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permanentclawgrip · 2 years ago

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okay this was originally part of my roommate rant post but imma do it separately because its more of a critique of a mindset:

I do not understand rapid completionist collecting culture

i know what youre saying, "eve, what the fuck are you talking about that makes no sense" let me explain

theres probably a proper term for it but I've noticed a worrying trend specifically in online spaces recently of rapid completionist collecting culture. basically a subculture of wider collectors which focuses on the attainment of a "complete collection" as fast as possible and often with a disregard for the actual content of what they are collecting. i have seen posts about this in comic collecting forums. ive seen similar kinds of posts on video game forums. my experience with it has been through my roommate though, who i will kind of vaguepost about (nothing new for this blog tho).

My roommate, who we'll call Adam (not his real name) for the sake of brevity, has a real strange relationship with these cultures. I first noticed it soon after i moved in with him, when he decided to watch every publicly available tv show and movie that marvel has made,,, ever,,, including every ,,, single ,,, saturday ,,, morning ,,, cartoon. this small feat took months. all catalogued in a nice tidy spreadsheet noting the runtime of them, the episode count of the shows, which storylines were adapted (iirc), and his overall rating (again iirc). this was not a months long project because oh he only watched an episode or two a day, no not at all. i would leave for work with some x-men cartoon playing in our living room and come home to fantastic 4 playing instead. every day. hours upon hours. it was not a simple, "oh one day ill watch them all eventually". it was a dedicated marathon of back to back to back marvel. it honestly completely burnt me out on all things superhero just being in proximity to it.

so what is there to take from this? "let people like stuff!" "its just a show why are you so mad?" well its hard to put my finger on it to be honest without sounding pretentious or hyperbolic. ill try my best...

in just a second...

first lets get pretentious!

i personally find this style of engaging with content to be very shallow. ive always kind of had a bone to pick with background watching, having a show on while doing some other task, but this is different. while background watching is annoying imo, most of the time people are doing so with shows that are kind of built for that (think sitcoms or light dramas) where you can kind of tune in and tune out on a whim and the point is more on the other activity that the show is the background stimulation for (i.e. homework, sewing, cooking, hanging with friends, etc.). in short, when background watching, the point is not to really watch the show. so that should be the polar opposite to what my friend was doing, right? nope! all these stats and all this time, just to usually be playing destiny or scrolling through DiscussingFilms' twitter posts for most of it. this is a recipe for not really getting anything from these shows.

secondly, the binge model is kind of horrible for story engagement or thematic understanding. there are very few stories in long form media which adapt well to binging. it has been discussed before, so im not going to re-litigate those arguments here, but suffice to say that binging is bad actually. pair that with these shows mostly being background fodder and it just strikes me as profoundly pointless.

Maybe I just have different wants from my media than others, but i usually like my media to have a point beyond just "it looks cool" or "it belongs to an ip i like". spin offs dont really excite me unless theres a reason for it to exist beyond just "hey look at this cool side character! guess what? theyre a main character now!" yes a lot of good stuff has come from "spin off" series (look at puss in boots: the last wish as just one example), but their mere existence will never excite me. i prefer to really watch movies or tv shows that im interested in: dim the lights, grab some popcorn, and set aside time to really engross myself in every detail. its not for every show and it is a little time consuming, but the depth in every piece of art that you learn to see is so worth it. but maybe thats not everyone priority.

okay now lets get hyperbolic!

im not going to sugar coat this and itll sound weird, but i see a lot of similarities between this kind of hyper obsessive yet shallow fixation and some very very disgusting subcultures online. and i dont mean that because i dont understand them. i mean that because i am sadly referencing many of the boys and young men who fall down the alt-right pipeline through porn fixation. if you do not know what i am talking about, youll have to trust me on this because i do not think that anyone should look these things up on their own because good god every trigger warning possible applies if you look at some of these peoples accounts. they make my stomach churn and i am pretty resilient to things. basically for those who dont know, what im referring to is a subculture of predominantly young men who become obsessed with porn and porn stars to the point that it is all they can think about. if this is giving hints of incels, it should because the venn diagram is actually just a smaller circle within a larger circle. their obsession and incel nature leads them to the expected political and social beliefs: misogyny, transphobia, grooming, forced marriage, etc. truly some of the worst humans.

now is this a leap? admittedly yes. but i dont think the comparison isnt without merit. the initial actions are the same and both lead to heavy levels of social isolation. sure you have your in group that understands every reference you make, but beyond them, you become stunted. that social isolation is the most dangerous fuel for a man to have.

overall thesis

i could write at length about this topic (and who knows i might one day) but ill keep it brief for now. in short, this trend of hyper obsessive binging that ive seen is extremely confusing to me at best and potentially dangerous at worst. i wish i had a way to break people's habits with this kind of thing but sadly i do not know how.

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jschllatt · 4 years ago

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𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐁𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 | 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

Prompt: (Based off of the song I Wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys) Clay’s recent fame leads to a difficult decision to be made. Months later, he’s still regretful. You seem to be fine, so why can’t he move on, too?

Warnings: Swearing, alcohol consumption, slight angst

Pairing: Dream x GN!Reader

Words: 2.5k

Masterlist

I spent a week on this and idk how I feel about it but I hope you enjoy <3

Clay had been consumed by an overwhelming emptiness, his entire body hollow as the lack of your presence took its toll.

Two months. Two devastating months had passed since he’d made a grave mistake, and now he was facing the agonous repercussions. He was a mess—anyone could see it. Between his long, disheveled hair, the light scruff that covered his face, and his bloodshot eyes, it was clear that Clay’s mind had been somewhere else. And it had been. Every passing second was a constant reminder of his solitude, causing the emptiness in his heart to evolve into a deep, incessant void, no longer inhabited by the happiness you had ingrained in him just months before. Why? Clay was overcome with a sense of deep regret as a result of your absence, feeling more alone than he ever had before. What could have possibly happened to make him feel this way? To make you leave? The answer was rather simple—he was just too damn busy.

Clay had dedicated a considerable amount of time to his career, filming or streaming during the little free time he had. As he grew more popular, the time that you had spent in each other’s presence dwindled significantly, each day becoming lonelier than the last. Your interactions with him had shortened drastically—what were once long, lingering kisses placed on your forehead had devolved into chaste pecks, void of any true care or meaning. While you understood entirely that Clay’s career was important, you found yourself slowly losing hope.

You realized it one day as he was filming.

It was a day no different from the last. Clay was recording a Manhunt video in his office, his voice shrill as he begged his friends for mercy. He was always loud when he filmed, and though you had chastised him for it countless times, he never listened. A loud sigh escaped your lips, going unheard, and you shifted your position on the couch, uncomfortable. Everyday seemed to be the same—each as lonely and frustrating as the last. Clay’s ignorance only fueled your apathy towards your relationship more, and you couldn’t help but find yourself growing hopeless at the thought of Clay being unaware of your unhappiness. Your troubled thoughts continued until a week had passed—a long, grueling week in which you had hopelessly tried to burrow your apathetic thoughts. But you couldn’t. You were giving up. The realization of your unhappiness made a pit grow in your stomach. You knew that you cared about Clay, but you couldn’t keep living the way you were—tired, unacknowledged, pitiful.

And so, you let him go.

Clay was editing by the time you gathered the courage to face him, your stomach nauseous as you approached his office door. A light knock signaled your presence, and Clay muttered a quiet ‘come in,’ his voice raspy after hours of unuse. Blowing out a breath, you entered the room, your expression sullen upon noticing Clay’s inattentiveness. His eyes were still glued to his monitor, deeply focused on editing rather than your presence. You waited for a few seconds, silently hoping he would pay you any mind, but he didn’t. A wave of disappointment washed over you, though you managed to keep your voice steady as you declared, “We should break up.” Clay tensed in his seat, suddenly fixated on your words rather than the hours worth of footage he was editing. His chair turned with a quiet squeak as he swiveled around to face you. “What?” You sensed the subtle indignation of his tone as he squinted confusedly at your abrupt words. “We should break up.” You were much quieter this time, unable to meet his eyes as your words died silently in the tense air. You wrung your hands together anxiously as you leaned back on your heels, feeling awkward under Clay’s intense gaze. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you should’ve just stayed quiet and dealt with it. Maybe—

“Okay.”

Immediately, your eyes flickered up to meet his, filled with a silent desperation as you searched his emerald irises for any indication of his intentions. Nothing.

“Okay?”

Clay remained silent for a moment, his body stiff as he leaned back in his noisy chair. His expression was inscrutable as he stared at you blankly, trying to find the right words to say as he watched your face remain solemn at his confound brevity. His voice was level as he spoke, “I know I’ve been busy lately. We haven’t spent a lot of time together and that’s my fault. I could sit here and promise to change, but we both know I can’t—not right now.” Though you felt your heart shatter, you knew he was right. His job was too important, too time consuming.

A nod signaled your understanding and you turned to leave, feeling overwhelmingly dejected.

“Hey.” You turned around to meet Clay’s eyes, noticing the hurt that was settled in them. “I hope you know I care about you.” You fought the urge to cry and shot him a watery smile, struggling to keep your tone unwavering as you agreed, “Me too.”

Two months had passed.

Clay had been struggling. Everyone knew it—his friends, family, even his fans. It was clear that the once cheerful, happy man had become melancholy, suddenly depressed and unable to hide his unhappiness on camera. There had been numerous speculations of why this was, but only few knew the truth. Sapnap was among one of them and had been staying at Clay’s for the past month, creating content with his best friend while simultaneously making sure he was okay. Though two months had passed, Clay was still a mess. Perhaps it was because it hadn’t hit him that day. He had momentarily convinced himself that his career was more important than you, but deep down he knew that wasn’t true. He wanted so desperately to reach out to you, but assumed you had moved on—another incorrect belief of his. Clay cooped himself up in his home, never leaving unless it was urgent. He had sunken into a deep depression and the only remedy for his pain was you. You. He treated you so poorly. Everyday was a constant reminder of your absence and it was his fault. He could’ve made more time for you, or at least spent the free time he had with you.

Remorseful thoughts ran through his head everyday, nearly driving himself crazy, and Sapnap knew he needed to get Clay out of the house.

“There’s a party tonight, I think we should go.” Clay immediately denied the offer with a shake of his head, grumbling to himself. His best friend sighed indignantly, blowing out a breath of frustration before stating, “You don’t have a choice, you need to get out of the house.�� Sapnap stood his ground, arms crossed as he stared at Clay sternly. A minute had passed and Clay, aware of his best friend’s stubbornness, gave in begrudgingly, “Fine, but only for an hour.” Sapnap grinned triumphantly, exiting the room with a smirk. He slammed the door behind him, heading back to his room while yelling, “And shave, for fuck sake.” Clay shook his head, cracking a small smile at his friend’s words.

The party was overwhelming to say the least. Bodies swarmed the crowded living room, reeking of alcohol and sweat. Music blared from a speaker, a shrill, nearly deafening melody that was sure to give Clay a headache by the end of the night. The room was buzzing with conversation, every word drowning out in the loud atmosphere. Almost immediately, Clay was passed a beer, and he lifted the bottle to his lips to take a swig. If Sapnap was going to make him stay here, he may as well take some edge off while doing so. A few minutes had passed and he finished the bottle, discarding it in a bin nearby. “I’m gonna go get another drink.” Clay muttered to Sapnap, who was talking loudly to a group of people he’d recognized. His best friend patted his back in response, chuckling as he gave him a playful shove towards the kitchen. Stumbling through the drunken crowd, Clay soon broke free as he neared his destination. He grabbed a beer, opening it skillfully off of the edge of a table, and turned around wordlessly. Taking a big sip, he hoped to free his mind from thoughts of you. Though he wasn’t one to drink, especially when upset, Clay knew that, aside from you, alcohol was the only other solution to temporarily mask his pain. He’d already drank half before he warned himself to slow down, knowing that if he got too drunk, he’d probably do something he regretted. Turning around so he could rejoin Sapnap, Clay nearly dropped his drink on the floor, feeling his heart drop.

His eyes met yours. And then, he heard the music.

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner

Breathin’ in your dust.

Clay felt his breath hitch in his throat, noticing the surprise in your eyes as you stared at him, astonished. As he stood there, staring at you shamelessly, he regretted it—everything. He regretted how he neglected you, ignored you, prioritized all of the wrong things when the only right thing in his life was right in front of him: you. Memories flashed before his eyes, quick and familiar, yet saddening all the same. The way you smiled at him from across the room when he was filming, the way you held him when he was stressed, the way you spoke to him, softly, while he was streaming to check up on him. Everything.

I wanna be your Ford Cortina

I will never rust

You looked away, suddenly nervous, though the eye contact was all-too-familiar. You felt your heart begin to race as you processed every detail of Clay’s face—from his anxious expression to the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked like a mess. But so did you. You mirrored most of his tired, dejected qualities because you, too, were hurting.

If you like your coffee hot

Let me be your coffee pot

Snapping you out of your daze, you felt a tug on your arm. “Hey, you alright?” Your friend asked worriedly. Nodding briskly, you muttered a quiet ‘yeah’ and smiled in a poor attempt to sound convincing. Seconds passed, and you could still feel the intensity of Clay’s burning gaze as your friend tugged you through the crowd, handing you a drink in the process. You dared to look up, instantly locking eyes with Clay, and swallowed thickly. You knew you couldn’t avoid him forever, not when he was looking at you like that—desperate, longing.

You call the shots, babe

I just wanna be yours

Lifting up the red solo cup to your lips, you downed its contents quickly, eliciting a few laughs and impressed hollers from your friends. You were never the type to drink, but you felt that it was necessary, especially when you knew Clay was still staring at you intently. Downing another shot, you risked glancing up towards Clay, but he was gone. Suddenly anxious as a result of his absence, you surveyed the room. Nothing. “I’m gonna go get a drink.” You said before you could stop yourself, not giving your friends the chance to answer you before you ventured into the kitchen. You tried to dodge the swaying, drunken bodies as you made your way quickly into the room, frowning upon entry. Clay wasn’t there either. You sighed, frustrated, and grabbed a beer, struggling to open it. You nearly laughed at your incompetence, feeling sadly nostalgic despite the humor you found in your struggles—Clay had always opened your beers, then teased you for being incapable. You fought back an onslaught of tears at the memory and sighed deeply, leaning against the table with your head in your hands.

Secrets I have held in my heart.

“Hey.” Your body jolted at the sound of his voice. Daring to turn around, you felt your chest constrict at the sight of him clutching your now-opened beer, a sad smile plastered on his tired features.

Are harder to hide than I thought.

“Hey.” You breathed. Clay passed the beer to your shaking hand, trying to ignore the way his fingers brushed against yours. Chewing on the inside of his cheek nervously as he tried to find the right words to say, Clay admitted, “I’m sorry.” A few quiet moments passed, though they felt like an eternity, and you replied simply, “Don’t be.” You tried to hide the tremor that shook your arm as you took another swig of your beer, noticing how Clay’s face fell in sudden disappointment. What? Did you say the wrong thing? You didn’t want Clay to feel guilty, to blame himself for your failed relationship though it was mostly his fault. Why? Because you cared about him. You could immediately sense the despair that washed over him. And, though you weren’t sure if it was the alcohol coursing through your veins or the pure adrenaline from the moment, you hugged him.

Maybe I just wanna be yours

I wanna be yours

Clay tensed at your touch, wondering if the beer had gotten to him or if this really was happening. It was. He soon wrapped his arms around your waist, grip purposeful as he tugged you into him. Your head rested against his chest, the steady thumping of his heartbeat in your ear far more of a melodic sound compared to any music you’d ever listened to.

Wanna be yours

Clay swayed the two of you softly, resting his chin atop your head. You clung to him tightly, shutting your eyes as he held you, gentle. “I missed you so much.” You admitted before your mind could even process it. Clay chuckled, lowering his head so his lips were close to your ear, “I missed you more, baby.” You tried to fight the grin that plastered itself on your face as you took in his words, squeezing his torso with such force you were sure he’d explode. Clay went to speak again, caressing your sides so gently you could barely feel it, before being interrupted.

“Holy shit, there you are, dumbass!”

Sapnap.

Clay pulled away from you to glare at his best friend, trying to ignore the shit eating grin on Sapnap’s face as he glanced at you. “My bad, I didn’t mean to interrupt...whatever the hell I just interrupted. I just wanted to make sure you were alright, but you clearly are.” Before either of you could respond, he left, shooting his friend a thumbs up before disappearing into the crowd. You couldn’t help but laugh at the interaction, noticing the slight rosiness Clay’s cheeks had suddenly sported, embarrassed. “Sorry about that, he…” Clay struggled to find the perfect word to describe his best friend, but trailed off. “Yeah.” You agreed, seemingly understanding what he meant despite his silence. Clay laughed, then. The sound was music to your ears, and when his smile faded, the two of you were serious again. Clay’s hand found refuge in yours as he began to speak, his face solemn as he confessed, “I lied. I can change. I will right now if you want me to—I’d do anything for you.”

Wanna be yours

You smiled lovingly at the man, interlocking the fingers of his hand that wasn’t already occupied in yours, and pulled him closer to you, wanting him near.

Wanna be yours

“Deal.”

#dream imagine #dreamwastaken imagine #dream x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #dream angst #dreamwastaken angst #mcyt x reader #mcyt imagine #mcyt angst

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thejustmaiden · 3 years ago

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So out of nowhere I was tagged and quoted by a SR shipper for a blog of mine posted in August of last year. Talk about throwback but, hey, gotta appreciate that level of snooping. 😉

Back in the day I actually used to encourage discourse amongst Inuyasha fans- both shippers and antis alike- but I've since realized that it's a lost cause. But for you, @feministmetalgreymon , I'll grant this exception. Just 'cause it's been a while so why the hell not. haha

I want to assure you, however, that nothing you say will ever convince me that Sesshomaru and Rin are meant to be together romantically or that the story intended it so. Nor will you find any validation here. You can ship them for all I care, but please for all that is good and holy while I have your attention try- I mean really try- to understand why it is so many of us Inuyasha fans are so against this pairing in the first place (newsflash: it's not about ship wars), and why we believe a romance between the two of them is completely and utterly out of character.

For those of you interested in reading this, the blog of mine in question that the above shipper mentions in their counter-argument is here for reference. It's titled "Jaken = Rin's Dad?" I'm going to try and keep this short, but I'm also making no such promises. After all, I'm not exactly known for my brevity. haha Now let's get crackin'!

Like you, feministmetalgreymon, did for your recent blog here where you took screenshots of mine to address certain parts, I will be doing the same and dissecting yours accordingly.

[Snippet 1]

I worked with kids for many years as a teacher, and many people in my family have too or still do. Two of them happen to be just over 5 feet which is quite short for the average adult woman living here. I've also worked alongside many a women of short stature, and never did I hear any of them complaining of issues with their students having difficulty differentiating them from their own peers just because they were short as well. I'm sorry but that's just ridiculous. Kids are quite smart and pick up on a lot more than you seem to give them credit for. Height is not the only characteristic they look at to determine who's an adult and who's not, and it's foolish to suggest otherwise. So unless you're a babysitter who's still in their teens and/or who has very childlike features or behavior then I'm afraid what you're getting at is total hogwash. This is just another example of how you shippers offer nothing of real substance to your reasoning, it's only ever cherry-picking or strawmanning from you guys. Stop deflecting from the real issues please, because this certainly isn't one and only winds up being a complete waste of time for all parties involved.

[Snippet 2]

Okay, calm down now. I wasn't insinuating that relationships between parents and children can't change over time in terms of how they get along. Of course that's possible, as all families experience their fair share of estrangement and abuse. What I was speaking about was in reference to the overall dynamic between the two. Because a bad mother or father can still be viewed as a parental figure to their child even if say they're not in said child's life anymore. Since Sesshomaru and Rin share a healthy bond- and just a friendly reminder that in my blog I even said that he doesn't have to necessarily be labeled her father but that a romantic relationship later would still be inappropriate- I didn't deem it necessary to address what you brought up. Plus, it kinda, umm, misses the point?? Please, let's stay on topic. And it's not captured in the screenshot, but stop acting like there isn't a small part of them that idolizes their parents at some point during childhood. Just like you mention later on how it's normal for kids to have innocent crushes on adults that they eventually grow out of? Well, guess what, the same concept applies here. Kids eventually learn that their parents are far from perfect and make mistakes too. Rin is so damn young in the OG series though that we never even get to see her reach that maturity level.

[Snippet 3]

LOL! Alright, okay, so the "unbreakable bond" bit you're mentioning was actually me quoting you sessrinners. Did you not catch that? I literally spelled it out. *sigh* The whole point I was making is that shippers like yourself make hypocritical and contradictory statements all.the.goddamn.time. One moment you guys claim that Sesshomaru and Rin were essentially strangers and meant very little to each other, only to say in the same breath a few seconds later that they were destined to be together and their bond is like no other. I agree, their bond is special, but why must that mean they're going to fall in love?

That is the root of the matter here. Too many animes/mangas have romanticized this older adult man & young girl growing up falling in love trope that it's become way too normalized and widely accepted across the world- and yes, in some cultures more than others. Sadly, you lack the awareness to recognize how this all works. You know how we know that? When we see that you shippers are so desensitized to sexualized images of girls in the media that you share posts like this one below which *subtly* imply a future romance although one half of that pairing is still just a child in the pic and then try and pass it off as cute. That's like super fucking problematic and it scares me that you can't see that (or deny you do). 🤢

After all that's said and done, Sesshomaru leaving Rin in the village with Kaede is to me the strongest indicator more than pretty much anything else he's done for Rin that proves he is her adoptive father. It's so funny to me how you somehow see the exact opposite though. 🤔 What I think is happening is that you got yourself on some squeaky clean ass shipper goggles fresh out of your little echo chamber. Because I hate to tell you, but what you're fantasizing is what you want to see and not what's actually there on screen or was written into the story. I'm strictly talking about Inuyasha and the manga of course. [For the TL; DR version skip to the last paragraph.]

Parents looking after their kids is what parents are supposed to do. A good parent will do anything to keep their child safe and ensure they are cared for, so what he did for her by leaving her there was in her best interests clearly. Besides, as a babysitter, you more than most people should understand that parents aren't always able to be there for their kids so sometimes others gotta step in to help. Haven't you heard of the saying, "it takes a village to raise a child?" Which in Rin's case is literally true! 😂 Sometimes kids are even sent off to stay with grandparents and that's who raises them instead. Or maybe they have to temporarily live with an aunt or uncle because their single parent's job requires they work out of town 4-5 days of the week so they're hardly home. But that doesn't mean that the parents care or love their kids any less, and it's foolish to assume that Sesshomaru must have thought very little of Rin simply due to the fact that he made the decision to leave her in the village. Come on, y'all are acting like he abandoned her there!!

It's just given the circumstances Sesshomaru finally came to learn that Rin traveling with him was no longer safe. I also like to think it's because he wished for her to live a more normal life and to learn how to fully trust humans again. Plus, continuing to travel with him as young as she was would have proven dangerous and unwise. Now for you to know all this and still manage to turn his past actions towards her while she was just a child into a romantic gesture is what boggles my mind. Regardless of how you look at it, from my perspective or your own, Sesshomaru is in the wrong. Either he's a father figure who impregnates his daughter at the young age of approximately 14. OR he's this man she used to travel with who maybe isn't a father to her but who nonetheless basically rapes her since kids her age can't consent to sex with an adult. Idk about you but it sounds to me like nobody here wins with either scenario we're given. In other words, you should be just as mad as we are. If only one side didn't choose to forsake their morals they know we both have in common for the sake of a ship. Welp. 🤷‍♀️

I agree, incest is disgusting but that's not the only problem we have with this pairing. A romantic bond forming between Sesshomaru and Rin would also constitute as grooming.

You realize that over the years he visited her in the village that he brought her gifts too and essentially watched her grow up right before his very eyes, right? I mean, I know you do, but I really shouldn't have to explain further why pursuing a romantic/sexual relationship with each other is plain and simple wrong. And before you say it's not because he didn't have any malintent, please understand that considering their history and power dynamic up to then that yes this is still considered grooming even if Rin supposedly "wanted it" or "made the first move." Whether you consider him her father or not, as the adult who took on a role resembling that of a caretaker in her early life- a critical developmental time for a child- Sesshomaru is obligated to turn down any advances by Rin and most definitely should not initiate any himself. As the first close adult figure she's had in her life since her parents died, it's unfathomable to imagine how Sesshomaru could go through with taking advantage of this young girl who was under his care and supervision since they met. To think he could be capable of betraying that trust sickens me to the core.

This. Now THIS is how a parent/guardian or a similar adult caretaker (babysitter, teacher, etc.) talks to a child. And, in turn, this is how some young children talk to adults. You'd be insane and delusional to deny it! We see it in our everyday lives, do we not? From where else do you think our stories draw most of their inspiration? Yes, obviously these fictional universes have aspects of fantasy that don't exist in the real world, but so how then do you suppose we're able to relate to them? The reason for that being is because these stories are written by people for people, so naturally there are going to be real life aspects embedded throughout. Sure, a little escapism doesn't hurt as we don't need to take everything so seriously, but ultimately we all need to recognize that the messages in the stories we tell matter. Most stories possess a combination of both light and dark themes, but when it specifically comes to the latter we gotta be careful with how we tackle this in children's media since kids are far more impressionable.

So if at the center of a story we have two of the main protagonists whose mom is basically their same age and to top it off she knew their dad when she was just a girl and who just so happened to help raise her, wouldn't you say that's beyond fucked up or at the very least so fucking weird? Like why would we think it's even remotely okay for our children to watch this garbage?? Really think about it. Try and be objective for once and think about how it would sound explaining this storyline to an outsider who's never watched IY or HNY. Well, antis have tried this before many times and we always get the same reaction: Ewww!

Like I said earlier, if you wanna ship it then fine, but 1) please stop seeking our approval or trying to change our minds - your ship wish came true didn't it, so why do you need us to validate it? 2) even though it's not canon, respect that we don't support this sequel portraying pedophilia in a positive light. It's harmful af to not only allow but glorify the continuation of sexualized images of young girls everywhere. And I shouldn't have to say this, but just because this trope is popular as you say does not make it right. Lolicon themes in the media have been an issue forever and it needs to stop. Yes, even some people in Japan or "the East" would agree. Shocker!

We're pissed off and rightfully so because Yashahime's TV rating is 14, not to mention it airs at the prime time kids in Japan watch TV after getting home from school. That's Towa and Setsuna's age, true, but if Rin being the mom when she's like only a year older than them (please don't argue w/ me about the math- antis have so far been right every time with it) is straight-up disgusting and not something we should be supporting or endorsing. Rin's a whole ass child!! Please don't start with the "but times were different then so her having kids at 15 is acceptable" argument either, because we've already debunked that and every other single excuse you guys throw at us. Besides, how or why would you expect young viewers to know these historical "facts" anyway, especially if as you suggest fiction doesn't affect reality so what does it matter? Yet here we are, arguing over a fictional show in real life almost a year and a half into the "Sesshomaru fucks?" sequel being announced. My ass, your ass, hell all our asses fiction doesn't affect reality!

Look, I do apologize if the tone of this blog came off as snippy or condescending at times. I do not wish you any ill will, it's just I'm not really sure what you expected to get out of all this besides maybe getting on my nerves perhaps. haha A lot of you shippers have been desperately scrambling to interact with us, lurking in our tags, jumping onto our posts screaming canon and getting so defensive even though you sought us out first. We've been sticking to our tags, so how about you stay in your lane too. By the way since we're on the topic, have you seen Twitter or Reddit?! SR shippers there are the actual worst and many Inuyasha fans (not just antis) have complained of not feeling welcomed to engage in fandom spaces anymore. Shippers swarm them and scare them off simply because fans don't like your ship and refuse to accept it. It's pathetic, really. No one should ever be bullied or harassed just because they don't like something you might. We're all fans of Inuyasha, aren't we? So let's act like it. Yashahime on the other hand, you guys are welcome to that pungent heap of trash. Fans have a right to criticize it too, but if you like it then good for you, so keep on liking it and don't mind us.

I'm almost done, but real quick back to Jaken! Let's not forget about how the official Yashahime website- which came out after my blog, mind you- described Jaken. This translation isn't the best one available but it's the only version a fellow anti friend could track down. They do recall a better one done by a native Japanese speaker who was also an anti, and that member confirmed that Jaken is indeed called Rin's babysitter. So you see, I was right in my interpretation. In the original post I did compare Jaken to a brother, but after talking to others (some comments can be found under said post) I did acknowledge that he's more of a reluctant babysitter who's not related. And if he's not at least a brother to Rin, then he's definitely not her father.

At the end of the day, the creator Rumiko Takahashi has the final word. Which is guess what? Hogosha. 💖 Probably should've just started out with that and saved us all the trouble, huh? Good day/night to you.

Papamaru bids you adieu now. 🤞

#anti yashahime #anti sessrin #sesshomaru is rin's dad #papamaru #hogosha 💖#the sequel may not be canon but sunrise can still burn in hell

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dissociativediscourse · 3 years ago

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!! LOOKING FOR RESOURCES !!

hey, all. this ain’t (<— that autocorrected and i’m leaving it) my usual syscourse posting, but i really need some help.

we’ve always known my partner had cptsd. it seems obvious to anyone who knows about it. but the longer i’ve known him, in the over a year since we’ve been together, it’s grown more obvious that it’s more.

he doesn’t just have EPs, there are striking shifts and multiple ANPs handling his daily life, and he describes and i’ve seen a degree of separation and amnesia that can’t be described with just CPTSD and DPDR, these parts don’t just hold flashbacks, they handle his life and keep him going— and i could go into it more, but i’d be typing for ages… over time, talking to him and myself and quite literally seeing him switch without his own knowledge, seeing him describe switching and being at work and doing so, seeing his changes in posture and gait and identity and his memory lines, and seeing the heavy dissociation he experiences, we’re both starting to see that there’s a likelihood of him having a DD.

he’s got obvious work parts, one of them identifies heavily as a woman, even, he describes them in their appearances and how he sees them, how he feels about them, (he calls her voice “grating”, he thinks she’s annoying, the male work part has a slicked back ponytail, he thinks he’s ugly, they don’t like working together, etc) and he doesn’t remember things between them. he has a textbook system childhood, and i’ve had an inkling all along but every day it just becomes more apparent and the conversation we’ve had today was eye opening. i really looked, and i saw him switch. he didn’t know, i didn’t point it out, i don’t know if i should have, but i saw him argue, out loud, silence himself quickly, make a face, turn to another direction, make a different face, and then hunch over and start smoking to push it away. it looked like an argument that hit so close to home for my own experience, and i see it so much.

i’m not going to say anything for sure, but

this is where i need some help.

any resources you guys have for questioning systems, to help him out between now and when he gets into therapy (i’m helping him look for a good therapist and we don’t really have the finances right now), anything you guys have would be so helpful. i don’t want to accidentally make things worse by encouraging separation that isn’t there, i let him lead conversations and he just… it’s so striking. i just need some resources for him right now, this is such an insane time for the both of us and i want to help and give him support in any way i can.

i don’t want to hurt him if i’m accidentally projecting, but i’ve talked to others and to him and it.. this can’t just be explained away by CPTSD and DPDR. there’s so much more than i’ve said here, i’ve given limited detail for his own privacy and for sake of brevity, but if any of you have any resources, please send them our way. thank you so much. you can DM, my asks are fully open, you can reblog, reply to the post, whatever.

thank you so much for reading this. we could really use any kind of resources right now between now and when he’s able to get into therapy.

#not syscourse #dissociative identity disorder #osdd did #osddid #questioning system #help #looking for resources #osdd 1a #osdd 1b #long post

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fascination-street-writing · 4 years ago

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The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

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westerlytravel · 4 years ago

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Calling The Past

As a teenager, I was constantly talking on the phone (the house line of course), but not so much as an adult because most of us can agree that texting is so much easier.

However, I appreciate the history of telephones and always stop to reminisce when I see a pay phone in the wild. Pay phones were starting to phase out during my teens (mid-to-late 90s) but I remember using them in my middle school days to call my parents for a ride home from a football game or the roller rink.

I never thought about the full capabilities of a pay phone until doing a little research. I found a thought provoking article published by The Atlantic asking the question, “What Killed the Pay Phone?”

During the 80s and 90s, local telephone companies in rural areas proposed installing “pay phones on every block,” because as we know is true today, people need to make calls on the go. In that era, it was common to have a beeper or pager but unless you were at home or the office, you had no way of returning the page with a call. Pay phones solved that!

“Since a peak of 2.6 million public pay phones in the mid-1990s, this ubiquitous infrastructure has been on the decline. After pay phones stopped turning a profit, AT&T officially announced its exit from the pay phone market in 2007. Verizon followed suit in 2011.” - The Atlantic

I was starting to become deeply curious as to the real reason why pay phones have diminished since I was in middle school. I knew that the rise of mobile phones played their part but there were cities who lobbied to ban pay phones due to the accessibility of criminals to communicate and conduct business freely.

There are some interesting points made throughout the article that I am choosing to omit for sake of brevity and to remain lighthearted as this topic offers some unexpected tones of inequality that I am not in alignment with. It’s still important to learn the truth and understand the why, so I encourage you to read with an open mind.

I also wanted to add that not all cities have banded together to eliminate pay phones -- check this out!

In New York City, LinkNYC is an initiative to repurpose more than 7,500 pay phones into internet hotspots and charging stations bringing free Wi-Fi and domestic calling to the masses. Now I can get on board with that!

How do you feel about the decline in pay phones? Do you have any pay phones still in operation in your town? Please leave a comment if you do!

Read more --- “What Killed the Pay Phone?” by Renée Reizman, published on February 2, 2017 by The Atlantic.

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snatcher-no-snatching · 4 years ago

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Had another dream in which hk and bk were my little siblings, though mainly involving hk (and also Empress?)

The three of us lived in a lil house in a city that I can only describe as Venice-like? As in, there were no roadways but lots of canals for people to get around in boats. The city was very colourful and lively, lots of art and music on display for all to enjoy. Strangely, we seemed to be the only human inhabitants. The earliest part of the dream I can remember involved us arriving home after grocery shopping to prepare dinner, but Hat Kid saying she wanted to go out exploring a little more. So she went out while Bow and I cooked, but rather than a boat of her own she had... some sort of friendly buoyant animal? It basically looked like a big, round, inflatable pool toy, yellow, and vaguely whale shaped but with lil cat ears. Strange but cute.

Anyway, Hat Kid rode around the canals on this thing, eventually arriving at a restaurant of some sort. The guy behind the counter was apparently familiar with her, 'cause he offered her some pancakes like she was a regular (There was also a sequence here where another server made the mistake of offering her a caffeinated beverage, but I'm skipping that for brevity's sake). So like, after eating n stuff she went outside and saw her buoyant lil friend had apparently floated away, leaving her effectively stranded. She asked around the restaurant if anyone had seen her friend, and eventually ended up in the bar next door. No one there had seen her lil buddy either, but the tall, sly looking cat behind the counter said her shift was over soon, so she wouldn't mind giving her a lift back home. Hat Kid accepted, and the cat introduced herself as "The Empress".

They got on Empress'.... "boat", which was really more of a floating cube? Anyway, it was dark as they travelled the waterways, mostly illuminated by the many art installations they passed by along the way. This is the part of the dream I remember most vividly, and it was very strange. The lighting cast dark shadows on the walls, and tall statues of bronze and stone surrounded them, depicting great battles and graceful dancing figures. Maybe it was a trick of the light and the clashing colours, but I could swear I saw some of them moving. Really, it's hard to describe just how surreal and beautiful it was, grotesque and amazing.

Regardless, Hat Kid was so entranced that it took a while before she noticed they weren't going in the direction of her house. When questioned, the Empress only replied with "....I have something I want to show you". Only a little apprehensive, Hat Kid didn't have much of a choice but to see where she was being taken, and was surprised to see they'd arrived at a grand museum. She was childishly excited, like "ooh, I know this museum! I come here with my siblings sometimes!" but went back to being confused as they went around back to a secret entrance. Empress said something to the effect of "My lab is down here", to which Hat Kid was once again naively excited, like "That's so cool, I have a lab too! I love science!" But as they disembarked and made their way under the building she was like "...So why was your lab built under the museum?" Empress only laughed: "More like the museum was built on top of my lab!" And said nothing else on the matter

They made it to a dark room, whith only some chairs and a mysterious drawn curtain. Empress took a seat and gestured for Hat Kid to open the curtains. I remember feeling kind of scared at this point, but still so curious, and also as if I didn't have any choice in the matter anyway. So Hat Kid opened them, and was very shocked to see a man, skinny and ill-looking, lying in a bed, hooked up to multiple machines that appeared to be either pumping or extracting a pink fluid to/from him. Not sure which. The fluid glowed brightly, basically illuminating the room, and the man had his eyes open, but didn't seem conscious. Despite all this, the thing that stuck out most was that he was human.

Horrified for reasons unknown, Hat kid turned to look at Empress for answers. "This man is like you," She said. I can't remember what she called it, but she gestured to the tanks of the pink liquid and said that he needed it to live, and so will Hat kid, eventually. She said she needed help gathering more of it, and that she's willing to employ HK's to do so. Before the conversation could continue any further, Bow and myself burst through the doors in a very dramatic "get away from her!" sort of moment. Empress whispered something to Hat Kid, then backed away as instructed. I picked both my little siblings up and the three of us made our getaway (I had a motorcycle, but like, a water motorcycle. Yes, it was very cool.)

It was around here that I gradually woke up, so it gets a lil foggy. Some days pass completely normally, except I notice Hat Kid getting gradually more and more tired during the day, and suspect she's been sneaking out at night. As a narrative, it'd make sense that she's going to see Empress, but I wouldn't know, 'cause like I said I was waking up at that point. Aaand... yep that's pretty much it thank you for your time

#sloppily copied from my dream journal with very few edits #my apologies for the length; I'm on mobile so there's no readmore option #long post #ramblings #yes I know the point of view is all over the place but I wrote this down quickly while it was still fresh in my mind #also dreams generally don't have a consistant viewpoint #or at least mine don't #wish my laptop were working; I'd love to draw some of this #especially hk's lil whale friend

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levyfiles · 5 years ago

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Last week the @skepticbeliever-bookclub prompted us to post a selection of our favourite shyan fics so there’d be a nice little way to highlight all the hidden gems of favourites we might already recognise and love while sharing a few we might never have found otherwise. Last December I posted a little list of some of my favourites so I figured I’d dust off that list with a few new additions of particular favourites I treasure.

Be All My Sins Remembered by spoopyy

Summary: In every lifetime, they find each other.

Review: This fic manages to take you on a long journey through what feels like a series of AUs and they all weave in and out of the wealth of their relationship with some vivid descriptions of the historical settings their journey takes them through. As someone who grew up reading Anne Rice’s epics through historical events, this fic is right up my alley. A vampire Shane passing through the wave of human society’s climb searching for a reincarnated Ryan again and again, trying to hold on to him and keep him through great tragedies and timeframes that just don’t let them be together. This was one of the first fics I read when I was only a lurker and to be quite honest, I need to give this one a nice re-read, maybe for the book club which would be loads of fun. Either way, 10/10. Would be Hurt in the heart again.

Perfect Fit by @beaniegara

Summary: There’s a legend that says anyone able to take all of statue Shane’s cock will summon the god to the mortal realm. Given the statue’s excessive size, no one has ever succeeded to prove or disprove the story. Until Ryan that is.

Review: Listen. You wanna talk actual fandom legends. This fic is one of them and it pulls out all the stops on being delicious and evocative. Also features one of my favourite incarnations of size queen bergara. Good stuff and you’re really rooting for Ryan in this lol.

a prize for rotten judgement by sarcasticfishes

Summary: “You’d drive each other crazy. You sit together at your office all day, and then you’d be commuting home together, eating dinner together, watching TV together, going to bed — well, not together, but you get it, right?”

It doesn’t sound so awful to Shane. There are worse people he could be spending all his hours with than Ryan Bergara.

Review: The moment I happened to glance at the notes of this and saw that Fie’s secondary title for this would have been Ryan and Shane move to the Suburbs, I about lost it with excitement. Primarily because the show this references is one of my favourite comedies and that is one of my all-time favourite episodes. Let me tell you though, even if the reference is lost on you, this story is so much gold rolled into a heart-gripping tale of two best friends who spend every waking moment together taking the plunge to share a home and they were roommates oh my god they were roommates. Shane is pining and you’ll pine right along with him as you’ll yell and holler for him to stop being so damn real and full of doubt. It really is worth every gasp of pain and all the more for the execution but the delivery will leave you in delight. Certainly had me yelling at the author. This fic is gonna be one of my timeless favourites; I knew it the moment I began.

Everything’s Weird and We’re Always in Danger by beethechange

Summary: Ryan perches on the edge of the bed, an indistinct shape that Shane can only just make out in the dark, so he turns the lamp back on. He wants to see Ryan’s face, wants to know that he is alright. Ryan’s cheeks are damp, his hands fisted in the hideous flowered duvet.

“It won’t go away,” Ryan says miserably. “I’ve been like this since we got here, basically, and it won’t fucking—”

“Ah,” Shane says. “Well, you know, sometimes fear…adrenaline…they can affect people. Physically.” He waves his hands indistinctly crotchward. “It’s a, a scientifically known phenomenon.” Shane feels a little better staying in the realm of scientifically known phenomena.

Review: Word of advice. You see a fic is authored by beethechange, run don’t walk because you’re absolutely always going to be treated to the best of banter, the best of prose, chemistry, organic execution and feels right up the bottom end of your heart. This fic, this changed everything I thought I knew I wanted out of a bed-sharing fic. It’s got a little bit of two treats here. You got a sex-pollen-esque situation mixed with bed-sharing and holy fucking damn that is more than you think you deserve, but read this because you do deserve the best of the best. The build up, the dialogue, the surprisingly hilarity of it, the hotness woah, and The Aftermath. When you think you know what you’re in for, you’re wrong and you’re most pleasantly surprised. Get this fic in your life and honestly? while you’re at it, you could do a clean sweep of every fic in her list of works and while my less than adequate reading time management may still be short on some of her most well-recommended pieces, I have an adamant faith that Bee doesn’t disappoint. Go get y’all juice.

Maelstrom by thewindupbird

Summary: Here’s the thing about driving halfway across the country to see someone. You can’t really deny, after that, that you’re pretty much head over heels for them.

Review: Listen. One morning on a day off, I just laid in bed and read this– all 40k+ words– while lying there clutching my pillows, hurting and loving every moment of it. The descriptions of Americana, the slow steady metronome rhythm of Ryan’s feelings as frightened and helpless as they feel when you’re relating deeply to them juxtaposed with the deep-seated struggle of understanding what it is to be with someone you love so much but your mental health is burning quiet holes in your ability to express it in a way that can be understand. Ryan’s fierce determination, breaking through the silence of their non communication is really Everything to me in this fic. i think I really left my heart in the scene in Shane’s parents kitchen. That finished me. Read this fic and understand the deep relief you get when you’ve finished a fight with someone you fiercely care about and they understand you and you understand them and it’s OK; it’s gonna be all right. Augh.

5 times Shane had to overrule Ryan’s “No Homo” + 1 time he didn’t have to by ghoulboyboos

Summary: There was only one thing that would truly drive him up the wall with Ryan, much more than any debate about ghosts ever could: Ryan’s consistent twitches of “no homo” when any sort of physical contract between them happened.

Review: I have such a soft special spot in my heart for this fic particularly because Lud manages to examine a trope I tend to avoid in such a sweet and honest way I couldn’t not love this fic. The story takes a painstaking and very real look at the “no homo” issue as it weaved through the journey that was early days Ryan and Shane. Shane’s reaction to in this and how he communicates with Ryan has such a very heartfelt and once again, real quality to it. I get in my feelings all over again about how far they’ve come and what it meant for Ryan to have Shane there. Lud really nails this piece and it’s a classic in my eyes.

A Burial on Box Hill by InkStainsOnMyHands

Summary: The Celtics believed that the yew flower symbolized both immortality and death. Meanwhile, for centuries, the buxus flower was seen as a symbol for safe passage into the afterlife.

Or,Shane and Ryan were never the same after investigating the Black Forest of Germany alone.

Review: Let me just quote my bookmark comment here. Usually I flee from tragedy like a cat spotting a cucumber but the brevity and the prose dragged me in and now I’m a functioning mess. Bless this fic. Oh my god it’s short and reads like one of those quick horror stories you’ll read to your friends just as the scary stories are transitioning from the urban legends to the ones that feel real. Big warning for main character death but still read it if you appreciate a good story told.

Body Farming by shiphitsthefan

Summary: Failed suppressants and a surprise heat: the worst of cliches, and here Ryan stands, living the trope on location with the alpha he’s hopelessly in love with. Even worse, they’re spending the night in the famous Bell Witch Cave, completely alone and with no way to contact the outside world.

Ryan knows he can survive and keep his preheat a secret, as long as Shane will stop being so protective and concerned. After all, it’s not like Shane wants to bond with him.

Right?

Review: Now judging from the reactions of many people I’ve spoken to, big heavy ABO kink is not popular here but guys, GUYS. This one. Let this one in I promise it is not what you think it is. The dynamic is organic and the worst side of the trope is subverted in all the best ways and lord help us, the smut is hot, like swelteringly smoking. It’ll stay with you.

Believer by cellard00rs

Summary: Some demons and otherworldly creatures love climbing up the power ladder. Shane is not one of these. He likes where he is (thank you very much) and has no interest in moving up. All he wants is to give his friend Ryan a nice birthday gift. So, naturally, everything goes to hell.

Review: This fic is another fandom legend. When I think demon!Shane. It’s this and one other one that always pops right into my mind. This was my first exposure to the bureaucracy meets the supernatural!Shane trope and I was sold from the get-go. The Shane in this fic is everything I imagine a demon!Shane is and his ginger care for Ryan, the concept of their bond and how even though Shane is a demon and responsible for keeping the supernatural a firm secret from Ryan and the rest of the world, his skepticism is relayed through his status as a demon. I want to talk more about it but I think so much of the enjoyment comes from the surprises as the plot unfurls.

hey boy, take a look at me by weakspots

Summary: Ryan is 27, for Christ’s sake, and he’s not exactly hideous, so there’s really no reason to spend his money on a dude — a dude — whose face he’ll never see but whose livestreams he’s been jerking off to for roughly 4 months now. He should be going out and partying and fucking random chicks. Or a guy, whatever, just to get it out of his system and confirm to himself that he really is 100% straight.

Because he is. This is morbid curiosity, if anything.

Review: I’ve been a long-time fan of this universe and it was a universe I didn’t know I needed until this author gave it to us. We or rather me, a desperate audience, just devoured this with every update. Not only is it hot, but it has the delicious intrigue of secret identity, anonymous stuff and a LOT of blush-worthy prose therein. This version of Shane makes me thrive but the titillating nature of straight-identifying!Ryan being bowled over by the turn of events that leads him to his world tilting into the gravity of a camboy just--you Have to read this one!

Heartbeat by quackers

Summary: So the guy Ryan sits next to at work is a vampire. That’s no big deal, right?

Review: I could talk your literal ear off about this fic. Vampires, man. I love the trope; you don’t know me as a person if you don’t know this at least. And this fic kept me fed all damn year. It was a readable garden. If there is one thing I can guarantee about quackers’ work, it’s that their world-building is a festival of detail. The realms and alternate universes they work with while still managing to keep Shane and Ryan’s voices so familiar and real is a talent not attributed to your everyday author. This fic propelled me into wanting to write more and more because quackers makes stories so much fun! Reading their work is, to me, not unlike the feeling I got when I was younger and finding series that speak to my need to escape this crummy existence, made me want to believe in fun spicy things like a vampire that lived through centuries, cynical but still searching, navigating a world where people are still people, adjusting to differences and prejudices, finding comfort in a guy that understands that and more. I’ve talked about this fic in more than a few different posts so I’d just be reiterating a lot of things I loved about the more historical aspects of Shane’s journey, the way Ryan is so firmly curious and inventive in ways to connect with Shane. Look, even if vampires aren’t your thing, I can promise that if you visit quackers list of work, you will find something for your supernatural-lovin’ palate that speaks to a gentler side of your own curiosity about monsters and the jocks that love them. lol.

I’ll Crawl Home by carrieonfighting

Summary: “Shane was almost unnerved by how quickly he’d settled into this body, this name, this life - his friendship with Ryan was the most time he’d spent with any human before, and yet the man fascinated him.”

Review: This is the second fic I think of when someone says the words ‘demon!Shane’ to me because ohhhh my word, this fic is a masterpiece. I really am hard-pressed to find anything better than the feeling I get when I think of demon!Shane headcanons interwoven with the irl Buzzfeed reality and the idea of the Ryan as we know him being protected and watched and loved so deeply by a demon that found him so long ago and wanted nothing but to protect him. I feel an almost vicious glee reliving that moment when Ryan and Shane are on goatman’s bridge and man, I just really love canonical fic mixed with a slight twist. The writing in this makes it work so well with lines that still haunt my heart and soul like “Ryan liked popcorn. So did the demon. Genuinely, not just out of a desire to please the human – he liked the way it crunched between his vessel’s teeth. There were some aspects of taking a corporeal form that were… nice; laughing, coffee, feeling warm. Ryan made him laugh.” FUCK! The beautiful agony of it, watching the demon fall in love with Ryan through the eyes of his vessel. Just stark with pain and unspoken, well-written angst and pain with a perfect ending, I wouldn’t change for anything. I love this for us as a fandom and will always love that author crafted this piece and shared it with us. (Also every time I hear Work Song by Hozier, I think of this fic again and sigh).

#shyan fic #shyan #shyanbookclub #otp: we took an oath

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seiya234 · 5 years ago

Text

The man on the porch was whittling; he wasn’t entirely sure what this was going to be yet, but he was getting a duck call feeling from the wood. It would be a good gift for Lily since she had gotten into bird watching recently and-

There was a disturbance in the air.

There was a disturbance in the air, and the man gently laid down wood and knife in time to see another man appear out of the mists, walking determinedly until he came to a standstill in front of the porch.

They stared at each other for a long moment, then the man on the porch finally said, “There are rules against visits like these.”

The other man, dressed in a bespoke suit, shrugged. “To people like....like us, the rules don’t matter.”

The man on the porch-let’s call him the Old Man, for brevity’s sake, though he is wearing the face he was born with- nodded. “Perhaps.” The Old Man examined the man in the suit for a second longer, then sighed.

“Well, you’re here now. Do you want anything to drink?”

“Any loose souls?-“ At the look on the Old Man’s face, the man in the suit-call him Alcor call him the Dreambender but perhaps in this context call him the Young One- held up his hands. “Kidding. I’ll take a Sprite.”

There was a minute or two of rustling as things got settled-the porch swing lengthening to accommodate two, a Sprite appearing from the ether, the delicate dance of one demon encroaching upon another’s territory- before the two finally settled. The Old Man turned back to his whittling, while the Young One looked awkwardly around.

(henry knew dipper; it would take only ninety seconds for him to get awkward and sweaty and-)

“This isn’t the Shack,” the Young One said indignantly.

“It’s not,” the Old Man agreed.

“What... what happened to the Shack?” the Young Man asked, with a quiver in his voice. The Old Man for a second thought uncharitably about what on earth the Young Man expected; wasn’t the whole point of this, frankly very dangerous, exercise to see how the other demon lived?

(but this was dipper and that hurt, that loneliness in his voice was something that henry himself felt every day so)

“It’s still in Soos’s family. I think they run it as some combination general store and supernatural research library now.”

The Young Man took a slurp of his Sprite, and the Old Man tried not to wince at the noise. “So what’s this place supposed to be then?”

The Old Man felt a smile creep on his face, even after all this time.

“It’s the Hut.”

(perhaps if they got their bearings straight, henry would take dipper inside, show him on a tour. start with the stan-o-war ii, dry docked on land after stan’s accident, and how it formed the heart of the hut. the modern kitchen he insisted on and the less modern woodstove that was mabel’s desire. mismatched wood colors through the house from all the leftovers uncle dan got from the mill and the floor mosaics that mabel herself inlaid over the course of several years. the triplets’ rooms, rooms he had grown himself, from one nursery to three separate rooms, powers he still didn’t understand flowing out of him, willing wood to grow and shape to cover and protect the ones he loved and-)

The Young Man winced. “The.... Hut.”

The Old Man’s blood chilled, and he saw the Young Man shiver. “Yes, the Hut. It was your sister’s idea.”

Mentioning Her quickly quieted the other demon, just like the Old Man intended, and if his stomach felt queasy from playing such a dirty trick, well.

They sat in silence for another few minutes, and just when the Old Man was about to politely ask his guest to leave, the Young Man said, “You... you know, the Shack has legs now.”

“Like Baba Yaga’s hut in fairy tales?”

The Young Man grinned. “Yup. Tried to tell them once that that was a little on the nose, but then the Shack got mad at me and hid from me for several months after that.”

“Huh.”

(the hut had never gained that kind of life, he had brought it entirely into the mindscape after willow’s great-granddaughter had died, and all her cousins were already settled and he had felt his family spreading ever farther, growing ever larger, and it was wonderful and beautiful but he needed his ground, his earth, their home...the hut was his. it would always remain his.)

The Young Man finished his soda, and made to eat his can when-

“Is that Gompers?”

“Yup.”

“Like, actually Gompers? Flesh and blood Gompers and not like, one of your Nightmares?”

The Old Man nodded. “Not sure how he gets in here.”

The Young Man snorted. “Gompers does what Gompers wants.” Then he waved his hand, and was immediately discomfited when one did not appear at his hand.

“You have to ask,” the Old Man chided slightly, before creating another Sprite for his fellow demon.

They drank their drinks.

They watched Gompers eat the Sprite can, stare off into an unknown dimension, and blip away from the lawn.

They took another drink.

“So what actually brings you here?” the Old Man finally asked. “And please, no malarkey about doing it because you could, or something like that-”

“-that is part of it-”

“-but not all of it.” The Old Man sat back in his rocker, and waited.

(he could outwait dipper. he had always been able to outwait dipper.)

The Young Man rolled his second Sprite can between his hands.

“You know there’s universes? Where Mabel got turned instead of us? Or Stan?”

The Old Man nodded. “Of course there are. Just like there are ones where Pacifica got turned, or Soos, or Waddles or.... well. That’s the point of the multiverse isn’t it? Infinite possibilities. Such as-” He waved a hand to indicate the both of them sitting there.

The other demon snorted. “Truth.” Then he became solemn again.

“I met a demon Mabel once. Forgot about her for awhile but then I ran into a gift she had left me and it got me thinking.”

There was an appreciative silence for a second as Gompers blipped back into the Old Man’s Mindscape with a six pack of beer for the Old Man, before the other one went on.

“She had changed so much...and I... I don’t feel like I have. I’m old, Henry, so fucking old. And yet I feel like I haven’t learned anything.”

The Young Man stopped but the other demon could fill in the blanks.

“You worry that you’re still thirteen, deep down inside.”

The Young Man gave him such a dirty look (so like acacia) that for a second the Old Man almost laughed but then he caught himself. Then the Young Man sighed.

“Yeah, that’s... that’s about it.”

The Old Man sighed. This wasn’t going to be easy to say or hear.

“I’m afraid... You’re right. You always will be. There will forever be a part of you who died when you were thirteen. Your power will forever grow because part of you is frozen in that part of life where all you were doing was growing. A part of you will always be petulant, temperamental, stuck on your sister and your loved ones at thirteen-”

The Young One, who had been increasingly gritting his teeth, finally interrupted.

“And the poìn̶t of ̷t̡hi̢s i͜s̵??”

“You didn’t let me finish. Look, think about Gompers-”

“Oh cool, now you’re comparing me to the goat, fucking fantastic.”

The Old Man took a deep breath. This was a Young One in front of him after all.

“Gompers is still the same. He never seems to age, he still enjoys hanging out in my yard... but he’s different as well. He’s learned new things-”

“-like the beer trick-”

“-and by extension teleportation. In my dimension at least there’s a whole scholarly literature dedicated to him by now. They call him ‘The Wandering Goat,’ and there’s a whole society dedicated to spotting him in the wild.”

The Old Man unclenched his shoulders, leaned back into his chair.

“So yes, a part of you is forever thirteen. But there’s also so much more to you than that, that is constantly changing and growing. And that’s a wonderful thing. Focus on that instead.”

The Young One was quiet for a long minute. The Old Man took another sip of his beer, satisfied, glad he could reach out to his fellow demon

(his brother his brother his brother)

and help in some way.

“Wonderful?”

Maybe not.

“W͝o̜̰n͈̳ḍ̣̻e̴̜̺̤r̗̜͔̪̼̬͍f̙͍̩̮̺͝ù̘̭͍ḷ͙͎̜͇̱̮?̤͉̼̟̜̳”

“Dipper-”

“How the f̸̶̧̧͜u̶̧c̷̷͟͠k̶̛ is this supposed to be ẃon̡d͢e͡r̶̶͠f͟u̶͡l̡?”

Okay. The Old Man could have worded that better.

“Okay, maybe not wonderful but-”

The Young One threw his soda out into the yard, and Gompers, after shooting him a dirty look, wandered over to go eat the can.

“So there’s no hope for me?”

“I didn’t say that-”

“I just have to, have to, have to accept this?!”

“Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

The Young One whirled on the Old Man.

“And don’t tell me how to feel!”

“I wasn’t.”

“I came here because I thought you would understand-”

“You came here because you wanted a concrete answer and now you’re upset that you didn’t get one.”

The Young One got up. Darkness and golden lines flooded his being, eyes began to open up where eyes did not belong, and from his back unfurled two terrible wings of ebon night.

“Y͠ou̢ da͟r̶e-”

In response, the Old Man grabbed the Young One by the scruff of his neck, and tossed him off of his porch.

The Young One went ass over teakettle, rolling in a few somersaults before coming to a halt in front of the totem pole. He quickly stood up, snarling, not even bothering to dust himself off.

Before the Young One could speak, the Old Man said calmly, “I am sorry what I. said upset you, but that doesn’t excuse rude behavior. If you want to prove to me you are your actual age, please act like it.”

The Young One looked at him for a second, ichor spilling from his eyes and mouth, before saying, “You’re not him.”

“No. I am a version of him but I am not your Henry, no.”

“Good. Then-” the Young One lifted a hand, claws lengthening- “I don’t h͘ave t̵o̸ ͞fe̸e͞l͢ ̧ba͢d ab͏o͢ut̨ ̷t͝his͞.”

“Are... are you serious? Is this really the course of action you’re choosing to ta-”

In response The Young One turned around and toppled over an apple tree and that was enough.

The Young One watched as the Old Man stood up. A second ago he was wearing an old Oregon State sweatshirt, and oil stained jeans with work boots. Now however...

Now he was all in black, from the pressed slacks, to his long coat, even his button up shirt....the only two things that stood out were the stark white of his preacher’s collar peaking out from his chest and his feet, now pale and bare.

There were no wings, no oddly colored sclera, not even the expected antlers- nothing to outwardly suggest that the Old Man was anything but a normal man.

But that was because he didn’t need it.

The Old Man took one step off the porch. His bare foot touched the ground and the Young Man instantly fell over onto his face.

Another step and the Young One felt his heart (his heart?!) stutter in his chest and he knew had he been mortal, it would have simply stopped beating, severing soul from body. The Young One pushed himself up and

Another step sent his arms out from under him and back face down in the dirt, while some invisible force

(it wasn’t raw power it was the dread you heard when the front door opened and you could smell alcohol and you knew Dad was going to come in your room any second with an excuse ready to go and you just wanted to sleep but there! the door cracked-)

pressed down on him.

Another step and the Young One felt the power begin to drain from him, flowing from his veins into the thirsty earth below him, feeding the grass and the trees, the worms and the nightmares, wrapping tendrils around the bones of all those who died before in the great circle of life.

Yet another step, and the Young One felt... he felt...

(lowering henry’s casket into the ground with the kids, lowering mabel’s casket into the ground with the kids, then willow’s then hank’s then it was acacia and he was alone he was all alone he was all alone he was all alone h̶e ̀w̛a̷s ̸a҉l͘l a͡l͏o͞ne͘ ͘HE̛ ̨WA͜S͏ AL̵L͘ ĄL̨ON͢E ͡-)

He felt tears pooling around his face. And a cold hand on his shoulder.

The Young One looked up, and saw into the face of Death.

(the man in black, he who walks behind, the kindly one, judgement, sedna, the demon with no real name because he didn’t need one, he was elemental he was relentless, he was unceasing, he was cold and he was death-)

Then the hand was grabbing his own hand, was pulling him up and it was just

(henry)

the Old Man again, gently brushing the Young One off.

“I am sorry for losing my temper with you. I know better than that,” the Old Man said as he led the Young Man back to the porch.

An olive branch. “Well, I did provoke you,” the Young One responded.

“I probably could have worded my advice better,” the Old Man said, handing the other demon a Sprite.

“And I could have taken my head out of my ass for a minute and actually listened to you.” The Young One proffered his can towards the Old Man. “Truce?”

The Old Man smiled. “Truce.”

They stood in awkward silence for a second before the Old Man asked, “Would you like to come inside? You can’t stay here for very long, we know that but... I could perhaps maybe make some time.”

The Young One smiled.

“I would love that.”

#transcendence au #seiya writes!

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ravenpaw-93 · 5 years ago

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Denial, Self Sabotage, and Acceptance: The Three Stages of Falling in Love with Your Flatmate

3.5k words

Summary:

After forging an unlikely friendship during N.E.W.T year Harry and Draco became inseparable. It only seemed natural they should become flatmates. However, after two years of watching them tiptoe around each other, their friends have had enough and devise a plan to make them realise they're in love.

Harry sat at his and Ron's usual table at The Dragon's Den staring moodily at worn oak tabletop as he waited for Ron to return with their drinks. He looked up as a shot glass and a pint of beer slid in front of him. He immediately downed the shot with a grimace.

"Damn, mate. Rough day?" Ron asked arching an eyebrow as he took his seat on the opposite side of the table.

"You could say that." Harry retorted bitterly, taking a swig of beer. "Flatmate problems."

He and Draco had gotten a flat together after Hogwarts. They'd become close friends during N.E.W.T year and both had taken positions at the Ministry, Harry with the Aurors and Draco the Goblin Liaison Department. They figured they'd probably end up spending so much time together at separate places it just made sense to get a flat together and split expenses. They'd managed to coexist rather peacefully the past two years, until this week.

"What'd Malfoy do this time? Dirty dishes in the sink? Leave your wet clothes in the wash?" Ron snorted rolling his eyes.

"He's got a date." Harry muttered, downing the rest of his beer.

"Oh." Ron replied dully. He took a sip of beer and his eyes widened. "Oh. So we're finally acknowledging that, are we?"

"Acknowledging what?" Harry asked, waving one of the cocktail waitresses over.

"Your three year long massive crush on Malfoy." Ron answered as if it should be obvious.

"Crush? I haven't got a crush on Draco. We're flatmates, we usually hang out on Fridays. He just ditched me last minute, is all." Harry argued before turning to the approaching waitress and ordering more drinks.

"Are you really that fucking thick? Or are you in denial? It's one or the other." Ron snickered. "I mean that in the nicest way possible."

"Neither." Harry said stubbornly.

"Oh, come off it. It's me, you don't have to lie. In fact, I'm insulted that you actually think you could lie to me about this. I'm not bloody stupid." Ron argued, rolling his eyes.

"Thanks." Harry said as more drinks were brought to their table. He downed a shot before continuing. "I don't know what you're on about. I'm not lying."

"Then you are in denial." Ron shrugged, pursing his lips as he watched Harry take another shot. "We've been here less than twenty minutes and you've taken three shots and downed a whole beer. You're too bothered for it to just be Malfoy cancelling movie night or whatever the hell it is you two do."

"I asked you to come out with me to have a good time." Harry sighed. "Can we please talk about something else. Anything else."

"Fine. But sooner or later you're gonna have to face this. Getting pissed and bringing some rando home with you for a quick fuck isn't gonna make the shit go away."

"Who says I'm going to?" Harry rolled his eyes drinking his beer.

Ron stared at him, his 'shut up Harry, I know you' expression fixed on his face. He finished his beer and shook his head exasperatedly.

"Whatever, mate. So, did you get your new trainee today?"

"Yeah. Can't remember his name to save my life though. He seemed decent enough." Harry shrugged, grateful Ron finally dropped the subject. He wanted to forget about Draco and the hollow pit he caused in Harry's stomach.

"Lucky you. Mines an absolute moron. I'll be dead by the end of next week." Ron groaned.

Harry allowed himself to get lost in conversation about the trainees at work with Ron. Laughing at his stories of his idiot trainee, who by the sound of it, barely made it through the academy. He felt the misery he'd been feeling since finding Draco's note after work finally begin to leave him. After a third beer and another round of shots he was feeling rather pleasant. Everyone around him seemed much funnier and, many of them, much prettier than they had when they first arrived. Though, that was probably just the Firewhiskey talking. But in the end Ron was right, he found an attractive bloke willing to accompany him home. He was just tall enough and just blonde enough that, for one night at least, Harry could pretend he was someone else. And afterwards, when the man was gone and Harry was alone in his bed, he tried not to hate himself for it.

***

"Harry?" Draco called as he walked through the door of their shared flat, having just ghosted possibly the worst date he'd ever had. "You home? You wouldn't belie–"

He stopped mid sentence as he entered the main area of their open concept flat. All the lights were off, aside from a table lamp and there was a note on their breakfast bar. He picked it up, frowning at its brevity.

Went to the pub with Ron, don't wait up. -H

Harry's notes were usually paragraphs. He flipped the paper over, but the other side was blank. His frown deepened and he felt an unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach. He shrugged it off. Harry probably just left the note at the last minute. And even if he hadn't, it's just a note for Merlin's sake. He didn't have to write Draco a novel every time. He rolled his eyes, annoyed with himself, as he selected a bottle of wine from the rack in the kitchen area. He Floo'd to Pansy's trying to convince himself the slight aching feeling in his heart was residual disappointment from his date and had nothing to do with Harry's uncharacteristically short correspondence.

"Thought you had a date?" Pansy asked in lieu of greeting him as he stepped out of the hearth.

"Hello, nice to see you, too, you harpy. Did I miss something? Is it 'National Shit All Over Draco Day' and no one told me?" He huffed, plopping down dramatically on her sofa.

"What's got your wand in a knot?" She asked, rolling her eyes.

"First off, Blaise set me up on a date with a total barbarian, then you can't even be bothered to say hello like a civilised human and Harr-you know nevermind. I don't want to talk about it. I just want to get wine drunk on your sofa."

"Oh come on, it couldn't have been that bad." Pansy replied, summoning a cork screw and two wine glasses.

"His manners were atrocious. He didn't even tuck his shirt in. He ordered the cheapest wine possible and he laughed like a fucking seal. Clapping and all. I Apparated home from the loo half way through my meal, Pansy. I can assure you, it was horrific." He whinged, filling his glass.

"You hardly gave him a chance." Pansy retorted.

"It wasn't going to work." He replied shortly.

"Of course not." Pansy rolled her eyes. "What were you saying about Potter?"

"I didn't say anything about him." Draco covered his lie by sipping his wine.

"Darling, I love you, but you're a terrible liar."

"Seriously it's nothing. I'm just narked off because my date went badly." Draco wasn't sure if he was saying that to convince Pansy or himself.

Afterall, it was just a stupid note. He couldn't be sure what sort of tone it was intended to be read in. He was the one in a bad mood, so he probably just read it that way because of how he was feeling. He and Harry were fine before work, Draco was just reading too much into it. Pansy merely stared at him, her lips pursed and one eyebrow arched dangerously high.

"It's stupid. The note he left letting me know where he was going to be was just really short. He usually leaves long notes, so in my bad temper I got annoyed over it." Even to himself that sounded feeble.

"You look sad, not annoyed." Pansy pointed out.

"Sad?" Draco asked scathingly. "I am not sad. It was a shitty date yeah, but it wasn't as though I thought I'd found my future husband."

"Well if it's not your bad date it must be the note from Potter and the massive fucking pash you've had on him for years." Pansy countered, smirking over the rim of her glass.

"Me–a pash–Potter?–don't be absurd." Draco coughed, drips of red wine staining his grey trousers. He sincerely hoped Pansy would think the flush creeping up his neck was from nearly choking to death on his wine.

So what if he had a tiny crush on his flatmate? Harry was handsome, kind and funny. Who wouldn't have a crush on him? It wasn't as though Draco had any intention of acting on it. In fact, the whole reason he agreed to the date Blaise arranged was to get his mind off those feelings. Only, the date was a disaster and Draco had spent the entire time thinking Harry would never do this.

"Oh don't even try it, Draco. I've known you since we were two years old. The only person who doesn't know that you love Potter, is Potter. Just how the only person who doesn't know Potter loves you, is you. You're both so fucking stupid it's infuriating." Pansy argued, rolling her eyes dramatically.

Draco gaped at her, floundering for something to say in return.

"You're barking. I think I would know if Harry was in love with me, wouldn't I? And I would certainly know if I was in love with him, which I'm not." Draco replied, taking a large gulp of his wine.

"Like I said, fucking stupid, the both of you. How can you not know? I'm surprised the two of you haven't suffocated in the sexual tension."

"Sexu–What sexual tension?! You've lost your bloody mind."

"No, I haven't. Just think about it." Pansy conceded.

"Whatever, fine, I'll think about it." Draco huffed, finishing off his wine.

And he did. After stumbling into his and Harry's sitting room at one thirty in the morning and making his way to his room he lay in bed considering Pansy's outburst. He racked his brain trying to think of any instance that Harry may have even hinted at having feelings for him, but could think of none. As far as the supposed 'sexual tension' maybe there were a few times when eyes had lingered a bit longer than what could be considered accidental, particularly when joggers were involved. Or they'd leant in just a little too close to each other. But that was normal, wasn't it? Perhaps he would just have to pay closer attention tomorrow when he woke up.

***

Harry heard Draco stumbling down their hallway, swearing under his breath. Once Draco's bedroom door swung closed, Harry opened his eyes and squinted at his alarm clock across the room. One thirty. He tried to ignore the flare of jealousy that surged through him. He had no right to it, given what he'd just done. He had no room to be upset that Draco was just now getting home from his date. But he was. He turned over sharply in his bed and immediately had to fight down a wave of nausea. Great, he thought, just what I need, a fucking hangover to wake up to. He huffed, adjusted his pillow and willed himself to fall back asleep.

His head was pounding when he woke up and he had the worst taste imaginable in his mouth. He groaned as he sat on the edge of his bed, squinting in the sunlight streaming through his open window. He took a hot shower and brushed his teeth before rummaging through the medicine cabinet for hangover potion. He grabbed one of the only two left and gulped it down. The cool soothing effect on his aching temples was instantaneous. A quick fry up and some strong tea would have him feeling much better, or so he told himself as he set to cooking. However, even after finishing his breakfast he still felt miserable. It seemed greasy food and tea had no effect on residual guilt. Harry's sulking was interrupted by Draco walking groggily past, on his way to the kitchen.

"Late night?" Harry asked, in what he'd meant to be a lighthearted manor, though it sounded more accusing than anything.

"Yeah I got wine drunk at Pansy's." Draco answered arching a brow at Harry's tone as he opened a cupboard for a mug.

"Pansy's, right." Harry snorted, he knew it wasn't fair to take his bad mood out on Draco, but he couldn't stop the bitter jealousy. And honestly, who did Draco think he was kidding? Obviously he went home with the bloke, he had every right to do so, but why lie about it?

"Erm, okay?" Draco muttered, shutting the cupboard door roughly."What's your problem?

"No problem, just don't know why you lied about being at Pansy's when I know you were on a date." Harry replied in a clipped tone.

"Why would I lie to you? Especially over something so stupid. I went on my date, he was a complete Neanderthal and I left twenty minutes in. I came home thinking we'd watch a film or something but saw your note don't wait up. So I went to Pansy's." Draco snapped flinging himself into a chair at the breakfast bar.

Well done, Harry, he thought bitterly, You've just made a complete arse of yourself. He gave Draco a few minutes to cool off before speaking again, trying to squash his own guilt.

"I'm sorry. I feel like a shit because I got pissed last night and did something stupid that I regret and I took it out on you. I'm sorry your date was terrible. He doesn't know what he missed out on." Harry mumbled apologetically.

"It's fine. I've got to get ready, I'm supposed to be at my mother's in ten minutes. We'll talk later, yeah?" Draco asked, getting to his feet.

"Sure." Harry said with a nod and with that Draco strode from the room avoiding Harry's eyes.

Merlin, he felt like a tit. He should have just listened to Ron and went home alone. Something about the way Draco had said 'don't wait up' had stuck in Harry's mind. He sounded hurt. Which at the time is what Harry wanted. A selfish part of him wanted Draco to feel as gutted as he did, he regretted that now. Fuck, but he's made a mess of things hasn't he? He was shaken from his thoughts by Ron stumbling out of the Floo.

"You look like shit." He said, taking a seat in the other arm chair.

"I feel like shit." Harry retorted.

"They make potions for that." Ron snorted.

"Oh there's a potion for guilt brought on by a spectacular display of self sabotage?"

"What did you do?" Ron groaned.

"Exactly what you said I'd do. And then because I was angry at myself for it, I picked a fight with Draco."

"Goddamn it, Harry." Ron scolded, putting his face in his hands. "You've ruined everything."

"Well I feel like that's taking it a bit far. I mean yeah I fucked up, but Draco won't stay angry long. He never does." Harry replied defensively.

"No you idiot, Blaise, Pansy, Hermione and I planned this perfectly. Blaise set Draco up on a fake date to make you both wake the fuck up. But now you've gone and thrown a wrench in the whole fucking thing."

"You did what? That's insane!" Harry replied incredulously.

"We had to do something, mate. You two have been driving us barmy for three years. Clearly, you weren't going to figure it out on your own." Ron explained rolling his eyes.

"So on a scale of one to colossal how big of a fuck up was this?" Harry asked nervously, still in a state of disbelief.

"Mega colossal. The whole plan is scrapped. Pansy'll have to come clean with Draco and then so do you. Whatever happens after that is on you."

"Wonderful." Harry grumbled.

"Just be honest. That's literally all you have to do. I'm going to Pansy's to break the news. You've got this. No more self sabotage." Ron said bracingly, stepping back into the hearth.

"I'll do my best." Harry promised.

Ron called out Pansy's address and disappeared into emerald flames. Harry sat and contemplated what he was going to say to Draco. He only hoped Draco wouldn't be too angry with him.

***

His and Harry's tiff had left Draco in a rather foul mood. He sat sullenly through brunch with his parents picking at his food and only half listening to his father drone on about his blasted peacocks. He wasn't used to Harry behaving that way. If anyone started a row for no reason it was usually Draco himself. Halfway through their meal a house elf brought him a letter from Pansy telling him to come by her flat before going home. He suffered through another hour of his parents' company before leaving for Pansy's. She was waiting for him on her sofa looking mildly uncomfortable.

"What?" He asked suspiciously, taking a seat next to her.

"You're going to be angry with me. But just know, I did what I did out of love." She began calmly.

"What did you do?" He asked slightly panicked, he prayed she didn't go and talk to Harry or something equally as stupid. Especially with the way they'd left things this morning.

"Blaise, Weasley, Granger and I may have come up with a plan to send you on a staged date to make you and Potter realise that you're in love with each other." She said quickly.

Draco was certain he didn't hear her properly. No way were they all really stupid enough to think that would actually work.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked dangerously, narrowing his eyes. "You set me up on a fake date?!"

"Well it worked, sort of. Things got a bit fucked up, admittedly, but still."

"It most certainly did not work. We had a row this morning and now we're barely speaking." Draco huffed.

"You absolute idiot, Draco Malfoy. He's jealous that you went on a date with someone that isn't him." Pansy said exasperatedly.

Draco considered her words for a moment. That would certainly explain Harry's behaviour the last two days. Merlin, how did he not see that before?

"Oh." He said in astonishment. "He was jealous."

"Fucking hell, finally you get it!"

"I need to talk to Harry." Draco said getting to his feet.

"Yes, go now. Before you lose your nerve." Pansy said encouragingly.

He clambered into the Floo throwing the powder down as he called out his home address.

"I think we should talk now." He said grinning a little, as he stepped in front of Harry.

"Yeah, we definitely should." Harry agreed with a forced, nervous smile. "Come sit down?"

Draco took a seat on the edge of the sofa next to Harry chewing on his lip nervously.

"I'm sorry about earlier, accusing you of lying. I was jealous just like I was yesterday when I wrote that note before going out with Ron. I did something stupid and impulsive and I feel horrible. But I have to be honest, I understand if you get angry, I'd deserve it." Harry paused and Draco felt as though his heart had stopped beating. "I got pissed and picked up some bloke from the pub and brought him home. I just wanted to stop thinking about you for a while and how miserable I felt that you were out with someone who wasn't me. But it didn't work, the whole time I was with him I wished it was you. I'm not proud of it, but it's true. So when I accused you this morning I was out of line. I'm so sorry, I wish I could just re-do yesterday. I would do everything so differently."

Draco stared at Harry for a moment while he digested everything he had just said. Mostly he felt relieved, overjoyed even, that Pansy had been right. He was a bit disappointed in Harry's way of coping, but it was understandable and Draco didn't intend on holding it against him.

"I mean I'm not pleased to hear that you fucked someone else, but I can't fault you for it. I only went on that stupid, apparently fake, date to try and stop having feelings for you. I'm still upset that you accused me of lying, but I forgive you." Draco replied giving Harry a hopeful smile. "And for the record, I don't want you to date anyone that's not me, either."

"I don't intend to." Harry returned, giving him a crooked grin.

"Good." Draco said leaning in toward Harry.

"Good." Harry murmured as he closed the distance between them.

Draco felt a thrilling swooping sensation in his abdomen as they kissed. Harry's lips were soft and warm against his own as they parted allowing Draco's tongue to slip past and slide delicately against his own. Draco's skin tingled pleasantly as goosepimples erupted over his body. He brought a hand up to tangle in Harry's wild hair, wondering briefly how he'd ever gone a day in his life without kissing Harry like this. He felt as though everything had fallen into place, like everything suddenly made perfect sense. Kissing Harry just felt right, and he couldn't wait to do it every day for the rest of his life.

#drarry #draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry flatmate au #oblivious draco #oblivious harry #i love these idiots #drarry fic

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caltropspress · 4 years ago

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FEEDBACK LOOP #4: Armand Hammer & The Alchemist’s “God’s Feet”

As a child I introverted and drew pictures while my mother prayed to Jesus reading King James scriptures.

—Ras Kass, “The Evil That Men Do”

The dark and evil passions of his soul, His secret plot, and sordidness complete, His hate, his purposing…

—George Marion McClellan, “The Feet of Judas”

Bury the Bible at my feet, A testament at my head. If my dear father should call for me, Tell him that I am dead.

—Nelstone’s Hawaiians, “Fatal Flower Garden”

1. James Joyce apostatized from his Catholic faith but continued to dig it for its rituals. That was an aspect to it he could tolerate and utilize for his art, as if his indoctrinated mind could fully renounce it if he wanted to. ELUCID’s first raps were recorded in a church—hallowed ground for some; narthex reverb, and nothing else, for him. Organized religion is “totally manufactured…a tool of control,” he’s said. Still, he concedes “the Bible is a beautiful book…if you remove the spirituality.” He renders its rolling paper pages into something worth uttering. Smell the burning coals and incense.

2. “Blow that horn fast, we been read’ to go. When that horn blast, the dead is coming home.”

woods sings first, but ELUCID’s singing voice, to paraphrase Jupiter Hammon, is a penitential cry. I turn the radio knob to 89.9 FM on Sunday mornings when I go for groceries in Passaic. WKCR’s Amazing Grace plays raw gospel, which is what ELUCID emulates here: where the more hideous the voice gets, the holier the expression becomes.

The song structure is raw and unblunted, too. The refrain cuts for 80 seconds before a single verse, like Bashō in its brevity, staggers us. The Alchemist and Earl Sweatshirt co-production is muted: soft keys and Mark tree accents. They leave space to let God in.

3. White is not a color!

In Franco Rosso’s Babylon, the titular Babylon is—among much mayhem—the cops with the no-knock warrant—the abhorrent clampdown on the sound-system. The guns of Brixton need blazing (or at least a knife to the gut, courtesy of Brinsley Forde). “Racial tension” is only a euphemism for murderous oppression.

4. And upon her forehead was a name written, Mystery, Babylon The Great, The Mother Of Harlots And Abominations Of The Earth. (Revelation 17:5, KJV)

When Mississippi John Hurt sings “Make Me a Pallet on the Floor,” he’s humbling himself—subordinating for the sake of adulterous love. The pallet is on the floor, and it’s soft and low. The sinful sweet-talk, he knows, signals risk: shoot, cut, stab. There’s no tellin’ what she might do. But the Book of Revelation offers an Armageddon glimpse of what she’s capable of. When accounting for behavior, though, who’s really the whore?

5. “So the story goes…”

The pallet is full of pestilence and plague—of lice, roaches, scourges. It doubles as a coffin, or a cooling board. Son House sang of his love “laying on the cooling board” on “Death Letter Blues.” The pain of “her Judgment Day” seemed to rack him, and the “10,000 people…standin’ around the burying ground” felt it, too.

In Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, the stable buck Crooks—the sole Black man on the ranch—associates only with the horses he tends to. Crooks’ bunk is a “long box filled with straw, on which his blankets were flung.” He’s segregated from the other workers, surrounded by harnesses and the sound of halter chains. Crooks, whose nickname carries the weight of criminality, “reduce[s] himself to nothing” when a white woman apocalyptically threatens him with a lynching.

6. For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand? (Revelation 6:17, KJV)

Milton William Cooper’s Behold a Pale Horse is, of course, a blessing and a bane. A dog-eared and spine-cracked hood classic on 125th in Harlem. But Wise Intelligent has recognized the limits of it. In its hip-hop adoption, the failures and shortcomings show through. Like on 2000’s “Horsementality,” where Kurupt barks a litany of adverbs including “ultramagnetically,” and it’s on “We Are the Horsemen” that Ced Gee looks beyond God to complain “the universe bothers [him].” You’ve got Canibus’ needlessly excessive 666 wordplay and Kool Keith’s “gamma data” and “galactic horse” super-scientifical madness. ELUCID, though, deals in the concrete, disregards the conspiratorial. He “find[s] the spirit getting lifted,” in a decidedly non-Keith Murray manner. When he beholds the white horse that comes forth conquering, we’re reminded of his anticolonialism, not black helicopters and chemtrails.

7. “In the blink of an eye, the faithful go where they are made whole. / …the dead coming home, prepare a table... / Leave your freshest linens.”

God’ll have you feeling welcome, invited, only to leave you to the cops for violating the Sabbath. He’ll roll up on you like, Wilt thou be made whole? (John 5:6, KJV). Like, Motherfucker, do I look like I want your help? He’ll convince you your disability deserves a miracle, crap on crip culture, and then chastise you about “sin” while he spits ableist fictions.

8. “Singing murder ballads. / Looking for a body.”

Harry Allen, in his eccentric and alchemical liner notes for the Anthology of American Folk Music, pens a summative headline for “Fatal Flower Garden”: “GAUDY WOMAN LURES CHILD FROM PLAYFELLOWS; STABS HIM AS VICTIM DICTATES MESSAGE TO PARENTS.”

There’s a foreboding to, arguably, every Armand Hammer recording—an educated guess, or a warning. (Aw shit!—you got a red dot on your head, too.) The mood is pervasive, like lily-white hands in murder ballads. One can find comfort in this consistency. It’s a proven fact ELUCID is up on that folk tradition shit: He hammers out danger. He hammers out a warning. What the song does is make the killing, the revolution, irresistible.

9. For he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. (1 Corinthians 15:25, KJV)

What do God’s feet do exactly?

Does He still keep His Timbs on? Does He pirouette spin in a pair of Timbs? Is it haram to show the sole of your shoe?

If you read Corinthians, the feat of God’s feet suggests a more Old Testament-style HIB violator—a brutal and vengeful supreme being on the bully pulpit letting you know what’s what. Or maybe it’s not so wrathful. Maybe God’s feet are just a power move—the aggrandizement of the Godhead at the expense of the masses: “The heaven is my throne, and the earth is my footstool” (Isaiah 66:1, KJV). We’re used to getting stepped on. The back alley boot stomp. We mortify our flesh, self-flagellate. And we keep coming back for more. But why? “God’s Feet” speaks of a return, but it’s more a recidivism.

Images:

The Siege and Destruction of Jerusalem (detail), by David Roberts (1850) | Screenshot from Franco Rosso’s Babylon (1980) | Mississippi John Hurt, Folk Songs And Blues cover art (detail), Piedmont Records (1963) | [Dr. Richard Burr, an embalming surgeon in the Army of the James demonstrating the procedure on a dead soldier] between 1860 and 1865 | Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (detail), Viktor Vasnetsov (1887) | The Crucifixion, panel from the Isenheim altarpiece (detail), Matthias Grünwald (1515) | Anthology of American Folk Music liner notes (detail), ed. Harry Smith (1952) | Screenshot from Franco Rosso’s Babylon (1980)

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regionalcuisineofasia · 4 years ago

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Japanese Cuisine

Easy to Digest

Hi Food Fam! Welcome to my weekly food blog! As y'all know, I am from New Orleans, Louisiana but attend college in Memphis, Tennessee. The weather in Memphis these past few weeks have been brutal. As a Louisianian, the concept of “being snowed in” and “unable to drive because the roads were too icy” are extremely new to me. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I started to feel isolated, yearning for a sense of normalcy. So I asked myself, “What would I be doing if I were home on a Friday evening at 6pm?” The first thought that popped into my mind was “Eating sushi from Kanno, our favorite Japanese restaurant, with my family.” Reminiscing on delicious food, warm weather, and good company, I grew more and more nostalgic, wishing I was sitting at our dinner table, laughing at my father’s awful dad jokes, while scarfing down an unimaginable amount of food. This desire for domestic comfort was the inspiration for this week’s blog. Getting takeout from Kanno every Friday has become a family tradition, so I wanted to dedicate this week’s blog to exploring regional Japanese cuisines. I specifically chose the Kanto region because it is the birthplace of some of my family’s favorite Japanese dishes. The Kanto region emcompasses seven prefectures: Tokyo, Chiba, Gunma, Ibaraki, Kanagawa, Saitama, and Tochigi; however, for brevity’s sake I will only be discussing one dish from Togichi and two from Gunma.

Every Friday, my dad and sister order an appetizer of pan fried gyozas. Although gyozas are of Chinese origin, they have become a staple dish in the Togichi prefecture in Japan. Gyozas are dumplings that are traditionally filled with ground pork, garlic chives, and mixed vegetables. There are various ways to prepare gyozas. They can be steamed, fried, pan fried, or boiled. The main difference between a Chinese gyoza and Japanese one is not the ingredients but the cook. In China, gyozas are typically steamed whereas in Japan they are typically fried. These fried gyozas, also referred to as Utsunomiya gyoza dumplings, are unique to Japan because they have thin wrappings that get crispy when they are cooked. This crunchy texture contrasts nicely with the soft texture of the sizzling hot filling. If you are to ever visit the Togichi prefecture, be sure to dine at Masashi. I heard from my fellow food bloggers that have traveled to Japan that Masashi’s dumplings are like no other. The restaurant is simple, only offering two food items on their menu: fried and boiled dumplings, but its confidence speaks volumes. If a business can remain open with just two items on their menu, just imagine how scrumptious its food is.

From a young age, I remember my mom ordering udon noodle soup at least once a week during the wintertime. I always thought the way she slurped the noodles was funny because by the end of the meal, the broth would somehow always end up all over her face and even in her hair. During the Edo Period, Mizusawa udon noodles were consumed throughout the Gunma prefecture, a major center of wheat production in Japan. Udon noodles are characterized as slightly thick, smooth, and firm with a translucent white color. The dough, which is composed of salt and wheat, is kneaded over the course of two days, rolled out, hand cut into segments, and then boiled to serve. The noodles are rather bland by themself, so people often pair them with a variety of soup flavors similar to ramen. A traditional udon broth is made of dashi broth, soy sauce, and mirin. However, restaurants often serve Mizusawa udon noodles chilled with either a soy based or sesame dipping sauce. If you are looking to try udon while visiting Japan, I recommend stopping by Shokaku. Reviewers say the long line is worth the wait!

Every time my cousins came into town from Houston to visit us, they brought back steamed buns filled with either sweet or savory pastes. My mom and I would eat three in one sitting, leaving little to none for the rest of the family to enjoy. Although these wheat flour buns, known as manju, originated in China, they are now a delicacy in the Gunma prefecture in Japan. Some people say that manju buns are the equivalent of a Chinese mooncake. The original filling in China was meat until the Japanese began to serve manju at tea ceremonies in Zen Buddhism. In Zen Buddhism, consumption of meat is prohibited, so people started using alternative fillings like bean pastes, custards, and cream cheeses. One type of bun specific to Gunma is Yaki manju which are unfilled buns that are skewered, covered in a sweet miso sauce, and roasted over charcoal. If you are ever in Japan looking to try both a sweet and savory dessert, I recommend checking out Tanakaya Honten Yaki Manju!

#foodie JapaneseCuisines BigYum

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