#forgotten historical oddities

[daancienttime]

History is often portrayed as a dry, dusty collection of dates and names, but it's actually full of fascinating, bizarre, and downright crazy stories waiting to be discovered. If you're looking to spice up your knowledge of the past, here's how to uncover the most mind-blowing historical facts.

[dougielombax]

So

The internet’s many resident armchair historians, right wing podcasters, self proclaimed “philosophers” and other such ill-assorted, small-minded middle aged mediocrities are having a moment again.

All because the new Assassin’s Creed game has a black character in it.

Specifically Yasuke. A black samurai. Who actually did exist.

I knew about him for YEARS before the trailer dropped.

Plus, I study history and have a masters degree so I’ve looked into this stuff.

You know what racists are like.

They don’t know shit about history and when it’s pointed out to them they end up going feral.

Get over it!

Black people exist!

And Yasuke was a real person!

Links for anyone who is curious.

I’d cite the Wikipedia page if idiots would stop vandalising it. So for the moment it’s not here. (Until now)

Feel free to reblog.

[teshadraws]

Nia references Trubbish and Garboder in one of the earlier chapters when counterin Tobias' argument about the oddities of the human world…

How could such a species even exist if humans never naturally came to be in this Pokemon world of Seekers?

One of Trubbish' Pokedex entries says, "... was created when garbage and industrial waste mixed, causing a reaction that generated Trubbish."

Unless you may have an entirely different origin in mind for them, lmao.

Same goes for both forms of Muk and Grimer.

… Do Kantonian Voltorb and Electrode exist in Seekers? I can't remember if either have ever appeared...

And I guess the regional forms directly affected by humankind's actions (i.e. Alolan Ratata and Raticate, Alolan Meowth and Persian, Galarian Weezing, Galarian Meowth and Perrserker, Hisuian Zorua and Zoroark) could technically have unique ways of comin to existence due to certain historical or cultural events in the past.

Apparently the Vanillish and Klink lines came first and are what inspired the creation of ice cream and gears…

What about Golett and Golurk and Baltoy and Claydoll? Both lines were created by ancient civilizations… Same POSSIBLY goes for Bronzong and Bronzor.

And I can see Rotom existin... they jus can't inhabit appliances because those jus don't exist in Seekers' pokeworld.

And what of the Magnemite line? Castform? Castform was shockinly actually artificially created in Hoenn to help predict weather! I could see them existin somehow through natural means (clouds that became sentient through mystical means).

What about Deoxys? Deoxys simply came from space when its virus inside a meteorite mutates in the planet's atmosphere… Not from any manmade means.

Does Spiritomb exist and would it be comprised of 108 Pokemon spirits?

The ones I can def rule out from previous asks and convos are Mewtwo, Porygon line, Genesect, Megearna, Type: Null/Silvally, the Galarian fossilmon, Future Paradox Pokemon… And that would also go for Past Parodox Pokemon as well.

I'm also guessin that rules out Meltan and Melmetal as well (can't remember if you mentioned that).

And ya said Ultrabeasts don't exist purely because of no Ultra Wormholes, so no Lunala, Necrozma, Solgaleo, Cosmog, nor Cosmeon. (Though someone made a point in the server about that tombstone possibly havin a depiction of Lunala on it…) I do like the idea that Lunala and Solgaleo have existed once in this world, but someday jus... vanished.

Eternatus is said to be from another world as well… I'm guessin it doesn't exist, or maybe it does to some compacity? Do Zacian and Zamazenta exist in some shape or form?

And since gimmicks like Z-Moves, Dynamax, Gigantamax, and Mega Evolution also don't exist, it'd only make sense the Terrastalization phenomenon also doesn't exist, so no Teragapos either… (Maybe they did at one time but have all vanished or gone extinct).

Could the Treasures of Ruin (Chien-Pao, Wo-Chien, Chi-Yu, and Ting-Lu) also exist in some capacity? It could've been some long forgotten or scarcely known Legendary crafted the items they possess and planted them as precious artifacts across rhe world that intrepid explorers or passersby found and the resultin avarice of whomever owned the treasures caused their curses to bring them to life and take on their corporeal forms as a form of punishment or some sick pleasure from that Legendary? I dunno, I jus really love this quartet! They're so fascinatin and I myself have actually found a way to incorporate them into my PMD EOS AU lore!!

I know this is an enormously long ask, but thanks tons if ya take the time to comb through this and offer some answers! I know a lot of this is reachin and not really pertinant to Seekers' main plot, but it'd be really cool supplementary material! Sorta like what ya guessed for Zekrom and Reshiram.

Oh dang, this is a beefy ask, haha! Here we go.

The Pokemon in Seekers still create waste, even if most of it isn't nearly as manufactured and toxic as the human world's! Plus, the runoff from natural poison types like the gulpin and clodsire lines contributes to the natural poison waste in the environment. I will say that poison types like trubbish and grimer are much less common in Seekers than in the mainline Pokemon worlds, though!

Kantonian voltorb and electrode exist as a natural steel-type offshoot of the Hisuian variant! They just happen to look a lot like the pokeballs of other Pokemon worlds. :]

Hm...I'm going to say the golett/baltoy/bronzor lines just came from ancient Pokemon civilizations' artifacts, rather than human ones!

Magnemite aren't artificially created, so they're present in the Seekers world! I agree that castform could exist through different means, but it's likely a rare occurrence since they would have to come together through a sort of "freak accident" of weather phenomena.

Deoxys isn't currently present in Seekers, but they would have the potential to show up at some point if the space virus made its way to the planet!

Spiritomb does exist, but it's Pokemon spirits instead of human ones as is usually implied in Pokemon's canon.

The meltan/melmetal line exists, though they're rare! They're not manmade and are born from natural steel components.

Whoops. Forgot that I mentioned Lunala on the crobat's tombstone, haha!!! 😅 Let's say that Lunala and Solgaleo are largely considered legends, then, even more so than other Legendary Pokemon. They were thought to exist once, but have long since returned to their own dimensions and are no longer present in the Seekers canon.

Similar to Deoxys, Eternatus isn't currently present in the Seekers world, but could potentially show up if the meteorite it was born from in canon showed up in the world!

Zacian and Zamazenta exist, just without the same lore from Sword and Shield (so no Darkest Day). Instead, they simply guard their territory from threats. I don't think they'll be considered Legendary in Seekers, though. They feel more like regular (albeit powerful) Pokemon to me. I don't have an area in mind for where they dwell, though! 

Terapagos probably exists, but its ambient power isn't enough to cause terrastalization in other Pokemon. No game gimmicks here.

The Treasures of Ruin might exist, but that's another quartet that I wouldn't really consider "Legendaries" in Seekers canon! I'd say they're lying dormant in their shrines throughout the Seekers world, but I don't have any lore currently on who sealed them away. They were sealed away due to being dangerous, though, since they were created from negative emotions! Not that that nixes the possibility for redemption down the line. 👀

Hope that satisfies some of your curiosity!

[queefy-5-layer-burrito]

I had forgotten that the beauty of tumblr is being able to oscillate between all of my special interests at breakneck speed.

Other sites use an algorithm that traps you into one niche topic at a time, but here it’s all

GAY > DR WHO > ABANDONED PLACES > GAY > ODDITIES > LEFTIST MEMES > GAY > ANARCHIST RHETORIC > HISTORICAL FASHION > GAY > ART > GAY ART > GAY

[kessielrg]

[Zelda] Please, Protect the Arts: Part 2

Notes: A little scared that I’ve written 3k words today- the entirety of this chapter with at least 1k for the first. This is the most I’ve written since the month started. Weird. Very sus. I’ve got 3 other fics that need to be taken care of too. It’s kinda frustrating. :’)

Rating: K

Word Count: 1,677 words

Previous | Next | AO3

- - -

At first, Zelda thought she didn’t carry an opinion of the situation. A little unnerved that the boy wouldn’t tell her his name upfront, of course, but it was only a small road bump in her grand plan. Instead, she was excited. Mysteries were something Zelda has a passing interest in- the satisfaction of piecing a puzzle together before having all the pieces in front of you. Learning this boy’s name would be exactly that. He may (would, she mentally corrected in hope) even help her defend the school’s funding if she played along. It would be a puzzle where everyone won in the end. She would almost bet on it.

“Are you sure you want to go for a drive, ma’am?” the family chauffeur asked as Zelda walked up to the car. “Now would be the time to work on that garden you keep boasting about.”

Zelda let out a laugh. “I don’t talk about it that much- you just want me to pick a bouquet for you so you don’t have to buy them for your wife.”

The chauffeur then gave a laugh of his own. “Guilty as charged.” he admitted. Once he made sure Zelda was safely in the car, he got in as well.

“Where to, then?” he asked as he started the engine.

“The Hylian School of Arts, if you’d please.”

“Oh?” the chauffeur asked, glancing at her through the rear view mirror. “Do you plan on enrolling for next year’s classes?”

“No,” Zelda said with a shake of her head, “I promised to meet someone there today.”

“Oh?”

Zelda now looked up at the chauffeur. A hint of both amusement and annoyance traced across her face.

“Not like that.” she sternly insisted. It did not stop the chauffeur from laughing at her besides.

. . .

The Hylian School of Arts was located at the border of the city outskirts and downtown. It had been declared a historical landmark some time before Zelda was conceived. The exterior was a grayish-white that only got power washed once a season, with colorful flowers that made up the quad leading to the front door itself. Above the door was the crest of the school- a bronze phoenix composed of three triangles and sprawling wings. The symbol was one that Zelda was familiar with. Many of her female family members could call the old campus their alma mater. Local stories decided that it was a female ancestor that started it back when ladies still wore wide hoop skirts, and horses could be ridden horseback without anyone giving it a second glance.

To lose its funding would be a great blow for the institution. Even if the school dissolved, the building would still be here- either empty and forgotten, or turned into something a lot more commercial. Something a lot less community driven. Something that only existed to make money.

Zelda shook her head. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. If anything, she was working to correct it.

Standing a bit straighter, Zelda walked through the door of The Hylian School of Arts. Her stop right after was with the main receptionist.

“Room 115?” the receptionist repeated once Zelda had told her the room. “It’s a floor under this one. Just take the elevator down, make a right once you get out, and follow the corridor down.”

“Thank you.” Zelda nodded. Her heels of her ankle boots clicked as she walked down the polished floor to the elevator. For a fleeting moment she wondered if it was the original flooring. It couldn’t be, she decided, not with how often it looked like they buffed this floor.

The elevator also seemed like an oddity. It was very wide, more wide than a standard elevator. Zelda was once more reminded of ladies with hoop skirts wider than the typical wheelchair. How many of those studious ladies with wide skirts did this elevator used to hold? Three? Five? Zelda was still entertaining the idea once she stepped off the elevator and made a right down the corridor. It was probably thoughts of the elevator that didn’t allow Zelda to think as she placed her hand on Room 115’s handle. She had it completely turned and about to open before she realized a full orchestra was playing on the other end.

Zelda leaped away from the door immediately. She gave her racing heart time to settle again as she cursed herself for being careless. Beside the door, she realized, was a rather wide window that could allow onlookers to observe the orchestra when they were in practice. Zelda used it to give the players a look over. There were an equal amount of both men and women, of various size and skill as they kept up with their conductor- who was positioned at the front of the room with a lectern that surely had whatever sheet music they were meant to be playing from.

Zelda soon found a familiar face in the wind section. Their gazes immediately met not long after.

The boy smirked at her.

He smirked at Zelda. He knew that she had almost unceremoniously interrupted the class. And he looked almost proud at the fact!

“Asshole.” Zelda mouthed to him. The boy’s smirk grew so wide that he accidentally missed four notes.

The rest of the class seemed to proceed as usual. Zelda had moved away from the window to not catch anyone else’s attention. She listened as the budding orchestra worked on the same piece for another hour, starting and stopping at various places in between starting from the beginning to end. As the students started to leave the room, she expected the boy to meet her outside. He did not. He remained behind even after the teacher left. Entering when no one else was in there felt wrong.

“You gave me that time on purpose.” Zelda immediately huffed regardless. “Do you hate that song or something?”

The boy gave a simple roll of his shoulder. The wide grin on his face was just as apparent. Zelda rolled her eyes. Oh, this boy had jokes alright. Those blue eyes might have seen a lot of things, but it wasn’t without an air of punkishness to counteract it.

Not once she did she reconsider that he might help her. Never even crossed her mind.

“This is a nice room,” Zelda noted as she walked around. “It’s hard to imagine it could hold so many instruments. Let alone the people who play them.”

The boy only blinked as he watched her. It felt like he was studying her. Some part of her mind wondered if he was waiting for her to show boredom or anger. If she had any, it was lost as Zelda looked over the late harp stationed near the corner where the other string instrument players had been.

“I used to play the harp.” Zelda mused to no one in particular as her fingers glided against the strings. The gently ascending notes were a comfort. “I had to stop because…”

She honestly couldn’t remember why she had stopped playing. It had been a choice made long, long ago, she knew that much. The boy broke her thoughts when he gave her a tiny nudge. Zelda had been so lost in thought that she hadn’t realized he had moved closer to her.

“What’s wrong?” Zelda asked.

The boy held up his ocarina, gestured to the harp, then to Zelda. Without saying a word, she knew exactly what he meant.

“Oh no, I can’t. I shouldn’t.”

The boy raised an eyebrow at her.

‘Why not?’ his face questioned in place of his voice. ‘It’s just us two here.’

Zelda immediately felt guilty.

“Even if I played with you, we don’t have any sheet music that works with just a harp… and ocarina.” Zelda paused. She gave the boy an odd look before saying, “Unless you had something in mind?”

The boy held up a finger before going to a bookshelf. While there, he pulled out a binder filled with sheet music. He pulled out two copies, then handed one to Zelda. She looked it over in curiosity, then a bit of distaste.

“At least it’s in a C key…” Zelda murmured under her breath.

The boy gave a wide grin in knowing that Zelda wasn’t going to back out now. He quickly pulled a chair closer to Zelda and the harp, then sat comfortably enough to hold the ocarina close to his lips. His enthusiasm almost stirred something within Zelda. She soon took her seat at the harp, trusting that it had been tuned before practice today, and sat up in a comfortable way for her to begin playing.

The boy led them at first. It was slow and careful. Zelda followed with sweeping movements that nearly made her become one with the harp. It may have been a perfect performance had she remembered to look at the sheet music more often. They worked well together, the boy and her. In another life, this might had been their entire relationship- just two strangers that played well off each other.

Zelda was disheartened when the piece finished. She had to bring her arms down to rest on her lap purposefully. When she looked over to the boy, she hadn’t expected him to have his hand out. Let alone have a little charm placed there. It was a pewter lyre.

“It’s pretty.” she noted without much thought.

The boy pushed it closer, indicating that it was for her.

“Me?” she then questioned. “Why?”

The boy smiled at her, the amusement even reaching his eyes, as he tapped his temple then gestured to himself.

“You’re really going to make me guess your name, aren’t you?” Zelda asked him, quirking her eyebrow at him.

He nodded.

“Does it have to be one piece at a time?” Zelda then questioned- the small whine etched within had been accidental. It only seemed to make the boy grin wider.

She might have been mistaken, but he even let out a soft laugh at her expense.

[rejectedbad]

Rejected Bad: Pronunciations

The following is a rejected script from an early season of Breaking Bad.

INT. METH LAB - DAY

Walter and Jesse are wearing hazmat suits and masks, cooking their famous blue meth. The room is filled with the sound of bubbling chemicals and the flickering blue light of the flames heating the glass cookware.

Skinny Pete and Badger awkwardly approach Walter and Jesse, nervously shifting their weight from foot to foot.

Skinny Pete: (clears throat) Uh, hey, Mister White, Jesse, can we talk for a minute?

Walter looks up, irritation apparent on his face. Jesse rolls his eyes. Walter:  (angrily)  I said no to your raise!

Skinny Pete:  (nervous) It’s about something else, Mr. White. Walter: (sighs) What is it, Skinny Pete? Can't you see we're in the middle of something important here?

Badger: Yeah, man, sorry to interrupt, but we've been talking, you know, and... well, we want to know why you don't pronounce Arkansas like Kansas. It's messing with our minds, yo.

Jesse: (laughs sarcastically) For real, guys? You're interrupting a cook to discuss pronunciation?

Skinny Pete: No disrespect, Holmes, but it's something we've been wondering about. It's like, why can't they have the same pronunciation? Ain't they both states?

Walter: (annoyed) Okay, look, gentlemen, Arkansas is pronounced the way it is due to historical reasons. It's derived from a French interpretation of a Native American word, while Kansas follows English pronunciation rules. Simple as that.

Jesse: (exasperated) Are we seriously having a linguistics lesson here? We got bigger fish to fry, literally!

Skinny Pete: (nodding) Yeah, I get it, but it just bugs us, Mr. White. It feels like one of those questions that needs answers, you know?

Walter considers for a moment, his irritation momentarily replaced by a touch of amusement.

Walter: Fine. I'll indulge you, but I expect you to focus on work right after. Deal?

Skinny Pete and Badger nod enthusiastically.

Jesse: (sarcastically) Great, another episode of "Breaking Bad: State Edition." What's next? Why is Rhode Island not a road? Why is it an island?

Walter: (smirking) Actually, Jesse, it's because the early European settlers thought the land resembled the Greek island of Rhodes. It's not even a mystery.  What is still a mystery is how you ended up there yesterday covered in marmalade.

Jesse: (panicing) Uhhh, I don’t want to say why.

Walter turns to Skinny Pete and Badger, ready to explain further.

Walter: The English language can be a puzzle, gentlemen. It's full of quirks, oddities, and inconsistencies. But at this moment, we need to focus on what we do best—perfecting our meth. The pronunciation of states can wait until after.

Skinny Pete and Badger look at each other, seemingly satisfied with Walter's explanation.

Badger: Alright, cool. We'll get back to it, then.

They start to slowly back out of the lab, still staring at Walter in awe.

Walter: (firmly) And no more interruptions, understood?

Skinny Pete and Badger: Understood, Mr. White!

They awkwardly exit the lab, leaving Walter and Jesse to resume their work.

Jesse: (grumbling) Seriously, it's like we're on an educational show or something.

Walter: (smiling) Jesse, just be glad they didn't ask about all 50 states... we'd never finish a cook.

They share a chuckle before refocusing on their cook, the blue meth sizzling away, temporarily forgotten by the interruption.  While the producer and writer sweat on thinking how they can add the remaining states in before this blog closes.

FADE OUT.

[laurenpomfrett-ardn516-2023]

Assignment Brief Answers:

What are the particular, peculiar oddities, beautiful, raw, hidden gems of your surroundings?

My childhood hometown of rural Kaukapakapa, has beautiful scenic views of the Kaipara river and the wide expansive paddocks, which attracts many people to leave their busy and intense lives to come live in the quiet and peaceful country side. However, on the contrary, does not hide its flaws and brutal truths with many meat processing factories, old abandoned service station, a cemetery, railway tracks that are never used, an old slaughter house, an abandoned real estate building, shooting signs, junk yards, old rusted cars, alcohol ban areas, overgrown weeds and moss, home kill signs and many other brutal truths. These are what is often forgotten and left out when we think of the country side and only focus on the rose tinted glass viewpoint. I want to showcase my past and my hometowns unique character in a way that does not sugar coat anything.

Are they interiors, exteriors, or both?

Solely exterior. My focus is documenting and showcasing the outdoor scenes, structures, and experiences of Kaukapakapa and Helensville. All of my structures are situated outside. These regions are expansive in size but have limited structures with instead a lot of empty open space. Most of my experiences with my hometown was outside, for example, playing in the paddocks and by the river with friends rather than being cooped up inside and I want to showcase the unique scenery as my background.

What do these places look like? How might your photographs convey a connection to them?

These places feel a bit neglected and forgotten. The historic sites aren't taken care of very well and so they get left behind as we focus on developing society. I'll be showcasing lots of overgrowth, paint, junk, old metal scraps that have been rusted away, paint chipping, holes in framing, wooden panels that have fallen down, scaffolding and roadkill that hasn't been taken away as examples. I also want to showcase the livelihoods of people who live here such as farmers and meat processors through photographing their work places and their land.

WORD COUNT: 318

[littlemoondarling]

Rouge would confidently identify wrong if it was anything that he hadn't encountered before, but that is rare you see, since he traveled the whole world in his youth in search of himself and he has a "photographic memory" putting it between quotes because it works a bit differently than that. I said he would confidently identify something wrong because he doesn't believe in "I don't know" he would very much rather give you the wrong answer than admit there is a gap in his knowledge.

Theodore would just spin a tall tale about a brand new cryptid, he would invent lore and history around it on the spot, he would insert it seamlessly into the existing mythos given the amount of general historical knowledge he acquired through the years and he will be convincing enough that you will go that night and comment under a "cryptid iceberg" video that they missed it. Creating a new creepypasta while Theodore had completely forgotten about the whole encounter 👍🏻

Tldr both of these bastards would spread misinformation to you with zero regrets but both do it in vastly different ways.

Now if you want an actual good answer, your go to is Fran Rouge (the son of pre mentioned Rouge) he is a big fan of animals (and bugs) and thus he spends his immortal life catching, cataloguing and reporting about all their little oddities, and he is actually the type to tell you "I don't know! I'll do some research and come back!" Because he loves learning new stuff!

Your OC has been asked to identify a mysterious animal call someone recorded, how confidently would they be able to identify it?

[daancienttime]

The Ultimate Guide to Uncovering Crazy Historical Facts!

History is often portrayed as a dry, dusty collection of dates and names, but it's actually full of fascinating, bizarre, and downright crazy stories waiting to be discovered. If you're looking to spice up your knowledge of the past, here's how to uncover the most mind-blowing historical facts.

Explore Obscure Sources

Most people stick to well-known history books and documentaries, but that's only scratching the surface. Delve into lesser-known sources like personal diaries, local newspapers, and niche historical publications. These hidden gems often reveal quirky anecdotes and unexpected twists that official histories overlook.

Embrace Fringe Theories

While some fringe theories are outlandish and unsubstantiated, others raise intriguing questions and challenge accepted narratives. Don't dismiss them out of hand; approach them with an open mind and consider the possibility that they might contain a kernel of truth.

Follow Rabbit Trails

When you stumble upon an Interesting Historical Fact, don't just move on. Dig deeper, follow the rabbit trail, and see where it leads. You might discover connections to other seemingly unrelated events or uncover a hidden web of intrigue.

Seek Out Oddball Characters

History is full of eccentric individuals who defied expectations and led lives filled with drama and adventure. Seek out these oddball characters and learn about their exploits. You'll be amazed by the sheer variety of human experiences throughout history.

Embrace the Strangeness

Don't be afraid to embrace the strangeness and absurdity of history. The past is full of weird and wonderful occurrences that challenge our understanding of the world. Celebrate these oddities and let them fuel your curiosity.

[enki2]

I saw your response about anime style history and was absolutely fascinated. Do you have any reading/watching recommendations about the histories of different genres?

The WaveMotionCannon blog is a great resource for detailed analyses and primary sources about trends in the anime industry (including genre trends), but they go really deep and get into the weeds so I'd recommend some overviews first. I'm not really sure why, but general-audience books on the subject tend to be both broad and full of errors.

Luckily, Youtube has a lot of channels that specialize in a mix of overviews and deep dives:

Pause and Select comes out of the academic world (specifically, the anime-centric part of cultural studies) and does a lot of broad surveys of trends in genre, situated with cultural, political, and technical context. They used to do periodic book clubs, too, which was a great way to get exposed to academic sources (important because industry, academic, and fan histories of anime kind of sit in their own bubbles and rarely interact, in part because of language barriers; each can illuminate the others in interesting ways).

Mercury Falcon does both genre overviews and deep dives into particular franchises, with a focus on the 70s and 80s. This channel has an absolute wealth of information about early anime industry drama (particularly in the mecha space in the 70s) and early localization efforts. Kenny Lauderdale does some of the same stuff, but with a lighter tone -- he's more interested specifically in rarities and oddities, but when he dives into history, he will sometimes dig up information nobody else has, and he's got some insights into media preservation that are worth hearing.

KaizerBeamz's series "Kyoto Video" shines a spotlight on older, forgotten shows and as a result often provides an insight into the outer edges & branches of current genres (and a reminder of now-dead genres). He sometimes provides a lot of historical context, as well.

The Canipa Effect focuses on the contemporary scene, but dives into the histories of particular studios; where he really shines is explorations of the dynamics of the industry (something that doesn't get talked about very much even in Japan, and where translations of first-person accounts are rare). Canipa was important in spreading awareness of the working conditions of animators among the western anime fandom. Worth checking out alongside Archipel, a Japanese-language channel (with high-quality translations) that documents individuals working in the anime industry with little documentary featurettes about their life and work. Also check out the Japanese public television series Manben, in which manga artists (including veteran revolutionaries like Rumiko Takahashi) are filmed drawing their current projects and then discuss the footage with the host, veteran artist Urusawa Naoki. These deep dives sometimes provide critical insight into whole genres, because anime genres (much like genres in italian film) tend to develop out of imitators of single seminal properties, and so single creators or small groups of creators can wield huge amounts of influence.

STEVIEM's mini-documentaries on Studio 4C and Hideaki Anno are great, though most of his output is general anituber territory. I would also recommend Ygg Studios' Anime Alphabet series, and ErynCerise's Mahou Profile (a series of videos on the evolution of the magical girl genre).

In terms of books, I've found them pretty hit or miss. Some that I can recommend wholeheartedly are:

The Moe Manifesto, a collection of essays about the history of the concept of "moe" -- this is where I got a lot of information about the genesis of the bishojo style

Otaku: Japan's Database Animals, a work of cultural analysis by Azuma that dives into the intersection of anime fandom, the VN space, and online communication technologies and tries to produce a general model of the evolution of how people relate to media (with, IMO, mixed results)

The Notenki Memoirs is a history of the period at Gainax when Evangelion was being developed (and can be combined with Otaku no Video, Gainax's semi-fictionalized OVA retelling a mythic version of their origin; there is also a live action series called Blue Blazes about the early days of Gainax, which I haven't seen, and a documentary about the production of Evangelion 3.0+1.0 that gives interesting insight into Anno himself.)

Some that I recommend with caveats:

Anime Impact, a collection of anime reviews by english speakers (mostly people who were semi-famous online personalities about 10-15 years ago, and only some of whom actually know much about anime), is largely interesting because it's organized chronologically by the date of the show's release, so the early chapters dive into the history of forgotten shows

Robot Ghosts And Wired Dreams, a collection of essays (mostly about science fiction anime) by academics in cultural studies, contains a lot of interesting and compelling material (for instance, the first essay situates Japanese science fiction in the context of the irregular detective genre and connects it with complicated currents in nationalism, and a later essay talks about the semiotics of loan words in the context of Macross Plus and Patlabor) and a couple real duds (for instance, an essay trying to compare Evangelion with Final Fantasy: The Spirits Within wherein the author only watches two episodes of Evangelion and gets their plot confused, then tries and fails to fit it into a framework of second-wave-feminist critiques of transhumanism through a freudian lens)

The History of Hentai Manga is well-researched and detailed, but the author tries to cram in a lot of jokes that don't land, and it seems like there might have been an editorial mandate to put in as many images as possible (because this academic study of hentai manga is being published by a company that mostly publishes actual hentai); the translation is also pretty clunky. In his attempt to come off as breezy, the author uses particular phrases and constructions that are part of japanese fan-culture argot, and the translator does not localize these phrases and constructions (preferring to translate them literally) and also does not provide context for them, so they can be quite confusing to people who haven't come across them before (i.e., people who haven't seen a lot of fansubs of obscure otaku-focused shows from 20 years ago).

If I think of anything else, I'll post it later.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Hello! I love your blog! The adventures you post are so interesting and are great to read, also my apologies if I messed it up and your not taking submissions any longer! Do you have any thoughts for a mountainous lair for one of the last red dragons on the continent? My players are going there soon and I'd love to here what you think of for this

Villain: Zindiiex, the Mournful Wyrm . 

Who are you to speak to a dragon of MONSTERS? You who have hunted my brood through the centuries, scourging them from the sky and butchering them where they fell. Oh yes, a dragon may kill when she is hungry or to assert her territory, but you humans would see our kind extinct simply to feel “safe” in your squalid little burrows. 

I will hear what you have to say, Vermin, but let neither of us pretend that we are not beasts, pretending at parlay 

Setup: Once known as the “Skybleeder” for the way her rampages would turn the horizon into a haze of smoke and refracted fire, the old wyrm Zindiiex now hides from the world, scarred by the long centuries of conflict and the death of her many kin. 

Cursed with a predator’s instinct to predate and tyrannize, but a mortal spirit capable of fearing pain and loss, this dragon’s millennia spanning existence has been a constant cycle of destruction and suffering, both wrought by her own talons and visited upon her by her victims’ retribution. Having lost both mates and children, and suffered grievous wounds at the hands of attempted dragonslayers, Zindiiex is now a broken beast; lairing in an isolated mountain fortress, nursing her various physical and emotional traumas and spending decades in fitful, tearful slumber. 

Adventure Hooks: 

This prompt is an unplanned sequel to “The Ashen Bastion”, the historic fortress that the Mournful Wyrum took as her hideaway. Check it out if you’d like some details on the backdrop of this encounter, or reasons your party might decide to seek her out on their own. 

Dragons are wellsprings of elemental power, which serves as the source behind their potent breath weapons, as well as their drive to collect, horde, and devour sources of magic. Like most ancient dragons, Zindiiex had cultivated this wellspring into a blazing bonifre, becoming an embodied calamity of titanic destructive potential. In her convalescence however, the Skybleeder’s power has begun to “ Bleed out”, waking the stone that surrounds her into a volcanic state, infusing it with volatile magics even as the dragon herself begins to wither. The sountains stir as Zindiiex sleeps more and more, and are in danger of erupting if the dragon is not dealt with before too long. 

This primordial runoff is also beginning to seed the surrounding landscape with wonderous magic, giving rise to nescient elementals and other oddities. Veins of Adamantine have been found in the foothills surrounding her lair were their were none before, and various objects around the ruins have begun to take on spontaneous enchantments. Though the dragon keeps very little in the way of a horde, there are riches to be found should one be brave enough.  

 A survivor to the very end, the Mournful Wyrm clashed with many of the last age’s great heroes, and may be able to share a tidbit or two about the goings on of the last age that have since been forgotten by all others. 

Art 1

Art 2

[brownandblackpearls]

📜 🖋 𝒞ourting with 𝒟r. 𝒟evorak (Julian x BlackReader) Pt.2

PART 2 SUMMARY:

You are a reputable, young beauty of means in Vesuvia, enjoying the winter courting season. An odd letter from an odd doctor finds its way to your door. You are on the first segment of your first date, attending a medical convention in Vesuvia.

─── Julian x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── regency/historical/fantasy, courtship rituals, wealthy! MC, love letters, drama, handsome redheads

☾ previous. ☾ next

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

Sitting across from Julian in this grand carriage is a fascinating journey all on its own.

The doctor is an eccentric one, telling you tales of wild cases, interesting cure possibilities, and lesser known homeopathic solutions to common Vesuvian ailments.

His sheer passion is more than enough to hold your interest, and hearing his innermost thoughts on his work is enough to spread the contagion of enthusiasm for this medical convention you were arriving upon. You were admittedly squeamish when it came to gore, but you did find an interest in the workings of the body, and more than that, you found an interest in him.

Unfortunately...you weren’t the biggest fan of leeches. When you let him know honestly, he couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“I apologize,” Julian says to you honestly, looking sheepish. “I should’ve realized.”

You shake your head, smiling.

“It’s quite alright. Your line of work is very different from what I know. I simply manage my estate and related businesses, but you...? You help the people of this city. If you say leeches are a helpful medicine for people in need, then I’ll believe you and do my best to rid my trepidation. At least, for this evening.”

Julian stares at you for a long moment before suddenly reaching across the space between you for your delicately-gloved hand and kissing it soundly, intimately. His eyes focus on you through dark lashes before he lowers his gaze as well as your hand.

He clears his throat, sitting back stiffly.

“I…that was forward of me. I must beg your forgiveness.”

“Yes,” you agree in jest. You found nothing wrong with the act, regarding it as more endearing than anything. Clearly, the doctor liked the fact that you were happy to try and see the value in the world he clearly loved so much. “You’re forgiven.”

Julian seems to deflate at your words instead of soothe, wrangling his fingers together anxiously. He forces a laugh and nods, looking out the window. Had he missed your humorous tone...?

You don’t like him looking dissatisfied. You like him looking away from you with that wary expression even less.

With a slow, confident reach across the space, you use your own hands to gently cup his anxious one. Raising it between you both, you pinch the fingertip of his thick, leather glove before slowly lifting it off to unveil his hand of its leather casing. It is easy to pull his large hand towards you and observe the white, open palm.

His hand is large, long, and elegant for a doctor’s, yet clearly worn in certain places from fervent use. He must help so many, with these hands. Your mind drifts to other possibilities that those long fingers may be capable of, but you settle yourself quickly.

No need to rush. Not in courtship.

Instead, you use the subtle imaginings to move your lips, pouting and pressing them long and gentle against the palm of his hand. You linger there, flicking your gaze up and watching him freeze through the gaps of his fingers, before pulling away with a sweet release. Your eyes flick down to the lipstick-stained kiss mark left on his hand.

Your mark. 

Smiling with satisfaction, you gently tug his glove back on and pat his hand before releasing him.

“That was also forward of me,” you say casually enough. “Am I forgiven…?”

Julian fumbles, a hot blush crawling up his cheeks. 

“Y-yes,” he barely breathes, leaning towards the window once more. You settle with the thought that it is for some air, likely...instead of apprehension.

You feel your own face heat from the thrill of the forbidden, enjoying the slight cover that your dark, warm skin gives you. It would take more exertion than thrill or embarrassment to reveal you. The act of kissing his hand had been deviant, but delicious, and you thoroughly enjoyed teasing the doctor. He probably had expected no mischief from a respectable, established woman such as yourself. He may have even thought he had to hold himself in a certain manner to gain your favor.

Little did he know, he already had it. You wanted him, and you wanted him to understand you better, as well as lower his guard around you. You were certainly high in the Vesuvian aristocracy circles, but you were human just as anyone else, and you could make the same mistakes...the same missteps...as anyone else.

Your idea seemed to work well enough. Mr. Devorak no longer seemed to be upset, or appeared as if he felt alone in his forwardness.

Now, he seemed bewildered, if not highly intrigued.

You were pleased to think that later on, when you were no longer together, that Dr. Devorak would still have your mark on him after the day was done. A pretty reminder.

But no more of that. The day was just beginning.

“Ah, there it is!” He exclaimed, beckoning you to the window. “That’s the hall the gala will be held in!”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

Though you were never one to feel overdressed at any occasion, you could certainly feel the eyes draw onto you as Dr. Devorak escorted you towards the large building.

Leaving the warm space of the carriage allowed you a reason to stay close with him in the crowds. His offered arm is strong and warm, but you keep your admiration to yourself for the moment. You take it as if its second nature, letting him lead you both towards the great hall in an easy step.

Your eyes span the people crowding near the entrance way, and you realize there are several other young beauties here with courting partners as well. Perhaps this event was more popular for Vesuvians than you once believed? You were curious to find out about the draws of this event that you had been unaware of prior.

The doctor flags down one of the door staff, smiling. The doorman spots him and grins back, calling out his name.

“Dr. Devorak! Welcome, welcome. You’re on the list of course, so you can come right in. Here’s your pin.”

Your date smiles, allowing the man to pin a medical emblem on his lapel. You realize it is likely a determiner for others in the event to understand who he is, and know that he is also a medical professional participating, not just a socialite.

“My lady,” the doorman greets, bowing to you kindly before stepping back. You don’t miss the sly wink he shoots to the doctor, who funnily pretends as if he did.

You greet the man back pleasantly before allowing Julian to lead you both into the event, past the crowds.

“Oh!” You gasp aloud, seeing the dioramas inside.

There were huge displays of freeze-dried human musculature, stuck in stasis while posing as if they were alive. Some were running, others jumping, and some standing. You mistakenly thought before that such sights might be grotesque, but the preparers did such a good job in making all the displays neat, clean, and scentless, you couldn’t help but feel only fascination.

Other tables were covered in medical tools, some from ancient Vesuvian history, and others from the current times. You could spy syringes, hacksaws, casts, all kinds of tools and oddities. Another table held medicines, their respective bottled forms, only for the bottles and pills to be under-laid by the real ingredients that went in them. One bowl of tablets showed huge ferns beneath them, and you wondered to yourself how pharmacists and herbalists could ever mash up such large plants to fit into such tiny capsules.

You didn’t realize you’d forgotten to interact with your date since entering the hall until Dr. Devorak pulled up beside you, smiling as you gawked at everything.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?”

You startle a little, turning to him with wide eyes. A smile comes to your face.

“Yes! Very!”

You point out the bottles to him, revealing the question that had run through your mind.

The doctor seemed highly pleased to hear of your interest, and even moreso to engage in it.

“Well, you see,” he began, “though some professionals settle for the old mortar and pestle, there are new devices made just in the last year to assist with the refining process! In my offices, we’ve also experimented with rollers, stones, pressers, as well as the normal affects.”

“Like what?” You wonder, leaning in.

“Oh…” He pauses, unsure of himself now. “I, erh...I wouldn’t want to bore you. Are you in need of refreshments? I can—“

“You’re very kind,” you insist, trying to redirect back to your question. He’s gotten you interested and now you want to know! “What affects did you mean? From before?”

He pauses, analyzing you for a moment before breaking into a somewhat fond grin.

“Well...things like heat or chill can help separate what we need from the ingredients used. Though I had to study all arenas of medicine and practice in my youth, I focus more on diagnosis, prescription, and research these days. I used to do surgery and medicinal preparations but with the recent expanding we’ve undergone, I’ve been sidetracked with indulging in more hypotheticals and innovation than tried-and-true practice. So, I’m very excited to see what my colleagues have come up with!”

You smile, watching him speak and taking in his words. He seems so bright, so glad and inspired.

“I am happy to hear your expansions allow you the pursuits you desire. It must have been difficult.”

The doctor laughs then, and it is a warm, rich thing.

“I am only lucky. I’ve come a long way, from dingy old ships to grand palaces. Compared to all that, starting my practice and training younger medical professionals was easy.”

You could’ve kept walking beside him, conversing easily...but suddenly, a group of older doctors crowd you both, eyeballing your date.

“Devorak!” One crows. “We’ve been looking for you! Grimmes delivered the best speech on those new splints you both collaborated on, I wanted to congratulate you.”

“Why, thank you!” Julian says happily, shaking hands. “Grimmes did more of the work, she’s a natural.”

He seems to be in his element, amongst all the chatting doctors. Another one steps forward, completely bypassing you and fixated on Julian. You felt like a fly on the wall, drinking up all the curious interactions. This conversation was a world away from politics, estate dealings, and nobility gossip.

“Did you see Asif’s chiropractor module? It was quite horrific.”

“Really...?” Julian wonders. “I thought he sorted out the vertebrae counts for the model?”

“So did we! However the model looked rather poor. Shoulders up to here!” The doctor explains, displaying what he saw by shifting his shoulders as far up as his body could manage. 

“Goodness…” Julian worried. “Was his gait irregular?”

“Irregular? Why, it looked like he’d been hung up on a coat rack Devorak, starched to high hell, and left to waddle out the practitioner’s office. There’ll be hell to pay, that one.”

Julian shakes his head, sighing. 

“I can refer the poor man to the southern branch if I see him. The one on Marigold? God knows the trainees could use the practice. Perhaps we can fix it.”

The doctors nodded their assent and boasted of Julian’s generosity, before finally glancing at you. They all seemed somewhat shocked out of their reverie, glancing between the two of you with increasing disbelief.

“Hello,” you greet, ringing off your name politely. 

The doctors bow politely, before looking to Julian. An older one shoots him a wide grin.

“Don’t you worry about any referencing, Devorak. We’ll let him know, ourselves. You just focus on your engagement with the lovely young woman you’ve caught here.”

“Right,” another one agrees quickly. “Been holding out on us, haven’t you? Who are we to interrupt a courting? Enjoy! Ladies, gentlemen, to the tinctures tables!”

The others agree, bumbling off in their crowd to find more of the convention to see. 

You watch them go before turning to Julian.

“How many practices do you possess?” You inquire. You are genuinely curious, but there is an underlying meaning to your question.

As much as you adore the doctor, these courting dates are very necessary to glean information from potential partners. Julian clearly held standing amongst the other doctors, and was regarded with much respect. You didn’t doubt his ambition or success. But...since he held no large property or titles, so you needed to see how he could help benefit your estate and those that lived and worked in your home. You also needed to ensure that he held few vices or flaws that would conflict with your own…it was a superficial process that could not be completed in one engagement, and you didn’t particularly enjoy seizing people up like items on displays, but…it was better to do it now while you could rather than risk hearts, coin purses, and marriages down the line.

Besides, you expected the same from Julian, to interrogate you on your end in his own way. You weren’t the only one with assets to think of, and liabilities to consider! And only a fool would assume a wealthy beauty is all they needed in a match.

You felt Devorak could be silly in his own odd little way...but he didn’t strike you as a fool.

‘Hmm. Marriage.’

You watch the doctor, your heart thrumming a little faster at the thought.

‘One thing at a time,’ you remind yourself. ‘I don’t know if I’m even ready for the convention with anyone, him included. Slow and steady wins the race.’

Dr. Devorak stands a little taller, pushing his shoulders back and preparing a bolder facade than you believed he actually felt. He seemed to understand what time this was, what the question really meant, and was eager to please with honesty and transparency.

He wanted to prove himself to you, you realize.

“I am but a humble man,” he begins. “I own one practice, with several branches throughout Vesuvia. It has grown to the point where I now simply stop by each one weekly, and oversee the operations. I have three locations in the city’s center, and five in the outer regions. Those locations range from general practices to apothecaries.”

You nod, highly impressed.

“Eight branches is hardly humble, Julian. It sounds very admirable.”

The doctor blushes, pulling at his collar and pretending nonchalance.

“Eh…well...”

“You must be quite good at what you do.”

“Well...It was not without considerable help, I cannot lie. In the beginning, I had a generous investor that believed in my vision and potential. That investor was the central Countess, and without her I doubt I could’ve gathered together the startup costs. But...I take pride in taking the best care of Vesuvians that I can. And so word spread, and now they come to us for all sorts of ailments and needs. We’ve fairly profitable year after year since. I..I could make more, raise prices, yes, but...I always wanted affordability to be important. Everyone in Vesuvia deserves access to quality healthcare.”

“That’s amazing,” you say. “Not many businessmen in Vesuvia are transparent about their journeys, and not many can honestly say they value ethics.”

You briefly review his words to yourself.

He was hinting near the end that though he had his personal reasons for not breaking his profits ceiling in a way that would truly impress a run-of-the-mill blue-blood, that neither he nor his businesses would be a liability to your estate.

There was another implication in his words that you couldn’t help but notice.

“You know Nadia…?” You ask suddenly.

“Yes! Do you…?” He inquires back, curious.

“Ah...yes,” you respond kindly, tightening your lips on why. You didn’t want to appear rude mentioning your other current courting potentials. Ritually, that was only to be used in situations of dire need for leverage. It was one thing to review each others ways of living and financials, whereas it was quite another to throw into the face of hopefuls…all the other hopefuls…unless asked, of course.

Julian seemed to catch on. He did not seem upset, though.

“Hm,” he wonders quietly. “...I am not surprised that you are getting house calls from all walks of Vesuvia.”

You pause, unsure of what to say. Had you offended him?

“I…”

The doctor is kind, and fills in the empty silence with warmth.

“I am just glad that you answered my letter, that I get to have you for myself today. I am happy that you like the gala and…I only anticipate enjoying the rest of our time together.”

You beam at him, tugging his arm closer to your body.

“I feel the same, Julian.”

He pulls you tighter as well, circling you both around the event to watch more displays and pass by speakers who were taking charge in different corners of the venue. You overhear some very interesting ideas and concepts, and Julian leans over every so now and then to comment on them in your ear.

Soon enough, Julian offers to take you for a break near the venue’s indoor patisserie. You agree joyfully, all too eager to spy the cute little confectionery cakes and pastries as the both of you walk up near the outdoor seating.

Julian hunts down a seat for you both amidst all the other couples, some wedded, some courting, and some just having a casual meetup.

He pulls out your seat gingerly for you, and you sit graciously. He takes his own seat as a waiter arrives, bringing you both a drink and dessert menu. Together, you and Julian order coffees and a cake to share before sitting back, watching one another.

‘Wait,” you think.

You realize very suddenly that the doctor is being too gracious in not asking on your situation in return, and so you decide to open the floor up to him so there is no risk of offending. Perhaps he is nervous because of your status...? Perhaps those things matter so little to him, that he is willing to break courtship convention to avoid asking after them...? Perhaps he is simply forgetful...?

“Is there anything you’d like to know about my estate or my courting season, Julian?”

He pauses, thinking to himself for a stretch.

“Well…I must admit, I know little about you besides what I saw from the theater and what I’ve heard from the grapevine. I’m not fond of gossip and would rather hear it from you, but...I knew so few in your circle...I know nothing, really. Besides your distaste for leeches of course, and your penchant for…” he coughs, adjusting, “….for...adventure.”

You giggle, covering your mouth before leaning in.

“You find me adventurous? Some would say I am just an aristocrat, perfectly happy to hole up in my estate with no influence on the outside world. Not like you. You do so much good.”

He shakes his head, frowning.

“Don’t discount yourself for me. I…I do know of your philanthropy around Vesuvia. Generous donations for the citizens, for the disenfranchised. That is good in its own way. And class is no barrier to who possesses the heart of an adventurer and who doesn’t. You proved it today.”

“How?”

Julian laughs.

“Like you know few honest businessmen, I know few women of your stature who would eagerly come here for a first engagement. Especially after my confidant revealed that I had sent an inquiry letter in a poor manner, to a poorly-picked event. You came—and even better—you enjoyed yourself.”

You gift him a wink.

“I think I may enjoy myself wherever I go, with you at my side, Doctor.”

There goes his flush again, as clear as a bounty of roses! You love the way it matches his hair. He hides his face behind a gloved hand, sinking into his seat as you laugh generously.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he insists, “with your teasing.”

You fake a pout, looking at him innocently.

“I am no tease, sir.”

“Right,” he says simply, smiling. “And I am no doctor.”

You laugh once again, batting at him lightly with a gloved hand before sitting straighter.

“Enough about that,” you say, “I should inform you of my situation, just as you informed me of yours. I would be very rude not to.”

Julian stiffens, sitting straighter as well.

“You don’t have to—“

“Oh but I do,” you insist. “You are too kind and too subtle to ask on such things as blatantly as my aristocrat self can, but the courting traditions demand it. You shall peruse my purse and pursuants as I have yours. There will be no barriers here.”

You clear your throat, and Julian waits patiently.

“I possess the estate of ———, as you already know. I am —— years old, with a long lineage. Most of my family has moved away outside of Vesuvia to our ancestral nation of origins, but I am a Vesuvian-born and Vesuvian at heart, so I chose to stay and take over the household. Like any baron or baroness, I oversee properties, farms, accounts, and merchandise. My estate largely relies on profits from renters on our land, but I began a perfumery and garden a few years ago. Using the florals from the garden, the business has become a success and sells in local tailor shops. So we bring profit in on that end as well, my endeavor alone, since the family that left have their own means in the ancestral country.”

Julian nods, interested.

“A perfumery...?”

“Yes,” you answer, happy. “I really enjoy it. With scents, I can create candles as well. I would love to show you sometime, if you’d like.”

Julian perks up more from the sound of that, than your financials.

“There will be a next time…?” He wonders aloud.

“If you will have me.”

Julian beams then, wider than you’ve seen all day. He nods and sips at his coffee happily, taking the olive branch and leaving so much unsaid. There was no need to.

You both seemed to be on the same page.

“Scents are interesting,” he says suddenly. “It is considered flimsy medicine, but I’ve often thought of aromatherapy. I wonder if it could help patients with mood difficulties…?”

Your eyes widen at the thought. 

“It’s certainly worth a try. I can spare some scents for your practice when you visit me.”

Julian seems awed, amazed at the opportunity and you giving it.

“Are you real...?” He asks suddenly. “Am I dreaming?”

“No,” you laugh. “I am quite real. Do you need a pinch to prove it?”

Julian makes a very odd face at that, straightening up and moving swiftly past the question, diving into how delicious the cake is.

You watch, noticing. You could only wonder what it was that set him off.

“I will not pinch you…” You explain, hoping to ease him.

“Ah!” He shakes his head, trying to wave off your worry. “It’s not that. You’re fine. You can, uh…I want it- wait, no, that’s…never mind! You’re real, that much is certain.”

You watch him flail before shrugging internally and refocusing on the cake. You mentally file the ‘pinching’ reaction away for later thought.

“Is it good?” You ask.

Julian nods eagerly, forking off a piece and raising it to you. You see he is angling the fork for you to grasp yourself, but you decide to forego that idea.

What’s life without a little pleasure?

Sure that no one is watching either of you, you lean forward and eat the cake off of his offered fork, skillfully sucking the remnants off entirely. You look demurely away from him, but you know you’ve hit your mark when you hear him squawk. You chew, assessing, before glancing over to him feeling pleased.

“This is very, very good,” you agree. 

Julian looks a little pained, watching you with wanton desire and intrigue.

You gently take the fork from his fingers and cut him a piece, offering it up to him kindly.

“Say ‘ah‘, for me,” you request pleasantly enough, yet you know that your gaze you’re pinning him with is a little less collected than your tone.

Slowly understanding, the doctor leans forward and takes the offering with his own mouth, too flushed to look at you directly. You’re thrilled to see him clear the fork in the same manner before he pulls back, focusing less on the cake he just ate and more on how you’re making him feel.

“Does it taste better, now?” You wonder aloud.

“Yes,” he nearly whispers. “Much better.”

You smile demurely, supporting your face on a relaxed hand.

“That, dear doctor,” you say, “is a tease.”

“I…I’ll remember that,” he says quietly, shifting under your gaze.

You’re sure that he will.

“You don’t have to,” you insist. “I can always help you, if you forget.” The promise sounds very sweet from your lips.

“Uh…Ah!” Julian pretends suddenly, checking his watch with faux vigor. “Wouldyoulookatthat, the theater! We’d best be on our way, we have box seats, you know.”

You giggle and he mirrors your humored grin, laughing himself.

“Of course, Julian.”

He assists you up before grabbing his cane and coat. Together with your funny doctor date, you are led out of the venue and into the afternoon of the day.

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

AN: Do not copy, repost, translate, or edit any of my work. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

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☾ check my blog for more imagines.

[vivilove-jonsa]

Snow Mountain

@jonsa-week​ Day 6 Prompts Historical & Remix of ‘Cold Mountain’ by Charles Frazier

Read on ao3 or below.  

(Mentions of wounds and the letter is heavily borrowed from the novel/film.)

***************

The Letter  

 August 1864

 Petersburg, Virginia  

Jon Snow was first aware of the sound of flies buzzing and people murmuring. They seemed eerily similar. His body ached but his leg no longer throbbed incessantly. It had been burning when the old woman had found him in the foothills where he’d stumbled away from the battle in a fog of agony and confusion.

Panic gripped him. He opened his eyes and hurriedly raised the sheet. It was still there. No one had robbed him of a limb while he was unconscious.

As the galloping of his pulse began to slow again, he observed his surroundings. He was not in a hospital tent but a house, a very grand house that was being used to treat the wounded apparently. He was surrounded by beds…and dying men.

He closed his eyes. He did not wish to see anymore just now. He could not escape the smell but he could close his eyes to it all.

After his eyes drifted shut, he dreamed.

He pictured mist hanging over the mountains on an autumn morning. He heard laughter, as lovely as any melody, and saw wisps of red hair escaping from her bonnet.

He smelled Uncle Ned’s pipe and heard the crackling of the logs in the fireplace as she sang a carol and played her mother’s piano, her hair rippling with highlights from the flames on Christmas Eve.

He smelled dew and the first spring wildflowers as she raced ahead of him, inviting him to chase her to their secret spot by the creek. Whispered promises and sweet kisses, the feel of her in his arms as they swore things to one another.

A hand shook his shoulder and the dream receded.

“You’re awake at last, I see,” an older gentleman wearing a blood-splattered apron said. He had a kind face despite the gore but his eyes looked tired. Jon opened his mouth to speak but no sound would come out. “Our patient could use some water, ma’am.”

A lady wearing an apron, though less bloody, over a black silk dress handed him a tin cup. The water was tepid but it soothed the raw desert of his throat.

“I’m Dr. Luwin. This good woman in Mrs. Hornwood and this is her home.”

“It was…it was that,” the lady said absently with her eyes cast towards the floor. “It was once a home.” Her eyes filled with tears and she begged pardon before hurrying away.

“Mrs. Hornwood’s husband and sons have died fighting for the cause,” Dr. Luwin explained.

The cause. Jon could not care less about the cause. He never had. He had only joined up because Robb and nearly every other man and boy from sixteen to sixty in their little corner of Appalachia had been joining, too.

“You have your war,” she’d said, the disdain clear in her voice that Sunday morning when word had reached Snow Mountain.

I never wanted it, he wished he’d said to her now.

Everyone had been in church when Benfred Tallhart had slunk in the back door and whispered the word to his brother who’d passed it along to Theon. Soon the hymn Jon had been singing was forgotten as some of the young men had filtered out to whoop and holler in celebration of the grand adventure that awaited them.

Reverend Chayle had labeled them all young fools as the service had quickly disbanded after that. Uncle Ned hadn’t approved either.

“What do you boys imagine you’ll be fighting for?” he’d asked him and Robb at dinner later. She had been sitting across from him, absorbed in her plate as she had been the entire meal, not looking at him once.

“The South,” Robb had answered with his easy smile.

“Last I checked, south’s just a direction,” his uncle had said.

“Summer soldiers and just as green,” Uncle Benjen had laughed.

“Why’re you so eager to die fighting so some rich man can keep his slave?” 

 “I ain’t fighting for that, Daddy. Wouldn’t bother me none if they was all freed. But we’re fighting Northern Aggression and…”

 “Lord, the things you get in your head, boy.”

Jon had heard enough. Robb had stayed to argue but Jon had made his excuses and tromped away from his elders in anger…and in guilt. He’d hoped she would follow him. She hadn’t. She’d already tried talking sense into him earlier.

 It wouldn’t have mattered. Whether you signed up right away or waited until they called you. Everyone was going. There wasn’t ever a choice really. And I couldn’t have stayed behind and let Robb go without me.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Dr. Luwin asked.

“Snow…Jon Snow,” he said disinterestedly.

“Where you from?”

“North Carolina.”

“So am I,” the doctor said with a smile. “From Raleigh. Where you hail from?”

Jon grimaced and said, “Snow Mountain.”

The doctor chuckled. “Snow Mountain? And you’re Jon Snow?”

He was humored by him sharing his last name with his little hamlet. Jon found no humor in it, the made-up name his mama had claimed was the last name of a husband everyone knew didn’t exist.

“It’s pretty country, I’ll bet. Remote though. How’d you come to…”

Jon turned his head away.

Dr. Luwin frowned at his listlessness. Jon did not care. He could go and heal men who wanted to live. Jon was done with all that. Robb had died in his arms. She hadn’t wanted either of them to go. How could he go home again without Robb? How would he ever explain it to her, to any of them?

Days passed and Jon stayed in his bed. There were bodies carried away and new corpses brought in who just didn’t know they were corpses yet.

He had to work up his courage to inspect his wound more closely, still fearing to see the maggots. They weren’t there anymore. His leg was clean, healing nicely. He wondered how it would feel to put some weight on it. He couldn’t summon the desire to try though.

He remembered the old hill woman humming, clucking at him and chomping on her pipe as he lay on the floor of her shack shivering with chills and burning with fever. She’d said she was part Cherokee and knew healing. Her place had been filled with colorful bottles and smelled funny. She had kept a croaking bullfrog as a pet. She was an oddity for certain.

The iron had been red hot when she’d removed the lead. He’d grit his teeth til he thought they’d break. She’d pinched his arm and told him to scream. He had. Then, she’d made a poultice and laughed when the maggots appeared.

“They eats up the corruption, boy. Old Maggie will save that leg yet,” she’d cackled before he’d fainted.

 I suppose you did.

If he still prayed, he might have said a prayer for her in thanks for saving him. He wondered where she was or how he got here.

Night was creeping upon them and the room grew quiet except for a few random whimpers or moans. A lantern came bobbing towards his cot. The lady in black silk with sad eyes sat it down and touched his face. His whiskers itched in the sticky August heat but her hand was cool.

“Jon Snow?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You have a letter.”

He closed his eyes and told himself it was a mistake. She would not write to him here. How would she know where he was when he wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up here?

“It’s not very recent, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Hornwood said, looking it over. “I can’t make out the signature. I’m sorry. It’s dated from January.”

She’d sent it before the battle, before Robb had died. She’d mailed it not knowing where to send it, only acting on hope and faith that it would find him. Perhaps, it was all they had left.

He found Mrs. Hornwood’s eyes locked on his, awaiting permission to read. He said nothing but nodded to her, uncertain if his heart could bear it but too eager to hear from her to decline.

   My Dear Jon,

 Since you left, time has been measured out in bitter chapters. Last fall, my poor father died. Bran enlisted right beforehand and Uncle Benjen has been missing in action for two years now. Winterfell Farm is abandoned with only Arya, Rickon and I left to work it.

 Every house in these mountains has been touched by tragedy and every day I feel the dread of learning who else has fallen. And no word from you. Are you alive? I pray to God you are.

 This war is lost on the battlefield and is being lost twice over by those that stayed behind. I’m still waiting as I promised I would, but I find myself alone and at the end of my wits, too embarrassed to keep taking from those who can least afford to give. My last thread of courage is to put my faith in you and to believe that I will see you again.

 So, I say to you now, plain as I can, if you are fighting, stop fighting. If you are marching, stop marching. Come back to me. Come back to me is my request.

 Jon’s eyes closed as silent tears of regret and anguish slid down the side of his face. He felt the letter being pressed into his hands. He grasped it tightly to his chest and heard the swish of skirts as she walked away.

“Sansa,” he murmured to the darkened room before deciding his course.

When Dr. Luwin came to check on him the next morning, he would find his bed empty.

[thelast-draw]

Art History - Concrete

The Nameless Library (1988) by Rachel Whiteread

‘The Judenplatz Holocaust Memorial’, otherwise known as the ‘Nameless Library’, is a symbolic concrete sculpture placed in Judenplatz, Germany to commemorate the victims of the horrific Holocaust in World War 2. The sculpture is a non-functioning structure, imitating that of a building but with handle-less concrete doors and windowless walls, a contrast to the surrounding buildings that function as restaurants and homes for the public. Despite losing its physical function, the sculpture provides thought and interpretation from onlookers due to its oddity; bringing forward remembrance of such a historical event, therefore creating a purpose in a metaphorical sense rather than physical.

It’s intimidating presence is felt with its blank, cold concrete and robust cubic shape; it seems almost clean and clinical, however Whiteread didn’t intend for this as she wanted to mix different concrete substances and age the structure down, distressing it over time for a more displeasing, intimidating look, possibly to reflect upon the horrific events of the Holocaust. An interesting feature is the rectangular grid engraved around the structure, representing stacks of blank books showing no information. Many interpret this as the pages of unidentified victims that had perished in the Holocaust, hence the title of ‘Nameless Library’; Whiteread wanted to remember the unidentifiable who may have been forgotten most of all. This sculpture led to the suggestion of naming Jews the ‘People of Books’ however this wasn’t approved due to stereotyping.

Sources:

Image 1-https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judenplatz_Holocaust_Memorial#/media/File:Rachel_whitereadwien_holocaust_mahnmal_wien_judenplatz.jpg

Image 2-https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judenplatz_Holocaust_Memorial#/media/File:Wien_-_Holocaust-Mahnmal_(2).JPG

Image 3- https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judenplatz_Holocaust_Memorial#/media/File:Holocaust_Mahnmal_Vienna_Sept_2006_025.jpg

[doctorjeremyxvandamme]

“Yesterday, upon the stair, / I met a man who wasn't t h e r e! / He wasn't there again today. / Oh how I wish he'd go away!”

Below the cut, you can find Jeremy’s basic info, key story points, full bio, and a handful of possible connections, although I am open to most plots! Triggers include death mentions, blood mentions, and a handful of horror elements. Please do feel free to reach out if I can provide context without mention of those topics.

basics

Name: Dr. Jeremy van Damme

Gender/Pronouns: Cismale | He/Him

Date of Birth: January 22, 1981

Age: 39

Hometown: Jersey City, NJ

Length of time in Crescent Harbor: 5 Years

Neighborhood: Hemlock Docks

Occupation: Professor of Anthropology at Crescent College

Faceclaim: Matthias Schoenaerts

key points

An only child, the son of a Belgian-born painter of some renown, but primarily among art types with an interest in niche work 

Has a doctorate in anthropology from New York University and now teaches the discipline at Crescent College. Completed his undergrad education in Washington

Devotes most of his research to modern folklore, urban legends, and what he calls ritualistic play: games like Bloody Mary or Charlie Charlie, the latest variation of Juego de la Lapicera, meant to summon something, communicate with something, or achieve specific ends through strict adherence to pre-determined rules or conditions

A history buff. Knows much about the origins of Crescent Harbor and is now actively involved in historical preservation efforts. His interests encompass the periods both prior to and following the actual founding of the town.

Something of a pack-rat. Collects oddities and antiques and allows visitors to poke around his overcrowded house. 

full bio (tw: death, blood, horror elements)

If he angled his neck just right, face pressed against the glass, held there by tiny, marker-covered hands, he could just barely see the monster from his bedroom window. The gangling, wide-eyed thing, all teeth and blackened pupils, was caught in an eternal snarl by the glint of the corner street lamp (which had been broken for some time and blinked erratically every few minutes). The light has stay on because the light keeps it there, he would think. So long as the light stays on, it has to stay there and cannot come here. For as long as the boy could remember, though, this massive graffiti creature, the handiwork of some unknown artist or another, had been spray-painted there, overseeing its domain from the red brick facade of an already defunct paper packaging warehouse. And it certainly had not escaped yet. But this particular piece of street art had long frightened the young Jeremy van Damme, who would spend his nights watching it from the safety of his heightened perch.

At that time, he lived with his father (a native of Flanders and painter of some niche surrealist renown) and mother (a full-time college dean and part-time muse to her artiste husband) in a tall brown apartment building that swayed with the wind. The groaning of the foundation, the creaking of the pipes, and the unpleasant damp sweetness, an almost bloody smell, that occasionally wafted out an uncovered vent after a storm, instilled in the boy an early sense of fantastic terror. More often than not, Jeremy van Damme was afraid. At the age of six, he discovered in a forgotten photo album a picture of himself he could not recall taking. And there, he abruptly decided some other Jeremy, a doppelganger or double or mimic, not only existed, but was waiting for the opportunity to strike and swallow him whole. At the age of seven, he got it into his head that a family of venomous lizards had taken up residence in the basement washing machine; he could hear them hissing if he listened closely. And at the age of eight, the death of the elderly woman down the hall gave birth to a new series of existential horrors, of the terrible uncertainty of the afterlife, of restless ghosts, and of white-haired specters that stalked hallways by night in search of little boys to do whatever it is ghosts do.

Nevertheless, the apartment was not vacant for long, and in the weeks that followed, Jeremy struck up a new friendship with a girl his age who had moved into the building with her family. And with how cheery they had painted the place, one could almost forget what happened to poor old Mrs. Hansen there. It was through this new companion, however, that Jeremy himself, albeit wide-eyed and screaming, was introduced to the sort of ritualistic play that would eventually guide his career. With nothing but a pack of stolen matches and the misguided goal of “putting the spirit to rest,” the pair of them locked themselves in her bathroom to chant into the mirror, spin in circles, and search for faces in the glass. And while they never found them, these games did instill in the young Jeremy a new sense of bravery and morbid curiosity. After all, if a ghost could be banished away by something as simple as blowing out a match, maybe they were not so frightening after all.

Still, he had always been curious. His mother was, after all, a career academic, and to that end, Jeremy had little hope of genuinely shirking his homework. He did well in school and read often. Small and eager to be helpful, he was even, in some ways, a natural teacher’s pet, eager to spend more time among the adults than the playground bullies. Eventually, Jeremy attended a nearby “all boys” Catholic high school, and while the AV Club was already dying by that time, he and a few friends began borrowing their camera equipment to “record psychic phenomena,” which largely consisted of them trying to unsuccessfully move rubber balls with their minds.

At sixteen, however, one of the boys got his own car, and the unlikely group was able to finally take part in a bit of local legend that involved circling an abandoned house several times, honking one’s horn, and then flashing one’s headlights. The result was the ghost of “Clarice” appearing in an upper story window to chase the intruders away. Every time they did this ritual, someone in the vehicle would shout that they had seen her (although it was never more than one person at a time). Following one such excursion, one boy disappeared from school with the flu for a week, and there was, at least, a successful rumor he had been spirited away. That was sort of fun.

Upon graduating, near but not quite at the top of his class, Jeremy ultimately attended the University of Washington, eager to spread his wings to the West Coast although Stanford had rejected him. While he began his higher education as a History major, he eventually shifted his focus to cultural anthropology, in which he earned his Bachelor’s degree. Graduate School, a Master’s degree, and a Doctorate from New York University eventually followed, and Jeremy began focusing his field of study more specifically on the role of folklore and legend in the modern world. His first and only full-length book, a small academic piece, entitled Creating Clarice: An Anthropological Case Study on the Invention of a Ghost, sprung to life when he, upon digging through an academic database, discovered the phantom woman he had tried so vehemently to conjure as a teenager had never actually existed.

Combining local interviews, in-depth real estate research, historical records, and a dive into the roots of ritualistic children’s games themselves, he tried, with varying levels of success, to trace the story to its source and frame it in the context of the community that had created it. This research, while mostly published for classroom use, did eventually earn him a position at Crescent College, where he still teaches today.

In his five years in town, Jeremy has since become something of an undisputed expert in local history, collecting trivia in the same way others might collect stamps. That said, Jeremy remains, to this day, a collector in the most traditional sense. His small home, an old building near the docks, has its charms and is known to be full of oddities, antiques, and other things that have caught the owner’s fancy. Most are of local interest, and Jeremy has rather seriously involved himself in town preservation efforts.

possible connections

The Student - Jeremy is a professor at Crescent College and teaches a variety of anthropology courses for all skill levels. This person is either a former or current student. Perhaps Jeremy mentors them, or perhaps they were an eternal thorn in his side.

The Curious - Jeremy collects all sorts of odd objects he finds. From 19th century tea sets, to old letters and photographs, to “haunted” mirrors and dolls, he welcomes this person regularly to poke around the antiques and maybe even goes shopping with them.

The Adventurous - Jeremy’s primary areas of expertise are modern folklore and ritualistic play. He and this person team up to test out the latest spooky games and legends, from trying to summon up a mirror ghost or see if they can get someone from beyond the grave talk with them through a disconnected telephone.

The Historian - Jeremy is well-versed in the history of the town and its founding families. Perhaps this person wants or needs to learn more about some obscure local topic, and the professor is here to help.

[abdifarah]

Bloody

There was never a time when Spike Lee wasn’t Spike Lee to me. I seem to remember being born with images from his movies pre-installed on my mental harddrive. School Daze, one of the first few VHS’s in our house, was a favorite of my mom, and seemed to always be on in the background. Watching it recently, I had a this is water realization: “This is a musical?!” The movie’s mechanics and construction were so overly familiar as to be invisible. 

I love Spike Lee the way Americans love Jesus. More than any particular film (He Got Game, Do the Right Thing, and Malcolm X are three favs), I love everything Lee represents, has represented, and what I’m sure he will continue to represent. I knew even before instagram was invented that he would be great at it. And I am sure whatever mechanism comes next that facilitates a creator’s connection to their audience, Spike will embrace and master it like a surfer to the waves. Spike is always Spike, which probably facilitates his uncanny ability to appear comfortable in many worlds, from high art auteur filmmaking, to pop culture fare, to sports documentaries to political commentary. He is unapologetically ambitious, unapologetically confident, unapologetically black; a trio that America works hard to keep separate. He believes in the imperative of his movies and will do anything–hawking merch, launching a Kickstarter, starring in Capital One commercials–to get them made. 

Spike’s work is not just black, but majestically black, sophisticatedly black, dangerously black. This man made Bamboozled, a movie about a television exec that makes a modern day minstrel show! There are obviously a small handful of other successful and busy black filmmakers, namely Tyler Perry and Lee Daniels. Their movies do the necessary, but not-that-interesting work of simply putting blackness front and center. But the vision of blackness of Daniels or Perry has always felt like it was for someone other than me; someone either less black or less smart. Spike’s films, while often informative, never preach or pander. They assume a black outlook as a given and not an oddity. His films are challenging and do not often resolve with easy lessons. They incorporate the broad history of film and culture and do very little to catch the audience up. It is his way of showing respect to us as viewers.

Even when I do not like a Spike Lee Joint, I always admire the chutzpah, which for me is higher praise than simply liking or enjoying a work of art. Spike will go down as one of the most prolific filmmakers. He prides himself on his goal of producing a major work annually, as opposed to many of his contemporaries like Paul Thomas Anderson or Quentin Tarantino who move at a more leisurely clip. I wonder if Spike’s breakneck pace emanates from a conscious or subconscious fear of being forgotten, and having the door closed on him; ending up like so many other promising directors of color or women directors that after successful early work find it harder and harder to secure funds and get new projects greenlit. Spike has spoken candidly of the trouble he has getting movies produced, even as a celebrity director. While historically impressed by the amount of output, I now wish Spike Lee felt the freedom and permission to slow down.

Da 5 Bloods has so much in it that I love, and multiple scenes that I found genuinely moving, but this is a mess of a movie. For a film about finding buried treasure, Lee seems to be unaware of how much gold he’s sitting on. The movie undertakes the meaty premise of having four older black Vietnam veterans return to the site that indelibly changed them, mostly for the worse, to find the remains of their inspiring troop leader, Stormin’ Normin’, and a chest of gold bullion boosted from a crashed plane and hidden in the deep jungle. They returned to America after the war broken by what they saw and unable to partake of the freedoms they supposedly fought for, but like all black folks attempted to make the most of this reality. Their meeting in Vietnam is a college reunion of sorts, if you went to college to major war atrocities, and ptsd. Like any good reunion plot, each man has their post-war war stories; divorces, estranged kids, bad breaks, bankruptcies. 

They are different, almost unrecognizable to each other. Delroy Lindo’s, Paul, once a black militant, is a Maga hat wearing Trump supporter, but they are all family still. I could have watched these dialogues amongst black men who lived through civil rights, survived Vietnam, but are still fighting their own private wars all night. I wanted to stay in this movie. But about halfway through the tone of the movie shifts and whatever this movie was supposed to be about tragically steps on a landmine. The movie changes from a subtle portrait of these GI’s, their relationships to each other, and their quest to lay to rest the ghosts of the past, and becomes a gory shoot-em-up and basic-bitch heist movie, albeit with some still compelling scenes dripped in, mostly involving Paul. 

In New Orleans you can often see a big storm rolling in from miles away. The writhing clouds, tinged with the primordial reds and purples of sundown and coursing with whip snaps of lightning, mesmerize to the point where you forget you’re about to get drenched. Delroy Lindo’s performance similarly entrances as he descends like King Lear into paranoia and madness, enroute to self-sabotaging the mission and his relationship with his fellow soldiers and his doting son, who has stowed away on the excursion. Spike Lee’s casting has always indicted the rest of Hollywood, by highlighting the black actors and other actors with looks were deemed too “ethic” or too “this” or too “that”, but who have more chop in one of their nostrils than many on the A-list could muster sitting on each other’s shoulders. Why is Lindo not considered one of our great actors? 

While some of the creative and plot choices can be forgiven as artistic liberty, the depiction of the actual Vietnamese people in the movie is hard to justify. Other than a compelling cinematic portrait of the historical figure Hanoi Hannah whose radio broadcasts entertained and taunted American soldiers during the war, the other Vietnamese characters in the movie are pretty flat at best and ugly stereotypes at the other extreme. One of Lee’s perpetual explorations across all of his movies has been the destructive violence of racial stereotypes. Do the Right Thing ends when Police indiscriminately kill Radio Raheem, perceiving the imposing black man as only a threat and not a beloved community member and human worthy of dignity and protection. Blackkklansman presents us with a black man who is also a cop and all of the complexity that entails. Strangely, Lee regurgitates the worst stereotypes of the Viet-Cong in the group of Vietnamese mercenaries serving at the behest of bloated Jean Reno’s french gangster (and Donald Trump surrogate?) who ambush Da Bloods for their gold, leading to the films Tarantino-esque bloodbath ending. The climactic scene which sees Da Bloods, like retired athletes, reliving their glory days as soldiers by extension glorifies the Vietnam conflict and the killing of the Vietnamese, which is disappointing and sad. For a director that for decades avoided tidy popcorn conclusions, this film and his previous outing, Blackkklansman, basically end in good guy vs. bad guy gunfights. 

Da 5 Bloods should have been Girls Trip but with Vietnam vets; former friends with divergent lives butting heads and ultimately reconnecting; learning from while burying the past. There’s a strange moment in Da 5 Bloods before the movie breaks bad when the gang finds a pistol hidden by Clarke Peter’s character, Otis, the ostensible leader of the adventure. For battle worn vets they seem weirdly squeamish at the thought that one of them is packing. These astute Spike Lee characters, knowledgeable of movie and theater orthodoxy, understand that if a gun appears, at some point it's going to go off. Perhaps they, like me, were lamenting the inevitable end of the more dynamic and challenging first half of the movie. Maybe through them Spike Lee is voicing his own reservations about the pending violence of the film. Either way, Spike, like Otis, shouldn't have brought the gun.