

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