#even though i heard a thousand times in class that being a historian was NOT about memorizing everything

[elizabeth-mitchells]

having one of those rare moments at work when i reluctantly go "maybe my job isn't isn't so bad. maybe my degree wasn't entirely useless. maybee it's kind of nice to put it to use, I GUESS 🙄🙄"

[flightlessnightingale]

On Lesbianism

I’ll state it at the top here, because many have not understood my stance. The purpose of this essay is not to say that Lesbian cannot mean “Female homosexual.” Rather, my objective is to show that Lesbian means more than that single definition suggests. Female Homosexuals are lesbians, unless they personally do not want to use that label. Now, on with the show: Lesbianism is not about gatekeeping, and I don’t want to have to keep convincing people that the movement popularized by someone who wrote a book full of lies and hate speech then immediately worked with Ronald Reagan is a bad movement. In the early ’70s, groups of what would now be called “gender critical” feminists threatened violence against many trans women who dared exist in women’s and lesbian spaces. For example, trans woman Beth Elliott, who was at the 1973 West Coast Lesbian Feminist Conference to perform with her lesbian band, was ridiculed onstage and had her existence protested. In 1979, radical feminist Janice Raymond, a professor at the University of Massachusetts, wrote the defining work of the TERF movement, “Transsexual Empire: The Making of the Shemale,” in which she argued that “transsexualism” should be “morally mandating it out of existence”—mainly by restricting access to transition care (a political position shared by the Trump administration). Soon after she wrote another paper, published for the government-funded, National Center for Healthcare Technology — and the Reagan administration cut off Medicare and private health insurance coverage for transition-related care.

Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminism is a fundamentally unsustainable ideology. Lesbianism is a fundamentally sustainable existence.

There used to be a lesbian bar or queer bar or gay bar in practically every small town — sometimes one of each. After surviving constant police raids, these queer spaces began closing even Before the AIDS epidemic. Because TERFs would take them over, kick out transfems and their friends. Suddenly, there weren’t enough local patrons to keep the bars open, because the majority had been kicked out. With America’s lack of public transportation, not enough people were coming from out of town either.

TERFs, even beyond that, were a fundamental part of the state apparatus that let AIDS kill millions.

For those who don’t know, Lesbian, from the time of Sappho of Lesbos to the about 1970′s, referred to someone who rejects the patriarchal hierarchy. It was not only a sexuality, but almost akin to a gender spectrum.

That changed in the 1970′s when TERFs co-opted 2nd Wave feminism, working with Ronald fucking Reagan to ban insurance for trans healthcare.

TERFs took over the narrative, the bars, the movement, and changed Lesbian from the most revolutionary and integral queer communal identity of 2 fucking THOUSAND years, from “Someone who rejects the patriarchal hierarchy” to “A woman with a vagina who’s sexually attracted to other women with vaginas”

How does this fit into the bi lesbian debate? As I said, Lesbian is more of a Gender Spectrum than anything else, it was used much in the same way that we use queer or genderqueer today.

And it’s intersectional too.

See, if you were to try to ascribe a rigid, biological, or localized model of an identity across multiple cultures, it will fail. It will exclude people who should not be excluded. ESPECIALLY Intersex people. That’s why “Two Spirit” isn’t something rigid- it is an umbrella term for the identities within over a dozen different cultures. In the next two sections, I have excerpts on Two-Spirit and Butch identity, to give a better idea of the linguistics of queer culture: This section on Two-Spirit comes from wikipedia, as it has the most links to further sources, I have linked all sources directly, though you can also access them from the Wikipedia page’s bibliography: Two-Spirit is a pan-Indian, umbrella term used by some Indigenous North Americans to describe Native people who fulfill a traditional ceremonial and social role that does not correlate to the western binary. [1] [2] [3] Created at the 1990 Indigenous lesbian and gay international gathering in Winnipeg, it was "specifically chosen to distinguish and distance Native American/First Nations people from non-Native peoples." [4] Criticism of Two-Spirit arises from 2 major points, 1. That it can exasperate the erasure of the traditional terms and identities of specific cultures.           a. Notice how this parallels criticisms of Gay being used as the umbrella           term for queer culture in general. 2. That it implies adherence to the Western binary; that Natives believe these individuals are "both male and female" [4]          a. Again, you’ll notice that this parallels my criticisms of the TERF definition of Lesbian, that tying LGBT+ identities to a rigid western gender binary does a disservice to LGBT+ people,—especially across cultures. “Two Spirit" wasn’t intended to be interchangeable with "LGBT Native American" or "Gay Indian"; [2] nor was it meant to replace traditional terms in Indigenous languages.  Rather, it was created to serve as a pan-Indian unifier. [1] [2] [4] —The term and identity of two-spirit "does not make sense" unless it is contextualized within a Native American or First Nations framework and traditional cultural understanding. [3] [10] [11] The ceremonial roles intended to be under the modern umbrella of two-spirit can vary widely, even among the Indigenous people who accept the English-language term. No one Native American/First Nations' culture's gender or sexuality categories apply to all, or even a majority of, these cultures. [4] [8] Butch: At the turn of the 20th century, the word “butch” meant “tough kid” or referred to a men’s haircut. It surfaced as a term used among women who identified as lesbians in the 1940s, but historians and scholars have struggled to identify exactly how or when it entered the queer lexicon. However it happened, "Butch” has come to mean a “lesbian of masculine appearance or behavior.” (I have heard that, though the words originate from French, Femme & Butch came into Lesbian culture from Latina lesbian culture, and if I find a good source for that I will share. If I had to guess, there may be some wonderful history to find of it in New Orleans—or somewhere similar.) Before “butch” became a term used by lesbians, there were other terms in the 1920s that described masculinity among queer women. According to the historian Lillian Faderman,“bull dagger” and “bull dyke” came out of the Black lesbian subculture of Harlem, where there were “mama” and “papa” relationships that looked like butch-femme partnerships. Performer Gladys Bentley epitomized this style with her men’s hats, ties and jackets. Women in same-sex relationships at this time didn’t yet use the word “lesbian” to describe themselves. Prison slang introduced the terms “daddy,” “husband,” and “top sargeant” into the working class lesbian subculture of the 1930s.  This lesbian history happened alongside Trans history, and often intersected, just as the Harlem renaissance had music at the forefront of black and lesbian (and trans!) culture, so too can trans musicians, actresses, and more be found all across history, and all across the US. Some of the earliest known trans musicians are Billy Tipton and Willmer “Little Ax” Broadnax—Both transmasculine musicians who hold an important place in not just queer history, but music history.

Lesbian isn’t rigid & biological, it’s social and personal, built up of community and self-determination.

And it has been for millennia.

So when people say that nonbinary lesbians aren’t lesbian, or asexual lesboromantics aren’t lesbian, or bisexual lesbians aren’t lesbian, it’s not if those things are technically true within the framework — It’s that those statements are working off a fundamentally claustrophobic, regressive, reductionist, Incorrect definition You’ll notice that whilst I have been able to give citations for TERFs, for Butch, and especially for Two-Spirit, there is little to say for Lesbianism. The chief reason for this is that lesbian history has been quite effectively erased-but it is not forgotten, and the anthropological work to recover what was lost is still ongoing. One of the primary issues is that so many who know or remember the history have so much trauma connected to "Lesbian” that they feel unable to reclaim it. Despite this trauma, just like the anthropological work, reclamation is ongoing.

Since Sappho, lesbian was someone who rejects the patriarchal hierarchy. For centuries, esbian wasn’t just a sexuality, it was intersectional community, kin to a gender spectrum, like today’s “queer”. When TERFs co-opted 2nd Wave feminism, they redefined Lesbian to “woman w/ a vag attracted to other women w/ vags”. So when you say “bi lesbians aren’t lesbian” it’s not whether that’s true within the framework, it’s that you’re working off a claustrophobic, regressive, and reductionist definition.

I want Feminism, Queerness, Lesbianism, to be fucking sustainable.

I wanna see happy trans and lesbian and queer kids in a green and blue fucking world some day.

I want them to be able to grow old in a world we made good.

[qqueenofhades]

So I’ve been thinking about the end of empires lately, the way they behave, the patterns that emerge, things like that. Yes, I know. What a lovely topic. Lol. My brain likes punishment. Shhh. Anyway, I was wondering what we have learned from past ended empires that could help us understand today’s world? Do you have thoughts? Any book refs on this? Thanks qqueen!

Aha, okay, I'll give this a crack. I'll try not to get bogged down in too much pedagogical woolgathering about how it is defined, determined, decided, or otherwise applied as an analytical concept, but we'll say that an "empire" is a geographical, political and territorial unit that comprises multiple countries/regions, is united under one relatively centralised administration, ruled either by one all-powerful figure or a small circle of powerful elites (usually technically answerable to the former), and held together by military, financial, and ideological methods. The basic model, as established by the Romans: take their sons to serve in the army, make them pay their taxes to you, and worship Roma, the patron goddess of the city, alongside their own preferred religion. Simple, straightforward, and lasted for five hundred years (almost a thousand if you count the Roman Republic which preceded it). We hear a lot in Western history classes about the "Fall of Rome," which is usually presented in popular narratives as the moment when everything went to pot before the "Dark Ages." Is this true? (No.) If so, did it happen because, as is often claimed, "barbarians/savages were attacking Rome and overthrew it?" (No.)

The collapse of the Western Roman Empire is way more than we can get into in the course of one ask, and there are other fallen empires to consider: for example, the Aztec, Ashanti, Russian, and British ones. It's a subject of debate as to whether modern-day America should be termed an empire: it fits most, if not all, of the historical criteria, but is an empire only an empire when it declares itself to be one? The long and sordid history of American imperialism, whether it's a rose by any other name or otherwise, is covered in American Empire: A Global History by A.G. Hopkins, How to Hide an Empire: A History of the Greater United States by Daniel Immerwahr, and A People's History of American Empire by Howard Zinn. All are worth looking into.

Overall, I think the basic similarities for what makes an empire fall would include:

it geographically overextends itself (Roman, British)

it is attacked by foreign rivals and internal enemies (Roman, Aztec, Ashanti)

it becomes massively financially indebted and deeply politically unstable (Roman, Russian)

it resorts to heavy-handed attempts to punish dissatisfaction among its people, spurring popular resistance (Aztec, Roman, British, Russian)

it is emerging from a period of long war internationally and internally that has strained it militarily (Roman, British, Russian)

it simply gets devastatingly unlucky thanks to a combination of unforeseeable external factors (Aztec, Ashanti)

And so on. Basically, the administrative bureaucracy gets too big to manage itself, the ever-increasing financial exactions can't pay for the necessary wars to maintain and expand its borders, people become dissatisfied both outside and inside the imperial system, and since no human institution or nation-state lasts forever, down it comes. However, I would caution against too much insistence on a total or categorical end of any of these societies. You've probably heard of Jared Diamond, who wrote uber-popular bestsellers including Guns, Germs, and Steel and Collapse, focusing on how human societies survive, or not, from an eco-scientific perspective. However, Diamond is not a trained anthropologist, archaeologist, or historian, despite writing extensively about these subjects (he's a professor of geography at UCLA) and a whole bunch of eminent historians and anthropologists got together to write "You're Full of Shit, Jared Diamond," also known as Questioning Collapse: Human Resilience, Ecological Vulnerability, and the Aftermath of Empire.

This book basically blasts Diamond (as he deserves, frankly) for removing all social/cultural factors from his analysis in Collapse and only focusing on ecology/science/environment. Geographical determinism can shed light on some things, but it's very far from being a total explanation for everything, completely divorced from the human societies that interact with these places. For example, did the Easter Island society of Rapa Nui collapse because the Polynesian people "recklessly" overexploited the environment (Diamond) or the impact of European diseases, colonialism, slave trade, and other direct crises, combined with the introduction of the non-native rat to the islands? (Spoiler alert: The latter. You simply can't write about these societies as if they're just places where things somehow happened thanks to natural processes, entirely outside of human agency and cultural/social/political needs.)

Anyway, the silver-lining upside, especially in an incredibly gloomy political milieu where the current American system was nearly overthrown by the last president and hordes of his fascist sympathisers (as they were talking about on Capitol Hill today, incidentally), is that the usual story of human societies is resilience rather than disappearance. None of the empires listed above, with the exception of the Aztecs (conquered by the Spanish, decimated by smallpox, and resisted by internal indigenous enemies) totally vanished. Their structures and ethos often just got a change of paint and name and carried on. For all the ballyhoo about the "Collapse of Rome," the Western Roman Empire had been an almost entirely ineffective political entity for years and the capital had already been transferred to Ravenna well before 476. There were outsider attacks, but Rome had weakened itself by a constant succession of military coups, palace intrigue, too-heavy taxes, and a simply too-vast area to effectively control. The Eastern Roman Empire, however (aka the Byzantine Empire) carried on being a major political player straight through the medieval period and only ended in 1453, with the Ottoman sultan Mehmed II's conquest of Constantinople.

Even the Ashanti Empire still exists today, as a small independent kingdom within the modern African country of Ghana. The Russian and British empires no longer exist under that name, but few would deny that those countries still retain considerable influence in similar ways. When people talk about the "collapse" of societies, especially non-Western societies, it also produces the impression that they did in fact just disappear into thin air, often as no fault of the invading Westerners. (Sidenote: I suggest reading "Settler Colonialism and the Elimination of the Native" by Patrick Wolfe in the Journal of Genocide Research. The whole thing is online and free.) How many times have we heard that, say, the Mayans/Mayan Empire "vanished," when there are up to seven million Mayan speakers in modern Mexico? If you're insisting that they're gone, of course it's easier to act like they are.

Anyway. I think what I'm trying to say here is that in terms of lessons for the modern world:

empires always (always) fall;

this comes about as some combination of the above-mentioned factors;

however, the societies previously organised as empires almost never disappear, so the end of an empire does not necessarily mean the end of its attendant society, culture, countries, etc;

empires often re-organise as essentially similar political units with different names and can maintain most of their former status;

empire is an inherently unequal and exploitative system that often relies on taxonomies of race, gender, power, and class, with the usual suspects at the top and everyone else at the bottom;

empire is usually, though not always, related to active colonialism and military expansion, and as soon as it cannot sustain this model, it's in big trouble;

the idea that human societies just disappear solely as a result of inadequately correct economic choices and/or ecological determinism is a lot of shit;

And so on. The end of an empire isn't necessarily anything to fear, though it can, obviously, be incredibly disruptive for those living within the country/countries affected. And until we learn how to move, as a species, permanently away from political and ideological systems that give so many resources to so few people and nothing to so many others, we're going to continue to experience this cycle.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO,  “Post Apocalyptic Utopia.”

I was actually able to write something today, which I didn’t expect. So I hope you all enjoy!” 

A small delegation of Vrul scientists were waiting for them when the shuttle landed. Dr. krill looked around the city and noted the increased security from the last time he had been here, though that had been almost a year ago, so he couldn’t have said if that was a recent development or not. Behind him, Admiral Vir, Doctor Katie, and their resident microbiologist stepped out of the shuttle, followed closely by their select group of marines.

The marines had been ordered to keep a close eye on Krill, as it was a well known fact that the Vrul council had put a termination order on his head. They had said the termination order had been dissolved, but to say that he didn’t exactly trust their word, was a bit of an understatement.

Admiral Vir stayed close at his shoulder eyeing up anyone who got to close.

They had brought the marines for a reason, but a single human would have been enough to scare of the Vrul if they were to try, and Admiral Vir, as important as he was in intergalactic government, was even more of a deterrent.

They were met a few feet later by the council members, no one that Krill recognized, so they must have been council assistants.

“Dr. Krill, we were not sure you would answer our call.”

“Is that because of the termination order on my head, or because the Vrul council seems to have a disdain for my work?”

They stepped back a little shying away from his bluntness, but he stood his ground. Perhaps it was a little mean to behave so human-like in front of them, but he had to admit, it gave him no end of pleasure to see the squirm, all except for one.

One of the Vrul scuttled forward and his movements were familiar.

Together both Krill and the Admiral recognized him as the psychologist who had stood up for krill the last time he had brought in on a termination evaluation.

‘I am pleased to see you have answered our call Dr. krill, I was worried the past issues with the council might drive you away.” he looked up and raised a hand to the human, “As well as you Admiral, I am always pleased to see the man who saved my life.”

The admiral saluted, “The pleasure is all ours.”

Krill nodded pleased to see at least one sensible Vrul in this entire place, “I am sure we are all very happy to see one another, but I doubt you would ave called us here for a simple visit?”

The psychologist nodded his head, “Yes, yes of course. Please follow me.”

They did as ordered, the humans sauntering along behind them as the Vrul walked and talked. Around them, the city was surprisingly deserted with few workers and even fewer pedestrians. 

“Something strange has happened, something we are not sure what to make of.” 

They turned a corner down the middle streat, heading towards the outskirts of the city.

“The morning before last, a…. Minor beta geologist by the name of Dr. Kell was allowed permission outside the city walls.”

“Beta scientist?” Dr Krill wondered 

“He was one of those hard cases. His original tests showed promise, but it was later determined that he was closer to a beta than an alpha, though the council let him keep his teaching position at the institute as long as it was only the entry level classes, regardless, that is not the point. The point is, he was allowed outside the city on request to study surrounding soil samples. He was gone for maybe two or three hours before returning, dazed and catatonic. His helium sack had been ruptured, and shortly after being contained within an isolation chamber, he began to develop large yellow soars across his body. Those who came in close contact with him, including myself, have been put into isolation for a days duration, longer than it took for him to be infected.” 

They stepped onto a small elevating platform which rose them high into the air along the wall. There were no rails, as Vrul didn’t fear falling, butthe humans clustered at the center to avoid the drop.

They made it to the top of the wall and were motioned over by the psychologist to peer over the edge.

“That of course is not even mentioning these creatures.”

Together they looked over the edge of the wall. The humans muttered in surprise, and Krill Felt his antenna vibrate slightly in unease and burgeoning horror. The creatures below him looked awful like deltas, with their six limbs and thickened bodies, but the way they moved was just so rong. They clambered over each other hauling themselves up against the wall as if they were trying to climb it.

There were no more than seven of them in total and their eyes glowed a glassy white. All over their bodies, he could just make out the sickly yellow pustules. One of the creatures attempted to climb over his brethren, and in so doing stepped on one of the bulging sacks causing it to rupture and spew a thick spray of a pollen like substance. The cloud expanded shortly but was too thick to spread properly and slowly dropped to the ground coating the others in the layer of yellow.

The human grimaced, “Do you smell that?”

The Vrul looked up at him in surprise, “You smell something.”

All the humans nodded. Adam shook his head and sneezed rather violently taking a step back from the edge before wiping his face, “Smells like…. I don’t even know how to describe it, organic but…. rotting .”

Ramirez peered over the edge, “Tree zombies.”

The little vrul psychologist looked up at them, “What is a zombie?’

Krill sighed, “here we go.”

“Its an old legend or folktale I guess. There have been a lot of iterations of it over the centuries, but the general idea is that some kind of virus infects a human and the symptoms cause them to become aggressive and violent. A bite causes them to spread the Virus, and so they become cannibalistic. The disease rapidly spreads through population centers and the entire world shuts down in an apocalyptic event while small pockets of humans attempt to survive. Of course, its not exactly scientifically possible with the diseases we know of, but.” Adam glanced back over the wall, “Obviously not the same thing, but…. A similar principal I suppose. Twenty bucks says that those sores are what make it contagious.”

Krill nodded slowly, “it would make sense why none of you who came in contact with Dr. kell were ever infected, because you were never exposed to the pathogen. I am assuming he was not showing signs of those yellow pustules by the time he showed up?”

The psychologist nodded. “No, he developed those late last night and is still under observation. That happened about the same time he started showing signs of aggression towards the staff.”

“Let me see the patient.” krill said and the psychologist nodded, motioning them forward and back down the wall to where they were keeping their observation room.

It had been set up away and secured from the other buildings, and as they walked in most everyone was dressed in hazmat equipment.

They were brought forward, to an outside observation room where they could see through two sets of thick paned glass to where dr Kell, or who they supposed used to be Dr, Kell, paced around the room scuttling this way and that towards anyone who moved outside of his enclosure. The entire inside of the room was coated in a delicate layer of yellow pollen.”

Krill ordered someone to give him a hazmat suit and he hurried into the crowd to take a look for himself.

Dr, Katie was able to bring her hazmat equipment from the ship and followed after him, walking around with Krill as they examined the subject.

Adam didn’t know much about Vrul related illnesses, but he still found the behavior of the vrul inside the enclosure to be rather unsettling.

He walked around the outside examining the creature as Dr. krill and Katie spoke with each other.

He tapped his fingers against his arms nervously. This was very strange as far as he knew no vrul had lived outside their cities in centuries if not millennia. So how could there be infection outside of the city…. Of course…. That was unless…

A sudden scuttling could be heard outside the door, and he turned around to watch as a small alpha Vrul stepped into the room. It hurried forward and stood at the edge of he room looking unsure and nervous. On occasion it glanced over at him with a wary expression, to the point where he thought it was going to get whiplash.

He nodded, “Do you need something?”

It jumped as he spoke clutching some files on its chest, “i uh… uh I wanted to speak with the doctors about…. About something I found.”

Obviously Vrul only had one gender, but there was just something about it that made him think female, so he went with it.

Usually Vrul chose based on convenience when working with species of more than one gender, but until she said otherwise she was going to have to do.

“You can tell me.”

She looked up at him with a skeptical expression.

Most vrul had a sense of intellectual superiority when it came to other species. It made them insufferable sometimes as humans had IQs closer to their betas than their alphas. Difference was your average human could handle abstract concepts where a beta could not. Though the vrul tended to forget this.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, “I think I can keep up, just humor me.”

She looked at him long and hard for a moment before moving closer, “I am Dr. Vess, head historian at the Vrul institute here in the city, and I have been examining some ancient documents which I think might shed some light on what is happening here.” She paused.

He nodded for her to go on.

“About four thousand years ago, there is a sudden drought of historical documentation. We don’t know much of what happened before then. We think before that time we had light travel expeditions to other planets which gave us the shoot-off species, the Gibb, but there is no historical information to back this theory. I did, however, find architectural blueprints for the wall. The most dangerous predator on our planet is only ten feet tall and can only jump two feet, but our wall is forty feet high and twenty feet thick with no doors. This is also the time when we began to develop our force field technology, which is why we are so ahead of the times. The force field that can surround this city goes as a dome into the air, and even penetrates underground. Based on everything we know, the structure of the wall is far too dramatic to have been built by those who live in the world that we do, unless there was something that happened to prompt the construction.”

Adam nodded slowly, “You think that these creatures…. Whatever they are, were an issue before the wall was built, but you have lived so long behind the wall that it was forgotten with the historical records because no vrul has bothered to go outside the city for the past four thousand years, and by the time they did they were leaving by way of spaceship.”

Her antenna vibrated, in what he had come to know as the Vrul version of a nod.

“It makes sense, as I said before there is no reason for them to have built the walls so high and so thick. Furthermore, I have been analyzing satellite patterns of the surrounding area.” She opened a map before him and he crouched down on the floor with her to take a look as she spread it out on the ground, “Circular clusters of trees, everywhere, at first I thought they were just the natural way in which our trees grow, but you can see patches of them in others places that do not follow this pattern, but looking over here in this book that I found on etymology, they seem to be similar circles made by certain types of hibernating creatures that live on this planet.”

He stared at the evidence eyes wide, “So you are saying you believe that these creatures, whatever they are have been hibernating for a couple thousand years and were only distrurbed when the doctor made his way outside the city, probably due to vibrations in the ground.”

She nodded her head, “That was another thing I had been meaning to point out. The city walls are set on a series of inertial dampeners. Now when we do construction inside the city, the foundation rattles a little bit but the housing around it does not meaning that the city does not disturb the ground around it. This includes when spaceships take off and land despite their engines generally being powerful enough to cause shock waves.”

“Well I’ll be damned.” Adam muttered, “You guys may very well be living in a post apocalyptic utopian hellscape and no one knew because the historical records beforehand were lost.” He lifted his head and turned towards where krill and katie were still working, “Doctor! Wou will want to come and hear this.”

***

He could hear the others speaking in sharp tones behind him, though he wasn’t really paying attention. His eyes were focused mostly on the creature inside the tank. Some of the actual council members had deigned to descend from their council chambers as this was actually turning into a more serious matter than they thought. The history of the vrul was apparently a little more complicated than the “Brave new world” hellscape utopia in which they lived. In fact, it appeared as if they were some kind of post zombie apocalypse.

It was both cool and rather frightening at the same time especially when you considered the fact that these creatures were still hibernating beneath the ground, and could rise at the slightest provocation.

Inside the room, the zombie Vrul bashed it’s head against the wall causing another one of it’s yellow sores to pop spreading its pollenthick against the glass.

He moved forward to where one of the doctors was standing and asked, “Is there an intercom into the room?”

The Vrul turned to look at him and then nodded slowly, “There is, why?”

“I want to try something.”

The doctor stared at him as if he had been audaciou enough to pull off his pants and start pissing on the floor.

“What!”

“Humor me doc, if it works then I might know a way to defeat these things.”

The doctor looked about ready to argue with him but Adam gave hima look and he quickly backed off.

Adam knelt down and had the doctor show him how to transmit something into the room. He scolded quickly through his music library before picking something he thought had a nice complex beat.

The doctor watched him curiously as he turned on the song.

The glass was too thick for much sound to penetrate back through, but as soon as the beat started the reaction was almost immediate, and rather violent.

What had once been Dr. Kell jerked in it’s spot, then agitatedly began to run in a circle before falling to the ground where it twitched and convulsed. He stopped the song before the doctor could order him otherwise, and he turned to look at the little creature staring up at him in confusion, “Rhythmic induced cataplexy, just like the rest of you.”

He turned to look back at where Dr. krill was standing an idea beginning to form in his head.

It was a very extreme idea. He doubted anyone would be willing to try it.

But he had to admit, it did sound pretty tempting. 

Very tempting indeed.

[the-necessary-unnecessary]

hey, can you tell us a bit about racism in Spain? I'm incredibly uneducated about it, and I don't know much about Spanish history especially racism wise so it would be really nice to get an insight from you about it.

this is a big question, since Spain’s relationship with xenophobia dates back centuries and I’m neither the most qualified person to take you through it nor someone who has suffered from Spanish society’s racist tendencies. However I’ll try to piece a bit of something together and maybe other people can add on if there’s other stuff to include. Also, this is mainly Spanish history from a racism perspective, there are many other positive things in other areas that I haven’t included (patriota pero no mucho)

So basically, up until the 15th century, Spain (in its then form) was a relatively harmonious melting pot of different cultures. With the Roman invasion, settlements and a Visigoth takeover (Germanic population) thereafter, Christianity was pretty firmly established in the country/iberian peninsula by the 2nd Century AD. In 711 AD the Moors, who had control over Islamic Africa, invaded the peninsula and established a Caliphate named Al-Andalus which had a particular stronghold in the south: in Andalusia and their Córdoban capital. Rule was stronger or weaker depending on the region but largely Islamic rule was established and Jewish and Catholic people were treated as second class citizens. Córdoba became the wealthiest, largest and most sophisticated city in Europe by the end of the tenth century, with trade and rich intellectual North African traditions forming a unique culture in the region.

There is a strong historical basis that during a lot of this period there was pockets of ‘La Convivencia’ ie. the co-existence of Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Like for example, around Toledo where in universities the three backgrounds contributed to tremendous amounts of sharing of knowledge etc.

However, from about the 9th century onwards the Catholics who still held strong points right in the north, begun ‘la Reconquista’, the “reconquest,” where they began chipping away at the Caliphate’s dominance. By the early 11th century they had gained more land than was held by the Muslims and 1492 is where we set our next scene.

This is probably one of the biggest and most path changing years in Spanish history. Most known for being the year when Columbus landed in America, this enabled the start of Spanish imperlism which would extend to almost 5 centuries afterwards, conquering territories in South America, Africa and Asia and subjecting them to imperialistic rule and policies of white totalitarian dominance.

The second important happening in this year was the fall of Granada, the last remaining territory the Caliphate had in Spain, signifying the end of Muslim rule in the country. They were, as expected, thrown out of the country in their droves and many others were forced into hiding being subject to situations that would only get worse with the Inquisition in full swing.

The third, and last, big event in this year was outlined in the Alhambra Decree where the expulsion of all practicing Jews was announced. Now this had already followed the forced conversion tens of thousands of Jews had been subjected to in 1391 and 1415 (ie. crusades and masacres against them). As a result of the Alhambra decree and the prior persecution, over 200,000 Jews converted to Catholicism and around 160,000 were expelled.

This ended religious diversity in Spain, the Inquisition sealed this fate. If you’ve heard of one thing about all of this I’m sure it’s the spanish inquisition. Primarily set up to identify heretics among those who converted from Judaism and Islam to Catholicism and ensure the establishment of the Catholic monarchy, it became a method of torture, fear and murder for those who were perceived to cause any threat to the Spanish catholic order. The effects of the Inquisition are widely debated, with some saying the death toll and magnitude has been blown up by the Protestants in other European countries at the time and does not show the full picture of the hundreds of thousands of converted jews and muslims who remained and overtime became integrated into Catholic society. Whilst others remaining firm to the devastating measure of these actions and the ‘pure blood’ mentality it created. What’s for certain though, is that by the end of the Inquisition in 1834 very little religious nor ethnic diversity remained in Spain.

Jump forward about 100 years and the Spanish Empire is no more after the 1898 crisis, there’s a weird back and forth period with Republics and Monarchies and dictatorships until the Civil War broke out in 1936. It lasted until 1939 when the Nationalists, led by Franco, took total control of the country and submitted it to a dictatorship that would last until his death in 1975. I don’t even know where to begin with a period that many people see as rosy and many others ignore completely whilst Historians have now gone so far as to call the 1940s and 50s the ‘Spanish Holocaust’. However I’ll break it down to one or two main things that have predominantly spurred on today’s racist attitudes.

During the Civil Rights movements of the 50s and 60s Spain was largely immune to the winds of changes due to their isolationist policies and dictatorial power holds. We didn’t take part in any of the dialogue nor go through any racial reconciliation, at least to much a lesser extent than most other countries. It’s quite a common thing to say that what much of europe did in 70 years we’ve only had time to do in 45, and there’s much of a grain of truth in this.

A famous conservative spanish politician called David Aznar defended these views and can be extrapolated into the sentiment that existed to facilitate the transition to democracy and still remain today: "In the democratic transition there were implicit and explicit agreements. One was that we Spaniards don't want to look to the past. Let's not disturb the graves and hurl bones at one another.” As a society, we hate to think about the past, it’s just not widely done. There’s ONE museum solely dedicated to the Civil War, the Historical Memory Law passed in 2007 to try and increase the rights of victims and their families was met by so much opposition and is devastatingly underfunded etc etc. This still translates to spaniards’ views on racism, saying it just doesn’t exist here and moving on. There’s a refusal to confront this and microagressions are ingrained in the culture.

As I’ve kind of mentioned before, issues of race extend much further than towards just black people which is why the US BLM movement cannot simply be traced onto Spain. People who are originally from Latin America face extreme stereotypes and varying forms of discrimination against them as do Arab populations and other people who have immigrated from MENA countries plus the large Roma communities. 

The refugee crisis has further perpetuated the stigma around African immigrants in the past years, whilst the social effects of the 2008 Financial Crisis and beyond also continue to contribute to a xenophobic and nativist perspective where true spaniards should be prioritised with jobs, opportunities etc. For example, the alt-right wing party Vox that’s blatantly racist, anti-immigrants etc posted something with the slogan ‘Spanish Lives Matter’ the other day. They are purposefully incendiary.  

Anyways, hope this was a suitable start for you, you can’t summarise millennia worths of history into a few paragraphs but I tried my best. Also there are obviously many who stand for none of these values, politicians who have tried to right these wrongs, activists who keep fighting the fight, people who have broken down barriers and areas where there’s complete coexistance. However the fact remains that these views and ideas are ingrained in people’s minds, theres blatant job discrimination and a lack of equal opportunities despite laws that may have been put in place.

I’m going to point anyone who has got this far to a couple of articles about racism from an Anglo-Saxon perspective below, racist football culture is almost always mentioned. Being a black traveller in Spain; Same Spanish Holocaust link as before but an extremely important book review read; Irish perspective on the Enigma of Spanish Racism; Racism? What Racism? Asks Spain; Opinion: Racism Is Alive and kicking in Spain

[freshlyjuicedbeetles]

Commodore Norrington x Reader Fic! Chapter 3

Title: The Same Water

Genre: Romance, Supernatural

Rating: General Audiences thus far.

Warnings: Mentions of trauma, drowning, and racism.

Summary: Commodore Norrington washes up on the shore and you must find out why.

Notes: I intentionally kept the main character ambiguous (but female) so readers can fill themselves in!

James and I got up early the next morning to head down to the marina. The sky was a dazzling pink only an island could produce.

“Here she is, Seaclusion! Don’t make fun of me. My dad named it.” James got a chuckle out of the other punny names of the neighboring boats.

We climbed aboard, and James inspected the vessel, fascinated by hundreds of years of progress.

“Here,” I said, tossing James a life vest and securing my own.

“What is this?”

“It’s a life jacket. It’ll help you stay afloat if you fall overboard.”

“Ingenious!” James said in awe as he put his on.

“Oh, and these,” I said, digging around in a compartment by the wheel. I pulled out a pair of old aviators and sunscreen. “To protect your eyes and your skin. Though you’re probably already riddled with skin cancer from living in the Caribbean unprotected for years. Keep an eye on that freckle behind your ear.”

James touched the freckle self-consciously.

“You know how to swim, don’t you?”

James rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Of course I do.” He put on the aviators and dang, he looked good. I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of interrogation with him. He had an intimidating air about him that he could turn on and off.

The engine roared to life, and the beginning cords of ‘The Real Thing’ by George Strait played on the speakers. James looked overboard to the motor and rudder underwater.

“I’m sure you have better sea legs than I do, but you might want to take a seat,” I said, gesturing the rows of seats on the front deck.

“Hold on!” I said and came up to speed, pulling out of the marina. James was pushed back in his seat by the motion, not expecting a boat to go that fast. I wanted to show him what ships were like nowadays. Even over the rushing wind, I could hear him laughing with glee.

We sailed to the other side of the island with dolphins in our wake. How lucky was I that I lived somewhere where dolphins were so accessible!

I turned down the speakers, “This is Pier 21. Our cruise ships dock here, and on the other side are the shrimp boats that supply these restaurants first.” Large pelicans lazed around the docks and boats, hoping for some fish scrap from the sailors. James wasn’t paying attention; he was gazing at the Elissa like a starved man in an oasis.

“What is this glorious creation?” James stood as we idled.

I smiled, “That’s the Elissa. A little after your time, but I’m sure you can sail her just as good as anyone else on this island.”

The Elissa was a tall ship from 1877. After many different roles in life all across the globe, she was moored in Galveston.

“Is she still functional?”

“Oh yeah, she goes on one big sail to Europe once a year. She’s mostly a teaching vessel now. And next to that is a yacht. Some restauranteur owns it and has a staff to keep it ready around the clock even though I’ve seen him use it like five times.”

“Is it common for laypeople to own such vessels?” He asked, finally pulling his eyes from the Elissa.

“Here on the island, yeah, pretty much everyone has a boat. They’re still quite common on the mainland, depending on how close you are to water. I’d say a boat is definitely attainable to the upper-middle class.”

“You mentioned a ‘cruise ship’?”

“Yeah, they’re huge ships that can hold thousands of people who sail for vacation. See that huge thing over there?”

“Is that a ship?” He asked in disbelief.

“Yep, let’s get closer.”

We were dwarfed by the cruise liner. James looked up in disbelief as we buoyed in its shadow. “Galveston is a port city for cruise liners, bananas, farm equipment…Oh, and you need to see this,” I said as we turned and sped into the open water.

“I think you’ll like this,” I said as we pulled up next to the wreckage of a rusted and splintered ship.

“I am perplexed, yes,” James answered.

“This is the Selma, and it’s totally made out of concrete, or mortar, I guess is similar.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yep.

“Surely, she never saw the open ocean.”

“It did actually. Until it was damaged, and it was far too costly to repair due to war, and it was scuttled.”

James looked to the horizon, “Why are those ships not in the harbor?” Container ships always loomed in the distance of Galveston Island.

“Again, costs too much but also because the channel isn’t deep enough.”

“Are pirates a concern?”

“I’ve never seen a pirate in my life. I guess pirates were your version of terrorists,” I said.

James thought, then nodded, seemingly decided the word was correct.

“Unfortunately, we still have a problem with terrorism, plus pirates as you would know them. Instead of big ships, they run around on jet skis or dhows today. They’re mostly a problem in the Indian Ocean and around that area.”

“So, they’ve been cornered…”

“What? Down boy! You want to go pirate hunting? Well, unfortunately, pirates are actually looked upon favorably as of recently.”

James looked at me like I’ve grown two heads, “Especially here. I guess people like the freedom of just going wherever you want to and forget that they were actually terrorists. Not that piracy is now legal or anything.”

“And what are those machines in the distance?”

“Oil rigs. They dig oil from the earth, and we use it to power just about everything. Crews live on them for weeks at a time. Usually, there are less parked here, but the price of oil has dropped, so companies don’t need as many.”

Container ships and offline oil rigs loom in the distance of Galveston Island. It’s almost like the giant guardians that protect us.

“Do you want to try?” I asked, gesturing to the wheel.

He looked hesitant at first but quickly accepted. “The wheel is the same as it ever was, this is the accelerator, how fast you want to go, the kill switch if something goes awry…” I explained. James and I then switched places, but I stood behind him in case something happened. I could tell he was uncomfortable with the proximity to another person and a woman, but when we got up to speed, he looked like a bird who could finally fly again. I almost didn’t have it in my heart to ask him to surrender the wheel.

When we got home, there was a package at my doorstep. My heart started to thrum when I saw it was from the police department. I hurriedly tore it open when we got inside. The contents of the box smelled like mildew, salt, and brine. It was James’ uniform. I pushed it to him as I read the letter that was on top of it. It was a standard form letter saying they were closing the case due to insufficient evidence that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the uniform.

James held the uniform in his hand. “Do you have a fireplace?” He asked.

“Why?” I asked.

“It makes me ill.” He replied.

“You don’t want it?”

“It’s a mark of failure, both personal and professional. I would think it best if it was gone.”

“I have a fire pit.”

“Splendid.”

Later that night, Jericka came over, and we started the fire. James unceremoniously dropped the heap of clothes in the fire and sat down with us around it.  Jericka and I drank while James abstained.

“To new beginnings,” I said, raising my bottle of Ziegenbock. James nodded, watching the fabric burn.

“You know, there are probably costumers and historians who would have dove in there for that uniform,” Jericka said.

“So…what happened? Before you died?” I asked.

James was silent for a moment, composing his thoughts. “I can pinpoint the exact day when everything changed. An idiot pirate sailed into my port. To attempt to capture him, my men and I sailed through a hurricane. Only a handful survived, and I resigned in shame. I essentially became a pirate myself for the time, drunk, and destitute. Then, I meant Davy Jones.” James leaned forward, the fire casting shadows on his face, almost making his sharp features look hawk-like.

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

“I am. He is something of a grim reaper of the seas. I was stabbed by one of his crewmen. That’s all I remember.”

“You sailed into a hurricane?” Jericka asked, “And you made it all the way to Admiral?”

James scowled. “I had no choice.”

“But what’s so wrong about the uniform, or being called Admiral?”

“I didn’t earn it, nor was it through the Royal Navy. I worked for the East India Trading Company, who were no better than pirates themselves when I was an admiral. I took the post out of necessity, greed, and selfishness. I was only serving myself, not the Crown, not the people. I was no better than a pirate as well. I much rather be called commodore if you have to address me by title.”

Jericka gave a low whistle, “Then I’m sure you heard of Galveston before.” She took a drink from her bottle.

“Was it a pirate’s den?”

“Oh yeah, Jean Lafitte owned the place.”

“Lafitte? I have heard of him. I always seemed to run into a sun-drenched lunatic named Jack Sparrow.”

“He sounds like quite the character.”

“He was. If Lafitte settled here, I must be in Campeche.”

I snapped my fingers. “I never thought of that! That’s like Galveston history 101!” I said to Jericka.

“Well, I know where I’m at, so that brings some more comfort,” James said.

“Okay, Commodore,” Jericka said, “Tell us about yourself.”

James looked like we just asked him to explain nuclear physics.

“Pets? Did you have any pets?” I asked.

“Well, I had a horse named Scout back in the Caribbean.  I think she tried to kill me once.” James said casually. “And there were coconut crabs all over the fort I was stationed at. They stole everything.”

“A horse? Tried to kill you? And crabs stole your stuff?” Jericka asked skeptically.

“No one believed me! Even then!” James said adamantly and gestured wildly as he told the story, “I swear this horse was calculating, and she hated me. How would a horse know to stop right below a hanging lantern so my tricorn would catch fire?”

“Maybe you should have been paying better attention…” I said gently.

James started to speak, but thought better, “Fair enough.”

“Oh, oh, oh!” Jericka said excitedly, “We need to take him to Pieces of Ship! Down on Mechanic street!”

“Excuse me?” James asked, not believing his ears.

I laughed, “It’s a shop that sells parts from ships; maps, flags, wheels, bells, you name it.”

“No, Mrs. Norrington, huh?” Jericka teased as James stoked the fire. She winked at me.

“Close, but it wasn’t meant to be,” James said, looking down for a moment.

“Yeah, everything I’ve read about you never mentions anyone,” I said. I was noticing I was relieved when I found out James never married. However, by his wording and the tone of his voice, there was someone he wanted. Jealousy tingled at my nerves.

“I appreciate time for forgetting such a blunder.” He gave a small, defeated smile.

“Sweetheart,” I said, “I think you need to see a therapist.”

We burst out laughing.

By the end of the night, we were laughing incessantly. I felt like we became friends with James at that point.

[tanadrin]

I’m reading One Long Night, because the interview with Andrea Pitzer on Chris Hayes’ podcast was so interesting; and the book does not disappoint, though the subject matter is in equal measures depressing and infuriating. I want to talk about it at length when I’m through with it, but I was particularly struck today by her discussion of the Soviet gulags and how concentration camps arose in Germany, and how they marked a transition away from how concentration camps had been used before then.

The background is this: the concentration camp as we know it is only a little more than a century old. The individual kinds of violence that all inform the modern concentration camp have plenty of predecessors, some as old as time: internal deportations, native reservations, forced expulsions, detention without trial. But prior to the modern era, the characteristic feature of a concentration camp--the long-term detention of large numbers of civilians not convicted of any crime--would have been prohibitively expensive in manpower and effort. Two major technological innovations altered that calculus, Pitzer argues: the automatic gun and barbed wire. Those two devices permit a small number of guards to contain a much larger number of people; all that was needed was the will to do so.

The concentration camp as we know it was invented during Cuba’s struggle for independence; the advantages enjoyed by the rebels meant that Spain struggled to clear them out of the countryside, and the general in charge of Cuba, Arsenio Martinez Campos, noted that the only way to win the war would be to relocate basically the entire rural population of the island to Spanish-held towns to cut off the rebels’ base of support and prevent them from hiding among the rest of the population. And this he refused to do, considering it unthinkable under the rules of warfare. So Spain replaced him, and his successor, Valeriano Weyler, was all too happy to attempt what Campos would not. The resulting atrocities--including starvation and the spread of disease--were one of the things that spurred the American public to support war with Spain shortly thereafter, and while the Maine provided the immediate casus belli, Spanish conduct in Cuba was, in the public’s eyes, just as important a reason for going to war.

What is so bitterly comedic about that justification, though, is that after the war, when the U.S. found itself in possession of former Spanish colonies like Cuba and the Philippines, it found itself struggling against the very same rebels that Spain had failed to suppress; in the Philippines, the military immediately adopted tactics almost identical to the ones the Spanish had used in Cuba; and when during the Boer War in South Africa, the British likewise rounded up both Boer and black civilians in the Boer republics, it could cite the U.S.’s use of concentration camps as a justification for its own. And so on--each subsequent generation of internment drew on the precedent its predecessors had established, and if you wanted to object to (say) the policy of Germany interning all the British in the country at the start of World War I, you had to contend with the fact that they were doing nothing the British hadn’t done a few years before. (Indeed, it was the British internment of enemy aliens specifically that set off reciprocal treatment all over Europe; Pitzer relates the account of one Israel Cohen, a British man, being arrested in Germany and interned at Ruhleben, who, when the police came for him, was told ‘You have only your own Government to thank for this.’)

In fact, World War I is very important--internment of enemy civilians established not only a general precedent in favor of concentration camps in the eyes of the public, but it created the expectation that if you went into a concentration camp, you would come out again. The conditions in these camps were not good by any stretch of the imagination, but they were not as awful as the camps of Cuba, the Philippines, or South Africa, where famine and disease killed thousands. Concentration camps became decoupled from actual battlefield strategy, arising not “out of the local chaos of warfare, but instead represent[ing] a deliberate choice to inject the framework of war into society itself.’ (p. 103)

To this grim precedent, the Soviets added another innovation: the gulag was the first time concentration camps were used in peacetime particularly, and they were integrated into the Soviet state apparatus as a normal part of its justice system. And more than just the semi-punitive labor that, say, German POWs had been forced to perform during the war (and after--Germany had to release the POWs it held when WWI ended, but thousands of Germans continued to be detained long after the war), the Soviets hoped to make gulags profitable to their economy on net. Whatever their original justification, it quickly becomes clear as the labor camp is institutionalized in Soviet society that much of the behavior of the Soviet state around forced labor is shaped by the age-old impulse of conquerers to use conquered peoples to enrich themselves. After Poland was divided with Germany, thousands of Poles were shipped to the gulags and forced to work. And not only was the USSR thus inheriting the system of forced labor that Tsarist Russia had used, it was making it significantly crueler.

The premise of using labor to reeducate problematic citizens to be part of a bright Soviet future gave way to the idea that detainees themselves represented raw materials to be consumed in building that future.

In reality, Frenkel [an administrator at the Solovki camp] did not invent the tiered ration system from scratch. Likewise, the shift from idealized rehabilitation to a more permanent system maximizing forced labor may have been inevitable. Stalin appeared impressed with the possibilities of detainee labor and believed in the profitability of the Solovki endeavor (despite the fact, as Anne Applebaum has noted, that Solovki required a subsidy of 1.6 million rubles--perhaps due to graft). (p. 132)

Under the tsars in previous centuries, Polish insurgents resisting Russian rule or political prisoners convicted for offenses against the tsar were shipped off to remote Siberian katorga, working in mining or logging. Their penal labor had often been brutal, but it had come after conviction in an actual trial. Compared to penal labor under the tsars, Gulag workdays were longer and the rations shorter. A daily quota for earth mined by a single Decembrist prisoner at Nerchinsk under Tsar Nicholas I was 118 pounds; in the Soviet era, the same lone prisoner might be expected to excavate 28,800 pounds. And while tsarist courts had long sentenced political prisoners to labor camps, the Gulag was orders of magnitude larger from its very beginning. The Soviet Union had grafted the worst of Russian penal history onto the extrajudicial detention of internment, creating a vast malignant enterprise. And it would continue to grow. (p.133-34)

The scale of the gulags declines after Stalin’s death, but it never quite disappears.

Neither self-sustaining nor productive in the long run, the system required tremendous resources, and the economic burden of the camps had weighed heavily on the Soviet Union in wartime.

Still, as historian Steven Barnes has pointed out, ‘The Soviet leadership never entertained the notion of dismantling the system.’ The USSR had always had a camp system; its tendrils had grown into agriculture and industry, as well as becoming a key facet of government interactions with citizens. The Gulag was intrinsic to the state itself. (p.155)

And then there’s this passage, about the camp at Solovki, which was almost painful to read:

Prisoners heard from the radio station that [Maxim] Gorky was coming. Detainees could hardly wait for him to tell the world what was happening on Solovki: ‘Gorki will spot everything, find out everything. ... About the logging and the torture on the tree stumps, the sekirka [punishment cells], the hunger, the disease... the sentences without conviction.... The whole lot!’

Before Gorky’s visit, contingents of prisoners were hidden in the forest to lessen evidence of overcrowding. Sick patients were given new gowns to wear ... . Gorky visited the sick bay, a labor camp, and stopped in at the children’s colony that had been formed since Likhachev first encountered the urchins hiding under his bunk.

Gorky asked to speak to one boy privately and stayed with him a long time. Standing outside with the rest of the crowd, Likhachev counted forty minutes on the watch his father had given him. He recounts that Gorky emerged weeping and climbed the stairway to the punishment cell at Sekirka.

Yet when Gorky’s anxiously awaited piece on the trip came out, the section about Solovki was relegated to Part Five of the report, with the devastating conclusion that ‘camps such as “Solovki” were absolutely necessary. ... Only by this road would the state achieve in the fastest possible time one of its aims: to get rid of prisons.’

The German system, of course, did not start out as a program of genocide. It did not even necessarily start out as a program of forced labor (i.e., slavery) like in Russia. Its immediate predecessors, in fact, might be said to be the concentration camps established before the Nazis even came to power to keep Roma away from cities like Frankfurt (cf. p. 183); the Roma were subject to registry before any racial laws about Jews were passed, before the Nazis ever took power, and they were swept up along with the homeless during the Olympics to keep them out of sight of the international press (p. 187). But as the classes of political prisoners and other undesirables swelled, so did the concentration camp system.

Once war broke out, of course, the temptation to use prisoners for war industry was not resisted.

By late 1941, the camps had grown dense and squalid from the flood of detainees arriving from abroad, yet the war placed still more demands on the camps. ... a complex network of labor projects emerged, spread across thousands of sites. Every camp and subcamp used prisoner labor in some fashion. Prisoners working for the I.G. Farben rubber plant lived in a dedicated compound at Auschwitz. Fur linings in the coats of the SS came from hutches of rabbits under the administration of prisoners at Dachau. At Neuengamme, detainees were set to work clearing rubble from the bombed roads and buildings outside Hamburg. ... Both Nazis and Soviets went to war on the backs of their concentration camp prisoners. Forced-labor Gulag efficiency expert Naftaly Frenkel had suggested the system be optimized to get the most out of prisoners in their first three months, after which they were disposable. He would have been ideally placed to appreciate that before the end of the war, average life expectancy at Neuengamme concentration camp had dropped to twelve weeks. (p. 200-201)

What is perhaps the most bitter flourish on the German concentration camp system is that there was a very real possibility it could have been entirely avoided. Pitzer argues that even after the death of Hindenberg and Hitler’s adoption of the title Fuehrer, there was a very real possibility that the Nazi regime might have proceeded along (still cruel, still inhumane, still racist) legalistic lines, keeping continuity with German law, rather than relying on extrajudicial terror. Himmler’s desire to strengthen his position within the government and the purge of Rohm and the SA led to him expanding the concentration camp system further; and this was what ensured that, when the systematic, wholesale extermination of the Jews was decided upon, there was a preexisting infrastructure in place to facilitate it. (see p. 178-179) In the early years, local prosecutors actively sought to arrest and try sadistic guards, and the notion that the concentration camps were sites of abuse or torture was hotly contested.

In his first months as commandant at Dachau, Theodor Eicke flew into a rage, haranguing prisoners about the vicious rumors in the community about conditions there. Reminding them that detainees had already been killed for spreading word about the camp--including Dr. Katz, who had helped so many prisoners--Eicke threatened that more could be executed at any point. He seemed especially offended by any suggested comparison to Soviet tactics. ‘There are no atrocities and there is no Cheka cellar in Dachau!’ he insisted. ‘Anybody whipped deserves to be whipped.’

Even the Nazis, one supposes, would balk at being compared to the Nazis.

Special mention goes to two people in this section of the book: Margarete Buber-Neumann, a German communist who fled to Russia and, who along with her husband, was arrested and thrown into the gulag. She survived; her husband did not--but survived only to be handed over to the Nazis after the invasion of Poland, as part of a prisoner exchange, whereupon she was shipped to a Nazi concentration camp. She survived the war, at least, and seven years total of internment; she lived until 1989.

Hans Beimler was a Communist elected three times to the Reichstag, the last in May of 1933. He was arrested in April and imprisoned in Dachau, where he was repeatedly beaten and humiliated and encouraged to kill himself. Nighttime beatings and the murder of his cellmates (some of whom were friends of his) made him resolve to escape, since he figured it would be better to be shot trying to break out than to be murdered and have it staged to look like a suicide.

[A] friend who was a prisoner outside the bunker managed to slip him a tool to unscrew the grate over his window and tin snips to help manage the barbed wire. Later reports claimed he strangled a storm trooper and took his clothing, but Beimler simply crawled out of his high window, taking a board with him. He navigated three layers of barbed wire--the middle one electrified--using the wood for insulation, and climbed onto the six-foot wall surrounding the camp’s exterior. Waiting there a moment to make sure he had not been seen, he jumped down the other side and made his way to Munich.

The next morning, Steinbrenner arrived to find an empty cell. Frantic searches were made, prisoners were interrogated. For some time, guardhouse staff remained certain Beimler was hiding somewhere on the grounds. Dogs were used to search, and a hundred-mark reward was posted in the local paper Amper-Bote. But Beimler remained in hiding until he could safely get to Berlin and cross the border to the east.

Once out of the country, he mailed a postcard to Dachau telling the camp commanders to kiss his ass. Some three months after his escape, he was sitting in Moscow writing a searing indictment of Nazi atrocities. It was printed in three languages and circled the globe. (p. 173-174)

It’s important to observe that no system of mass detention ever sets out with the cruelty that (sooner or later) inevitably manifests in mind. From reconcentracion in Cuba to the Nazi crimes, there is never a single point of no return for the countries involved, nor a single moment of moral clarity where the architects of these policies are forced to confront what they are creating. It is always possible for those responsible to hide behind precedent, behind political rhetoric, behind expedient to justify to the rest of the world as to why their camps are not only right but necessary, to argue away any evidence for the gravity of these sins as ‘a few bad apples’ or ‘an unfortunate excess.’

And the corollary to this is that you will never get one moment you can point to and say to the people around you, “Look! There it is! That’s the moral event horizon, and they just crossed it. You can’t possibly support them now.” Because there will always be a way for people to rationalize their support of such policies. I suspect the only antidote, individual or collective, is an ironclad moral will that rejects the dehumanization of others outright--and to fight like hell to shut such evils down when they first begin to appear.

This all has obvious relevance to the present political moment--that’s why Pitzer was on Hayes’ podcast, that’s why I wanted to read this book to begin with. I don’t think that, outside genuine, self-described neo-Nazis, even in the darkest imagination of the most reflexively prejudiced Trump supporter, the desire for Soviet or Nazi-style gulags exists, I really don’t. But things can always get worse. The cruelties build on themselves incrementially--and the only way to prevent that, to actually make sure that kind of thing can’t happen here (or anything like it--there is, after all, plenty of evil that is not outright genocide) is to refuse to permit the creation of the institutions that are its necessary predecessors.

[calimera62]

Césaaaaaar

Le meilleur pour la fin ;P

✰ What made you fall in love with them?

Story time! It’s actually thanks to the Astérix comics I came to genuinely love Caesar. I always enjoyed Astérix and Caesar’s interactions, and when I re-read all the comics last year, I was very interested in Caesar and wondered how was the historical figure. That’s how I ended reading books and watching documentaries and then movies about him and found how interesting he was; He was a military genius, a charismatic leader, he contributed to the greatness of Rome and, like most Romans of that time, he was so extra and drama, I love him so much xD

✰ Favorite anecdote involving them?

I have so many favourite anecdotes about him, it’s hard to choose! But I’ll pick the very first anecdote I’ve heard about him when I studied History at the university: in 75 BC, Caesar got kidnapped by pirates who saw he was a noble, so they decided to ask for a ramson. However, when Caesar heard the amount of the ransom the pirates asked, he was so offended by how low it was, to him, he insisted the pirates to ask for more, as he was worth much more! Also, don’t think Julius Freaking Caesar, was afraid of his captors! During his captivity, he read them speechs and poetry he wrote and if they failed to admire his work, he would call them to their faces illiterate savages, and would often laughingly threaten to have them all hanged. Which he did. How extra is that?

✰ Your favorite thing about them?

Oh boy. Where do I begin?

He’s a very charismatic figure, both a military genius and a clever leader who was loved by the people of Rome (he was actually fairly pro-equality when it came to dividing resources between poor and rich), he tried to throw out of the senate everyone who was actually corrupt, and so on. Yes, he was ruthless but he also did good things for Rome and its people.

I also love how extra/drama he was! Being captured by pirates and, instead of getting scared, being offended by how low his ransom was? Falling on the ground while landing in Africa and saying “Africa, I embrace and hold you fast.” to save his face? One of his opponent insulted him by calling him a woman, which caused him to respond by naming great female warriors? Doing paper work during the fights and games in the Roman circus? What a man, I love him so much xD

Sometimes I wonder how did that man have the time to seduce and bed half of Rome, get Crassus and Pompey to cooperate and create a triumvirat with them, fight many, settle the Egyptian succession crisis, reformated Rome’s political system, wrote several books, conquers Gaul, having an affair with Cleopatra… It makes me feel bad when I’m feeling lazy with my work ^^;

✰ Your least favorite thing about them?

Aside from the fact he was assassinated? Well…

One of my pet peeves is the following “Conspirators : good - Caesar : evil”

I saw Caesar depicted as the bad guy a lot in the past, and it bothers me. Caesar wasn’t perfect, he did many problematic things, like most historical figures. However, the conspirators were upper-class and bourgeois who disliked Caesar’s politics because he was a populist who gave many rights to the people of Rome, and he was going against the economic and political interests of Rome’s wealthy and powerful.

I also can’t deny the Gallic Wars were a butchery. Some historians call it a genocide. I don’t know if I would go that far, but I can’t deny many Gauls perished because of Caesar’s ambitions. He could be quite ruthless.

✰ Best books about them?

Adrian Goldsworthy’s Caesar and Philip Freeman’s Julius Caesar.

✰ Favorite place associated with them?

Rome, of course!

✰ Who do you ship them with?

with Nicomedes

I do love his romance with Cleopatra. They made quite the pair, and while I don’t think they fell in love with each other, they were together until Caesar’s death. They had many things in common (both natural leaders, charismatic and cultivated people, and military geniuses) and had a son together (even though historians aren’t dure if Caesarion was Caesar’s son, let me dream!).

✰ Favorite friendship?

His friendship with Mark-Antony. They were good friends and ally, as well as relatives, and I like to believe Mark Antony was loyal to Caesar until the end.

✰ Favorite outfit?

I don’t have one as I don’t know what he wore ^^;

✰ Favorite event they were involved with?

His birth :P

I have many, but I would say his confrontation with Sulla.  In an attempt to break the bond between their families, Sulla ordered Caesar to divorce his wife as he already did with several of his own followers. All of them had promptly complied. However, Caesar refused to divorce his wife. Whether out of stubbornness, audacity, or love, Caesar refused and thus was defying a man who had ordered the murder of thousands. It’s one of the earliest episodes of Caesar’s life and it tell us a lot about his character!

✰ Favorite portrayal in film, television, etc? If there isn’t one, who could play them?

I loved his portrayal in the 1999 mini-serie Cleopatra and in Netflix’s Roman Empire.

Also, I can’t not speak of this one:

I also think Simon Merrells, who played Crassus in the tv show Spartacus, would be a wonderful Caesar!

✰ Favorite quote about them?

“Beware the young boy wearing the loose clothes, for he will be the doom of the republic.” Sulla.

In a way, he wasn’t wrong. The Republic didn’t survive long after Caesar’s death!

✰ Favorite quote by them?

“Veni, Vidi, Vici.”

Classic is classic!

✰ Three random facts about them?

* He once burst into tears after reading about Alexander the Great because they were the same age but Alexander already accomplished so much and Caesar felt he didn’t do anything great and was afraid he could never live up to Alexander.

* When he was consul with one of his political rivals, Bibulus, he apparently did so much of the work compared to Bibulus that people called it the consulship of Julius and Caesar, instead of Caesar and Bibulus.

* It was believed he was seduced by King Nicomedes of Bithynia and that he was the passive one during the relationship. The Romans never forgot this story and, among Caesar’s titles, were “queen of Bithynia” and “mattress of the royal bed”. He was mocked during political discussions in the senate. It got so bad that Caesar took a public oath that he had never slept with said man. It only made things worse since people thought he was being awfully defensive for an innocent guy.

✰ Favorite picture/painting of them?

This one!

[jcphotos17]

Essay: WE HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY TO WRITE HISTORY

Odd seeing the word “opportunity” in a headline about the Coronavirus, isn’t it?

There is seemingly nothing “opportunistic” about this pandemic. I haven’t seen my friends in weeks. I haven’t gone to any restaurants. My favorite day of the year, Opening Day in the MLB, was cancelled. I have lost all of my photography assignments and have had my pay slashed.

Photo: Opening day in the MLB was cancelled

Many have it worse. They’ve lost their careers, their savings, and their businesses.

And of course some have lost their health, and tragically, their lives.

Indeed, we are living through history; it’s a tragedy of epic proportions, a global pandemic, a world lockdown involving billions of people. An economic catastrophe.

Who knows how many chapters in history books the Coronavirus will occupy?

This is not yet history for us sadly. This is our reality.

We are living through history right now.

And we have the opportunity to write that history by our daily actions.

The first few days of this “lockdown” were surreal. Over just a few days millions of Americans were told not to go to work, not to go to school, not to go to any gatherings of people. We were told to just stay home.

Photo: Millions of Americans are urged to stay home

Photo: Even churches are closed.

It was unprecedented.

How can you expect hundreds of millions of people to just stay home? Such a simple request, and yet it goes against everything we as human beings value.

We are social. We are friendly. We value authentic human interaction.

And yet we listened. We stayed home. We saved lives.

"What's been amazing to watch here is how the American people change their behavior when it protects the vulnerable. I think that is really what I am so proud to see," Dr. Robert Redfield, director of the CDC, said at a recent press briefing. “I've learned that [their] behavior modification has saved hundreds of thousands of lives."

What an amazing show of unity. And what an amazing outcome. So many lives saved.

It hasn’t been easy. It has come at a huge emotional, social, and financial cost.

Photo: Tens of millions are out of work due to social distancing 

Photo: Meeting with friends in-person is no longer an option 

But our collective actions will certainly be viewed favorably by historians

I challenge you to not rest here, though. Staying at home is key to our collective wellbeing, but what about our individual growth?

Use this time to change something about yourself. Make it a goal that when you come back to the office or come back to class you have experienced individual growth.

All those things you said you would do? You have the time now!

I will admit I am not perfect at this. Far from it. We are weeks into this and I realize that even with unlimited time on my hands I am still procrastinating. Netflix and snacking are taking up too much of my time.

I’ve learned over the course of my professional life that lists can help boost productivity. Everybody is different but I have found that writing daily and weekly lists can help me immensely.

What can I do to still be productive professionally? What can I do to get to where I want to be a year from now? What new skill can I learn? What is something I can do to be a better person? How can I grow spiritually?

Read a psalm each morning. Watch YouTube videos on graphic design or Adobe Premiere. Add content to the new company website. Update my blog. Post to LinkedIn. Bike ride 10 miles. Text somebody I haven’t heard from in a while.

These are just some of the things in my notebook from the past week. I don’t have to do any of these things. I probably wouldn’t normally do any of these things. But staying at home isn’t enough. Why not grow too?

Video: Like most creatives, I am exploring new mediums

I encourage you to try a similar approach. 

Maybe you already have. Or maybe you aren’t good at sicking with goals.

That’s fine. We are in a lockdown. Nobody is expecting anything! It is okay to not be okay. It is okay to take time to adjust, time to cope.

As much difficulty as we are facing in seemingly all areas of our lives let us try to take some level of control over this. Let’s make some goals. Let’s make some changes. Even if we aren’t successful, that is still okay. Striving to achieve a goal gives us hope that we can come out of this better.

Let’s grow together while we are alone together.

Photos and essay by Jacob Chabowski

[groggycascade]

A Sister’s Awakening, a Brother’s Nightmare (Pt. II)

Continued from Pt. I. All credit to Sean D. 

“Wham”

Jen felt a stinging sensation in her nose. She was stunned for a moment. She saw another fist fly at her. Instinctively she ducked. He missed her face that time. She quickly adjusted her stance and moved backwards. He was a head taller than her. She couldn’t help but be scared as he wound up for another  punch.

Jen put into practice everything she had learned. When his fist came forward again, she moved to the side, grabbed his arm and used his momentum to throw him off balance. She then gave him a side knee to the ribs and then a punch to the face. This time it was his turn to stand there dazed.

His eyes were wide as he looked around to get his bearings. His stance was wide as he was trying to keep his balance.

Jen’s karate training was clear on this. Time to put her opponent out of commission. She wound her leg backwards as far as she could, and concentrating all of her strength into her right leg, she flung it forward as hard as she could.

The top of her foot sailed into the middle of the V shape made by his legs. The white cloth of his karate outfit bunched up as her foot pushed easily past it and onto her target.

“Thwap.” Came a loud noise that echoed across the dojo. Jen felt a sharp pain in the top of her foot as her foot met hard plastic. She could feel the plastic bend inwards though as the force of her kick lifted her large male opponent off of his legs. She couldn’t help but thrust her leg forward as high as she could, despite the pain, hoping to get her foot through the cup and to the soft target underneath.

As her foot came down, her opponent immediately fell to his knees. His hands went to his crotch and he looked up at her with this confused and dazed look. He felt around his crotch, as if to check that his balls were still there. Jen was surprised to see pain in his eyes. He looked surprised by the pain too.

She could see him fighting it, but inch by inch, he slouched forward. He started groaning and then fully went into a fetal position.

Jen stood there surprised by the whole situation, not knowing what to think. She felt a hand on her shoulder, she looked up, startled.

“Nice one!”

It was her friend Kate. She had a wide smile on her face. She patted Jen on the back. Other groups around her had stopped their sparring to see what was happening. Jen blushed at the attention.

Emily, the dojo sensei, came over. Despite being in her late ‘30s and herself a mother, Jen had the feeling like being in elementary school at the principal’s office, like she was about to get into trouble.

“He has a cup on,” she said defensively, pointing down at her opponent, who was rocking back and forth and still making pathetic wimpering sounds.

“It’s alright,” said Emily. “The cup isn’t a 100% guarantee that he’s not going to feel any pain. With a hard enough kick, it’s possible that enough pressure can be exerted to still make contact with the balls. And probably the vibration from the cup itself transmitted a certain amount of force.”

Emily saw Jen’s worried look and smiled. “Hey, you did what you had to do. You did what you were taught. You defended yourself. And beat your opponent.”

Cheers erupted from the growing number of other women that were huddling around the scene. “That’s right!” Said Kate. “You got him good girlfriend.”

“You did indeed,” said Emily. “He’s lucky this was just a sparring match and that he was wearing a cup. If this were real life and he wasn’t wearing a cup, and if you had shoes on, well, I think you could easily have ruptured both of his testicles.”

Kate whispered into her ear, “Oh well, too bad, maybe next time.” She winked.

Jen playfully pushed her friend away. “Oh come on, you’re terrible.”

Jen couldn’t help but continuing to think about the incident for the rest of the day. What was bothering her about it? She had this nagging sense of guilt. But why?

The next evening, the usual gang of friends came over for their book/movie night. There was Kate, with her daughter Hailey. Hailey and Sarah had been best friends for a while, and Kate and Jen had also become friends. Then Kate invited Jen to a book club with a group of ladies about 6 months back, and since then they had all become quite close. The theme of the book club was women’s empowerment. They worked their way through a number of books focused on dissecting the patriarchal power structures of society and discussed how they could empower themselves as women and their daughters. They also all joined karate, which is what they had been doing the night before.

“Hey Ms. G, heard you got a guy really good, right where it counts!” Said Hailey, laughing, as she entered the door.

“You heard about that?”

“Oh yeah. Of course! Mom and I had a great laugh talking about it!”

Kate giggled. “Well, maybe just a little.”

Sarah was waiting by the door to greet her best friend. Her eyes went wide. “Really mom? You kicked a guy in the nuts!? But you’ve always told me never to do that!”

“Well it was karate honey. It was self defence.”

Sarah didn’t looked convinced. She leered over at her brother, who was hanging back from the conversation, standing awkwardly in the corner. Jen could tell he was uncomfortable about the topic of conversation.

“Hear that Dougy?” You better not try anything, or maybe I’ll have to do some self defence of my own!” Feeling very uncomfortable, Doug left and went to his room.

The group of women sat around the living room and were on their second round of drinks. They had caught up with one another and shared the latest round of gossip. Jen was embarrassed that a major topic of conversation was her recent kicking of a guy in the groin.

“How’s the foot?” Kate asked jokingly.

“Actually, it’s a bit bruised on the top.” Said Jen. It actually did hurt quite a bit.

“Stupid cups,” another woman chimed in. “They ruin all the fun!”

All the ladies laughed heartedly.

“I suppose it would be hard to get men to come to the class voluntarily if they didn’t let them wear cups. Either that, or they wouldn’t be men for very long!”

They laughed again. Jen couldn’t help but laugh, even though she felt naughty for doing so.

“That brings us to our movie for tonight,” Said Kate, sounding more serious now. “It’s a documentary by avant-garde filmmaker Beth Walker. Unfortunately, it has received no support from the mainstream movie industry, which is typical, given that it’s ruled by our patriarchal system.

It’s called ‘Breaking the Family Jewels.”

There was a murmur if excitement from the ladies. They had all heard about it. It was a very controversial movie. Hailey and Sarah gleamed as they also joined the ladies to watch the movie. Kate had insisted.

The movie opened with two large, shiny jewels filling the screen. They glittered in the light as the camera moved slowly out. A woman’s narrating voice began speaking.

“The family jewels. Every girl learns growing up that her brother, cousin, classmate, has something that she doesn’t have. And no matter how smart, talented, or amazing she is, she’ll never have them. She can be an Olympic gold metallist...” the screen focused on the strong legs of an Olympic gymnast as she vaulted, to the cheers of thousands. “She can go to space. She can do any number of amazing things, but she’ll never have the family jewels. That is, unless she finds herself a man and marries in order to get some jewels of her own.”

“This is how our patriarchal system works ladies.” The diamonds still glittered in front of the camera, but now the narrator could be seen too, dangling them in her hand. “In this simple expression - used and known by all people in the world - we are summarizing an attitude that subjugates women.”

“And not only that. War. Violence. Crime.” Scenes of horrible violence filled the screen. “These all stem from these little jewels.”

The movie went on to develop the theory that testosterone in males is the primary cause of most of the world’s problems. It really wasn’t a hard case to make, thought Jen. It all made so much sense when someone actually just laid it out factually. Testosterone, the drive for sex and power, it’s what drove men to do terrible things.

“But what if things could be different?” Asked the narrator. “Well, we don’t have to imagine it. History is full of examples that prove that societies are better off when they break the family jewels.”

The movie delved into the story of the Amazons, the ancient group of warrior women, who defeated their male opponents and built a successful society that lasted hundreds of years. Historians were interviewed who pieced together the archaeological and written records. It made the case that the Amazons reproduced using selected males for reproduction, and all other men in their society were castrated. Castration ceremonies would be done after they won a battle, and would be done annually. When males reached a certain age of maturity, it would be decided if they would be breeding stock or not. If not, then they would be castrated in a large and public annual ceremony. Jen was shocked to learn that castration didn’t have to just mean the cutting off of the male genitalia.

“Based on our best evidence,” Said one researcher, “the Amazons typically preferred to crush the testicles in order to turn the man into a eunuch. This was more practical, as cutting could have easily led to infection and then death. Whereas if you crushed them, it’s possible that the body would naturally get rid of the... uh, remnants...” all the ladies in the room laughed. “...All the nutmeat, for lack of a better word, would naturally dissolve over time. And if it didn’t, or there were signs of infection, then a small incision could be made and the contents could easily be squeezed out, and then the sack could be sown back up.”

The narrator asked, “Wouldn’t this process have been extremely painful?”

“Oh, without a doubt, it would have been the most excruciating thing a man could ever feel. It certainly would have made him wish he were born a woman!” Said the researcher, breaking into laughter with the narrator.

The movie went on to cover other ancient societies and their use of eunuchs. It made the case that eunuchs were not created as some sort of punishment, although sometimes it was the case, but they actually had a very useful role for society. China’s prosperity for thousands of years was due in large part to its use of eunuchs. What was missing, argued the film, was the additional step of putting women in charge. If most men were made into eunuchs, and only women were allowed into positions of authority, there would be a ying and yang balance that would lead to harmony.

“But we don’t only need to look to the past. There is evidence in our modern society.” Said the narrator.

The film covered a research study group of castrated males over a period of two years. The men all had different ways they had become eunuchs. The movie covered each story. Some were accidents - a motorcycle crash, a skate boarder, a man who fell from his roof and directly onto his fence. With one leg on either side of the fence, the fence broke his fall - and his balls. The movie did a dramatization of each castration and the ladies laughed it up.

Particularly amazing, though, were the non-accidental castrations. One guy admitted to touching a woman inappropriately at a bar, and she turned around and kneed him so hard that she immediately exploded his left nut.

“I heard this popping sound,” the guy said. “And I couldn’t believe it was coming from between my legs.” The ladies in the room all laughed really loud and cat called. Jen smiled but was surprised at their casual reactions to a guy losing a testicle.

“I know she heard it too,” the guy continued. “Her knee was still between my leg, and I know she could feel she had popped it.”

“How do you know?” Asked the narrator.

“Believe me, she had this wicked smile on her face. She knew. And she knew she had me beat. When she released her knee, all I wanted to do was crumble to the floor. But she pushed my shoulders up against the wall. And she kneed me again, and then again, and over and over...” The man was sobbing now as he recounted his own castration for a worldwide audience. “I lost count. I just remember wishing, “God, make this stop.” And then came a crunch sound. And the worst pain of my life. And at that moment, my life changed forever.”

The movie made clear that a court had found the woman not guilty of any crime, as she had acted in self defence. The man was pleading his case to the world, in the hopes they would see that she had went beyond self defence. That she had intentionally castrated him when she didn’t have to. Little did he know that the audience of his film could have cared less. They all would have done exactly the same thing to him.

Jen shifted uncomfortably as all the women, including her own daughter, laughed. Would she have castrated that man? She just didn’t know.

The next intentional castration was of a random, completely innocent guy just walking down the street. He was just minding his own business, walking on the sidewalk, when a tall blond woman wearing sunglasses, a mini skirt, and big, large leather boots was walking the other direction.

“Out of nowhere, I see this blur as her leg shoots up towards me. I have no idea what is happening. Then I’m completely lifted off the ground. And I look down and realize that her boot is lodged between my legs. There was this sickening sound.”

“Can you describe it?” Asked the narrator.

“I don’t know... it was like a “squick” sound.”

“Oh my God, I’m gonna be sick,” Said the man, as he moved his head off screen and threw up. Just the memory of both of his nuts exploding at the same time was enough to make him sick. After he finished vomiting, the camera panned out as he lay on the ground shivering, re-living his traumatic ordeal.

“Wow, she clearly did a number on you,” Said the narrator.

The woman who kicked him was never found.

Jen couldn’t help but feel bad for the guy, although technically he wasn’t a guy anymore. A woman in her group though said “Meh, I’m sure he did something in his life to deserve it! And if not, too bad!” The women all laughed again.

The movie went on to cover the lives of the men after their castrations. It showed that after two years, all of their lives had turned around. They were doing better in all areas of their lives. Interviews with their female relatives, friends, coworkers found that they were much more sensitive and they contributed well to the successes of their families, teams, companies, etc. Although without their testosterone, they tended to shy away from male-dominated environments and they did better working with females.

“Ok, but you’re probably asking yourself, how practical is this? It’s not like we can just castrate all - or most men. Right?” She winked at the screen.

“There are a number of ways society could organize itself around that method,” said a sociologist. “Standardized tests, meeting a number of various physical criteria, behavioural tests, a number of ways could be used to determine which males would be castrated.”

And how would it be carried out? Asked the narrator. Who would do it?

The video showed clips of three different female researchers as they laughed at the question. “Well, I don’t think that would be a problem. There would certainly be no shortage of women willing to carry out the sentence.” The women in the room all yelled and laughed.

“Sign me up!” They said

“You could have a lottery... you could award the right to castrate to women who have excelled in certain areas, such as on standardized tests... or you could give the right to decide to the nearest female relative of the male.”

“Oh, imagine that!” Said Hailey to Sarah. “You could order the execution of your brother’s balls!” The two girls laughed hysterically.

Jen was taken aback. Imagine she or her daughter were put in a position where she had to decide who would castrate her own son?

“Ok, but pending some tidal wave in progressive feminists being elected to Congress and changing the laws, this system isn’t something we’re going to see overnight.” Said the narrator.

“So does that mean we just give up?”

“No!” Yelled the women.

The video went to a female biologist. “Well, let’s not forget just how painful a kick to the balls is. Short of more extreme measures, even just a simple kick will cause debilitating pain that can cause a man to think twice about his behaviour.”

The movie went on to explain what happens from even minor impact with the testicles. The number of nerve endings, the coursing of pain through the abdomen, the spasm of muscles.

“There was this researcher named Pavlov, and he found a simple but effective way to control behaviour,” said the narrator. The movie explained how repeated and regular kicks, hits, squeezes to the gonads could dramatically reshape a male’s personality and his behaviour.

“Every woman watching this video can recall a time when she dramatically changed a male’s behaviour by kicking him in the balls. Think of that schoolyard bully who was convinced to stop harassing you after your sneaker met his balls. Or the guy who’s unwanted attention led to him writhing on the floor. And if he saw you again, he crossed the street.”

All the women laughed as they remembered their own ballbusting experiences. Jen was guilty to admit that she fondly remembered just such a time from when she was younger.

As the film concluded, it laid out the type of male behaviour that should lead to “corrective” action. There were the obvious: violence, unwanted sexual attention. But it also laid out others. Male consumption of pornography, especially if degrading to women, should be punished. A male questioning the opinion of a woman, should be punished. The film even advocated for random kicks to the balls, done for no reason other than female enjoyment and to remind the male of his place.

The film panned onto the diamonds from the beginning of the film. “In this film, we’ve seen what a ridiculous notion are the ‘family jewels’. Rather than being the strong, solid foundation of society. They are a weak facade on which patriarchy bases its power. And you know what ladies? Just like the myth of the family jewels is not real, neither are these diamonds. These are just cheap knock offs.”

With dramatic effect, she placed the two fake diamonds on the hardwood floor. Her beautiful legs and high heels entered the shot. The stiletto heels of her black heels positioned themselves over the fake diamonds.

“Crush them! Crush them!” Yelled the women.

All of the weight of the stillettos came down onto the diamonds. Everyone held their breath. One second. Two seconds... then CRUSH. The left diamond exploded outward. One second, two seconds later... then the right one exploded. The stiletto heels ground into the remnants of the diamonds. Methodically crushing all their little bits into a fine dust.

The movie ended.

The women all clapped. Then they discussed the movie. It was clear to Jen that they were all in strong agreement with it.

“The question is how we start implementing this in our daily lives,” said Kate.

The women all agreed.

“Well most men are so embarrassed when they get kicked in the balls that they’re unlikely to report it,” said one of the women. The others nodded.

“And if they want to, you just make it clear that they won’t be men for much longer if they do!” Said Kate.

Jen was clearly reluctant. But as they talked through all of the arguments in the movie, she had to admit she agreed with all of them. She just wasn’t entirely comfortable yet.

“How did it feel when you busted that guy in karate?” Asked Kate.

“Pretty damn awesome!” Jen had to admit. They all laughed.

Sarah and Hailey looked at each other and had a great idea. They disappeared from the room and went upstairs. A minute later, Jen heard a loud commotion, and then a bunch of feet stampeding down the stairs. There was Doug being shoved into the room by Hailey and Sarah.

“Wha... what?” Asked Doug. “I wasn’t doing anything!”

“Yeah right!” Said Sarah. She displayed Doug’s laptop for all the room to see. They gasped.

Doug had been watching some pretty hard core pornography. Jen was disgusted. She had to look away. She was also so embarrassed.

She composed herself and approached Doug. “How could you? That kind of smut? It’s so degrading to women! Do you really think so little of women? Of all of us?” She pointed to all the room. “You think so little of me?”

Doug stammered but didn’t know what to say. He was embarrassed beyond words.

“I know for a fact that creepy little Dougy watches this stuff all the time. Just look at his search history.”

His search history was full of smut.

Jen became enraged.

“Well,” Said Kate, stepping forward. “I think this is a perfect way to start putting our new manifesto into action.”

Sarah and Hailey gleamed at eachother.

“What do you mean?” Asked Jen.

“Well, he’s clearly broken the rules. And it’s clear what needs to happen next. We need to alter his behaviour.”

Jen stood for a minute pondering. She concluded that her friend was right. “You’re right, I don’t see any other way.” She looked at Doug.

Doug backed away and put his hands up defensively. He didn’t know what was going on but he knew it was no good for him.

“Look,” Said Sarah. “I have proof that kicking Doug in the balls will work. Look at his search history. You see this week-long gap of almost no usage about three weeks ago? Well, that was right after I kicked Doug in the balls. Really hard.” She winked and smiled at her brother. “Remember that brother?”

Doug’s hands instinctively went to his crotch. Jen was taken aback. “You did what?” But she realized she wasn’t angry. Not like she would have been. In fact now she was proud of her daughter.

“Hmm... seems you were only doing what I should have done a long time ago. I’m sorry I didn’t honey.” She said to her daughter.

“It’s alright mom! We can make up for lost time.”

“We sure can.”

“Doug, spread your legs.” Doug looked horrified at his mother.

“Spread your legs NOW,” she said, taking a step forward.

Doug complied and stood spread eagled in front of the room of women.

Jen looked around. Should she kick him? Should someone else?

Sarah saw what she was thinking and jumped forward. “Mom, I know for a fact that Doug has a gross obsession with Hailey. He’s probably thinking about her when he watches those degrading videos.”

All the women made sounds of disgust. Jen nodded. “Well it only seems fair that a victim of a crime get justice, no?”

Hailey giggled and screamed with excitement. “Thanks Ms. G!”

“Oh wait, let me go get some shoes on!” Her and Sarah disappeared up into Sarah’s room.

Doug stood there awkwardly, still standing with his legs apart, head down, as the group of women laughed and chatted about his coming ball punishment.

“You’re doing the right thing!” A few of them said to Jen.

“This is what’s best for him.”

“All men should be punished like this. Society will be better for it. Your family will be better for it!”

Jen had to admit that, not only did she feel right about her course of action, but she felt a sense of excitement. It brought her back to her youth, when she was just about to or had just seen a guy get kicked in the balls.

Hailey and Sarah came back down. There was a hard clattering on the hard wood from Hailey’s heavy black boots.

“Ooh,” Said the women, laughing. “Poor Dougy!”

Jen couldn’t help but laugh. Doug was sure going to get it good.

Hailey stood in front of Doug, who’s face went white and his eyes wide with terror.

“Look in the bright side Dougy, I’m finally gonna touch your manbits!” They all laughed.

“No, no, please.” Doug backed away and looked around pleadingly. His eyes rested on Jen’s. “Mom, please no!”

Jen nodded to Sarah, who went behind her brother and grabbed both of his arms. She put her knee up against his back, shoving his legs apart and his pelvis forward. He was too scared and weak to put up a fight. He started crying.

“No, Dougy, the crying comes AFTER she kicks you. Gah, you can’t do anything right brother.” She taunted him.

Hailey’s face was focused now. Her eyes focused downwards,  between Doug’s legs. Doug knew this moment well. He remembered that same look right before his sister unleashed a hell of pain on him. All of his muscles tended up. He couldn’t breathe.

Hailey’s right leg sailed upwards. The whole room held their breath. The black boot made a loud SMACK sound as it smashed up between Doug’s legs. The force of the kick knocked him clear off the ground and off of his feet. Sarah was still holding his arms though. He fell painfully onto his knees, but Sarah wouldn’t let him collapse into the fetal position. Instead, she pulled him back slightly so his face showed upward to the entire room. He couldn’t hide his agony. He wasn’t even allowed to suffer his pain how he wanted. All his hands wanted to do was to cup his balls, to feel them, to see if they were still there. Instead, as the pain coursed through his body, his face convulsed with pain, all of the women got to watch the show.

So many things were going through Jen’s mind. That had been a hard kick with a very hard and very heavy boot. Had her son’s nuts just been obliterated? She imagined that not even he knew the answer to that. But then she realized she didn’t care. She thought she would feel some strong emotion of fear or sadness for him, but she didn’t. They were just his balls. It wasn’t like he was dying. And so what if his nuts were mush? Wouldn’t he actually be the better for it?

Jen could feel a power coursing through her. And then an overwhelming sense of joy and satisfaction.

Hailey was admiring her work. She knew she had hit the mark perfectly. She wanted to jump with excitement. But she didn’t quite know how to react. How would Ms. G react at her giggling with excitement as her son writhed in unimaginable pain?

The other women in the room too were also looking to Jen for their cue on how to react.

Jen and Doug locked eyes. He looked so sad and pathetic. His eyes were begging for mercy as the pain continued to build through his abdomen. He wanted his mom to stop the pain, to do something, anything for him.

Jen looked up at her daughter Sarah, who was still holding Doug up. Mother and daughter had always had a deep connection, and they knew what one another were thinking. Slowly, a broad smile crept to Sarah’s face, and then to Jen’s. Then Jen couldn’t control it any longer and she started laughing out loud. Relieved, all of the other women joined in.

Sarah let go of Doug and he was finally allowed to collapse to the ground, his hands going to check his balls.

“Are they still there Dougy?” Sarah taunted her brother.

“I can check for you.” Said Hailey, laughing.

Hailey bounced up and down with glee as the laughter filled the room. Doug started writhing across the floor and shaking. This only made them all laugh even harder. Jen thought she might soon be laughing so hard she would be on the ground too.

Minutes passed. Minutes of pure joy and glee for the women. And of utter torment for Doug.

If Doug only knew what the future had in store for him, he would have wished that both of his nuts had been turned to mush that night.

[go2harsha-blog]

Krishna on the Beach

Harsha Prabhu wanders on a beach in Goa and stumbles upon the God of Love

Arambol, Goa, August 2019

The Photoshoot

It was the weekend of the global protest against the destruction and burning of the forests in the Amazon basin, aided and abetted by the Brazilian government.

A few of us decided to hold a pop up demonstration at Arambol beach against this act of environmental vandalism that threatened the livelihood of the indigenous people of Brazil - and 20% of the world’s oxygen supply. The demo would be in the form of a photo shoot, with people holding placards that spelt: SOS Amazon! We needed a quorum of 12 people to hold the placards. Seemed easy enough.

But it wasn’t. It took us a full hour of hustling on the beach to get the magic 12. Many we asked begged off for one reason or another: they did not understand what I said (Russian tourists); they were waiting for someone; they had to be somewhere else; they had to discuss it with their group before agreeing to participate. Some of these procrastinators were clearly entitled, middle class Indian tourists from major metros, visiting Goa as part of a package tour, sporting t-shirts with the tour logo. Somehow, we managed to find 12 souls willing and able to be a part of the the visual petition against the Amazon destruction.

After the photoshoot I wandered along the beach. Then I heard the sound of bells. Turning, I saw a group of men striding down the beach. One of them was carrying something on his head; the others were playing zills and chanting “Radhe Krishna ki jai!” (Hail Radha and Krishna).

The man who was carrying an idol of Krishna - Bal Krishna, Krishna as a child - placed it on the beach. His companions dug holes in the sand and placed incense sticks, to light which they borrowed my lighter. Slowly, people gathered around the idol; bits of camphor were burnt as offerings; prayers offered.

There was a large group of young boys who were playing in the sand nearby. Ever the opportunist for a photo grab, I went up to them and, addressing the biggest boy, asked: “Have you heard of the burning of the forests in the Amazon in Brazil?” “Yes” , he replied “ I saw it on the news.” “Would you like to help us stop it?” I asked him. “How?” he asked. “Simple. Just join with your friends in holding these placards,” I replied, “ I’ll take a photo and send it to the Brazilian government.”

“Yes, yes,” he shouted and turned to explain to the rest of his friends what was proposed. Before I could say ‘Krishna’ I had 12 eager and willing young participants in the photoshoot. In an attempt to get them all in the frame I almost stumbled onto the Bal Krishna image on the sand.

Krishna Lila

It was only then that I realised the young boys where part of a group that had come to participate in the Krishna ritual on the beach. In my mind’s eye, I saw them as the gopas (cow-herders) of Vrindavan, Krishna’s accomplices in his childish pranks, which, to the devotee, is an expression of the God’s ‘Lila,’, life as play.

And play they did, that evening on the beach, first the young boys, then the older youth and some men joining in. Games of tag, of skill and strength and guile. Then they attempted to smash the ‘Dahi Hundi’, the pot of yogurt - an object of mischievous fascination for Bal Krishna, called ‘Maakhan chor’, the butter-thief - held tantalizingly out of reach by a man wielding a rope and pully. Both groups of young boys and older youth managed to smash the Hundi, splattering themselves and those nearby with yogurt.

Where were the gopis (milk-maids) in all this play? Some stood by watching, like the ladies from Rajasthan, looking, with their aquiline features, nose rings and veils, like they had stepped out of a Kishangarh miniature, the 18th-century school of painting from Rājasthan, celebrating Krishna as a lover. Other gopis, possibly tourists from interstate or overseas, cavorted in the sea, holding hands in the water, playing their water games, framed by the setting sun.

Then it was time for more prayers and - as the sun set and the horizon turned maroon - time for the ‘Visarjan,’ the ritual immersion of the Krishna idols - the Bal Krishna being joined by a Krishna playing the flute - in the sea.

Who is Krishna?

Yesterday was Gokulashtami , the birthday of Krishna. Today is Visarjan. Who is Krishna, this God who was born yesterday and is committed to the waters the very next day?

Who is Krishna? This question bedevilled Arjun, the hero of the Mahabharata war, contemplating the field of battle. Is he my charioteer? My devoted friend and wise councillor? Or is he a God whose true face I dare not see?

There are many Krishnas; you can pick and choose.

There’s the culture hero of the Ahir, a tribe of pastoralists found in north and western India. The Ahirs are mentioned in the Mahabharata and some Ahir claim descent from the Yadava clan of Krishna.

There’s Bal Krishna, the baby Krishna, whose exploits form the material of songs mother’s sing to their children, whose devotion parallels the cult of baby Jesus.

There’s Krishna the lover, flirting shamelessly with the gopis of Vrindavan, all the while knowing his heart is with Radha, another man’s wife, in an erotic wheel-within-wheel of transgression, celebrated in much Indian song, dance and art.

There’s the Krishna of the Bhagvad Gita, Arjun’s initiator into the terrifying mysteries of cosmic time, including the need to do one’s caste-defined, destiny-propelled duty, regardless of the consequences (nishkamakarma).

This was the Krishna that troubled M K Gandhi, possibly the greatest Vaishnav (Krishna devotee) of them all in recent times. The arguments in the Geeta rationalising violence, no doubt the work of Brahmins versed in the arts of sophistry in defence of the status quo, stuck in Gandhi’s throat. Gandhi would have agreed with D D Kosambi, polymath and Marxist historian, who said: ‘This slippery opportunism characterizes the whole book. Naturally, it is not surprising to find so many Gita lovers imbued therewith. Once it is admitted that material reality is gross illusion, the rest follows quite simply; the world of "doublethink" is the only one that matters.’

Bhakti

There’s the Krishna of the Bhakti saints, the social movement that was anti-caste, that talked up love for one’s fellow human as the highest goal.

The Bhakti saints came from all castes. Nammalvar was a peasant. Namdev was a tailor. Gora was a potter. Cokha Mela was Dalit. So was Ravidas, guru of Mirabai and contemporary of Guru Nanak. Jyaneshwar, who introduced the Gita to Marathi-speakers, committed ritual suicide. Tukaram, the greatest Marathi Bhakti poet of them all, was a peasant, who ran afoul of Brahmins,  and is supposed to have drowned himself in the river Tungabhadra. There’s more than a hint that he was murdered by caste Hindus. Luckily, his abhangas (poems) survived…

What made Bhakti so radical?

Here is Chandidas, the 15th century Bengali poet:

"Shobar upor manush shotto tahar upore nai,” (“Above all is humanity, none else”).

Or Kabir, possibly the greatest of India’s many poet-saints, also from the 15th century, and a Muslim to boot, though not a practicing one by the looks of it. He wrote in the vernacular and, even to this day, his poems explode in the face, like existential firecrackers.

Saints I see the world is mad.


If I tell the truth they rush to beat me,


if I lie they trust me. — Kabir, Shabad  4, Translated by Linda Hess and Shukdeo Singh

Or this:

Saints I've seen both ways.


Hindus and Muslims don't want discipline, they want tasty food.


The Hindu keeps the eleventh-day fast, eating chestnuts and milk.


He curbs his grain but not his brain, and breaks his fast with meat.


The Turk [Muslim] prays daily, fasts once a year, and crows "God!, God!" like a cock.


What heaven is reserved for people who kill chickens in the dark?…


— Kabir, Śabda 10, Translated by Linda Hess and Shukdeo Singh

Or this one:

If God be within the mosque, then to whom does this world belong?


If Ram be within the image which you find upon your pilgrimage,
then who is there to know what happens without?…


— Kabir, III.2, Translated by Rabindranath Tagore and Evelyn Underhill

Interestingly, Kabir ran afoul of both Muslims and Hindus during his lifetime. It is said that, upon his death, both sets of believers fought over his corpse. When they lifted his shroud, all they found were flowers.

Knowing the pain of others

Here is Narsi Mehta, the 15th century Gujarat poet-saint, with a song that was a favourite of M K Gandhi:

Vaishnav jan to tene kahiye je/ Peed paraayi jaane re /Par-dukhkhe upkaar kare toye /Man abhimaan na aane re

Only he is a true Vaishnav Who knows the pain of others Does good to others without letting pride enter his mind.

Indian PM Modi also claims to love ‘Vaishnava jan to.’ He launched a version of the song in October 2018, sung by artists from 40 different countries, as the start of the year-long celebration of the 150th birth anniversary of Gandhi.

Does Modi know the pain of others?

This was his reply to a Reuters journalist in 2013, when asked what he felt about the communal carnage in Gujarat that lead to over a thousand deaths, mainly, but not only, Muslims, and the displacement of many more while he was CM in 2002: “If someone else is driving a car and we’re sitting behind, even then if a puppy comes under the wheel, will it be painful or not? Of course it is.”

Does Modi know the pain his policies, including demonetisation and high GST rates, have caused his people?  The pain of all those who have lost their jobs due to an economy in shambles, largely due to the wreaking-ball of his government’s own policies? Does he know the pain of the farmers who commit suicide due to failing crops, drought and the inability to pay back loans? Or the pain of all the human rights defenders and tribals who languish in jail on trumped up charges? And what about the pain of the Kashmiri people?

What about the pain of Gandhians? The fact is that M K Gandhi himself was assassinated by a Hindu ring wing terrorist, a member of the Hindu Mahasabha, an off-shoot of the RSS, the very organisation that Modi belongs to.

What about the pain of all those people - mostly Muslim, Dalit or Christians - who have been lynched in India by mobs yelling “Jai Shree Ram”?

In July this year, eminent writers, filmmakers and intellectuals wrote an open letter to PM Modi, beseeching him to act, saying: "It is shocking that so much violence should be perpetrated in the name of religion! These are not the Middle Ages! The name of Ram is sacred to many in the majority community of India. As the highest Executive of this country, you must put a stop to the name of Ram being defiled in this manner.”

Modi has yet to respond to the letter.

Clearly, when it comes to knowing the pain of others, Modi has a lot of catching up to do.

Krishna the Redeemer

The Krishna story should make all tyrants everywhere worried.

For Krishna is also the redeemer. He comes to deliver the people of Dwarka from the rule of the evil tyrant Kamsa. Indeed, all tyrants dream of everlasting rule, but Kamsa himself hears a voice that tells him his end is near. This sets into play the whole Krishna myth, of the child abandoned by the palace, like Moses was among the bullrushes, a foundling fostered by another family, who grows up to avenge wrongs and claim his rightful throne.

According to Joseph Campbell: ‘The work of the incarnation is to refute by his presence the pretentious of the tyrant ogre.’

Further, Krishna, as the God of Love, refuses to allow himself to be weaponised by the armies of the Hindu Right, as opposed to the fate of poor Ram, where “Jai Shree Ram” has become a rallying cry of the lynch mobs.

Ironically, the actual form of greeting in parts of North India is “Jai Sia-Ram”; ‘Sia’ being a short form for ‘Sita’. But there’s no use for Sita, the Goddess of the Earth and Ram’s wife, in the hyper masculine world of Hindutva politics. The Goddess - and women - are the first casualties in Hindutva’s Raas Lila (sacred dance, dedicated to Radha-Krishna), where rape is a political tool to terrorise and subjugate people, sanctioned by V D Savarkar, the father of Hindutva ideology.

For Krishna devotees, Krishna is nothing without Radha; therefore it’s always “Jai Radhe-Krishna.” Behind Krishna stands the Mother Goddess. Vrindavan, the scene of the Krishna idyll, is the sacred grove (vana) of the Goddess Vrinda, another name for the Tulasi (holy basil) tree. To this day, the marriage of Krishna to Tulasi is celebrated every year in Vrindavan as Tulasi Vivaha. And even in Goa, for my landlord, Pritesh, was married to three Tulasi trees before he got a wife. Thus does the Great Mother break through Hinduism’s patriarchal bonds.

And it’s not just Hindus who worship Krishna.

According to literary critic Kuldeep Kumar, writing in The Hindu: ‘Many Muslim poets, the most notable among them being Raskhan, wrote devotional poetry to celebrate the Krishna legend and to rejoice in his bhakti. Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khana, who is known in Hindi literature simply as Rahim, wrote many Barwais, Dohas and Sorthas in praise of Krishna. For example, this couplet is worth reading.

Jihi Rahim man aapno keenho chandra chakor Nisi baasar laago rahai Krishna chandra kee or (The way chakor always looks at the moon, similarly my face is always towards Krishna’s face that is as beautiful as the moon is). ‘ Chakor is a kind of partridge.

Passion Play

The passion play I witnessed on the beach was part of an ancient story, of the birth and sacrifice of a God. Like the Greek hero, Achilles, Krishna dies when an arrow pierces his heel, betraying his tribal, pagan origins. The culture hero dies, but the energies of an archetype never die, but live on, forever green in the hearts of men and women.

Surely Krishna - the hero with a hundred faces - will come to the aide of his people, wherever they may be, on a beach, in a temple, in the factories, on the land, in the forest, the vana, his favourite playground - or at the next political or environmental protest.

In a time of human-induced climate chaos and species extinction, driven by corporate fascism’s dystopian republic of greed, ruled by the global police state, the Radha- Krishna myth - of the world as a garden of plenty, as a playground for the divine erotic impulse to manifest, of love as the highest form of worship - is a very compelling counter-image.

Another world is possible. Krishna tells us it is.

While lovers of radical equality and seekers of bliss rejoice, tyrants everywhere better beware. Even as we speak, Krishna is on his way to Dwarka…

Pics: Harsha Prabhu

A note on the photoshoot:

Amazon photoshoot, Arambol, Sat 24 Aug 2019

SOS AMAZON! SOS CLIMATE EMERGENCY! Arambol, Goa, India Sat 24 August 2019

Members of Extinction Rebellion Goa staged a pop up demonstration at Arambol beach in solidarity with the native people of Brazil’s Amazon basin, whose forests are being burnt by the Brazilian government to facilitate development projects, including roads and big dams, in an ecologically sensitive bio region.

The burning forests of the Amazon are also a matter of grave concern as they supply 20% of the world’s oxygen. These forests are characterised as the lungs of the planet, taking in carbon dioxide and breathing out oxygen.

In addition, this wanton destruction feeds into the cycle of human-induced climate change. With the accelerated melting of the Greenland ice field via global warming predicted to raise sea levels by a frightening 25 feet, coastal communities like Goa are at special risk of being inundated by such irresponsible actions.

Activists also pointed out that India’s environmental record too was a scandal, with the continued destruction of forests, especially in the Western Ghats, leading to flooding in several states, including Goa, Maharashtra, Karnataka and Kerala. In Mumbai, the Aarey Forest in the centre of the city, also earmarked for development, and coastal mangrove destruction, are causing environmental stress on one of the world’s mega cities, also subject to periodic flooding.

India ranks among the bottom five countries on the Environmental Performance Index for 2018, according to a biennial report by Yale and Columbia Universities and the World Economic Forum. India also has the dubious distinction of overtaking China and Russia as the world’s top sulpha dioxide polluter, according to a Greenpeace report released on 19 August 2019. Sulpha dioxide is a by-product of coal-based electricity generation. Fossil fuels are also the key culprits in the global warming feedback loop and the proliferation of plastic pollution world-wide, including on Goa’s beaches.

With extreme weather events - like drought followed by floods in India - the norm, activists worldwide are calling upon governments to address the climate emergency, stop the reliance on fossil fuels and rapidly move towards adopting sustainable solutions to meet world energy needs.

The Brazil solidarity action - which included Arambol youth and local and international visitors - was part of a global weekend of similar demonstrations to put pressure on world governments to act now before it’s too late!

Pic: Harsha Prabhu, Design:Camelia Oberoi

#SOSAmazonia #SaveOurForests #ClimateEmergency #extinctionrebellion #extinctionrebellionindia #extinctionrebelliongoa #arambol #goa #DeclareClimateEmergency #SaveAareyForest #SaveWesternGhats

[fuzzhugs]

In Good Paws - Redwall Fanficiton

That Friday was undoubtedly one of the most exciting days in Matthew Fieldmouse’s young life. School trips were not a frequent occurrence, much less trips that brought his class to the city. They had taken the locomotive from their town to the north, riding for several hours until they had arrived at Sojourn. Matthew had ridden the train for the first time that day. He had also seen an automobile in-person for the first time, as well as the 20-story skyscrapers that sprung up from the city’s skyline.

All of the sights and sounds of Sojourn were wondrous things to behold, but Matthew was even more excited to be visiting the place at the forefront of his hopes and dreams: The Redwall Abbey Museum.

Mossflower Park was set in the center of Sojourn. Three miles on each side, the park formed a perfect square of untouched nature, save for the dirt road which allowed vehicles to access the Abbey, which sat in the dead center of the park.

From the train station, Matthew had ridden with his class of 15 on a motorbus through the park. Matthew spent his time glued to the windows, just as he had on the locomotive.

As a city, Sojourn was unique in that it was long and narrow, rather than more-or-less circular. Nobeast seemed to be particularly keen on penetrating too deep into the ancient Mossflower Wood.

Matthew had been first off the bus when it stopped at the Abbey. After rolling up his sleeves and loosening his tie to ward off the heat of the day, he eagerly drank in every detail of the ancient building. He had read all about the preservation and restoration efforts at Redwall and could name each and every feature that was either original or restored. The wooden main gates had rotted and decayed long ago. A replica pair of gates had been installed, but they were seldom closed. The only things that now separated Redwall from the outside world were a velvet rope and a sign which could be flipped to read “Open” or “Closed: No Trespassing.”

Most of the stonework was original. The walls were as solid as they had been centuries before, but many of the statues and gargoyles had become weathered with time. A few restored examples would be within the main gallery.

As Matthew continued examining every visible exterior feature with curious eyes, he heard his teacher calling out.

“Children, back in your lines please,” Mrs. Burrows called to the students who had begun wandering around. “It’s much more interesting inside than in the parking lot.”

The meandering students made their way back into the group. The class was a mix of creatures: mice, squirrels, rats, weasels, foxes, moles; most of them from farming families. The historical conflicts between the species had long ended, and the social divide between Woodlanders and the “Vermin” was no longer in place. Even the term “Vermin” had slowly been falling out of usage as a means of describing whole groups of creatures.

When the students were all together again and formed three lines of five, their hare teacher led them to the main gates where they were met by a tall, slender ferret whose nametag identified him as Jeremy.

“Students, this is Mr. Jeremy Blackfoot,” Mrs. Burrows said, introducing him. “He will be taking us on a brief tour through the Abbey. Afterward you will be free to explore on your own.”

Matthew had recognized Mr. Blackfoot before he even read his nametag. Mr. Blackfoot was widely recognized as one of the foremost historians of early and mid-Mossflower History and the most prolific author of Redwall-related material. Matthew had all of his books and copies of most of his journal articles (he was having trouble finding some of his earlier writings). He had a thousand questions he wanted to ask Mr. Blackfoot, but he knew that Mrs. Burrows wouldn’t appreciate him holding up the entire group. She, like the rest of the class, knew that Redwall was Matthew’s obsession. Though she appreciated his enthusiasm, she often tried to encourage him to explore other subjects.

The first stop on their tour was the gatehouse. Just as Matthew had read, it was kept purposefully disorganized with books stacked haphazardly on the shelves and scrolls shoved in boxes. Records from Redwall’s active days suggested that any effort at keeping everything in a proper order rapidly failed.  The books and scrolls were all props, of course. All the surviving materials were kept elsewhere in display cases in the Abbey, placed in storage, or displayed at other museums.

Mr. Blackfoot next led them around the Abbey’s grounds. The orchards, berry-bushes, and gardens were still maintained by members of the museum staff. Harvested produce was offered as a snack to hungry guests or sold to interested buyers. It was said that food grown at Redwall had a special flavor that no one could replicate. Wines and ales made from the Abbey’s fruits fetched a high price at market.

The Abbey pond was also carefully maintained. In former days, large fish like greylings had lived in the pond and been eaten at feasts, but now only minnows and a few small perch darted around.

After the grounds, Mr. Blackfoot led the students up into the Abbey itself, passing through the Great Hall and up the stairs to the dormitories. One of the bedrooms was a recreation of how the room would have looked in its prime. A bed, blankets, and clothing from that period were on display. The rest of the bedrooms housed artifacts gathered from the Abbey and old dwellings in Mossflower.

The old infirmary was entirely dedicated to the old healing practices of the brothers and sisters of Redwall. Samples of medicinal herbs and berries filled shelves. Old books on the healing arts were displayed on tables. Many of the techniques the exhibits described were now long outdated, if not completed defunct.

“Class,” Mrs. Burrows called out, “we are heading back downstairs now. You will be free to explore afterwards. Remember to take notes for your reports.”

The students followed Mrs. Burrows and Mr. Blackfoot down into the Great Hall.

“Here is the pride and joy of the Redwall Abbey Museum: the famous tapestry.” Mr. Blackfoot gestured to the magnificent tapestry behind him.

The tapestry hung from the same wall where it had hung for centuries, though it was separated from the rest of the Great Hall by a barrier of glass and a chord of rope. The entire tapestry stretched from one wall to the other, and at the center was the figure of Martin the Warrior. The depiction of the warrior had a certain radiance to it. All around him, villains were shown fleeing from the warrior’s might.

“Of course,” Mr. Blackfoot continued, “what everyone really wants to see is the Sword.” He led them away from the tapestry to the center of the Hall.

The Sword rested on a cushion of velvet on an altar-like pedestal beneath a glass case.

“And no,” Mr. Blackfoot commented with a smile, “you can’t hold it. Seasons, they don’t even let me hold it.”

“That’s the end of our tour,” Mrs. Burrows informed the students. “You are free to explore the Abbey and grounds for the next two hours. Everyone thank Mr. Blackfoot for his assistance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackfoot,” the class chorused.

Matthew, of course, lingered near the Sword. Several other students stayed as well, examining the ancient blade, but they eventually departed to see more of the Abbey.

“You look like you could spend the next two hours looking at that,” Mr. Blackfoot said, approaching Matthew from behind.

“Mr. Blackfoot!” Matthew spluttered, startled at his sudden appearance. “Yes, I-um-yes, it is quite a beautiful artifact and a very important one too.”

Blackfoot smiled. He could see the intensity and excitement in the young mouse’s eyes. “Is there something you wanted to ask?”

Matthew practically shook with excitement. “A thousand things, if we had the time! I’ve read all of your books Mr. Blackfoot. I’ve read everything about Redwall and Mossflower that I could get my paws on. Before the Abbey, Heroes of Redwall, A History of Mossflower, all three biographies on Martin the Warriors (yours was the best of course). I suppose…I suppose I really want to know if the legends are true. All the books repeat the story of the Sword being made of a falling star. Is there anything to suggest that is true?”

Blackfoot ran his paws along the edge of the case, admiring the contents. “The metal composition of the sword has been analyzed. There is nothing non-terrestrial inside that blade. The steel is very durable and incredibly hard, more so than carbon-steel and even some conventional alloys. Whether or not the metal of the sword’s blade came from a meteorite, who can say? Martin himself stated it was so in his account of his journey to the east, and brothers and sisters of Redwall were not known to be in the habit of lying. I can’t say for certain that the metal came from the heavens, but I certainly like to think it did. At the very least, we can say that this is indeed a finely made sword.”

Matthew nodded, following every single word. “I want to believe the legend too. Do you think we’ll ever really know?”

“I’m always hopeful,” Blackfoot said. “The Salamandastron excavation project is getting underway. Maybe we’ll find some records there that confirm what the Redwall accounts tell us. I’m not working on the project myself, but I have colleagues there who will keep me informed of any developments.”

“I can’t wait to hear about what they find,” Matthew agreed. “I’d like to be one of them someday.”

“A future archeologist, eh? I saw how closely you looked at everything during the tour. I bet you’d be a terrific historian.” Blackfoot knelt down so he was at Matthew’s eye level. “How about I make you a deal? If I hear anything about exciting finds at Salamandastron, I’ll send a letter to your school.”

“I’d be honored, sir!” Matthew was practically bouncing in place. “What do I do in return?”

Blackfoot grinned, “When you’re getting ready to go to University, send me a letter. I know a few academics who could use an enthusiastic youngster.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Blackfoot! Thank you so much.”

“Anything for a fellow historian. Now let me know your name so I know who I’m writing to.”

“Right. Matthew Fieldmouse, Year 8…”

“Hold on a moment.” Blackfoot closed his eyes, trying to remember something. “You’ve written to me before, haven’t you?”

“Oh no,” Matthew covered his face. “Very long ago, sir. I was in Year 3. We had to write a letter to someone we wanted to be like. I can’t even imagine what I wrote.”

“I have had many excited young ones write me, though I believe the 10 pages you sent made yours quite memorable. Did I ever write back?”

“Oh yes, sir. I still have it with my things at home. Though at the time I received it, I’m sure I wanted to frame it.”

Blackfoot laughed as he walked away to see to another group. “You’re one-of-a-kind Matthew Fieldmouse. Keep up the good work. Remember to write me when you’re ready for University. I expect to be reading your books someday.”

Matthew’s heart was pounding like a drum. Between visiting the Abbey and meeting one of his heroes, it was almost too much. After taking a few deep breaths he decided to look at the Sword for a little longer before going back upstairs to look in the infirmary again.

As Matthew started at the Sword, someone stepped up to the other side of the case.

“It is a beautiful sword, isn’t it?”

Matthew looked up. Standing opposite him was a strangely-clad mouse. He was wearing the forest-green habit the inhabitants of Redwall had once worn as their uniform. Matthew knew that the order still existed to a small extent, but most of the active members worked at St. Ninian’s Hospital to the south as physicians and nurses. Even they wore more modern garb, save for a green sash worn around the waist as a tribute to their origins. Matthew reasoned the mouse must be one of the reenactors the museum often had around for special events.

“Yes, it is beautiful, Matthew responded. “I’ve often wondered how heavy it feels. I mean, I know it weighs 3.78 pounds, but I’ve always wanted to really feel it.”

The habit-clad mouse’s gaze met Matthew’s in the reflection of the blade. “Holding it feels surprisingly light. Baring it, however, is a far heavier burden.”

“You’ve held it! Do you work he-?” Matthew’s voice cut off. He looked around, but there was no sign of the strange mouse.

Puzzled, Matthew sought out one of the uniformed employees and asked about any reenactors on site. The worker in questions responded that there weren’t any historical reenactments scheduled for that week.

While he didn’t like leaving a puzzle unsolved, Matthew was more interested in seeing the rest of the Abbey. He set off up the stairs.

Hours later, Matthew was asleep on the locomotive heading northward towards home, lulled to sleep by the click-clack of the train on the rails. In his dreams, he was a great explorer and archeologist, finding the lost treasures of antiquity and solving the mysteries of the past.

*

Jeremy Blackfoot took his paws off the typewriter, leaned back in his chair, and yawned. Outside of his office window, he could see the sun was disappearing beneath the horizon. He had promised the Mossflower Historical Society that he’d have a rough-draft of his piece for the annual publication by the next day, and he was barely halfway done. At the start of his career, he could have turned out an equivalent piece over lunch. Between his slowness, the greying of his fur, and the aches in his joints, it seemed his body was intent on reminding him that he was not getting any younger.

The ferret-scholar prepared to get back to work when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in.” He reached for his thick-rimmed spectacles and balanced them on the bridge of his nose.

A tall, lean mouse walked through the door.

Blackfoot smiled when he saw his guest. “Matthew Fieldmouse, it’s been ages. I’ve read your letters, of course, but there’s nothing like a surprise visit.”

Matthew nodded. “How have you been, Mr. Blackfoot?”

“Old. Old is how I’ve been and how I continue to be. And must I remind you to call me Jeremy?”

Matthew grinned. “It feels so strange calling my idol by his first name.”

“Please, formality will never be necessary between us. You’re no longer a student. You’re just as good a scholar as I am, and I dare say you’ll be an even better one in not too long. Second authorship on three papers while working on your bachelor’s, that’s quite a feat. But enough small talk, what brings you to my office?”

“I’ve got something I’d like you to read,” Matthew said, pulling a bundle of paper from his satchel. “Mind you, it’s a bit longer than ten pages. It’s my doctoral thesis. I’ll be submitting it for review before the end of the semester. If you could look it over and tell me your thoughts, I’d be greatly indebted.”

Blackfoot flipped through the papers. “I’ll certainly give it a read, though you could have just mailed this to me. We’re quite a ways from the coast. How is the dig at Salamandastron nowadays? You’re far better connected there than I am.”

“It goes well. It’s one thing I wanted to talk to you about. About a month ago we tunneled into a cavern. The walls were covered in carvings covering the entire history of the mountain. We started photographing each set of carvings not long after that. (Took us ages to convince the University to buy enough film.) Take a look at these.” Matthew pulled out a series of enlarged photographic prints and placed them on the desk.

“The figures in this photograph,” Matthew pointed, “coincide with Martin’s arrival at Salamandastron. See the broken Sword around his neck? There with Dinny the Mole, the shrew Log-a-Log, and Gonff the Thief.”

“Prince of Mousethieves,” Blackfoot commented.

“Right. Prince of Mousethieves. The series in this photograph,” Matthew indicated, “takes place upon his departure; the Sword is now intact. There were a number of other carvings in the same general area, mostly pertaining to the badger lord at that time, but I thought one particular figure would interest you.”

Matthew flipped over the third photograph. The picture showed three carvings. In the first: a burning rock flew from the sky toward an anvil. In the second: a badger was beating a rock upon the anvil. In the third: a badger held a magnificent sword in his paws, presenting it to a mouse.

Blackfoot looked up from the photos. “Forged of a falling star?”

“Forged of a falling star.”

“Have the rest of the carvings been found to be accurate?”

“Those which we’ve been able to identify, yes. These are probably some of the earliest which we can corroborate. Mossflower and Redwall records start at this time as well. If the carvings continue to align with what we know, than we may very well be looking at an entirely new portion of history.”

Blackfoot took another look at the photographs. “I envy you, Matt. Finds like these can give you enough material for a lifetime of study.”

“That is my hope. Though I have been giving some thought toward taking to the seas. A few colleagues and I believe we might be able to find some of the old island settlements mentioned in Redwall’s archives. Anyway, I’m heading back to the coast tomorrow morning. Do you want to join me for breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. You remember where I live?”

Matthew nodded. “I’ll call a cab a meet you there at 7. Goodnight, Jeremy.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Fieldmouse.”

Matthew chuckled and closed the door. Blackfoot adjusted himself in his chair and prepared to resume typing. He took a look at his title, The Future of Archaeology and Historiography. He thought for a moment and adjusted the typewriter. Keys clacking, he added a subtitle:

In Good Paws.

[starsailorstories]

The Major Goddesses of the Sweet Chariot Universe

Well, at least the Andromedan corner of the universe.

The most common family of religions among Astraea species is known as Cosmonism/the Cosmonist faiths. They’re inspired by ancient observations of the universe, its governing forces, and what happens to actual suns/stars--which the starlike astraeas understandably conflate with themselves--over their life cycles. 

In prehistoric times before interplanetary space travel became common each world had her own religion, often centered around nature as it was perceived in that particular solar system. But as more astraeas returned to the vacuum--genetically, their ancestral home--they began to both blend their traditions and deify broader forces that affected the galaxy on the whole.

At some point a VERY long time ago, some rando–they call her the unknown scholar, but her anonymity just kind of drives home that she didn’t have any specific credentials for doing this (although really, what kind of prophet does)–gathered up sacred poetic texts from the 16 Holy Worlds where planet-based society was supposedly created, translated them into the common proto-space-latin, and in the translation sorted all the local deities mentioned into the service of the three governing forces. So Altamai’s mother goddess of daybreak, for instance, became an incarnation/guise of Orellistia because she controlled heavenly bodies, and the storm goddess honored on the inner rings of the gas planet Shali became a guise of Levinoxia because she represented a chaotic/entropic force.

The collection of poems is the text they all refer to as the Holy Poets (so called bc they come from the Holy Worlds, not necessarily because they themselves constituted religious figures, although they do for some people), which forms a core for a lot of their view of morality and the world, though it also has just…stories, not all of which have an obvious religious lesson, many of which are probably allegories, a lot of which are love stories. Like every sacred text anywhere, there are about ten billion million different interpretations of it. I’ll discuss several of them in later posts, but most have the reverence of three overarching cosmic forces, their metaphorical implications for daily life, and their correspondent deities at their center.

This post will be LONG, but it has art! 

Cunaderia is the goddess of the Origin (the big bang), birth and beginnings, time, and fate, born from the nova of the Dead Goddess (who is implied to be a form of Levinoxia and/or Orellistia, although it may not always have been such) at the moment of the big bang. She is always depicted as a young child, usually seated on a cushion in a shallow basin floating in vast blankness outside time and space and reading a scroll that bears the Story of Time. The echoes of her long recitation can be heard in the cosmic microwave background.

Although she is not the designer of most things within the universe, she is the creator of the universe itself, and holds the singularity from which the next big bang will issue on the tip of her finger. Her recitation of the Story sustains the continued expansion of the universe and therefore the procession of history. Because of all this she is considered the most awe-inspiring and ineffable figure in the whole Cosmonist pantheon, and it’s considered improper to speak her name aloud in an unconsecrated space. Most refer to her with euphemistic nicknames like “The Child” and “The Little One.” People will sometimes say “the Little One stammered” to describe a moment so charged time seemed to stand still.

Unlike Orellistia and Levinoxia, Cunaderia is generally remembered and worshipped on a regular schedule rather than receiving prayers and offerings on an as-needed basis. The perception, for  the most part, is that everything she controls is already decided, and she can’t be swayed by loyalty or hospitality. It is considered right to thank her for unexpected twists of good fortune, though, and there’s an adorable tradition of leaving handmade dolls and toys at her shrines and temples as tokens of gratitude for good luck, since she’s dogmatically considered to be like five years old.

(The five years old thing figures into a lot of irreverent humor, by the way. Every time you have a day where you’re like “this might as well happen,” they say, remember that the whole pageant of history is just a story made up by a kindergartner at the end of the day.)

Her guardianship over fate gives Cunaderia charge over who will rule each of the Holy Systems, and she’s usually depicted holding or surrounded by seven stars, representing the lives of future queens to one day be incarnated at her discretion. The same seven stars have been a symbol of the peace between the systems for many hundreds of turns, but at the time of the story, all seven mark the diadem of the Empress and the seal of the Hyperian dynasty.

For this image of her I tried to get as close to her “official” Destigravitationist representation as I could. The shell she’s sitting on forms the shape of the Sun Lily, which is a traditional motif in depictions of the goddesses because of its associations with sanctity and power, although not coincidentally it’s also the symbol of the Aula. Her clothing is a style of dress--inspired by the armor worn by an ancient, now-extinct order of warrior priestesses from the Altamaian arctic circle--worn for occasions of Altamaian, and therefore Basilean, national pride. She also wears the round hair comb associated with schoolgirls in the Atya-Jenya system (where the Basillan homeworlds and the Rings are) in general, though hers is made of royal white-gold rather than the usual cloth and cardboard.

In addition to the familiar and the patriotic motifs Cunaderia’s icons usually incorporate a number of symbols of time and fate. Behind her is a star-dial, a device held/placed at the horizon to show the time and date based on the positions of specific reference stars which are close and bright enough to be distinct from the light of the dome. Around her hand is a fortune-teller’s coin (I need to make a post about Andromedan divination soon!). The colors she wears are also significant: for Astraeas, blue is the color of youth, the ephemeral, and innocence, while red is the color of wisdom as well as of death and therefore destiny. Her light is also blue--because blue stars tend to burn brighter and not live as long, a blue light is a symbol of a kind of tragic eternal innocence--a spirit too pure for the material world.

Orellistia is the goddess of Gravity, the force which orders the stars. It follows from that that she is also the goddess of all matter, which gravity forms into stars, planets, and galaxies; as well as of light (a consequence of this pull), order, inspiration and creative activities of all kinds from construction to motherhood, prosperity, love (attraction and loyalty, at least among stars, are both functions of gravitation), marriage, family and the home. “Home” can mean everything from “household” to “home planet” of course, so she also has superintendence over all national/state/planetary protector deities. Until fairly recently the ruling classes have stopped short of actually claiming she protects the empire on the whole, but that’s a line the Hyperian dynasty have been more than willing to cross.

Gravity is an incredibly important concept in astraea cultures, to the point where it’s usually capitalized and spoken of as not only a natural law, but a moral and devotional one as well. The most extreme view of it holds that every single physical thing in the universe--people included--is organized into a perfect hierarchy by a series of literal or metaphorical orbits. The galaxy turns around the dome, within which Sol Atya, Sol Jenya, Sol Minerva, and Sol Suraya move around the gravitational center of their system (once believed to be, and still honored symbolically as, the dwelling place of Orellistia herself); the four suns are attended by their planets, who are attended by their moons and satellites, who are attended by their queens and ruling councils, who are attended by the royal family, who are attended by the nobility, and so on down the chain all the way to lux laborers and the dishonored poor.

Of course, while Orellistia is often seen in the mainstream as maintaining the status quo, her depiction in the holy poems is a little less convenient. Most often, she’s portrayed as a stereotypical artist, trying things out and gradually molding the universe towards perfection with a careful balance of gentle nurturing and sometimes ruthless erasure. Love and war are equal products of her instigation, and both are simply mediums through which she executes her grand vision. In her more ancient portrayals she shares many traits with some of the solar demigoddesses (who, most historians agree, were once worshipped as goddesses themselves despite being much more flawed and down-to-earth than the current Big Three)--she’s warm and personal and rather human, prone to frustration and jealousy and even insecurity. The many syncretic devotional paths centered around her--particularly in the antedome and farther afield--definitely have more in common with this version.

Titles used for Orellistia include variants on Mother of Gravity, (Nebula) Genetris, Creatrix Regina, Flower of the Cosmos, Mother of a Thousand Suns, Core of the People, Map-Drawer (particularly when she is taken up as a war deity), and Galaxy-Weaver (especially popular with the massive antedome textile industry). Often people will pray or sing to her and leave gifts at her shrines before undertaking an endeavor--either to ensure inspiration or success, whichever one they’re more concerned about. She’s usually pictured wearing gold, salmon and pink--the colors most associated with stellar nurseries on the galactic scale, sunrise on the planetary scale, and the mini-nebula in the womb of every Mother on the family scale; colors associated with nurturing, creation and new life--if not actually dressed in and made of nebular clouds. It’s also common to portray the central dome of Andromeda (or at least all the important bits) either symbolically or literally in her hair as if they formed there and are now in her orbit (this picture went for symbolically). Other depictions give her distaffs and embroidery hoops, architects’ tools, paint brushes, and other implements of Creation (it honestly usually depends on where you plan to hang the picture).

Her light is usually portrayed as bright white, sometimes with a blue tint. White lights are associated with the full energy of young parenthood and the prime of life.

Levinoxia is the goddess of the Vacuum and Orellistia’s wife, although the Basilean religious establishment has done everything in their power to downplay that. She is the goddess of uncharted, dark space and of antimatter, and as such the goddess of darkness, night, the unknown/exploration/the pursuit of knowledge, the pursuit of truth, truth itself, entropy, magic, change, and travel in general, as well as being the protectress of the dead (although Orellistia is said to choose who will live and die).

She travels the cosmos, broadening the borders of its beings’ understanding, maintaining a long-distance relationship until the wife’s art block gets bad enough that she needs her to come home and keep an eye on things while she does an epic studio cleanup and then takes a nap, which ultimately results in the heat death of the universe and, once they’ve spent the night together and Levinoxia has showed her wife all the new ideas and perspectives she’s gathered up, a new big bang.

Her roles as a protector of sailors and travelers and as a guide in the pursuit of truth are usually signified in icons by having her holding navigational tools (astrolabes, star maps) and ships’ lanterns. The lantern in particular represents the ability of wisdom, observation, and critical thinking to cut through the obscuring veils of rhetoric and misinformation.

Just as Orellistia’s mythical character is a warts-and-all picture of the creative process, so Levinoxia’s is a picture of the pursuit of the truth in all its confusing, depressing, endlessly fractal murkiness. She’s heavily associated with vagary and nondistinction (the practice of Levinoxian modesty is intended to be a reminder of these very things) and stories involving her generally teach that the truth is so complicated that a mortal mind is lucky to even get close. The gentle dialectical practice she exemplifies, however, results in a very compassionate and peaceful demeanor, and those who study her as a discipline tend to think of her as an unconditional comforter and a loving guardian, albeit mischievous (but only to keep you on your toes and learning, like a sensei in an old martial arts film).

Because of the radical realism she represents, however, she lends herself to morally ambiguous interpretations and is frequently misunderstood. The Destigravitational Ecclesia in particular have been on a campaign to paint her as a destructive trickster figure and more Orellistia’s opposite than her counterbalance. Around the time the old rebellion was really getting off the ground, the Aula outlawed worship of Levinoxia entirely in response to several vestal orders coming forward to call them out on their habitual twisting of the facts. Despite this, many vestals and devotees still practice her rituals, particularly those which petition for the safety of sailors and the peaceful reincarnation of the dead. It’s very bad luck to say prayers or wear symbols associated with Gravity in space (the reasoning for this varies--the fundies say it’s because Levinoxia can’t abide the suggestion of order in her domain, the cynics usually say “lol she’s a sailor, don’t remind her that she’s got a girl back home,” the romantics say being reminded of her wife simply causes her such a pique of longing and loneliness that she forgets to do her job and will leave the ship unprotected) so for superstitious spacefarers Levinoxia is THE goddess; many of them know no other beyond a name.

Levinoxia is often depicted as older than her wife (she is, if the creation story is to be believed) or as having a young face but an age-reddened light. Although she is the most passive of the goddesses, she is also considered the wisest.

[evolutionsvoid]

Whenever classification is involved, there are bound to be certain subjects or parameters that cause issues with the system. Like trying to create a distinct line between mages and sorcerers. Another good example, mainly for you natural historians, is trying to figure out the whole deal of dryad species vs. sub-species. Whenever one tries to set down clear cut rules, you will always find certain things that blur the perfect lines. Classification of mancers is no exception to the rule. While we define mancers as those whose mana is infected by a certain element and promptly consumed by it, there are those who somewhat, but not quite, fit that bill. Previous masters of magic who have been overwhelmed by their natural mana, that has been corrupted by misuse and elemental poisoning. This would seem easy to work with, except there are those who are steeped in magic and void of humanity, but are infused with a magic type that defies basic elements. Mancers whose elements are not normally used in magic, and should not have been able to infect their mana. A prime example of this is the Apiaromancer, or for a more common tongue, bee mages. An entity who has been consumed by the process of bee keeping and bee raising, and are rife with magic and mana that allows them to control it. Someone try to explain to me how on earth something like that happens. Many of us have tried, and have all horribly failed. The act of bee keeping has nothing to do with magic and should not require any use of mana. Despite this, there have been reports of Apiaromancers, entities who can control bees and honey, commanding them like a Hydromancer summoning a tidal wave. It makes zero sense, but they exist. Some have argued for putting them in a different class, but no one can decide on what that class should be defined as. For now, Apiaromancers are mancers, so we shall discuss more about them. Apiaromancers always arise from bee keepers, those who keep and maintain bee hives in order to produce honey. These are people who are obsessed with bees and everything that has to do with pollination and honey production. How someone goes from this to an Apiaromancer is beyond me. Perhaps their natural mana responds to the bees? Or maybe they are unknowingly using their mana to influence the hives? No one really knows, but at some point, a bee keeper may turn into an Apiaromancer. This event is extremely rare, to the point where only four Apiaromancers have ever been recorded. Even then, some believe that a few of these recordings are the same Apiaromancer, who has just shown up again after decades of hiding. In my life, so far, I have only met one Apiaromancer and I am quite lucky to have witnessed such an event. We will go more into him later, but let me just stress that Apiaromancers are very rare to encounter. To make things even harder, Apiaromancers always live in isolation. They prefer lands far away from civilization and frown upon intruders. This is because they care about one thing only: the bees.

An Apiaromancer devotes their entire existence to raising and caring for bees. Their territory is rife with hives and colonies, each painstakingly constructed and highly protected. The quarters of an Apiaromancer is often just a simple hut, kept primitive so that they may focus on the bees. Within their territory, they will cultivate fields of wild flowers, entire plains made of colors and blooms. Their variety is well balanced, ensuring that there are flower species always blooming throughout the entire growing season. These fields are meant for their bees, and are carefully controlled so that the bees have the perfect habitat. While they are mages of honey and bees, people have seen them working in the flower fields planting sprouts and pulling weeds. When they are not working in the fields, they are checking on the hives, making sure all is well. Though they have a particular fascination with honey bees, they also care for bumblebees, carpenter bees, miner bees and even shearing bees. From colony builders to solitary burrowers, any species of bee is welcome in their territory, and they will insure that they get the best treatment. While they seem to perform physical labor at all times, they do possess magical abilities. The primary one is their relationship with the bees. Through some form of communication, an Apiaromancer can speak to any kind of bee and command them. An entire swarm can follow their orders and perform complicated tactics when spoken to correctly. Those who have been attacked by an Apiaromancer's swarm have vouched for this uncanny control. Many talk about how the bees can move like coordinated army, cutting off escape routes, planning ambushes and going for vital areas. When Apiaromancers attack, they will command any bees that are in the area, and even some species of wasp. The swarms will descend upon the intruder and sting them mercilessly. Stories involving these swarms tell of grown warriors screaming like children and throwing themselves into rivers to escape the horde. Though Apiaromancers do not use flame and ice, they are beings to be reckoned with. To go with that is their ability to produce and control honey. While Apiaromancers use their bees to make some of the finest honey in the world, they can produce copious amounts of it from their body. Strange hive-like structures in their bodies can fire off waves of the sticky stuff, which they use solely for combat. The honey produced is thick and bland, terrible for consumption. When used as a tool, though, then it really shines. Some may find the use of honey as a weapon as hilarious, but they won't be laughing when a gob of it asphyxiates them. This magic honey can be used to glue foes to the ground, gunk up weapons, suffocate or blind enemies and block attacks. Some have even used it to climb up walls and stick to trees. When in the hands of a skilled Apiaromancer, this magic honey is just as deadly as any sword or spell. Lastly in their arsenal is the odd use of smoke. Many assume that smoke is within the territory of Pyromancers, but Apiaromancers seem to have a loose connection with it. When they were human, they used smoke to calm the colonies and collect honey, but now they could just talk to the bees directly. For some reason, though, parts of their body can create thick clouds of smoke, which is used for distracting and blinding opponents. In battle, Apiaromancers can simply disappear into clouds of smoke and strike from nowhere. With all these powers combined, they are extremely deadly and should not be messed with. Thankfully, this wrath only occurs when someone disturbs their hives or tramples their manicured flowers. As for the life of an Apiaromancer, I cannot say much. All I can really talk about is the one Apiaromancer I know, who goes by the name "The Beekeeper." That name isn't even his doing, as he never talks. The name was given by others, who figured they had to call him something. He lives the isolated life of an Apiaromancer, tending to fields and hives. He says not a word, and has never shown his face. In fact, no one really knows what happens to the body of an Apiaromancer when they turn. Many assume it assimilates with their suits and hives, but this is only speculation. Regardless, he is a mystery to many, and has worked hard to remain as such. He does not take well to intruders, and hates people who try to study him. Those who have taken up posts around his territory will slowly find themselves being watched by bees, and eventually driven away. He spends all his time on his fields and hives, and works hard to make honey that is so good that kings would pay fortunes for it. Which brings us to a very odd part about him, and that is the fact that he sells his honey. I know some would think that this is perfectly normal, but its weird, and I will tell you why. Apiaromancers are loners and have no care for humans or other species. They have zero need for money or approval, yet The Beekeeper will go into civilization to sell his honey to customers. To make this even odder, his business seems to appear and disappear with no rhyme or reason. He seemingly sells this stuff at random, and with little fanfare. The honey he sells is said to be more valuable then gold and tastier than any substance on this planet, yet he doesn't treat it like that. He could sell the stuff for thousands a jar, yet the price always remains at ten pieces. He could have people lined up at his store from here to the moon, yet he only sets up a small table in some back alley for no real reason. There are no announcements or signs, his presence only found out when some wanderer stumbles into his booth. If someone does discover his booth, they have learned to keep quiet about it. Apparently he dislikes crowds, so he always happens to disappear when the hordes descend upon his location. To get their hands on this legendary honey, some barons and kings have hired seekers who travel across the cities and towns in search for his booth. These people get paid handsomely for their efforts, which some find silly. This is only funny to those who haven't tasted that godly honey though. You would think I am over exaggerating this honey, but I kid you not. I have had the honor of tasting it once before, and honestly I could cut my tongue out now, since it won't be tasting anything finer. This stuff is treated like diamonds, and people go nuts over it. The interesting part about it, though, is that The Beekeeper hardly treats it as such. You would think he was selling canned beans with how he sells it. No real ceremony to it or any show of ego. He just stacks up jars on a little wooden table and patiently waits for people to stop by. I have heard he has even lowered the price for those who come up short on cash! Can you believe it?! The only show of reverence he gives his honey is the label he makes for the jars. Though practically a hermit and hardly a businessman, The Beekeeper has seen to it that his honey has its own brand and label for each jar. Each of these are handmade and painstakingly drawn. Its by these labels that people are able to identify that it is his honey, and not some impostor's. His label has a picture of a realistic honey bee wearing a chef's hat and working in a kitchen. The busy little bee (sorry about that) has a mixing bowl in two claws, stirring it with honey dipper in another and pouring a measuring cup of nectar with the fourth. The kitchen is stocked with all sorts of flowers, nectar jars and pistils. The name of this "brand" is "The Family Reci-Bee" which implies that The Beekeeper likes puns, despite being a person who will beat you to death for stepping on a flower. These labels are highly detailed, and for good reason. There are those who try to impersonate his honey and sell it at insane prices. Con artists try to forge their own labels and pass it off as The Beekeeper's in order to score crazy amounts of gold. With that, these labels and jars have gone over intense levels of scrutiny and study, with people looking for key missing details to spot a forgery. I seriously have heard a professional art appraiser tell someone that "the cupboard has too many pistils." So if you have ever wondered why pro art appraisers have the term "honey label verification" in their list of skills, this is why. Besides honey, The Beekeeper has been known to make a few other things from his hives. Beeswax is another, and is only used for personal use. People who have glimpsed his hut and its interior claim that practically everything of his is held together by beeswax. He uses it to waterproof his hives and make sure that they stay dry. Another product I have heard of is something called "Bee Bread." It comes in a loaf-like shape and is made entirely of pollen and a few drops of honey. He apparently "bakes" this stuff in his hut and puts it out if the season has grown foul for flower blooming. This is to insure the bees have a food source in case the weather is too nasty for them. This chalky, crumbly substance is also wildly loved by many other insects, including giant ants. It is said that The Beekeeper keeps his land free of giant ant infiltration by personally baking loaves of the stuff and presenting it to their queen. For us humans, the bread is very chalky, a bit sweet, but ultimately not that great. I assumed that perhaps dryads would like the stuff, but they find it repulsive. A word of advice, NEVER ask a dryad why they dislike Bee Bread. You will get one of the grossest analogies you have ever heard, and let me tell you, that stuff stays in your head for weeks. On the note of The Beekeeper and Apiaromancers as a whole, they are powerful mages but ultimately harmless. I wouldn't even put in a section describing how to fight them, as they are best left to their own business. Stay away from their hives and flowers, and you should be good. And if you are reading this section and have some how gotten your hands on that Family Reci-Bee honey, feel free to swing by my place and share it. Even if it is centuries after I have written this book, you double-check that I am dead before you think of hogging it all! By the Gods I need that stuff....           - Cavarious Shaid

[cmc-alumni]

19TH STREET, Manhattan

In mid-September 2008 I embarked on my first Forgotten mission after a brief, but horrendous battle with a stomach flu of some kind that struck on September 11th, of all dates, a couple of hours after a meal of baked chicken and boiled frozen vegetables. (Even now, in mid-October, your webmaster hasn’t returned to frozen corn, beans or peas, but I know I have to eventually for the sake of health; I have been depending on salads for vegetative intake). So, I opted for a relatively brief hike on 19th Street, which I had found interesting some monhs back and filed a mental note to revisit. Not only did I find interesting architectural elements, but also some oblique references to my own life, as we’ll see…

The Joyce Theatre, at 8th Avenue and 19th, is a 472-seat dance performace venue opened in 1982 in the renovated and remodeled Elgin Theatre, opened in 1942, that had come on hard times in the 1970s as a porno palace — the renovation was suprvised by architect Hugh Hardy, whose Radio City Music Hall tour I attended — he revived RCMH as well — as part of Open House NY in 2008.

Your webmaster is not a ballet or modern dance fan, but I note the theatre because it is named for one of the founders of one of my workplaces. Joyce Mertz-Gilmore along with her parents, Harold and LuEsther Mertz, founded Publishers Clearing House, the premier direct marketing company in the country, in their basement in Sands Point, NY, in 1953. photo: wikipedia

The Joyce Theatre exists in great part due to the philanthropic efforts of LuEsther Mertz.

Directly across the Joyce, on 8th Avenue and 19th, was a Blimpie where I would get lunch once a week while employed at an international-language typesetter, ANY Phototype, on West 29th. In June 1990 I acquired one of my worst-ever stomach flus (until this year) at that Blimpie. Look, it made me remember the place. It was decorated unusually: it was filled with house plants.

I’ve only been in the Peter McManus Cafe, at 7th Avenue and W. 19th, once — in 1993, I had just gotten out of class at the School of Visual Arts, went in and called a friend to meet me there, whence we went to see The Fugitive, the Harrison Ford version. (I had a splitting headache that day.)

McManus looks as if it has been here forever, but it isn’t nearly as old as, say, the Old Town Bar or the granddaddy, McSorley’s Ale House. It has been owned and operated by the McManus family since it opened in 1936.

Looking south on 7th Avenue toward the old Barney’s. Several new residential towers have appeared on this stretch in the last few years (not at the fever pitch of 6th Avenue in the West 20s, though). Dominating the landscape is the new Coke bottle-green-glass-clad Yves Chelsea tower at West 18th. The penthouse will go for $10M, at least it was going to before all the Wall Street hotshots, bankers, and ill-advised real estate buyers tanked the economy.

Speaking of the economy, the last time your webmaster was out of work, all my unemployment check arrangements were handled electronically and there was less of a need to cut up paperwork before throwing it away. Nevertheless there will always be a neeed for scissors and shears, and that’s where Griffon came in. According to faded ad historian Walter Grutchfield, the Griffon Cutlery Works was founded by Albert Silberstein in 1888 and was located here on West 19th between 1920 and 1968. As you can see from the link the ad was in much better shape in 1986, and time is gradually taking a toll.

Note the palimpsest at the bottom. The company changed from “Works” to “Corporation” in the 1940s and painted over Works with Corp. Both are showing up now.

This sign is also an “example” of unnecessary quotation “marks.” They’re all over the place.

Pinking shears, by the way, are shears with jagged edges, used to cut thick cloth.

2008, meet 1908 along the south side of West 19th just east of 7th Avenue.

The Henry Siegel-Frank Cooper Dry Goods store, built in 1895 and in business until 1914, is the largest of the 6th Avenue Ladies’ Mile emporia, containing 15.5 acres of floor space. It used to have a clock tower as well as a large fountain, since removed and placed in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Los Angeles. A ramp from the old Sixth Avenue El (razed in 1938) allowed passengers to walk directly into the store from the platform on the 18th Street side. This is Beaux Arts at its most Beaux.

The store pioneered the use of free samples, female salespersons, and air conditioning as customer inducements, and one of its mottoes was “Everything Under The Sun.” Industrialist/barbed-wire king John Warne Gates once made a bet with financier J. P. Morgan that the boast was just rhetorical. Gates asked a floorwalker if the store sold elephants, whereupon he was directed to the toy department; Gates responded that he meant a real elephant. The representative asked him what color, Gates responded “white” and the answer was “we’ll let you know the delivery date.” A few weeks later Gates received a telegram informing him his order would be arriving the next day at the docks: an albino elephant shipped from Ceylon. Gates paid Morgan the bet and donated the pachyderm to the Central Park Zoo.

I see something new every time I pass or enter the Siegel-Cooper building. For example, here is one of the intertwined S/C’s that flank the arched entrance.

All 4 corners of West 19th and 6th are held down bu beautiful buildings of varying beauty and fame. On the NW corner (above right) is the Simpson-Crawford Building, constructed in 1900 and home to the titular store until 1915. The store popularized the phrase, “if you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it” and indeed the store eschewed the use of sales tags.

A Greek Revival building on the NE corner (above right) is home to a Sports Authority. Paragon, on Broadway between East 17th and 18th Streets since 1908, is the big sports dog in the area.

At the SW corner (left) we see the first Benjamin Altman Building from 1876-1906, whereupon the store moved to a massive building that filled an entire block between 5th, Madison, East 34th and East 35th Streets, where it was in business for the following 83 years. Altman opened his first store at 3rd Avenue and east 10th Street in 1865.

At a time when real estate has gotten so prohibitively expensive that even big retailers like Barnes and Noble are forced out by high rents (as they were from their 6th Avenue and West 22nd Street location in 2008) it’s comforting to know that Apex Tech is still holding down the corner plot on West 19th. The school offers training in automotive, refrigeration, electrical, plumbing, carpentry, welding and auto repair since 1961.

Throughout the 1980s, when local channels 5, 9 and 11 were independently owned and showed mostly reruns and movies, the Apex tech commercials featuring the mustachioed Apex Tech Guy were a staple. His catchphrase was “Now, I can’t call you…”

Naturally, he doesn’t utter the famous phrase in this vintage Apex tech spot, but you get the idea…

A couple of midblock views between 5th and 6th Avenues. 35 West 19th, on the right, now home to Sala, a Spanish restaurant, is notable for being the longtime home of The Magickal Childe, ostensibly an occult bookstore but also featuring hexerei of the weird such as voodoo dolls, herbs used in potions, tarot cards and wicca (not witchcraft to devotees) paraphernalia. The Charmed girls would have fit right in.

The Cluett Building at 22-28 West 19th runs right through the block to 19-23 West 18th. The name of the building stirred a memory. Walter Grutchfield: The building was constructed in 1901/02 as the New York headquarters of Cluett, Peabody & Co. of Troy, NY. They were collar manufacturers and created the Arrow brand of detachable shirt collars. According to the Free Dictionary, “About 1905 the company began an advertising campaign that featured an idyllic young man wearing an Arrow shirt with the detached collar… Hundreds of printed advertisements were produced from 1907 to 1930 featuring the Arrow Collar Man. The fictional Arrow collar man became an icon and by 1920 received more than 17 thousand fan letters a day.”

I had to reach deep in the ForgottenArchives for this: Cluett, Peabody was a name I heard frequently in youth; both my grandmother and my mother (who I indicated, at left, in the photo of a company gathering that I’d estimate was from the early 1950s) worked at the Troy, NY company in the 1940s and 1950s.

Free Dictionary again: In the early 1920′s Cluett, Peabody & Co. began manufacturing their shirts with attached collars in response to consumer demand and became the most successful company in the U.S. at that time. Their sales increased to 4 million collars a week and arrow shirts with attached collars were being exported to foreign ports such as Jakarta, Indonesia, Java and the Belgian Congo. The Arrow Collar Man campaign ended in 1930 having been one of the most successful advertising campaigns in history.

My mother, of course, is the most attractive woman in the picture.

The Flatiron Lounge at 37 West 19th takes its name, of course, from the famed Fuller (Flatiron) Building at 5th Avenue, Broadway and 23rd Street.

I’m rarely in Sam Flax but only because I fear that when I’m in here, I’ll spend too much. Flax is second only to Pearl Paint in providing art supplies and everything necessary for putting pen or brush to paper. I hope its locale between 19th and 20th Streets west of 5th Avenue isn’t closing.

LEFT: Idlewild Books, a new travel book store, has become one of my new favorites (especially since the ForgottenBook is displayed prominently within). “Idlewild” was the old name for John F. Kennedy International Airport. Good luck, though, in the shadow of the Barnes and Noble flagship at 5th and East 18th.

At the SE corner of 5th Avenue and West 19th is the Arnold, Constable Building, yet another former department store.

Jim Naureckas, NY Songlines: Nine West, Victoria’s Secret are in former department store (1869-1914) that took up the entire block from 5th to 6th avenues; founded by Aaron Arnold and son-in-law James Constable, it offered “Everything From Cradle to Grave.” Mary Todd Lincoln was a frequent customer, as well as Carnegies, Rockefellers and Morgans.

Another Constable building can be found on Canal Street.

Briton Arthur Arnold opened a dry goods store in 1825 and took on James Constable as a partner in 1842. After the firm thrived for over a century, the last Arnold Constable store, at 5th Avenue and 40th Street, closed in 1975. (The comma, like the New York Times period, has disappeared along the way, so latterday customers thought an Arnold Constable was the original shopkeeper.)

Two narrow 1900-era towers flank West 19th Street at 5th Avenue. The building on the right was the longtime home of Weiss & Mahoney Army & Navy store and the former locale of the 5th Avenue Presbyterian Church (1852-1875). Your webmaster’s first job out of school was in 150 5th Avenue, a block away on 20th.

A pair of great escapes on East 19th between 5th Avenue and Broadway.

ABOVE: ABC Carpet, SE corner Broadway and East 19th, formerly W&J Sloane Furniture. RIGHT: contrast 35 and the Modernist 37 East 19th. 35 was the residence of Horace Greeley, editor, abolitionist and politician, from 1850-1853.

LEFT: NW corner Park Avenue South and East 19th, new tower tries for a Starrett-Lehigh vibe but doesn’t quite get there; I prefer the Doric-columned neo Renaissance apartment building at 105.

The American Woolen Building actually is entered on 221-227 Park Avenue South (marked with a ram’s head), while this, at 102-104 East 19th, is the freight entrance.

I’ve always loved the corner apartment building at 81 Irving Place and 123 East 19th — it’s festooned with dozens of terra cotta gnomes. And more gnomes.

For this 14-story apartment house, architect George Pelham, one of New York’s most active apartment-house designers, exploited the requirements of the zoning law to create an exuberant design [in 1929-1930] with dramatic setbacks and a striking rooftop pavilion surrounding the water tower. The building, planned with 107 small apartments, is faced with brick, often laid in intricate patterns to add excitement to the facades. The building is ornamented wth beige terra-cotta detail of a very high quality. Terra-cotta features include columns, balconies, and gargoyles embellished with animal heads, monsters, and other fanciful detail. NYC Architecture

The figure below right seems to be influenced by cartoonist R.F. Outcault’s 1890s creation, the Yellow Kid.

East 19th changes character, rather abruptly, for the block between Irving Place and 3rd Avenue and transforms itself into a tree-lined, suburban-style stretch dotted with small brick buildings, carriage houses and cottages. The tone is set by the ivy-covered NE corner building. Pete’s Tavern is one block south of here at East 18th.

In the early 20th Century the creative community had a great presence on this block, which was home to actresses Theda Bara, Dorothy and Lillian Gish, Ethel Barrymore and Helen Hayes; playwrights, authors and activists F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Reed, Emma Goldman and Eugene O’Neill were visitors.

There’s some riotous terra cotta tilework on the north side of the block; much of it is the work of architect Frederick Sterner and artist Richard Winthrop Chandler.

146 East 19th was home to painter George Bellows from 1910-1925, a man who lived the high life. “I went there in the evening a young girl and came away in the morning an old woman,” as Ethel Barrymore once said. Bellows, along with Edward Hopper, studied under Robert Henri at the NY School of Art and became a luminary in the modernistic Ashcan School. Possibly Bellows’ most famous painting was his depiction of Luis Firpo (“The Wild Bull of the Pampas”) knocking Jack Dempsey through the ropes in the first round in a 1923 fight. Dempsey recovered to KO Firpo in the second round. Artist Eric Joyner does a takeoff on Bellows’ vision in The Final Blow.

At 226 3rd Avenue on the NW corner is a terrific painted sign for the Piccolo restaurant.

The block of East 19th between 3rd and 2nd Avenues is dominated by the rather forbidding Mother Cabrini Medical Center, originally Columbus Hospital. Andy Warhol was treated here when he was shot by Valerie Solanas in 1968.

Saint Frances Xavier Cabrini (1850-1917), the first US Citizen to be canonized as a saint by the Roman Catholic Church, founded the Missionary Sisters of the Sacred Heart and established 67 orphanages throughout the USA , South America and Europe. Since 1931 her preserved remains have been displayed at Mother Cabrini Shrine in Fort Washington in upper Manhattan on a street named in her honor, Cabrini Boulevard.

Some bits of an increasingly retreating Little Old New York in the easternmost segment of East 19th, between 2nd and 1st Avenues.

We’ve already seen an item on 19th Street that reminded me of my mother. Here’s one that reminds me of the old man, who worked at Stuyvesant Town from 1955-1988 as a custodian. The apartment complex was constructed in the 1947 by Metropolitan Life Insurance Company; Peg Leg Pete, the Director-General of New Amsterdam, lived in this site on his farm in the late 1600s. It was championed by Robert Moses as part of his slum-clearance program in mid-century. When first opened, the complex would not rent to African-Americans, and the discrimination was held up in court. “Stuy Town” reversed the policy several years later. For many years, though the project didn’t have the necessary wiring for air conditioning, the waiting list for an apartment was quite long. The list was abolished when Met Life set about converting and upgrading the apartments to market rents beginning in 2006. Your webmaster foolishly never asked to get on “the list”, though Stuy Town would no doubt be trying to get my rent stabilized self out if I lived there now!

[forresthom-blog]

12/02/19 Experiencing the New World: Crossing the Atlantic and Reading Old Scribblings

The past few days have been riddled with firsts: my first time flying alone, my first time in America, and my first time calling up and working with archival resources. Compared to my previous entries that have had an informative, historical angle, this post contains primarily my own musings about everything that has happened to me since I started my adventure at 3am last Friday. From an empty plane to crowding around the signatures of the Founding Fathers, and from being given free bread for being British to learning how to cross the road again - check out the first (and incredibly long) installment of The Making of the Angels in Blue right here!

Flying over the Atlantic. The ocean looked majestic and placid from so high. In the time of the Civil War, it took around two weeks to cross by boat. News reports also had to cross with the boats (there had been a functioning transatlantic telegraph cable in 1858 that shortened communication times to minutes, but it broke after just three weeks).

My journey from Birmingham to Bethesda, Maryland (a suburb of Washington, DC) took just under twenty-one hours. Only my final leg of my trip from Bethesda’s Metro station to my accommodation was made using a mode of transport available in the 1860s (foot!).

Economy class was almost empty! So, I spread out across three seats. My long haul plane flight was not long enough; I was actually disappointed to get off my flight and stop watching films, listening to music, playing solitaire, staring out the window, getting waited on by cabin crew, and getting twice as many drinks as if the flight was full. I can only hope that the flight will be just as empty on my overnight trip home...

Twenty-two years of observing the United States of America from afar - whether it be through TV, film, the news, sports, music, and so on - has resulted in me constructing a highly detailed, and doubtless prejudiced, perspective of what the self-professed ‘Land of the Free’ is like. Consequently, a lot of my initial reactions to the country are seen through this prejudiced lens. Nevertheless, the airport was huge, the border security was sharp, and the roads were several lanes wide. So far, my impression of America was as expected! Then, on the Metro, I had friendly chats with three strangers (from memory, this has never happened in my years of using the Tube). To top it all, on the night of my arrival, I went to Trader Joe’s for bread and milk and a very attentive shop assistant noticed I was struggling to find what I was looking for. When she discovered that I had just arrived that afternoon, I was given free parbaked bread rolls to welcome me to the United States. America and Americans certainly did not disappoint me!

Paying a visit to President Trump’s humble abode - perhaps I could post him a letter asking him nicely to not close any of my archives while I am researching for my dissertation...

My first full day was spent sightseeing around the centre of Washington, DC. Around every corner was hidden a new monument, building, or yet another star spangled banner. French-American military engineer Pierre Charles L’Enfant (1754-1825) drew up the plans for the capital city of the USA. It was designed to be a grand metropolis full of neo-classical architecture and monuments to great Americans. The National Mall from the the Lincoln Memorial to the Capitol Building is a staggering three kilometres in length. It was exciting to see in person all the views I had seen hundreds of times in photos and videos.

One view was particularly striking. As I was walking towards the Lincoln Memorial alongside the Reflecting Pool (which is much bigger than it looks), I turned to look back at the Washington Monument. L’Enfant’s plan for the National Mall was highly uniform with all the monuments aligned and symmetrical. By the side of the Reflecting Pool, I was slightly off centre and as such I caught a glimpse of the great neo-classical dome of the Capitol peering out from behind the Washington Monument which - due to L-Enfant’s exact design - had hidden the seat of Congress. Out loud I said, “bl$#dy h*ll”! 

Here is the view of Congress that made me audibly swear. Admittedly, a phone camera and my limited photography skills do not pay justice to how breathtaking the view really was. The bright white of its dome and its sheer size (at 87.8m it is less than 10m shorter than Big Ben) was what impressed me most. A further result of the impressive architectural planning of the city, when I cross Pennsylvania Avenue to get to the National Archives, there is a stunning view of the Capitol Buidling perfectly framed by the buidlings either side of the road leading up to it. Unfortunately, due to crossing a busy main road each time, I have not managed to snap this view...

Escaping the cold, I then took a couple of quick trips around the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum and National Gallery (in case a certain peculiarly orange gentleman with hair that blows away in the wind decided to close them again at the end of the week). Perhaps the most exciting thing for me at the National Gallery was a collection of three John Constable paintings. Constable lived and worked along the Essex-Suffolk border in the country that now bears his name: Constable Country. I grew up close to where Constable lived and worked; it was great to see his work exhibited so prominently so far from England and to see a little piece of Constable Country residing across the pond.

To finish my day, I went to the public side of the National Archives to see the originals of the Declaration of Independence and Constitution. I was inches from the signatures of all the Founding Fathers: most notably George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, James Madison and the world famous Broadway star Alexander Hamilton...

The most challenging thing that has faced me so far in the city has been crossing the roads. The roads here are massive and so are the cars. The crossings all look different and some are zebra crossings as we know them in Britain and some look like them but are most certainly not. Cars give way to pedestrians on ‘crosswalks’, but it feels wrong when you are just casually walking across the road in downtown Washington, DC and all the cars are just letting you go. The worst part, however, is waiting to cross not knowing whether you are allowed to ‘jaywalk’ when there are no cars but the crossing is still at ‘wait’, or if the police will spring out from nowhere and reprimand me. Anyway, I am sure I will learn.

On Sunday, I chilled out and recovered from my exhaustive day of endless walking, exploring, and road crossing (!) from the day before. Until the afternoon when I was itching to continue discovering new things. I had heard from some of my housemates that there were spare bikes in the garage. They had also talked to me about the Capital Crescent Trail and how good it was for running and cycling. So, it would have just been plain rude to not have taken a bike ride down the trail!

Getting out of Bethesda and cycling the Capital Crescent Trail was a welcome break from the city. It was now nature’s turn to astound me. What was most impressive was the magnitude of the open space I witnessed on my ride. Despite the vast majority of my journey being within the District of Columbia, the wide expansiveness of North America was tangible nonetheless.

The trail follows an disused railway line of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad that mainly served to deliver goods to Georgetown in the Northwest of the District of Columbia. It also runs alongside the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal and the Potomac River.

Even though I was only a couple of miles from the centre of Washington and was within the District of Columbia itself, the air was clear and I was surrounded by trees, nature and many local residents running, cycling and strolling down the path.

Another breathtaking glimpse of an iconic monument that Ben’s photography pays no justice. This time, it was the turn of the Washington Monument appearing in the distance across the fast-flowing and very wide Potomac River. I learned the day before that when it was completed, the Washington Monument was the tallest building in the world (555ft [169m]). However, at 150ft (46m) up, the quarry used for the stone changes. There is a clear line where the colour changes. I am sure that if you are building the world’s tallest building, you can at least keep the colour of its stone consistent. Now I have seen the colour change, I cannot unsee it. 

How very off-putting. L’Enfant was not alive when the structure he planned was completed in 1848, but I am sure he was still seething about that ridiculous colour change.

Yet, the weekend soon came to an end and it was time to get cracking on what I traveled over three and a half thousand miles to do: visiting archives!

Against my initial plans, my work this week was primarily at the National Archives and Records Administration. It was closed as part of the longest government shutdown in history throughout the end of December and January. The threat is that the funding, which runs out on Friday, will not be renewed and the archives will be forced to close again.

The National Archives building keeps up Washington’s neo-classical theme with its impressive columns. Flanking the research entrance, are two plinths with quotes engraved. The lefthand quote is above: WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE. A meaningful quote alluding to an idea that all of history has led up to this moment and that by researching history we can discover how we got here. This notion is slightly teleological (the concept that history has a direction and an overall goal), but it is interesting and thought-provoking nonetheless. In comparison, the righthand quote reads: STUDY THE PAST. Which seems rather dull and uninspired. Almost as if someone asked a bored historian what they get up to, ‘I study the past. I am a historian’.

It was exciting to be going to a real archives, looking at real documents, for real research and I almost felt like a real historian and not the amateur imposter that I really am! In all seriousness, it was daunting filling out request forms for the documents I wanted. It was also a privilege to be working in the National Archives where the general public do not get to visit. It was an even greater privilege to be able to read through the letter books of the Civil War.

The greatest difficulty I found was reading the nineteenth-century handwriting. Once tuned in, it was less challenging. 

Inside a snazzy lift that is a pretty good match for my top. By my second day at the National Archives, I felt at home moving between the reading room, consultation room and the canteen for lunchtime and was beginning to recognise security guards and archive assistants began to learn my name. ‘A trolley for Forrest!’: being the call when a large set of letters sent to the Surgeon General arrived. Although it was exciting hearing my name called, the trolley of letters meant I had a lot of hunting to do for my small handful of indexed letters I was searching for.

All in all, this is a very long but potted summary of my first five days traveling to, around and working in the United States. I have enjoyed immersing myself in the friendly, go-getter culture of America and it has been amazing experiencing so many things that I have seen for years on screen (hearing and seeing fire engines with firemen leaning on the window while they roar down the street is a highlight, alongside the grand buildings and monuments of DC). Well done if you stuck with my longest post so far all the way to the end!

My plans for the coming days are to finish up my work at the National Archives and look to begin my most important work at the Library of Congress by the end of the week. I also plan to visit the National Portrait Gallery - which is right outside the Metro station I take to the National Archives. On Saturday, I plan to go to Fletcher’s Cove Parkrun which is on the Capital Crescent Trail.

Upcoming blog posts include an amusing story of an Amulance Corps Captain and his stuggle to acquire paint and hopefully my experiences of being a ‘Fresh Fish’ Civil War recruit when I take part in a reenactment with the 3rd US reenactors on Saturday the 23rd of February.