#i am like a twitchy dog. you would not believe how twitchy i was setting up the payment processors Alone on big cartel

[pizzazz-party]

words cannot describe how much i do not want to deal with etsy. their fees are terrible. their customer service is terrible. but unlike big cartel, they can deal with the paperwork that concerns VAT sales. because calculating the tax isn’t really an issue for me, and i already have the correct HS tariff code. it’s just the act of sending the tax through the proper channels that’s a headache.

last year, during the ring pin preorders, i DID actually try to get my shop registered with the UK government. i got as far as “would you like to pay quarterly or annual payments to the royal crown” and “what is your social security number” before tossing in the towel. i’m not sure what i expected. but when the VAT requires everyone outside the UK to register—there is no prerequisite nexus, it doesn’t matter if you sell one thing for a dollar so long as you are a seller stationed outside the European Union, you need to be registered yesterday—I hoped there might be some friendlier option for small time sellers.

so. etsy. but etsy also wants my social security number. which they shouldn’t need for tax paperwork unless i hit the federal yearly threshold of 200 transactions (or $20,000 in sales, US law states whichever comes first).

which is neat to know for fun fact reasons, but this is small hobby-passion project. etsy doesn’t need my deets like that.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 102

Okay, trying to queue this again after it apparently got eaten along with chapter 101.

Y’all pray for me to whatever higher powers you believe in or can make up on the spot. Thanks.

Thanks for this chapter goes to the fabulous anon who sent me an ask about Jedis. I really, really hope you are seeing this chapter and I hope you like it. I also want to thank @baelpenrose​ as my resident Star Wars expert, who checked, double checked, and triple checked my writing to make sure everything was as entertaining/accurate as possible.

Before you all cringe at some comments Sophia makes, she is deliberately downplaying her knowledge of Star Wars in an attempt to see if she can give some of the other characters a twitchy eye.

After an extraordinarily bizarre situation regarding my former foe and who I assumed was his partner, I was profoundly relieved to find myself in a very boring, very normal situation a couple of weeks later. Even the regular family dinner was pretty normal: grilled cheese on a very good sourdough, with a tomato soup so garlicky that even I had no objections to it. I made a point to puree it, so Derek was very happy with the texture and I was happy with the flavor. Arthur shot me odd looks once in a while, but it was a happy, calm dinner.

And things were going… so well… I thought as Maverick dragged everyone into his quiet argument with Sam.

“Sam,” He stated emphatically as he dunked his sandwich and ripped a tomato-soaked piece from it. “We all want it to be real but… humans don’t exist outside of Earth and the Ark.”

“Yoda is not human,” Sam insisted loudly, grinning the entire time.

I choked on my soup. “Yoda? You two have been arguing Star Wars this whole time?”

“Maverick insists they are not real,” Sam enunciated carefully. When he got excited about a topic he loved, he had a tendency to rush everything and drop syllables, making his words nearly impossible to understand.

“They meaning Jedi?” Arthur asked, eyeballing the pile of sandwiches on the table. Finally he snagged his third half-sandwich and dunked it without ceremony. “As much as I wish they were real, I have my doubts.”

So did I. “Human beings who can use telepathy, telekinesis, and distance-empathy?” I scrunched my nose. “I think that’s a bit far-fetched.”

“But extraterrestrials exist,” Sam pointed out.

Conor nodded. “They do, obviously. Otherwise, Noah would be a bloody big figment of our imagination.” Shaking his head, he smiled. “If we didn’t make Santa real as children, I doubt we could make up someone like Noah, right?”

Sam only got more serious. “I was always taught that aliens don’t exist. My teachers told me that the only life off of Earth were bacteria. But, even if Else is bacteria, Noah isn’t. So, maybe other things we thought were pretend are real.”

The table was silent for a moment, shattered only by Derek dusting bread crumbs from his hands as ceremoniously and loudly as humanly possible. “Sam has a point,” he signed. “Fabricators exist, aliens exist.. Hell, telepathy exists - “

“Not telepathy,” Miys interjected from above.

“Neuro-pheremonal communication exists,” Derek finger-spelled, making a point of how cumbersome the term was in a way none of the rest of us really could. Seven minutes later, he took a slurp of soup and continued. “Unicorns exist, even if they are chubby. Why not Jedi?”

I opened my mouth to refute, then realized I couldn’t: we had the genetic code for both narwhals and rhinoceros in the gene bank. Good effing luck convincing anyone unicorns don’t exist, I guess. Instead, I grasped on my one last leg of logic. “But humans, like Luke Starkiller and Obi-whatsit Kenoshi don’t actually exist.”

Maverick looked absolutely revolted by something, which confused me. He liked tomato soup, and actually chose the cheese for the sandwiches himself. “Sophia. Have you even seen those movies?” He was absolutely aghast as he posed his question, and I suddenly understood what he was revolted by.

“Of course I did,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “In college, in Intro to Adolescent Literature.”

Soup abruptly coated everything on the table as both Arthur and Conor spat violently at my clarification. Arthur scrubbed his chin the fastest, so had the honor of levelling his incredulity at me. “Sophia Reid. Do you mean to tell me that you have only seen Star Wars ONE TIME?”

I shook my head, confused. “No. I’ve seen all three.”

“ELEVEN,” Sam corrected me loudly. “There are eleven movies.”

“Please, please tell me you at least saw Rogue One,” Maverick begged. “You may not have known it was a Star Wars movie?”

“Is that the one where the robot hits the guy and says he has another fresh one?” I asked carefully.

Maverick nodded. Arthur, however, looked like he was about to start breathing fire. “I am going to force you to consume every bit of Star Wars media worth consuming if I have to get Charly and Derek to program the audio versions to play in every room you enter.”

“I can do that,” Derek signed, unhelpfully.

Arthur just nodded. “See? I can make this happen. Your quarters will feel like Hoth, all digital communications will sound like C-3PO, and many Bothans will die before your datapad functions.”

Alarmingly, Miys interjected. “Wisdom, Bothans are an endangered species. Please do not encourage Educator Farro to commit atrocities.”

I was still gasping in confusion when Arthur recovered from his choking. “Oh shit. Bothans are real? They were a very back-stabby race of dog-type people who fought against fascists in Terran media. I thought, at least. I wouldn’t actually kill a real one… I am far more high functioning of a sociopath than that, thank you.”

“Noah,” I choked out. “Are you serious? Are Bothans real?”

“Affirmative,” they responded, setting off an entirely new round of choking and sputtering. I would need to have something done about my floors if this kept up. “And while they do resemble Terran canines on a very superficial level, they are genetically more closely related to a Terran fern.”

Arthur looked like his heart had been ripped out of his chest. “That is the least back-stabbing and least threatening plant I can possibly think of.”

Conor, not to be outdone, was still curious. “Boston or Fiddlehead?”

“Asparagus fern, Human Conor,” was the reply that set off a thousand coughs.

Sam recovered first. “That does not mean Jedi don’t exist,” he insisted.

“Of course Jedi exist,” Miys answered in a tone that was as close to being confused as I had ever heard.

Almost immediately, Arthur, Maverick, and Sam started cheering and high-fiving. Conor looked confused, while I spat my soup out again.

“WHAT?” I choked out between attempts at keeping tomatoes and garlic out of my lungs.

“They are as real as any member of any other Terran religion.”

Silence ruled the room for a split second, broken first by Arthur throwing his fork in the air behind him.  Like a signal, it led to Sam and Maverick dropping their head to their forearms with a groan.

I managed to recover enough to slide my food away, lest I risk death over an absurd conversation. “Are there anything like Jedi in the known galaxy?” I asked, receiving a thumbs up from Arthur, who was still trying not to choke on his soup.

“Only in small measures.”

That seemed like the magic phrase to snap Arthur out of whatever coughing fit he was having. “Are there any species in the galaxy that have Jedi abilities?”

“You will need to be more specific.”

Conor, laughter out of his system, joined gamely. “Is there anything that can move physical objects without touching them directly?” he started.

“Several species can,” Miys conceded. “Those who only experience what you consider ‘sight’ as changes in air currents can, in fifty-four percent of cases so far, also change the air currents in a sufficient way as to move physical objects.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “They can stare at something hard enough to move it?”

“Wisdom, if I experienced physical pain, I am certain that your oversimplification just now would have caused such a sensation.”

Without rebutting, I waved for Miys to continue and ignored the laughter caused by the comment.

“Similarly, there are species more limited than Hujylsogox, who can perceive the physical world strictly through sound,” they continued. “In such cases, it is not uncommon for these species to also alter their surroundings by vibrating physical objects at a frequency that causes them to move within physical space.” A brief pause before, “And no, Wisdom, that does not mean they scream at objects until such objects move. I would also like to point out, Educator Farro, that the same species can cause internal organs to vibrate as a sufficient frequency as to cut off air flow.”

“Force choke is real,” Arthur whisper-shouted, mildly horrified. Clearing his throat, he spoke more clearly for his next question. “What about ‘there is a disturbance in the Force, as if many voices cried out’ etc?”

Miys buzzed thoughtfully for a moment before replying more clearly. “There are number of species who are able to perceive and interpret with great accuracy any changes in interstellar radiation, no matter how small. Should, say, a star go nova or collapse into a black hole, they are very reliable in providing information to cartographers. Should such a species state with certainty that a planet ceased to exist, I would need to see the planet from orbit in order to disbelieve them.”

Maverick let loose a low whistle, but it was Sam who spoke next. “But what about living beings, on an individual level. I know you can do that, but can any other species?”

“It is, perhaps, the most common trait in the known galaxy,” Miys admitted. “Even humans can do this, to a degree, although you tend to ignore it against all logic.”

“Okay. What about force lightning, though?”

I actually started to respond to that, having an answer finally, but Miys beat me to the draw. “Species who communicate through electrical currents are more numerous in the galaxy than those who can see. In the same way, they need to be able to manipulate such currents. Their young are frequently sequestered on their home worlds in order to prevent electrocution of species whose neural organs can be disrupted by uncontrolled communication. The same species are capable of using those same currents to increase their own synaptic response and reflexes.”

I almost wanted to laugh at Maverick’s face. He looked frustrated and ashamed in a way that I could not figure out. Maybe because these abilities existed, but not in humans? Regardless, his tone was frustrated when he asked his next question. “What about force ghosts? Please tell me those are real?”

“Very much so,” Miys confirmed. “Though likely not in the way you think. What you consider ‘Force Ghosts’ are, in the galaxy as it is, the result of technological advancement combined with spiritual beliefs.” A few groans surrounded the table, but Maverick perked up slightly. “Many species believe, as a result of their evolution, that their predecessors’ life energy persists after death. In these cultures, it is so common as to be unremarkable for a person to have a synaptic recording chip installed shortly after birth, to record their entire lives. They, then, pass their chip on to their successor in  position.” Wait a minute… I thought, but Miys continued before I could put everything together. “In such circumstances, many species’s neural organs will manifest a… personality, separate from the original, in order to preserve mental stability. Such manifestations are very similar to what Terran media considers a ‘Force ghost’.”

“Hang on,” I ventured, holding my hand up emphatically to cut off any other questions from the table. “That. Stop there.” Taking a deep breath, I thought back through everything I had read in the past. “I thought the idea of deliberately having multiple, distinct identities was… a story, honestly.”

“Even in your own past, it was discovered that the human brain can host two distinct personalities with no difficulty, Wisdom,” Miys admonished. “These species, however, are uniquely adapted so that, along with the memory implant, they suffer no actual combination or confusion of experiences. What their ancestor experienced is their ancestor’s memory, and what the person experiences is the person's memory. A person cannot overwrite an ancestral core. Only speak to it.”

“Can humans do that?” Sam asked, dazed in wonder at this new revelation.

“Not yet,” Miys responded. “But I do insist on the word ‘yet’, as you were never meant to do many of the things you do now.”

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[whumpthisway]

Huck and Stephen - Acceptance

This is a series - link to 01. Masterpost here <3 (which needs updating sorry. if you can’t find anything, send me an ask and i’ll link you)

A/N: This one is set directly after Unwanted, with Huck being discovered down in the basement by the police. Please check the tags and do ask me for specific tags, further details, or warnings if you need them or I miss something. If you have opinions, questions or thoughts, feel free to send me an ask :3

Huck and Stephen’s story can now be read on my AO3 here, and this new chapter is here.

Content warnings: abuse, panic attacks, needles, fear of death/believing they’re about to be killed, hospital setting, doctors being assholes

Huck/Pet POV

*

They must’ve fallen back into unconsciousness after they’d been found by the police, as the next thing they knew was that the floor was rumbling under them.

Whining quietly even before their eyes were open, Pet winced and blinked, briefly blinded by the daylight, and looked around in confusion. They were in a car, another car; lying with their cheek resting against warm leather. Waking up sharpened the pain of their injuries to an unbearable degree, the motion of the car quickly making them feel sick, and Pet started to cry in silent, tearless sobs that shook their shoulders painfully.

Where were they being taken? There was nothing good about car rides, and Pet was damaged beyond repair, now. No-one would want them. Not even Kiaran had thought them to be worth anything, since he hadn’t bothered to come back for them.

A gentle hand smoothed over their ears, startling them from their thoughts, and Pet twisted painfully around to find a woman sat beside them in the back of the car. At least this time they weren’t jammed into the footwell, and the woman’s touch was kind as she carefully untangled their matted fur with her fingers. Her other hand was settled on her stomach.

“Easy there, little one,” she soothed. “Not far now.”

Pet whined quietly. Not far to where? Maybe they were returning Pet to Master. That would… be okay. Far better than they deserved. Pet sighed, resting their head on their paws as they tried to ignore the pain emanating across their chest, and the agonising throb of their tail. They couldn’t imagine how furious Master was going to be at the state of them.

Time passed fuzzily and Pet lay curled up on the back seat, fighting the nausea in their belly. The woman gently gave them a little more water before she took it away again. The water sat uneasily inside them and Pet tried to remember what it felt like to be uninjured and comfortably full.

Pet stirred when the car pulled to a stop and flinched when the car door nearest to them clunked open, letting in a rush of cooler air and light. The woman climbed out of her side of the car and the thud of the door shutting made Pet cringe.

“It’s alright now, we’re going to get you some help,” the woman said, standing at the open door nearest to Pet, and Pet blinked blearily up at her.

The woman turned away, towards the man who’d been driving the car. “Can you carry them okay?” she said quietly to him. “Or I can get a wheelchair?”

“I got it, Mariann.”

Pet drew in a horrified breath when a man, bigger and even meaner-looking than Harrison, leaned suddenly over them. They cried out, just once, as they tried to scramble further inside the car and almost falling into the footwell in their panic.

“Hey, woah, easy.” The man patted the air as if that was any reassurance at all.

Pet’s frantic movement and fast, terrified breathing sent spikes of pain through their ribs and they went limp with a wheezing whimper, shaking. Just no more, that’s all they wanted, no more pain, no more humans, no more fear. They’d never been so overwhelmed, so overstimulated, whilst at the same time so apathetic and so exhausted.

“I’m not going to hurt you buddy.” The man cocked his head and tried to smile. “Just going to take you somewhere warmer, and safe.”

Pet, their ears pressed flat to their head, pressed their head into the crook of their arm and went still. What was the point of resisting anyway? Pet would just be grabbed eventually and being a brat about it, as Master used to snap at them, only ever made the humans angrier.

After a moment of Pet staying small and limp in the back of the car, the man cautiously ducked inside and gently gathered them up. He wasn’t rough or cruel about it but the feeling of hands on them, in their fur, jarring their agonising rib injuries, their tail, their pounding head, made Pet cry harder, though they tried not to. Crying made creatures weak, disgusting and unlikeable, and Pet was already all of those things, without weeping everywhere.

The feeling of being lifted up into the air only made their nausea worse too and they had to drag in snatches of air through clenched teeth as they tried not to retch. Pet didn’t want to think about what this man would do if they threw up all over him.

“Now don’t claw me, alright?” the man said. “I’m only trying to help.”

Pet kept their eyes tightly shut both against the blinding sun and in fear of the man carrying them. They carefully curled their claws tightly up against their furred chest, because they didn’t trust themself not to scrabble for the man carrying them if he dropped them, even as they shuddered at the thought of what this man would do if they tore his clothes with their claws, or worse, cut him.

They could hear the woman, Mariann, following alongside with little clicks of her shoes, keeping up with the man’s long stride.

The went into a building and a bright white space where the air smelled badly of sweat and pain and chemicals. It was full of humans, many of them with creatures at their feet and Pet couldn’t help but stare; they’d never seen so many creatures in one place, nor so close by. There were several smaller ones who looked like them, with dark fur and cupped, wolf-like ears, as well as ones so big they came up to their owner’s hip even when they were sat down. There was a creamy-white one, several greys, multiple shades of brown, one pure black and one an almost pinkish-red, with different types of fur and tails and ears. Pet hadn’t known creatures like them could look so varied.

But the more Pet looked, the more they realised that the other creatures all looked injured and sick, exhausted and defeated, and none of them were looking around. Many were on leashes or harnesses and some wore bulky collars that Pet recognised with a feeling of dread. Master Parry had threatened to get them one of those; one that’d shock them whenever they were bad. One pet had a muzzle strapped to their face, like a dog. What was this place? Were these people taking Pet to be put down? Because they were a lost cause that no-one wanted?

“No need for that,” the man said, his voice rumbling in his chest against Pet’s shoulder when Pet’s breathing hitched and new tears came, though the scruff at their neck was already damp with it. “You’re safe now.”

Pet assumed the man’s words meant that he was getting tired of their crying and tried to stop. They were too tired and dehydrated to cry for long anyway and the man’s warmth, however threatening he was, was making them drowsy.

After a short wait, Pet was carried further into the white building, the corridors panelled and identical and the whole place feeling cold and hard.

Inside a large room with two lines of beds packed close together, many of them occupied, Pet was laid down on an empty bed near a window. They whimpered softly in pain as the unforgiving mattress pressed against their ribs and their tail was jolted. But the man stepped away, to talk to Mariann, and Pet was relieved by that.

The humans talked somewhere off to the right and Pet, curling up, drifted in and out. It ought to have been too bright and frightening to sleep but they felt like sand was weighing down on them. Sliding into unconscious took less effort than trying to stay awake.

*

 Pain met Pet first when they awoke, and then a strange man in white leaned over them and Pet yelped. They tried to scramble away, but their shoulder thudded into the bed’s metal railing and sent a wave of pain across their chest and sides and back. They curled into themself, gasping.

“Calm down, now,” the strange man sounded displeased and stern and he reminded Pet of Master Parry. “Is it usually so twitchy?”

“They’re a rescue,” a familiar woman’s voice said firmly and Pet’s ear pricked up. “After what they’ve been through, it’s a wonder they’re as functional as they are.” The woman, Mariann, stepped closer in her little shoes and Pet didn’t find themself to be too afraid of her. She’d done nothing to hurt them, and had only gently petted them in the car. She looked down on them with a soft look and Pet blinked and quickly lowered their gaze. “They’ve been very strong and good,” she said, clearly more directed at Pet than the frosty man in white. Pet couldn’t help but feel warm at her gentle praise, though they could hardly agree with her.

She looked nothing like Alyse; Alyse had been almost as tall as Master Parry with blonde hair down to her ribs, where Mariann was petite and her stomach noticeably curved outwards; pregnant, Pet thought, recognising it from women they’d seen on TV. The two women didn’t look alike, and yet they’d both been kind to a filthy, broken creature when they didn’t have to be. Pet felt a rush of relief that she was here beside them and hadn’t left them alone.

“Be that as it may,” the man said sharply, “if I am to examine it, it’ll have to be drugged or restrained.”

Pet whined and curled their arms around their head, their paws pressed into the fur by their flattened ears. The humans kept talking around them, Mariann sounding angry, but it was muffled and Pet didn’t want to know what they were planning to do to them. They couldn’t stop it, so there was no point in knowing.

A cool hand took their wrist after some time and Pet flinched away, but didn’t try to get themself free. A sharp pinpoint of pain at the crook of their elbow followed and Pet’s eyes flew open as they dropped their paw from where it was covering their face. What had the humans done? Looking quickly down, Pet saw a different woman pulling her hand from their arm, an emptied needle in her hand, and Pet stared in horror.

Once, Harrison had gleefully told them that when his father bored of Pet, Pet would be killed with a jab of a needle. He’d mimed convulsing on the floor, screeching in pretend pain, while Pet had stared, shaken and horrified. Harrison had sat up and grinned, taking great pleasure in poking them with pencils at random intervals for weeks after, just to see them startle, and then pretended to inject them, making them feel sick every time. That’d been years ago but Pet had never forgotten.

Whining softly, Pet started shaking and even Mariann’s expression of concern and kind words weren’t enough the stop their panic when they began to feel drowsy. There wasn’t the pain Pet had expected but they weren’t ready to die, they didn’t want it- But, exhausted as they already were, there was no use fighting it and, as always, the humans got what they wanted.

 *

“They’re not ready to be discharged!” The words were hissed, sharp and angry but trying to be quiet. Still, Pet’s heart up-ticked and they tensed. “Look at them, they’ve been beaten to hell and back and they’ve been here less than six hours-”

“We don’t have space,” a male voice cut in, unemotional and hard. Pet couldn’t tell if it was the same man from before or not. “Its healing well. Pet healing is on average 6% faster than-”

“Bullshit.” It was Mariann, Pet realised after a moment. Her voice sounded different when she was so obviously furious and Pet had to force themself to keep still. Mariann and the man weren’t talking to them, probably thought Pet was still asleep. “They need this bed, and they-”

“No. It doesn’t.” The man sighed. “Listen. You’re clearly new so I’ll explain this once. I discharge this creature and I know it’ll go with you, to a shelter or to be fostered. It won’t end up on the street.” He paused, lowering his voice. “That one there? Brought in by the owner for two broken legs. He then broke the creature’s nose in front of me, when it didn’t lower its eyes fast enough. Do you understand? Creatures like that need beds here far more than your creature does. I have to prioritise.”

Mariann was silent for a long moment. “What time? When do they have to leave by?”

“This afternoon. Before three o’clock, the earlier the better.”

“What pain meds will they get? Follow up treatment?”

“None. Didn’t they explain this to you?” He sounded irritated and impatient. “This is emergency treatment only. The government pays, but only barely. They look after creatures that’ll die otherwise to stop bad PR, but that’s it. I’m sorry, but after this, if it needs more care, your charity will pay for private care or you’ll use a first aid kit.”

The man’s footsteps receded down the hall and Pet lay still, pretending to be asleep while their mind churned. Mariann was part of a charity? A charity that’d look after Pet?

“You heard that?”

Mariann’s voice startled them; they hadn’t even heard her approach, and they inhaled sharply in shock, before descending into a coughing fit. Their throat was achingly dry.

Pet was gently coaxed, half-lifted, up to seated and a cup pressed to their lips. The water was heavenly. When it was finished, Mariann pulled over a chair and Pet sat and stared blankly at the blanket covering their legs.

The pain was there but it felt distant, their mind a little floaty, and they struggled to accept that they weren’t dead. The injection hadn’t killed them at all. Another thing Harrison had lied about to scare them, Pet supposed tiredly.

“How long’ve you been awake, sweetie?” Mariann rested a hand on the swell of her stomach and considered them.

Pet ducked their head in shame. Mariann had helped them and Pet had already been bad, even though they’d barely been awake ten minutes. They’d eavesdropped, and deceived-

Mariann set a hand on top of their paw and Pet twitched. “I don’t mind, okay?” she said. “How’re you feeling? Can you speak for me?”

Pet quickly shook their head. Talking brought nothing but more trouble and more pain.

“Alright, that’s fine, you don’t have to.” She patted their paw before taking away her hand. Pet missed the warmth of it. “What’s going to happen is you resting up for a little bit longer. In a few hours, we’ll move you out of here and take you to a creature shelter, somewhere safe and not too far away. What’ll happen then depends on how you’re feeling, so we’ll take it as we go. Sound good?”

Not knowing what else to do, Pet nodded. It was clearly the right thing to do because Mariann gave them the kind of warm, soft smile that made Pet’s heart thud and tears well up involuntarily. Being looked at like that was something they wanted so much that it hurt, but which terrified them just as much.

“Okay,” Mariann said, seeming to come to a decision. “I’ll leave you to get some more sleep. I’ll be back in a little while.” She looked at them seriously. “You’ve got nothing to worry about now. Nothing bad will happen, I promise.”

That was an impossible thing to promise, Pet thought, but they nodded silently all the same. Mariann was being kind, and maybe she even meant it.

She helped them drink some more water before helping them lie back down, propping up their pillows like their comfort really mattered. Pet was glad she left after that, because they didn’t want her to see them cry, rendered weak and pathetic over a tiny bit of kindness.

The room they were in was full of beds holding other injured creatures, who groaned or cried out at times. Humans in white or blue hurried around, sometimes wheeling a creature away or leaned over them and did things that Pet didn’t understand.

Pet didn’t sleep, but lay still and stared up at the ceiling, which was peeling at the corners. They thought about dying. About Mariann promising them safety and protection. About the men who’d stolen them, Ry who’d left them in the basement, and Alyse who’d cared for them. About Harrison’s cruelty and Master’s loathing.

And here was Pet, at the mercy of all of them. Hope felt like a dangerous thing and they ignored the feeling with as much determination as they put into ignoring the pain in their tail. Maybe Mariann would make sure they were taken care of, or maybe they’d fall into the hands of a human far worse than Master. Only time would tell.

~

i’ve written a bit more and we are so so close to Huck and Stephen being reunited, im excited <3 my inbox is always open for thoughts, requests, feedback and ideas!

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Tagging (tagging people I love u all): @smolnarwhal @free-2bmee @ffaerie-dustt @mortifiedwhump @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumpity–whump–whump @quirkykayleetam @oracle-of-maybe @whumpersworld  @quoththeraven-what @halibellecter @usernames-suck-but-i-like-whump @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @pennsss @whumpqhs @whumpzone @deluxewhump @haro-whumps @redstainedsocks @gimmethatsweetwhump @redstainedsocks @newbornwhumperfly <3

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[whitelotus-ffxiv]

lessons learned.

There are plenty of reasons to dislike Claudia fae Caelius. 

She’s loud, she’s rude, she gossips, she looks down on the servants within the palace and does little to hide it, she practically pimps out her middle daughter while ignoring the existence of her youngest...

But her most unforgivable sin is that she makes me feel bad for her eldest.

No wonder Laelia is a godsdamned control freak that needs to have her finger on the pulse of everything and everyone around her. It was probably the only way to survive her basket case of a mother.

I watch as this savage invader with her yellow hair walks the halls of the palace, clearly uncomfortable in the clothes that have been gifted to her to wear. I watch as she pinches the silks and satins between her fingers to judge their value, watch as her dark blue eyes narrow and assess the price, and I know what she thinks as she looks over the finery that exists within the Jade Palace.

How could Domans have so much wealth? How could any Domans exist that hadn’t had everything stolen? Didn’t her people take all of the palaces, all of the gold and the jade and the silks? She watches Jun, and she watches the Jade Lord, and I know. I know that she is confused that these royals still exist, that they weren’t exterminated or overpowered. 

I wonder just how much it would curl her hair to know what the Jade royals did at the behest of her people to maintain their power and wealth and autonomy. 

Just as the little one with the scar begged her mother to leave us be, I hear how the middle Caelius girl pleads with her own mother to not wander the halls too much. They’ve heard the stories from the servants, and I’m sure that they’ve heard the intermittent screaming throughout the nights - either from the dungeons filled with mad women longing for lost children or whatever poor bastard is enduring the Jade Lord and Jun. 

The girls are right. No one should be wandering these halls unattended. It’s not safe for those who aren’t careful, who don’t know what they’re doing.

It’s not safe, especially, for those with third eyes around servants and trained guards who feel twitchy at the sight of Garleans, who are triggered by the sound of their language or the way that they carry themselves. It’s not safe for loud-mouthed people who don’t know their place in this world anymore to try to carve out a new space for themselves and their kin.

It’s not safe for Caudia fae Benes to try to be gathering information about the martial status of the Jade Prince. It’s not safe for her to be trying to find out if I am a concubine, a wife, a mistress - but never have I heard that I might be a princess from the servants’ reports. That doesn’t cross Claudia fae Benes’ mind that I might be the next bitch in charge, lounging on a dais. It doesn’t cross her mind that I have much influence at all, that it was Jun who permits me the power that I have, or that I’m much more than a whore for the prince and a bodyguard for Princess Aoi. 

It’s not safe for a woman who practically spits at one of the younger servant girls for accidentally spilling a bit of tea on her shoes - shoes that she doesn’t actually own, but belong to the palace - and demand that the quaking girl speak Garlean, because she knows it, doesn’t she? 

And it’s especially not safe for a woman who wants to pimp her middle daughter, after ruining the first, and propose that my Jade Prince marry Julia Caelius so that her mother can try to regain some footing in a social hierarchy, to regain some wealth, and try to regain some influence.

The servants tell me that Claudia fae Caelius wants to be granted a private audience with the Jade Lord. They rushed to me as soon as they overheard it coming from the Garleans’ chambers, with the redheaded one arguing that it was an absolutely moronic idea, and didn’t Claudia know when to stop--...

I tell them to find Claudia fae Caelius and tell them that she’s been granted an audience - though not to specify with who, exactly - after ensuring that the Jade Lord would be busy for the day. I ensure that the only servants coming in or out are ones that I can trust, that Kai is in charge of the guards that attend to the throne room that I choose...

The water room. 

---------

The servants keep the lights low in the room, but the reflections from the water bounce off of the walls. There’s no tables, like there usually are when we come in here. The room is empty. It feels strange for me to sit upon a dais, but there needs to be some order regained. Things need setting straight. 

I know how angry I am, but... I also know that my song is still calm. Maybe it’s still taut and tight like leather rather than silk, but that’s alright. I’m still in control of myself and my emotions. This is something that I know I have the upperhand in it when it comes to the Caelius woman. This is something that Laelia and I had in common, I suppose - the ability to remain composed. 

Fingers drum slowly against the hilt of the katana I have drawn, watching the doorway as light reflects off of the steel. I sit like a man might, dressed in the same black uniform that I’d once worn to sneak into Jun’s quarters. I appear as no more than a shadow, my hair pulled into a ponytail, the veil across my lips still except for when I exhale once I hear approaching footsteps. 

“Don’t turn your back,” I hear a servant murmuring, and the reminder makes the corners of my lips twitch. One was never to turn their back on the Jade royals, but that isn’t why Claudia is receiving the same instructions I received on my first day. After all, she’s right. I’m no princess. Not really. This isn’t my throne room. This isn’t my palace. 

But you don’t turn your back on a dog ready to attack, either. 

My eyes are better adjusted to dark rooms than the average person’s, and so I see the Caelius woman very clearly as she walks slowly into the throne room. It’s odd, seeing her move with such care and reverence after watching her paw at vases and tapestries like she already owned them. The disrespect makes my mouth feel like it might fill with blood. When she looks at my prince, she sees status. She sees price tags. She sees power and opportunity. 

“Your Majesty,” the woman begins in broken Doman, lowering herself to her knees. Maybe the trousers I wear have thrown her off, or the way that I’m sitting, and maybe it’s hard to see just how much smaller my silhouette is than the Jade Lord’s in the darkness. “I thank you--...”

“Is that who you were told you’d be meeting with today?” I cut her off, my voice low, well-aware of how well the Garlean language falls off my lips and tongue. “Rise, woman. There is no one for you to bow to here.”

I can see the way that she bristles, and it makes me want to laugh. There’s hesitation before she sits back up, and then stumbles to her feet, the unfamiliar clothes hindering her ability to move with grace.

“I beg your... pardon, but I was told that I had been granted an audience--...”

“An audience.” I cut her off again. “You have. No one specified with whom exactly the audience would be with, did they?” 

I wait. I wait for her to answer and try to argue with me, eyebrows raised. But she doesn’t. She looks around the room, and I’m willing to bet she doesn’t think she looks nervous. She does, though. I can smell it on her. I can see it in the way she pivots her toes, in the direction her waist turns initially before she turns to look at me head-on through the dim room. 

“Did the Jade Lord sign off on this, young woman?” she sniffs, taking a step closer to the dais, and I lift a hand. She freezes in place, like she was expecting guards to melt out of the walls, and then I watch her glare up at me as I smile down at her. 

“No, but the Jade Prince did. He has power here, but you know that already, don’t you? The way you flinch - the way that you believe that I could easily have you handled by hands that aren’t my own - tells me that you know that I have whatever power I want in this place. So, pray tell, Lady Caelius...”

Slowly, I rise to my feet and make my way down the small set of stairs that take me off of the dais and onto the floor where she stands. To her credit - or her foolishness - the woman stays exactly where she is. She doesn’t budge this time. She doesn’t flinch, and I can’t tell if I admire it or find it annoying.

“Tell me why you’ve been feeling bold enough to walk around my prince’s palace, touching things as you please, talking to servants however you see fit, and acting as if you already own the place?” 

My voice doesn’t raise. It’s so very soft, in a way that I’ve learned from Jun’s siren song. It doesn’t have the same magical properties. It never could, but... If nothing else, it’s taught me a little bit about how to croon in a way that is both peaceful and unsettling all at once. And, as I speak, I walk until I stop just mere ilms from Claudia fae Caelius’ face, my eyes drilling into hers through the darkness as shards of light bounce across our faces. 

She sniffs. She stiffens. She has the audacity and lack of self preservation to narrow her eyes and lean her head back from me. She takes a step back, and I simply take a step forward, quietly reaching around to set my sword at her hamstrings - still sheathed - so that she knows she isn’t permitted to step away from me another fulm. 

“The Jade Lord will be displeased to receive a report about your behavior,” Claudia whispers, her voice practically trembling with indignation, and I can’t help but to smile.

“He would. I’m sure he would, if anyone in this room other than you would be willing to vouch for that story. But as the story stands... You’re resting in your quarters. Do you think it would be difficult to get your companions to agree to tell that lie? And if they disagreed... Well. Have you heard all of the singing in the palace, my lady? It’s very beautiful, isn’t it? It can set one so very much at ease, and yet...” 

Lightly, I tap the sword against the back of her legs.

“And yet, it makes your mind feel like it isn’t quite yours, right? The prince or the beautiful women that roam the halls could tell anyone anything and they would believe it. They have such a way about them. So... While my lady is correct in assuming that the Jade Lord wouldn’t approve of this, she is desperately incorrect about him receiving a report about it to begin with. You were a senator, weren’t you? And you still couldn’t politician your way into an actual meeting with him, and... for what? What were your intentions?”

I take a step back and move my sword from the back of her legs, and though she tries to hide it, I can see the way Claudia exhales - at least a little bit - in clear relief, as she lets go of a breath she wasn’t aware that she was holding.

“My intentions are not the concern of a bodyguard, Line Hwa. Let us cease this silly little meeting and allow us to both go back about our business.”

The corners of my lips twitch again at her tone and the butchering of my pseudonym. Slowly, I reach up and unclasp the mask hanging in front of my mouth so that she can see my face a bit more clearly. 

“You have been rude to the servants in the palace. You demand they speak a language that incites fear because you haven’t bothered to learn ours, despite you being permitted into this palace out of an act of kindness. It’s gotten back to me - as a bodyguard, in charge of many of the servants that graciously agreed to help you and the rest of your party - that you’ve even gone far enough to call a girl hardly more than a child a savage. So...”

The words make her shrink. All at once, I see the pride that Claudia fae Caelius was trying to cling onto start to fade, because no one was supposed to know about that slip of the tongue. Even her own party would rip her apart for such foul language, and she knows it. 

She is a proud, foolish woman, but I believe that she even knows that one wrong step would throw her into the wilds to fend for herself. 

“I would suggest you change your tune, quickly. I hear everything that happens in this palace, but even I know far less of how a person truly is compared to those who truly own this palace. They know you to your core, Claudia fae Caelius. They can see the rot that lives in you with far more ease than I can. Your song - your inner song, you understand? - has no beauty. It grates on them. You grate on everyone around you, even your own children...”

Clicking my tongue, I clasp my hands behind my back, and I circle her like a vulture about to descend on its prey. I watch her stiffen. I watch her hold her wrist with one hand, and then repeat the motion as she wrings her hands before forcing herself to stop. I come to a halt behind her, my voice still low, still almost a croon, but I can’t stop the bite that seeps into my tone.

“No wonder your eldest decided that she would rather die, in a burning Castrum, than ever see your face again, Claudia.” 

Claudia moves this time. Sure, it was a low blow. Of course it was. But it wasn’t really a lie, was it? It’s enough to make Claudia dare raise a hand to me as she swivels on a heel, her eyes burning like ceruleum, and I don’t even move to grab her wrist. I stay still. I wait, and I watch, eyebrows raised. 

“Keep pushing your middle girl and she might experience a similar fate. One child has already proved they’ll do anything to get away from your control and your incessant nagging. At least your husband isn’t here, but he only beat Laelia, didn’t he? Cassia wasn’t important enough to hit, and Julia is the only one that actually belongs to him. I can see you balling your hand into fist, so I’m right, aren’t I? Laelia was just another bastard?”

“Shut your mouth,” Claudia hisses, and I grin.

“Or what? You’ll call me a savage? You’ll strike me? You don’t have any power here, Claudia. You can hit me, and then you’ll lose your hands. I’ll feed them to the creatures in the lagoon and force you to watch,” I murmur, and she bristles again. So much bristling, so little action. 

“Tread lightly around the ponds. I think it bears reminding,” I continue, looking down and adjusting my gloves as she continues to glare, with her hand still raised in the air, before I glance back up at her face. “And do lower your arm. It would be a shame for everyone to see how you’ve stained those beautiful silks with your sweat from trembling like an angry little dog.” 

“You’re a sick little girl,” Claudia snarls. “Who do you think you are? You are a lowly guard that could easily be replaced. Just because the prince likes to call you to his quarters doesn’t mean you have the right to speak to me like this. I doubt the prince would approve of you calling away servants and guards just for this! Who is looking after the princess?” 

“I am well within my rights and the capacity of my authority. I promise you. And the safety of the princess is none of your concern. The biggest threat to her right now is that she might be wondering where her lunch is. Keep running your mouth and questioning me, and see how quickly I have your head covered in a bag and you left alone in the middle of the jungle, Caelius.”

Taking a step back, I step around the woman - who smells like sweat and anger and fear - and towards the exit of the throne room, my footsteps silent. But she isn’t silent. She isn’t still. She whips around, and she reaches for my arm, and I feel no remorse for the way I grab her wrist and throw her onto the floor. It’s simply a knee-jerk reaction, and I hear her gasp in absolute shock - and pain, because I’m sure that it didn’t tickle. I turn on my heel, staring down at her, as I pull my sword from its sheath. 

“Apologize,” she demands in a shaky voice, glaring up at me. “Apologize for threatening me! And then you put hands on me? How dare you!” 

Rolling my eyes, I crouch down, resting my arm on the pommel of my sword as I peer down at the woman’s face. Her makeup is creasing from sweat. I supposed the silks might be a bit stifling for her, that the weather in Doma might be a bit balmy compared to what she’s used to. 

“You put hands on me first,” I remind her softly. “I would be well within my rights to hurt you far worse than that. No one would mourn you. You know that, don’t you? Your daughters might feel a passing sadness, and then it would be relief... And I think that will be your punishment.” 

Clearing my throat, I smile before reaching out and grabbing Claudia’s face between my hands, despite the way that she tries to pull away - and the way that she fails to do so. 

"No one would mourn your death,” I whisper to her. “Not your daughters. Not your husband. And it’s more than likely that any friends you have now are dead, in the same gutters that people like you forced the Populares into. Now... A few parting reminders...”

I tighten my leather-clad grip on Claudia’s face as she sputters and tries to speak, her eyes wild and furious.

“You may continue to try to sell your daughter like a pig at the market to the Jade Prince, but he won’t bite. He won’t be interested. Insult one more servant and you will be removed from the palace - or, at best, put into solitary confinement until it’s time for you to leave. And... stay in your fucking quarters. This palace is not and will never belong to you. It is ancient. It is sacred. And it screams each time you touch it with your filthy, war-mongering feet. I only see one savage in this room, and I assure you that it is not me.”

“How dare you--” Claudia sputters again once I let go of her face and straighten back up. “The Jade Lord will hear of this! Mark my words! You terrible girl! Come back here, we are not--- gaaaaaaaaaah!”

“Close the doors,” I tell the guards flanking either side of them, even as they glance nervously into the throne room. “Allow her out in five minutes.”

“Why is she screaming?” one of them asks, and I shrug as I walk past. 

It definitely had nothing to do with yokai taking the shape of thirty snakes surrounding her and nipping at her skin. Certainly not.

Dumb bitch.

[another-chorus-girl]

Erik House - Chapter 24

"You're doing better everyday," Gerik said, hoisting Karimloo back up with an arm around him.

"I'm just sorry the wedding will be postponed yet again due to this liability of mine," The West End Merik grumbled.

The film adapted tenor chuckled, "That's alright, more time for us to...catch up."

As the men walked about the yard overlooking the pool, high above on the second floor a set of dark eyes watched the pair.

Panaro's teeth were clenched watching this insulting display unfold.

-Three days ago-

Having been thoroughly interrogated and settled down by Erik, Gerik was finally released from his enclosure.

"You will as I'm sure you're already aware and comprehend behave to put it bluntly" Erik pointed a skeletal finger to Gerik's well toned chest-the latter having discarded his overcoat down to his poet shirt complaining the chamber was too warm.

"And you," The black masked man pointed at Crawford "Will make sure your kin stay in check. If he complies with my request, I should expect no further quarrel under this roof or ON the roof. Am I clear gentlemen?"

Crawford nodded, "Oui"

"Yes," Gerik meekly nodded, refusing to look in the golden eyes directly.

Having felt defeated and alone at last, the film adapted tenor was startled to say the least by Karimloo's mistaken identity and affections toward him.

But this also led to a more dark convoluted thought; who was he to deny the West End Merik his happiness?

Of course he could tell this infuriated the gaggle of Meriks' to no end-Gerik getting special satisfaction seeing Panaro's coat tails in a twist. And the film adapted tenor savored the affection and compassion he was receiving from the West End Merik.

But he was doing no physical harm or unwanted advances toward him, so therefore Crawford along with the others were bound to their oath of keeping the peace.  

-Present-

Panaro sneered in disgust seeing Karimloo's hand interlink with Gerik's. Just the other day he walked in on the filmy making Karimloo pizza rolls. Pizza rolls that PANARO bought for Karimloo, he'd had to go all the way downtown to find the meat lovers brand his fiancee loved-and in the process loss a shoe to a rabid 'phan' whom saw him leaving the market.

He couldn't watch this display anymore, something had to be done. A turn of his heel and the Broadway man was storming down the hall banging loud and hard on one Merik's door.

--

All while this was going on another door was being called upon downstairs. Lerik stood and opened the door perplexed as to who would be knocking at this hour. When he opened the door the mute stared blankly at the masked man playing with his phone.

Unable to clear his throat, Lerik settled on tapping his foot in mild annoyance as the half masked stranger seemed oblivious that he stood there.

Slipping the device in his breastpocket the Merik blinked.

"Oh! I'm sorry about that, was just updating my story." He half chuckled nervously seeing no reaction from the man. "Um, am I in the right place Sir?"

Reaching out, the stranger himmed and hawed as Lerik grasped the man's hand pulling him through the threshold.

Walking in the parlor and seeing no one, Lerik motioned for the masked man to wait and headed to the kitchen.

Finding just who he was looking for Lerik silently waited with his hands clasped together. Crawford gasped, turning around from the pantry to see the mute standing there.

"Really Monsieur," The elder Merik sighed, picking up the box of biscuits he'd dropped in the initial alarm. "I'm understandable to the fact that you can't speak, however some form of making your presence known would be quite appreciation."

Lerik merely pointed a wagging finger toward the door, where a pair of eyes watched the two from the crack in the door.

"Yes?" Crawford called in confusion.

The stranger stepped in suavely but rather timidly.

"I hope I'm in the right house, I need refuge." He said, a briefcase in his hand.

"Ah! No need to feel fearful. You are quite welcome here! If you'll allow me to show you around?"

"Yes! Oh! One moment, I need to just grab my companion, he seems to be quite reluctant to come inside." The new Merik trotted back to the foyer.

"Two of them?" Crawford asked Lerik.

"Don't look at me, I only saw one at the door." The mute signed.

"It's quite safe! We're alright here," The Merik said to his unknown companion.

"You're sure? I'm sure I saw torches down the street! What if that mob followed us?" The deeper voice bickered back.

"Now now, don't be paranoid."

"Don't tell me how to feel Monsieur!"

Crawford scowled, the voice sounding too familiar.

"Y, what is the meaning of this? You better not be wasting my-" But wheeling the corner, his mismatch eyes originally burning with hatred faded to confusion.

The man sounded just like the Coney Island master, but was clearly not the same gentleman, dressed in their similar tailcoat opera suit and his half mask betterly matched their own.

The taller man-with equally bulgy eyes as Mr. Y-blinked in confusion, "Have we met? I apologize if we got off on the wrong foot somehow?"

The elder Merik shook his head, "Non, my sincere apologies. I mistaken you for someone else. Forgive me gentlemen let me introduce myself properly, Crawford."

The mismatch eyed Merik held his hand out for the taller man to shake, whom firmly grasped it.

"Lewis if you please," He greeted.

"Did you say Crawford?" The shorter Merik asked, "Me too!"

"I beg your pardon?" The older man asked, as the young Merik eagerly shook his hand.

"I wonder if that's why people have been abbreviating my name to 'Brawford' to avoid confusion?"

"CRAWFORD!!!" The new Meriks' flinched at the blood curdling screams from upstairs.

"What the devil was that?" Lewis asked perplexed.

The elder Merik tiredly rubbed his unmasked temple with a tired sigh. "Just another unparalleled delight of a day for me."

Jones came bounding down the stairs. "Uh you may want to go check on that my friend."

"Yes yes. Would you be so kind as to show the good messieurs Lewis and...?"

"Just Brawford is fine!" The young Merik waved.

"Yes...Jones if you would be so kind as to show them around a little more s'il vous plait?"

Jones nodded, "Think nothing of it, come along gentlemen I will lead."

--

"Crawford I DEMAND my staff back!" Panaro roared in rage, normally quite respectful and reserved toward the elder masked man. "I will not stand idly by and let my future husband be stolen away from me! Let me in! LET! ME! IN!!!"

"No one is going to open the door if the bedroom is empty Monsieur," Crawford said clearing his throat, making his presence known behind the Broadway Merik.

Panaro mid knock paused, turning to face the shorter mismatched eyed man. “Oh...”

"And you are NOT getting your staff back. I confiscated it for a reason which you've just proven to me by this was the smart decision."

"This isn't right or fair!" Panaro stomped like a naughty child.

"It is both right and certainly fair, no more bloodshed in this house. I'm sorry monsieur, I truly am. But that is my final word on the matter."

Removing his key, Crawford walked past Panaro and opened his door. Panaro shook his head distraught as the door closed on him. Something needed to be done. Something would be done.

This thought drummed through the Broadway Merik's distorted mind when he trudged up to the third floor with one last plan.

--

Gerik played wih Karimloo's twitchy fingers, having gone back upstairs to Karimloo and Panaro's room-however the latter was ostracized into living elsewhere whilst Karimloo had a death wish out for him.

"I love when you do that with your hands," He mumbled, caressing the well toned muscular digits.

"Hmm..."

Both men glanced up at the scratching and whining on the end of the door. Gerik scowled sitting up and walking to the door.

Soot panted and whined on the other side, seeming to look up at the film adapted tenor pleadingly.

"Shoo! Go on, he doesn't want you. Go!" Gerik motion trying to push the dog away, but Soot merely laid down and continued whining.

"Grrr," Frustrated Gerik slammed the door shut on the labradoodle, mumbling under his breath. "I don't know what that mutt's problem is. He's mine now."

"What was that?" Karimloo asked.

"Just that fop of a Merik's canine. Annoying beast."

"He was whining?"

Gerik scoffed, "Nevermind him, he's only-"

But the film adaption paused seeing a look of distress on Karimloo's face. Albeit sorrow.

"What's wrong?" He asked, sitting with Karimloo, rubbing the West End Merik's hand again.

"He was upset, he....he's just laying there. He must feel so....abandoned and alone..." Karimloo mumbled, his malformed lip quivering. "I...I just."

Where was all this coming from? Why was he so worked up over this? Gerik knew Karimloo liked animals but he wasn't overly attached to dogs. If anything Karimloo was quite taken with cats.

That was when the Merik started crying.

"K-KAri? What's the-" But Gerik felt himself be shoved as Karimloo backed up onto his bed.

"NO!"

"What??"

"D-Don't say that. Please don't call me that!"

"I don't understand."

"Something...the way you said it wasn't. It doesn't sound right." Removing his mask, he turned away shielding the sight of both his tears and disfigured face. "I just want to rest now..."

Nodding, Gerik patted the West End Merik's back. "Alright..."

Deciding to give him some privacy and quiet, Gerik left the masked man to his jumbled thoughts.

Leaning against the other side of the door, Gerik shook his head.

“What am I doing?” He sighed, “This isn’t right.”

Soot still laying on the ground on the opposite while whined staring up at Gerik. The film adaption covered his eyes holding back a choked sob. Sinking to the ground he reached out hesitantly and stroked the labradoodle’s back.

“Can you tell your master I’m sorry?” He asked the canine, as if expecting Soot to answer back. “Not that Peppermint face would believe me, but I am. And Karimloo....I promise. I promise I’ll try and fix him.”

Couple a footnotes among all the angst!

-For those who aren’t sure who the new arrivals are they would be the latest of fresh Meriks portrayed by Ben Crawford the current Broadway Phantom (No relation to Michael). And Ben Lewis whom until recent months was the current West End Phantom (also no relation to Norm).

-Crawford’s initial annoyance at Lewis voice is of course a joke playing on that Ben Lewis was both the Phantom in London AND Mr. Y of the Melbourne, Aussie version of Love Never Dies (the dvd version of LND). But don’t worry, we’ll get to some Mr. Y fun next chapter...

-Brawford playing with his phone is kind of a play on his behind the scenes self as Ben is VERY active on social media in particular Instagram and almost on a daily basis updates his account with new videos of Ben goofing around with his castmates in and out of costume (but the best ones in costume heheh)

-There’s kind of a joke in Crawford caught snacking on biscuits. It’s revealed in his autobiography that Michael’s actual last name by birth is Smith. Eventually for reasons during his youth-mainly family relevent-wanted to change his name and in a hilarious fashion settled on Crawford after passing a Crawford’s Biscuits truck. Must have been pretty good cookies.

-Gerik’s remark about Karimloo’s hands is partly a play on how in any role Ramin Karimloo has played (Phantom, Les Mis, Anastasia) he has a habit of twitching his fingers every so often. Whether this is some sort of habit or nervous impulse I’m not sure.

[whimsicalworldofme]

More NaNoWriMo

This one is 2592 words. I’m not posting all of the story, just snippets of consecutive chapters. Hope you enjoy!

_______________________________________

I woke up to the sound of a door shutting heavily and knew instantly that I’d fucked up. A warm body was pressed against mine and it was way too big to be my cat. Not only that but when I opened my eyes, I realized I was still in Michael’s room. In his bed. With his arm around me. I sat up and he groaned at being stirred.

           “What time is it?” I leaned over the edge of the bed for my purse, fishing out my phone to check the time. It was six-thirty in the morning. “Ah shit.”

           “Did we fall asleep?”

           Michael asked the obvious, still laying in bed as I popped out of it and hurried to put my shoes on. We’d been up talking last I’d remembered, and it was about four in the morning.

           “Yeah,” I plopped back down on the edge of the bed, pulling on my heels. “I have to get home. If I’m lucky my parents won’t be up for another hour and a half and they won’t have noticed I was out all night.”

           “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Michael frowned.

           “I know,” I smiled at him. “But they don’t believe anything I say. You know how they are.”

           “Are you going to be at the show tonight?”

           He sat up and scootched to sit on the edge of the bed beside me, ruffling his hair as he scratched at his scalp. I grinned, enjoying seeing his half-asleep face and his bedhead.

           “Yeah, I promised Hester I’d come with her tonight. Providing I get out of here right now and my parents don’t find out I spent the night and revoke my car privileges.” I got to my feet and slung my purse over my shoulder.

           “Call me if they do,” he insisted, getting to his feet. “I’ll find some way to come and get you. Either way, we should do something again after the show tonight.”

           “Ok,” I smiled. “Though I’m pretty sure if Ashley sees me again tonight, she’ll try to kill me. She’s not going to be happy.”

           “If she says anything hurtful to you or is dumb enough to lay a hand on you, she’ll answer to me.” There was a burning rage that I’d never seen before in those gentle blue eyes of his. “No one hurts my Evie.”

           I bit my tongue against the desire to bring up yet again that he really needed to break up with Ashley. He had said he would, and I trusted he would figure it out. That’s all I could do.

           “I’ll see you tonight,” I gave him a tight hug.

           Michael walked me out to my car and I gunned it home, glad for a complete lack of any other traffic, especially Amish buggies, which you could easily get trapped behind for miles. Despite our family dog Brunhilde barking her fool head off when I unlocked the door, my parents remained asleep, prompting me to send up a silent prayer of thanks to any and every god who was looking out for me. Worn out but giddy with the thoughts of my conversation with Michael the night before, I changed into my pajamas, climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep.

           “When did you get in last night?” My mom asked when I finally staggered into the kitchen after sleeping well past noon.

           “I don’t remember,” I lied.

           Going to the cabinets I pulled down a bowl and a box of Cheerios. I poured myself a bowl, added a splash of milk, and took my usual place at the kitchen table. If my mother found out that I’d spent the entire night at Michael’s she’d probably permanently revoke my car privileges.

           “Well we went to sleep at two AM and you weren’t home yet,” my mother said in an accusatory tone that made me cringe.

           “Michael and I got to talking and we stayed up too late. I just lost track of time is all.”

           “Are you going to see him again tonight?” My mother sipped on her tea and sat down next to me.

           “I promised Hester I’d go with her to see Dracula tonight and Michael wants to hang out with me after, if that’s ok with you?”

           I didn’t really think I needed her permission to hang out with Michael but I did need it to use her car, so I toed the line.

           “You’re an adult, you can do whatever you want,” my mother insisted. “Just be careful and don’t do anything you’ll regret. Some mistakes last eighteen years to life.”

           “Got it,” I winced.

           I hadn’t told my mother about my asexuality and the fact that even when I was with Michael, all I wanted was to just be with him, nothing more. She wouldn’t believe me if I tried. She’d think I was broken. Or lying to cover my tracks. I didn’t really want to have that discussion with her regardless of which path she took.

           When I showed up at Hester’s house she insisted on doing my hair and makeup, something I never did. She was one of the few people in whom I’d confided my true feelings for Michael and she like to encourage me, usually like the little devil on my shoulder if we were in a cartoon. Apparently, makeup and nice hair were essential to the evening. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what Michael and I had discussed the night before.  It seemed something I should keep to myself, a little precious thing for just me and Michael to share. I did however, tell her about Ashley and her antics.

           “What. A. Bitch.” Hester huffed. “Let me know if you need me to rough her up a little tonight,” she added.

           “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I laughed as we got out of the car and headed into the theatre. “Thanks for the offer though.”

           Hester linked her arm in mine and simply smirked as we walked in and took our seats. It was the last night of the show’s run but Michael still gave it his all and anyone watching could see how much he loved being on stage. After the final curtain call, when the red velvet curtain came down, and the house lights went up, Hester and I took out time getting out front to mingle. This time wasn’t as special since I didn’t have the excitement of my surprise fueling me. Hester and I chatted and mingled. I talked with Cory and Natalie who had gotten outside ahead of the cast.

           “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Hester mumbled, her gaze shifting behind me, the direction from which all the actors would be coming.

           I turned around and saw Ashley clinging to Michael’s arm, her grip like a vice, a gloating smile plastered on her face as she paraded him around like a prize, going to talk to all her friends and family. I could tell Michael’s smile was forced, his posture rigid.

           “She must be punishing him for last night,” Cory speculated, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. “Poor bastard.”

           Every so often, Ashley would look my way to make sure I saw them, and once she was sure I had, she smirked and put her nose in the air with triumph. Had she known what Michael had confessed to me the night before, she wouldn’t be so haughty now. And had she known that we’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms, she’d probably try to kill us both. But I was determined to be the bigger person, despite the evil bitch in me screaming to grab her by the fake blonde hair and rip her right off his arm. Michael and I were long term. She wouldn’t matter much in a year’s time.

           After they’d made the rounds to everyone except me, I noticed them arguing. Michael pulled his arm carefully out of Ashley’s grasp and left her pouting where she stood. I smiled for him, trying to pretend that I hadn’t just witnessed that.

           “So I’ve got to help tear down the set,” Michael told me. I noticed Ashley inching closer behind him but not wanting to get anywhere near me. “Can you stick around? And then we’ll do something, I promise.”

           “Hester can you stick around?” I asked since I’d been the one to drive her there.

           “I don’t have a curfew,” she shrugged. “I’ll help tear down.”

           I turned back to Michael, studying his face for some clue to his mental state. Ashley had clearly been unkind to him and I really didn’t want to make it worse.

           “Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to stay?” I threw a glance in Ashley’s direction and Michael took my meaning. “I can just meet you at your place in a little while. It’s fine.”

           “No, I want you to stay,” Michael insisted. “Please stay.”

           “She’s not happy. And I don’t want her taking it out on you.”

           I really wanted to hug him, wanted to put a hand on his arm, hold his hand. Anything. But I couldn’t there. Not with Ashley lurking right behind us.  

           “I will deal with Ashley,” he said, his face going stern then softening again. “Please stay?”

           “All right,” I gave in with some reluctance still. “But can we get something to eat after? I’m starving?”

           “We can do whatever you want,” Michael lit up with a genuine smile, the first I’d seen from him that evening. “I have to change out of my costume. I’ll meet you inside?”

           “Yeah, I’ll see you in there,” I nodded and watched forlornly as he went back around to the stage door.

           “That can’t feel good,” Hester pulled me into a side hug.

           “It’s complicated,” I sighed. “I feel like I’ve been thrown into some kind of melodramatic, nineties era, afterschool special.”

           We made our way back into the theatre, away from prying eyes and ears. All the other audience members had headed for their cars and the cast had all ducked back into the dressing rooms to change out of costume and get ready for set demolition.

           “You love him, don’t you?” Hester prodded.

           “Yeah,” I couldn’t help but smile when I said it.

           “Then it’s not that complicated,” she grinned. “And he clearly loves you. So don’t get too twitchy about bitch-face.”

           “Don’t call her names,” I shook my head. “It’s not her fault she’s a teenager dating someone who doesn’t actually like her.”

           “No, but it’s her fault how she reacts,” Hester pointed out.

           “Fair enough,” I didn’t have an argument so I let it go.

           We got onto the stage and not many people were out of the dressing rooms yet. I had a feeling they were all hanging and inventorying their costumes and straightening up the dressing rooms before coming to tackle the set. Stage hands were pulling dressing items from their spots and setting them off to the sides while runners took them back up to the props room.

           “Natalie how can we help?” I asked the stage manager as Hester and I walked up the stage steps. “Put us to work.”

           “You can sweep,” she suggested. “Brooms are against the wall over there,” she pointed on the opposite side of the stage.

           “On it,” Hester broke away from me to fetch the brooms, bringing one back for each of us.

           We swept and swept. A thick layer of dust and detritus had accumulated. Some of it from every day factors, other parts from the powdered dye the used in the actors hair and beards and the mild pyrotechnics from the show. One by one the other actors came out to help with tear down but Michael and Ashley weren’t among them.

           I hope she’s not giving him hell back there.

           A bout of sudden dizziness hit me and I wobbled so badly I had to put out an arm to steady myself. I knew instantly that my blood sugar had dropped too low since it was around ten at night and I hadn’t eaten anything since my bowl of cereal at noon.

           “Hey are you all right?” Hester came over and put a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

           “I just got dizzy all of a sudden,” I explained. “I haven’t eaten in too long. I think I need to just sit down for a little while.”

           “Ok,” Hester nodded.

           She helped me down the steps and made sure I didn’t completely faint before she went back to the task of sweeping. Soon, Adrian, who had worked as a stage hand for the show, joined her and they were chatting happily together. I couldn’t help but wonder though where Michael was and what was taking him so long. It had been about forty minutes already. I pulled my phone out of my purse and was about to text him when he came onto the stage from the back, dressed in his street clothes. He looked around and I figured since the lights were all on onstage and the house lights were on too, he probably couldn’t see me very well. Hurrying up to Hester he asked her something, seeming to be in a mild state of panic. With a concerned look, she pointed me out, resulting in Michael looking relieved and rushing down the steps to come sit next to me.

           “Hey, are you ok?” He asked. “Hester seems worried.”  

           “Yeah, I’m just an idiot,” I chuckled and Michael’s face scrunched up in confusion and disapproval over me calling myself names. “I haven’t eaten since noon,” I explained. “I’ll be fine once I get some food in me.”

           “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I can run to Walmart and get you something right now,” he started but I shook my head.

           “I’m fine,” I insisted with a smile. “I just feel bad that I can’t really help. If I sit still, I’m totally fine.”

           “It’s not your responsibility to help anyway,” he assured me. “It shouldn’t be too much longer. I’ll help tear down what’s left, pry up the nails from the floor and then we’ll go.”

           He popped up from his seat but before he could go back up on stage, I grabbed him by the hand. Pausing, he looked at me, giving my hand a squeeze.

           “Hey are you ok?” I asked. “Did Ashley get mad at you?”

           “Yeah,” he huffed. “She started a big fight back stage. Something about not wanting me to spend time with you.”

           “I figured that would be the case,” I frowned.

           “I told her she can get the fuck over it,” he scowled. “She’s seriously getting on my nerves with her jealousy.”

           “Yeah well, you know what the solution is to that. I won’t say anything more on the matter. We discussed it enough last night, I think.”

           “I know, I know,” Michael laughed. “I’ll try to be quick with this, ok?” He released my hand. “Then we’ll get some dinner and talk.”

           As I watched Michael and a bunch of other guys pull down the remaining set walls and pry up nails from the floor, I couldn’t help but mull over what must have happened backstage between Michael and Ashley. She had clearly given him an ultimatum.

           And he chose me, I blinked. No one ever chooses me. Of course, they haven’t broken up yet. But he refused to let Ashley try to keep us apart. So maybe that’s a step in a good direction?

[gta5apkz]

GTA 5 Can Be Headed To Ps5, Xbox Series X In 2021

I poured all my free time for nearly 3 months into this endeavor. So no, sorry, I will not mod your game, but I will do the job if you're a severe developer/studio who wishes to port an old or brand new game to VR, and you've got a fair budget to devote to the occupation. A. Right now I don't have any plans to do so, since turning with the mouse or the ideal stick on the control isn't handled by the mod however from the game itself. Additionally, I find the breeze turning dreadful and immersion-breaking. Starting from Release 4, the mod uses a considerably improved technique for shooting the game's internal rendering buffers.

An additional improved version for your PlayStation 5 along with Xbox Series X was declared in 2020, also is anticipated to release in autumn of 2021. Express your unbelievable individualism and stick out in the herd together with The post-ironic, artisanal, natural, completely independent, re-claimed"I am not even a Hipster" Update. Choose from seven exceptional vehicles such as classic nostalgia rides such as the Glendale, Blade, and Rhapsody -- cheap cars which appear casual to the outside, but have concealed potential to be unleashed with a couple of alterations. The environmentally aware set can take a look at the Panto microcar, while people seeking to roll up with their Crew is much more ostentatious style can include the huge 3-axel, 6-seater Dubsta for their fleet. Ammu-Nation is getting in on the Most Recent non-ironic tendencies with all the Vintage Pistol and Antique Cavalry Dagger currently available. Read More Grand Theft Auto

FiveM doesn't interact with all the Rockstar Online Services other than to validate your game duplicate the very first time you launch it. This investigation emulates the game's interaction, and can't be discovered by Rockstar. We're aware that consumers could be falling slow loading times, 500 mistakes, or launcher crashing at the time and we're actively working to climb. The Epic Games Store was performing game giveaways because of December 2018, such as popular titles like what Remains of Edith Finch, The WitnessandCeleste. With their efforts, culminating at the all-powerful tool that's 3Dmigoto, an intricate structure like the R.E.A.L. mod could have been only a lot of work to tackle to get one programmer. A. This R.E.A.L. mod, like the one I created for No One, Lives Forever 2, was a labor of love. Modding GTA V was harder than NOLF2 (to the point of getting soul-crushing at times) since it required far longer reverse engineering and trial-and-error, and since the game is so much faster.

How to Have The Improved Version Of Gta 5 On Next

When it is mission accomplished' and you are from your epic fresh Flight Suit, invest your beach leave buzzing the sky in the luxurious Swift helo, or throw your whole squad to the brand new 16-seater Buckingham Mil-Jet jet for group transport in fashion. Hit the lace using a collection of fresh Chutes and Parachute Bags, and when things get a bit out of control, rely upon the Reserve Parachute to offer you a second opportunity at that gentle landing -- or even use it to find creativity with your precision drops. Afterward, hit the roads at the shapely Invetero Coquette Classic, accessible in hard-top or topless roadster versions. The new Diamond Casino & Resort is now open, come visit or remain in the most lavish residence in the whole state. More than only a place to let go of your inhibitions and your awareness of the passing of time, The Diamond is your most popular destination for quality entertainment, luxury living, and a selection of entertainment adventures you won't find anyplace else. Learn more about the magnificent world of Los Santos and Blaine County at the greatest Grand Theft Auto V experience, with a selection of technical updates and enhancements for returning and new players. You may unsubscribe at any time and we will never share your details without your consent. Also Read Epic Games Store Is Supplying Gta 5 To Free This Week

It's amazing to check at, it's packed with ideas, and whenever the free add-in, Grand Theft Auto Online, comes out in October, it is going to supply a compelling multiplayer experience, in which participants mix and face off from colossal turf wars. Blasting your way from hopeless face-offs with private arenas, streaking through the city roads at a new automobile -- some will despise the utter amorality, the constant seething shadow of this story. Many also will probably be horrified through an interactive torture scene that compels the participant to do acts of cruelty on a defenseless victim. However, GTA is about complicity and culpability -- what's the player ready to perform on the planet? Throughout the game, Michael makes many visits to a psychologist, whining that he believes somebody else is controlling him.

GTA 5 About Ps5 In 2021, enlarged And Enriched, With Limited Free Gta Online GTA V is on its next generation of consoles, together with Rockstar Games having first released the game on the PlayStation 3 and Xbox 360 in 2013. The business then revived the game for the PlayStation 4 along with Xbox One, which it's replicating for its PlayStation 5 along with Xbox Series X. Sony announced on Thursday that Rockstar would update GTA V for its PS5. GTA V for PlayStation 5 will probably be available for purchase in precisely the same manner it's in earlier stages. What is new and interesting is that GTA Online is going to soon be available as a standalone game on the PlayStation 5, and it is going to be free to get PS5 players in the initial few months from launching. This addition prompted backlash from conservative players that contended that Naughty Dog has been pushing a liberal agenda to the game, or pandering to the needs of social justice activists. Since Dr. Colliver points out, these are probably the very same players that will shield Rockstar's right to present trans people as subhuman in GTA V.

It does not last the story of Michael, Trevor, and Franklin, but GTA 4's growth did not have anything to do with the main story.

Crashes might be more frequent once you utilize community-generated mods, but they certainly help spice up a single participant should you ever run from content.

These fall into the complex group, and sometimes you may require a little bit of help to get the best outcomes.

Much as with other societal issues, the dialogue around trans-violence and rights is captured between two extremes, particularly online.

Greg Tito had trouble connecting with the characters' feelings since they acted out of greed with no sense of morality and gave players a small reason to support them. Sterling believed that despite these improvements, auto-aim has been"twitchy and unreliable" and insure mechanisms"nevertheless come off as dated and unwieldy". Some reviewers believed that the game solved a constant difficulty with the addition of mid-mission checkpoints.

They may face lingering visual difficulties such as the amount onto the banner trackers being incorrect till they play and finish one game. The simplest way to prevent this issue from occurring is to transfer players' information to a distinct section. If you have lost any or all your data then do not worry, as it's going to be entirely restored. These players dropped many of the hard-earned items, such as heirlooms, which can be particularly frustrating following hours of grinding different games. Fortunately, Respawn has researched the issue, and think of a solution.

To make sure players of the present PS4 version can have some fun while awaiting the PS5 as well as also the next-gen GTA V, they will be talented at $1,000,000 in-game credits each month before the release. Forum devoted to Grand Theft Auto V, the latest name in the series, was released in 2013.

[therapybg]

What is a Golem?

In the Lord of the rings what does Gollum do? What does he want? Who does he want if for?

There is a moment to ask questions. I'm going to start this one with an aside about Ireland. Ireland has a traveling people, we call them travelers (they call themselves travelers). Some are settled, some move, some are seasonal, despite that they are a distinct group. They are indistinguishable in nearly every aspect from the "settled." As a foreigner you could not tell the difference. An ancient battle between rovers and drovers, herders and hunters, pastoralism and predation has led to different ways of perceiving the world. I'm a farmer by upbringing, but I know the ways and means of the hunter too. I figuratively have a foot in both camps. There is a game played by both "sides." The traveler is often shunted on from his or her "halting" site by the local settled police. I've seen at first hand the quality of official traveler halting sites.  A traveler often receives prejudice and unfair treatment. But the traveling person is well able to dish it out too, despite the "victim status." A travelling person will often ask me many questions in sequences (the more you know) but will divulge little information of any value to me. He or she will claim victimhood as a right, not as a tautology, but as a well defined negotiating position in a sequence. If it is an older traveler woman she may offer to tell my fortune, if I "cross her palm with silver." Do you have any scrap? Do you have any copper? Can you spare a few quid, sir? Do you want those gates? You're very good, sir! Remember the tongue is a powerful weapon both in the personal and the public sphere. I have no animosity to travelers, but I'm not often trustful of the objectives. A traveler man will ask me for favors, but not often deliver favors to me. A traveler may take me for a"mark" until I show I'm aware of the game. The traveler is educated enough to know that he preys on the customs of the settled, as a wolf would on sheep, although he cannot admit it (or the illusion disappears).  Of course there are settled who do the same. It's not a linear quality in any way, or a mark of a particular group, it is a set of tactics that become burnished in use. The traveler would argue that by enclosing the land, the settler has removed his hunting grounds and the enmity is of two tribes inhabiting one land.  This historical argument holds water too. There are strong rules within traveler society; marriage is sacrosanct, male honor is a currency.  A man's word is his bond *among the group. You may lie as much as you want to a settled. There are valid reasons for all of these things in a world without access to court, or the ability to pursue a lien. It's not a morality tale, it is about pursuit of goals and objectives. I There are mountains of book on "in group reciprocation, altruism and genetic inheritance. The Israelis have a lot of the same stuff going on. Although they are planted settlers, many are not native to the region, they survive with the support of the US and the UK against the combined might of their Arab, Persian and Egyptian  neighbors, among others.  The source of their power is having the ear of the powerful in the US and UK, the Rothschild banking syndicate, a more technically advanced country than many of their neighbors, and their diaspora in those countries. Having the the US and the UK targeted against "muslim" peoples is a fine tactic. Muslim is a very broad term indeed, you may as well use the term "Christian" and start fighting all of Europe, Latin America and Russia at the same time? Control of media is a prerequisite for this tactic, if you lose the media, you lose the advantage. We discussed this before. If an Irish traveller was viewing the scenario: he would see that settled will fight settled, lose their best men, which might be replaced by mine (the meek shall inherit..?). Gain by deception and deceit, not thru force of arms. The stupid deserve their fate is the logical position. It is an ancient gambit used by schoolchildren everywhere: get the big guy to do your bullying for you. I note that girls often use this gambit, playing on a guy's honor. Interesting, the girl doesn't need "honor" to be believed, she claims victimhood and others "rally" to the cause. Claim "racism" Claim "intolerance" Claim "victim status" then bash the "other" with "right" on your side. Self Offence. Claim "racism" Claim "intolerance" Claim "victim status" then bash the "other" with "right" on your side. Self Offence. All the time, 24/7, then use your "magic" megaphone position: subvert, subvert, subvert the conversation, the ideas, the focus of debate. Move tolerance over until it is acceptance, move acceptance over until it is observance, move observance over until it is dogma. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat till you get totalitarianism. Kill the Kulaks. Done. Next ...starve. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Soviet_famine_of_1932%E2%80%9333 It is a tactic, not an aberration. Deceive, lie, misdirect, use a pretty assistant, use smoke, use mirrors, use devices, uses suggestion, use the stage you construct. Create a dark room. Become the light. I am not saying that a garrison in the Middle East is not favorable for World powers, but I do wonder when the tail started wagging the dog, officially? I have an idea about that too :) Where is the weakness in this plan? Simple answer: Love is the answer. If the Americans wake up and value their own youth? If the Americans laugh at the idea of being the world's policeman? If the Americans support Americans first? If Americans print their own money? If they find out that 9-11 was not a "muslim" operation? If the Americans make peace with Libyans, Syrians, Egyptians, Iraqis, Iranians, Yemenis, Saudis and Afghanis? Would you like to play a game? https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0086567/ When I did my original piece about Kennedy, I noted that some ears perked up. Why would that be I asked myself? I knew a partial answer, I didn't think they'd be quite so twitchy just yet :)...we're not there yet, yet. “As I wrote Mr. Ben-Gurion, this government’s commitment to and support of Israel could be seriously jeopardized if it should be thought that we were unable to obtain reliable information on a subject as vital to peace as Israel’s effort in the nuclear field,” the telegram said."https://www.jpost.com/Diaspora/President-Kennedy-gave-Israel-a-strong-warning-about-its-nuclear-reactor-in-1963-589107 I noted that Israeli embassies closed shop all over the world at very short notice recently. I also noticed a projected date for a huge false flag event on the weekend of November 3rd in Seattle. The projected result of this event: an ICBM attack on the city during a football game was to create a war *with whoever would be deemed the perpetrator of this killing of over 1m people,  *like 9-11 was. It didn't happen (that doesn't mean it wasn't planned to happen on that date). Understand that these people are working to a script. We've discussed the Epstein - Mossad - C_A  connection.  We've seen how large corporate entities like hellywood and the news media are virulently anti-Trump and are doing everything possible to kill that story.  Whoever is pushing these things is working in the shadows, but it is coming into the light all over the world. The whole picture has a vague tint of yellow to it: Orange man Bad.  Arab man bad. White man bad. Everyone bad, except..."minorities." Why are they so focused on sexually deviant lifestyles: gays, transexuals, pronouning, pedos? Ask yourself the question. Then ask why is the "heartland," "mom, pop and apple pie, "middle America, nuclear family, so pro Trump? There is an answer. Why do they call Trump a racist *specifically? Is it to get ahead of a story? Let's return to Kennedy for a moment... I was watching a show on YouTube a while back, from a guy who later went missing, Bill Smith. It was about the Yad Kennedy memorial in Israel. "The 60-foot high (18 m) memorial is shaped like the stump of a felled tree, symbolizing a life cut short.Inside is a bronze relief of Kennedy, with an eternal flame burning in the center."https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yad_Kennedy Smith makes the case that Jack Ruby was Jack Rubinstein who may have been connected to  Meyer Lansky.  Wikipedia makes the opposite assertion: The Commission indicated that there was not a "significant link between Ruby and organized crime" and said he acted independently in killing Oswald. Of course he did, they all do. In September 1964, the Warren Commission concluded that Ruby acted alone in killing Oswald. Various groups believed Ruby was involved with major figures in organized crime and that he killed Oswald as part of an overall plot surrounding the assassination of Kennedy." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Ruby We know George Bush Sr. was in Dallas. He rose to head the C_A.  We know what became of the C_A. We're pretty sure junior had a connection to 9-11 and he had some friends over for the event. We are finding out a lot of stuff which has been buried, it's piling up, in fact.

When all this is done, we might have to look who is printing the money? And who is doing the dying? A reckoning, you might call it. I'm not saying it is Israel (Israel didn't pay for the monument, others did). There is a script. It is not "Arabs, nor white men, nor Muslims, nor Israelis.  I'm saying there is a hidden hand.

What if the end they so desperately seek, becomes their end?  Gollum : Myyyy... Precious! Smeagol : The precious will be ours... once the Hobbitses are dead!   As my Irish traveler friends would put it: "Sher you're a beast of a man, fair dues. Now, let's be seein ya, fien."   https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Golem https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gollum https://vocal.media/geeks/gollum-a-warning-to-us-all   https://www.jpost.com/Diaspora/President-Kennedy-gave-Israel-a-strong-warning-about-its-nuclear-reactor-in-1963-589107   Read the full article

[calamity-writes]

A Time-Sensitive Situation - 02

[ Part 1 ]

Imperial HOUND Concept borrowed with permission from @parttimedragon​

A Siff Adventure

The council member had a number of different names, Siff learned over the next few weeks. None of them mattered aside from the name she knew him by, though. ‘Blue Handler’. It’s the name he hammered her with time and time again as he tried to break her down.

He was… more successful than Siff liked.

“Again,” he barked, and the sandpaper touch on her mind was coming. She twitched, reaching for the rifle on the table before she felt the rasp of his will even touch her mind. It was conditioning, breaking her down into bite sized bits of code to execute the functions he wanted. Meanwhile a subroutine was running in her brain, cataloguing his habits. The feel of his will before it flexed.

“Good,” he said, and she could feel his colourless eyes watching her screw the rifle’s scope into place. He didn’t smile, but his lips moved up into the fascimile of a happy expression. Snapping the clip into place, Siff placed her hands back onto the circles painted on the table’s surface and waited for the verdict.

The electroconductive pads strapped to her throat itched, but this time there was no flare of pain. The First fourty-nine times he’d told her to assemble and disassemble the rifle, he’d flipped the 'motivator’s switch, sending white hot volts through her body. The fiftieth time he didn’t, even though her time had been the same as the last five attempts.

It was an attempt to build gratefulness and relief towards him. Praising the dog after breaking it. Siff had hated that she felt that flush of relief, even while she knew what it was and why it was. She’d never hated anything before, but she was pretty sure she was starting to hate Blue Handler and his colourless face and fake smile.

“You’re improving,” he said, his voice pitched to praise. Siff wasn’t improving at reacting without thinking, she was improving at sensing when he was about to speak and knowing what he was going to ask.

“Thank you Sir,” she said, staring at the empty wall ahead.

“I’ve discovered information that leads me to believe there is a mole within Strike Team Blue, what do you do?”

“Leak information that varies slightly to each member, all factually corroborative with manufactured records I’ve set in place. I monitor republic and traitorous chatter for the information leaked to determine who is the mole,” she said.

“And then you kill them?” Blue handler asked.

“Sir, no, Sir. I do not,” Siff said, flinching as she felt his hand hover over the 'motivator’ switch. She could feel the electricity coiled in the machine, ready to leap out into her body, frying all her nerves in it’s entropic path.

“Why not?” He asked.

“The traitors or rebel group that this mole is feeding will only install another agent, better to monitor the one who is known and groom the information leaked than to eliminate the mole and risk another more successful agent taking their place.”

He was surprised, Siff saw as she looked over at him. This was possibly the first expression that wasn’t grim emptiness or that fake smile. His hand moved off the switch and he tucked his hands together against the small of his back.

“Good girl,” he said. “That shows more forethought than I expected. I was right about you, you know.”

“Sir.” Siff didn’t care if he was right or not or what he thought he was right about. She cared about the volts that waited in that sprokking machine. “Thank you sir.”

“Your file said you were neurologically deviant,” Of course it did, “ Intellectually and mechanically gifted but unable to follow orders or respect authority.” Siff wondered if Blue Handler knew she didn’t respect him or his sandpaper will, but the machine that he held the switch to. “But, I knew with the proper training and supervision you would become a useful tool, a scalpel instead of a hammer.”

Whatever he was talking about, it was all bantha-shit, as far as Siff was concerned. But she nodded, remaining otherwise immobile.

“Guards, escort asset Blue-7 to medical for the implants,” Blue Handler said, waving in the two imperial guards who stood by the doorway, rifles trained on Siff’s back.

“I am so pleased with your progress my dear,” Blue Leader said, looking at her with an expression that Siff wasn’t able to parse. Was it paternal pride? gloating self-worship? His chin was tilted up slightly and his eyes bright. Siff resisted the urge to spit on him, and stood slowly, letting the guards cuff her hands behind her.

“After the insertion process, please be sure to rest so that the chip doesn’t reject,” Blue Handler said, pulling out his holopad and starting to type into it. “Your first mission begins in 48 standard hours and infection will only decrease your likelihood of survival.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir.”

**

Nerves jangling, neck itching and the tip of her nose sweating, Siff looked at the rest of Strike-Team Blue. Blue-Leader and most of the team were human, but there was also a Zabrack male, face covered with fearsome tattoos, who stared blankly at his hands. They were all in a transport shuttle, heading out to a mission none of them truly understood, each with only fragments of the objective so if they were compromised, the mission wouldn’t be.

No one spoke. No one looked at each other in the eye, and Siff was the only Chiss on the strike-team. Chiss didn’t rebel, they didn’t question orders. At least not for long.

Siff chewed on her lip, hidden by the awful mask that covered the lower half of her face. The guards had put it on her right before shoving her into the back of the shuttle, and Siff hadn’t had a chance to get a good look at it. It was horrible. It smelled like soldering and Siff was pretty sure that they weren’t built right, but saying something would just bring back the 'motivator’ with Blue Handler’s twitchy finger on the switch. Worse, she’d seen the small capsule by the nose, ready to be punctured and release poisonous gas if she tried to remove the damn thing.

Bastards.

“Nearing drop point Gamma,” the pilot’s voice said through the commline built into the mask.

Blue leader gestured with two fingers to Blue-6 and Blue-5 then tapped his mask and pointed towards the shuttle’s hatch that was slowly opening to the rear of the cargo bay. They nodded and stood, walking over to prepare for the high altitude drop into the dense forests around their target.

All at once, the jangle of Siff’s nerves became too much to bear. She leapt to her feet, ignoring Blue-Leader’s shout for her to sit back down. She couldn’t, her nerves were live wires, pushing her toward the open hatch and dark sky beyond.

“Blue-7 what-” Blue Leader managed to shout before the shuttle was punched sideways in a flash of bright light and thunder. The air detonated, the force of the explosion pushed Siff and the two standing Blue H.O.U.N.D.s out of the hatch, sending them tumbling though Alderaan’s upper atmosphere. Spreading her arms and legs out slightly to stabilize herself. Only then did she tuck her arms flat against her body and pointed her legs straight back.

She had a chance, but she’d have to race out of the anti-air cannons, meaning she’d have a very small window of time to open her chute or risk becoming a blue smear on one of Alderaan’s pretty mountains.

Siff swallowed, hard. She hoped all that 'motivating’ hadn’t fried the calculation part of her brain.

**

Watching the shuttle break apart on a holoscreen, Councelor Jardjen pressed steepled fingers to his lips. The Chiss had gotten up before the shuttle had been hit.

How… interesting. He would need to investigate further.

At his shoulder, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, Gold Handler watched with avid eyes.

“If she survives the mission,” the sith said, “Transfer her to Gold Team.”

Jardjen frowned, looking up at the much younger man… who outranked him in every possible way. Gritting his teeth, and swallowing the retort, Jardjen nodded and turned back to the holo screen to watch Alderaan fighters scramble.

“If she survives,” Jardjen said. 

[davidaolson]

Awakened by a Demon

The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

“Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u”

It’s screeching shattered the still of the night. Not just once. Over and over for the better part of an hour. It screeched. Then the lull during which my heart settled and I felt sleep crawling from between the sheets, my eyes growing heavy. Until it screeched again. Four screams in a sequence with the last sputtering words decaying like a loosely mounted motor running out of gas forcing every cell in my body to high alert. Danger, Will Robison.

The beast had to be close. Beast? Or was it a ghost? A demon? A demon ghost hybrid. The locals are superstitious. Stories of ghosts and spirits are commonplace. Just tonight, I learned Auntie would not go to the upstairs floor in her own home. Her own home! A place she lived for decades because she believes it is haunted. Yet, it is ok for the maid and the grandkids to sleep up there. How much of the belief is based in fact? How much is fiction from a people steeped in superstition? I noticed I am fingering the smooth leather medicine bag I’ve worn around my neck since my encounter with Rattlesnake in New Mexico a couple of weeks earlier. I guess a Western education does not immunize one from a belief in amulets or the evil they keep at bay.

The noise seemed to be coming from just outside the sliding glass doors of my room in the Abuyog hotel. It may be a ventriloquist. The identified location a misdirection and it was nearer. Under the bed??? Did I remember to lock the window? “Fu-Quuuuu”. Is the demon studying me from behind a curtain of darkness? Behind the corner armoire? “Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” Let’s rationalize. Maybe it’s a screaming cat. A cat in preheat sparring with an overzealous mate attempting to force a dry fuck, or a night bird trying to spook a twitchy nose rat into breaking cover and running, perhaps the Philippine version of a Screech Owl, the tufty eared, bug-eyed predator out for the nightly hunt. Screech Owl? Screeching Owl. Yes.

The noise tortures me. I am also tormented by claws scratching the floor in the room directly above me. Or, is in hiding between the ceiling and the floor? If it found a way to infiltrate the hotel, is my room safe? Is it rats? Is the Fu-Quuuuu demon inside the hotel trying to catch a rat? Does it have the flexibility to escape through a hole and emerge in my room? Is it a rat jousting with a slithering snake? Will the snake find refuge in the pipes and poke a triangular head out of the toilet bowl during my morning constitutional sinking teeth into my meaty, muscley ass or, shudder, ball sack? I better check the bowl then shit while hovering.

I cowered stock still sweating in the bed. My pillow is soaked through to both sides. My heart pounds. What time is it? I slowly looked at my phone. 3 am. 3 fucking am and I’m wide awake. 3 am. Much too early to chase a sunrise. And going outside in the dead of night could mean an encounter with the Fu-Quuuuu demon. Is it taking a clue from the owl playbook, trying to spook me from my safe sanctuary into vulnerable open space? I want to run. But, I imagine going up to the roof and facing Fu-Quuuuuu followed by my own fading Oh-Noooooo as it devours me, head first, or hexes my life ensuring I die tragically, or scares me so deeply my hair roots die and white strands sparsely cover my head. Irrational? Who’s to say what evil lurks in the heart of demons.

I lay unmoving for the next two hours too terrified to reach beyond the bed for the lamp for fear the demon is throwing its voice beyond the glass as it sits beneath my bed waiting to tear off any limb extending beyond the bed’s edge. Too frightened to reach over to my wife for comfort for fear the beast would hear me move and be triggered to attack the way running prey triggers a bear to give chase. I lay petrified waiting for the rising sun to send the safety of daylight.

“Did you hear the demon last night?” It wasn’t until the second morning hearing the awful screeching that I overcame my embarrassment and felt comfortable discussing the screaming, screeching demon.

“Demon?”

“Ya, that loud screaming.”

“Screaming? That was a tukó, one of our local geckos. The name is from the sound it makes. Tu-koooooo. Tu-koooooo.” It’s a cute lizard. Good luck in the home.

“I didn’t hear no Tu-koooooo. I heard “Uh-Ooooooo, Oh-Noooooo, Tu-Qoooooo, Fu-Quuuuu, Quuuu-Quu-uuu-uu-u.” My voice decayed quicker than tukó at the end of a chant. “Cough. Cough.” I look at her. No sympathy for my feigned cough. It’s no use. I know it. She knows it. There is no way for me to save face. I feel the fool for being distraught because the unfamiliar voice squawked by a little lizard frightened the hell out of me. And I am simultaneously excited knowing Rattlesnake may have been speaking capital ‘T’ Truth.

The Ambien Zombie

The waking up before the sun theme lasted the entire trip. Jet lag from jumping 13 time zones over 24 hours requires the better part of two weeks for me to fully adjust. We were only a few days into the trip. Once my body clock adjusts to local sun cycles, we head back to Chicago where I endure another two weeks of screwed up sleeping schedules. Plus I have a very difficult time sleeping in a sitting position. On long-haul flights, I use prescription Ambien to help me sleep and adjust to a new time zone.

I’ve head stories of Ambien zombies, perfectly nice people zombified by the drug especially when mixed with Alcohol. They babble incoherently, have even been known to strip naked and wall about the plane. All with no recollection when then come down.

Always, until this trip, I enjoyed my Ambien induced coma without incident waking refreshed on the flip side. Win-win. The episode between Chicago and Taiwan will keep me away from Ambien the rest of the trip and will probably be the last time I ever use the sleep aid. I became the dreaded Ambien Zombie.

I took two as soon as my luggage was stowed in the overhead before buckling into my middle seat, next to my aisle seated wife, for the 15-hour flight taking off at 12:30 am. Normally, I fly long haul alone. There have never been complaints so I assume my induced sleep is simply a deep, dreamless sleep. Not so this time where I experienced two vivid dreams.

The first was of me walking around the airplane in slow motion. In the dream, I was unable to pronounce Pinot Noir in a way the flight attendant understood. I rarely eat airplane food, aside from crackers and fruit cups, because the smell while still in the carts makes me nauseous. But, I ordered the beef dish. And I ordered a whiskey which I mixed with apple juice. The obnoxious concoction was promptly spilled mostly onto my wife’s tray overflowing into her lap. I looked at the mess and returned to eating with all the dexterity and urgency of a sloth. All this, I later learned from my irritated wife, actually happened but I was too stoned on the sleeping pill to realize it.

I now wonder if those previous trips were simply a relaxed deep sleep or I acted the fool. I’ve never been arrested or deboarded so I’m going to guess there were no exceedingly unseemly events.

The second dream was rather bizarre.

Tukó, the gecko lizard, and I are sitting face to face in chairs. This is a giant Tukó, big as a double homunculus human. It’s feet dangle above the floor, the fat tail wrapped around the chairback providing balance. Tukó has no butt so sitting is difficult. The pink tongue licks its eyes the way a dog tongues its snout clean after eating. The mouth opens, sound spill out, the mouth closes. The eyes look at me, expectantly. The mouth opens again, “Who-Ooooooo. Fu-Quuuuuu”

Language gap. Unlike my encounter with Rattlesnake who spoke in words I understood, there is a definite language gap with Tukó, a gap exacerbated by the human lizard culture gap.

“Sorry, I don’t understand,” I said wondering if the language barrier was two way.

Tukó reaches out a closed hand palm up, turns it over, unfurls the five thick fingers revealing a very small gecko. It couldn’t have been longer than one-inch nose to tail. He pumps his hand up and down motioning me to take it. I reach out and it crawls, without hesitation, into my hand. I can feel the stickiness of the toe pads. It’s a little like tearing apart velcro with every step.

“Emmm…” how to be culturally sensitive here? Is it simply a gift? Am I supposed to eat it? We are in Asia where feeding guests is standard hospitality and refusing to eat offered food an insult. I look at it again. Well, at least it isn’t balut. I hope I don’t gag. I force a smile,” Thank you”. And move it toward my mouth.

Tukó chatters frantically. “Nuh-Oooooo. Nuh-Ooooooo.”

I stop midway, mouth agape.

Tukó points to the side of its head. I am still very confused. “What? What do I do?”

Tukó deftly grabs the miniscule gecko from my hand and places it next to my head. It crawls into my ear canal. A shiver starts from my ear and runs all the way down to my toes. This is worse than one gulp needed to swallow it. I am scared. No. Terrified. I once saw a movie where a person was strapped to a table while a villain in a white lab coat looked on. The villain grabbed an earwig from a bucket of crawling earwigs using a longish pair of zircon encrusted tweezers and proceeded to stick the wiggling bug into the man’s ear. The man screamed in agony as the earwig slowly ate its way through his brain until it reached the center killing him. Was I about to begin a ghastly death?

“Can you understand me now, David? You should be able to.”

“I…I can understand you.” What the hell was going on?

“That is a Babel Gecko. It is similar to the Babel Fish. You do know what a Babel Fish is, David?”

“Yes, I do.” My pride swells. I read the six books in the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy and knew the answer. “A babel fish is fictitious It’s small, yellow and leech-like. It crawls into the ear of a person suctioning onto the eardrum enabling the person to understand any language in the universe.”

“Close.”

“Close? I read all the books and saw the tv show. I know what a Babel Fish is.”

“It is not fictitious.” Tukó emphasized ‘fictitious’ by making air quotes with those fat finger hands. “It exists just not in our space-time continuum. Douggy Adams was taken up by aliens and moved between space-time streams. Eventually, the brought him back but failed to erase all the memories from his time away. Those books he wrote contained fractal representations of that time. Now, what you have in your ear is a Babel Gecko. It has the ability to translate all animal, tree, and rock people communication into your human language which is why you now understand me. It cannot translate human to human because the primitive human language causes the Babel Gecko to deteriorate from the inside out.”

“Primitive human language? Human language is the most sophisticated ever devised.”

“Typical human arrogance. It is not the most sophisticated on earth and considered white noise in other worlds. It’s why the beings on distant planets don’t bother responding to the signals and probes you send into deep space. You, humans, communicate only with sound with the exception of visual artists. Unless the artworks are straightforward, you misinterpret them as well. We animals have the ability to communicate with and without sound. We can communicate with color, physical motion, smell, telepathically and any combination. It is called ‘voice’ and is sophisticated beyond human comprehension while being transparently simple to all nonhumans. Babel Gecko translates all voice into approximations of human words. You may sense gaps, sometimes elongated, in the translation because the Babel Gecko must dumb it down for your comprehension.”

“Okayyy. There are insects and other lizards in this room. Why don’t I hear them?” I got him. There was no recovery from this argument.

Tukó chuckled. Paused. “The Babel Gecko knows. Humans like claiming they are good at multi-tasking. But it is impossible for the primitive human brain to focus on more than one task at a time. The Babel Gecko’s sophistication allows it to tune into the vibration of your thought waves then filter the many voices allowing only the one on which you are attempting to focus. This is why you don’t hear the mosquitoes discussing the sweetness of your wife’s blood they are sampling while she showers or the very large spider behind the shower room curtain singing a siren song to lure those same mosquitoes into its lethal web.”

“That sounds quite far-fetched.”

“Of course you would say that. Liars have a hard time believing the truth.”

“Liars?”

“Come now David, you are fully aware humans tell as many lies as they do truths. Even the quote-unquote truths tend to be embellished.”

I have to admit he is correct. I like to think I am truthful to a fault but know, in my heart, I am prone to embellishing my stories. Innocent enough but still, why not just relate facts?

“We in the animal world are incapable of telling lies. Our communication is always congruous. Our voice, true. The body, our colors, telepathy, and words are always in sync. Though, one should be extremely careful when communicating with a split tongue being such as Rattlesnake. With them, truth halves and they may allow one half only to slip off a tongue branch into the world. Half truths are deceptive. Lying by omission of the whole truth, nothing but the truth, so help me by one of the thousands of Gods, is still lying.”

Gecko stopped talking, stared up at the ceiling. Was it hungry? looking for bugs? Too much silence for my taste, a vacuum needing filling.

“Thank you for the gift of the Babel Gecko.”

“It’s NOT yours.” Heavy emphasis on the NOT. “It is a loan. It will crawl out and away before you leave the Philippines. It would be dangerous in the wrong hands.”

“Dangerous? You can trust me. I won’t let anything happen to it.”

“Fu-Quuuuuu!”

“Sorry, I didn’t understand you. I think the Babel Gecko is on the fritz.”

“It’s working just fine. And you heard me correctly. I said, ‘Fuck you!’ Your people have brought nothing but misery to this planet and my people ever since you left the trees in your hairy pre-hominid days and started building cities. You bred, still, breed like roaches, and continue spreading your pestilence! No offense to roaches. They are a hearty people. It’s simply a reality your mind can’t grasp.”

“Sorry?”

“Was that a question?” His color changed slightly. A red hue undertoned the skin. Can they color shift like chameleons? The gold eyes pulsed.

“Um, Sorry! I apologize for the human race.”

“It’s too late for apologies. The damage is done. We will all pay the price for your unchecked infestation. You humans most of all.”

“Really? What’s gonna happen?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes, Yes I do. I have a right to know.”

“Rights is a human philosophical construct. There are no such thing as rights there only is existence. But, I will tell you. There’s nothing you can do to change the future. It will start when Big Ben strikes thirteen…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt “…the blood moon will crumble…” vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt.

vrrrrt. vrrrrt. vrrrrt. My vibrating watch alarm, set for the morning in Chicago, pulled me out of the Ambien slumber. I was still mired in a stupor, still mashed into the too small middle seat in the exit row, still on the plane heading to Taiwan. I dreamt it all.

An Expected Unexpected Trip

We weren’t supposed to be in the Philippines this year. Our trip to Southeast Asia was scheduled, tentatively scheduled, for 2019. January or February, opposite typhoon season, when the cold still strangled Chicago and the Philippines was a beacon of near perfect warmth. We planned to forego Belize where we had lizard basked in the sun for a week each of the previous two Winters and make our 3rd trip in 6 years to my wife’s homeland, her hometown. Her father was aging quickly. His health was not the greatest. Each of our last two visits we believed was the last to see him alive.

The dreaded call, came on a Friday a few days after we returned from New Mexico. Just as Rattlesnake foreshadowed. The following Friday, we were crammed into a plane for the 24 hour trip from Chicago to Manila this time via Taiwan. We overnighted in Manila then took an early flight to Tacloban City in Leyte. It was a short flight. Most flights between the islands in the archipelago are about an hour. We spent more time in lines and waiting in the terminal than airborne. Such is the curse of modern travel.

Our Manila hotel was an apartment. Inexpensive, great air conditioning which we desperately needed in a 90/90 country. The temps were 90+ Fahrenheit and the humidity was upward of 90% all day every day. Life in 90/90 means the sun feels heavy, a burden one must carry like an overloaded backpack even in the relatively cool shade. It was almost possible to extract a glass full of water with every few breaths. Sweat was my Eau de cologne. Not of choice but the natural order of life. The body must cool itself. The inexpensiveness of the apartment means one foregoes amenities like on-premise restaurants. The neighboring Marriott goes for $200 a night. For me, it’s a no-brainer tradeoff. Though, walking between our place and the restaurants in the pouring rain, Manila was in the middle of a typhoon, while sharing a single umbrella is a downer.

Our flight to Tacloban was in the early morning, too early to find a breakfast place. Plus we were reluctant to walk to the nearby hotels and be pelted by the typhoon drenching Manila and snarling traffic. The food at the domestic airport did not appeal to me. This all added up to being hungry upon arrival in Tacloban.

Stuffing My Face With Outdoor Chicken at Andoks

Our choice of eateries on the road to Abuyog is limited. There’s a McDonald’s or, on the opposite side of the street, Andok’s Chicken. Just the thought of McD’s makes my stomach cringe so, when asked, I requested Andok’s. I think it surprised our hosts. Andok’s is an open-air eating establishment with the food cooked on an outdoor spit behind a three-sided glass enclosure. It looks and smells succulent. We order, carry our chilled pop, without ice, to a clean table next to a table where a group recently vacated.

Our conversation is primarily in the local language, meaning I think it my own bubble. It is an existence with which I am more than content. I half listen to the ambient noise, sip my rapidly warming pop. Curse the ice made with unfiltered water. My inner life is active. I rarely grow bored. I am content to sit and think while they conversed. After all, they have a deep history and I don’t speak but a few words in their language. To expect them to accommodate my desires would be selfish. We achieved yin-yang balance.

I catch a whiff of a stench and look around to see if an open sewer is nearby. Nope. There’s a person at the adjacent table who I at first think is a worker cleaning up but noticed she’s eating the leftover food. Nibbling whatever morsel she can from the chicken bones, tilting the bottle to drain last drops of soda. When finished picking the plates clean, she walks toward us and reaches out for my half-empty water bottle. They told her no. I try an appear nonchalant.

Her face is oddly shaped. Is she mentally challenged? A mild Down’s Syndrome. There is a strangeness to her eyes. She walks behind me on her way beyond the restaurant boundary and I realize the malodor is not an open sewer. It is her. She never says a word at our table nor while she waits, like a feral dog outside the range of stick and stones, for opportunities to pick at leftovers. She took a position further from us than the strays sniffing the chicken laden air on the periphery. Is this how she is forced to survive. Does she view herself as lesser than dogs which is why she waits beyond them? Is she viewed by the locals as lesser than a dog? Does this society have more empathy for the canid than the hominid? I soon find out.

My companions drop back into their lingua franca freeing me to eat the delivered chicken and ruminate in the less visited antechambers hidden in my mind. I think back to the unplanned nature of this trip and its prognostication by Rattlesnake two weeks prior while we explored the wilds in Nueva México. A little Spanish thrown into the narrative. I’m not totally oblivious to other languages just lack fluency in any but English. Tubig means water in Tagalog and Salamat is thank you. Two words I need to get by in this country.

Rattlesnake told me. Is that the right phraseology? No. It is more apt to say Rattlesnake warned me that Tukó harnessed the temperament of a trickster with the ability to shapeshift. Trickster spirits take human form by day changing to animal form when Sun is replaced by Moon. He warned me, a preferred form for Tukó was that of an impoverished, mute woman. Is this woman a human being or a spirit being? Are her eyes a bit off or did the Rattlesnakes tales fill my head with imagined realities?

I try from a distance to see her eyes. Are the human round pupiled or vertical gecko pupiled. I cannot see clearly from where I sit. Would round pupils, tell me anything? If Trickster shapeshifts to a human, wouldn’t it also mimic the eye design? Perhaps the human form is a shell and a vertical pupil exists behind the round pupil. In the right light, would I be able to see the Trickster behind the translucent human-like eye?

I catch myself absentmindedly rubbing my medicine bag. Instinct once again overrides my Western University education predicated on logic. I doubt this would have been the case before I encountered the talking Spirit Rattlesnake and the Ancient One that set him free from the large stone. That singular event rocked my understanding of reality and now I am unsure where the division between real and imaginary exists. Or are they one and the same?

I look at her askance. Not wanting anyone to know I am staring but I need to know her nature. What is that movement? Did she just flick a pink tongue over her eyes?

Our stomachs full, my companions start tossing chicken bones to a yellow furred mongrel. It’s a stray. Heavy teated. Dirty. Patchy fur from fighting other curs. It inches closer, warily, until it is next to our table. Hunger trumps fear. Western dogs who are rarely given chicken bones. One because in America dogs are on par with humans. And because of the belief, their digestive system is too sensitive for the tiny spears. They give all the chicken leftovers to the dog. The dog eats. The hungry woman looks on. They pet the dog, a few affectionate pats on the head. They tell her she’s a pretty dog. Eventually, they give the woman a chunk of pork. No kind words. No affectionate touch. They don’t tell her she is pretty.

Is giving her food kindness? I don’t see it that way. We give of our excess. Our trash. A mouthful she would have helped herself to after we left. It seems to me more a guilt offering. But this is my perspective, the view of an outsider out of tune with the spoken language and the cultural context. My conscience is not assuaged.

I ate too much and I struggle with churning guilt grinding at my insides. I try to rationalize my lack of action as not wanting to throw a stone in the culture pool and start unexpected ripples that might upset the natural order. But it is simply a rationalization, a lie told to the self.

Truth is, I am wretched. Not the poor woman with little access to food. Me the overweight, self-centered glutton who ate my fill, more than my fill until I was sluggish, without thinking of her hunger. Ate until I was stuffed beyond need. As I think this, I looked sheepishly at her one more time with my eyes hidden behind my dark sunglasses. I swear her eyes flash gold for the time it takes to snap my fingers, flash gold with a vertical slit and the hint of an almost smile.

There is still an hour’s drive to our hotel. An hour where I am reminded of my wretchedness with every home we pass cobbled together using uneven wooden planks leaving open seams in the walls, and discarded sheet metal roofs creating oven temperatures in direct sunlight, homes without running water or electricity, homes without screens to keep the mosquitoes at bay.

I had forgotten the extent of the poverty in the country, forgotten the face of a similar poverty I saw every day in India and vowed never to ignore. Forgotten how blessed I am to have access to quality medical care, two cars in the family, a home with climate control, the means to travel eight thousand miles and stay in a comfortable hotel with a roof from which to enjoy the sun climbing spectacularly orange over an ocean horizon. And, always, the promise of a warm meal greeting our every arrival at Auntie’s home.

Auntie’s House

It is customary in the Philippines for a family member to host the deceased for the nine days preceding the funeral including the feed those coming to pay their respects. On day ten, the funeral is held. There are additional ceremonies at prescribed intervals following the entombment with the last at the one year anniversary.

Aunties home became the makeshift funeral parlor with the casket prominently displayed in the family room, the first sight when entering the front door. On the trip over, I wondered how people tolerated the stink of the slowly decaying body. It turns out, in this case at least for they do not live below the poverty line, the casket was top tier including a clear, glass covering. Hermetically sealed. Any odor would be confined.

We arrive on day 7 and visit daily until the funeral which ended up being delayed until day 10 for want of an available officiate. Each time we enter food is offered within a few minutes. In the Philippines, serving food is equivalent to saying, “I love you.”

I love chicken adobo and pancit. Have grown accustomed to heaping bowls of rice. But not so much the bony fish, too much work to separate the flesh from the sharp bones. Nor am I a fan of dinuguan. Pig’s blood adds a strong iron taste to the soup. By the third day, my palate craves variety. Our farm visit added a touch of variety. Virgin coconuts freshly felled from the trees with a machete have the sweetest milk. Locally grown greens added to a soup of freshly killed chicken, head included. It is a self-supporting chicken so the meat is on the chewy side. Of course, heaps of steaming rice, for a meal minus rice is only a snack.

The trip to the farm is different than past adventures. The ferry was bypassed by a bridge. It’s not strong enough to support a car so we walk across and board a motorput for the final distance to the farm. It terrifies one of the aunties so she opts for the ferry on the way back. It is dubbed the dancing bridge for it sways while we walk across.

Aside from one fast food place, there are no restaurants in town, none with hygiene necessary to sensitive Western stomachs. The last thing I want is Montezuma to seek revenge while I’m in the Philippines. On our final full day in Abuyog, Cousin remembers a new Italian restaurant owned/operated by a real Italian at the far north end of the city outside the town proper. I am skeptical. Authentic Italian food in the middle of a small town? How is possible? We eat there for lunch. Stay to swim and eat dinner as well. It is heavenly. And we finally have wine to accompany our dinner. There are no liquor stores in Abuyog, my wife tells me. No place to buy wine. We find the last day she is wrong. There is a liquor store a very short walk from our hotel. We leave tomorrow. No time for a bottle of red or a chilled white.

Daily temps are 90/90. Yet the homes have no air conditioning not even the nicer ones like Auntie’s or Cousins. I mostly visit after sundown to avoid the heaviest heat. As soon as I enter, someone adjusts both oscillating fans to ensure I was in their path and had a smidge of relief from the heat. Still, after about an hour, I am sweat soaked and head back to the hotel to bask, sometimes naked, in the air conditioning, temperature set on stun.

Some of the visitors we encounter are comfortable enough with English to greet me and ask if I am hungry. Hungry or not, food is still served. They can speak quite a bit more but are embarrassed to speak the language with someone who is fluent. The fear of making mistakes and possibly looking foolish is strong. I speak no Waray, the local dialect, so welcome any attempt at English. I do not push the issue. It is my preference they enjoyed the company of my wife. These are her people and holes are rent in the fabric of their family during her absence. Our visits are a time they all participate in mending the holes, a tribe working together to sew up the holes in the fishing net. I enjoy watching her. She becomes highly animated when conversing in her native dialect. I sit and watch from my familiar bubble.

For most of my life, I have felt an outsider, apart from the group, isolated. No matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was (am) the puzzle piece that doesn’t fit. I have come to accept isolation is endemic to my DNA and I have learned to thrive in solitude. So much so, it has gradually become my preferred mode of being. I inhabit a bubble. Bubble boy.

The isolation becomes a shroud when visiting a land where my language is an afterthought or a nonthought. Non-language can be a wall. A wall of our own making when we chose to remain monolingual.

Unless one has extensive practice existing in isolation, whether by choice to remain apart from people or one is forced into it by dint of not speaking a common tongue, it can be a terrifying space. The sharing of even a few phrases gives hope, creates connection.

Many, probably most, of the native-born US citizenry speaks English only. Bilingualism, sadly, is an anomaly, a logical outcome of communal arrogance. “If you don’t speak Amurican you ain’t worth talking at“. It sucks that multilingualism is viewed as an unnecessary expense by most school boards in the United States. Worse, speaking any language other than English is increasingly, thanks to the orange buffoon, viewed as unAmerican, unpatriotic. If he truly wants to make America great, he should emphasize multilingualism in the schools verbal as well as speaking the languages of the arts.

For the ‘Build the Wall’ types, being in the midst of people who speak a language in addition to English, or worse, only English is uncomfortable exacerbating their fearfulness. They would rather isolate themselves with a border wall than face their fear. Build an isolating wall because of a fear of being isolated. Oh, the irony.

The proposed border wall between Mexico and the United States is a concept buttressed by fear, a foolish attempt to medicate anxiety. Like the antidepressant Prozac, it creates the illusion the situation is different. Perception is more important than reality.

Me, I am thankful for the multilingual. They can help build a bridge between us.

On our previous visit to the Philippines, I learned the concept of beer English. We were at the beach celebrating our marriage with lots of fresh food and buckets of beer. For the most part, I watched the waves kicking up against the shore and the fishermen in their small boats pulling in nets. Once in a while, there would be a word I understood in their language pulling me into their reality before I returned to watching. From a raging sea of Waray, an English speaking fish breached the water, hung in the air. A cousin started speaking to me in English. I was incredulous.

“You’re speaking English?”

“It’s beer English. We only speak English after drinking five beers.” Everyone laughed. And I was included in parts of the conversation until the beer was gone and we parted for our own homes.

There does not seem to be a drinking culture at wakes in the Philippines. Consequently, there was no beer English, very little conversation drawing me in. My ears do prick up when I catch one of the few Waray words I understand. Salamat for thank you. Tubig for water. O-O for yes. Mostly, at Aunties, I retreat to the sanctity of my bubble from which I people watch.

The Honking Huge Spider

I was in my sanctum one evening when I saw the short, jerky movement of a black object overhead. The homes, the ones I have visited, have no screens. Geckos and insects are regular visitors. In the ceiling line, where the ceiling meets the wall, a massive spider. I am not one to shy away from the creepies or the crawlies but this monster caused chills to shoot down my spine and escape through my toes where they hid in the shadows of a bookcase.

The spider is a good 5 inches in diameter with a body big enough to kidnap and drain the blood from a small child in one slurp. Not wanting to interrupt my wife’s animated conversation and appear to be a fraidy cat in front of her family, I stared at her hoping she would feel the intensity of my gaze and look my way so I could lip point, Philippino style, at the gruesome beast. No luck.

I sent mojo vibes through the air figuring the dense humidity would easily carry the signals drop to drop between us and tweak her subconscious. Again no luck. I became increasingly agitated. Should I shout a warning and save everyone’s lives? Or would my alarm raise twitters at the city boys irrational fear of something that amounted to a child’s pet?

I hold my tongue. Chilled fear sweat added to and mixed with my heat sweat. I am both hot and cold.

A gecko darts across the ceiling in the direction of Mr. Monster Spider. It is the biggest I have seen on the trip. Six inches long with a thick body and tail. Was this the Spirit Tukó come to save me?

As gecko draws near to the spider, it scurries until it is directly over my head. The movement is blindingly fast. If the spider decided to attack, could I beat it in a foot race? I am wearing my ultralight Ferrell tennis shoes but don’t know if my old knees can sustain a pace for the duration necessary to be further from the spider than one of the other guests. I didn’t need to be faster than spider just faster than the slowest person to put a victim between me and the monster. Of course, it could just let loose and fall from the ceiling onto my head the moment I look away and siphon all my brain juice.

Gecko appears not to notice Spider. Rather than witness a lizard arachnid skirmish, I watch Gecko descended the wall and take refuge behind a framed picture. Is it, too, afraid of the spider or simply returning to digest a stomach full of insects in a safe space?

Either way, I feel safer with the sentinel Gecko, a natural predator, close by. My protector. My savior. I have long been a fan of geckos. Correction. I love geckos. I wish there were a dozen or so roaming the walls and ceilings in our Chicago home. Wild geckos. Free-range geckos. Not the inmates transferred from animal prisons (aka pet stores) only to be locked in another glass cage inside a home.

A human can’t be human confined to 6′ x 8′ prison cell and still be a human nor can a gecko be a gecko when confined to a small enclosure. The US government confined the American Indians to reservations knowing full well it would crush their souls beyond repair and domesticate the ‘savages’. I don’t want a tamed gecko. It would lose gecko essence. They are harbingers of good luck. If the essence is gone so is the luck. Or, the luck may go negative and bring bad tidings upon the household.

Geckos feast on the crawlies invading the home. And they whisper dreams into your ears during slumber. I could use some vivid dreams. One can never have too many geckos gracing the palace. The praying mantis also eats insects so is beneficial but they don’t dispense dreams. Alas, Chicago has bitter Winters meaning no insect food to sustain geckos. Geckos starve. More bad luck. Geckos are another good reason for me to move to the Desert Southwest. I wonder, is Gecko of my totem?

On our last trip, we were island hopping near Puerto Princessa. I paid a few Philippine pisos for a temporary gecko tattoo over my left shoulder. Since then, I have contemplated a tattoo of Delicate Arch topped by a gecko against a sunset. Almost like it was riding the Arch into the sunset cowboy style. It would make for a great back piece. A symbol of my favorite land, a spirit animal. And if the ink could be made of finely ground red rock dust, it would have in my body the actual where I wish to rest forever. Now, if only there was a way to get inked without needles.

Finally, Irene looks my way. I lip point upward toward the spider careful not to make eye contact and force it into a defensive posture from which attack would be imminent. I do not want the beast finding a path into my head to play mind games.

“What?” she said.

“There’s a spider,” I whisper not wanting to be too obvious.

“What spider? Where?”

“It is above my head.” Emphasis on every syllable. I look up. It’s gone. Disappeared.

“I swear. There was a huge spider,” I show her the size with my hands. “The mother of all spiders. A baby eater for sure!”

She gives me her half twisted smile. The one when she considers my actions foolish, my words moronic, or general idiocy on my part. She returns to her conversation. I feel humiliated. I also grow increasingly agitated. I cannot shake the feeling it is lurking in the shadows studying me with those 12 beady eyes waiting for an opening to pounce and sink those nasty fangs into my delicately soft alabaster neck.

I give a few exaggerated yawns arm stretch overhead but not too high to put them in harm’s way. My wife catches my drift and arranges for a motorput to take me to the hotel though I would prefer to walk. She doesn’t feel it’s safe for a foreigner to walk the streets alone after dark. I stayed safely locked in our airconditioned room until the funeral on the morrow.

Funeral

We hop into a motorput magically appearing right outside our hotel dressed in our blacks and/or whites, the preferred funeral colors but no reds. The motorput is a motorcycle with an attached side cage for passengers. The vehicle is not made for people of my height and girth. I shoehorn myself into the vehicle and endure the short, uncomfortable ride to Aunties. Thankfully, Irene is tiny so we are able to sit side by side. It is early morning and already the heat is surging. The hearse is late, as expected, so we linger in the room with the casket. I check overhead for the massive spider. Nothing. There is no way I am going to sit on the couch for fear it may be hiding between it and the wall. I stand. Watch warily. And exit the house right behind the casket. We are first and second-row mourners walking behind the hearse to the church.

The slow procession begins in full exposure to the sun. I have neither hat nor umbrella to stave the biting light rays boring through my flesh and into my body with the ferocity of a radioactive maggot in rotting meat. I boil from the inside out until sweat seeps from every pore and drops down the crack of my ass, swass. Sweat is the equivalent of body tears. We have only walked two blocks and there is close to a mile remaining. I rejoice inside when we turn from Auntie’s lane onto the thoroughfare to the Church and see trees lining the East side of the street. I strategically slide right and drink in the cooling shade.

A few trees ahead, there is a rustling of leaves. Green ballerinas? There is no breeze. There is, though, a small animal in the branches probably a bird, the monster spider hunting…me, maybe a lizard. We saw large iguanas in the Belizean trees. Would I be lucky here as well and see an interesting lizard or maybe a monkey?

My head cocks upward. I tried to be discreet. But it has to be obvious to the few without tear-soaked eyes. When beneath the fluttering leaves, my head is angled almost straight up, sweat trickles into my eyes. I reach to wipe away the sweat and feel something fall into my mouth. It sticks to my lips for an instant then slips inside. It is no bigger than the broken tip of a toothpick but soft with a slight wiggle. Wiggle?

I don’t want to gag and hack it up causing a scene amidst everyone’s sorrow so fish it with my tongue until it is between my front teeth and I can discreetly grab it. It is soft, pliant, dark with the texture of a lizards tail. A yellowish, juicy substance oozes from the broken end. Lizard blood. My lips tingle. Probably an emotional reaction to chewing lizard tail. It needed some chili peppers.

The Church

We enter the church. The delicious air is a good ten degrees cooler. The wonders of shade and fans to agitate the air. The upper row stained glass windows are open to the outside, to the elements. A few stained glass windows have holes. Vandals chucking rocks? The Doors and side windows are wide open, no screens, allowing nature free passage and a place at the foot of the Lord. Appropriate that the created has a place at the table of the creator. Birds flitted inside the church.

The second thing I notice is White Jesus. This is one of my pet peeves. It is bad enough swarthy people around the world apply caustic chemicals to lighten their skin to attain a twisted ideal of beauty. The Catholic church perpetuates the idea their God-Man was a slender white guy with light hair when they know full well Jesus was a Middle Eastern carpenter who was most likely brown and muscular. Better to show simply the cross as do the Protestant churches than further ingrain the twisted white is right agenda. It really is a disgusting practice.

By the time we reach the front and sit in the first pew nearest the casket, the immediate family pew where I feel completely out of place considering the deceased’s siblings sit further back, the slight tingle has crawled over my lips, slowly spreading until my lips and tongue are numb. What the fuck is going on? The numbness spreads up my cheeks, over my forehead, into my hair then rushed down to my waist. I can still feel my eyebrows and my legs still move. My eyes, too, retain the ability to bounce around their sockets. I can just move my head a few centimeters. The colors grow vivid as if the vibrance slider in Photoshop is pushed to the maximum. Acid trip?

I try to get my wife’s attention. I can’t speak. Can’t move my arms. She is lost in sorrow. We do not connect. The priest enters. The congregation rises. I stand out of instinct? More likely the almost 20 years of attending Catholic Mass imprinted the ritual into my DNA. I will never be free despite being nonCatholic for almost three times the years I spent in Catholic schools. The priest motions us to sit. And we all, in unison, drop to the seated position. Soon would come standing and kneeling and sitting and more standing and more kneeling. Catholic yoga

Sweat rolls down my face burning my eyes. I can not wipe it away. Frantic, I side glanced at my wife again hoping to attract her attention. She is still lost in grief. I am stuck on an island. Bubble boy is isolated. Bubble boy is not enjoying this isolation.

The priest raises his hands heavenward and opens his mouth to pray. Instead of words, sparrows fly out, small brown sparrows emerge from his mouth. Chubby seedeaters. They clumsily fly about until finding purchase on the walls, behind the lights where they cast eerie shadows, perched on the cross where they chirp, chirp, chirp. The longer the priest drones on, the more sparrows rush forth. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Until the altar is coated with brown birds. The mass of birds actually more beautiful than the gilded altar. Chirp. Chirp. Chirp. Not a pretty song in the bunch though. Chirpy chirp. The language of the birds a fitting eulogy especially since I exist outside the language of the priest and congregation. I would later learn the priest spoke monotone with a message clearly showing he had no personal, first-hand knowledge of the deceased. He was not nearly as coherent or interesting as the chirping sparrows.

At the consecration of the elements when Catholic lore says the wine and host transubstantiate into the blood and body of Christ, swallows explode from the wounds of Christ, streaming out of the hands, feet, and sword pierced side where once flowed blood and water. A steady flow of dark blue tuxedo dressed birds with elegantly curved wings. Each leaves an arced, blood red vapor trail that is pierced by a following bird and shatters into thousands of particles until a red mist hangs in the air like a dense morning fog hovering over a lake obscuring my vision.

The swallows twist and turn in the air with more grace than a prima ballerina in a Bolshoi Ballet. Their elegant flight poetic, poetry, the highest language, on the wing. They fly in and out of the windows seemingly gaining speed with every flap of their delightful wings. They fly under and over the casket while the priest speaks the eulogy.

I prefer the bird eulogy. I cannot understand the priest. I can understand the birds. They are honoring the deceased with an aerial ballet. They fly until their deep blue feathers are pushed from their bodies falling quill first into the ground like a thousand arrows shot into the sky descending in a veil. The blue feathers are replaced by virginal white feathers. Blue tuxedo swapped for a pearlescent tuxedo. What a tribute!

I want nature to be my eulogist, too. Yes, I do mull over the format of my wake and funeral. I’m creating a playlist of favorite songs for the occasion. It will be my last party and I want it done my way. Actually, I prefer my grandson to speak my eulogy since he is the only living being still viewing me from behind rose-tinted glasses through which I appear infallible or pretty close to infallible. He won’t have to lie to the congregants and say what a great guy I was. When he says it, he will believe it. It will be his truth even if it’s contrary to everyone else’s truth.

He would lead the burial procession, my final walk to my holiest of holies, the remote Red Rock Utah desert. I would love to rest atop Delicate Arch but I’m afraid the National Park Service would object, vehemently. Bones kicked by vultures and falling from the sky might cause injury followed by the inevitable lawsuit.

The procession would include a gaggle of geckos including at least one tukó since it’s voice sounds both cheerful and a lament. Its song will touch the hearts bidding me good riddance and those who weep in sadness.

I would like a chorus of birds in the background, the same cacophony the rises Sun in the morning, a chime of Canyon Wrens sitting first chair trilling the most beautiful birdsong ever to delight my ears. Their descending trills a metaphor for the winding down of my life. Somewhere in the procession, a single mythical rattlesnake to guard my corpse against rodents until one of the last California Condors rips open my chest and sticks that nasty pink head between my ribs and eats my heart. And we rise to the heavens on spectacular black/white, yin/yang wings as wide as the sky itself.

Since Delicate Arch won’t be available, my corpse it to be strategically placed beneath a gnarled juniper. A touch of shade to guard against sunburn. Face me West so my milky eyes can enjoy every sunset until they are plucked out by Raven and gifted to a blind coyote so it can see the world in vivid color and rejoice, as I did, with sunrises and sunsets. I can envisage it stopping mid-hunt, mid-chew on a kangaroo rat and watching, mouth agape as the apricot rays fade to tangerine. Maybe the not quite dead rat will escape while Coyote is mesmerized.

The priest descends down from the pulpit. Shakes the aspergillum at the casket anointing with holy water. The now white swallows start flying in tight counterclockwise formation layer upon layer from floor to ceiling creating a whirlwind, a translucent, blood red whirlwind. I feel myself leave my body and float into the air. The hulk remains seated. I see my shadow. Dainty long wings. A swallow. I am a swallow and I can fly. I am lithe. I am agile. I am Bird.

I join the flock flying round and round at dizzying speeds maintaining a fine balance between centripetal sucking us into the middle force and centrifugal thrusting toward the wall force. The blood red contrails continue to slide into the whirlwind forming a funnel cloud. The tip dancing on top of the casket, tap dancing on the glass until a hole is bored right through. The glass shatters it into a thousand knife edged splinters slicing the air into ribbons. They, too, join the funnel and shoot up into the ceiling digging and twisting, carving a hole in the dark wood.

The soul, white as daylight, cleansed of sin, purged of impurity pulls away from the body into the calm at the center of the vortex where it hovers with face turned upward, arms reaching heavenward. We all, birds, soul, red whispering smoke slowly begin to ascend. Once through the bored hole in the roof, our speed increases both circular and upward. The more rapidly we fly the quicker we ascend, ascend through the damp clouds, through the cerulean sky, into space and still we ascend. We are headed toward a dot radiating white light, whiter than starlight. Is it a distant sun? My head tingles.

When I was in High School, I saw Supertramp live in 1979. It was my first concert. I was dressed in my coolest Rock and Roll denim vest, elephant flare bluejeans with side stitching, over a pair of Midwestern style cowboy boots. They were tawny with a squarish toe. None of that roach killer pointy toe shit the cow fuckers wear in Texas. I was probably wearing a $5 bootleg concert shirt purchased near the carpark. A friend drove freeing me to indulge in mind-opening substances. Our seats were 20th row almost dead center. We didn’t sit. Everyone stood on the folding metal chairs straining for the best sight line.

Late in the concert, the band jammed an extended version of the song Rudy including a synchronized video running on a big screen behind the band. The lyrics talk about Rudy riding a train to nowhere. The sound of a train chugging along. Subtle at first. The tempo of the song increased so did the locomotive until it was flying down the tracks at high speed. The screen image changed to black with a pinhole of white dead center. We were in a long, pitch dark tunnel except for the tiny dot on the horizon. The locomotive chug, chug, chugged. The song tempo increased. The dot grew bigger. Faster, faster until we exited the tunnel and were blasted by a full white screen. And I experienced the biggest head rush known to man with a force that knocked me off my feet and onto my ass in the seat of the chair.

This is how the ascension to the white light high in the sky felt. A slowly growing headrush. Our speed increases. The light comes closer, grows bigger, increases intensity. My eyes water against the speed we were moving and the friggin’ brightness of the immaculate light. I close my eyes tight to prevent my pupils from melting.

A voice at once feminine and masculine, gentle and kind spoke, “Welcome, my faithful servant.”

I feel a warmth from the pit of my stomach radiate outward, engulf me like I am swaddled in a blanket just out of the dryer and still hot. I force my eyes open. The light is still bright but I can make out a silhouetted figure between the machine gun eyelid blinks. Arms reach out from behind the light veil. My name is called. “David…David…” I am about to come face to face with God. “David…David…” I reach my wings toward the figure and feel a sharp pain in my side. “David…David…” distinctly feminine now.

“I am coming, Lord!” Again the sharp pain. I must be flying too fast or the thin air is making it hard to breathe.”

“David…” feminine and familiar?

“David, it’s picture time.”

“Pictures?” I open my eyes. I am still seated in the pew next to my wife. Her elbow caused the pain in my side. I can move again.

“Yes. I need you to take pictures of us around the casket. You will be in some, too.” There is a Philipino tradition of taking pictures of the family members standing around the casket. It dawned on me, during the days of the wake, people were taking selfies of themselves and the deceased in the casket. It felt almost morbid to my Western sense of decorum. But, it was a different culture and, as Pope Francis said, who am I to judge.

The remainder of the ritual was to walk behind the hearse to the above ground, vault cemetery. Most, including me, rode in cars to avoid the growing heat. At the cemetery, the casket was inserted into the concrete vault. This one was on the 2nd tier of three tiers. Many prayers were said. Rosaries swayed with the people’s emotion. I held an umbrella over my wife and myself so we wouldn’t collapse in the feverish weather. More prayers recited, ritualistic incantations spoken without thought as to their meaning.

The vault was sealed with cement while we watched then we walked back to the cars. Except for Tío Pat who hung around until the cement had dried and a name with date scraped prominently in the rough surface. A formal seal. Every tomb had the combination. I guess there are problems with people stealing from the graves and he wanted to make sure there was no funny business before the cement set solid. We returned to Auntie’s for another meal. While eating, I kept a wary eye out for the baby eating spider.

The next two days we spent at a mini resort in Tacloban where I did pretty much nothing except chill in the shade and write and drink and eat not Philippino food. Then it was an overnighter in Manila followed by a planned two and a half days at Busuanga Island Paradise in Coron, assuming the planes jumped on time.

Busuanga Island Paradise Resort

It was while checking in at Busuanga Island Paradise resort that I finally set eyes on a Tukó. Irene was completing the paperwork when a loud Tu-Koooooo sounded. Jenny, the manager, saw me searching the ceiling. She was tall for a Filipina, wore a baseball hat with the pony pulled through the back. Her face hinted at underlying features not quite Asian. I would learn later her father was an American. An Assistant Manager name tag was pinned to a white Busuanga polo. She wore knee-high water boots. It had rained every day for the past 21 days and was raining now. “Do you want to see the Tukó?”

“Yes,” I blurted excitement peaking on the inside.

She pulled a large picture frame part way from the wall. I peeked behind. Too much shadow. Easily remedied by the flashlight app from my iPhone. The bright white light helped me to see but it was still difficult to get a clear view even with my head pressed against the wall. Only one eye could see the lizard hiding high. My blue eye stared into vertical slit yellow eyes, very like Rattlesnakes. Cousins? It looked to be about 8 inches in total length including the deformed tail. Had it escaped the jaws of a predator?

“He’s a little one,” Jenny said. “There are lots of tukós here. Yesterday, I saw one twice the size at the pavilion.” Lot’s of tukós? Tukó promised land? Would I finally meet the spirit Tukó? There were only a few days left on our trip. Was I getting close?

The second evening, I am sitting in the outdoor pavilion in cross section with both fans enjoying the sounds of the jungle evening, switching between writing of my travels and reading poetry by Filipino author Nick Carbó. Half the books I read are translations by authors from the other countries. When visiting or planning to visit a country, I read at least one book from a local author with the aim to absorb a few cultural nuances. Obviously, the books have to be translated into English which limits the selection. And the profit motive further reduces the available topics to those appealing to English readers. Imperfect. But better than self-imposed isolation.

Anyway, I am switching between reading and recording our Philippine adventures in my travel notebook. Unlined, of course. Lined paper constricts writing to linear thinking. I like to think in other word flowing possibilities. A lovely tree frog hopping on the ground catches my attention. It is the color of brown, chlorophyll deprived leaves, dead leaves fallen from mother tree after their season turned. The legs are chicken thin, comical. Black eyes bulged from the head. I was tempted to catch it for closer scrutiny. But my words were flowing and I prefer to not interrupt flow.

I turn back to the table to grab my water bottle and am greeted by a very large tukó. It had to be at least 12 inches from toe to the tip of a very fat tail. Startled, I pulled my hand back. It didn’t move. There is no sign of fear in its eyes or body language. It stared. I stared back. There’s a glint in Tukó’s eye. There is very little ambient light so the glint must be emanating from an internal spark. I look deeper into the eyes through the vertical slit, beyond the gold flecks, and see the formation of the universe outside of time. The gold flecks are released by the explosion creating Earth. There were Canyons. Slot Canyon. A black Sphere.

A pink, almost human pink tongue, licks one eye then the other. Most geckos don’t have eyelids and are not able to blink. Like snakes, their eyeballs are covered with spectacles—transparent scales that protect them. Without moisture, gecko eyes can become dry like stone baked in a noonday sun. Swipes of the tongue keep them moist and clean, windshield wipers replacing instead of removing moisture. I sense a thought in my head. The thought feels like, “Dyu got sum ting para moi?” This could just be my mind playing tricks on itself. Then again, there is the distinct possibility this is the Spirit Tukó.

I reached into my shirt and pulled out the medicine bag. It was damp. Shit! We were snorkeling all day. The medicine bag was beneath my rash guard. I forgot to take it off. I open it up and pulled out the creamy flower. There is no movement inside the petals. Most likely worm is dead. Desert creatures and salt water are incompatible. Maybe, Tukó will still accept the offering.

I unfold the flower and lay it on the table exposing the worm. Tukó’s head bounces up and down in excitement. It licks both eyes double four time. It looks at me and back at the flower. Then it looks back and forth between the soy sauce bottle and the worm. I could have sworn Tukó did the Filipino lip point at the soy sauce bottle then again at the motionless worm.

Soy sauce is the number one condiment in this country, a land devoid of spicy foods. I have heard tell of a region enjoying fiery peppers but we have not set foot on that island. I planned to pack chili powder to add some pizazz but, in my haste, completely forgot. I was forced to suffer under the other two primary spices, salt and pepper. I grab the bottle and place a drop in the worm.

“Mu-Orrrrrr. Mu-Orrrrrrr.” Tukó bounces it’s head up and down. I sprinkle a few more drops on the worm. “Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrr! Mu-Orrrrrrr!” Tukó happy dances with every additional sprinkle.

“Okay”, I douse the worm until it is floating in a brown pool of the salty liquid.

Tukó, deftly and with lightning reflexes, grabs the worm. Chews once, twice then swallows. “Yu-Ummmmmm.” Wipes its mouth on the creamy flower leaving a brown stain looking like shit on toilet paper. “Yu-Um…” The second Yum is cut short. A look of disappointment clouds Tukó’s face followed by angry utterances. “De-Edddddd. No-Stooooryyy. No-Stooooryyy. De-Edddddd Fu-Quuuuuu! Bu-byyyyyy!” Tukó turns and waddled off. The body undulating like Snake but suspended on the four legs. It would have been comical were I not stunned and devasted it was leaving without informing me of my purpose. I feel tears well in my soul.

“Wait! I’m sorry. Worm’s death was an accident. I checked yesterday and it was still alive. It was an accident.” I brought it 8000 miles. Snuck it through customs carefully avoiding the sniffer dogs. “Don’t leave. I need to know. Rattlesnake told me you knew my purpose… don’t… don’t go.”

Tukó takes no heed. There is no indication it heard my words. If anything it speeds up. It waddles to the wall, climbs vertical with as much ease as I walk on flat, paved sidewalks, and disappears into the rafters.

Failure! All that effort getting Worm to the Philippines. Finally, meeting up with Tukó. What now? What now? I was on the edge of learning my purpose twice. One ended with a dream sequence conversation with Spirit Rattlesnake. This, the seconded, ended because a worm died. I was so close. It was a nightmare. Nightmare? Dream? Dream! And then it dawns on me…

I run into the night jungle, fall on my hands and knees at the base of a tree, and feel around for some soft loam. Mosquitoes buzz me. I dig with bare hands sifting the dirt through my fingers searching. One crawly. Too big. Mosquitoes ravage me. Poke and prod. I feel fleshy wigglers. Sweat burns my eyes. Mosquitoes pierce me. I pull out my phone, flick the light on. There. There. Gold. Grubs. Five grubs. I pick up two and tuck them into my medicine bag, hold two more in my hand.

I run out of the jungle. Grab my books and continue running into our room. I hadn’t run with such urgency in years. I grab the door with the muddy hand. The handle slips. I brush the mud off on my shorts, was able to turn the handle, and open the door. The room is still chilly. Amazingly chilly. So chilly, the cold-bloods would be sluggish.

I rush to the window. The mini gecko still clings to the diaphanous curtain. I grab the first grub between two fingers and held it out to the gecko. I move it slowly closer despite my rampaging heart and shaking hand. The gecko sniffs, licks with the pink moist tongue, then grabs the grub and gulps it down in one swallow. How I don’t know because the grub was almost half the length of the gecko. I show the second grub to the gecko and make sure it saw me stuff it into my ear.

“What on earth are you doing? Did you just put something in your ear?” Her toothbrush is still in her mouth.

I had forgotten my wife was in the room. I wave her down and shush her. “I’ll explain later.” I lean in close to the mini lizard. Hoping. Hoping. I feel the grub wiggling in my ear and have to fight the urge to pull it out. My hoping was rewarded by hopping. The gecko leaped from the curtain onto my ear then crawled into the ear canal. Where it, thankfully, gobbles up the grub.

“Yu-Ummmmmm.” I heard it say. “Thank-Youuuuu. I was so hungrrrrryyyy. Tired. Sleep now. Talk on the ‘morrow.” I could feel it circling like a dog then curling up and settling down in the warmth of my inner ear. It is pressed against my eardrum. At first, all sound was muffled. In a few moments, clarity returns. No. Clarity is enhanced. I can feel-hear its rhythmic breathing.

I am now equipped with a living translator, a Babel Gecko. Mission to speak with Spirit Tukó step one accomplished. Tomorrow I will seek the Spirit Being and attempt to convince he/she/it/they to continue our conversation. Until then, I have some mansplaining to do or I might be sleeping on the floor.

There’s Got To Be A Morning After

I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep, a sleep restful from eyes closed to eyes fluttering open. Not once did I stir awake the usual 2, 3, 4 times every night. I must not have snored for my wife did not nudge me awake during the night and tell me to go back to sleep. Or, I was so exhausted I was oblivious.

Is this attributable to the Babel Gecko silencing my voices? Or a long day island hopping to white sand beaches, swimming in warm crystalline waters, and snorkeling near reefs teeming with fish?

I slept for seven blissful hours and awoke percolating energy. I can feel Babel Gecko as a slight pressure in my ear canal. But, there is no movement. A small gecko barks by the mirror. It is amazing the volume coming from such small creatures. Just gecko speak. No translation. Babel Gecko must still be sleeping. I want to rush out to the pavilion and seek the spirit Gecko, Gecko with a big G just like the big G Gods. What use, though, if my Rosetta Stone is not awake?

I push the area around my ear, front, below and behind, hoping the pressure will nudge it awake. No joy. I contemplate sticking my pinky in my ear, the nail length should reach. It also might pierce Babel Gecko. Patience. I tell my self. Patience? Patience when every fiber of my body is stretched taut enough that any touch would vibrate in the audio range, a human harp singing?

The last time I felt this high strung was the first time I engaged with my wife in the biblical sense. That night I had a clear path to satiating crescendo and hours of cuddling relaxation. Now? No path, no physical path. Perhaps a run? No. My knees are ravaged and the humidity would wrap me like a warm, wet towel keeping me from losing heat and ripe for an internal meltdown. One heart attack is enough.

Rub one out? No, that would leave me with sticky fingers, a wet bed, and wake my wife from her deep slumber. Not a good choice. She prefers, strongly, to not be woken early in the morning. We still had a few hours before she needed to wake for our 2nd day hopping the pristine islands. I could write a few pages in my travel journal but the agitation would render my already poor scribbling unreadable even to me.

I ease out of bed, grab my Kindle, make a cup of Earl Grey and walk to the pavilion. There is still a few poems by Philipino poet Nick Carbó to finish in his book, El Grupo McDonalds, before wrestling with Octavio Paz. Nick’s imagery is straightforward, relatively easy to follow. Octavio lives in the surreal. The words are tangled, the images twisted yet still sing beauty to my warped soul, Romeo serenading Juliette, Napoleon invading wet Josephine, Eve giving sight to blind Adam. He requires deep concentration to extract meaning. Mostly, I play in the imagery because much of the meaning is beyond my comprehension. That should get my mind off the internal machinations driving me to agitation.

Considering I’m living a pseudo surrealistic life what with a talking Rattlesnake and now an animal voice translating Babel Gecko tucked in my ear, surreal is on par with my mindset. I expect my near future will be steeped in a warm tea of melting clocks and fish on tethers.

In the pavilion, I sit at the table designated ours by the hotel staff. It is roped off by a small sign bearing my wife’s name, an invisible, inviolate border. It is situated between two oscillating fans mounted high on the rafters at a ninety-degree angle ensuring a constant breeze from one side or the other. A breeze clearing mosquitoes and keeping me cool, sorta.

Fish Soup

Red Crabs and Rice!

When we first arrived and lunched at the pavilion, we were not enamored with our assigned table. We staged a coup and conquered another’s territory. We illegally immigrated to someone else’s table and squatted. And, you know what, we were comfy. The other couple was comfy. The world did not end.

I turn the fans on, open my Kindle. The backlight is too bright. I scale it down to a soft glow until the backlit display casts a gentle light, just right for reading.

I chose to sit in the pavilion hoping the return of Tukó, hoping the Spirit Being would forgive the accidental death of the yucca worm and speak the wisdom I needed to hear. I wait and wait. No reappearance nor would it show those golden eyes to me for the duration of our trip.

I read for a couple of hours, read until the thick, misty air glows dim gray-white, no apricot/tangerine sunrise this far into the jungle. I read until I hear the door click open and see my wife floating across the grounds her eye waving to and fro scanning for snakes with every step. We saw a nice grass snake our first day here. It crossed our path and slithered off into the taller grasses. She was not amused. Just out of bed, she is still as beautiful as the day I first laid eyes upon her in a Chicago restaurant and felt a tingling in my loins.

We eat the buffet breakfast, lots of scrambled eggs overcooked for me, peeled fruits, toast. She has a few cups of coffee, me another tea. A satisfying meal before heading out to the wet market to buy some freshly caught fish and the huge prawns our boatmen would cook a few hours later, food they would serve us while we rejoiced on the pearly beaches and swam beneath a cerulean sky in impossibly turquoise waters. Would Babel Gecko tag along for the adventure or take leave before we plunged into the depths?

Swimming with the Fishes

Our hotel is in the jungle, a twenty-minute van ride to the jumping off point for the water adventures. As much as I try to prod, and will Babel Gecko into a woke state, there is no movement in my ear canal.

At the wet market, the flies buzz, a few near dead fish gasp a spasm through their scaly bodies as they slowly drown in the thick air. It is the perfect time to expose my psyche to the pained fish. What were their final thoughts? No translation was forthcoming.

I know Babel Gecko is still there. I can feel the coolness of its tiny miniscule, cold-blooded body against my eardrum. Yet, I can neither hear nor feel breathing. Is it dead? Alive? Sleeping?

We will be snorkeling in the next hour and swimming most of the day. Dare I participate? It might drown and sever any possibility of guiding me. But, what’s to sever if non-reactive Babel Gecko is possibly dead? I send thoughts and prayers to it the entire boat ride.

The boats are traditional, double outrigger and sloooowww. One of our guides stands on the prow watching for submerged rocks.

I catch the boat crew sneaking looks at me speaking out loud to no one in particular. I’m sure it looks like I am spouting incantations the way a priest mumbles through a mass ritually performed a thousand times without variation. The thoughts and prayers did no good. Didn’t think they would. Thoughts and prayers are an illusory phrase spoke to assuage the guilt of people who won’t offer any real help but want others to view them as caring and helpful. More than anything, it is a shout to “Look at wonderful me!”

Our first stop, Siete Pescados, Seven fishes, an area rich in corals, a haven for mobile and stationary sea life.

I am not a fan of cold water except to drink and then prefer water that is as much solid as liquid. This intense dislike keeps me out of pools, lakes, and oceans. I learned yesterday this was not the case with the beach water. Today, we are further out. I tentatively descend the ladder into the ocean bay. The shock I experience when plunging in? The temperature is temperate. Not too cold, not cold at all. Perfect for a bubble bath after a long, long bike ride when on fire muscles need soothing.

The saltiness means buoyancy means no life jacket required…for me. I much prefer the mobility of swimming unencumbered. Irene, on the other hand, is less confident especially nervous when the bottom is more than twelve feet. She always wears a life jacket and uses me as a second flotation device. At times, it feels I am swimming for two. Mostly, I don’t mind the added work. It’s far better than two years ago when I had to snorkel alone in Belize because she was terrified of any water over her head. She has learned to swim with her next goal of learning to scuba dive. I am looking forward to that day. I love Scuba. I wonder, though, how she will take to more water above her than below.

Most of the time we snorkel, I am fumbling with my GoPro camera. I forgot the buoyant stick so must concentrate not to drop it. The floor is thick with coral. The GoPro would sink like a rock and disappear. I don’t like sticking my hands in places I cannot see when in the ocean. Too many critters with spikes and sharp teeth.

Her confidence grows. Short forays on her own become more common. I make sure to keep an eye out so I, in my fish searching excitement, don’t wander too far. Why excited? So many colorful fish. Some only previously seen on television and in professional aquariums.

There is stick, fan, and brain corals, all beautiful, each attracting their own fish species. The fish forage around the coral branches or, like the parrot fish, nibbling algae formed on the coral. Most exciting for me, aside from my wife discovering and showing me a striped sea snake later in the day, is the bulbous puffer fish with the tiny fins looking more like an overstuffed condom than a denizen of the deep. By color, it is nondescript.

It swims like a dirigible. Slowish. Not very linear. The bulky head resembling more a battering ram than a sleek, slicing missile. I follow hoping it will puff up balloonish. No luck. No predator to strike fear in its heart. Nor does this hairy hominid seem threat enough to trigger the instinct for self-preservation.

“Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I spot a Dory fish or a fish similar in shape and color to Dory. Possibly a blue tang. Not being a tropical fish expert, I can’t say for sure. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.” I realize I am hearing a fish speaking. “Just keep swimming.” Babel Gecko is obviously awake and translating.

“Yes, David, I am.”

“You am? You are? You are what”

“Just am. I am.”

The Old and New Testament God’s used the phrase, “I Am”, to hint at their existence pre-time. It is interpreted by Christian scholars as a declaration of divinity. Here I am, a snorkeling human immersed in a world of water breathers, salt-water breathers enjoying the otherworldly experience. My focus is on simple enjoyment. It seemed Babel Gecko is gearing up for philosophical sparring.

I simply want to be deep under not to think deep while under. I enjoy floating, partially submerged with a mask and a mouthpiece stuffed into my speaking hole with a tube extending into the air. Perhaps I can just ignore the distraction. physically, speech is impossible. I can just keep swimming pretending to be oblivious.

“Wait for it?”

“Wait for…shit.” We already had a brief conversation. Babel Gecko is plugged into my head. Verbal words are unnecessary.

“There you go man, keep as cool as you can. Face piles and piles…”

“… of trials with smiles. It riles them to believe that you perceive the web they weave and keep on thinking free.” The little bugger is quoting song lyrics now. “Why the Moody Blues?”

“Do you remember the opening lyrics to that song?”

“Of course I do. ‘I think, I think I am, therefore I am, I think.'”

“Yes, my bright little star. You think therefore You are. Or, You am as I are.”

I looked back to find my wife. She is a few meters away and seems to be enjoying herself. There is no fear in her body language.

“Because we both are, David, I am able to connect with you at the thought level. Words are so primitive, a waste of energy, and enslaved to a specific language. Thoughts are universal, exist outside the limits of language. Only the simplest thoughts can be dumbed down to words. Except for the poets. Poets extended words beyond mere scratches on a page. They are able to create a bouquet of images, layers of meaning, nuanced implications with a sparsity of words, imagery dense forests with desert symbolism.”

“I enjoy poetry, too. But, I must admit, much of what I read is beyond my comprehension.” I think back to Octavio and the challenge of finding coherence in his imagery.

“That’s because of your propensity to interpret poetry with logic. One can’t think poetry. It must be felt. Poetry is an experience. Allow it to wash over you like the apricot rays of sunrise. Feel poetry don’t think poetry.”

I’m an engineer. Logic is everything. Am I an Engineer because I was born thinking logical or do I depend upon logic for because I am educated in Engineering? “How does one suspend logic?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been human, never been constrained by words or logic. We in the non-human space are fully aware logic is illogical.”

“How, then, do you survive?”

“How do we survive? It’s a wonder any of you humans survive. Logic is used to manipulate thinking thus beguile humans. Human logic says my side needs enough ‘defensive’ nuclear weaponry to blow up the world 10 times because the other side can do it three times. If both sides can destroy Earth one time then there is enough to destroy earth twice. Why is more needed? To line the silk undershorts of the greedy powerful who already possess more money than they can use in twenty lifetimes. It’s all about ego stroking.”

“I always, always knew nuclear escalation was warped thinking, twisted logic.”

“We animals survive by instinct. Emotion. Connection to the Collective Consciousness allows us to experience the energy of all life forms, including humans. The closest word in your language is empathy but our universal web is an amplifier making it broader and deeper.”

“For example?”

“Remember the balloon fish you were following?”

“Balloon fish?” In my mind, I saw Puffer fluttering near the coral. “Do you mean Pufferfish?

“Yes. Pufferfish. You were trying to spook it so it would inflate its body.”

“Um…ya.”

“I was still in a state of semi-consciousness yet felt it screaming in distress.”

“Distress?”

“Of course, distress. How would you feel with a hairy alien one hundred times your size following you around?”

“Ok. I get your point.”

“I have not made my point. For Puffer to puff requires significant energy use. Energy must be replenished by food. A short while ago it expanded to ward off a hungry eel. Eel induced stress then you added to the stress nudging our friend toward a nervous breakdown. I smelled the stress in the water, felt the fear-tension radiating through Universal Consciousness. All beings near Puffer experienced the stress, all except you and the other humans preferring to think in thought. Sharks are drawn to the stress lines and the implication of weakened, easy prey. To protect us all, including you, I distracted you with this conversation. Puffer was free to bumblebee swim away on those tiny fins dissipating stress. We are all connected. It is just you fool humans have ignored it for so long it seems to be erased from your DNA. Or your logical thinking has blinded you from our interconnectedness. You are welcome, by the way.”

“Welcome?”

“Yes, the shortest path between the sharks and the stress nucleus radiator was through your wife.”

“Huh? Oh. Oh! Thank You!”

“De nada, mon ami.”

“You just mixed Spanish and French. Are you multilingual?”

“No. Thought communicators don’t need to speak in any specific language. Have you not been paying attention? You interpreted my thoughts with words in your comfort zone.”

“The bounce between human languages, Daveed, shows a sensitivity to Universal Consciousness. Perhaps Rattlesnake was correct and there is hope, a plan for your life. Perhaps you are not just aimlessly wandering between birth and death.”

For part of our conversation, I was feeling stupid.”Of course, I’m not wandering aimlessly.” How quickly it changed to pissed when my worldview was challenged. “My life has a purpose. I have always sensed a greater calling, a heightened sense of the spiritual, a visceral connection with creation centered in the power emanating from the rocks around Moab. My struggle has always been understanding why I am sensitive to the spiritual and how I am supposed to serve the world. In other words, my purpose for being born. Rattlesnake gave me hope. He told me you held the answers.”

“I am not here to tell. I don’t have answers. My role is to give you a key with which you will open doors. I hint at possibilities. I point toward futures. I…I…I need a rest. Filtering through your mind gyrations trying to find coherence is exhausting. How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Maintain sanity.”

With those words hanging in the water. Babel Gecko stopped talking presumably to nap leaving me to ponder the soundness of my thinking and mental life.

Fun in The Sun

We, Irene and I, spend the remainder of the day basking in the glorious Philippines taking advantage of the beautiful weather, idyllic waters, and the serenity of the most beautiful white sand beaches in our world. The water and beaches in greater Coron. We choose to limit our movement on this second-day of island hopping. Day one we hit five different sites. Today, only two. There is a lot to be said for deep experience over wide. Both have their place. Today we needed deep tissue massage.

We spend the majority of our time at Malcapuya Island. The boat parked in a beautiful bay. We take a short walk to the shaded huts looking over a stunning bay. What’s the difference between beautiful and stunning? The angle of the sun glinting off the gentle waves singing when they brush over the sand. The texture of cool sand beneath bare feet too long encumbered by shoes, and the way the ivory whiteness kisses the incoming waves. The turquoise water against a backdrop of an impossibly blue sky sliced with wispy clouds high above cottony cumulus. Seeing my bronzed wife in a sexy one-piece emerging from the ocean looking more mermaid than a human. And many other subtleties felt deep in the soul.

We eat a leisurely lunch. A dirty white dog visits coaxed in by Irene. It looks halfway between fox and dog with the pointed ears and long, narrow snout, and bushy tail. She has elongated, swollen teats, a nursing mother. Where were her pups? I feel the word thirsty. Is Babel Gecko sleeping or has our connection become so intertwined translation supersedes Babel Gecko sleep? Irene gives the fox-dog water from our supply. “You’re giving our water to the dog? What if we run short? It’s very hot.”

“She’s thirsty.” Squatting next to the dog pouring water into her cupped hand which the dog eagerly laps. “She has puppies and needs the water more than we do.”

“How did you know she was thirsty?” It was a dumb question I should not have bothered to ask. She has a connection with dogs that shames my connection with humans. Dog empathy. Animal empathy.

“I could feel it.”

The dog consumes the better part of a liter and chowed down on the leftover fish heads and skeleton ensuring not a morsel goes to waste. Energy ensuring milk will flow and puppies have a chance to become dogs.

There is a big clam a ways out. Locals are giving rides where one has to hang onto the outriggers in the water while they putt-putt to the location. My preference is to swim and see it. We opt for neither. There is enough to explore nearer shore and we only have enough pisos remaining to tip our boatmen.

Our final stop before the hour-long, slow boat back to Coron is a sandbar. We can see the connected island across the strait. Deep massage or wider massage? I am so relaxed, either suits me. We cross to the sandbar. Only, it isn’t just a sandbar. It was but it isn’t now. Best of all, we are the only ones visiting. Peace and solitude.

It is later afternoon, tide on the rise. What was an exposed sandbar in the morning is now a submerged beach bar. A bar without drinks. A Mai Tai would be perfect. We walk on the submerged beach bar. The water is barely above our knees. In the center, an isolated rock outcropping attracts small fish the way light attracts moths only these thrive on algae instead of being cooked when touching the light.

Around the back of the island, rocks and coral abound as do fish. Not nearly the variety we enjoyed at Siete Pescado but equal in quantity. I see another parrot fish notable for their almost fluorescent coloration. The fish swim in mixed color, mixed species clusters, choosing to intermingle without the small-minded prejudice plaguing humanity. Inter-species harmony. My guess is they are not burdened by religiosity and the division wrought by practitioners of the faiths. They come together based on the content of each others character.

The Last Conversation with Tukó

“You are partially correct, David.” Babel Gecko speaks.

“Partially correct about what?”

“The fish people, all peoples but humans, exist in a perpetual state of worship. This is different than humans who set apart a designated time to honor the creator, a begrudging hour a week. Even that pittance is enough to win the label ‘zealot’ or ‘pious’. Each being exists in harmony with their creator never trying to impose their way of life. Parrotfish does not demand Shark become a vegan. Unlike your ilk believing it is a godly faith to ball gag your truth into the souls of those believing differently. Deep-throating others inevitably leads to retribution and the puking of holy wars.”

“How are the other beings different when Shark eats Parrotfish? Isn’t that ball gagging belief too? I’m sure Parrotfish doesn’t believe being eaten allows it to pursue Parrotfish faith.” I had Babel Gecko this time. Logic turned against diatribe.

“No.” Subtle chuckle. “That is each being existing true to their unique design.”

“And just how is that different?”

“To begin with, humans put their own faces on the gods. The Catholic god is white. The Islamic god is swarthy. You all carve division out of harmony. It should be obvious that each human religion creates god in their own images. We don’t put a mask on Universal Consciousness, ultimate reality, whatever you want to call it. Every other being from Rock to Microbe to the ancient Tree people are in a continuous state of worship every moment of their existence. There is no division between life and worship. They wake in worship. Sleep in worship. Dream in worship. Eat and procreate as an act of worship. An elephant never wishes to be a bird or even another elephant. Each exists in their moment, in the present maximizing their uniqueness.”

“Hmm…this sounds kinda Buddhist?”

“Yes. The Buddha was approaching Universal Consciousness but it was still an oblique angle mostly missing the crux. Each being exists as itself. Accepts the uniqueness of all others. None seek to be another. They exist within their purpose. Outside of man, there is never any animal, despite the anthropomorphized stories in your fairy tale books, that seeks to be something outside themselves, their purpose.

“Their purpose? They have a purpose?”

“Yes, purpose. The essence you are so desperate to discover. Do you know, you embodied your purpose at birth? But, like most humans, you lost it seeking joy and contentment outside yourself. Your journey is not one of discovery. It’s about reconnecting with your inner self, unweaving your own craziness.”

“I guess that makes sense.” It actually is more logical than I am willing to admit to a lizard. Inwardly, I have always felt restless, disconnected. It makes sense that I am on a quest to find a lost part of myself. But I don’t relay this to the Babel Gecko. I don’t want to endure another soliloquy on the illogic of human logic.

“Young David, you are on a journey.”

“I’m not young.” I’m feeling smug and annoyed.

“Before you were, I was. I’m older than Methuselah, was a witness to creation itself.”

I felt my head tilt like an inquisitive dog.

“I sense it is dawning on you. Yes, I am the Spirit Gecko, the Tukó foretold by Rattlesnake.”

“But…but…you are so tiny? How? How? What about the worm eater?”

“You foolish humans always thinking bigger is better. Sometimes, I wonder why we bother to protect your race. The worm eater was a pretender. The woman you encountered when arriving at Tacloban, as you correctly surmised, was a decoy. Worm eater and the woman are small ‘s’ spirit geckos. Did you not see the woman lick her eyes?”

“Hmmm. Protect our race? The human race?”

“Yes, but that is a topic for another time. I have been around since the beginning…”

“Beginning of what??”

“…the beginning of the beginning. By comparison you, young David, have existed for less than one one-hundred-thousandth the tick of a clock.”

“By that reckoning, I have less than the one-thousand-thousandth before I die. I guess I am both old and young relative to you.” I couldn’t help but be a smartass.

“What makes you think life ends with death? Have you considered death is the beginning and birth an end?”

“Riddles! You are as frustrating as Rattlesnake was before he wooshed back into his rock leaving a scar chiseled into its surface. Let’s rewind. You said I am on a journey?!?!” half question, half declaration.

“Yes. A long journey and I am, as was Rattlesnake, but a link in a disjointed chain wrapped through history connecting discontiguous time passages. I can see all the links back to before the beginning of your great, great grandparents and a few into your future. You, David, are on a hero’s journey. I am one of many advisors.”

“Many advisors? How man… Hold on. A hero’s journey?” Joseph Campbell wrote extensively about the mythology of the hero’s journey underpinning many world faiths. Is Babel Gecko telling me I’m to be the founder of a new faith? A prophet? A god? What shall I call my faith system? But there are issues. “A hero’s journey needs a hero and a dragon to slay.”

“Your quest is to rediscover the purpose you lost after toddlerhood. In that context, you are both hero and dragon. To slay the dragon is to slay yourself. Game over?”

“Wait. You said death is the beginning.”

“Correction, A beginning.”

“A beginning. If I slay myself I would be both dead and at a new beginning simultaneously. A Shroedinger’s cat paradox and I’m the pussy in the box. I would be dead to this life and alive to a new life. Like The Christ, resurrected into God.”

“Correction, a god. Are you able to retain any information? Why do I bother? There are many, many gods and Gods.”

“Again, you sound like Rattlesnake. Are you the same Sprint only shapeshifted?”

“What is Snake but Lizard without legs? By and by, never trust the words slipping off the fork tongues. They split truth. Rattlesnake is the definition of dichotomy. I think I already explained this.”

“Let’s back up,” I said. “You danced around my question. If I slay the dragon thus myself and death is a new beginning, am I to die and resurrect a God?”

“I said to consider the possibility. Compare it with water and ice. When water is warmed to 32 degrees it begins to melt. Cool water to 32 degrees and freezing starts. As one dies, the other is birthed. Death equals life. Life equals death. At 32 degrees is the coexistence of life and death, a perfect balance of living stabilizing dying, death stabilizing life.”

“Are you saying, if I slay my dragon, I will birth myself? But that means I have always been the dragon and the hero never was. Or am I in an equilibrium environment so I am both dragon and hero at this moment? Damn, this is confusing.”

“You are confused because you persist with thinking in thoughts. There is understanding that cannot be explained by primitive human thought. This is one of them.”

“Primitive thought? Human thought is the essence of intelligence. It is by thinking and thought that we ascended….”

“Your kind are so enthralled with thought you have lost the balance of empathic feeling. Need I remind you, it is thinking and thought that devised the atomic bomb. It is thinking and thought that kills for pleasure beyond the need for food. It is being handcuffed by thinking in thought that warps human philosophy until destroying the very habitat sustaining you is rationalized as logical. Because you refuse to experience life outside of thought, you are bringing destruction to many of the plant people and animal people not to mention the pending obliteration of the human people. How the Fu-Quuuuuu does that pass for intelligence?”

No snappy comebacks come to mind. No red herrings to derail Tukó allowing me a face-saving coup de gras and exit stage left. What to do? Simple. Do nothing, no thing. Remain silent. Terminate thinking. Halt thought. Float away on the thin ice of a new day. I unfocus my eyes and hover face down, submerged ears connected to the ebb and flow murmuring of Ocean’s soul brushing against my eardrums, a one-inch diameter breathing tube connecting me to sweet air. Yin-yang. Fish and human. Ommmm. Ommmm.

“David.”

“Huh? What?”

I am not sure how long I dwelt outside of thought in the amniotic paradise. Was it seconds? Minutes? Longer? Nine months? Whatever the duration, I return to awareness feeling relaxed, freshly emerged from a chrysalis after a long, restful sleep. I would like to say transformed physically but I am still an aging redhead carrying too much weight around my midsection. The caterpillar stayed a caterpillar.

“David, can you sense me?

“I can hear you.”

“I haven’t been talking”

“You’re not talking? Then, I am tuned into your thought waves. I guess I am sensing you.”

“Before I go….”

“Go? Go where?”

“Away. I’m leaving.

“Nooo!”

“You should be used to separations by now. Did you not tell Rattlesnake everyone leaves you?

“Ya. Doesn’t mean I like being abandoned.”

“I have imparted to you what I had to impart.”

“Whatever…how can you leave when I’m still a mess.”

“A mess?”

“Yes. You asked how I maintain sanity. I am out of order and will not find my peace until harmony is attained. Harmony with what? Harmony with everything. Including myself. I’m thinking Nirvana on earth. Peace in my soul.”

“What you desire is not a one-time event. Order, itself is an illusion. Harmony, on the other hand, once found requires maintenance to sustain the beauty state.”

“How will I know when I enter the beauty state?”

“The natural world will accept you as one of them. You will be able to understand their essence without the need of an intermediary like me. You will be outside of mere thought and sense the universality of all life. You will be comfortable existing in both the thought and empathy.”

“What about my purpose? How will I know.”

“David, you are on a vision quest. Neither snake nor I can reveal your purpose because it is hidden from us as well. Purpose is not a single destination. It’s a series of destinations. Purpose evolves over time. Rattlesnake was able to point you toward me because I was a near future. Your next future is beyond my vision and my dreams. But my dreaming of future events is imaginary. There is no future as there is no past. It is always present. Always I am. Always you are. I can tell you this..be open. The next spirit may be very large or very small, tree or insect or any being between including rock. It may be nonambulatory requiring you to sit still for days. Keep your spirit open so you don’t miss the sign. There is no saying how many guides hold links in your chain.”

“Sure, I will remain open, leave my spirit raw flapping in the breeze.”

Gecko popped out of my ear. It floundered in the water’s great strength. The ocean was pushing me around and I was infinitely heavier than tiny Tukó. I tried to reach for it but the waves pushed and pulled us in different directions. I thought it might drown. Until it’s tiny tail grew into a fishtail. Scales flipped out of the lizard skin on the bottom half the body. The upper changed into a woman, the spitting image of the raggedy lady at the chicken stand. Still gecko green but definitely the woman. It grew as long as my leg. Shapeshifter. With a few strong flicks of its tail, it disappeared into the distance. But not before singing in a high, melodious voice, “Remember…Spirit Beings come in all shapes and sizes…some are not ambulatory…”

That was the last I saw or heard from Tukó. The boat trip back to Coron took us into a squall of dark clouds, eventually releasing a heavy rain. It rained through the evening and the next day causing a slight delay in our Palawan-Manila flight.

Aside from the reason taking us to the Philippines, it was a good trip. We had space away from tourism to experience untarnished native life and for Irene to reconnect with childhood memories and the people making them special. And we had a couple days of tourism visiting some of the most beautiful beaches and waters the world has to offer.

The next day, Chicago via Taiwan. Most of the trip I mulled over and over the conversations with Tukó. Sticking like a barbed hook in my craw was the phrase that not all Spirit Beings are ambulatory. In my opaqueness, I sensed a clue. The second leg, the long leg was on a Hello Kitty themed plane from the flight attendant aprons to the eating utensils topped with Kitty. I found it trite, childish. Irene thought it cute. I didn’t touch the Ambien.

The Fat Tailed Lizard in the Philippines (Seeking Tukó) Awakened by a Demon The demon screeched as if being tortured in the pits of hell where every last inch of its flesh was flayed and the writhing, skinless, oozing body was dipped in rock salt and set on a slow-burning flame.

[jbmcdonald-blog]

More blog than anything, but...

I think I’ve seen tumblr used as a blog...? I had an author blog, but it’s pretty much defunct at this point. These are thinky thoughts, but lacking a blog I use on a regular basis, I might as well have my thinky thoughts here. ;)

So. In Real Life, I pay my bills by training dogs. It’s a great happenstance that I managed to be really good at two things in life: writing and dog training. It’s a small miracle that I like both and can make a living at one while still working on the other.

Again, IRL, I’m one of the only dog trainers in the SF Bay area that will work with dogs who are aggressive toward people. (I heard a rumor years ago there was another, and I think there must be one slightly farther south, but I’m not sure. My asking around hasn’t gained me much.) As it happens, I also have VERY good results. So, enough backstory so you know what’s going on: 10:30 at night, July 3rd, I was driving home and saw a collar-less old dog (I thought) wandering just about half a mile from my house. Being me, I stopped to pick him up. Only because of my heavy background in dog behavior, body language, training, and aggression, did I spot there was An Aggression Problem. By the end of this week, shuffling through clues (behavioral, factual, vet-opined, and various other ways) I now believe he was a failed fighting dog (because he’s too nice to succeed at that), around 3 years of age, badly abused as an adult but not a puppy, able to be rehabilitated, and needing lots of vet care. So the last week has been setting up a gofundme and posting everywhere asking for help (please please please do not start asking me questions and whatnot without checking the gofundme link for answers, because they’re probably there - I’ll post it in another post), working heavily with the dog to make him safe, testing him out with my amazing, awesome, wonderful dogs (I owe them several steak dinners at this point), taking him to and from the vet an hour plus away (because that vet, those techs, receptionists, etc know me in my dog training form, and will let me do things they would NEVER let anyone do -- “Hey, guys, I’m bringing in a pittie who’s afraid of people and will growl and lunge if you look at him too long. It’s cool if we don’t muzzle him, right? I promise I’ll walk you through not getting bit. 0:D” Which, in turn, helps dramatically with rehabilitating), answering questions, sending thank-yous for donations, and ever more training. Also, not sleeping well.

ALL THAT is just the backstory.

Basically, it’s like when people want me to re-train their dog who also happens to need vet care. Except I’m not getting paid, so I can’t hire done the obnoxious life stuff I now have no time for, like cleaning the house. Since Dog (Flea, actually) is also intact and has never been in a house before, this means he’s also being destructo-dog and marking, so I have to watch him like a hawk when he’s inside. This is not relaxing. To relax I put him in his crate or outside, and then deal with my guilt. >.>

ALL THIS to say, I’m basically overworked. Normally, my life is like this: 1 week per month I board dogs. Every other month or so, I board for two weeks. When I’m not boarding dogs, I try to write minimum 4 hours per week.

Right now, I have the work of boarding, without the pay, and feeling like I should write. Okay, now we get to the meat of my post.

When I’m overworked, I veg out. I don’t write well. I watch TV and play Candy Crush, and then wonder why I have a headache. It can’t be staring at screens, surely. >.> Now, this is the exact opposite of what’s good for me. I mean, this is good for me for a day to two, to unwind and relax. But after that, I do much better if I’m writing/blogging/walking dogs/being productive. Right now is my “writing time.” It’s easy enough to leave the house so I can get that done, but do I do it? Nooooo. I feel guilt over what I think I “should” be doing (working with Flea every minute of the day, except when I’m working with my own dogs because they need to know they’re not being replaced, except except when I’m actually working or cleaning the house, except except except when I’m getting my horse out), which makes me less productive instead of more so, which makes me bury myself in TV and Candy Crush, and then I stay up too late, wake up too late, drag through the day, am too tired to function except for TV and Candy Crush, feel guilt, stay up too late, wake up too late...

Healthy: Getting exercise (which, I swear to god, is a word I will NEVER BE ABLE TO SPELL). Going to bed on time. Writing if it’s writing weeks, working with dogs if it’s boarding weeks. Have some downtime, with as little screen time as possible - especially in the evenings.

The totally 100% self destructive cycle: what I am currently doing.

Today is a great example: Me: I should get up and either take Flea out to socialize, my dogs out to walk, write, or go see my pony for pony therapy. Also me: Yes, I should. Let’s play Candy Crush. Me: Wait-- that’s not-- ooooh, look, shiny. Also me: Right? You deserve this break. You’ve earned this break. Your life is haaaaaarrrrrrrd. Me: ...I got out of bed four hours ago and all I’ve done is thirty minutes of emailing and texting clients and three and a half hours of playing Candy Crush or watching Lost In Space. Or as I like to say, LOOOOOOSST IIIIIIIN SPAAAAAACE! Also me: LOOK! SHINY! Me: I really do need to get to work. This argument has been going on for an hour now. Also me: Fuck that. Me: No! Work! Look, if you just get up, you can have sugary cream with a little coffee in it. Also me: Just play until this life is over. Me: Okay, I’m all out of lives. I should-- Also me: Facebook! Let’s just check Facebook really quick! Me: I need to GET UP. Just GET UP. Then you can even sit back down. Also me: But then what will you do? Walk your dogs? You’re running out of time in the day, now. If you walk your dogs, you may not have time to write. Me: Then I’ll write. Also me: But your dogs have been cooped up, and you know Lily gets depressed if she doesn’t get out. Oh, and don’t forget you have to do Cash’s physical therapy. You missed yesterday. Me: And I only got the exercises for him two days ago... Also me: So, so far, utter failure there. Look, Candy Crush has reloaded another life... and if you just delay for five minutes, it’ll load ANOTHER life. Me: ...I should get up and do something. Also me: But what will you choose to do, therefore choosing not to do something else? Me: I’m going to get my dogs out and then go see my pony. I’ll enjoy that. Also me: So that’s the priority now? I thought you were making writing a priority? Me: Okay, so I’ll write FIRST, then-- Also me: Oh, so you’re going to run the risk that you won’t get the animals taken care of today? Shouldn’t they be your priority? Their lives, health, and happiness depend on you. They’re ALIVE. They should ALWAYS be the priority. Me: Okay, so first I’ll take Flea to the park for socializing. Then I’ll write, get the pony out, and take dogs walking when it’s cooler, this evening. Also Me: You know you often end up skipping the last thing. Are you prioritizing this new dog over your own dogs? Me: ...what? Also me: Just saying, which is more important? New dog or your dogs? Me: ...I... Also me: Or the horse? She’s in a box stall. She’s cooped up unless you get her out. Do you think she’s happy like that? Me: Okay, pony first, then-- Also me: YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE PRIORITIZING WRITING. Me: *sits down in defeat and plays Candy Crush or watches TV for the rest of the day.*

I read once, recently, in somethingorother on how to talk to people, that the second you say “Yes, but” what you’re really saying is, “No,” or “I disagree,” or “you’re wrong.” I’ve held that up whenever I want to say “Yes, but” to someone, and found that it’s not always true. But (haha), it’s definitely true for me in this situation.

Furthermore, I know that if I get up and start doing something, anything, I’ll continue doing more things, and I’ll feel better. That doesn’t help actually get me up, though. I know that if i keep sitting there, I won’t do any of it and I’ll be unhappy and the cycle will continue. That doesn’t help, either. I know that to make myself happier, I need to get up and be productive, and/or exercise, and/or eat better, etc. It doesn’t make me do it.

My dad has been in AA for most of my life. (34 years? Something like that.) He talks about his drinking days, and thinking, “Just put the glass down, you don’t need another sip,” and then taking another sip as if his arm belonged to someone else. I get that. It’s exactly how this feels, especially once the cycle starts. Normally I can help end the cycle by taking a day or two and going to my honey’s house, leaving my dogs (and even boarders) with my assistant trainer for a night or two. This time I can’t even do that, because Flea is so twitchy. He’s doing AMAZING, but a set back right now would break me and slow down his progress dramatically. I don’t feel like I can trust him with others unsupervised, yet. His signals that he needs space are just too easy to miss.

I kind of think of this as the “But” phase of the cycle, the hardest one to get out of. I need to get up/but I’m so tired. I should do something/but what should I do. I need to prioritize my dogs/but what about these other things I want to prioritize.

It’s exhausting. Meds help (for anxiety and ADD), but not always enough. The cycle just has to be broken. Easier said then done. >.> But hey! I’m blogging. That counts as writing, so one step out of the hole I’ve dug. It took me three hours from the time I decided to do it until I actually managed to do it, but I still managed in the same day. That’s something, right? RIGHT.