#did someone called hegel

[nathysillygirl]

bipolar been trying to take me down with the depression phase (thesis)

my autistic ass hyperrationalize everything together with a deep ingrained absurdist philosophy serving to keep me calm and stable (antithesis)

my muscles lacks dopamine to move, and I'm not sad just bored wanting it to end as quick (synthesis)

[givemearmstopraywith]

Hi! The critical theory books you mentioned, would they be parseable for anyone who hasn't directly read marx or marxist books yet? I'm trying to figure out if I should ease myself into theory by reading adjacent stuff first before like The Texts

for critical theory they draw a lot from continental philosophy as well as judaism. if you have a decent background in theology (especially systematic theology, with some exposure to hegel, kant, kierkegaard, and descartes), you will be able to make your way pretty easily through critical theory. if the terms negativist/positivist, or materialist/nonmaterialist, aren't familiar to you, then you've gone too far. but you don't need to have memorized phenomenology of the spirit or anything: i just finished a course on critical theory and did very well in it despite having never read kant or hegel in any meaningful way.

the book i recommend by klapwijick is a good way to test to see if the concepts discussed by the critical theorists make sense- klapwijick essentially summarizes their major ideas. if klapwijick makes sense to you, you should be okay.

that said, i would recommend having a decent foothold in marxism before going onto critical theory. you don't need to have read hegel to understand marx- it helps, but i think we are all aware of the dangers of materialism through lived experienced enough to read marx. additionally, anyone with an interest in marxism should read marx before ascribing to marxism as an ideology- i see a lot of people calling themselves marxists or communists without having actually read theory. all of marx's work is available from the marxist's archive. i recommend starting with the communist manifesto, then wage labour and capital, then socialism.

marxists.org has an excellent introductory syllabus to the work of marx that includes his critiques of hegel and pertinent passages from das kapital.

in terms of marxism-communism, i'd be remiss if i didn't also recommend reading some kropotkin, luxemburg, and trotsky too (i personally detest mao and lenin and consider stalin a tyrant, but i'm sure someone else would consider them necessary reading). marxism without the context of it's greatest victory-tragedy is merely idealism. a good primer for this is a people's history of the russian revolution by neil faulkner.

[apricops]

Tomato and Orange for Sunny?

(OC ask)

🍅 [TOMATO] How misunderstood is your OC? In-universe or IRL.

“So, most of the time I’m not talking to people one-on-one. Usually I’m streaming, and when I’m talking to my devoted followers and voters, I’m a lot more like this! ❤️ Good morning American League, I love you! ❤️🤍💙 Did you all remember to eat your breakfast, brush your teeth, and buy my merch? You did? Yaaaaay, I’m so proud of you!”

“And because of that, people are pretty surprised when they talk to me one-on-one. They misunderestimate me at first, and then I remind them that I have millions of shut-ins with paychosexual fixations on lil ol’ me, and that’s when they realize that it’s in their best interest to make me happy.”

🍊 [ORANGE] Does your OC have a prophecy surrounding them? If they don't, what would it be?

“So the State Pantheon has this thing called the Contingent - it just sounds like Great Man theory but if you say that they get really mad and go ‘no it’s about the contradictions of the Material being in a conflictive equilibrium which can be temporarily subsumed and thereby resolved with a blah blah’ but basically a Contingent is like a Napoleon or a Qin Shi Huangdi, someone who changes their political and cultural landscape so deeply that their life marks a change in eras.”

“Anyway, I bet I’m a Contingent, because it sounds cool and I’d like another feather in my cap. Maria’s always like ‘Sunny it’s more complicated than that, you have to read Hegel, if our generation’s Contingent is selling ahegao hoodies I’m going to kill myself,’ but she’s always like that.”

[gavinwielandsblog]

On Living in the Moment

I get the aviator-nation-yoga-matt-mom dread whenever I hear someone non-ironically tell me about how they are living (or working on living) in the moment. But from a philosophical perspective, I have to admit, this whole the present thing is a little fucking weird. 

If you have been systemically manufactured into thinking about history in the (problematic) western-hegelian-linear-line type of way like me, and you take some time to reflect (or smoke something), you might conclude that (as you pretend to do your homework in the library and are, instead, planning tomorrow morning's coffee shop [where you plan to see your crush] outfit) you and the rest of the people on the planet and in the library are actually on the precipice of space-time itself hurdling at the speed of time into the next infinitely short present moment. But I took calculus and you probably did too and, like you (unless you’re a math major), I don’t remember much. What I do remember though is if something is infinitely small, like the moments in time during the present, it just collapses into zero. So I guess I’m thinking that the aviator-nation-live-laugh-love-mom person actually can not, no matter how hard they try, live in the moment. The moment is just too damn short to live in. I guess an alternative might be that we live slightly behind the moment. Like the moment happens and then we react and process and, while all that’s happening, all of humanity is already hurdling through an infinity of new moments. 

The funny thing is though, none of the shit in that previous paragraph actually matters. If you’re convinced that the present doesn’t exist and we’re all just living slightly behind the moment you’re literally not going to change a single thing in your life. It’s basically just some bullshit semantics at the end of the day. Fuck it, I’m blaming it on my hyper-western education and Hegel. 

So, what if we disregard the whole straight-line history thing? How can we think about the present as something besides the ever-speedy perpendicular dividing history and future?

Well, I really hate to do it but I think we might have to look at this thing from the aviator-nation-shaka person perspective for a bit. When someone says they are living in the moment, they’re pretty much never talking about metaphysics. Even though you can kind of intuitively get the gist, it’s honestly quite hard to spell out what they really mean, unless they tell you. They might mean that they are trying to be more mindful of their current state of affairs. Or, they might mean that they are trying to emotionally jettison some fuck-shit that happened to them in the past, or some fuck-shit that they are anticipating in the future. Or, they might mean that they are trying to practice (often platitudinal) gratitude. Or, it might mean that they are (to obviously no avail) trying to slow (or stop) the only thing in the universe that never changes, change. 

Regardless of their implicit intentions, I think the multiplicity of meanings imbued in living in the moment should be enough to show it’s pretty damn trite. Sometimes, moment livers do give context though, so this isn’t always a problem. Regardless, the thing that sucks is that it actually seems to work for people. I mean, I wouldn’t be writing about this unless a fuck-ton of people had normatively embodied this shit. It begs the question: am I just a judgemental-academic-epistemic-hubris-dickhead or is this living in the moment shit whack?

I just re-read what I’ve written so far and it’s pretty clear that I am, in fact, a judgemental-academic-epistemic-hubris-dickhead, but I don’t think the two options posited above are mutually exclusive. Now, call me paranoid, but I think that those who explicitly tell others that they are living in the moment are actually implicitly weaponizing the practice in a sort of spiritual-superiority-complex. What I’m trying to say is: part of the reason living in the moment works for people is not just because of the actual introspective spiritual/emotional work, but because they are telling people that they are doing introspective spiritual/emotional work. This is not to say that people don’t actually do any of the cognitive gymnastics that might constitute their subjective working definition of living in the moment. I’m not trying to call them liars. I really just want to say that whether or not their reasons for performing these cognitive gymnastics in the first place are outward-facing, telling others is always (salient or not) implicitly intended to positively influence the way others see them. Whether others actually see them in a more positive light or not, the underlying (again, salient or not) expectation of their increased social (spiritual?) capital is enough for the practice, in part, to work for them. I see this as the spiritual-superiority-complex (SSC). 

And now there’s a problem. Intrinsically, it seems like living in the moment is a good thing. But, if you live in the moment and you tell other people about it, whether you like it or not, you are exercising the SSC. 

But is the SSC even a bad thing? Is it generally bad to say things that are implicitly intended to positively influence the way others see you? Well, we obviously say good things about ourselves all the time, so that’s not an issue. The problem with the SSC is in those cases where those outward-facing reasons are stronger than the inner facing ones. Cases where the liver lives because they want to improve the way others think about them, instead of improving themselves. What really sucks is that the livee has no way of knowing what the liver’s reasons are and, if the livee is emotionally immature like me, they’re going to assume the worst. 

This pretty much perfectly brings me to my conclusion: grind in silence. Stop telling other people that you are working on living in the moment and just fucking do it. Or, be like me and live in your relatively chill trauma. Okay Google, play Easter in Miami by Kodak Black.

[grandhotelabyss]

In passing, a professor recently said to me, "one could argue that all literature is irony." What did she mean?

Speaking as someone who believes this, I suspect she meant that literature—which I'll simply and circularly define here as either that which the writer intended to write as literature or that which the reader resolved to read as literature—inherently invites multiple interpretations. Any given work of literature is therefore in itself unstable in its meaning; this creates the discordances of expectation and reversals of meaning we call "irony." It never means what it seems to mean; it always means something more than we anticipate, something other than we anticipate. It often means more than the writer could possibly have intended, more than any one reader can understand or articulate: the whiteness, for example, of the whale.

Most texts above the level of the sheerly informative can be read this way—even legal texts, which are "legalistic" because they're going out of their way to avoid polysemy—but literature in the normative sense is writing best designed to reward attention alive to irony. This kind of irony is not to be confused with the smug superiority of sarcasm—see last post—but should actually inspire some humility toward the immense complication of things.

In rejoinder to those who would say there's something nihilistic in this argument—don't we want texts to mean?—I believe this irony serves a psychological and social function: training the individual psyche in negative capability and training the social body in the peaceful and productive art of interpretive dispute. In rejoinder to those who would say literature as an art shouldn't have to serve a psychological or social function—can't it just be beautiful?—I would say that complexity, and the irony to which it gives rise, is literary beauty.

P. S. There's a theoretical corpus on this topic I only ever half-read: Hegel and Schlegel, Wayne Booth and Paul de Man, etc. A poor student of theory, I sort of developed my own ideas above sidewise out of studying and teaching particular works: "Ode on a Grecian Urn," The Scarlet Letter, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Mrs. Dalloway. So take it with a grain of salt.

[driftwork]

I could easily put a date, a period to the music... part one

Today is my birthday,  I am 63, my 64th year has begun.... How did I end up across the world teaching Hegel? It was a long time ago, I don't actually know how long ago, decades at least. So here I am trying to remember the name of the philosopher hiding out in Europe who produced a a a phrase that defined the major part of our lives since then.  It rapidly became normalized and the words dropped out of the mouths of the publics throughout the world.  So here I am sitting, typing these phrases,  it's a mathematical formula that defined the way in which we live, perhaps though its more precise than the mathematical phrases of 'willing slaves of capital'.  Out there are a few billion willing slaves.  Men and women,  children and geriatrics,  the healthy and the sick, people at keyboards,  cosmonauts, astronauts, mall workers,  teachers and the others who may think in terms of a collapsing evil empire, but we don't live in amongst these remnants for the publics love their enslavement. A long time has passed since then, decades.  Barbarism has become normal,  and we have no idea how to prevent barbarism from growing still further.  How did I end up working and living here? How did it collapse like this?

The story begins with the sea:  After she left our prison I was there another year, still constrained within the 100 metre diameter cell, towards the end all i remembered of her was the feint almost homeopathic scent of honey. For a long time I had to avoid the scent of honey for it made me long for her.    "We should leave now," they told me without taking time to pack things in a thoughtful fashion. Not giving me time to think,  or even to put my  shoes on. I  threw a few things in a bag. I took my notes, the books,  clothes. There was nothing else, a few memories of her, I had missed her for months. They let me out on license when the regime began to change, put a GPS tracker on my wrist, escorted me back to my apartment. A two bedroom living room and kitchen, with a nice shower room close to Little V...  The only thing I did  was to ask them to pause so that I could stand on the concrete promenade looking at the sea.  Long waves beat diagonally, across, the beach, bulge hunchbacked,with cords of muscle, raise quivering ridges that tip over at their very repetition. No wave is unique, each one identical. Their crests stretched tight, already welted white,  around the cavity of air crushed by the clear mass like a secret made and broken...  For the entire time i had been a prisoner here i had only seen it in the distance, Is it the same beach? The same sea? It’s a  year later. The intervening pages scarcely matter, we’ll get to them over the days and weeks of  living. I stick my bookplate on the inside cover: someone sees someone standing. And try to think of the last time i read a book with the sea in it. The coach driver calls me, I board the bus and he carries me and my escort  away.  The old coach took us to the railway station where we caught the slow train to the nearest city, passing through the snow,  and then transferred to the southern express.  We, the escort and I didn't speak.  Shortly after the train began heading south a seller of sweets passed through the carriage. More parochially I arrived back in January, it is a a a a beautiful day before us, its the early morning and we are wondering what we will or should do with it. There is only a single choice really. We travelled in a police car through the city, to my apartment in the block of flats which sits in a side street in the north of ... People looked away to not know who the police were transporting... The apartment had been newly cleaned,  a few meals, handed me keys, pass codes, a document that listed the constraints imposed on a political prisoner life me, and instructions about when to go to the police. I asked my escort about the missing items, things that were listed on the document but not in the apartment. Usually solitary political prisoners like you get burgled, anything valuable gets stolen.  Could have happened anytime over the years you were away. Should I report the burglary?? I asked him. He shook his head, no point you don't have any idea when it happened,  and you won't be able to claim anything on insurance. Do I need to sign anything,  he handed his tablet to me, sign here, and her, and here....then again on this document.  You must live in this place. He instructed.  Where would I go? I have been disowned. I replied. Yes, it's normal.

It took a few weeks for me to get employed as a barista in a quasi-independent coffee store. I  worked 40 or 50 hours a week, 10% over minimum wage,   a hundred and  more espressos and teas a day, I never really counted.  sometimes milk shakes, usually for children. The cafe owners were ex-communists (smiles) after a few weeks of serving people,  the weak sunlight entering the cafe  through the UV filtering glass. Me, eventually,  wearing teeshirts with images of Hegel and others. Ex colleagues from the university appeared.  It's the way of nepotism and political protectionism that I got a temporary assistant teaching post, 12 hours a week in the university. Dividing my time between the cafe and the evening shifts and then into the daytime. After about four months they removed the GPS trackers from my body. Insanely feeling free at last. I lay on my back in the park watching silver airplanes flying overhead in the bright blue sky.  Once the trackers were gone I applied for work at the Black Hotel Gardenia. We have been asked to employ you the Hotel said. I didn't understand what this might mean.  I left the cafe to work in the Hotel cafe and then elsewhere in the Black Hotel.  I began to think I might survive in this newly lonely life.  I didn't dare have friends as I waited for them to arrest me again. In the late autumn the politics stabilized again.  One morning at the Hotel I was taken into the directors office and was told by a dark suited european that they would rearrest me next week and that I should leave.  They gave me an envelope of instructions, tickets, money, credit cards, a new identity and passports.  Let us say a year passed perhaps more perhaps less. And there I was running along a slow line of flight boarding a small ship in winter…  Today is my birthday I am 63,  I have never returned to the country that wants me, a teacher of Hegel to be imprisoned. I am an exile on a small planet.

https://www.driftwork.work/post/684428858721697792/a-village-on-the-coast

[fnv-described]

[Image Description: the first two images are from a post by “pissvortex” the text reads:

“the thing that gets me about caesar's dialogue about hegelian dialectics in fnv is how intentional and obvious the irony is if you are familiar with hegel. i mean even if you aren't it should still be obvious why caesar is a fucking idiot since he's talking about "the NCR doesn't care about the greater good" at one point and then immediately says "slavery is a gift to the people we have conquered" afterwards. but hegel's most well known thing is the master-slave dialectic - the idea that asymmetric recognition of the other is inherently not sustainable. and caesar directly references hegel in order to justify owning slaves and running a dictatorship. like literally nothing about his justifications add up, which was certainly intentional, but there's still always people on reddit or in youtube comments like "wow he really has a point if you think about it".

this isn't to say caesar is a one-dimensional bad guy either - i think he's a pretty accurate stand-in for fascist idealogues in that he is superficially well-read and can be very convincing to people who are already prone to prejudiced thinking. if you were to think like this character, you would think you were right, and that's evidence of competent character writing. but fallout new vegas is still a satire, and caesar is one of the satirical elements of that in a pretty obvious way, which makes gamers agreeing with caesar still so dumb. like the closest comparison i can think of would be someone reading 'a modest proposal' by jonathan swift and being like "yeah that sounds reasonable" just because it's written in the perspective of a character who is extremely confident that the things he is saying are reasonable.”

The third is image is from a separate post by the same user, its text reads:

“the phenomenon of dumb gamers hearing caesar reference Hegelian dialectics in an entirely self-serving and unscientific way in order to justify fascism and actually getting convinced that he's right is one of the more tragic things about new vegas. in a game rife with incredibly on-the-nose satire about anti-communism and american exceptionalism, there's one dialogue encounter with the warlord of an army of racist ancient rome cosplayers where they basically make him recite a Mussolini speech and just half of the people that hear it are like "damn this guy's spitting facts!". scary to think about”

The last image is an edited screenshot from Fallout: New Vegas. It includes Caesar sitting on his throne, and a text box below him reads:

“(SPEECH 100) Thats not how fucking dialectics works you stupid cuck. I didn't study Hegel (plus continental philosophy in general) at Harvard for 7 FUCKING YEARS for some LOW LIFE KNOW IT ALL who's CLEARLY never fucking read Hegel as he would KNOW that HEGEL has NEVER FUCKING EVER used the terms "thesis, antithesis, synthesis" to start perpetuating these LIES at VERY SINGLE FUCKING OPPORTUNITY. this isn't Hegel my friend. No no no. Thesis, antithesis, synthesis was thought up by Fichte and it's clearly inferior to Hegels dialectical nethod of imminent critique, Yes. It's called imminent critique. And dialectics is only ONE PART of Hegels full method. Which again is called Imminent critique which you would know if you had ACTUALLY BOTHERED TO READ HEGEL ITS LITERALLY IN THE SCIENCE OF LOGIC YOU DUMB FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT. I honestly cannot believe the fucking arrogance to come onto this post, spouting that anti Hegel garbage. Where did you get your fucking info on dialectics? Fucking Jason Unruhe? Jesus fucking Christ I cannot deal with this bullshit right now I'm sorry I'm leaving I'm fucking leaving.” End Description]

Hey, can you get your takedown of Caesar using Hegel to justify his conquest back up on this blog? I just remember it being such a well worded deconstruction of his whole ideology, but I can’t remember the exact post, and can’t look it up after the incident.

there were two version of that post. first one was this

and the second one was this much shorter reply on a different post

you may also be thinking of this copypasta meme though

[akechigoroarchive398]

rank 1 - 6/10 friday - tv show

Cute Announcer: All right, let’s try asking this student here. 

Hypothetically speaking, what are your thoughts on these Phantom Thieves, if they were real?

> They do more than the cops.

Akechi: Hahaha.

Cheerful Host: This completely goes against the opinion you had about them being tried by law, Akechi-kun.

Akechi: Indeed. It’s rather intriguing to hear such a strong acknowledgement

In that case, there’s one more question I’d like to ask…

If someone close to you, for example, your friend next to you…

If his heart suddenly changed… wouldn’t you think it was the work of the Phantom Thieves?

> They only target criminals.

Akechi: I see. But how can you be so sure?

Whether the Thieves’ actions are good or not, I feel there is a more important issue at hand. 

Cheerful Host: Hm? What do you mean?

Akechi: The matter of how they change people’s hearts. 

If they honestly possess that ability… it could be used for more than extracting confessions. 

It could be that what seem to be ordinary crimes are actually being perpetrated by these methods…

Cheerful Host: You know, you’re absolutely right. 

Akechi: Oh, please don’t misunderstand. This all purely hypothetical…

It is only if people who can use such a power truly exist. Either way though, this cannot be ignored. 

The existence of the Phantom Thieves would be nothing but a threat to our everyday lives. 

To be honest, I’m already working alongside the police to help sort out this matter. 

—

Ann: It kinda seemed like what he was saying might be right…

Ryuji: He made it sound like we’re the baddies. I don’t like it. 

Ann: But that stuff about the police… Do you think it’s for real?

Morgana: He can say whatever he wants. The justice of it all is something we can decide for ourselves. 

Ryuji: Oh sorry, I gotta go take a leak. Can you guys wait here? I’ll be right back. 

Ann: Oh my god… I’m gonna keep going, okay?

Akechi: Oh, it’s you!

I’m glad I found you. I wanted to thank you in person. 

To paraphrase Hegel, advancement cannot occur without both thesis and antithesis…

Haha, my apologies. What I mean is that our discussion was quite meaningful. 

Few people around me are so willing to speak their minds as freely as you did earlier. 

Adults are only interested in using the young, while they simply do as the adults say. 

There are too many irresponsible people in these modern times. I can understand why you’d support the Phantom Thieves. 

It’s possible that this group is just as you believe and they are truly acting with good intentions.

Since they have special talents, I assume their hearts must be burning with a sense of justice and duty…

But that justice is merely a façade concealing their lack of true strength. 

That’s why I believe, if a truly powerful opponent were to corner them, they would flee without a second thought. 

> They’d fight to the end.

Akechi: Oh…? You really are intriguing. I bet you’d make for a worthwhile debate partner on the subject.

If it’s all right with you, would you continue sharing your thoughts with me?

> I’d love to. 

[They shake hands.]

Akechi: Thank you, that’s great news. I sense something in you that’s quite different from other people.

I guess you can call it my detective’s intuition? Haha, kidding, of course.

[It seems the detective Akechi has taken a liking to me…]

[I am thou, thou art I… Thou hast acquired a new vow. It shall become the wings of rebellion that breaketh thy chains of captivity. With the birth of the Justice Persona, I have obtained the winds of blessing that shall lead to freedom and new power…]

Akechi: Ah, yes—we should exchange contact info.

…And, registered.

Well, I hope to see you again sometime soon.

[Akechi turns around and walks away.]

Morgana: A detective’s intuition, huh? We shouldn’t underestimate that.

On the other hand, there’s an awful lot we could learn from him. If he contacts you, try hanging out with him. 

[Akira nods.]

Ryuji: Sorry for takin’ so long! …Wait, was that Akechi?

I can’t stand that high an’ mighty attitude! Just breathin’ the same air as him makes me sick. 

C’mon, Akira, let’s go. 

[iguanalysis]

On the Interpretation of an Annotated Version of Lacan's Schema R

The Lozenge of the Mathème for Fantasy (1):

The Vel in the Lozenge

The diamond-shaped lozenge character/symbol found in Lacan's mathème for fantasy is clearly not the same thing as schema R or a semiosic square. This is partially because the lozenge's characteristic ability is to elide participating in either a symbolization or a semiosic square, because these are structures that intrinsically incorporate an arrangement of four given terms into two distinct contraries. The lozenge, on the other hand, while it does possess for itself two contraries, just like a semiosic square has, it also only (apparently) supports two terms, not four. So, while the ultimate agenda is to integrate the Oedipal+preOedipal+Real (S+I+R) quadrangle (schema R) into what Lacan refers to as the vel in his eleventh seminar, they are not genuinely the same structure. The annotations would have the vel moving from E to M on schema R by way of the object of privation x, the symbolic father P, and the ideal-ego I(A). This is not what is going on with a lozenge at all. So, there is either a dialectical progression required to reach the point where a lozenge-structure can modify the schema R so that a direct vel movement is possible whenever signification may occur, or these speculations and suspicions turn out to be incorrect, and the lozenge-structure should be kept separate from any quadrangular semiosic schemas for the rest of human history.

In any case, here is the (my) annotated version:

The Lozenge of the Mathème for Fantasy (2):

The Hegelian Lure, and the “Master-Servant Dialectic” in the Oedipal Square/Schema R

In an article titled “Hegel’s Master-Slave Dialectic and a Myth of Marxology”, written by Chris Arthur, and published in the New Left Review for their November-December 1983 issue (this is an article that I read online a few years ago that profoundly influenced me), there was a discussion on the appropriation of Hegel's philosophy by both Karl Marx himself versus the French Marxists of the 20th century, the latter citing Alexandre Kojève as their primary influence: figures such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Jean Hyppolite, and Hérbert Marcuse.

At stake was the definition and use of the French word aliénation in French Marxist philosophy, since it could be translated for two different words in German, words which were used by the philosophers Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel and Karl Marx. These two words were, namely, Entäußerung (“en-toy-sare-oong”, alienation) and Entfremdung (“ent-frem-doong”; estrangement, or alienation), respectively.

Hegel's Entäusserung was used more in reference to a spiritual (pertaining to Spirit) or essential (pertaining to essence) connotation of the meaning of the word "alienation", whereas the word Entfremdung connoted through "estrangement”, for Marx more specifically, something maybe closer to the English word "separation", i.e., the proletariat's alienation from the product of his/her/their labor, indicating that the worker has the product of his labor taken away from him once he is finished making it. This is because it is intended, by the capitalist who owns the business, to be sold to someone else (obviously). Marx's point in developing this idea of alienation wasn't exactly that the finished product ought to belong to the worker instead (as I once foolishly misunderstood to a large degree), but rather that the financial math involved in capitalist business operations ends up cheating the worker of a full compensation for what he/she/they did to produce wealth for their employer that day. Alienation, in Marxian economics, thereby implemented a more spiritual or abstract register of Hegel's philosophy in this manner, which it always only ever was; mostly, this was in the context of Marx's polemic against a sort of poetic injustice at the societal level, and not a serious call for any violent destruction of the established order.

But wait… Is Marx ever really talking about political economy itself when he writes about the workers who are forced to participate in it, (that is, if they want food to eat and a place to sleep)? Was his writing just an example of literary self-stylization through polemic? Or is labor itself not truly productive, but rather something fundamentally cognitive and philosophical by means of the historical mechanisms internal to thought itself? And why is it important that French intellectuals of the 20th century were claiming that these connections now established between Marx and Hegel ought to be attributed to the teachings of Alexandre Kojève, instead of getting de-bunked altogether?

This tendency in French Marxism, broadly speaking, and according to Chris Arthur, is significant because Alexandre Kojève is practically the father of French existentialism, French psychoanalysis, French political philosophy, and 20th century French Marxism; the study of any philosophy of history or Heidegger's ontology in France, as well, could never do without his influence either. As a result, even French president Emmanuel Macron can be presumed to have a familiarity with the prestige of the French Hegelian tradition. Alexandre Kojève was a profound influence on Jacques Lacan as well, serving as Lacan's "master-signifier". He really is the most influential thinker, teacher, and politician of all time, even though he is not by any means the most essential one.

However, this confusion about so-called "alienation" persisted in Western European philosophy for quite a long time as a result of his teaching. But… what if Kojève had anticipated, prior to the consequences of this confusion about "alienation", what he was doing with the eventual historical effects of his teaching? His calculated dissemination of Hegel’s and Marx’s philosophical wisdom is rather Christ-like for that reason. (But I'll discuss this way further down in the post.)

Back to main topic: The vel in Jacques Lacan's diamond-shaped lozenge is located at the bottom-half of the lozenge. This part of it, a V-shaped movement from left to right, is also referred to by Lacan as "the Hegelian lure". Why?

So, the Hegelian lure is… what?

“Spirit grasps the sphere of estrangement as the product of its own self-alienation.” This is the essential thrust of fantasy in general, even though it is an activity that remains largely unconscious. And that very fact is because of its interactions with what is non-conscious.

This interplay which constitutes the thrust of fantasy is between:

[1] the formations of the unconscious,

[2] unconscious mechanisms (e.g. natural metaphor), and

[3] non-conscious, or undiscovered, scientific/factual knowledge.

This thrust of fantasy, then, is a conglomerate formation facing towards Hegel's idea of Absolute Knowing. There is a gap between the present-day, or present-moment, and the final end of knowledge itself, which marks the location of a present-moment's abstract finish-line. This situation bears stark similarities to Kant's antinomies of Pure Reason, but as Hegel famously criticizes, Kant's idea of the concept is too flimsy, because a concept is something which ought to be grasped properly if it is to be the attainment of the thing itself. In this vein, what I personally like to think of as the noumenal justice of imaginational (visual) logic relies too heavily on the metaphysical escapability of the Kantian thing-in-itself. This innate slipperiness, which generally characterizes Kant's understanding of objects, avoids Hegel's notion of Absolute Knowing for the most part, deferring instead to its respectively absent uncaused cause, rather than making itself graspable by way of self-knowing.

The relationship to knowledge on the part of the Lacanian (or psychoanalytic) subject is one which must necessarily pass through the dialectics of need, demand, and desire in order to be capable of "producing" a signifying chain. This is distinctly marked by the appearance of a', which shows up on the Schema L. (You can find a pretty good explanation of that here, although I would like to take a closer look at it and emphasize the emergence of this a' as the very condition to which desire itself is subjected.)

In any case, this conception of "desire itself" as something subjected to the a' is analogous to a thematic element of the mathème for fantasy found in Chris Arthur's exposition of the philosophical relationship between Marx and Hegel. So, what does Marx say, potentially pertaining to fantasy, and alluding to Hegel, according to Chris Arthur?

(“Bildungsroman”, according to Oxford Languages/Google Search Engine, is “a novel dealing with one person's formative years or spiritual education.”)

“Abstract mental labor” as the “labor of spirit” is the final objective of fantasy in general, and this is what Lacan's mathème expresses. On the annotated version of Schema R, however, there is a part of the vel (if this schema is indeed mimicking the lozenge) which is a gap in both figurative and literal space, there to denote how the dialectic of desire must play out before a linear process of signification may ever occur in the first place. To get to this abstract mental labor, then, reality must become an object, one which is both ordered and organized by the trapezoid-symbolizations which are the projective surfaces of psychoses: poiesis/delusion, genesis/hallucination, and sinthome/elision. This is what the convoluted-looking annotation basically signifies.

The Lozenge of the Mathème for Fantasy (3):

The Gap between the Split-Subject and the Object of Privation

The split-subject is produced by a variable stimulus Δ interacting with the variables S and S’, illustrated above on Graph I of the graph of desire, which is also known as the “button-tie” or “quilting-point” (point de capiton). This interaction between the variables is called metonymic sliding (glissement), or slippage. Two vertices of the pre-Oedipal triangle (i and m) may then interact with this metonymic slippage in tandem with its already-produced product, the split-subject, $. To re-iterate the basics, the Other, A, is a destination at which the subject never arrives, however (it is a place that exists, but not a space where one may be). Rather, the approach is one of anticipation for what Lacan repeatedly called “the treasure trove of signifiers”, the Other, which I mistook (for a long time) for a lexicon. Looking at the schema for poiesis will show, however, that there is also the sonic resonance of the imaginary phallus, -φ, which vibrates all around the image of the object i(a), objet petit a.

Poiesis here is the failure of frustration to relate to castration in a way that germinates the very possibility of fantasy. The subject’s approach to a relationship with demand is knocked off course by a metonymic slippage which flees from the Other in the form of the Voice, and this consequent alienation causes the subject to “fall under” the phallic function of the mother's beyond (Jouissance → Castration) and land at the locus of the signified of the Other. It does not reach the upper level of the complete graph of desire because it was not launched up by desire, d, with enough thrust. This is Hegel and Marx’s Entfremdung, which was described above. The estrangement of spirit finds its home in self-alienation, and picks up the Signifier as the substitution for its lost relationship to desire. This is a properly-constituted instance of cognition, which in addition to the signified also picks up more of -φ’s sonic resonances on the way down to I(A), and arms itself with the ego (m, “le moi”). The ideal-ego, I(A), is a space where one may arrive at occasionally, but the resonances of the imaginary phallus which are functionally reflected (reflection here functions as a metaphor for re-semiotization, since the vectors $→A and s(A)→I(A) are not moving in the same direction) in i(a) continuously interfere with the apperception of any final tension. This is to say that the graph of desire is best understood as a structure that is constantly pulsing with the colorful, multiplicitous vibrations of plucked strings.

Poiesis corresponds to the elementary cell, Graph II of the graph of desire, as a projective surface of psychosis, the one which fosters the (psychotic) structure of delusion. It is something that you peel off of it, like a sticker, or an article of clothing, a cloak for a desire-device whose existence would have otherwise gone undetected. But what it also uncovered for us above was the falling-under of the subject to a place below the phallic function at the signified of the Other s(A), which is a place both added to and subtracted from by the sonic resonances of the imaginary phallus in an Icarus-like enactment of Entfremdung.

What emerges for the subject from this falling-under, in conjunction with both poietic uncovering and Entfremdung, is the object of privation, which I denote as x. This kind of object is of a symbolic lack. But this observation of the poietic uncovering of a desire-device (Graph II of the graph of desire) as the foundation for the approach to phenomenological method is both schematically and architectonically deceptive. However, The relationship between the subject and the object of privation is certainly an exceptional one, and poiesis may approach this object from the greatest distance possible, as a trapezoidal-symbolization, and as a projective surface without a symbolic object. The aforementioned deception of this approach lies in how the other two trapezoidal-symbolizations have identical capacities to uncover similar dimensional objects for the subject (i.e., objects of frustration and castration), therefore, they are neither objectively nor metaphysically outranked by the primal cloak of poiesis.

Beginning with poiesis makes the exposition of the gap between $ and x less difficult to explain, though. This is because for the cloak, or projective surface, of sinthome, the object of privation moves right into the place of the signified of the Other once the dialectic of demand has recapitulated, whereat the subject may readily collect it (x) upon the occurrence of its Entfremdung after having fallen under the phallic function; the subject then may bring it (x) back to where it formerly just was, to the space of the ideal-ego.

This process of re-linking the signified of the Other to the ideal-ego without interference from the resonances of the imaginary phallus by means of the object of privation is called the abject. Counter-resonances from the symbolic father at P on the Oedipal square vibrate in tandem with the momentum of the ego (m), causing elisions of the resonances of the imaginary phallus by de-longitudinalizing its sound waves, sending them off in a transverse direction. If sound waves are always physically longitudinal, and this fact is in tandem with the imaginary phallus because these waves may only follow the law, then the sound waves which resonate from P are longitudinal as well, because they may only stop the law from being followed. The relationship between P and m is an odd one that can therefore only be uncovered by putting on the cloak of sinthome. The unconscious mechanism at work in this cloak of sinthome placed over Graph II is reification. The subject may get sucked over to the left side of the graph by the resonances of P in tandem with m, and identify directly with x in such a way that the ideal-ego and the subject take on a relationship to one another similar to that of the abject. This close-knit triangulation leaves the Other in a state of being held at the greatest possible distance, however; this is to the extent that the real father must have some rugged object for its substitute within the treasure-trove of signifiers (A). In this way, as a distracting ploy to the subject, it is also the key to the lock, which allows for the object of privation to invade the subject’s rightful place.

The final cloak, then, is the cloak of genesis, whereby the subject substitutes itself for the object of privation directly in order to displace itself, and pre-configures the left side of Graph II as wholly imaginary. Thereby, the subject may be returned to the Father most purely at I(A), and the signified may also be returned rightfully to the treasure-trove of the Other at A, both of these functions occurring mutually without disturbing one another. This is also the foundation for the projective surface of hallucination, however, a sort of antagonistic undoing of the phenomenology that the cloaks, up until now, gave a semblance of.

In conclusion, the gap (béance) between the split-subject and the object of privation is a three-sided relationship between two terms: E-x, E’-x, and $-x. This is illustrated by the button-tie, Graph I, and results in the formation of a lozenge-structure. You can also find it on the symbolic (lower) triangle of the annotated schema R, adjacent to E. Thus, the lozenge is derived from a semiosic square, that of schema R, after all, rather than the synchrony and diachrony at odds with one another which merely form a semblance of the real through their empty resonance. (Whether or not this is ontological or metaphysical is decidedly beyond the scope of the topic.)

Alexandre Kojève and Jacques Lacan's Christ-Like Riddle for Human History

So: back to the speculation about Alexandre Kojève, and his Christ-like plan for the fate of our species’ philosophical institutions: did he intentionally plant seeds which might give the answer to the Lacanian problematic of the “Hegelian lure”, and furthermore in advance of the completion of the psychoanalytic sphere (in 20th century France)? The labor which is grasped as the “essence of man” that Marx alluded to, and which Kojève emphasized in his lecture, is clearly a philosophical labor, and not a materially productive labor. This kind of labor is ultimately far more time-consuming, and the relation of the mathème for fantasy to schema R is one of philosophical (maybe Kantian?) transcendence. The mathème itself represents what our human species may finally aspire to, if it finds the capacity, the excellence, and the strength to do so. And this process is fundamentally historical, by a (Kantian) form of necessity.

The Christ-like riddle for human history mentioned earlier, then, is about the ambiguity and the eternal struggle happening between [a.] the master-signifier, S1 and [b.] the Name(s) of the Father, S(A), both of which serve a master's discourse, and function to prohibit the mother as a fundamental consequence of language-acquisition (schema L). What is so Christ-like about it is that this dual antagonism appears to have been left behind by the two men, Kojève and Lacan, very intentionally. Even though Chris Arthur seemingly criticizes the French intellectuals in his article, those who make false claims because they are too broad about the link between Marx and Hegel according to Kojève, Arthur doesn't seem completely indignant about it if he is also undoubtedly aware of Lacanian psychoanalysis. He expertly enacts the cyclical process of the rotations of the four discourses in a way that doesn't escape one's attention. He is a very cerebral and witty guy, in this regard.

— (5/10/2022)

[starofgold]

Rhapsody of the Bridge Where A Meteor Crosses - Part 1

That day, when there was no cloud on the blue sky and the air was filled with the chatters of birds, the Central wizards and I went to the Granvelle Castle on foot.

Oz: Vox Nox.

When Oz recited his spell, a white light spread and wrapped around the entire bridge.

Cain: Amazing. Did you just cast a powerful ward for the bridge?

Oz: A hostile force can easily invade the Castle via this bridge. It’s necessary to protect it carefully. With this magic, no matter what kind of method is used to attack the bridge, the enemy won’t be able to cross it without trouble.

Riquet: Oz! Could I attack the bridge as an experiment?

Cain: I want to see how strong the protection is too. How much force it can withstand and such.

Oz: All three of you can attack at the same time and see for yourself then.

Arthur: Understood. Let’s go… Pernoctant nix zo!

Riquet: Sunrotea edif

Cain: Gladias procella!

The moment the trio’s spells rang in the air, a tornado appeared in front of us and flew towards the bridge with air ripping sound.

Arthur – Riquet – Cain: Oh!

However, as if blocked by an impenetrable wall when it got to the bridge, the tornado dispersed and disappeared.

Akira: Oz’s protective magic is really something. It doesn’t let in even a small scratch.

Cain: Yeah, even though the magic we cast could probably blow away the bridge, it was repelled just like that. Oz’ magical power is amazing.

Arthur: Besides, one can see that the Master Oz’ ward spreads all the way to the sky. With that, the bridge is perfectly protected.

Riquet: Oz, please let me attempt this magic next!

Oz: Go ahead.

Oz lifted his protective magic. Riquet took a deep breath to calm himself.

Riquet: Sunrotea edif!

With Riquet’s spell, there is a sharp sound, like nails scratching on hard glass.

Riquet: Yay, I did it!

Oz: ……..

Oz looked at the scene then raised his hand in the direction of the bridge. As soon as he did that…

Akira: Whoa!

Riquet: Oh… Oz, why did you destroy my ward?

Oz: There was no opening, but the protective power was weak. You should pay attention to how your magic is knitted together.

Riquet: And here I thought I really managed it.

Cain: Now, now, you can already do that much. Let’s all work hard to create even stronger wards next time.

Arthur: Our practice has just started but you can already form a full ward, Riquet. With this tempo, you’ll certainly improve in no time.

As we were talking, someone walked towards us from the direction of the castle.

Arthur: Hegel? It’s really you, Hegel.

Cain: Lord Hegel?

Hegel: Your Highness! Cain too… I have been negligent in maintaining correspondence with you, Your Highness. Please forgive my lacking etiquette. I should have greeted you first.

Cain: I see. So you’re leaving the castle.

Arthur: Please don’t worry. It’s really been a while. I’m glad to be able to meet you again.

Riquet – Akira: Uhm, who is this gentleman here?

Oz: ……….

Arthur: Ah, that’s right. This is the first time Master Sage, Riquet, and Master Oz too meet him. This is Hegel. He is the Royal Scholar and also my tutor at the castle when I was young. He is a renowned scholar in national literature and in languages too. My foundational lessons in reading and writing were from him.

Hegel: I am not worthy of such an introduction. Allow me to express my gratitude.

Mr. Hegel, who had white hair mixed with grey and light brown eyes, gracefully bowed to us.

Hegel: Lord Sage, Lord Riquet….. Lord Oz, it is an honor to meet you. My name is Hegel.

Oz: I see.

Riquet: So you were His Highness’ family tutor. May I call you Master Hegel too?

Cain: You call only Lord Hegel ‘Master’? What about Oz?

Oz: ……..

Riquet: Oz has been teaching me magic indeed, but that does not change the fact that I am in the position of giving him guidance. What about you, Cain? What is Lord Hegel to you?

Cain: Ah, he is His Highness’ tutor, after all.

Hegel: That I had the honor to be His Highness’ tutor was a long time ago. Please call me simply by my name.

Arthur: It seems that we are in your way. Are you in a hurry to go somewhere?

Hegel: Thank you for your kindness. My daughter and her husband are around here. I’m going to meet them. I beg your pardon for not informing you sooner instead of breaking the news at a place like this. Recently, my health has been getting worse. It is nothing serious, but given my age, I plan to use this occasion to retire and leave the Capital.

Arthur: I see. It’d be a pity, but since you’ve made up your mind, I will respect your decision.

Hegel: Thank you, Your Highness. Your support has been invaluable to me all this time.

Arthur: It’s me who has been in your care. You were the best tutor I could have.

Hegel: I don’t deserve such praises. On the contrary, I’m…

Akira: (On the contrary?)

It seemed that only I heard those words, which Mr. Hegel added in a small voice. Arthur continued to talk, the smile not leaving his face.

Arthur: That’s right, Hegel. Shall we hold a farewell party for you before you leave the castle? I’d like to invite people you know and celebrate the new chapter in your life.

Hegel: Your Highness…

Mr. Hegel seemed to be happy hearing Arthur’s suggestion. However, as if remembering something, his joy faded as he averted his eyes.

Hegel: Such words delight me, Your Highness. However, since you are busy, your regards are more than enough for me.

Mr. Hegel bowed and continued on this way. There was a tinge of melancholy on Arthur’s face as he watched his tutor.

Oz: ……

After returning to the Magic Manor and having dinner, the Central wizards excepting Oz had a lively discussion in the lounge.

Akira: Hello, are you guys reviewing today’s training session?

Cain: Yeah, in the end, all of the wards created by us ended up broken by Oz.

Riquet: I want to be able to create a protective ward that is as strong as Oz’ next time!

Akira: You can do it, Riquet! I’ll cheer you on! Ah, do you mind if I join you for your next training session too?

Arthur: Not at all! Your presence is a great encouragement to us.  

Cain: It’d be nice if we can meet Lord Hegel during our next training session too. He said he planned to leave the Capital soon.

Arthur: Yeah, about that… Even if Hegel was concerned about me, I still want to hold a party for him. However, I don’t want to be a hassle to him.

Cain: That’s not the case at all. Lord Hegel seemed happy to talk to you. I think he’ll be delighted by your party.

Akira: Mr. Hegel was Arthur’s family tutor, wasn’t he?

Arthur: Indeed. I learnt the basics of reading and writing, as well as how to converse in a manner fitting for the Royal Family from Hegel. He told me the national history and lore in an easy-to-understand manner too. His lessons always brought me joy. My memories of him are rather hazy, but always warm.

Cain: Speaking of, whenever he got mad, Drummond would tell me to watch and learn from Lord Hegel to talk politely. Though Lord Hegel is a scholar, he doesn’t nitpick or keep his distance. He always talks to me amicably.

Riquet: He seems to be a wonderful teacher. I’d like to take lessons from him too.

Arthur: Yeah, so I’d like to hold a party and see him off properly. But..

Arthur looked down at his hands with a complicated expression on his face.  

[sighmurderbot]

Irish Coffee Chapter One

Title: Mocha, Extra Sugar

Chapter Rating/Warnings: T for profanity, no other warnings

Word Count: 2.8K

Summary: They meet over coffee and Kierkegaard. There was a spark in his honey-brown eyes that drew her to him. There was a sadness behind her bright smile that drew him to her. Spencer Reid/Original Female Character. Slow burn coffee shop meet. Strangers to friends to lovers. This fic is also available on AO3, it’s ahead of tumblr currently!

next chapter

“A 'first meeting' is, by definition, a one-time opportunity, and there's no going back.”

Cup, counter, look up, smile, call out drink, next customer.

“One cafe latte!” 

I looked up with a bright smile even though my feet were aching in my non-slip shoes. Thankfully it was near the end of the afternoon rush, and I should be able to go on break after finishing with the last customer in line.

The businessman in front of me hadn’t stopped talking on his bluetooth the entire time he was here, which made it annoyingly difficult to take his order. Without looking, he grabbed at his coffee. His hand glanced off the cup and I watched it topple in slow motion. The lid flew off and hot coffee sprayed over the whole counter.

Both the businessman and I jumped back, avoiding the scalding liquid.

“Ah, shit — one second Dave,” the man scowled. “What the hell?”

I fixed a smile on my face.

“I’m so sorry about that, sir, let me make you another.”

“No, no,” he looked at his watch and his scowl deepened. “Forget about it. I won’t be coming back!”

Oh no, whatever will we do without your business, I thought sarcastically, maintaining a perfectly happy expression.

With that he turned and hurried out the door, jostling the man waiting behind him. I crouched to grab a towel and somewhere above me he said something, but the words blended with the music floating through the shop. 

“What did you say?” I asked as I looked up, hoping I’d be able to discern what he said. I couldn’t help but smile as my breath caught in my throat. The man standing at my counter must not have been too much older than me. His hair was long enough to brush past the nape of his neck but he had the soft brown curls tucked neatly behind his ears. He flicked his tongue over his bottom lip and gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He wore a cardigan over a dress shirt and tie, and a brown crossbody bag gave his hands something to fiddle with.

“Ah, I just said he wasn’t having a very good day,” he said, blinking a few times as his eyes slipped over the counter. He seemed to notice everything at once, and I hoped he didn’t think anything of the way my gaze flicked to his lips as he spoke before I met his eyes again. He had a cute cupid’s bow, and as someone who sees a lot of lips I feel qualified in saying they were nice lips.

I used the counter to help me to my feet and began to mop up the coffee.

“Apparently not,” I said, taking care to not accidentally push any coffee towards the customer. “Sorry about that, what can I get you, sir?”

I paused and looked up while he spoke, leaning on my lip reading as the music muddied his voice. “A large mocha please,” he said, shifting a little as if he were nervous. “And could you stir some extra sugar into it while it’s hot? The, uh, the extra heat helps the sugar dissolve so there’s no little granules at the bottom.”

Huh, I didn’t know that.

“Sure thing, sugar,” I replied with a bright smile, happy to learn something new and relieved to have a pleasant customer after an hour of government drones rushing in and out as fast as possible. I turned and began the drink, glancing back as I waited for the milk to heat. The man had ducked his head, reading a slim book while he waited. His free finger ran down the page and he muttered to himself as he flipped page after page. 

He probably read a whole chapter in the time it took me to make his drink!

I couldn’t help but let my admiration show a little as I set said drink in front of him. 

“One mocha, extra sugar,” I said as he looked up. I leaned my elbows on the counter.

“Whatchya reading?”

He blinked a few times, glancing down at the book as if he had forgotten he was holding it. 

“Oh, uh, it’s Sygdommen til Døden, it’s a book of Christian existentialism by Søren Kierkegaard. It presents the question that death isn’t the end, and true death is spiritual, not physical,” he rattled off in an instant. I stumbled over a few of the foreign words, but I was able to put the sentence together with context.

The man stopped speaking just as quickly, a light pink spreading over his cheeks as he ducked his head. Leaning over the counter, I stole a peek at the pages he had been tearing through.

“Kierkegaard, in the original Danish too! Impressive,” I said, returning to my side of the counter. “Are you a philosophy student?”

He nodded, almost unsurely. “Yeah, I’m working on my BA now.”

I grinned at him. A fellow academic, I could appreciate a kindred spirit. 

“I haven’t made it to Kierkegaard yet,” I admitted, shrugging one shoulder. “Still working through Plato and Hegel.”

He seemed to perk up a little, eyes sparkling. “They’re good!” he exclaimed. “Hegel’s theory of dialectics strongly influenced the work of Karl Marx. Because Hegel claimed that reality should be examined by a series of logical and rational arguments, Marx created the theory we now know as historical materialism,” he caught himself and the pink on his cheeks deepend to red. “...sorry, I ramble sometimes. Are you a philosophy student as well...” he glanced at the nametag pinned to my apron, “Katie?”

I pursed my lips in what I hoped passed for a smile and not a pained grimace, avoiding his eyes to wipe a few stray drops of coffee away. This man’s gaze made me feel like he could see everything about me with just a glance, but it helped that his soft brown eyes held no malice that I could see. That and the fact that he seemed more nervous around me than anything.

“Nope!” I forced some cheerfulness into my voice. “Not yet, at least.”

He opened his mouth a little, as if he was about to reply, when his attention was suddenly drawn away. Shifting his book he pulled a phone out of his pocket, flipped it up, and answered.

“Reid,” he said. I turned the name around in my mind. I wondered how he spelled it, ei or ee. 

He pinned the phone between his shoulder and ear, stuffing Sygdommen til Døden into his bag and picking up his coffee.

Sorry he mouthed to me, and he did look apologetic. Hoping he knew not to worry about it I gave him a big smile and watched as he hurried out the door, returning the phone to his hand and striding off down the sidewalk. I let out a wistful sigh and grabbed a cleaning spray and paper towels to go over the counter again. If only everyone who came through this coffee shop’s doors was as interesting and pleasant as that Reid. 

And as easy on the eyes, I thought, biting my lip to hold back a girlish giggle. 

I glanced up at the clock on the wall opposite the counter. Just a few more hours until closing, then a quick bus ride to the diner. Everyone in the cafe was taken care of, so I gave myself a few minutes to get off my feet.

Pulling my phone out of my apron pocket I opened my bank account.

Starting to pull ahead, I thought with a tired relief. I wouldn’t be quitting any time soon, but my savings account was finally starting to look a little healthier. I closed out of the app and stared at my background.

It was a picture of my mother and I. I couldn’t have been older than 6 or 7, and I was wearing the biggest smile a little kid could manage. My mother was holding my hand, her smile matching mine. Behind us rose the stairs and columns of the National Gallery in London. I traced my mother’s face for a moment, then shut my phone off and slipped it back into my pocket.

The hands of the clock moved slowly for the rest of my shift. People drifted in and out, none staying longer than a few moments. The sun fell behind DC’s towering skyline, and as the sunlight disappeared it felt like my energy went with it. By the time the last customer waved goodbye and I wiped the last table down the room was swaying around me. I glanced at my watch.

Ten hours since breakfast, medication is beginning to wear off.

I slid out a seat and took a few deep breaths. My stomach wasn’t pleased but it settled after a minute off my feet. Once the room was steady again I stood and finished closing the shop. As the lock clicked into place behind me I felt a wave of exhaustion wash over me. It felt like being battered by ocean waves. 

My feet carried me to the street corner and I slumped against the sign indicating the bus stop. 

I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this, I thought, stifling a yawn. 

The bus pulled up and stopped with a screech of brakes that instantly had me clinging to the signpost in pain. The cold, dirty metal cutting into my hand had nothing on the high-pitched scream that bounced around my head, multiplying and hitting the inside of my skull harder and harder. Biting my tongue to stop from crying out, I pushed off the sign and stumbled onto the bus. Over the ringing in my ears I heard a muffled voice saying something. It was as if the voice was speaking to me underwater.

“I-I’m sorry…” I stuttered, forcing myself to breathe. Hands shaking, I fumbled through my bag and pulled out my wallet, finding my bus card. I shoved it in the direction of the driver, who only gave it a cursory glance and waved it away.

“--- --- --kay?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few more deep breaths, the painful ringing dying down to an aching headache, and looked up at the driver. Somehow I had ended up slumped on the floor by the door. The old bus driver was leaning over me, concern etched in the deep wrinkles across his face.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, Connie,” I said, tripping over myself to apologize and get up off the filthy floor. 

“Hey, that’s alright Katie,” he replied kindly, offering me a hand which I gratefully accepted. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah.” I sighed deeply, brushing my hands off on my jeans. “It was-”

“The breaks, right?”

“Yup.” I popped my ‘p’, shaking my head sadly as I returned my bus card to my wallet. “Still figuring out how to manage it all.”

“You’ll get there,” he replied, setting a comforting hand on my shoulder. I gave him a weak smile and moved to a seat while he closed the door and released the breaks, pulling out into the road. There weren’t many people on the bus, all the commuters had gone home already in an attempt to beat the very traffic they created. The only people left in DC as stars began to blink to life in the sky were those who called the city home.

As the bus rumbled away around me I let myself slump into the seat, chin dropping to my chest and eyelids closing. Before I knew it I had slipped into a shallow sleep.

—

A gentle hand pushing my shoulder roused me and I started awake to see Connie’s face once again.

“Hey kiddo, you fell asleep,” he said. I stretched out my cramped muscles.

“Thanks for waking me up,” I replied. “I owe you.”

He shook his head with a smile.

“Just get me one of those coffees you make and we’ll be even.”

I nodded.

“You got it.”

Connie slid back into his seat and gave me a two-fingered salute, which I returned as I disembarked. Then the bus pulled away and left nothing but the crisp fall breeze, scented with exhaust and that peculiar smell every big city has. Adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder, I walked the half-block to a neon-rimmed 24/7 diner. 

A few moments later I stepped into the syrup-steeped diner. 

“Katie! Boy am I glad to see you.” A woman a bit older than me bustled out of the kitchen, arms loaded down with plates piled with pancakes.

“Right back atchya Liz!” I grinned, my exhaustion temporarily lessened at the appearance of a friend.

“Busy night?” I asked when we had both made it to the back room. 

“Very,” Liz exhaled, pushing a few strands of silky black hair away from her face. “It’s started to calm down a little now, mostly just regulars and some college students from the U.”

“That shouldn’t be too bad then,” I replied, slowly standing and stretching my arms above my head. “I’d better get out there.”

Liz shook her head with a smirk. “Girl, you work too hard.”

I gave her a tired grin. “Without labor, nothing prospers.”

She rolled her eyes goodnaturedly. 

“This another one of your old philosophy dudes?”

“Nah, this one’s an old playwright dude.”

“You and your old dudes, when are you gonna take interest in a guy from this century?”

My thoughts flickered to the cute guy from the coffee shop, with his beautiful curls and Danish Kierkegaard book, but it was my turn to shake my head.

“Why bother?” I joked. “Who’d take interest in me anyways? Not like I have time for anyone.”

“Without labor, nothing prospers,” Liz repeated back to me. 

I touched my nose and pointed to her.

“Damn right.”

“Alright, alright,” she conceded. “Let’s get our labor on.”

With Liz by my side the first hour of my shift passed quickly, but then ten o’clock came and she bid me goodbye, filtering out with the rest of the regulars. Before long it was just the college kids gathered at two tables in the back corner, heads bent over textbooks and notes. As long as I kept the coffee and snacks coming they were happy and quiet, which was fine by me.

Around 2 am one of the students came up to the counter, asking for more fruit.

“What’re you guys studying?” I asked as I handed over the pre-prepared fruit cup and accepted her cash.

“Architecture,” she replied, and her attempt at a smile looked almost as tired as I felt. 

“Keep at it,” I said, slipping another fruit cup to her with a wink. She nodded gratefully and returned to the tables, passing the extra fruit to the boy next to her.

Finally the clock ticked over to 3 am and my replacement arrived. There was little more I could do than give him a tired wave as I gathered my things and wrapped up in an old coat, preparing myself for the cold night. 

Thank goodness my apartment is only a few blocks away, I thought, taking a bracing lungful of air. It was a path I was familiar with after two years of walking it almost every night, and a good thing too, because I was half asleep on my feet. I don’t even remember most of the walk, dozing as I was, and by the time I got to my blue apartment door it was all I could do to get my key in the lock and inside. Locking the door behind me I let my purse slip to the floor and took the five steps to my bed, collapsing on top of the blankets. With my last ounce of energy I fished my hearing aid out of my ear, setting it carefully on my bedside table.

“I did it, mom,” I mumbled into my pillow, fingertips brushing the silver photo frame beside my hearing aid.

“Another day done.”

And with that, I slipped into a deep sleep.

Hours later my alarm rang. I woke up, never feeling rested enough but determined to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I felt grimy after falling asleep in my work clothes, so I treated myself to a long shower, luxuriating in the steam billowing up around me. After I scrubbed myself clean I spent a few extra minutes soaking in the hot water. My aching muscles relaxed a little and I felt a bit better when I stepped out and wrapped myself in a towel. After drying and dressing I slipped my hearing aid in and squared my shoulder, ready to face the day.

And so time went on. It was three days before I saw Reid again.

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I hugely appreciate how educated you are with your education in the Classics (at either Oxford or Cambridge I think) but I ask with sincere respect how does any of it inform your privileged life in this day and age? It’s easy to say how much we should value our European traditions and heritage it is quite another to live it out don’t you agree? What do you personally get from it?

This is a very relevant question and I apologise if I have stalled in answering it as I was busy with work and life to formulate a worthy reply. But your question is an important one indeed for anyone who harkens to the past as a guide for the present and the future.

I won’t waste space here and tick box all the purely academic reasons why the Classical world is still relevant for us today. I think you can find that in easy to read books and articles written by eminent Classicists who do an admirable service in making the Classical World come alive for the general public (Mary Beard, Bettany Hughes, Emily Wilson, Edith Hall, Peter Jones, Bernard Knox, Robin Lane Fox, Paul Cartledge, and Donald Kagan amongst others that come to mind). But it’s an uphill battle to be sure.

Classics - at least in United Kingdom - has been regressively marginalised with each passing generation starting from school up to university entry. It has an image problem. Few pay much attention to scholars of Latin and Greek. The impression is that Classicists are snobbish and is the education of privileged elitists who master languages that are not spoken. They learn to write them only to read them better. They slap your hands when you write a Latin word common in Sallust or Livy, rather than in Cicero. There is some truth to that sadly. To a large extent Classicists themselves have not been a good advertisement for why anyone should appreciate let alone study the classical world.

At one end those educated in the Classics can come across as encouraging elitism, snobbish pedantry and a sniffy social superiority and at the other end those not versed in Classics but through Hollywood (any sword and sandal film like Gladiator etc) and PC white washed TV series (BBC’s Troy is a good example) have formed a romantic attachment to the ‘heroic’ past by having blue pilled themselves into escapism. Both extremes makes Classics a fetish rather than a guide for life through the beauty and power of the language and culture of the singular Greeks and Romans.

The study of Classics can become the proverbial dog who can dance on two legs, but for what practical purpose? There is the rub. Classics, at its best, offers the historical, philological, and literary foundation and discipline to apply a critical method to every general aspect of learning - and living.

I was fortunate that I had Classicists - both within my family and also my teachers - who were cultured and had led such interesting lives and were able to marry their Classicist mind to their life experiences (often through the experience of war). So learning European languages was not just to get one’s head around arid esoteric articles by 19th-century Frenchmen on the Athenian banking system or Demosthenes’ use of praeteritio and apophasis, but also to appreciate the genius of Dante,Voltaire and Goethe. Classics should never just be about philology though because it can result in a life mostly missed.

Perhaps others might call it privileged but I consider my childhood blessed because I was surrounded by family members who were educated in the Classics - more rare than one might suppose. Through my great aunts and grandmother they instilled the discipline that the mastery of Latin and Greek fuelled the ability to speak and write good English -- and why the latter mattered as much or more than the former.

By the time I left both Cambridge and Oxford behind, I could cite passage numbers in Greek texts of what Thucydides and Plutarch thought of Nicias. But it was only when I went through Sandhurst to pass out as a commissioned army officer did it truly jump off the page and become alive for me.

Moreover having had long fire side conversations with both my grandfather and father - both Oxbridge educated Classicists and both served in distant different types of wars as swashbuckling officers - did I use that learning to understand why for example was Nicias such a laughably mediocre general of the Peloponnesian War. And this was essentially the practical point of reading Thucydides and Plutarch about Nicias in the first place.

I spent many hours in my down time during my service in Afghanistan between missions re-reading dog earred favourite Classicist texts. I began to see the ghosts of the Greeks in the characters of those with whom I was serving. Some began to resemble Sophoclean characters - especially the less well-known ‘losers’ like Ajax and Philoctetes - the sort of tragic heroes whom we root for but the odds are against them - think of any American Western film or the more pathological Tarantino films. Like Sophocles I saw majestic characters (some special forces operators) out of place in a modernising world who would rather perish than change - but in a context where their sacrifice schools the lesser around them about what the old breed was about and what was being lost.

A running thread from a childhood spent in many other countries - from South Asia to the Far East - to the present day is learning to appreciate our landscape as the Ancient world did. The cultivation of curiosity of cultures was seeded in childhood. Respecting and even admiring other cultures - Indian, Iranian, Chinese and Japanese primarily come to mind - led me to appreciate and treasure my own cultural heritage and traditions. The DNA of both the Roman and Greek world went far and wide and so teasing out their fingerprints was fun. In northern Pakistan, we came across ‘Alexander’s children’ - children with blonde and blue eyes who were said to be descended from Alexander the Great’s time in Afghanistan and India - and wandering around the banks of the Jhelum river imagining how Alexander beat his respected foe (later ally) King Porus at the Battle of Hydaspes in 326BC.

These days despite having a busy corporate career I help support running a French vineyard managed foremost by two exceptional cousins and their French partners. As such the Classics still resonate in how I look at the land beyond the vineyard - bridges, roads, towers, walls  - and imagine the Greeks not with ink and papyrus but as men of action, farmers and hoplites, in a rough climate on poor soils. I suddenly envision them pruning and plowing in Laureion, the Oropos, and Acharnae, more like the rugged local farmers with whom come harvest time I roll my sleeves up and get my hands dirty in the vineyards than as the professors in elbow patches who had claimed them.

Knowing and learning about the Classical roots of our Western heritage isn’t just a question of culture it’s also about what personally motivates us in life and how that determines how we make consequential choices in life.

I live in fear of one Greek word  ‘akrasia’. Ancient Greek philosophers coined the term to explain the lack of motivation in life. Most of the philosophical conundrums explored by contemporary philosophers were already explored in Ancient Greece. In fact, Ancient Greek philosophers laid the solid foundation for all philosophical approaches that appeared throughout history: theories of Kant, Hegel or Nietzsche would never exist without Socrates, Plato or Aristotle.

Among the many problems that baffled the Ancient Greeks, one of them gets quite a lot of attention today. Why don’t we always do what’s best for us? Why do we abandon good decisions in favour of bad ones? Why can’t we follow through on our plans and ideas?

Many people would say that the answer is simply laziness or decision fatigue, but Ancient Greek philosophers believed that the problem lay much deeper, in human nature itself. ‘Akrasia’ describes a state of acting against one’s better judgement or a lack of will that prevents one from doing the right thing. Plato believed that akrasia is not an issue in itself, because people always choose the solution they think is the best for them, and sometimes it accidentally happens that they choose the bad solution because of poor judgement. On the other hand, Aristotle disagreed with this explanation and argued that the fault in the human process of reasoning is not responsible for akrasia. He believed that the answer lies in the human tendency to desire, which is often far stronger than reason.

As with almost all philosophical concepts, a consensus has never been reached and akrasia remains open to interpretation. But its practical consequences are all too real in today’s world. Motivation is what makes us unpredictable and persistent, and the life circumstances of the modern world often make motivation disappear.

Today - regardless how old or young one is - many are more and more tempted to exchange a long-term goal for an immediately available pleasure in all its forms from the emotional band aid of porn from a lifeless relationship (or a lack of one) to escaping loneliness for the false intimacy of social media friendship. The lack of motivation can cause us to reduce ourselves to someone else’s standards when we know we can be or do better. 

The Greeks felt that the way you think and feel about yourself, including your beliefs and expectations about what is possible for you, determines everything that happens to you. When you change the quality of your thinking, you change the quality of your life. I’ve been deeply influenced by Aristotle’s idea that virtue is a habit, something you practice and get better at, rather than something that comes naturally. “The control of the appetites by right reason,” is how he defined it. Another way to reframe this is to say, “Virtue is knowing what you really want,” and then building the intellectual, spiritual, and moral muscle to go after it.

To be cultured - as opposed to be merely educated - is how you put what you’ve learned to work in your own life, seeing the world around you more deeply because of the historical, literary, artistic and philosophical resonances that current experiences evoke. This is the privilege of being cultured. For me Classical stories come often to my mind, and some times provide guides to action (much as Plutarch intended his histories of famous men to be guides to morality and action). The classics then are a part of my mental toolset and the context I think with some of the time. I see that as the real blessing in my life.

Thanks for your question.

[cowboy-canoodler]

Ducth Van Der Linde HC’s: Chubby Fem! Reader NSFW

Anon asked: “ A Dutch hc with a chubby/shy/fem/reader; she isn't his type at first (not even personality speaking) but he finds himself completely head over heels for her and when they get intimate he loves to bite her, groping her passionately and giving her intense oral just to see her over the edge. Sorry, I got carried away. ^^""" “

Get carried away all you want Anon! I love it!

Molly and Dutch are not together in these HC’s!

My requests are OPEN, but please read my FAQ here

Dutch Van Der Linde:

Dutch accepted you into the gang with open arms, but never looked at you twice. You on the other hand were head over heels for him, you stole glances from across camp and brought donations in more often just so you could be near his tent.

Your body image had been something you’d always looked down on yourself for, the other women in camp were so much more beautiful than you and you were jealous of them and their bodies, but most of all was Karen.

Karen was so confident in her body you didn’t know how she did it, strutting around with nothing holding her back, feisty, confident, take no shit. Something you had never been.

Dutch caught you reading by a tree one day, after your chores had been done, you were reading Hegel and it had immediately caught his interest. He didn’t take you for someone to question philosophy and the waking world.

When Dutch started talking to you about it you had blushed, averted his gaze, tucked your hair behind your ear, shuffled your feet around, played with your hands. He found it all very intriguing, not once had he noticed it before but when you laughed at his words he found his face heating slightly, a blush coming over him as he coughed awkwardly and promptly walked away.

The coming weeks he found himself talking to you more often, not about philosophy but anything that came to mind, anything he thought you’d be interested in, lending you books, asking if you’d like to sit in his tent and listen to his grammarphone, and riding to town with him to ‘scope it out’ but he just wanted to be alone with you.

He found you crying in front of your mirror one night, he had walked over to see how you were but heard you whispering derogatory things about yourself, your body, your mind, how the man you love would never love you back. He wanted to go in there and tell you you were wrong but he walked away with nothing to say for once.

You found Dutch starting to touch your body more, brushing against your hand, a hand on your shoulder, resting on your back, once on your hips. He hugged you and whispered into your ear “You’re a very beautiful woman, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, especially yourself” he pulled away and walked off, a smile on his face as he saw the tears of joy bubble in your eyes.

That night he called you over to his tent, music playing on his grammarphone, a book open on his bed, the usual; somehow Dutch seemed different, the music was louder, his shirt untucked, waistcoat open, hair tousled and dishevelled.

He pulls you close to him and tells you, “I can’t take this anymore, I’m having you tonight” without any more warning his lips are on your neck, hands wrapped around your waist.

Dutch leaves bite marks all around your neck, each time you moan it’s another mark. To show the other memebers that you’re now spoken for.

His hands caress your body all over, Dutch does all the work while you stand there feeling appreciated and loved.

He admires you, pulling away whilst biting his lip and taking a full look at you, hands running over your breasts, you’re hips, thighs, arms. He can’t keep his hands off of you.

He tells you to take off your clothes and sit down on the bed, which you do immediately. He sits down between your thighs and pushes them apart to reveal yourself to him.

His hands rest one on each thigh, whilst his lips go for your clit. He’s sloppy and all over the place but you didn’t care, the fact he was there at all was nearly enough to send you into orgasm already.

He sits there and eats you out until you shudder, on the brink of your climax. Then he stops and brings himself up to your ear, his fingers teasing your entrance.

“I’ve heard you call my name in the night girl, now tell me how much you want me” all you could muster was a “P-please Dutch, I- I need you” that’s all he needed before thrusting two fingers inside you.

The foreplay is all Dutch needs for himself, seeing you pant and beg for him, needing him, this night was all about you. Dutch would get his release at a later time, he just wanted you to feel appreciated by him for this night at least.

Using his thumb to circle your clit as his fingers raw you, his lips by your ear whispering compliments about your body your mind, your eyes, your hair, until you’re finally at the brink of your orgasm once more.

“Tell them who you belong to now” he says just before you shout out his name in your climax, everyone nearby heard you, the neighbouring town probably heard you, but Dutch didn’t care and he looked smug as hell.

You sat there shaking and panting, sweating from this ordeal. Dutch came to your face and pressed his forehead against yours, “it’s my turn next” you willingly agreed and proceeded to dress yourself.

You spend the rest of the night in eachothers arms, sat up on Dutch’s cot falling asleep in his arms whilst he reads to you.

[dyns33]

She that is without sin

For information, I study philosophy. So I imagine a "sage", which is a bit of a saint, who would end up in the Outpost by mistake. I would like to know Michael's reaction. I do not know yet if I'm going to make a series though.

There was an mistake. Well, more or less. A nuclear attack had been announced, men in black had arrived, had taken her and sent her to that place. The Outpost 3. There, a woman named Venable had welcomed her rather coldly. "Welcome Miss King, I will explain the rules to you, so listen with great attention." Rachel King was a young heiress, rich, kind but who liked to party without worrying about the consequences. Her father, before dying, had bought her a place to be saved when the Apocalypse arrived. She did not believe in all this nonsense, but the attention had touched her. Rachel King was a purple, the elite. She deserved her place here. She would have a room, a servant, called a gray, she would have access to clean water and food. And above all, she would be safe from radiation and cannibals. There were also strange rules, such as wearing ridiculous dresses, or the fact that she did not have the right to copulate, but it did not matter. She was alive. Everything was perfect. Except that (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was not Rachel King, but her neighbor. When Rachel was away, which was common, she took care of picking up the mail, watering the plants, checking to see if everything was alright. The men in black had not asked for her name and now it was too late. If she told the truth, she might get into trouble. These people did not seem inclined to be charitable and they would probably not let her stay. For now on, she would be Rachel King.

           She did not take long before being hated by all the other purples. (Y / N) was too reserved, too polite, too quiet. They felt like she thought she were better than them, which was wrong. Granted, the money they spent to be here did not mean they deserved more than others to live, but she had taken the place of someone, Rachel had died because of her, so she had nothing to say. They were all at the same level. And, yes, they were probably a little silly, plaintive, lazy, proud and wicked. But, as a rule, she tried never to judge people. She even had some discussions with Dinah Stevens. The latter was surprised that she did not know her show, but did not take it badly, saying that anyway it was the past. Dinah was kind of nice, but (Y / N) felt she was hiding something. Although they often spent time together, she remained on guard.

           The other reason for this hatred, which also annoyed Venable, was her refusal to be helped. She gave no order to the grays, cleaned her room herself, washed her clothes and dressed alone. At first, the grays were upset, taking her attitude for distrust of them, as if she did not think they could to do their job well, or that she thought they were going to steal her stuff. But they quickly realized that, first, she simply did not accept Venable's rules, but especially she did not like to stay idle. She quickly became friends with them, especially with Mallory. To help them cope, she tells them about Hegel's dialectic of master and slave. "The master is the master, this is them who commands and the slave obeys. But the one who really holds the power is the slave. They are stronger, physically and mentally, they are autonomous, they knows everything. Without them, the master is nothing. In the end they need each other, but the slave is more important, everything rests on them." The grays thought very strongly of this phrase as a reassuring prayer when the purples shouted at them, insulted them, or beat them.

           Life went on for eighteen months, when food ran out, tension increased, and Venable's threats were more and more terrifying. (Y / N) caught herself dreaming of the moment when they could finally come out, the air breathable again, and then she could shout her name loudly to the whole world. She repeated it every night. It was a reminder, not to forget that she was not Rachel King, this young woman, a little selfish, but bubbly and fun, who had become dust again a long time ago. The more days passed, the harder it was to recognize her name when she pronounced it. She doubted sometimes, wondering if she was wrong. Anyway, she knew that never, never, they would come out of here. The fallout would not go away for years. The cannibals would still be there. The one who created these Outposts was an optimist. In a few weeks they would probably be dead. She spoke with Mallory, who tried to cheer him up. "They're going to come save us. The Cooperative is not going to give us up like that, you'll see." (Y / N) admired the hope of Mallory and all the others, but there was no guarantee that they were not the last survivors. There was a chance that no one would come, and it had to be accepted. But she did not blame them. Hope helped to live, and as long as there was life, there was hope. Why depress them further with her  reasoning ? At the end, it would not change anything.

           The alarm that warned that there was a break in the security perimeter sounded the next day. Naturally (Y / N) was scared, but she was ready. We would all die one day. If cannibals entered, she would lock herself in a bathroom, take a razor blade, and leave with dignity, without much suffering. But it was not an attack. It was much worse. Langdon, a representative of the Cooperative, was carrying bad news : all the other Outposts had been destroyed and theirs was probably not going to last any longer. His mission was to evaluate the last survivors, to identify those who deserved to be saved, and who could join the Sanctuary. The purples were mixed : they had paid their way, they had nothing to prove. And what were the selection criteria ? They tried to reassure themselves that they were too important for Langdon not to choose them, but deep down they doubted. The grays were totally desperate, convinced that they would stay here, without any hope of salvation. (Y / N) regretted that it was not a cannibal attack. Langdon had records of the occupants of the Outposts. He would soon realize that she had nothing to do here, everyone would learn it, and Venable would be happy to torture her before killing her slowly. Knowing that in any case she was going to die, she decided, unlike the others, not to cooperate. She would have no conversation with Langdon, she would avoid him until he left and then she would advise. While she was planning all the details of her plan, she did not notice that she had already caught the attention of the one she was trying to escape.

Tag . @kahhlo @roxytheimmortal

[whatisonthemoonarchive]

While some continue to complain about the profound effects of indoctrination into the totalistic worldview of the Moon ideology,  it is puzzling that they seem  unconcerned about the  mind control and ideological indoctrination inflicted from all directions outside the Moon movement on society at large. After all, it is difficult to not notice that a massive world-wide combination of educational institutions, media, the entertainment industry, government agencies, computer companies,  the United Nations and its accredited non-governmental organizations (NGOs) are all involved in the indoctrination of the masses into a totalitarian, one world government ideology. Are the effects of indoctrination in the Moon ideology dangerous in comparison to the effects of indoctrination into the totalitarian one world government ideology?    When considering this, take into account that the totalitarian, one world government ideology promotes and facilitates various lifestyles and practices considered to be sinful according traditional Christian standards, whereas the Moon ideology, whether it be true or not, upholds traditional Christian morality and takes a hard line against sin.

The one world government indoctrination program begins in elementary school with a planned, step-by-step process of replacing the traditional family-taught beliefs, morality, Biblical values and world view with a new way of thinking designed to support the totalitarian world government agenda [see 'Brainwashing in America']   The techniques of brainwashing developed in totalitarian countries are routinely used in psychological conditioning programs imposed on American school children to bring about these results. These include emotional shock and desensitization*, psychological isolation from sources of support, stripping away defenses, manipulative cross-examination of the individual's underlying moral values, and inducing acceptance of alternative values by psychological rather than rational means.

The goal of education is no longer to teach the kind of literacy, wisdom and knowledge we once considered essentials of responsible citizenship.  It is to train world citizens--a compliant international workforce, willing to flow with change and uncertainty. These citizens must be ready to believe and do whatever will serve a  government determined 'common good' or 'greater whole'.  Educators may promise to teach students to think for themselves, but if these state educators continue what they have started, then tomorrow's students will have neither the facts nor the freedom needed for independent thinking.  Like Nazi youth, they will be taught to react, not to think, when told to do the unthinkable.

Are the effects of indoctrination into the Moon ideology really so dangerous in comparison to the effects of the ongoing state run indoctrination into the totalitarian one world government ideology?  

__________________________

*A common method used in training students to reject truth is emotional shock therapy which is described in the following example:  Ashley, a California tenth-grader, heard her teacher announce the following writing assignment: 'You're going to consult an oracle. It will tell you that you're going to kill your best friend. This is destined to happen, and there is absolutely no way out. You will commit this murder. What will you do before this event occurs? Describe how you felt leading up to it. How did you actually kill your best friend?'  Ashley became very upset. Why would her English teacher tell her to imagine something so horrible. 'I don't want to do this.', she told herself and long after she had told this to her parents, the awful feelings continued.

This method of emotional shock therapy has become standard fare in public schools from coast to coast. It produces cognitive dissonance -- mental and moral confusion -- especially in students trained to follow God's guidelines. While classroom topics may range from homosexual or occult practices to euthanasia and suicide, they all challenge and stretch a student's moral boundaries. But why?

'[Our objective] will require a change in the prevailing culture--the attitudes, values, norms and accepted ways of doing things,' says Marc Tucker, the master-mind behind the school-to-work and 'workforce development' program implemented in every state. Working with Hillary Clinton and other globalist leaders, he called for a paradigm shift--a total transformation in the way people think, believe, and perceive reality. This new paradigm rules out traditional values and biblical truth, which are now considered hateful and intolerant. (See "Clinton's War on Hate Bans Christian Values") All religions must be pressed into the mold of the new global spirituality.  Since globalist leaders tout this world religion as a means of building public awareness of our supposed planetary oneness, Biblical Christianity doesn't fit. It is simply too 'exclusive' and 'judgmental.'

Immersing students in imaginary situations that clash with home-taught values confuses and distorts a student's conscience. Each shocking story and group dialogue tends to weaken resistance to change. Biblical absolutes simply don't fit the hypothetical stories that prompt children to question and replace home-taught values. Before long, God's standard for right and wrong is turned upside-down, and unthinkable behavior begins to seem more normal than the Christian tradition that formed the basis of western civilization.

But it takes more than a twisted conscience to produce compliant world citizens. New values must replace God's timeless truths, as described in the following example:

 Matt Piecora, a fifth grader from the Seattle area, was told to complete the sentence, 'If I could wish for three things, I would wish for…'  Matt wrote 'infinitely more wishes, to meet God, and for all my friends to be Christians.'  Matt's wish didn't pass. The teacher told him that his last wish could hurt people who didn't share his beliefs. Matt didn't want to hurt anyone, so he agreed to add 'if they want to be.'  Another sentence to be completed began, 'If I could meet anyone, I would like to meet…'.

Matt wrote: 'God because he is the one who made us!' The teacher told him to add 'in my opinion.' When Matt's parents saw his work, they noticed the phrases that had been added to Matt's sentences and asked,  'Why did you add this?'. 'The teacher didn't want me to hurt other people's feelings,' he answered. 'But these are just your wishes…'  'I thought so, Mom.'  Matt looked confused. Later, the teacher explained to Matt's parents that she wanted diversity' in her class and was looking out for her other students. But the excuse didn't make sense. If the papers were supposed to 'express the students' diverse views,' why couldn't Matt share his views? Didn't his wishes fit? Or was Christianity the real problem?  'I try to instill God's truths in my son,' said Matt's father, 'but it seems like the school wants to remove them.'

 He is right. The old Judeo-Christian beliefs don't fit the new beliefs and values designed for global unity. The planned oneness demands 'new thinking, new strategies, new behavior, and new beliefs'  that turn God's Word and values upside-down and no strategy works better than the old dialectic (consensus) process explained by Georg Hegel, embraced by Marx and Lenin, and incorporated into American education during the nineteen eighties.  Directed group discussion based on the dialectic (consensus) process is key to the transformation. Professor Benjamin Bloom, called 'Father of Outcome-based Education', summarized it as follows:

'The purpose of education and the schools is to change the thoughts, feelings and actions of students.  ....a large part of what we call good teaching is the teacher's ability to attain effective objectives through challenging the students' fixed beliefs and getting them to discuss issues.'  Matt's last comment was especially threatening to the teacher. His statement, 'God made us' is an absolute truth. It can't be modified to please the group. Therefore it doesn't fit the consensus process -- the main psycho-social strategy of the new national-international education system designed to mold world citizens.  It demands that all children participate in group discussions and agree to: · be open to new ideas · share personal feelings · set aside home-taught values that might offend the group · compromise in order to seek common ground and please the group. · respect all opinions, no matter how contrary to God's guidelines · never argue or violate someone's comfort zone

First tested in Soviet schools, this mind-changing process required students in the USSR, China and other Communist nations to 'confess' their thoughts and feelings in their respective groups. Day after day, trained facilitator-teachers would guide these groups toward a pre-planned consensus. Opposite opinions or ideas -- 'thesis' and 'antithesis' -- were blended into ever-evolving higher 'truths'. Each new truth or 'synthesis' would ideally reflect a blend of each participant's feelings and opinions. In reality, the students were manipulated into compromising their values and accepting the politically correct Soviet understanding of the issue discussed. Worse yet, the children learned to trade individual thinking for a collective mindset. Since the concluding consensus would probably change with the next dialogue, the process immunized them against faith in any unchanging truth or fact. This revolutionary training program was officially brought into our education system in 1985, when President Reagan and Soviet President Gorbachev signed the U.S. - U.S.S.R. Education Exchange Agreement. It put American technology into the hands of Communist strategists and, in return, gave us all the psycho-social strategies used in Communist nations to indoctrinate Soviet children with Communist ideology and to monitor compliance for the rest of their lives. Today, American children from coast to coast learn reading, health, and science through group work and dialogue. Most subjects are 'integrated' or blended together and discussed in a multicultural context. Thus, fourth graders in Iowa 'learn' ecology, economy, and science by 'real-life' immersion into Native American cultures. They role-play tribal life and idealize the religion modeled by imaginary shamans. Seeking common ground with the guidance of a trained facilitator-teacher, they share their beliefs, feelings, and 'experiences' with each other. They might agree that 'there are many gods' or 'many names for the same god' and compare the exaggerated spiritual thrills of shamanism with their own church experiences. Which religion would sound most exciting to the group? The consensus would merely be a temporary answer in a world of 'continual change' -- one of many steps in the ongoing evolution toward better understanding of truth -- as defined by leaders who envision a uniform global workforce and management system operating through compliant groups everywhere.     http://www.inplainsite.org/html/mind_control_in_schools.html

[girlmood]

so yesterday, after crying about my phone being in the hands of some stubborn, unsophisticated uber driver, my mind kept going back to something i’m a bit obsessed with. i have had these obsessive and compulsive thoughts for around a year and a long bit now, and they make me feel unsafe because they revolve around someone. the thoughts themselves are innocent, yet they’re incessant and i feel that they get in the way of being active and focused on things. 

for a long time now i’ve tried to make sense of these thoughts.

i’ve come to the conclusion that these thoughts are in the way of something.

whenever i am daydreaming this recurring thought, i close my eyes. i reflect and become drowsy. even when i am trying to reject these thoughts i try and use sleep. needless to say that this gets in the way of things like reading and creating. however, i always insist when people ask that i am always busy reading and creating. in effect i am if i am daydreaming something all the time, BUT i am not putting pen to paper, am i? 

i close my eyes to my reality, the outside world. i live in my interior. 

i do this because it is easier.

i have said that i choose to obsess over this thing because it calms and soothes me. i always knew that the facile nature of just thinking something alone and not doing anything with it made me feel freer.

yesterday, however, it was difficult to cry about my phone OR this thing. it felt forced to encourage tears even though i felt a hollowness inside. when i noticed that this uncomfortable moment was taking place, i berated myself for not telling me how i really feel. THAT made me cry. knowing that there are things concealed from myself within myself is a fact that terrorizes me more and more each day i get older, especially because i think “I did psychology! Why don’t I know what is wrong with me?”

if i had been focusing on saturday night, i would have my phone. i was drunk and sleepy so i did not hear the uber driver trying to return it to me (or so he says). i also have no memory of the situation. i just have no phone right now.

if i admit to myself that i feel what i am scared i feel because i don’t know it, in regards to the obsession (though admitting this would no longer make it an obsession -- it would practically free me), then i must open my eyes and focus and take action towards it. it isn’t a bad thing to want what i am daydreaming about. i argue that it doesn’t make sense, but it does. my issue is that i cannot go a day without thinking about it in some form. i want to be able to focus.

i am taking a while to get to my point here but i think that this does further emphasise the importance of what my point is, to be fair.

anyways, i cried when i talked about my lack of focus, and how really, all i want to do is wri--... wri--

i couldn’t say the word “write” because i got choked up by my tears all of a sudden.

when i finally realised that “i’m not letting myself write, or create at all, by my lack of focus” i started sobbing like a child bereaved of ice cream.

i use that obsession, i use alcohol and drugs and social media and films, all to distract myself from what i truly want to do.

I want to write.

i do english. i tell myself it is because the teacher i had a crush on replied to a letter i’d given her; she said she could see me being “the next j.k rowling.” i’m sure that was meant as a compliment back then. there is also the fact that i never intended with continuing on with education past year 11 until we had to by law, but after enjoying my sixth form subjects, i found it incredulous that i had to pick just one for university, and english seems to be the perfect avenue in which to incorporate media, sociology and psychology (i also never got to do philosophy and i never continued on with french after gcses, so i also hoped to approach them in my courses).

but really, i do english because i’ve always been a good writer.

that is a bold claim to make, but in the past years i have made many bold claims. i am a sagittarius! it is our job to make bold claims and when asked to elaborate on that, we say no! like, that meme format was born out of sagittarianism.

for the sake of talking, because us sagittarians also do love the sound of our own voices, i will elaborate THIS ONE TIME.

i wrote many songs when i was younger, and used to perform them with my sister and cousins. there was this song called “girls style” that i still remember the chorus of. i must’ve written it when i was like, 7 or 8 years old? i swear, though, it’s good enough to be on a dolly advert or a song that jojo siwa could get more famous of. i think it must’ve been inspired by bratz too... anyways, that was a good song, is my point. i don’t think i could write it again and it could be as good because, for one, i don’t identify as a girl anymore. 

there was also another song that i wrote, i don’t remember how it goes, but i know once beyoncé came out with “irreplaceable” i was infuriated because the song i wrote had the exact same subject matter and tone as her song (but actually who was i telling “to the left, to the left” at 8 years old? rolling WHO around in the CAR? that I BOUGHT? for WHO?) somehow i swore blind that beyoncé had stole my song, and even though she was my whole life even back then, i had to unstan for a bit because i was mad at her.

imagine. 

i’m writing beyoncé level songs at 8 years old.

okay, i may not be THAT good -- well, actually, most of the songs on b’day aren’t so intangible for an 8 year old. not to say it isn’t a masterpiece, like every other thing beyoncé has done ever since and before and god I LOVE THAT WOMAN, but you know, i was in that ballpark, i guess, maybe...

or maybe not but ANYHOW i also learned to read at quite an early age, think it must’ve been 3 or something (despite how intelligent he is, i can’t imagine my 4 year old cousin being able to read right now, so that must have been a shock to my mother) and i was pretty artistic at a young age too, despite my main interests being in science at that time. 

i remember being in year 3 and writing a poem about ice cream that my teacher would never stop bringing up even after i left his year. i also drew a portrait of my best friend that year, and trust me, it was so good, the whole class was in awe. no joke. 

funnily enough, though, for a while, i used to deny that those things happened. you know, the pride my year 3 teacher felt or the way my best friend looked at me when she saw how well i depicted her at, again, only 8 years old. i forgot about them until now, 13 years later, in my last semester of university. 

my best friend from secondary school and my dad were so obsessed with this journal i used to bring around. my best friend used to write in it from time to time. i was so perplexed as to why she liked it so much that eventually it weirded me out and i stopped bringing the journal to school. (sorry mia, still love you!) i went to jamaica for two weeks when i was 15 and brought that journal with me, and my dad read every entry and seemed so excited by it as well that i just. stopped bringing it to show him. he still asks about it, and if i’m still writing in general. i give him mono-syllabic answers and hopes that he doesn’t ask any further questions (i mean perhaps that is because the moment i visited jamaica was also the moment i realised i really liked this one girl and since then i’ve realised i am a lesbian and since all i was doing was writing about this one girl for three years... i didn’t want to share anything too incriminating with him, a known homophobe, naturally)

in all of these instances, you can see that people enjoy my art. there isn’t an instance in which they’ve protested against it, even when i’ve explicitly named people in that journal or not everyone likes ice cream. but you can also see that i somehow conveniently forget that. like. “people enjoy my art” does not compute in my mind for a long time. it is a sentence that does not make sense, by every word. 

people? 

outside of myself? 

enjoy? 

like, actively consume and are amused? 

my? 

ME? 

art?

that’s BOLD, you believe you create art? ART? 

well, what else would you call it? what else would you say? i’m creating something whimsical here.

i’m currently studying critical aesthetics, and as far as i’ve read for this class, i can perfectly claim that the creations i allow to be consumed as such ARE in fact, poetry, by the basis of many of these conflicting philosophers.

but obviously, before three months ago, i didn’t know much about what aristotle, hume, hegel and such had to say about art and creating. however i always know i want my every endeavour to be artful. i’ve been enamoured with the concept of aesthetic for a long time -- perhaps this was vapourwave’s doing -- and i know i daydream a lot. it’s where the mental illnesses i’m plagued with permeate these naturally creative realms of my mind and distort them and they become unhealthy obsessions that i react compulsively toward. 

i’ve been to therapy and counselling and have heard the same thing. i’ve even heard it from a friend who really inspires me recently -- overthinking is not a bad thing. you just have to know how to control it so that it benefits you. overthinking could not be the bane of my existence because i probably would not be able to create without it. however, it’s dysfunctional because i don’t control it. i always think it’s about not being able to “turn my brain off”, which is impossible apart from braindeath, which i think is what i accidentally purposely try to allude to, but that isn’t what control is. 

control... is a scary word. a hell of an intimidating word for someone who is considered by many to be free-spirited and laid back. but control could have saved me the frustration of a missing phone for two days. control did save me from this obsession from furthering at one point, but after one event i lost control and have not regained it since. it is easy to blame the person in question but she hadn’t done anything wrong. i’m not really doing anything wrong. i just need to control myself.

last year, i meditated a lot. this was perhaps i was smoking weed and normal tobacco, thinking i could find myself in those vices, yet felt so paranoid and low. when you meditate, it isn’t really about controlling your thoughts by blocking them out. rather, meditation is about controlling where your mind is. where you focus. it’s choosing to relax.

strange as it sounds, relaxation is not an easy choice to make.

i often mistake relaxing for being idle. the major difference is in my thoughts. being idle allows for thoughts to intrude upon me and be incessant and unnerving. 

being idle is unfortunately a constant in my life.

it isn’t that i haven’t got anything to do. it’s just easy to be idle.

somewhere in the bible (no, i don’t care enough to go and look it up) it says “idle hands give the devil play”. or it’s a jamaican proverb. my mum says it a lot. anyhow, it rings true in every sense for me. the “devil”, my unconscious “ego”, base impulses, “play” with my mind, they swing my “idle hands”, make them shape their way, clap their way, ball their way. an innocent hand clapping game played until my hands are sore. i’m always throwing my hands at the devil to let him do what he wants.

relaxing is stopping the hand game. i put my hands down and watch the devil wait for me to parttake once again, saying encouraging things. there, i control my passivity. i spectate my own mind. 

right now, i’m relaxing. i am in bed, but also while typing this i am taking my time to focus, be honest and try not to digress. it feels so tranquil. i have written a lot but i want my point to get across so i can feel understood.

i feel like i have misguided my friends about who i am for a long time. or have i? it’s easy to be the messy black lesbian who loves one direction and is “woke” but there is this thing that i notice when i am with them: i am relaxed. well, in most instances. i listen to what they are telling me, because i enjoy listening in general but also because i love them. 

in my teenage years when i decidedly “wasn’t into friendships”, i would still listen to the people i hung around with. i’d complain about them on twitter after, which funnily enough people still joke that i do but i really do not (and CAN not) do it as much as i used to but i know by idly listening to them and not opening up i let all sorts of demons in because they can intrude unlike people you haven’t given the key to. 

now i am choosing to open up because people aren’t so bad, and people mostly like me. even if they didn’t, however, it doesn’t actually matter. 

me existing regardless of anyone else is the point here, despite me being a good writer. i think that’s what makes writing good. i think that is what makes art good. it has the ability to exist and encourage thought. 

i shouldn’t be afraid to write because i think i’m too depressed or messy or something i don’t like will come to fruition because that isn’t what its about. creating is creating. no one else would have written this. i don’t expect this to be winning the nobel book prize any time soon. i want to finally find peace in my honesty. i have been a compulsive liar for too long and it has become monstrous. now i must relax and take the true easy path in the end: the one which terrifies me the most.

i am going to be disciplined, patient, open. honest, forgiving, sensitive. 

i do love to be a mystery but it isn’t fun if it’s causing you pain and you’re a mystery to yourself for such a long time.

one way i’m going to solve the enigma that is myself, as well as the world, is writing.