#houseless people have to sleep somewhere

[runawaymun]

My body fails me in many ways but at least I can Slav squat

[childlikewhimsi]

I can't go sit in a place for an extended period of time without being asked to buy something. I cant connect with people in my own generation because poverty and houselessness is seen as contagious OR I end up not being able to just connect without them

1. Worrying about me so much that our friendship is a source of stress

2. Doing little things for me (that I did not ask for) and then their friends calling me a leech

3. they want to do things that require money and get disappointed when i cant participate

but the thing is that e v e r y t h I n g costs money. I can't even wash my clothes in a homeless shelter for free. if I want to get a cup of water at mcdongs it's 50¢ now. Most places won't let you use the restroom if you're not a paying customer and there's no public restrooms so, thank god ive got a pack of tissues on hand from the shelter. when it rains, I'm fucked. when its hot, I'm fucked. record breaking temperatures out here and hardly enough water fountains.

my body is usually in a good amount of pain but now it's worse because I'm sleeping on concrete. if I wanna walk somewhere I'm fucked, there's no benches that I could sit on when I tire out.

I don't like asking for help. I try not to. but when muster up the courage to ask strangers if they might have anything they can spare, they speak to me like im some kind of ???? awful little thing

what pisses me off most of all is the fact that I have had conversations on conversations about my experiences with disability and poverty and some people get so worked up about it, but only because I'm a young white girl. they dont care about anyone else on these streets. they don't care about the people in the shelters. they could care less about people that don't look like me. if you're outraged for me and not for the rest of I dont know fucking everyone that has to live under these conditions then, you might want to reevaluate your politics a bit.

[lapeaudelamemoire]

Really tired but don't want to sleep yet, somehow. Want to talk with others but tired of typing and communicating over text, email, chat. Want to talk but tired.

Many thoughts and many things I'd like to do that I never feel I have the energy for. I have the time now, for a bit, but somehow can never seem to get around to getting up and to it.

Many thoughts, like -

I still haven't adjusted to being here. I'm not sure I ever will. Sometimes you put something in an environment that doesn't suit it and that's just that.

I don't like having coffee or an afternoon tea in the morning, I like having it at 4 or 5pm. I like sitting for hours on end from afternoon to evening somewhere.

Those are just not the hours kept here, for those things to be possible.

I like going out at night for supper. I like going for a stroll around the shops at night sometimes. I like night markets.

I need and like good public transport. I enjoy going for walks where things are good to look at. I like trying out new cafés and I'll go back religiously to a place I really like and think is pretty.

But it isn't like that here.

It came to me the other day that these places aren't built to be nice to walk about in. These settler cities. There are no squares or plazas or wide avenues like those in the old towns and cities in Europe and no vibrant urban nights like back in Asia. There are just streets and roads you walk down to get somewhere, whether it's into the residential streets or from the train station out in the middle of them somewhere through the dark unlit roads at night to get to a single high street, where cars and train tracks and maybe trams travel along and pass by.

The architecture doesn't feel like it's meant to be looked at on these streets, really. The low buildings are only adorned with rectangular shop signs that only sometimes match the actual shop that now occupies the space. Empty shop spaces abound. Above a clothing shop an old peeling cardboard-like sign might say Tina's Hairdressing. There are rows of these, facing each other and going all the way down the street, sometimes broken off and in strips. And then there's nothing more.

You don't even notice the building facades unless you're across the street and look up. Some buildings, especially in the city, genuinely are beautiful, but many look in somewhat poor repair. And the shops are soulless square and rectangular spaces that change all the time.

When I travelled in Europe I enjoyed going to sit in churches because they were so often beautiful, and quiet. The churches here are not. The two nearby, in and just outside of the city, are tourist attractions. The other two a little further into the city, sitting across from each other, are beautiful - but you can't seem to really go in unless you're worshipping for Mass or something.

The streets are crowded and often busy, but don't feel like there are places to just be.

Some places you feel happy to walk in and down, because it's pretty, because there are things to look at, because looking at them, their beauty, makes you happy.

This place is not like that.

People walk down the streets here to get someplace, not because the buildings are pretty to look at and being around them gives you pleasure. When you look or walk down the street, your gaze meets only empty shop lots announcing For Lease or Rent, For Sale signs with dark empty spaces beyond and a houseless person lying in the alcove of its glass front doors, advertisements, or shops that say 'Up to 90% off!' in the window. Some new business has opened up in the space that the previous new but now no longer there business was, with the new sign plastered over the previous décor. You lose track of what it was. The walls are white and bare but the blue lightbox of its sign is something else than what it used to be. Across the road there's another shop that has changed its face too, sporting a new name in huge, painfully bright white LED lights that spell out something else. The old sign sticking out at a 90° angle hasn't been changed, though, saying the name of what used to be there still. Next door is a new nail salon all open space with an all-white interior and only all the requisite furnishings, nothing more, a lone white fluffy rug in the window showing nail designs. None of the shops have bothered to make much of a renovation effort. They never do, because they don't often last very long. Even if they're a franchise or branch. The revolving door of shops go on. Shops move into side streets and new ones take their place, with the walls always stark white and bare-shelved under equally white fluorescent tube lights. Utilitarian and cheaply thrown together and you feel like if you just reached out and touched the wall and rubbed it, the new layer would come crumbling away in that spot like dry plaster. Over and over new shops open and close and get painted on like changing make-up by caking it on, layer after layer, scraps of what used to be there still underneath it or even simply repurposed, completely exposed. Down one of the alleys all the side that used to be a café is now closed and caged off. Elsewhere, a kitchen counter and bar taking up the whole side of the room that must once have been a lounge or lobby left completely bare and empty, next to which a short way across a desk has been placed perpendicularly. A receptionist sits answering calls redirecting clients because their psychiatrist is no longer taking new clients, a pink flying pig wall décor to the side of them a few feet away and above on the wall. Behind them, dozens of animal decals, facing the hanging chandelier. Back in the city, shop signs change faster than the shops can open, newspaper in the glass obscuring the view beyond lasting longer than the names, so ephemeral they may as well merely be lingering smoke. Paper pasted up with tape announce 'Easy Chicken' with a menu but whose doors never opened, next to a 'Leased' sign and a notice stuck over it saying "Noodle shop coming soon".

Nothing is beautiful here, it's just meant to sell you something. Church souvenirs. Bubble tea for four months before the next short-lived bakery moves in, before it's emptied for renovation and becomes a Chinese restaurant fated to then turn into a retail shop which doesn't work out and switches to selling phone accessories. Gutted, hollowed-out buildings with shops gouged out and then put back in, gouged back out and put back in; the frames peeling around them, around the edges, the cracked doorways above.

[thewul]

And you said it stems from an interest in design and architecture?

Absolutely, applied to social housing, social housing does not mean ugly or poorly built, and there’s that new drive of which this project by these UK architects to apply design to social housing

But it doesn’t make it more expensive?

No look it’s the same apple, I can sell it to you for 25 cents or for a Dollar and 25 cents, after that I can sell tons of apples at 25 cents and break a profit or wait all day long to sell that one expensive apple

We can imagine that the projects have large inside plazzas, where it’s agreed we’re not making an income from that area, but for one it is of interest for the commercial attractivity of the ensemble, and second we can add a few floors here and there to make up for it

Architects and urbanists are very good at this stuff, not all of them which explains how social housing turned into shabby, but the good ones will strike that balance

I am confident that Allford Hall Monaghan Morris are good ones, based on what they have done already

What do we see here?

We see that they have broken the linearity of this building and are proposing several different perspectives of it, applied to several buildings

We have also seen how they have extruded balconies, and as a result buildings offer different planes rather than being monoblocs, the use of different surface finishes and materials so that all buildings don’t look the same

Last but definitely not least, the use of colors, now from a real estate promoteur perspective the cost of using colored paint or surface panels is only little compared to the attractiveness of the project

For the houseless as you say?

With a focus on families with children, let’s not be diminutive of people nor cocky about the situation,houslessness can happen to anyone who’s been on his down luck once too many

With that in mind there are people who have mental health issues, they should benefit of care in specialized institutions, ie jobs, not be left to themselves in the streets

At the very least they should have access to shelters and a person acting as a conservator, ie more jobs in social services, that is also part of Ghostbusters agenda, same as providing shelters where you don’t have to worry about your shoes getting stolen while you sleep

These are the facts of life, most people imagine that it could never happen to them until it does, that is why it’s important to dispose of different options regarding the different situations people are facing, where it is obvious that we cannot propose housing for everyone but there’s mental health institutions, drug rehabilitation programs and shelters, also scenarios where people are going to transition between different things leading up to their complete rehabilitation in society

And, and, for many it’s not ok here you go it was nice knowing you, no, many of these people will require assistance and monitoring for decades, support groups and such

Thanks

Welcome, next you’re a single mother on the street with 2 children and social services come to take them because you can’t afford a place to stay, let’s put value into being human

With a women shelter?

Better than that housing units for women with children, domestic abuse is a large issue not to be overlooked, maybe even we are looking at it, when you stop believing in a brighter day the sun goes shine somewhere else

[jengajives]

Lots of feelings about how my fave siblings would have felt about Maedhros’s fun trip on Thangorodrim. Also Best Cousins as well

“Wake up, Your Majesty.”

Maedhros didn’t move until the sharp toe of an iron boot jabbed his side. Then he grumbled and rolled over, but would not rise.

“Your Highness,” sang the serpent’s voice from somewhere above him. “Your feast awaits, oh King.”

A clatter. The tray of whatever food he was gifted with for the day hitting the damp stone floor. Maedhros still did not move.

“No appetite, hm? Your Majesty just isn’t himself this morning. Usually you’re so excited for your meals.”

A high, hot laugh. Maedhros got the idea Sauron was putting his boot in the food. A lovely image.

“You can tell your master,” he said flatly, without cracking an eye or rolling over, “that if He wants me mocked and ridiculed, He’d better come down here and do it Himself. I give little weight to the word of lesser servants.”

“Lesser?” Sauron repeated. Heat leached into his voice; Maedhros could feel it rising from the coward’s skin even before the fire-bright hands reached down to grab him, burning another set of hand prints into his shoulders with fat, red welts.

“I will show you lesser, pup,” Sauron seethed, “Are the failure son of failure fathers, and I am Flame itself!”

“You,” Maedhros said though his voice quivered with exhaustion, “are just a slinking dog afraid to leave his master’s heels. More likely to roll over than to stand up and fight.”

The pain of heat grew red and wild, like touching molten metal. Sauron’s fingertips dug in and Maedhros found himself locked in a fiery scarlet gaze.

“We shall see who rolls over for whom,” Sauron snarled, and dragged Maedhros unresisting from the cell.

“Look at you!”

Sauron’s eyes glowed in the dim light, gleaming with smug victory. His hands, so rarely idle, twitched by his side until he had to grab Maedhros by the hair and yank his head up so he could get a good look at his face.

The small myriad of new cuts went from cheekbone to cheekbone. Jaw to jaw. It was nothing, of course, compared to the pain against his spine he was convinced would never leave.

It had been hours and still it hurt sharp and blazing hot as ever.

It seemed like Sauron was trying to burn letters into his very skin, though he worked too gradually for Maedhros to make out the script.

Sauron laughed and gave him a sharp slap.

“The High King of the Noldor, eh? I don’t see it. All I can see is a houseless and pathetic murderer getting what he deserves.”

Maedhros spit at him, splattering his face with blood. Immediately the flame in Sauron’s eyes went white hot.

“Why, you little-“

“Mairon.”

Sauron paused, one hand drawn back and glowing like molten metal, as his master appeared looming like a mountain in the doorway.

“That’s enough. Leave him.”

His eye twitched but slowly he straightened and obeyed, with a courteous bow.

“Of course, Master.”

He shot Maedhros a spiteful glare as he stalked from the room, still wiping blood and spit away with a sleeve.

The sound of Morgoth’s approach was like a rumbling in the earth, but Maedhros had learned to ignore it. He let his head hang limp, cheek pressed to the cold stone, breathing steadily, trying to convince his scrambled mind it was safe to rest, even if only for an instant.

He hadn’t yet fully mastered the terror when Morgoth reached him and lifted his head by the hair.

No rest. No rest was fine. He didn’t need to rest.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Nelyo,” said Morgoth with mock pity, his expression twisted into a deep frown. “I’ve just gotten message back from your dear brothers.”

Something cold that probably had been hope once rose into Maedhros’s throat, and he didn’t have the energy to keep it from showing. Cruel amusement flashed behind Morgoth’s heavy eyes.

“Unfortunately, it seems they’ve abandoned you to torment and pain for the rest of eternity.” The sympathy dripping from his voice tasted like poison; it was difficult not to choke on it. “Isn’t that just awful? Your own family... not even willing to save their sweet Nelyo. Their King. How horribly tragic.”

Any attempt to think through the news logically failed, so the only thought going through Maedhros’s head was the certainty that it was a lie. Maglor and Celegorm wouldn’t abandon him to this, surely. Fingon wouldn’t... Fingon...

No. Fingon wasn’t here. He wasn’t coming, he couldn’t be, and even if he was, why would he want anything other than pain for the sons of Fëanor? After what they had done... after what Maedhros had done to him. No, there was no rescue. No freedom. The Oath bound his brothers never to give up the pursuit of their enemy, not even for his sake.

“Get on with it,” Maedhros growled, raising his gaze to meet Morgoth’s. “I’ll be avenged. You’ll be paid for the lives of my grandfather, and my father, and... and me. Go ahead and do it.”

A pause, and then Morgoth laughed wild and cold.

“Oh, sweet boy. You think I want you dead? You think I want to kill you? No, no...” He leaned closer, his breath a whisper of ice and stone. “I want you to watch your brothers die. I want you to see exactly how fruitless all your labors have been. You, my dear Nelyo, are not going anywhere.”

Maglor was so distracted looking out over the mountains that he didn’t notice he was no longer alone until he got a hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Brother.”

He almost jumped as he flipped around, but managed to restrain himself.

“Celegorm!”

“Your hair is getting long,” Celegorm said, with a weak smile on his face as he rustle his fingers through the growing curls. Trying not to look as sad as he was. “It looks nice. Going to braid it again soon?”

“Oh. Yes, I think so.” Maglor did not have the energy to attempt a smile. Didn’t have the will.

“Good.” Celegorm patted him on the shoulder again. “Good. A king should have braids, yeah?”

Maglor was nodding along until he processed the words.

“K-King?”

“Yes.” Celegorm straightened up, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. He had the same cool, collected expression that most of them wore nowadays. “You are next in line, Maglor.”

“Next in...” he trailed off, glancing east again to the mountains. “Wait, no, Celegorm, Maedhros is-“

“Maedhros is gone.” He would not meet Maglor’s shocked gaze. “It’s time we start accepting that. Our people need a king, and you-“

“No!” Maglor stepped back. “He is alive! Maedhros is our king, and he’s alive, and we aren’t going to abandon him like that!”

“I’m just saying we should think about it,” Celegorm said. “That’s all.”

“No.” Maglor looked at his brother in horror. “That’s awful, Celegorm, I’m not leaving him like that!”

“I’m sorry.” Celegorm backed up, hand raised. “But he’s gone. There’s nothing we can do. I’m sorry.”

He turned and left the room, and Maglor put his face in his hands and wept.

The air was bitter cold up here. Bitter cold and reeking of smoke.

Maedhros tried so hard not to feel the pain anymore. Tried to close his eyes and drift to sleep but he couldn’t. The pain was too constant.

If his hand could have come off, it would have by now. It hurt. It hurt so bad.

The stone was razor sharp and tore at his back like knives. The wind bit into his flesh. And the manacle sliced his wrist and sent a constant stream of blood down his arm.

It hurt too bad to find escape in sleep.

It hurt too bad to think.

When the clear sound of horns rang across the hills and echoed through the peaks, Maedhros almost thought his mind had wandered entirely out of reality.

But then he saw the blue banners of Fingolfin in the valley below, and the horns rang out deafening and clear, and it was so loud it shook him to his core.

Fingolfin.

Fingolfin was here.

He was here, waving his banners, banging on the gates of Angband under the light of the silver newborn moon.

Strength flowed immediately through Maedhros and he squirmed, pulling himself up by the chain around his wrist. The white gleam of armor and jewels glittered like a living river of hope.

“Uncle!”

He twisted, trying to get enough air to his lungs to scream.

“Uncle!”

He didn’t know how Fingolfin had gotten here but he was here. He had come.

“Fingon! Uncle! Aredhel!”

His voice rang across the rocks loud and clear. Surely loud enough to be heard. Surely.

Surely. Please.

Please.

Night and sat blurred into one honey-slow and unsteady pulse, so slow. So slow and he had hung here longer than he could comprehend.

His back was sliced to ribbons by the stone face behind, and the cuts around his wrist were never properly allowed to heal and had turned his entire site dull copper with dry blood. It rained every once in a while and rinsed him clean, but mostly he was suspended there in his own blood and sweat and filth without escape.

No escape.

Never any way out.

Never.

The sound of strings on the wind couldn’t be real because no one would ever crawl up here for his sake, for any sake, let alone play. Let alone sing. Sing a beautiful song in Quenya that Maglor had written about the white streets of Tirion like some ghost of long-lost peace.

His body shook with shivers and fever and he closed his eyes and raised his nose to the wind.

Humming along brought momentarily peace, so Maedhros parted his dry, cracked lips and took up the tune slow and gentle. His voice was in no shape for singing, but he managed it, and it made him feel at home, so he tried anyway.

Abruptly the song stopped. The music died. He lowered his head and returned to the cold and the torment.

“Maedhros?” called a voice, and over a face of rock far below poked the dark head of Fingon.

Fingon.

Fingon was here for him.

He’d come.

Tears steamed hot down his cheeks, the only water he had left.

Fingon crawled onto the flat granite shelf and got to his feet, a vision in gleaming blue with a harp at his side. He stood for a moment studying the rock and the sheer face between himself and his cousin, then he cupped his hands over his mouth and called again.

“Maedhros, I can’t reach you!”

Even from this distance, Maedhros could see the silver bow slung across Fingon’s back.

He croaked words and just had to hope they reached all the way down.

“Just shoot.”

Blood ran down his bicep and dripped through the hollow of his spine.

“Fingon. Please. Just shoot me.”

He closed his eyes and missed if Fingon replied, because his arm ached so horribly he couldn’t even think.

It seemed to him a long time before he opened his eyes again and saw Fingon sat on the stone with his face in his hands and the bow resting next to him. He was crying. Maedhros could see his shoulders shaking from here.

Eventually he stood, picked up the bow and turned around to face the precipice.

Maedhros saw his lips moving, but he couldn’t hear the words. All he could see was the gleam of the bow as he drew it.

He closed his eyes again.

Awaiting the momentary pain that would herald his release.

It did not come.

He heard the wind of a hurricane, felt it push against his face and smack him back to the rock, and the roar of beating wings, and then hands on his shoulders holding him, warm, and firm, and present.

“It’s alright!” Fingon spoke through tears, a desperate smile on his face. “I’m here. I’m here, Maedhros. I’m going to take you home!”

Maedhros did not answer. It hurt. It hurt and it wasn’t like Fingon would be able to get rid of it.

He could feel him tugging at the chains. Trying to pry the manacle off the rock. Trying everything.

“Fingon,” Maedhros breathed. “Fingon, please. You can’t get me out of here. There’s no way out. Just... if you could just... please...” He looked meaningfully at the sword his cousin wore at his hip. “Just end it. Please. I can’t...”

“No, no. Stop that, I’m not leaving you. You’re going to be fine!”

“I’m sorry.” He wanted to cry but his body wouldn’t manage it. “Fingon. I’m sorry. I-I never meant to leave you b-behind.”

“Just hush. Keep your strength.”

“I’m sorry...”

Another tug at the manacle. It wouldn’t budge.

Finally, Maedhros heard the scrape of a sword being drawn, and a silver flash of sunlight blinded him.

Yes. Yes, at last. At last.

“Hold still. It’ll only hurt for a second, cousin, I promise. Just- Just don’t move!”

The dull pain in his wrist turned sharp and he let out a scream that echoed endlessly across the peaks.

So sharp. So cold.

Turned him to ice.

Froze him all up.

He didn’t even notice Fingon holding him, wrapping him in a cloak, forcing warmth back into his body. Binding his hand tight and clean.

His hand his hand his fingers were twitching and he could still feel the manacles.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed quietly into Fingon’s chest, and for the first time in too long he received an affectionate touch.

He closed his eyes and went at last to sleep.

[tamedbyafox]

why is it so wrong for property owners to take steps to ensure random strangers don't use their property to camp out? you typed up so much about the evils of hostile architecture, if that's what you believe then are you inviting homeless ppl to sleep in your backyard or living room instead? why not?? maybe because people you don't know have the potential to be destructive and dangerous????

this is the sort of very sad attitude that I think hostile architecture creates and encourages. I’m very sorry you live your life in so much fear. Can you really think your perception of your property’s relative safety is more important than someone else’s safety, and the thinnest smidgen of comfort? 

Your ask only talks about houseless people, not those who are disabled, elderly, or have a house and simply want to socialize out in the public space. So it doesn’t address what I added to that post, but I’ll stake out my general thoughts on this nonetheless. Next time, you may want to try addressing the issues someone’s actually speaking on rather than raising the standard “Not-In-My-Backyard” defenses.

First, other people aren’t an existential threat. People existing in the general vicinity of you, or the general vicinity of your stuff, isn’t some huge threat. Most people are just people, wanting to go about their day and be left alone. People are generally ok, and they’re part of your community. To the extent that people (housed and unhoused, in public and in private) do cause harm, simply saying “you can’t sit here!” isn’t actually addressing the problem. And this also ignores that those who are unhoused are more often the harmed party than the one causing harm.

 And, on the same point, if you’re going to say that unknown people are dangerous, you can’t even justify the existence of a shopping mall or a mega-store. Too many people, they might be dangerous. A laundromat? A school? A Church?!?! Theme parks??!!?!? Any sort of public space could be a threat, we should just abolish them all. The idea that people you don’t know are inherently dangerous is the deathknell of any hope of community. 

Second, you’re making a false equivalency between public space and private space with your comment on living rooms. (the backyard, interestingly, is a reality for many people - there are several houseless people who stay in what I and my neighbors consider our “backyard”, and thats just fine. We’ve never had issues.) Those images in the post though, were of park benches, sidewalks, the buildings that abut a sidewalk, little trees and such. That’s a public space for people to be in! Those spaces are specifically designed for people to be in! Public spaces are for us to use! And that means all people - the houseless, the disabled, community members who just want to be outside. These park benches and trees and sidewalks were put there for the community. And to the extent that some corporation wants their storefront to take advantage of the traffic of the community, they should have to be welcoming of our community - all of it, housed, unhoused. And if the space can be used by someone to stay warm or dry, then they should do that.

Third, these people are forced to “camp out” in these spaces because we, their community, have failed them. There are systemic failures that prevent them from sleeping somewhere warmer than that. Somewhere safer than that. And I am absolutely working towards a world where everyone has the right to a warm, safe, stable housing situation. But until that day, I’m not going to deny them the panacea of a slightly warmer place, a slightly more sheltered place, a slightly safer place. Can you really look at someone huddling in a building’s indent to get out of the wind and kick them out? Why should I punish someone for a situation caused by a systemic failure of our society? 

Fourth, these bits of sharp metal and wooden dividers don’t actually solve a single problem. The act of putting up some hostile architecture doesn’t address safety, or houselesness, or any other root issue. It simply pushes the problem onto someone else. All these achieve is forcing people you don’t want to see somewhere else. It doesn’t make them, or you, or the people in the space they’re going to fo to, more safe. It doesn’t end houselessness or bring about better social conditions or even make the community safe. It just means you don’t have to look at it. Hostile architecture is the ultimate NIMBY mentality of out of sight, out of mind. 

Finally, I hope you take a second and think about what it means to hold the value of property above the value of another human being. I’d love to invite you to read, or watch, A Christmas Carol. It’s the season, after all.  I’m going to include two passages below I think are rather pertinent.

Here, two gentlemen have come to Mr. Scrooge, before his visit by the spirits, to ask him to make some charitable donation:

“At this festive season of the year, Mr. Scrooge,” said the gentleman, taking up a pen, “it is more than usually desirable that we should make some slight provision for the Poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time. Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.”

“Are there no prisons?” asked Scrooge.

“Plenty of prisons,” said the gentleman, laying down the pen again.

“And the Union workhouses?” demanded Scrooge. “Are they still in operation?”

“They are. Still,” returned the gentleman, “I wish I could say they were not.”

“The Treadmill and the Poor Law are in full vigour, then?” said Scrooge.

“Both very busy, sir.”

“Oh! I was afraid, from what you said at first, that something had occurred to stop them in their useful course,” said Scrooge. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

“Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude,” returned the gentleman, “a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy the Poor some meat and drink, and means of warmth. We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices. What shall I put you down for?”

“Nothing!” Scrooge replied.

“You wish to be anonymous?”

“I wish to be left alone,” said Scrooge. “Since you ask me what I wish, gentlemen, that is my answer. I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry. I help to support the establishments I have mentioned—they cost enough; and those who are badly off must go there.”

“Many can’t go there; and many would rather die.”

“If they would rather die,” said Scrooge, “they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population. Besides—excuse me—I don’t know that.”

“But you might know it,” observed the gentleman.

“It’s not my business,” Scrooge returned. “It’s enough for a man to understand his own business, and not to interfere with other people’s. Mine occupies me constantly. Good afternoon, gentlemen!”

And the second portion that I think speaks well to the problems of hostile architecture, and the isolation and ignorance it reinforces, is when Christmas Present shows Scrooge the meager Christmas of a houseless London family, and Scrooge sees something truly horrifying: 

“Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask,” said Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit’s robe, “but I see something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?”

“It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it,” was the Spirit’s sorrowful reply. “Look here.”

From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children; wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable. They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.

“Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!” exclaimed the Ghost.

They were a boy and girl. Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

“Spirit! are they yours?” Scrooge could say no more.

“They are Man’s,” said the Spirit, looking down upon them. “And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it!” cried the Spirit, stretching out its hand towards the city. “Slander those who tell it ye! Admit it for your factious purposes, and make it worse. And bide the end!”

“Have they no refuge or resource?” cried Scrooge.

“Are there no prisons?” said the Spirit, turning on him for the last time with his own words. “Are there no workhouses?”

The bell struck twelve.

[sweetsmellosuccess]

TIFF 2020: Day 3

Films: 3 Best Film of the Day: Nomadland

Nomadland: Perhaps no American director since Terrance Malick has made more of the collapsing light of dusk and twilight than Chloe Zhao. Much of her new film, which stars Frances McDormand as a transigent woman (“not homeless, houseless”), who traverses back and forth across the west in her beat up live-in van, doing seasonal work, takes place in that particular kind of vibrant half-darkness that shrouds the desert and its mountains with a magic kind of mystery. Zhao, whose previous film, The Rider, was one of the very best of 2018, has a way of focusing on the margins of society, the poverty stricken and the non-conformists, finding distinct poetry and longing in their journeys. Her storytelling is economic but powerfully effective: In an early scene McDormand’s character, Fern, is pulling items out of a storage facility she has somewhere near the now-defunct town of Empire, Nevada, where she used to live. Amidst other pieces of ephemera, she comes across a battered old jean jacket and freezes, holding it close to her face, emotion clouding her face. When we find out sometime later her husband died shortly after the gypsum factory where he had worked shut down, we connect the piece of info with her emotion from before. Nothing is overt in Zhao’s palate (which will be interesting to see play out with her next film, The Eternals, as part of the MCU), everything moves in these subtle shades, like the soft shadows of firelight on the faces of the congregation of fellow nomads Fern meets up with later, down somewhere in the Sonoran, after being invited by her good friend Linda May (played by Linda May). There, she eventually comes to meet fellow wanderer Dave (David Strathairn), a sweet-hearted man who clearly feels something for Fern that she chooses not to address. The film isn’t plotted so much as it stays in contact with Fern, as she hits the road from one place to another, spending time with another woman in a trailer, Swankie (Swankie), who only has a few months to live, or intermittently working odd gigs at other RV spots, or the occasional stint at an Amazon warehouse. Things happen with her of a type  —  she gets a flat, her car’s engine requires a large sum of money which requires her to visit her sister briefly  —  but what Zhao wants us to see isn’t so much in the mundane details of Fern’s life, as to her steely commitment to her lifestyle. She’s willing to pay the large sacrifices in order to keep her freedom, drawn as she is to the painted highway hyphens. Most such films treat the wanderers as afflicted, bereft, emotionally stunted until the right person allows them to happily shuck off their feckless lifestyle for something solid and permanent: In Zhao’s remarkable work, Fern’s ceaseless wanderings aren’t viewed as her flaw, they are her strength.

Summer of 85: Something has clearly gone horribly wrong at the beginning of Francois Ozon’s tragic romance between two young men who meet on the coast of Normandy one summer. Alexis (Felix Lefebvre), a 16-year-old who lives in Normandy with his parents, his face pale and strained, is being held by the local gendarmes as he tells us in VO just how obsessed he’s always been with the idea of death. Someone has died, it would seem, and Alexis doesn’t wait long to inform us the identity of the corpse: It’s a handsome young man named David Gorman (Benjamin Voisin), whom Alexis meets during a sailing mishap that leaves him capsized, eventually fished out of the water by his new friend. David is abuzz with energy, a glowing lantern that attracts attention wherever he goes. In very short order, he’s made friends with the more naturally cautious Alexis, and they eventually become lovers (a curiously chaste film, their big love scene happens behind the closed door of David’s bedroom, with Alexis telling us in VO that we are not allowed to see what happened, but it was “the best night” of his young life). But their love quickly becomes unbalanced, with David all too happy to flirt and hook up with nearly anyone in a moment’s notice, and Alexis feeling increasingly marginalized, until they get into a huge argument in which David mercilessly tells his friend he’s become bored of him. The film flips back and forth from flashbacks of their story, and Alexis’ current predicament as somehow connected to the eventual death of his lover, having at last to write out what happened, as lead by his kindly English teacher, to offer an explanation for the caseworker who’s trying to keep him out of further trouble. Ozon seems to be working at cross purposes here, avoiding some of the most obvious trappings of the retrospective love story narrative, only to fall headlong into others. The initial narrative hook  —  trying to determine Alexis’ involvement in David’s death  —  turns out to be a clunky red herring, and the love story itself, beyond some beautiful shots of the two of them sailing together in the late afternoon sun, feels less organic than ordained, a necessity for the plot to plough ahead. Lefebvre turns in a fine performance, and Voisin is suitably both charming and ruthless, but it all feels more than a little played out.

The New Corporation: The Unfortunately Necessary Sequel: Back in 2003, Canadian documentarians Jennifer Abbott and Joel Bakan made The Corporation, a film that chronicled the depressing rise of the corporation as becoming the de facto government in those countries in which they are prevalent, the laws changing to grant them ever more freedoms and powers, going so far as to treat them legally with individual-type rights. Now, 17 years later, Abbott and Bakan have gone back to the boardrooms to further chronicle the ever-more powerful and pervasive corporate entity, and their shift in philosophy, from blatantly serving none but their shareholders seeking ever-spiraling profit, to their “new” approach, in which they pay lip service to doing better by the planet and taking social responsibility, only to ratchet up their endless batch of dirty tricks to ensure that almost literally every public-based system in the world  —  from water to education  —  is privatized and allowed to become new profit centers for them. It’s all prevalent, and nefarious and depressing as hell, as you might imagine, as we watch the corporate titans all congregating at the infamous annual gathering of Davos, making self-congratulatory speeches about how much more caring and compassionate they’ve become since the 2008 meltdown, only to be revealed as further tricks of their endless branding. Tying this attitude into more current events, the filmmakers connect the COVID crisis with government’s capitulation to corporate wealth, laying out the “playbook” corporations are using to further turn the country’s wealth over to their infinitesimally small cadre of super-wealthy stakeholders, concluding their most successful maneuver is to defund a government social program until it fails, blame the government for its failing, and suggest that the solution is to hand more control over to them. But just before you pour the bottle of sleeping pills down your throat, the filmmakers see fit to relent a bit, and show how popular uprisings, in countries all over the globe, have led to substantial change. They also suggest that activists have finally learned it’s not enough to protest from outside, but they must get elected leaders in place who can truly stand behind a fundamental change in policy. The film doesn’t have the completeness of their previous effort  —  one gets the sense they sacrificed some breadth for the sake of topicality  —  but it does suggest there are ways in which we can make a difference, and the protest marches, against Wall Street, and police brutality, and for unions, and the end of systemic racism can be a real solution if enough people are motivated to go out and make a difference. The literal fate of the planet is at stake, either way.

In a year of bizarre happenings, and altered realities, TIFF has shifted its gears to a significantly paired down virtual festival. Thus, U.S. film critics are regulated to watching the international offerings from our own living room couches.

[katiekoff]

When The Plague Comes

Hey guys! Actually I’m an author and write fanfics usually (not drawing, lol). I haven’t write for ages but The Arcana made impossible thing - that game made me want to write again. I write on Russian and I have never ever translated my fanfics. But! The Arcana made impossible thing [2] - it made me translate this. Alas, I’m only imroving my English and I’m not sure if I translated it correctly. So if you will read this and find (and I know you’ll find) any mistakes, please let me know. I tried my best and my only hope is that the translating is understandable.

Thank you for your time!

When The Plague Comes

PG || Drubble || Angst || Asra, fem!MC, Julian, Valdemar is there... somewhere... || Pre-canon

Summary: When the plague comes, everyone has their own reason to stay in the dying city.

Sometimes it seems to her that bright azure sky glows red. That the grass, the trees and even the ground became scarlet with rich ruby shade. People on the street avoid each other fearfully, glare at the faces of strangers, looking for slightest signs of illness. Some houses bare their toothless windows and it’s seems the darkness there takes shape – a human or a demon – and it’s seems the darkness ready to take you, to strangle you, to paint your whites of the eyes with scarlet color of fresh blood.

There are not children’s cheerful laugh on the streets anymore, there are not any strolling musicians with their music; fortune tellers don’t drag the passersby to their booths, don’t spread the bones, rocks or colorful cards. Everyone knows the fortune, both their and the whole city. This fortune flowing through flooded districts with the red water; running along the road with the red beetles; standing at the exit of the city with gloomy wardens – there is no escape from the city, there is no entrance to – even if there will be a madman who would like to get up close to the dying Vesuvia.

She feels the breath of the Death everywhere, even in the shop: tart aroma of the dried herbs mixed with the sweetish smell of rot; this smell rises lump in the throat, lingers in the nostrils. She thinks that this smell has a taste – a taste of rotten fish that covers the coast and the docks. Neither the potpourri, nor water or spiced food can’t kill this taste, - to tell the truth, it seems to her more and more that the food has the same mawkish, nauseous and rotten taste.

She hates the palace and its dungeons, where the brightest minds of the city trying to find the cure. She hates the dark dungeons and their stale air filled with hopelessness and despair. She hates Valdemar’s unwinking gaze – they seem to be the only happy person in the city. Or, maybe, in whole world – she no longer believes there is countries and people anywhere who don’t know what the plague is.

Julian doesn’t sleep for ages and she sees his haggard cheeks, sharpened cheekbones and bruises under his eyes – even his usual grin faded and thin lips fold in narrow line with the suffering fracture. She brings him the new reports every day: the plague is progressing, no survivors, from the first signs to death passes less and less time, there’re only houseless and the doctors in beaked masks on the streets. Julian shuddering at first, looking to her with the hope, but in recent days there’re only despair and muted question in his eyes.

- Ten, - says she today.

- Thirty, - she will say tomorrow.

- A few hundreds, - that will be to the end of the week.

And then they will stop counting.

There is only hatred in her eyes when she watches over the wagons riding to the docks. Everyone knows: this is one-way trip. Next there will be the Lazaret, crematorium and seashore, where they will bury all that remains of you. The doctors look away from the heavily laden wagons: their wheels leave the heavy furrows on the mud, and the horses are exhausted. Sometimes there’re screaming and crying for help heard from the wagons – not everyone loaded in the hastily built carts are dead. These screams haunt her by night and she wakes up, surrounded by ghosts, and almost sees their ruby red eyes.

As Valdemar becomes happier, Julian more pale, and the other doctors – nameless – replacing rapidly, and you don't need to ask where they disappear. The days merge into the infinite change of exhausted faces, groaning, the smells of rot; they coloring in the shades of red – the water, the sky, the ground, the eyes, the ulcers, cloaks and masks of the plague doctors; they fly by like a moment and last for ages and it seems to her that no one could break free from this vicious circle. She almost stops returning to the shop – there is not much time for this, and she spends all her time in the dungeon, and she stays overnight there, in the dark, gloomy dungeon where the blood doesn’t wash away from the floor already. And one day Julian returns from the palace with an unreadable expression on his face and says that the count gets down with plague.

- The eyes only, - says Julian and looks away. – Nothing more.

But she knows: when your eyes turn red, time is running out and all you have is a several days at most.

The Count turns out to be resistant – two, three, ten days pass, and Julian says that he got worse, but he lives.

- Why him? – asks Julian. Everyone think about it – in the palace, in the streets, in the dungeons; the doctors and all the dying patients whispering about it – the rumors spread across the city faster than the plague. The doctors die, the scientists and people around the streets die, but the Count, who is hatred by almost all the city, lives.

It seems that Julian stop sleeping and eating at all, he is locking himself at his office and she knows the Count demands cure from him. But there is no other person who wants to find a cure more than Julian himself and she knows that as well.

Soon the streets become more empty, more houses become abandoned and even ruffians don’t break the windows. One of these days she returns to the shop for changing her clothes and doesn't even try to let fire: she learned to orient in the darkness long ago. Changed quickly, she hears the door’s slam and freezes, turned to the window. They haven’t seen each other… how long? A week? A month? She has already lost the count of these days.

- Selene? – Asra’s voice sounds like he didn’t sleep for ages – just like Julian. – It’s good you’re home.

- I’m leaving, - says she unemotionally, calmly and coldly.

- No, - says Asra and comes closely. – We must leave the city, we can’t do anything here. There is no cure and the city is dying, Selene.

She straightens her back, squares the shoulders and closes her eyes.

- There is always a way out, Asra. Julian will find the cure, definitely. And I will remain with him.

- You can’t really believe it. Come on, grab your stuff and let’s leave. I know how to get past the guardians, - says Asra impatiently. She hears him walks around the room putting his stuff and books in the traveling bag.

- I’m staying, - she repeats.

- No you don’t! – Asra is almost screaming when he puts his hand onto her shoulder. She shakes his soft palm off the shoulder and repeats it again with the same cold in her voice: she’s not leaving.

- But why? – even while she is face away from him, she almost sees the despair in his eyes and feels him runs his fingers through his fluffy hair. – Why do you want to risk your life? I can’t allow you to do that!

- I don’t need your approval, - she says. – I won’t leave the city like a coward. I'll remain with someone who do something. Anything.

- Do you consider me a coward? – Asra asks. Pain, mistrust and emptiness – that’s what she hears in his voice.

- Yes, - she says. – You aren’t worth Julian’s little finger.

- Julian, huh. Is that so? - he says.

- Is it.

It seems her words destroying Asra completely. All she hears are ragged breath, heavy steps while he goes down the stairs and slow, unbearably loud creak of the door.

She exhales and leans her forehead to the cold dusty window. Nothing are reflected in the dark window but it seems to her that she sees reflection of her own eyes – green and unusually bright against the ruby red whites of the eyes.

She works in the dungeon another few days and feels eyes on her: interested and hungry – from Valdemar, sympathetic – from patients. She considers herself lucky – she hasn’t any ulcers, her body doesn’t cramp, all she has is overwhelming weakness. Good fortune smiles at her one more time: when she loses consciousness, Valdemar are busy with something very important and don’t see how one of those nameless doctors lifts her.

Through the fever and insufferable headache, she sees in flashes: a wagon's wooden boards with dried blood drops; a piece of the scarlet sky; smooth surface of water; high walls of the Lazaret. 

When she, like the others, brought down to the cold floor, she can smell the rot and burning – suffocating, sweetish smell which soaked the crematorium walls. She wants to live madly, she wants to go to the journey with Asra, make tea for him, pulling his soft hair; in the same time, she wants it will be over – all that pain and fever, compared to which the flame won’t be felt.

It seems the thoughts about Asra completely crush her head – with the shame, guilt and a timid hope that the resentment was so strong that he won't get back, won't looking for her; that he will be in safety in his Nopal sanctuary or somewhere else. That he will be happy – sooner or later. That he will live.

When she sees scarlet flame strikes in front of her, when she smells the burning skin – her skin – all that she can is to hope that someday, in another world, she could tell him the most important thing.

- I’m so sorry.

[doorsclosingslowly]

Until I am whole

They barely escaped the disastrous pirate alliance. Now, they’re drifting and helpless in a slowly freezing escape pod, and Savage can’t fall asleep. The arm won’t let him.

5.01 coda | 1.9k | warning for body horror and gore

It hurts. That’s wrong, fundamentally: the arm shouldn’t throb and seize and bubble still, because it’s gone now, dismembered, a piece of trash dropped in panic after Kenobi showed up and Maul’s plan went to hell. It shouldn’t hurt, but it shoots its hungry darts through the bones that aren’t anymore and into the shoulder that is still attached to the meat that contains Savage; the meat that is Savage and that is all he’ll ever know.

The Mother turned him into a god unmarred by the scars of his old life or its affections, a creature of devotion tall and muscled and bright—he felt their eyes on him, lying half-bare on the table down below the witches, and he feels them still—She turned him into the image of perfection and he paid with his life. His meat, softly twisted in the Mother’s hand, obedient and unscarred and unhim. Unhinged, a door torn houseless and of no use anymore to the brothers it’s meant to protect. Open to any witch who’ll wander in. To any will. Free for the taking, and only fit to burn. It burns.

It shouldn’t hurt, the arm, but it does. Everything hurts. The Mother’s perfection was not enough. He was not enough. He’s never been. The lightsaber still gnaws on him, or a ghost of it does, a shard of Kenobi that will forever be close. A taste of Maul’s long life, and Savage would give him safety forever if he could. A taste is too much already for him. Maul should have had better, as a child and a man and as the elder he will never become.

He will never grow old.

He won’t, and all the promises are worthless: Savage would give him safety if he could. He can’t. There will never be any better than this, for either of them.

Soon, they are going to die.

Next to the stump defeated and bathed in the glow of evil magic, and slightly upwards, Savage’s burning eyes are slipping shut in exhaustion and chill. The fight and the flight and its nerves are turning to shakes, or maybe that’s the cold. It’s probably the cold. The cold is in everything now.

Leaning against the opposite wall is the shivering breathing corpse of Savage’s brother, too far away to feel or console. A corpse: they were both alive before they fled, but now the end is close enough to make no difference. They are trapped in a rudderless escape capsule. They are freezing. They are dead. It won’t be long now. Maul, rotting, just like the first brother Savage failed—the first brother Savage killed—and there is nothing to be done. No help. All his love is useless. It hurts.

Maul will be dead in days at most. Savage, too, but that’s just the way it goes. He counts along to the beats of throbbing pain.

//

It hurts. The world has narrowed. The only thing that is now is the frostening shelter drifting through dark waiting for the end, and inside, an arm that lies somewhere deep below the ground. Savage’s hurt arm, pulsing sharp and regular and a handhold will not let him slip. Will not let him sleep.

The pain in the left arm that is gone is all there is.

It chants over the cold and the distance and the impossibility of survival. The hunger and the dry, the faint pressure behind his restless eyelids, the old bad-healed twinges in his spine that were not wiped away in the perfection and destruction of his body, Maul’s head lolling slowly down and the torn fingernail… all the world numbs with chill, but the pain in the arm remains. It’s the only part of him that’s not freezing to death now, after all. Why should it. It’s not even here.

It is the only real thing, that’s how sharp it is. It builds a gleaming house of there and he climbs gratefully in. It is him now. He is pain. He is gone.

//

It hurts, when he wakes up and his corpse-brother’s eyes watch him calm and bright in the freezing gloom. It’s red silent agony, worse than he’s ever felt; it’s cooked flesh like the bearded master’s electricity but more, and in his desperation to be free, to tear it like a rancor would its trapped leg, Savage imagines the arm left down there and behind, slowly consumed by rats. Slowly disappeared. Without the arm, there will be no place for pain to latch onto, and he can drift away.

He dreams, open-eyed. He imagines rats nosing at their discovery and wriggling and singing happy of their future meal. They are small-feathered and gnarled and ill, just like the filth he kept from out his larder a life ago. They are hungry. Quickly, their snouts are gone. Their naked heads disappear. Then, a howling protest: there is no blood to spurt and slake their thirst. Savage winces with sympathy. He was only down there for the fight and there was no time to pay attention, but he saw no water. He imagines they must be thirsty. He is thirsty.

Clever and undeterred, they dig and climb their way into the meat, until the arm bulges and teems with life, yellow skin stretched breaking-thin, and what just used to be unrecognizable as Savage doesn’t even look like a limb anymore.

A breath, and the swollen lumps split, spouting pale small rats onto the ground. Carefully, Savage watches.

The rats return. They tear into the muscle. They slurp and fight over tendons, and he cheers them. There will never be any better for him or his brother now they both are dead, and he must take the small triumphs he finds. Besides, the rats are the very first to prosper of this body. Quickly, small groves of teeth all over the growing pale bone, biting hard in their eagerness for the lovely marrow.

Tiny lives moving in a frenzy of survival, and soon, the arm is no more.

It does not help.

They are climbing onto the shoulder now, betraying Savage; they are scrambling towards the belly and within blinks they are deep into the soft of him. Numb to their teeth and the tingling of it, he is too tired to move. He is too cold. He watches them. They have a fondness for the liver, and barely, he keeps from dripping vomit onto the breastplate, where it would freeze stiff.

Curious eyes meet his while he heaves and swallows. A brow-ridge quirks.

Savage bites his tongue. He has no tongue. It was devoured long ago. Still, Savage will not go whining to the brother who was cut in half; who met the eager rats, and lived amongst them. Who ate them back.

It’s nothing, anyway. They’re both dying. Why should he need assurance, when his brother is silent? Savage only scared himself with his mind, and it’s only barely more than a scratch anyway, the wound, even if it hurts. It’s nothing like the pain Maul was dealt. Talking would be a waste of words he does not have, drifting out and into himself. Of breath, precious and cold. It would be a waste.

Out here far from Dathomir, people probably lose their arms all the time.

(A curious thing: if Savage had begged for comfort, he would have received it. Fumbling care, perhaps, but Maul is miserable with blame and quiet and inescapable death, and he would have liked something to occupy his hands. Something to say, though he does not recognize his need.)

//

It hurts. He cannot sleep anymore. His eyes won’t open. The left hand is a witch now, white-burnt needling pain. The rats have stripped him down to the bones of their truth and the cold has taken the rest, and now Savage can see: the left hand.

That hand.

Before Kenobi cut it, it was the hand that held up Feral; the hand that broke the neck of the child he sold himself to save. The hand, darting out like the great sky-mother from out her nest to snare the child who walks away from home. The killing hand, untrembling with the beauty of her word, while somewhere deep inside the obedient meat he curled and sobbed his violation, his brother’s loss, or at least in the here and the cold he likes to believe he did. It is not clear why it should be better, to be capable of feeling the wrong of it wrapped inside the soft words of Her control. It shouldn’t be better, when the wrong did nothing to stop itself. It just is.

The left hand: the first part he saw of the meat of Her desires, the god creature that is him now. Its first act, a herald of the monster he was to become.

The hand is gone now, and it hurts. The hurt feels good.

It was the hand that held up Feral.

Now, it’s gone. It’s just a stump leaking magic and pain. It does not even bleed. It will not even kill him. No need for that, anyway: he is dead. There is no way to escape the pod, and the cold will do just as well as a bleedout. The hand, instead, chains him close, a point of real and burning in the numb, and it will not kill him. It will not let him sleep.

It was the hand that held up Feral, but next to it, and slightly upwards: the eyes that looked on strange and unkind. The eyes that watched Feral die. It was the ears that heard Feral’s last words and the mouth that mocked him and the legs that didn’t cave; it was the brain that thought in unison with Her and in compliance, “Kill him.” It was the tears uncried and the bowels holding fast.

All did their part. There is nothing in this body that wasn’t Hers.

It was the hand that held up Feral that is gone now, but this body is full of accomplices. They are no less murderers. They are all him. He is them. He will never be clean.

//

It hurts. Weeks have gone since the rescue, and in the arm’s stead, the Mandalorians have screwed a prosthetic that does not quite feel, the searching hand in the black-needle undergrowth wrapped thick in leather. Savage did not ask for the new arm: like the body, it is another’s will and thoughts grafted onto what is left of him, and he does not think of it often.

Presently, it’s raised behind Maul’s head. A knife is hurtling towards it.

It’s preparing to stop the knife.

It’s raised in protection, and it is new. Savage’s eyes widen. It is new. The left arm has only been him for a few weeks, and so… it was not there when he killed Feral. It bears no guilt. The arm is not the Mother’s, it’s scrap metal magicless and a blight on the meat Her white warm hands twisted into a god. It did not kill Feral. If there is any fleck of loyalty, of honor, left in Savage—it lives in the space where there used to be the arm that Kenobi cut.

(Later, he will scratch this triumph into the arm, patterns and swirls that tell of the part of him that did not kill a brother. The writing will be illegible: a script of his own devising, mangled by the unpracticed murderous right hand. Untouched by perfection. It will be the favorite part of him.)

The knife stops.

[allmyleftistsliveintexas]

Austin, Texas: Vote No on Prop B

Election Day: Saturday, May 1

Early Voting: Friday, April 19 - Saturday, April 27

Last Day to Register to Vote: Thursday, April 1

Check Your Voter Info & Register at votetravis.com

What is Prop B?

In May 2021, Austin voters will decide on whether or not to reinstate The Camping Ban, which would make it illegal to camp in public spaces, to sit/lie down in some outdoor spaces, and to panhandle at night.

The language is:

“Shall an ordinance be adopted that would create a criminal offense and a penalty for sitting or lying down on a public sidewalk or sleeping outdoors in and near the Downtown area and the area around the University of Texas campus; create a criminal offense and penalty for solicitation, defined as requesting money or another thing of value, at specific hours and locations or for solicitation in a public area that is deemed aggressive in manner; create a criminal offense and penalty for camping in any public area not designated by the Parks and Recreation Department?”

This essentially means it would be a criminal offense to camp, sleep/lie down, and/or panhandle in certain places and times in Austin.

For many of our unhoused neighbors, there are simply no options for shelter or income in the city and many are forced to live on the street.

With nowhere else to go and no hopes of other income, Prop B would make it illegal to be a person experiencing homelessness in large parts of the city.

Affected Areas

Prop B would make it a criminal offense to camp in public, sit/lie in public, and panhandle at night in the areas within the red square. 

Via KUT

This area runs from 38th street south to Cesar Chavez and from N. Lamar east to I-35. It also goes around Oakwood Cemetary, and to Chicon street from E. 7th Street to E. Cesar Chavez. 

History of the Camping Ban

note: it has been fairly difficult to dig up old articles to research and provide context. this history is a summary of what I could find but isn’t a full or complete telling of events. 

The Camping Ban was first instated on January 25th, 1996. This ordinance made it class C misdemeanor to sleep, store personal belongings, cook, or start fires in public areas. There were an estimated 6,000 houseless people on the streets in 1996 with a population of 548,000. (For context, there were an estimated 2,506 houseless people in Austin in 2020 with a population of 1,000,000.) Additionally, there was only one free houseless facility at this time, with just 128 beds and strict limitations on using the facility. ARCH didn’t open until 2004.

Mayor Bruce Todd first introduced the ordinance and it eventually passed with a 4-1 vote, with one council member abstaining and one council member absent. The council member who voted against the measure was Jackie Goodman, who stayed firm in this position throughout all her years on council. As were the rules, council had to pass this ordinance three times before it became law, January 25th, 1995 being the third time. 

In talks about whether or not to pass the measure, council member Gus Garcia stated in 1995 that “This ordinance is probably not the answer. This ordinance is not going to fix the problem. But we have to begin somewhere.” 

When it was officially passed in 1996, it was met with a 200 person protest. The loudest people in opposition of the ban were the houseless, the police, and local activists. Many people stated it was unconstitutional, a violation of houseless people’s rights, and unethical to displace people without somewhere for them to go.

Originally, the Austin Police opposed the ban because they didn't have the resources to enforce it and didn’t see it as a solution to the fundamental issue of houselessness. Lieutenant Michael Urubeck who was in charge of enforcing the ban stated “it’s not going to work in the long run.”  

Additionally, The Downtown Austin Alliance, who represented downtown businesses and supported the ordinance, boldly acknowledged in 1997 that "The purpose of the ordinance was to protect our public properties and as a preventative measure against public disorder, not the separate issue of the homeless." - Downtown Austin Alliance 1997

When it was first passed, city council also called for a review on it’s effectiveness. In 1997, they found that the camping ban "provided a tool for immediate relief of unwanted situations, but has failed to provide an effective deterrent or any permanent solution to the transient issue." (they called people experiencing homelessness “transients” back then.)

In 1997, there’s a couple articles showing that city council had plans to rescind the camping ban that year, however I was unable to find what actually happened after their plans. I skimmed through the July & August council meeting minutes but have not been able to find anything about repealing the ban. I think it’s safe to say that while talks were promising, the city elected to keep the ban. Additionally, there was lots of talks of building “homeless campuses” at this time but I have been unable to find whether or not they were actually built. Also I want to note that these campuses were often seen as separative and ways to push the houseless community somewhere else, aka not solutions. 

Anyways...

Since then, talks of repealing the camping ban have arisen time and time again, each time following very similar arguments: 

1. The camping ban doesn’t work in medicating the issue of houselessness in Austin 

2. The camping ban is morally bankrupt and borderline unconstitutional without giving people a place to go

3. The camping ban seeks to protect property, not people

Among advocates for rescinding the camping ban is Richard Troxell, who has been fiercely and loudly against the camping ban since the beginning in 1995. He regularly attended council meetings for years on end to speak up about it and has continued advocating against it to this day.

Why are we talking about this 27 years later?

Despite wish-washy support for the ban in it's inception in the 90s, the ban remained in place from 1996-2019. In July 2019, City Council voted 9-2 to repeal the camping ban with council members Alison Alter (D10) and Kathie Tovo (D9) voting against. Basically, this allowed unhoused people to legally sleep in public again.

Three months later in October 2019, city council voted to partially reinstate the camping ban. This measure further defined where camping would not be allowed, like within 15 feet of a residence or business or near ARCH/other shelters. With this partial ban, camping is still allowed outside of those areas.

In August 2020, an organization called Save Austin Now led by Travis County GOP chair Matt Mackowiak, submitted a petition to allow the public to vote to reinstate the camping ban. Initially, it was thrown out by the city clerk because it lacked the necessary number of signatures to be put on the ballot. 20,000 signatures are needed. They submitted 24,598 signatures (the lowest number of any recently filed citizen-led petition), but only 19,122 could be verified so the petition was thrown out.

However, in February 2021, Save Austin Now tried again and received the required 20,000 signatures to put the ban on the ballot. It has been widely stated that canvassers for Save Austin Now collected signatures using purposefully vague language, stating that their petition was one to "help the homeless" without providing signers the truthful information that the petition sought to reinstate the camping ban. Hundreds of signers were able to have their signatures removed after hearing about the manipulative cavassing, but not enough to keep the ban from the ballot.

Public Safety

Supporters of the camping ban say the ban is needed to protect public safety. How are the camping ban and public safety related?

People who argue the camping ban is needed for public safety seem to forget that unhoused people are part of the public. When you deny people shelter, even if that shelter is just a tent, you immediately endanger those people. They are more susceptible to theft, violence, and danger in general. Providing a safe environment for the unhoused is public safety.

Despite the repeal of the camping ban in 2019, the rate of violent crimes where the perpetrator was unhoused and the victim was housed decreased by 1% in 2019.

In fact, the rate of violent crimes where the perpetrator was housed and the victim was unhoused rose 7% in 2019, suggesting that it would be more likely for a housed citizen of Austin to commit violence against an unhoused person of Austin, and not the other way around.

There is no available data that shows that banning camping in public keeps the public safer.

“It looks like the least likely thing to happen with any violent crime involving a homeless individual is that it would be involving someone who is not homeless.” - Greg McCormack, Executive Director of Front Steps

Prop B Creates Criminal Records

Between 2016 and 2018, APD issued more than 10,000 citations to unhoused people who violated the camping ban. Most of these citations were issued for sitting or lying on a public sidewalk or outdoors. These citations cost up to $500. The average cost was about $160.

As can be expected, many unhoused people were unable to pay these fines. About 6 in every 10 citations issued resulted in arrest warrants after people failed to pay their fines in court.

With an arrest warrant on your record, it is measurably more difficult to qualify for essential services like housing and employment. Prop B would make the homelessness problem in Austin worse.

"Having tickets, arrests and warrants associated with these ordinances, sets people back from the goal of escaping homelessness; it prevents them from getting jobs and housing, and the vast majority of folks are trying to get out of homelessness. They are trying to get services, housing and employment so that they can get a roof over their head and restart their lives." - Chris Harris, Just Liberty

Why You Should Vote No on Prop B

1. Prop B criminalizes poverty.

Sitting, panhandling, and camping in public are often an unavoidable realities for those experiencing extreme poverty. To be criminalized for  not having a house to sleep in is morally bankrupt. No one should be forced to carry a criminal record just because they're poor. 

2. Prop B does not offer solutions to homelessness.

By making it illegal to camp in certain areas, the camping ban seeks to push the unhoused population out of main city areas without providing anywhere for them to go, or any actionable solution for the homelessness problem as a whole. The broader issues of inequality and poverty are not addressed in Prop B, and voting yes would only further endanger people experiencing homelessness.

3. Prop B would make it more difficult to escape poverty.

It is much more difficult to qualify for housing and employment opportunities when one has a criminal record. By criminalizing homelessness, unhoused people are more likely to get criminal records that would prevent them from accessing essential resources that are vital to transition from homelessness thus feeding the cycle that seeks to keep poor people poor.

Shelter beds in Austin: 812 Unhoused people in Austin: 2,500

The Housing Authority of The City of Austin waitlist for public housing has been closed since 2018. When it's open, the wait is 5-10 years.

The Housing Authority of The City of Austin waitlists for public housing at two other sites have also been closed since 2019 and 2020 and also have excessively long wait times.

The average wait time for housing through the Texas Department of Housing and Community Affairs is more than 3 years.

experiencing homelessness is not a crime. vote no on prop b.

research is work! buy me a coffee?

Sources:

votetravis.com

What is Prop B? Source

https://www.austintexas.gov/news/council-orders-elections-eight-propositions-may-1-2021

Affected Areas Sources

https://public.flourish.studio/visualisation/1459657/?utm_source=showcase&utm_campaign=visualisation/1459657

https://www.kut.org/austin/2021-02-04/the-city-clerk-has-okd-save-austin-nows-petition-to-reinstate-homelessness-bans-teeing-up-a-may-referendum

History of the Camping Ban Sources

https://www.austinchronicle.com/news/1996-02-16/530585/

https://www.austintexas.gov/sites/default/files/files/Planning/Demographics/population_history_pub.pdf

https://www.austinmonitor.com/stories/2020/05/austin-sees-10-year-high-in-the-number-of-people-experiencing-homelessness/#:~:text=The%20number%20of%20people%20experiencing%20homelessness%20in%20Austin%20hit%20a,25.

https://austin.culturemap.com/news/city-life/01-15-20-austin-population-explode-past-1-million-by-summer-2020/

https://www.austinchronicle.com/news/1997-07-04/529209/

https://www.newspapers.com/image/?clipping_id=59736855&fcfToken=eyJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiIsInR5cCI6IkpXVCJ9.eyJmcmVlLXZpZXctaWQiOjM1NzAyNDMwMCwiaWF0IjoxNjEzMDg2NTk4LCJleHAiOjE2MTMxNzI5OTh9.kR_Q35oymBXM41oMWIs2zRUjL-V0i6E0NY98ubRiWnw

https://www.bizjournals.com/austin/stories/1997/06/16/story1.html

https://www.austinchronicle.com/news/1997-07-04/529210/

http://www.austintexas.gov/content/archive-council-meetings-held-1997

Why are we talking about this 27 years later? Sources

https://www.statesman.com/news/20190621/city-council-rescinds-measures-that-critics-say-criminalize-homelessness

https://www.kut.org/austin/2019-10-29/as-austin-rolls-out-its-revised-camping-and-resting-bans-the-future-is-uncertain

https://www.austinchronicle.com/daily/news/2020-08-05/save-austin-now-petition-to-reinstate-camping-ban-fails/

https://www.kut.org/austin/2021-02-04/the-city-clerk-has-okd-save-austin-nows-petition-to-reinstate-homelessness-bans-teeing-up-a-may-referendum

https://www.kxan.com/news/local/austin/where-the-push-for-a-new-austin-homeless-shelter-stands-now/#:~:text=%E2%80%9CHowever%2C%20Austin%20currently%20only%20has,related%20to%20homelessness%20over%202019.

https://affordablehousingonline.com/housing-authority/Texas/Housing-Authority-of-the-City-of-Austin/TX001#wl108037

https://affordablehousingonline.com/housing-authority/Texas/Texas-Department-of-Housing-and-Community-Affairs/TX901

Public Safety Source

https://www.statesman.com/news/20200209/violent-crimes-with-homeless-suspects-victims-went-up-in-2019-data-show

Prop B Creates Criminal Records Sources

https://www.kut.org/austin/2019-06-20/most-tickets-for-homelessness-result-in-arrest-warrants-that-can-make-finding-housing-hard

https://www.kut.org/austin/2015-10-05/no-sit-no-lie-citations-handed-out-by-the-thousands-and-most-go-unpaid

Vote No Sources

https://www.kxan.com/news/local/austin/where-the-push-for-a-new-austin-homeless-shelter-stands-now/#:~:text=%E2%80%9CHowever%2C%20Austin%20currently%20only%20has,related%20to%20homelessness%20over%202019.

https://affordablehousingonline.com/housing-authority/Texas/Housing-Authority-of-the-City-of-Austin/TX001#wl108037

https://affordablehousingonline.com/housing-authority/Texas/Texas-Department-of-Housing-and-Community-Affairs/TX901

Additional Reading:

Mapping Out a Solution: Austin’s Homeless Task Force 

This Ain’t No KOA: Don’t Let the Tent Flap Hit You on Your Way Out...

[djinmer4]

5 People Who Wouldn’t Get on the Boat

1. Thranduil

The last time Cirdan had visited his cousin, the caverns of Eryn Lasgalen had been just at the start of the Fourth Age.  The caverns had been full of lively Silva, the realm had enjoyed a thriving trade with the neighboring Naugrim and Adan, and the forest had been recovering well from Sauron’s influence.  Two ages later the halls empty, the Naugrim had sealed themselves within their mountain, and might well be dead.  Dale had grown into a sizable republic and the city was encroaching on the forest.

The oldest elf still in Arda passed through the ruined gates, over shadowed bridges, and through silent tunnels.  He finally reached the throne room and frowned at what was there.  Thranduil was seated on his throne, the antlers covered in cobwebs.  Once shining, elegant robes had rotted into tatters of stained lace and the crown of branches on pale hair was bare and thorny.  He was sipping some opaque fluid out of a bejeweled goblet.  Cirdan hoped it was only wine and not some darker liquor.

“Cousin.”

“Cirdan.  Come up and join me.”  Thranduil offered the goblet in one hand and gestured to an empty space to the left of his throne.  Cirdan took a quick jump to the indicated area, then bowed as he took the goblet from his younger kinsman.  A sharp, metallic smell rose from the cup, and he suppressed a sigh as he set the vessel aside.  “What brings you to my domain after so long, shipwright?”

Cirdan took a moment to observe the younger elf.  The smile was sardonic and bitter, the eyes hazed to the point of being blind.  Oddly enough, despite the rack and ruin of both realm and ruler, Thranduil’s jewelry was polished and well-cared for.  The Emeralds of Girion, the gems of Lasgalen, the rings, a greenstone leaf brooch and another brooch in the shape of a silver star, all gleamed against the dark fabrics that the King wore.  Or perhaps not so odd; Cirdan knew the story each jewel held.  The gems from his wife, the rings from his parents, the Emeralds from King Bard and the brooch from his son.  Each piece was the last memento the King had of his loved ones.  No wonder he kept them in such fine shape even as everything else fell apart around him.

“Another Age has passed, kinsman.  The Naugrim retreat into their mountains, the Ents sleep, the Orcs have died.  Man has rose and forgotten all of us.”

“All things I already knew, ancient one.  Why have you come here?  Is it to tell me it is the end of the Eldar on Arda?  People have been saying that for Ages.  Elros said it when he built Numenor.  Gil-Galad said it when he confronted Sauron.  Elrond said it when mourned his daughter.  Morwe and Nurwe said it when they brought their people West to you Havens.  And while they are all gone, I am still here.”

“That may be.  Yet it is I who says that the role of the Eldar has ended on Arda.  The last ship sails within the year, with me on it.  After that it is the fate of those who are left to dwindle and fade.”

“Is that why you have come, Mariner?  To ask me to join you?  To ask me to abandon the halls my father built, the halls my wife died to defend, the halls where my lover spent his last years?”

“I am loth to leave any of our kindred behind to spend the rest of time as houseless fea.”

Pale, stoic features hardened to marble.  “The answer is no.  Let me fade, Cirdan.  This is my home.  I have no desire to leave it.”

“I was afraid you’d say that.”  Cirdan reached under his robes.

“You would dare draw on me?” hissed Thranduil.  “You would render yourself a Kinslayer, just because we disagree with you opinion that Aman is some sort of paradise!”

“Hardly,” the elder Sinda finished drawing his flask.  “But if you insist on staying, I would ask to have one last drink and conversation before I leave.”

Mollified, the King settled back on his throne.  “That is a reasonable request.”  Thranduil leaned over and pulled a second glass from somewhere.  He allowed Cirdan to pour a clear, sweet-smelling liquid into it.  They both relaxed back, and Cirdan picked up the metal goblet.  The conversation lasted deep into the night.

When Cirdan walked out of the caverns the next morning he was met by a cloaked figure hiding in the shadows of the woods.  “I take it you were unsuccessful then.”

“He certainly inherited a large portion of the family stubbornness.”

“I thought you’d be done hours ago.”

“He also inherited a large portion of the family stamina.  He lasted a lot longer than I thought.”  Cirdan pulled out the Emeralds of Girion and the star brooch.  “I’ll need to find containers for these.  He’ll want them safe.”  The cloaked figure said nothing but suddenly a small wooden box appeared and was opened.  Cirdan deposited the necklace and brooch, then produced the rest of Thranduil’s jewelry.  After closing the box, he handed it back to his companion, who promptly made it disappear again.

“Let us go meet our next straggler.”

Notes:

1. For Thranduil’s appearance, check out this artwork: https://candra.deviantart.com/art/Hello-Bowman-598679162

2. Yes, Cirdan totally poisoned Thranduil with the fantasy equivalent of antifreeze.  That should give you a good idea of how the rest of these are going to be like.

3. Who is Cirdan’s companion?  You’ll find out later.

[queenofthyme]

Harry Potter can’t sleep (and neither can Draco Malfoy)

prompt: pillow covers (thanks @miniemcgee) <5k

Fuck this, Harry thinks, listening to the rustle of Malfoy’s sheets as the insufferable git rolls over for what has to be the fifth time in as many minutes. And fuck McGonagall for assigning Draco Malfoy, of all people, to be his roommate. No wait, Harry immediately takes this back. Even in his internal monologue he isn’t comfortable disrespecting McGonagall.

Still Malfoy is a nightmare to dorm with. Merlin, Harry would much rather be having a nightmare – at least then he’d actually be sleeping! Malfoy tosses and turns all night. He gets up and visits the bathroom two-three times every night. What, does he have a bladder the size of a peanut? It’s ridiculous.

All Harry wants is to sleep. All Malfoy seems to do every night is make as much noise as possible. Harry mentions it to Ron once at breakfast. Even though all the eight years have been given new shared “houseless” dorms, thankfully they’re still allowed to sit at their house tables. Harry is incredibly grateful for this. It’s bad enough staying awake all night listening to Malfoy, he’d hate to have to put up with him in the daylight as well.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Ron asks.

“He makes noises, Ron, in his bed. All night!” Harry explains, desperate for someone to understand his frustration. It’s constant, night after night. Rustle rustle rustle.

Ron looks at Harry like he’s lost his mind, a faint blush on his cheeks. Harry doesn’t bring it up again.

Draco is tired. So very tired. He can’t remember ever not feeling tired. It’s been so long since he’s been able to really sleep. At least two years, maybe more. Probably more. He thought things would change after the Battle of Hogwarts. That Voldemort’s death would give him peace. But it hasn’t. Nothing seems to. He doubts anything ever will.

Every night it’s the same. He lies in bed desperately willing himself to sleep, for his body to give in and relax. But the relaxation never comes. Sure he gets bits of rest here and there but it’s always fleeting, never enough. The morning takes a lifetime to arrive and yet, somehow, it’s always too soon.

Tonight he studies late in the library. He pushes himself to remain for as long as possible. What’s the point in going to bed anyway? Finally the exhaustion becomes too much for him and he heads back to the dorm, all the while knowing the exhaustion isn’t enough to grant him sleep. It never is.

His dorm is dark. Potter must already be in bed. He is surprised by how early all the eighth years go to bed. In Slytherin lights out was always well after midnight. Unfortunately, not many others from Slytherin have returned to Hogwarts to back him up on this. So everyone seems to retire by 10pm every night.

He stumbles around the dark room, trying to be quiet, his arm reaching out in front of him searching for his bed pole to grasp, while his eyes adjust. There. Using the bed post as a guide, he lets himself fall into bed.

Ah. His body crumples inwards, pleased. It takes all Draco’s determination to keep his body upright throughout the day when all he wants to do is collapse. His body craves for sleep all day and then when he finally gets to bed, nothing. Yet another restless night.

Except today something feels different. His pillow is softer somehow, his blanket warmer. There’s something else too.  A strong, commanding scent he’s never noticed before. He breathes in deeply and lets it wash over him. Grapefruit. Honey. Ginger. It’s comforting. And familiar. He takes another breath. And another. His eyes close.

Harry’s eyes open. He’s not in his bed. He jolts up and looks around wildly, taking in his surroundings. He relaxes. He’s on a couch in the eighth year common room. He must’ve accidentally fallen asleep here. No surprise since Malfoy has completely destroyed his sleeping patterns.

He casts a quick tempus charm. 4am. Still time to head up to bed and get a couple of hours of real sleep before class at least. If Malfoy doesn’t keep him up, that is. He readjusts his skewed glasses and takes the stairs up to his dormitory. He pauses at the doorway to give his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. While he waits, he listens. It’s quiet. Eerily so. Immediately Harry is on edge. Where is the rustle of Malfoy’s sheets? The padding of his feet across the room? The running water from the bathroom? The drawn out sighs?

Harry steps into the room gently, trying to make as little noise as possible. He, unlike, Malfoy, is careful not to wake others from their peaceful sleep. As he approaches his bed, his eyes dart over to Malfoy’s curious to see what he is doing if not making a ruckus. Malfoy’s bed is empty. Harry’s first thought is one of concern: Where is Malfoy? Is he okay? His second thought, which he is ashamed to say causes him to completely forget his first, is Finally. A quiet night!

Harry excitedly changes into his pajamas, eager to slide into bed and drift off immediately for once. He’s just about to jump into bed when he notices it. A body. On his bed. What the fuck? He blinks and takes a closer look. Merlin’s beard. It’s Malfoy. Malfoy is in his bed. And what’s more, he’s sleeping. Malfoy is sleeping. Not tossing and turning, not sighing, not playing the bongos, he’s actually sleeping!

Both shocked and tired, for a moment Harry isn’t able to think what to do. He just stands there staring down at his Malfoy covered bed. Why is Malfoy in his bed? Did he miss something? Is it a prank? He looks around, waiting for someone to jump out, but no one does. The room is still. Malfoy has once again ruined Harry’s night, this time by doing the exact opposite of his usual routine: sleeping.

Well, Harry’s not just going to stand here all night. He wants to sleep. And quite frankly, Malfoy can fuck right off.

“Malfoy.”

“Malfoy.”

“Malfoy.”

Draco is unwillingly pulled into consciousness by an insistent prodding in his left arm. He lifts his eyelids lazily, letting the world slowly come into focus. It’s dark. Very dark. Why is he waking?

“Ouch.” Oh yeah, that’s why. “What are you doing?” Draco mumbles as another jab is directed at his arm.

“Fuck off, Malfoy.”

“What?” Draco blinks rapidly, his eyes still unfocused. He recognises the voice though. “Potter?” Why is Potter waking him?

“Get up.” Orders Potter’s cruel voice.

Draco rolls over, burying his head in the pillow. “Don’t want to.”

“Fucking hell, Malfoy.”

The covers are ripped from Draco’s body exposing him to the chilly air. He whips his head back to face Potter, unfortunately now instantly awake. “What do you think you are doing?” He demands.

“Get out of my bed.”

“Your bed?” Draco looks at Potter. Then looks around. He looks at the four poster bed in the corner of the room by the window. His bed. Ah. He looks back to Potter. Shit. Draco’s up in a flash, scrambling over to his corner and hiding himself under the covers, hoping this is all a bad dream. How mortifying to be caught sleeping in Harry Potter’s bed! He’ll never been able to show his face again. He’ll have to – wait. He was caught sleeping in Harry Potter’s bed. Sleeping.

And that’s when Draco realises it. He’s just had the deepest sleep he’s had in a long time, and he’s had it in Harry Potter’s bed. Harry Potter’s soft, warm, wonderful smelling bed. Fuck. Fuck.

Rustle. Rustle. Sigh. Rustle. Harry’s dreams of a Malfoy-less sleep have been spat on, wadded up and thrown into the trash. Now, not only is Malfoy making unnecessary noise in his own bed, but he’s also left traces of himself in Harry’s bed. Spearmint. Ink. Soap. It’s not half bad of course. It might even be pleasant if Harry didn’t know it was Malfoy’s scent. All over his pillow. How is Harry supposed to sleep now?

Better question: why was Malfoy sleeping in Harry’s bed in the first place? From Malfoy’s reaction to Harry awaking him, he had clearly found himself in Harry’s bed accidentally. No mystery there. But why, no how, was Malfoy sleeping? He had been so still, so peaceful, so deeply asleep. For Malfoy, it was unheard of. Why couldn’t he sleep like that in his own bed? It would make Harry’s nights so much easier.

Harry rolls over into his pillow, which has the unfortunate consequence of heightening Malfoy’s scent. Harry resigns himself to the fact that he can’t escape it. Spearmint. Ink. Soap. He’s actually starting to like it. Merlin, he could fall asleep to this. Rustle. Or not.

Draco is out of his bed at sunrise. He hasn’t slept a wink since returning to his own bed, but he still feels more rested than he can ever remember. It’s terrifying. Potter’s bed did that. Draco walks the quiet castle corridors, pacing. How could sleep allude him for so long and then present itself in the most unlikeliest of places? The bed of his arch…no, of his ex-arch-enemy. Because they’re not enemies anymore. How can they be? Potter saved Draco’s life. The war’s over and they’re finally both on the same side. Now, they’re simply nothing to each other.

And to be caught by Potter? It’s absolutely humiliating. He’ll never be able to face him again. He certainly won’t be going near Potter’s bed again. And yet, if Potter’s bed is the key to sleep…no. Draco can’t think like that. It has got to be a coincidence. There’s nothing special about Potter’s bed, and certainly nothing special about Potter. Draco’s just getting better, that’s all. His insomnia is finally weaning, and Draco can start to reclaim his life.

Another restless night in his own bed says otherwise. He’s going to have to take matters into his own hands.

Malfoy has been avoiding Harry since the incident two nights ago, which suits Harry quite nicely actually. He may be enjoying the scent Malfoy left behind, which still lingers faintly, but it doesn’t mean he has lost any of his animosity to the dickhead. He only wishes that Malfoy could find somewhere to go to avoid him at night as well, because Harry is about to lose it.

Last night, Malfoy was in and out of bed six times, six! Harry knows because he was awoken every single time by the creak of Malfoy’s bed, by the unmuffled footsteps, by the light peeking under the bathroom door. He put up with it like every night before it, holding his jaw tight and his knuckles clenched, but there’s only so much he can take. Only so many disruptive nights before he snaps.

Tonight, he enters the dormitory early, hoping to get some sleep before Malfoy turns in. Malfoy’s always late to get in bed. It’s Harry’s only opportunity. Except, that would be too good to be true, because Malfoy’s already at his own bed, fiddling with his pillow. He looks up sharply as Harry enters, his face reddening, his expression startled. Harry stares at him a moment longer, trying to ascertain the reason for Malfoy’s odd behaviour. When nothing obvious is forthcoming, Harry drops eye contact and sighs. So much for getting in some sleep.

Harry heads to his bed anyway. He’s tired. Perhaps by some miracle Malfoy will go away and leave him alone. He sinks into his bed and lets the softness embrace him. He breathes in without thinking, eagerly anticipating the scent he’s gotten accustomed to over the last two nights. Spearmint. It’s strong tonight. Ink. Much stronger. Soap. It’s all encompassing. Before Harry can question it, he’s fast asleep.

Grapefruit. Draco sleeps the whole night through. Honey. He doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t toss. He doesn’t sigh. Ginger. He simply sleeps. It’s wonderful.

Harry awakes, instantly suspicious. At first he’s not sure why, only that there is something very wrong. He looks around warily and reaches his conclusion. Malfoy is sleeping soundly in his own bed. Soundly. And Harry can’t recall being awoken from Malfoy’s usual late night habits. Has Malfoy finally learned how to sleep? It’s a miracle. And Harry feels amazing. He has had his first uninterrupted sleep this year. He could certainly get used to this.

He does. A week of amazing nights of sleep pass and Harry feels great. Malfoy’s scent remains, as strong as ever, as if clinging onto his pillow, and Harry doesn’t particularly mind, not that he’d ever admit it.

He hasn’t bothered to work out what is going on with Malfoy. If the git is getting more sleep, then it must be a good thing. There’s no point dwelling on it. Harry had spent his whole sixth year fixated on the guy, he has no interest in doing so again.

But it turns out he has no choice in the matter. Because tonight he walks into the eighth year dormitory to find Malfoy, back to the door, hovering over his bed, Harry’s bed.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Malfoy pivots around to face him and that’s when Harry notices his pillow being held in Malfoy’s hands. Malfoy follows Harry’s eyes and then quickly throws the pillow back on Harry’s bed as if stung. “N-n-nothing.”

“What are you doing with my pillow?”

Malfoy looks around wildly, as if searching for an answer, and Harry can tell he’s not going to get the truth that easily. What is Malfoy up to?

“Don’t lie to me,” Harry says before Malfoy has a chance to make up something ridiculous and entirely untrue.

Suddenly Harry realises it probably doesn’t make sense that his bed still smells like Malfoy after more than a week has passed since he slept in it. Has Malfoy been hexing Harry’s pillow to smell like himself? No, that doesn’t make sense. Maybe that’s just a side effect of a more malicious hex being cast. Yes, that sounds more like Malfoy.

Harry pulls out his wand and approaches Malfoy slowly. “Have you been hexing my pillow?”

“What?” Malfoy replies immediately, his shock clear on his face. Okay, maybe Harry had been a bit off base then. “Of course not, Potter. I’m not a child.” He adds snottily, seeming to regain some of the Malfoy attitude, Harry has come to expect this…well in previous years. He can’t actually recall talking to Malfoy at all this year if he’s honest.

“Then what were you doing with my pillow?” Harry asks, his wand still raised, albeit his grip a bit lighter.

Malfoy shuffles backwards slightly. His eyes dart to Harry’s bed and then to his own before meeting Harry’s gaze again. His posture straightens and his lips curl into a smirk. “I was only checking to see if the pillows on your bed were softer than mine, is all. You may have noticed the blatant favouritism towards Gryffindor students at Hogwarts. I’m merely ensuring everyone is treated equally.”

“And are they?” Harry asks to Malfoy’s already retreating back.

“Are they what?” says Malfoy as he slides into his own bed.

“Softer.”

“Oh.” Harry watches Malfoy’s profile carefully as the latter digests this. Harry already knows he’s lying before the answer comes: “Yes.”

Harry isn’t certain he’s going to get any more out of Malfoy so he drops it. He inspects his pillow thoroughly, not finding anything untoward, before settling into his own bed. As soon as he rests his head, he knows that something is not quite right. He rolls over into the pillow. Grapefruit. Ink. Ginger. Malfoy’s scent has faded. He shouldn’t be disappointed but he is.

It’s not long before he hears the first rustle.

Spearmint. Honey. Soap. It’s there but it’s not enough. If only Potter had entered a minute later. Draco would have been able to swap Potter’s pillow cover for his, like he’s been doing every night before bed this week. He knows it’s strange, oh he knows. But he’s been rewarded with real sleep every night, just from the comfort Potter’s scent provides. He’s not going to complain about that, however strange. He’s just going to accept it and use it to his advantage as much as possible. Or at least he was, until Potter walked in and ruined his plans.

Tonight looks like a revert back to the restless nights of old. It’s worse now, knowing what a good night’s sleep actually feels like. He had forgotten that feeling but now it’s fresh once more. He turns. He sighs. He turns again. He signs again. He buries his head in the pillow, inhaling deeply, searching for that scent. Grapefruit. Yes. Honey. Yes. Soap. Damn. There’s too much of his own scent muffling it. He’ll never fall asleep like this. He flops onto his back. He sighs.

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy. Shut up.”

“I. Can’t. Sleep.” Replies Draco through gritted teeth. Does Potter thinks he wants to be laying here wide awake? It’s not as if he has a choice in the matter.

“You were fine last night. Just close your eyes and stop moving.” Returns Potter’s voice. Oh, like it’s that simple. Like Draco hasn’t already tried closing his fucking eyes. Draco sighs angrily. Potter will never understand.

“And stop sighing!” Potter adds.

That does it. Draco is out of bed and standing over Potter in seconds. “You’re a wizard. Just cast a fucking silencing charm if it bothers you so much.“

Potter has the gall to look surprised, like this has really never occurred to him. What an idiot. “I never thought of that,” he says more to himself than Draco. His hand fumbles around on his bedside table and Draco worries he’s about to be confronted with the great Harry Potter’s wand, but he’s just grabbing his glasses.

Once Potter has his glasses properly on and adjusted – Draco wants him to clearly see how Draco is looking down at him – Draco continues. “I’m sure there are several things you haven’t thought about.”

Potter rolls his eyes. Draco blanches at the nerve of it. “Like what, Malfoy.”

“Like what it must be like for me! Do you think I’m staying up all night on purpose? Do you think I’m sighing for your benefit? Do you think I like lying wide awake even when I’m so tired I can hardly stand it? If the only thing that helps me sleep is the motherfucking scent of ginger, then I think the least you can do is spare a single fucking pillow cover for the night.”

“Ginger?” Potter echoes, his face revealing his confusion, which Draco supposes is fair. He probably doesn’t know his own scent. “A pillow cover?” Ah yes, and Potter hadn’t know about that bit. Shit. “What the hell, Malfoy?” Potter lifts himself out of bed and stands to face Draco now. He looks mad. Shit shit shit. “Have you been stealing my pillow covers?” The anger in Potter’s voice is only diluted by his confusion. He really has no idea.

“I’ve been swapping them, you idiot.” Draco explains because what else can he do? He has basically outed himself as a Harry Potter pillow cover sniffer. Merlin. He’s going to need a support group for this.

Poor Potter doesn’t know what to do with this information. He blinks back at Draco. “Why?”

Draco sighs (and enjoys the way Potter grimaces at this). “That night last week when I fell asleep in your bed…it was the first time I’ve actually properly slept in years.”

“And you think it was because of my pillow cover?”

Is Potter really this dim? “It’s not the pillow cover, it’s you, you fool.”

“Me?”

Draco pauses, wondering how he should phrase this. “It smells like you.” Yeah, nice one. That sounded way less sappy in Draco’s head.

“Oh.” Draco watches as Potter digests this. He seems to understand much quicker than Draco had expected. He relaxes, which seems an odd thing to do when someone has confessed to sniffing their pillow covers, but then again Potter probably thought Draco was up to something much more sinister than just sniffing.  “Why didn’t you just swap our pillows?” Potter asks.

“My pillow is a custom peacock feather.” As if he’s going to let Potter’s big head defile that.

“Of course it is.” Potter turns back to his bed, and Draco wonders if he has been rudely dismissed. But instead Potter turns around a moment later. “Here.�� He says, holding out his arm.

Draco looks down to the pillow cover hanging limply from Potter’s hand. “What are you doing?”

“You know what.” Potter says, and then with a small smirk: “As you said, it’s the least I can do.”

Draco’s lips twitch. He wants to jump and shout. He’s so relieved he’s going to be able to sleep. Instead he draws himself up in a dignified fashion. “Yes, it is actually.”  

He retrieves his own pillow cover and trades with Potter, the swap seeming more criminal now that Potter is participating willingly. Which doesn’t make sense in the slightest. He avoids all eye contact during the trade and scrambles into his bed as fast as he can.

Draco’s head sinks down onto his freshly covered pillow.  Grapefruit. Yes. Honey. Yes! Ginger. YES! “Thank you,” Draco whispers.

Harry is obliged to help out a fellow student, even if it is Malfoy. It’s in his nature. So unfortunately, in return he’ll have to put up with Malfoy’s scent in his bed a little while longer. That’s okay. He doesn’t mind. Spearmint. Ink. Soap. He doesn’t mind at all.

Draco and Potter have an arrangement. Each night before bed, without speaking, they trade pillow covers, redress their pillows and get into their respective beds. They both sleep well for a time. Until one night, almost a month later, it’s not enough anymore.

Draco wakes up with a scream. Automatically he brings his hand to his mouth hoping to muffle the sound, but it’s too late.

“Malfoy?” Comes Potter’s voice through the darkness, groggy but alarmed.

Draco wipes his forehead. When did he get so sweaty? “It’s fine, Potter. Go back to sleep.”

“What’s wrong?” Potter asks instantly. Well Draco could hardly expect him to give up so easily. Potter’s always a curious bastard.

He considers telling Potter about his dream, but then he’ll have to explain much more than he’s ready to, seeing as the scariest part of the dream is that most of it actually happened. But that was another time. Another Draco, under Voldemort’s control. So: “Nothing.”

There is no reply to this. Draco knows he hasn’t fooled Potter. Of course he hasn’t. But the silence stretches. He rolls over and tries to fall back into sleep, inhaling his pillow gently. He can already tell it’s not going to work. He rolls back the other way. He wants to sigh but he doesn’t want Potter to know he’s still awake.

Although he clearly isn’t fooling anyone because a second later Potter whispers his name. “Malfoy.”

“Potter.” Draco whispers back, his voice louder than he intends.

“You’re not sleeping.”

“Yes, I picked up on that, thank you.” Draco responds sarcastically. And immediately regrets it. He’s irritated that he’s once again unable to sleep but it’s not Potter’s fault. Saint Potter has done nothing but help him. He really should be nicer to him.

“I thought we fixed that.”

Draco sighs openly. “Me too.”

“Did you want to swap a-“

“No. It’s fine.” I can still smell you.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Potter asks. Draco isn’t surprised. Potter isn’t as stupid as he looks. And he doesn’t look very stupid, now that Draco thinks about it. Merlin, Potter looks anything but stupid.

Draco’s already resigned himself to the fact that there is no point lying to Harry Potter. He’s awfully perceptive nowadays. He makes Potter wait a pause for his answer nonetheless. Then, “Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Draco’s instincts are to scoff at the question. It makes Potter sound like a bad therapist. Then again, he appreciates the concern. It’s not like there’s anyone else at Hogwarts eager to be his friend or help him. “No.” He answers truthfully, although he suspects his answer will change in time.

There is a pause filled with the sounds of Potter shuffling in bed. Sounds like he’s really squirming in there. Draco is just about to ask if there’s something wrong when Potter speaks again. “Did you want to…” He starts, trailing off.

“Yes?”

“Sorry,” Potter says, “I was just thinking, I mean, it would make sense…” And then he trails off again. Merlin this is frustrating.

“Yes?” Draco prompts (for a second time). Spit it out is what he wants to shout.

“You could try sleeping in my bed?” Potter finally whispers.

“What?” Surely Draco is hearing this incorrectly. Potter wants to sleep with him? In the same bed? No, it can’t be.

“It’s just that it’s the place where you first slept soundly,” Potter continues, his voice wavering, “so it might be better than just a pillow cover.”

Better than a pillow cover. That’s one way to describe it. Draco considers the offer seriously. He supposes he would feel much safer with Harry Potter beside him. It’d almost be like a fuck you to the Voldemort of his dreams. “Do you think there’s enough space for both of us?”

A silence follows this. Draco can’t understand why Potter isn’t answering. It was a simple enough question so why is – oh fuck. Fuck. No. Realization dawns much too late. “You meant we swap beds, didn’t you?” Draco asks quietly.

“Yes.” Potter confirms and Draco wants to disappear. But then Potter continues and Draco finds something to cling onto: “But I guess there is plenty of space, and it might be better…as in…my…the scent that you like would be stronger.”

“Yes, it does sound…logical.” Draco is sure they both know it doesn’t. But if Potter’s happy to pretend, then so is he.

“And that way we both might get to sleep together….I mean sleep. Together. Not sleep together.”

“Yes, there’s no point in us both being awake.” Agrees Draco, knowing that in no way have they rationally concluded that sleeping in the same bed is simply a solution to the problem at hand. They’re grasping and they both know it.

“Exactly.”

“Good.”

Now that it’s decided, Draco hesitates to leave his bed. It’s one thing to talk about it, it’s another thing entirely to join Harry Potter in bed.

“Er…so are you coming?” Potter whispers across to him. The voice is as uncertain as Draco feels and it’s the exact prompt he needs to get himself moving. He pulls himself up and slowly walks over to Potter’s bed, all the while his anticipation builds.

Potter has already shifted as far to the side as humanly possible, giving Draco a wide berth in which to slide into the bed. He does so, careful to take up as little space as possible, Potter shifts at Draco’s presence and they end up both side by side on their backs, their hips pressed up against each other. Holy fuck, what are they doing?  

They both lay there for a time, blinking up at the ceiling. Draco swears his heartbeat is like a bass pounding throughout the room. Although he’s certainly thrilled to be in the same bed as Harry Potter, the position isn’t exactly comfortable. Potter’s hip digging into his was exhilarating at first, but now rather awkward. And he certainly isn’t going to fall asleep like this.

Potter’s voice breaks the silence. “Is this…working for you?”

“Er…” Draco wonders how to put this. “What about if I…” He starts to roll over to face Potter at the same time Potter rolls to face him. Their foreheads almost meet in the centre of Potter’s pillow (which, although softer than Draco’s, is clearly inferior in quality).

Potter’s breath is warm on Draco’s face. He can feel it on his lips. It tingles. His eyes fall down to Potter’s lips. Harry Potter’s lips. He’s in Harry Potter’s bed. Merlin help him. He breathes in. Grapefruit. Oh. It’s intoxicating.

“Is this bett – “ Potter starts to ask before Draco cuts him off to bring their lips together. And Merlin, Harry Potter tastes exactly as he smells, or maybe better. It’s not a cure for insomnia or nightmares that’s for sure, but it’s something. Something separate. Something distinct. Something Draco suspects is going to be brilliant.

“This is much better.” He whispers as they pull apart, unable to hide a wide smile. And Potter is smiling right back at him. Harry Potter has never smiled back at him. He breathes in. Honey. Yes. This is incredible. He should’ve kissed the bastard years ago.

Draco shuffles downwards slightly and nestles his head on Potter’s chest in a way he certainly didn’t have the courage to do minutes ago. Potter’s arm comes to rest around him, holding him close. He breathes in. Ginger. Ah. Harry Potter is much better than just a pillow cover. He’ll never be able to sleep anyway else again. Harry Potter has ruined him.

Harry pulls Malfoy into him in complete disbelief. Draco Malfoy is in his arms. Annoying, insufferable, sweet smelling Malfoy is in Harry Potter’s arms, in Harry Potter’s bed. Harry knew it was odd that he was so drawn to Malfoy’s scent, but he never expected, well, that’s not to say he never considered it, but he never thought, in reality, it would end up this way. Although he can’t say he’s not pleased it has.

Resting his head on Malfoy’s, Harry breathes in the scent that has pervaded his dreams for the last month. Spearmint. Ink. Soap. He could get used to this. In fact, he already is.

Thanks again to @miniemcgee​ for this super cute prompt. Please follow her (and don’t forget me! -  @queenofthyme​) on tumblr. Read on ao3 or see here for more of my writing.

[storiesbehindthefog]

“I want to try to get out of my animal mind state and get back into my person mind state.” Fred

I was born in Kansas City, Wyandotte County. My parents divorced when I was 4 or 5 years old, so my mom brought my sister and me to California to end the relationship with my dad. But it was very difficult.

Sometimes my mom had to disappear for a couple of days to do whatever she needed to do, to make rent and to bring food into the house so I became introverted and was into books. Books, comic books became important in the fantasy projection of my life, my world making. I learned a lot of the phrases I use by reading books. I actually learned to read the King James Version of the Bible.

“Books, comic books became important in the fantasy projection of my life, my world making.”

I’m schizoaffective, a mix between schizophrenia (thought disorder) and bipolar (mood disorder). It first came when I was 17 years old, so I didn’t get graduated from Skyline College, which I was going to at that time, so after 3 months in the psych ward at the SF General hospital they signed me up to finish my high school diploma at City College in San Francisco. I’ve had a year of learning massage therapy and pregnancy massage, and a bakery cafe program. I’ve worked as a massage therapist and as a baker. I can do bear claws from butter block. Landscaping was another joy.

“I’m schizoaffective, a mix between schizophrenia (thought disorder) and bipolar (mood disorder). It first came when I was 17 years old.”

It was when I had my first psychiatric break at the age of 17. I would always wonder what my mom would be doing for 2 or 3 days away, and so when I found to get a chance to spend the time away from the house, I started doing that, taking a backpack with some stuff and disappeared for a couple of days. Sometimes I slept outside and at friend’s house. I had somewhere to go, somewhere to live.

Being houseless is sometimes by choice, but this time I feel like I was forced into it. Even my living situation was like a preparation for being houseless. When I left from my SRO (Single Room Occupancy), I felt like my neighbors had access to there and knew what I was doing at all the times. It was just very uncomfortable and it was just like being homeless. I didn’t fight when they decided to kick me out, but I was like “It’s about time. I should move on the situation.” So I dropped everything else and it kept me from trusting.

“Being houseless is sometimes by choice, but this time I feel like I was forced into it.”

You don’t make your own choices when you are on the street. The environment, people or the sunlight moves you like you sit in a wrong place. Someone with the little jacket on comes in and tells you that you can’t sit there because I don’t have a foothold in this society.

I’ve gone to sleep with nothing more than a little bag with toiletries in it and had someone steal that from me. So I feel preyed upon all the time, and it hasn’t made me identify myself, but it’s starting to urge me and agitate me and like I want to hunt back. You know what I mean?

I want to try to get out of my animal mind state and get back into my person mind state but it’s very difficult when the rest of the society at large looks down at you for not being able to have the choices that they have. I want to follow through on my decisions with my energy instead of being moved from place to place with someone else’s decisions. My home is my interior, it’s who I am.

“My home is my interior, it’s who I am.”

I take street drugs because they change my head space instantly. If I can do pharmaceuticals where I want to, please assign me these drugs. But I can’t do that because it takes 6 months to get on the places and get my therapist. It’s a long term process. I compensate whatever is available to me. Nicotine is the most functional and immediately changing blood chemistry. I like Marijuana and alcohol, though. If I had someone that I can trust to tell what’s going on with me, I wouldn’t take so many street drugs.

“I take street drugs because they change my head space instantly. It takes 6 months to get my therapist and pharmaceuticals.”

I want to move forward. The best thing I can think of is to go to the Department of Vocational Rehabilitation and do all the testing that they would require me to do and get my psychiatrist in order. I just need to let them know that I’m ready to start doing Vocational Rehabilitation or school. If I get in Voc Rehab to pay for classes at Creative Growth of Art Center, that will be awesome. That’s what I want to do. I want to take everything that I’ve done and that happen to me and turn it to my advantage to step out of the bubble when I feel like coming down on me.

The values I’ve learned through this raw experience are “patience” and “the fact that someone cares.” One day, a lady brought over food to me saying “Are you hungry?” Someone will extend themselves or overextend themselves to see about you. It crashes my heart when someone cares, listens and pays attention to us, because we don’t get paid attention to a lot. I’ve spoken to people and they ignore me like I don’t have the right to communicate with another person. That’s hurtful. I don’t feel confident talking to people that I want to talk to and my dental has messed up.

“It crashes my heart when someone cares, listens and pays attention to us, because we don’t get paid attention to a lot.”

Sometimes I don’t have the glasses that they give you here at Lava Mae, so one day by the time the morning came I couldn’t see. And that just changed my whole day because I couldn’t identify people that were coming toward me closely. I like to see what’s going on around me and just the simplest thing can change your presentation, your position and just permission to do things.

What Lava Mae does is the very best thing you can do for the homeless population in SF. Their comfortable bathroom and warm shower make me feel so good.

“I’m recently starting feeling emotionally about people again.”

I’m excited that someone that I don’t know myself completely yet will read my story. When I have a good day, I feel like I progress over my previous day. It just feels good. I’m recently starting feeling emotionally about people again. I shut down my emotional system and now it’s coming back! I can feel it again. Yeah! That’s awesome to me, like I can feel again.

Shared weekly on Medium, and soon to be published in a book, ‘Stories Behind The Fog’ is a compendium of 100 stories of people affected by homelessness in San Francisco. The project was triggered by one man’s story that will be released next year in the form of a feature-length documentary:www.moses.movie

The story has been written by Keisuke Kubota and photographed by Hashem Ainousa in collaboration with our partner organization Lava Mae.

[lingokeerindal]

thoughts and prayers=bullsh*t. #johnbrownwhiteppl #accomplicesnotallies & #reparationsnow.

i've learned a LOT from being in solidarity with houseless folx over the years and the street kids who threw down @ Standing Rock taught me a lot about skills, resources, and lifehacks for living on the streets (I am  not literally sleeping in the streets, thankfully, but could've been last night if my friend hadn't answered the phone when I was locked out). I am privileged enough that right now I don't 'need' to do sex work to survive but it's something a lot of us do to exist within crapitalism & because other ways in which people sell their bodies/labor are socially acceptable, and because housed people [including myself when I was living in a house!] are uncomfortable with facing their homefulness privilege, there's a lot of weird vibes from ppl who are well-intentioned like being houseless is the worst thing one could ever possibly experience (not true). even if I was having sex for money or shelter, it wouldn't be the worst thing because I'd be working and possibly even sleeping somewhere emotionally/chemically safer than the places I've been sleeping.

tldr--don't shame houseless folx or sex workers. my mental illnesses have been SO much worse just because I'm currently very broke and keep getting nonconsensually fragranced. I will be okay and also if my circumstances were slightly different I'd be dead. my privilege saved my life [white ppl and, to a lesser extent, us light skinned POC have bulletproof skin, like @harikondabolu tweeted recently]. if you're gonna talk shit about hoboes or whores you're talking shit about me and my friends. #solidarity or gtfo out of our lives. no saviors, no pity, no white/cis/abled/neurotypical tears. just be in solidarity with us. show up. offer an accessible crash space and know what access really looks like for us disabled queer and trans folks of color.