#i am so thankful that people read my silly little trifles that were just ideas or self indulgent dreams

[moonmoonthecrabking]

i smile like such an absolute dork when someone enjoys my fanfiction btw

[the-moon-prince]

The Last Of us~Kurapika x Reader ~Chapter III

 AN: Hi my lovely fellows!

I finished the third chapter! Made with love and care for your enjoyment. I know this one is shorter, and I'm sorry. But I trust you will like it despite that detail! I made it extra fluffy, after the angst of the anterior, we all deserve a sweet.

I wish you a pleasant read, and I hope you’ll enjoy the new chapter of my story.  (Chapter I) (Chapter II) (Chapter IV coming soon!)

Paring: Kurapika Kurta x GN! Reader

Word count: 2 111

TW: None!^

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was clear something changed in Kurapika after that night. It didn't go unnoticed by Melody. She noticed in the rhythm of Kurapika's heart that the man's grief was lighter. Not to mention discreet short glances the young man sometimes gave (Y/n) when they were in the same room or how he tended to stay closer to them. Kurapika's heart longed in the days when (Y/n) was not at the Nostrade mansion. 

And for Kurapika? He was neither oblivious of that change. He taught about how (Y/n) would serve him tea or coffee each time they did for themselves. He noticed the characteristic small manias no one else appeared to remark about (Y/n); like the silly way they stood with their hands in front of their chest when nervous, they touched their hair when they were concentrating on their work. Or even their nervousness around crowds. Despite the warmth that thoughts about (Y/n) gave him, they also filled him with doubts and fear. That person saw a side of him that very few had seen. On one hand, it made him feel less lonely, and he shared the burden of his soul with someone who, seemingly, comprehended him. On the other, it was his ugliest side. Don't get me wrong, at no point did he believe his cause was erroneous. It was the fear of lowering his defenses further, which had allowed him to survive so far, to at the end losing someone dear again.

There laid the dilemma. 

~

On Saturday evening, as was customary (Y/n) went to "keep her company"-as Neon referred to her therapy. Neon, her bodyguards, and (Y/n) were in the girl's room; while she just played with her stuffed animals. Neon being herself, talked a lot about her pastimes and trifles. And then it happened. The trigger pulled. "You know, (Y/n) you're dumb sometimes." Neon said directly in the face of the mentioned. Kurapika did not appreciate the insult to his "darling"- Being his boss he couldn't face Neon directly nor punch her, although the desire was not lacking. In the end, Kurapika ended up saying, with a slightly irritated tone, sincerely "Neon, it's time for the pause, we'll all go take a breath" Without Neon giving any value to the subject, she permitted everyone to go. (Y/n) sticking to their routine, headed to the employee kitchen to prepare coffee, and began to boil water. Kurapika also followed, aspiring somehow to comfort them-only something lost in how- stated "That was rude. Are you upset?"

(Y/n) turned to see him, inclined their head, smiled, and denied "No at all! She's right. When I was a child, someone throws a rock at my head, and I ended up like this." - responded teasing, possibly to relieve Kurapika's worries- "Plus, it's not her fault... I mean... she said it, but she's entirely unaware of the impact of her actions on others... Not because she's mean, I'm not trying to be impolite."- they added, gaining a disconcerted look from Kurapika.-"Neon has a dissociative disorder. She has lived in her distorted bubble all her life. Consequently, she disconnected from the consequences that her actions may have!"- (Y/ n) explained excitedly to Kurapika. Their enthusiasm, more than their tone of voice, was also reflected in small movements that (Y / n) made with its hands. Inadvertently, Kurapika smiled, considering their enthusiasm adorable. To finally recognize how charming (Y/n) was to him. 

~

Kurapika was sure he wanted to decide the whole condition with (Y / n), but he was still confused about what to do. He inferred that the wisest choice was to request advice. Next, he led towards the only other person he recognized as his friend in that place. Melody knew that Kurapika was young and inexperienced after all.

"I'm unsure about what to do, Melody. They've greatly helped me with something crucial to me, and I'm appreciative. (Y/n) is charming to me. They're so patient, thoughtful, and kind. I enjoy their company.

But what if it's not worth the trouble? It's illogical; we have known each other for roughly three months. They might not accept it or disappear. I can't permit myself to get disturbed." -Kurapika voiced all the insecurities he had. After a moment of meditation, Melody replied.

"I believe you like them. (Y/n) appears to make you happy, that's true. When they helped you, did they judge you, did they left?"-Melody tried to make Kurapika question his insecurities.

"Not at all; they were pretty reliable."-Kurapika answered, staring away. Melody gave him a sweet smile and continued-"If they proved themselves trustworthy, they merit a chance. I think you deserve to allow yourself a chance. I believe it will do good for you."

"Thank you, Melody." And he returned a sincere smile.

Likewise, Kurapika decided to take his chance. 

~

Already 7:30 pm and the workers of the Nostrade house were leaving. (Y/n) was preparing their bag when they felt a slight touch on the shoulder. Kurapika quickly took a step backward when (Y/n) instinctively shrunk in surprise at his touch. They promptly looked at Kurapika, who cleared his throat before speaking. "(Y/n) do you care to stay a little longer. I require to tell you something."

The mentioned one gave their sign smile as they hummed and nodded-"Sure!"

"Accompany me to the kitchen please, it will be quieter." request (Y/n) fulfilled. Already in the empty room, Kurapika took a deep breath. So many details made him nervous at the minute. He doubted himself. He had no idea how to approach sentimental topics.

(Y/n) 's gaze was on him, but without meeting his eyes. Which caused him to not decipher what they were thinking. He had no idea if they would reciprocate, get angry, or react. If there was something that intrigued and delighted Kurapika, was (Y/n)'s way of being. For him, it was mysterious and transparent at the same time. Genuine but selective in what they showed. And he wanted to ascertain more.

"(Y/n), since our time together has been relatively short, this may seem illogical to you. However, for me, it has been remarkably important and enjoyable. So I reasoned: I like you." 

(Y/n) still without seeing him in the eyes and without changing their smile, blinked a pair of times and sang, tilting their head "Thank you! I like you too; you're quite nice as well!"- Maybe they were a bit foolish after all...

"No, no! It's not that... I mean... I also do like you. I alluded to like you romantically." the young man amed to the person in front of him. Whose eyes widened making and making an O with its mouth. And while a flush creeped their cheeks , also rectified. "I do... too... like you romantically."-(Y/n) proceeded to put a hand on their forehead, the face visibly darker and embarrassed, to tremble-"I... That is much more logical... I am very sorry...I'm truly ashamed. I'm not good at those subjects!"

As (Y/n) felt bad, Kurapika also felt bad. He raised his hands, shaking them and little in denial "It's alright, it's alright. Worry not!" It was an embarrassing disaster. But they were a disaster together.

After some shame whines, (Y/n) sigh and continued "In this case, please allow me to invite you to morning tea tomorrow. It's the last I can do. I beg you." In an attempt to not make things more awkward, Kurapika quickly but joyfully added -"It would be splendid!"- to obtain a -"Marvelous!"- from his newly obtained sweetheart. They both went home ashamed. If something is clear, it is that neither of them stopped thinking about that event throughout the night. Also that the more they reflected on it, the more fortunate they felt.

~

The date was settled! The sole issue was that, due to the embarrassment, they both forgot to arrange an hour. And they both felt ridiculous. 

Kurapika wondered what time would be proper to present, to ultimately arrive at 9:30 a.m. While (Y/n) was waiting for him since 8:30, worried they were going to be late. Since (Y/n) always wore some kind of embroidered floral ornament, Kurapika assumed they liked flowers. And showed up with a bouquet, plus it was the first time (Y/n) saw him with his traditional Kurta clothing.

"Good morning (Y/n). I bring you these, I hope they'll be of your taste." Kurapika greeted, handling the flowers. The (h/c) gladly accepted them as they made a sign to come in.

"Greeting Kurapika! They're splendid. Please come in and get comfortable." they told. Kurapika sat on the couch, and (Y/n) arrived with two cups, a teapot, and a kettle. "Do you prefer tea or coffee?" 

"Tea, please." followed by the answer, (Y/n) poured tea into the cups and sat next to Kurapika. As if it were a silent understanding, neither mentioned anything regarding the incident on the schedule.

"I like your clothes. They are gorgeous!"- a little remark that touched the boy, who muttered a gentle -"thank you." Kurapika reflected a lot about his choice to confess, but he never repented it. The warmth he felt in that moment was pure for him. 

(Y/n) raised his hands to their chest and, fidgeting with their fingers, modestly asked -"I apologize if my inquiring is stupid, but... are we lovers?"- They had their gaze concentrated in their hands. The first thing that people usually think of when meeting (Y/n) is that they were a serious, refined, and intelligent character. This was partially true, but it had a somewhat childish side, more intimate, and it was what Kurapika was witnessing at the time.

"Naturally," he answered.

"I'm sorry if I don't fulfill your expectation for me. You are the initial lover I have. In fact, also my first friend." Despite being a relatively sad statement, (Y/n) had their grin stamped on their inclined face. That smile. That it always seemed the same regardless of the emotion her voice conveyed, with certain narrow exceptions. Kurapika felt the obligation to if they were blue, comfort (Y/n). Just like they had done. 

"I discerned that you invariably smile, and the smile is identical. Can I request an explanation?" He asked, knowing what his goal was. His partner was a bit uncomfortable with the question and shrugging their shoulders uttered.

 "It's quite complex to elucidate... I have some challenges expressing emotions to others. Not because they are not explicit to me.  Just my facial expressions don't mirror my sentiments.

Regularly, in addition to smiling, I can take a serious aspect. It does not cause me much trouble, since people consider me as someone friendly- not that I am not. Though may cause others to judge me uncanny. I'm sorry if it's the case." 

"Do not apologize. It doesn't appear eerie to me." Kurapika assured with a sweet smile. (Y/n) looked him in the eye again, showing their happiness in their distinctive way.

"You are a kind person, thank you." following their remark, the room fell into a comfortable silence. Kurapika and (Y/n) were two shy souls enjoying each other's company. Although everything happening was alien to both of them, they appreciated it.

They needed a little kindness and company, which they seemed to have finally gotten.

Who could have guessed? Neon did something helpful for once!

[bubblepop-32]

If Bruce was De-aged and the only one who could make him stop screaming is Jason. (Part 3)

Bruce gets de-aged, but his memories aren’t as young (but not as old) as what they’re supposed to be. And he desperately needs Jason.

I wanted to read de-aged Bruce with our man Jay but I literally can’t find any ;A; So I sacrificed sleep and wrote this. 

There’s going to be good ol’ fluff and bonding between Jason and small Bruce, but there’s also going to be angst, suffering and then a little more angst. And swearing (mostly from Jay)

Here’s the previous chap >> Part 2 << And if this is your first time... >> Part 1 <<

Jason ended up being led by an entourage of people – namely Alfred, Dick and Zatanna towards the place where de-aged-potentially-alternate-universe Bruce was kept. With each heavy step he took towards wherever they were going, the more and more he grew unsettled.

Alfred came to a graceful halt as they somewhat neared their destination, which soon turned out to be only Jason’s destination since no one else was going to go with him beyond where Alfred stopped.

“The temporary room where Master Bruce is staying is just the third door down on the right.” Alfred seemed to be directing the words mostly towards Jason. In a more hushed tone, Alfred continued. “Master Jason, it would be a good idea if you go without an entire horde following you.”

Alfred knew Jason was already uncomfortable setting foot here, much less be so close Bruce. Having more people to deal with other than trying to handle Jason himself whilst being in the presence of the bat was a horrifying thought by itself. This was also for the betterment of Bruce, despite Alfred knowing that Jason didn’t want to find himself starting to have to actually care about him.

Hearts and bonds shattered at such a young age would leave such a nasty scar that, perhaps, may never heal even with time.

“Yeah Ok.” Jason fixed his eyes on the door that was three doors to the right through the dimmed hallway. “Alright.” Jason was only just starting to freak out because this is Bruce he’s going to be meeting. Hell, it might not even be the Bruce he knows. What should he say? Would he even need to say anything at all? Wait, so why was he going to see Bruce?

Right, he was going to calm Bruce down. If this was another situation, for example, if Jason was interfering with some weapons trade and started shooting everyone, he’ll be able to calm and angry Bruce down by saying, ‘No, I didn't fucking kill anyone and yes, they’re alive,’ though whoever was left was usually on the verge of dying and sometimes in need of amputations. He would laugh at the idea of trying to calm the cold, stoic bat. It would all be some sick joke since practically everyone else out there that Bruce knew would be more eligible for the job than he would be.

But this, this was apparently different so whatever eligibility hierarchy there was before is now completely overthrown and Jason’s brain hasn’t caught up yet.

Alfred turned to look at Dick with a similar weariness behind his movements. “I think it is time that Master Tim takes his break. He has barricaded himself inside the cave and has taken nothing but coffee. It will do him good if you accompany him for a while.”

The butler quickly heads off to make something for Tim. Jason wonders how Alfred is able to feed so many people who are unable to cook without so much as making a mess of something. Jason had also assumed that Alfred would keep an eye on the situation but realised that Alfred must trust him, enough so that he was allowed to use his fine china and enter a room with a fragile ten-year-old Bruce inside. And the amount of trust that Alfred has given to him made his heart unexpectedly ache.

Then, there was Dick. They never got the chance or time to become better brothers. So the use of an old pet name Dick had for him caught him off guard.

“Jaybird?” Dick held Jason’s gaze for a moment as he thought of what to say. Jason found it both amusing and odd that the most sociably-sound, able-to-strike-up-conversations person out of all the batkids is holding back on his words.

“What?” Jason grunted.

“Thanks…Thanks for doing this.” Dick said.

Jason snorted and rolled his eyes. It really was out of character for Dick to thank him like this. “Don’t thank me yet. I might just make things worse than they already are.”

“No, you won’t.” Dick flashed Jason a smile. “It’ll be fine.”

“My ears sure won’t if he screams like that,” Jason utters, feeling coolly detached from the situation at hand.

“We can always get you fitted with hearing aids if it gets to that point.” Dick reaches out and tenderly brushes a few loose strands of white from Jason’s eyes and Jason tries his best to suppress himself from moving away from the sudden contact. Maybe it was a force of habit with the other two.

“Alright, I’ll ring you up if I ever need one of those.” Like hell he would. There’s still traces of the Lazarus within him and his ears can handle more than just a little screaming.

Dick leaves, his strides long and graceful as he heads towards the Cave. That just leaves him and Zatanna. Jason takes in a deep breath, hoping that it will steal him for what he has to face. He exhales and continues walking-

“Before you go, I think I should tell you something.” Zatanna pulls Jason aside by the wrist into a corridor by the side that leads to a bathroom. “I haven’t been completely open with the real reason we need you to meet with Bruce. Yes, he’s calling for you, but the reason behind it…it would’ve distressed Dick a little if I told you about it in front of him.”

“I thought you two talked it through already.” Jason furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and searched Zatanna’s eyes. “You said that you’ll be able to do your magic if I calm him down. I don’t see anything else to it.”

“Yeah, but do you know why I’ll be able to do that once he’s calm?” Zatanna’s gaze was piercing, daring him to interrupt her. “He’s hanging onto those memories of you. Voluntarily, if you will. He’s even managed to keep a firm hold on them when I tried to lock them up. From the looks of it, they are his freshest memories. They’re the most recent memories younger Bruce has from our Bruce, and they’re also the ones that are affecting younger Bruce the most.”

“Both you and Dick have said that he remembers me dead. Is it serious that it’s just one memory of me that’s stopping you.” Jason says. Zatanna still hasn’t let go of Jason’s wrist and he was starting to feel a little overwhelmed.

“Well, Mr Todd, you do leave quite the impression on people.”

“Yeah, but apparently I don’t leave the nicest ones.” Jason quickly murmured back.

“Uh huh but he ended up taking you in after all,” Zatanna replied. “You’re not as bad as you think you are.”

“I am, Zatanna, I never became the person he thought that I would be.” Jason bit back a laugh. “He should have just left me in that alleyway. Now all he does is gripe at all the things I do for Gotham whilst he sits back and deals with the things Gotham doesn’t need. He tails me wherever I go like he’s trying to chase down the ‘me’ he thought he knew. And now, what, this kid Bruce is hung up about it all over again because he just won’t fucking let go of it!”

Zatanna didn’t flinch nor move from her spot. She knows that Jason is just as hurt about as everyone else in the family is but his perception of those feelings he has are clouded by suffocating plumes of twisted resentment that is associated with Bruce.

“Even if those memories are painful to him, even if they are making him suffer, he’s not letting go of them because they’re important to him. You’re important to him, Jason.” She could practically feel the cold disbelief that radiated off from Jason. “I was surprised that I could lock away memories regarding this world’s Bruce’s parents…because he’s moved on. He has his own family and city to protect now, something that he didn’t have before. You’re part of the family he wants to protect to desperately.”

Jason doesn’t need to know all this. He didn’t need to know that all this wasn’t just Bruce being a stubborn brat and refusing to calm down – but were essentially specific memories, the memories of Jason’s death that was stopping Zatanna reciting her spell and him getting more sleep.

“I stopped being his ‘family’ ages ago! He made the very clear when he gave me this.” He spits out, downright feeling bitter all over again as he used his free hand to pull down his collar, revealing a thin white line that ran horizontally along the side of his neck. The slice of a Batarang. “He’s chosen that fucker over me more than just a few times.”

“Jason, those memories were the only things he had of you before everything went spiralling down. And they’re the only thing he has of you now as well.” Zatanna’s squeezed the grip he had on Jason’s wrist, “But, what Joker did to you…Bruce…he, he was distraught, broken and different afterwards. He couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t let himself because you mattered to him.”

He stops and stares at her, trying to decipher the meaning behind what she’s said about Bruce. Sure yeah, Bruce has changed, but it doesn’t change that fact that he looks perpetually brooding even without the cowl on. To Jason, it seemed like the change in Bruce was trifling. Same old stoic Bruce with his same old moral code.

Zatanna gave an exasperated sigh. “If you open yourself to your family a bit more you would be able to realise things you don’t now. You have to realise that they are your family and have never stopped being your family.”

Jason tries to fight the urge to stare at her red lips as they spoke passionately, or at her dark hair that flows as she shook her head. The teenage Jason within struggles a losing fight as he easily tosses away the urges. He’s over all the silly ways how he would blush a little, or linger a little longer when she comes and visits the manor sometimes. Flowers bloom and wither, and now he feels nothing more than acquaintanceship for the magician. It was oddly a calm feeling. Jason’s steady gaze doesn’t leave Zatanna’s sparkling light blue eyes for even a moment.

“I’m not in the position to ask but, please, pretend that the kid you’ll be seeing is not the Bruce you know, but someone who desperately needs you and your help,” Zatanna said, knowing that Jason does understand but simply hates showing that he cares. This aspect of his proves that he was raised by Bruce more so than not.

The desperate desire to protect those who can’t, especially children, is a shared trait between the two.

Zatanna’s hand slid away from her grip on Jason’s wrist and turned back towards the main hallway. Jason didn't give a definite yes or no, but Zatanna didn’t need to know it since she knew Jason’s answer from the beginning. In fact, when a head-strong person like Jason chooses voluntarily stay when he had a choice to back out, they will see it out until the end.

The two came to a stop at where they were supposed to arrive minutes ago but had a slight detour. Jason faced the closed wooden door. Undefined shadows caused by the dim lighting etched across the door, giving it texture and form, further reconsolidating the fact in Jason’s head that this is real. Not a dream, not a nightmare, not a hallucination.

Zatanna hovered a couple metres behind, understanding that this was something that Jason needed to do by himself.

“With deduction skills like yours,” Jason slightly turned his head, but he wasn’t fully facing Zatanna either, “why don’t you step up and take his mantle as Batman for a while?”

An amused chuckle rolled out from Zatanna’s lips. “We established ages ago that his life as Batman wouldn’t be able to match up with mine…and we left it at that.” If Jason could see Zatanna’s face right now, he would see an amount of sentimentality he wouldn’t usually associate with the lively and energetic magician.

Jason realised that ‘we’ was Bruce and her, and suddenly realised that maybe that they had something more between them, once upon a time.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t suit you.” The smile that graced Jason didn’t last long. He placed his hand on the metal handle, hesitated, took a breath in, then out, then pushed.

--

This chapter, was hard to write. I was writing it in disjointed sections and I’m not confident with my ability to write conversations between two people so I kept on editing it. This chapter is to shed more light on what’s going on (because I tend to just write without realising that other people don’t know what the heck is going on) and to further develop the plot.

I’ve sort of like the idea of Jason having had a thing for Zatanna, but moves on. I wanted it to symbolise that Jason has changed, that he wasn’t the person he was before, but not someone entirely different either, like a bildungsroman in a way.

Here’s the next part >> Part 4 <<

[meeedeee]

Cancel Culture: The Internet Eating Itself RSS FEED OF POST WRITTEN BY FOZMEADOWS

As social media platforms enter their collective adolescence – Facebook is fifteen, YouTube fourteen, Twitter thirteen, tumblr twelve – I find myself thinking about how little we really understand their cultural implications, both ongoing and for the future. At this point, the idea that being online is completely optional in modern world ought to be absurd, and yet multiple friends, having spoken to their therapists about the impact of digital abuse on their mental health, were told straight up to just stop using the internet. Even if this was a viable option for some, the idea that we can neatly sidestep the problem of bad behaviour in any non-utilitarian sphere by telling those impacted to simply quit is baffling at best and a tacit form of victim-blaming at worst. The internet might be a liminal space, but object permanence still applies to what happens here: the trolls don’t vanish if we close our eyes, and if we vanquish one digital hydra-domain for Toxicity Crimes without caring to fathom the whys and hows of what went wrong, we merely ensure that three more will spring up in its place.

Is the internet a private space, a government space or a public space? Yes.

Is it corporate, communal or unaffiliated? Yes.

Is it truly global or bound by local legal jurisdictions? Yes.

Does the internet reflect our culture or create it? Yes.

Is what people say on the internet reflective of their true beliefs, or is it a constant shell-game of digital personas, marketing ploys, intrusive thoughts, growth-in-progress, personal speculation and fictional exploration? Yes.

The problem with the internet is that takes up all three areas on a Venn diagram depicting the overlap between speech and action, and while this has always been the case, we’re only now admitting that it’s a bug as well as a feature. Human interaction cannot be usefully monitored using an algorithm, but our current conception of What The Internet Is has been engineered specifically to shortcut existing forms of human oversight, the better to maximise both accessibility (good to neutral) and profits (neutral to bad). Uber and Lyft are cheaper, frequently more convenient alternatives to a traditional taxi service, for instance, but that’s because the apps themselves are functionally predicated on the removal of meaningful customer service and worker protections that were hard-won elsewhere. Sites like tumblr are free to use, but the lack of revenue generated by those users means that, past a certain point, profits can only hope to outstrip expenses by selling access to those users and/or their account data, which means in turn that paying to effectively monitor their content creation becomes vastly less important than monetising it.

Small wonder, then, that individual users of social media platforms have learned to place a high premium on their ability to curate what they see, how they see it, and who sees them in turn. When I first started blogging, the largely unwritten rule of the blogsphere was that, while particular webforums dedicated to specific topics could have rules about content and conduct, blogs and their comment pages should be kept Free. Monitoring comments was viewed as a sign of narrow-minded fearfulness: even if a participant was aggressive or abusive, the enlightened path was to let them speak, because anything else was Censorship. This position held out for a good long while, until the collective frustration of everyone who’d been graphically threatened with rape, torture and death, bombarded with slurs, exhausted by sealioning or simply fed up with nitpicking and bad faith arguments finally boiled over.

Particularly in progressive circles, the relief people felt at being told that actually, we were under no moral obligation to let assholes grandstand in the comments or repeatedly explain basic concepts to only theoretically invested strangers was overwhelming. Instead, you could simply delete them, or block them, or maybe even mock them, if the offence or initial point of ignorance seemed silly enough. But as with the previous system, this one-size-fits-all approach soon developed a downside. Thanks to the burnout so many of us felt after literal years of trying to treat patiently with trolls playing Devil’s Advocate, liberal internet culture shifted sharply towards immediate shows of anger, derision and flippancy to anyone who asked a 101 question, or who didn’t use the right language, or who did anything other than immediately agree with whatever position was explained to them, however simply.

I don’t exempt myself from this criticism, but knowing why I was so goddamn tired doesn’t change my conviction that, cumulatively, the end result did more harm than good. Without wanting to sidetrack into a lengthy dissertation on digital activism in the post-aughties decade, it seems evident in hindsight that the then-fledgling alliance between trolls, MRAs, PUAs, Redditors and 4channers to deliberately exhaust left-wing goodwill via sealioning and bad faith arguments was only the first part of a two-pronged attack. The second part, when the left had lost all patience with explaining its own beliefs and was snappily telling anyone who asked about feminism, racism or anything else to just fucking Google it, was to swoop in and persuade the rebuffed party that we were all irrational, screeching harridans who didn’t want to answer because we knew our answers were bad, and why not consider reading Roosh V instead?

The fallout of this period, I would argue, is still ongoing. In an ideal world, drawing a link between online culture wars about ownership of SFF and geekdom and the rise of far-right fascist, xenophobic extremism should be a bow so long that not even Odysseus himself could draw it. But this world, as we’ve all had frequent cause to notice, is far from ideal at the best of times – which these are not – and yet another featurebug of the internet is the fluid interpermeability of its various spaces. We talk, for instance – as I am talking here – about social media as a discreet concept, as though platforms like Twitter or Facebook are functionally separate from the other sites to which their users link; as though there is no relationship between or bleed-through from the viral Facebook post screencapped and shared on BuzzFeed, which is then linked and commented upon on Reddit, which thread is then linked to on Twitter, where an entirely new conversation emerges and subsequently spawns an article in The Huffington Post, which is shared again on Facebook and the replies to that shared on tumblr, and so on like some grizzly perpetual mention machine.

But I digress. The point here is that internet culture is best understood as a pattern of ripples, each new iteration a reaction to the previous one, spreading out until it dissipates and a new shape takes its place. Having learned that slamming the virtual door in everyone’s face was a bad idea, the online left tried establishing a better, calmer means of communication; the flipside was a sudden increase in tone-policing, conversations in which presentation was vaunted over substance and where, once again, particular groups were singled out as needing to conform to the comfort-levels of others. Overlapping with this was the move towards discussing things as being problematic, rather than using more fixed and strident language to decry particular faults – an attempt to acknowledge the inherent fallibility of human works while still allowing for criticism. A sensible goal, surely, but once again, attempting to apply the dictum universally proved a double-edged sword: if everything is problematic, then how to distinguish grave offences from trifling ones? How can anyone enjoy anything if we’re always expected to thumb the rosary of its failings first?

When everything is problematic and everyone has the right to say so, being online as any sort of creator or celebrity is like being nibbled to death by ducks. The well-meaning promise of various organisations, public figures or storytellers to take criticism on board – to listen to the fanbase and do right by their desires – was always going to stumble over the problem of differing tastes. No group is a hivemind: what one person considers bad representation or in poor taste, another might find enlightening, while yet a third party is more concerned with something else entirely. Even in cases with a clear majority opinion, it’s physically impossible to please everyone and a type of folly to try, but that has yet to stop the collective internet from demanding it be so. Out of this comes a new type of ironic frustration: having once rejoiced in being allowed to simply block trolls or timewasters, we now cast judgement on those who block us in turn, viewing them, as we once were viewed, as being fearful of criticism.

Are we creating echo chambers by curating what we see online, or are we acting in pragmatic acknowledgement of the fact that we neither have time to read everything nor an obligation to see all perspectives as equally valid? Yes.

Even if we did have the time and ability to wade through everything, is the signal-to-noise ratio of truth to lies on the internet beyond our individual ability to successfully measure, such that outsourcing some of our judgement to trusted sources is fundamentally necessary, or should we be expected to think critically about everything we encounter, even if it’s only intended as entertainment? Yes.

If something or someone online acts in a way that’s antithetical to our values, are we allowed to tune them out thereafter, knowing full well that there’s a nearly infinite supply of as-yet undisappointing content and content-creators waiting to take their place, or are we obliged to acknowledge that Doing A Bad doesn’t necessarily ruin a person forever? Yes.

And thus we come to cancel culture, the current – but by no means final – culmination of previous internet discourse waves. In this iteration, burnout at critical engagement dovetails with a new emphasis on collective content curation courtesies (try saying that six times fast), but ends up hamstrung once again by differences in taste. Or, to put it another way: someone fucks up and it’s the last straw for us personally, so we try to remove them from our timelines altogether – but unless our friends and mutuals, who we still want to engage with, are convinced to do likewise, then we haven’t really removed them at all, such that we’re now potentially willing to make failure to cancel on demand itself a cancellable offence.

Which brings us right back around to the problem of how the modern internet is fundamentally structured – which is to say, the way in which it’s overwhelmingly meant to rely on individual curation instead of collective moderation. Because the one thing each successive mode of social media discourse has in common with its predecessors is a central, and currently unanswerable question: what universal code of conduct exists that I, an individual on the internet, can adhere to – and expect others to adhere to – while we communicate across multiple different platforms?

In the real world, we understand about social behavioural norms: even if we don’t talk about them in those terms, we broadly recognise them when we see them. Of course, we also understand that those norms can vary from place to place and context to context, but as we can only ever be in one physical place at a time, it’s comparatively easy to adjust as appropriate.

But the internet, as stated, is a liminal space: it’s real and virtual, myriad and singular, private and public all at once. It confuses our sense of which rules might apply under which circumstances, jumbles the normal behavioural cues by obscuring the identity of our interlocutors, and even though we don’t acknowledge it nearly as often as we should, written communication – like spoken communication – is a skill that not everyone has, just as tone, whether spoken or written, isn’t always received (or executed, for that matter) in the way it was intended. And when it comes to politics, in which the internet and its doings now plays no small role, there’s the continual frustration that comes from observing, with more and more frequency, how many literal, real-world crimes and abuses go without punishment, and how that lack of consequences contributes in turn to the fostering of abuse and hostility towards vulnerable groups online.

This is what comes of occupying a transitional period in history: one in which laws are changed and proposed to reflect our changing awareness of the world, but where habit, custom, ignorance, bias and malice still routinely combine, both institutionally and more generally, to see those laws enacted only in part, or tokenistically, or not at all. To take one of the most egregious and well-publicised instances that ultimately presaged the #MeToo movement, the laughably meagre sentence handed down to Brock Turner, who was caught in the act of raping an unconscious woman, combined with the emphasis placed by both the judge and much of the media coverage on his swimming talents and family standing as a means of exonerating him, made it very clear that sexual violence against women is frequently held to be less important than the perceived ‘bright futures’ of its perpetrators.

Knowing this, then – knowing that the story was spread, discussed and argued about on social media, along with thousands of other, similar accounts; knowing that, even in this context, some people still freely spoke up in defence of rapists and issued misogynistic threats against their female interlocutors – is it any wonder that, in the absence of consistent legal justice in such cases, the internet tried, and is still trying, to fill the gap? Is it any wonder, when instances of racist police brutality are constantly filmed and posted online, only for the perpetrators to receive no discipline, that we lose patience for anyone who wants to debate the semantics of when, exactly, extrajudicial murder is “acceptable”?

We cannot control the brutality of the world from the safety of our keyboards, but when it exhausts or threatens us, we can at least click a button to mute its seeming adherents. We don’t always have the energy to decry the same person we’ve already argued against a thousand times before, but when a friend unthinkingly puts them back on our timeline for some new reason, we can tell them that person is cancelled and hope they take the hint not to do it again. Never mind that there is far too often no subtlety, no sense of scale or proportion to how the collective, viral internet reacts in each instance, until all outrage is rendered flat and the outside observer could be forgiven for worrying what’s gone wrong with us all, that using a homophobic trope in a TV show is thought to merit the same online response as an actual hate crime. So long as the war is waged with words alone, there’s only a finite number of outcomes that boycotting, blocking, blacklisting, cancelling, complaining and critiquing can achieve, and while some of those outcomes in particular are well worth fighting for, so many words are poured towards so many attempts that it’s easy to feel numbed to the process; or, conversely, easy to think that one response fits all contexts.

I’m tired of cancel culture, just as I was dully tired of everything that preceded it and will doubtless grow tired of everything that comes after it in turn, until our fundamental sense of what the internet is and how it should be managed finally changes. Like it or not, the internet both is and is of the world, and that is too much for any one person to sensibly try and curate at an individual level. Where nothing is moderated for us, everything must be moderated by us; and wherever people form communities, those communities will grow cultures, which will develop rules and customs that spill over into neighbouring communities, both digitally and offline, with mixed and ever-changing results. Cancel culture is particularly tricky in this regard, as the ease with which we block someone online can seldom be replicated offline, which makes it all the more intoxicating a power to wield when possible: we can’t do anything about the awful coworker who rants at us in the breakroom, but by God, we can block every person who reminds us of them on Twitter.

The thing about participating in internet discourse is, it’s like playing Civilisation in real-time, only it’s not a game and the world keeps progressing even when you log off. Things change so fast on the internet – memes, etiquette, slang, dominant opinions – and yet the changes spread so organically and so fast that we frequently adapt without keeping conscious track of when and why they shifted. Social media is like the Hotel California: we can check out any time we like, but we can never meaningfully leave – not when world leaders are still threatening nuclear war on Twitter, or when Facebook is using friendly memes to test facial recognition software, or when corporate accounts are creating multi-staffed humansonas to engage with artists on tumblr, or when YouTube algorithms are accidentally-on-purpose steering kids towards white nationalist propaganda because it makes them more money.

Of course we try and curate our time online into something finite, comprehensible, familiar, safe: the alternative is to embrace the near-infinite, incomprehensible, alien, dangerous gallimaufry of our fractured global mindscape. Of course we want to try and be critical, rational, moral in our convictions and choices; it’s just that we’re also tired and scared and everyone who wants to argue with us about anything can, even if they’re wrong and angry and also our relative, or else a complete stranger, and sometimes you just want to turn off your brain and enjoy a thing without thinking about it, or give yourself some respite, or exercise a tiny bit of autonomy in the only way you can.

It’s human nature to want to be the most amount of right for the least amount of effort, but unthinkingly taking our moral cues from internet culture the same way we’re accustomed to doing in offline contexts doesn’t work: digital culture shifts too fast and too asymmetrically to be relied on moment to moment as anything like a universal touchstone. Either you end up preaching to the choir, or you run a high risk of aggravation, not necessarily due to any fundamental ideological divide, but because your interlocutor is leaning on a different, false-universal jargon overlying alternate 101 and 201 concepts to the ones you’re using, and modern social media platforms – in what is perhaps the greatest irony of all – are uniquely poorly suited to coherent debate.

Purity wars in fandom, arguments about diversity in narrative and whether its proponents have crossed the line from criticism into bullying: these types of arguments are cyclical now, dying out and rekindling with each new wave of discourse. We might not yet be in a position to stop it, but I have some hope that being aware of it can mitigate the worst of the damage, if only because I’m loathe to watch yet another fandom steadily talk itself into hating its own core media for the sake of literal argument.

For all its flaws – and with all its potential – the internet is here to stay. Here’s hoping we figure out how to fix it before its ugliest aspects make us give up on ourselves.

          from shattersnipe: malcontent & rainbows https://ift.tt/2V13Qu4 via IFTTT

[douxreviews]

Outlander - ‘Man of Worth’ Review

"You dinna ken how worthy you are."

If I'm very very quiet, I swear I can hear the collective Outlander fandom starting to panic as droughtlander sets in.

I'm not mad at this finale. Not one bit. It may not have been as epic in scale as some others but it tied some things up and set some things up and delivered some exceptionally beautiful moments. I cant really imagine a better end for the season we got. Plus I now know exactly how I feel about Roger. Wins all around.

I haven't gone into it yet because I'm not sure how historically accurate it is but who ever was in charge of set design for the Mohawk village should get a raise just based on how beautiful it is. Everytime we're there I am taken aback by both the details and scale. Too bad we probably won't be seeing it for a while, if ever again.

How sad for Otter Tooth that he traveled all the way back in time to deliever a warning that he thought would save a people and a culture and they didn't even believe him. I mean, I'm not saying that running around inciting war dances and shoving scalps in peoples faces was the tact he should have taken but man. He and Geillis should start a a club in the afterlife. Maybe they already have.

The raid was an outright disaster and from what we know of people shunned by their tribes, the Native American woman that helped them isn't going to have a very happy life. I felt like Claire and Jamie should've offered for her to come back to the ridge. Or at least let her have the stone she was so desperate for. But hey, maybe they looked for her off camera and she was too good at hide and seek to be found.

The fight to get back to the river was exciting. It had me on the edge of my seat while Jamie's skill as a warrior and fighter kicked in Claire took down whoever got in her path (all while practically carrying Roger's useless body, but whatever). But it was for naught. They were severely outnumbered and surrounded and out of options. I find it hard to swallow that the Mohawk would hold on to Roger so stubbornly since he spent so much time disappointing them but can we give that Chief some kind of award for the amazing deal he struck for himself. He traded an injured fourth string nobody for an all-star that got through the spirit tunnel on his first try. Wow. Bargain master of the year.

I've stayed pretty on the fence with Ian. I liked him, I laughed at how naive and adorable he was. I even like his dog. But he was expendable as far as I was concerned. Then he traded himself to save Roger so that his uncle wouldn't have to. He even refused to run away and begged Jamie not to make him a liar. He stayed determined to honor his word and got himself expended and suddenly I miss him. Jamie is right. He really is a man worth very much. I suppose it would be silly to expect anything less. Ian has spent most of his life looking up to and emulating one of the most honorable people to exist. Of course he would have it coming out of his ears and his admiration for Native Americans has been set up from the jump. Out of everyone he could make a place for himself here. He found his clan. The whole goodbye amalgation ripped my guts out, Claire. Ian and Claire, Ian and Jamie. Even the fakeout Claire and Jamie goodbye was well done even though I was pretty sure what Ian was going to do from the second he decided it. You could feel that patented Jamie and Claire fire between them. It was beautiful and romantic and full of anguish and thankfully short lived. The emotional strikes just kept coming. Very well done all around. But that look of elation when Ian was accepted as a mohawk was worth the price of admission. He was so so happy. So I'm happy for him. It's as close to a happy ending as any other character has gotten.

Bye, Ian. I'll miss you more than I thought. Come visit soon.

And the there's Roger. I'm happy for Bree and all but I feel like she could do better. Way better. It's like when your friend gets together with their ex for the 300th time... Fine, I accept this. I knew it was coming but it's still very dumb. It's not that he's a bad person or that he hasn't been through a terrible ordeal. And hey, he did show up fir her at that the end. He's just such a whiner. He didn't even seem particularly grateful to be saved. Just slumped over and rolling his eyes and helping not at all during the attempted escape to the river but then had buckets of energy to throw into his fists at Jamie. And during his tantrum, he took no responsibility for leaving Bree alone in the freaking 18th century and only seemed to show emotion about it when he realized he couldn't cart her back through the stones to yell at her some more. Give it a rest, Rog everyone has been through terrible things. Hell, as far as Roger knows Ian just put his life in the hands of men that will be kicking the crap out of him for no reason for the rest of his life. He couldn't even mutter a 'thanks, bro'??

Bree was attacked by Bonnet? OMG, he totally forced me to sail up the coast with him. Guys a monster!!

I did very much like all the character beats sprinkled throughout that confrontation in the woods. Jamie took everything that Roger dished out because he was wrong for beating him in the first place but he wasn't so sorry that he could hide his anger that Roger didn't stick around to protect his daughter from Bonnet. It was written all over Claire's face that she was desperate for him to be the kind of husband for her daughter that Jamie is but was trying very hard to be understanding and calm.

While Ian was busy becoming a man and Roger was busy deciding what kind of man he wants to be, Murtagh and Jocasta had a slumber party. Possibly manh. The writers have been pandering to an eventual coupling since these two got on screen together and I am here for it. They did the whole thing so well, too. Even though I been waiting for them to get together i was still somehow taken by surprise when it happened. I love love love them together so much. Both opinionated and stubborn and crotchety and passionate. I loved every second of it. I loved that neither one would back down even though their words were obviously hitting nerves left and right. And the whole thing was bookended by food. At the start, they were sharing dinner and the next thing I know, hes asking her to skip breakfast. It felt like a glimpse of a domesticated life that Murtagh could've had. Or maybe symbolic of the life that Jocasta is putting in jeopardy. Or maybe they were just meals and I am seriously over reaching. It wouldn't be a finale review if I didn't make at least one mountain out of a molehill.

As Outlander finales go, this was tame as a kitten. Sure Jamie's been put in charge of getting rid of his godfather but investing in even the idea that anything could ever truly come between them is laughable. Their loyalty has been tested worse than this. It just wouldn't be believable to me for that bond to fall apart now. And now that Aunt Jocasta is on board (I think?) the rest should be cake.

It hit the beats I needed it to. There have been stronger finales to be sure but I don't how this particular season could've been tied up better. 

3.5 out of 4 ominous stone necklaces.

Bits and pieces

Jamie's instincts are still so keen that he can feel the presence of other people in the woods. Once an outlaw...

Do we understand why Otter Tooth helped Claire find Jamie after that storm earlier in the season? Are they cosmically connected?

I felt a pang of sadness for the time. Ian keeps racking up people that he will probably never see again or ever get to say goodbye to. His parents, siblings, Fergus, Murtagh, Bree. It's practically never ending. He did get to say goodbye to Jamie and Claire though.

Where did Ian get the Mohawk version of Rosetta Stone??

I wonder if I will view Ian differently when I inevitable rewatch these past seasons he was in given my new found respect and love for the character.

I wonder if Father Alexander participated in the spirit tunnel??

All Roger and Bree do is flirt and argue and somehow I hate them for it. So far Murtagh and Jocasta have followed their example but somehow I'm fully on board. What gives??

Oh, and Bree had her baby. I wonder who his godfather will be. Who is Germain's for that matter??

Murtagh certainly has a type. As far as we know hes only been serious about two people in his life. Sisters that heavily favor each other. Interesting.

I was bumming a little that we didn't get to see Jamie's relief and reaction to the knowledge that Bree forgave him. But it kind of all read in the reunion. There was an ease to the family dynamic even though crap news was getting delivered.

No Fergus. No Marsali. Did they make it to the ridge? Is the pig still alive? Is Fergus a wanted man?

Murtagh: "Thank you for the roast. It's been a long time since I had a meal this fine. " Jocasta: "I imagine it's better than whatever they were serving in the jail at Wilmington." Murtagh: "News travels fast." HA.

Jamie: "I will come back to you Sassenach."

Ian: "You once said you wished me to become a man of worth." Jamie: "You dinna ken how worthy you are." I'm not crying, you're crying.

Jocasta: "How does it taste?" Murtagh: "Like home." Jocasta: "Whiskeys hard to come by in the new world." Murtagh: "Aye and I canna drink that horse phish they call rum." Hahahaha.

Jocasta: "I'm an old woman now, my wars are behind me and you should put yours behind you as well."

Roger: "Having me beaten almost to death and sold into slavery seemed a trifle extreme even for a woman with her temper."

Jamie: "You cost me a lad that I love and my daughter doesn't need a coward. I'd rather her hate me than for you to break her heart again. So make up your mind." Roger: "I need some time." Claire: "If you need time you should take it because this is our daughter so you better be sure." Would you rather face Jamie and Claire or a tribe of angry Mohawk Native Americans???

Laure Mack

[howwelldoyouknowyourmoon]

Moonie Buddhist Catholic: A Spiritual Odyssey by Thomas W. Case

pages 9-10

WHAT IS THIS BOOK ABOUT?

The grand-daddy of the mind-bending cults; a sophisticated Eastern religion; the Catholic Church. Buddhism is represented by the Karma-Kagyu sect as taught by Chogyam Trungpa, a tulku from the wild Kham region of Eastern Tibet. In the late 1970’s and early 1980’s he made a splash with Allen Ginsberg and the Crazy Wisdom crowd in the high Colorado Rockies, and I was a part of that action, a poet among poets and a Buddhist among Buddhists. Some years later I entered the Catholic Church, drawn by the Virgin Mary, the Bible, and the love of Jesus Christ. Here I remain, troubled as the world is troubled by these last years of the millennium.

That is the middle and the end: Buddhism and Catholicism. But the greater portion of this tale is the tale of my seven-year, on-again off-again life with the Moonies. If a cult experience is sui generis, unlike anything imaginable, it is also, beneath the surface, a voyage into the depths of all religion. It strikes at the heart of what it means to be a human being. There is nothing so humanly powerful as the event that brings together God and an intensely inter-woven tribe, a tribe that trades in the individual ego for a communal ego, so that all within the tribe are as if one person. It is a “person” that often calls itself “The Family.” It can drive the individual person down to the foundations of person-hood, blast away those foundations, and build them up again on another, alien, model. I have never been so exalted and so stricken with the ambiguity of horror as when I was a Moonie.

The odyssey that brought me finally to Rome encountered other tests and detours besides Tibetan Buddhism and the Unification Church. Making little poisonous appearances in this story are The Way Ministry (a Christian sect), Elizabeth Clare Prophet’s Summit Lighthouse (a theosophical sect), Synanon, and Scientology. I went wading in the first two organizations in this list, and I know something about the other two. The first chapter, a magical mystical tour of the Haight-Ashbury of San Francisco in the 1960’s, sets up the later search through the spiritual supermarket. You will find in this book not only a personal journey, but an archetypal exploration of spiritual and social realities in an America which today seems intent on stumbling blindly towards the apocalypse.

A spiritual odyssey that goes to the roots of things is bound to encounter flashes of heaven and hell. It may be your story too, if you have ever searched for God, practiced magic, been a Moonie, a TM’er, a Scientologist, a Buddhist or a Hindu, or found a friend in Jesus Christ.

pages 36-52

Inside Look at a Boonville Moonie Training Session

Touring the magical sixties as a precursor to my arrival at the doorstep of the Moonies is significant to my own story, but it can give the wrong impression. It can seem as if the candidates for cults are always products of a rootless life. ... I was indeed ripe for the Moonies, but what I consciously walked into was not to my mind a totalitarian society filling a vacuum of authority in my life. It was a small commune of interesting and friendly people. The Moonie hook to begin with was not discipline but affection. It was people who cared about me. And that kind of hook can hook anyone.

Was I brainwashed? Does the Unification Church brainwash its recruits? “Giving it up,” as it pertains to religious or mystical experience, means giving up your separate, critical, worrying identity to a higher power. It is a voluntary act that often occurs somewhere within any genuine spiritual commitment. Being voluntary, it is not brainwashing. One may decide, however, that the Unification Church’s method of recruitment is not a matter of you “giving it up,” but of them taking it away from you. By the end of a weekend Moonie training session (called “seminars” for the benefit of the unenlightened) you are in a highly suggestible frame of mind. Why? What have they done to you?

You may realize that you have not been alone from more than five minutes out of the last forty-eight hours. An intense personal interest has been taken in you by someone, a sort of constant companion, usually of the opposite sex, usually the person who recruited you (that is, the person who invited you to a weekend seminar—the language changes once you are inside). This person has been at your side during the whole weekend, attending to your wants, pumping you for your comments and attitudes about the last lecture, asking about your family, your work, your desires and ideals in life, putting her arm around you in lectures, giving you little gifts, holding your hand as she looks searchingly into your eyes while you try to explain your life to her, and, likely as not, following you to the bathroom and tucking you into bed at night. She has been nice to you and has made you feel important; she has been a little severe with you if you have decided to act “laid back” or lazy or if you have rebelled against attending the next group session or the next lecture. If you say to her, “I just have to go off and think things out for a little while; I’ll just go over and sit down by that tree over there”—she is apt to express her disapproval ever so mildly. She pouts a little, and looks a trifle guilty, as if she has let you down somehow, as if she has failed you.

“No, no,” you say, “it has nothing to do with you. I just have to have some time to think.” She doesn’t believe you. She pouts. Now you feel like you have let her down somehow. You contritely walk back to the group. After all, hasn’t she done so much for you?—invested all her time in you? You, who have never had so much attention since you were a baby.

The day is drawing to a close. There is a large campfire. You are sitting with your group, hunched up together, shoulder to shoulder. Dinner is being served. Hot dogs smothered with melted cheese, baked potatoes, and a large, amorphous green salad. A plate is handed to you. You are about to begin eating when you notice that the other people in the group are passing their plates around the circle. You look up guiltily and pass your plate to the next person. You are getting the hang of it. Your “spiritual parent”—that sincere, pretty girl with nice legs who invited you to dinner yesterday—peels an orange and sections it, and hands it over to you. You thank her, smiling, a little confused. She smiles back, reassuring you. On a sudden, absurd impulse you pass half the orange to the dumb-looking, foggy hippie hunched up beside you (the guy you have been trying to avoid all day.) He turns a suddenly grateful face in your direction—and you think things are getting out of hand. When are we going to eat? What does this absurd little ritual of giving have to do with the real world?

Exactly. It is in contrast to the real world, of course. The contrast is intentional. This is not a ritual passage into adulthood á la American reality. This is a ritual passage into paradise. It has the quality of a dream.

All this personal attention, all these kindnesses and gestures of giving, all this praise and enthusiasm and friendly (but unsexual) touching, all this face to face nonsense (you always sit in circles at a Moonie training camp—no place to hide)—all this is a pollyanna fairy tale compared to the fare ordinarily served up by the world. Just when you think things have gotten a little bit too silly, a little too out of whack with expected human behavior, here comes another peeled orange at you—with a smile. Now, you’d be a pretty hard-hearted bastard not to join in with the spirit of things, wouldn’t you?

This is all so silly. But it feels... so good. So what the hell.

You have flash memories of how it was on jobs, in school, in college, the loneliness and sudden love, breaking into new realities, compromising, gaining and losing, but you kept your integrity... all that garbage of growing up becomes the bad dream, and this baby-ga-ga stuff feels wonderful. A security grows; love grows. You all of a sudden remember that you once read in an anthropology course about an African tribe of hunters with diminishing game to hunt, near starvation. Each member would, if he made a kill, call out to attract other members of the tribe; he would be incapable of eating if he had no one to share his food with. What a funny time to have such a memory! Then another thought comes unbidden into your mind: the tribal state of life is the natural and good state of life for mankind; where there is no such thing as an “individual” and the tribe is as if one person.

The campfire glows. The stars are coming out against a high, deep blue sky. Everyone now has a full plate in front of him, everyone eats. I am purring like a kitten, blown out with comfort. The group leader (Center Man in Moonie lingo) announces, “We have forty-five minutes to make up a skit to perform for the Family. Does anyone have any suggestions? A song we can write?”

My stomach contracts into a tight knot. Perform? In forty-five minutes? In a skit? On a stage? In front of a hundred people? Arrrrrgh! Somebody suggests a popular song, a melody to write new lyrics to. We go with it. Even I, desperate now to give something, come up with a rhymed couplet.

“That’s not Principle,” says the group leader. (What he meant was that my contribution was outside the bounds of what is appropriate for a spiritual community in conformity to the Divine Principle of the Reverend Sun Myung Moon—my rhymed couplet was a little risqué. But he had made a slip of the tongue. “That’s not Principle” is an in house slogan, an authoritarian bat used a hundred times a day in Moonie life to beat down any small demonstrations of independence or self-will.)

“Let’s try to focus on this weekend,” says the group leader. “Let’s try to make a statement about our experience here.” (You get the idea. First a lecture, then discussion of the lecture, an experience, then comment on the experience, recapitulation of the experience in dramatic presentation, concentration on and celebration of us, our thing, our sudden new life, in the exact here and now. Impressing it into each one of us.)

Some things are suggested. We move away from the song to a skit. It is five minutes to show time. Everyone is scrambling around for pencils and paper to write down the lyrics. It turns out we have a song and a skit. The group leader confidently merges the scattered melange into a whole, but I know this is all an impossibility. With two minutes to go, we begin to rehearse. It is time for our group to go up to the stage area. I have no idea of what is going on. We’ll never be able to get across this complicated choreography. It will be a mess, a dismal failure, a humiliation—

One of us, the dumb hippie I have been trying to avoid, has been chosen to play God. He sits on a chair on a platform at the back of the stage. He expresses approval or disapproval at the events going on below. Below and at stage left a few of us are playing disgruntled, ultra-hip dope addicts. One of us who has a guitar plays our song: it expresses tough cynicism and despair. We sing along haphazardly. God expresses his disapproval. At stage right some joyful young girls are selling flowers. One of our gang glances up, moseys over to stage right, and buys a flower from one of the girls. She smiles. He smiles. God expresses his approval. (He knows who is selling those flowers. Heavenly children. Moonies.) The audience cheers. We have been a success. We sing a Principle song (Amazing Grace) all together now in the center of the stage. God climbs down off his throne and puts his arms around me and my spiritual parent. The audience goes wild with cheers. I sure feel good.

Other groups have presented their shows before us and have been cheered. Other groups have followed us and we have cheered them. The last skit is over. Everyone is exultant and exhausted. Even the cynics, while maintaining a superior mental stance, have gotten a kick out of it all. Oh yes, I am aware of these. I have watched them during the day, noticing when each one bends a little, taking cues from them for my own unbending. But now, like them, I am pretty unbent. All the groups come together now in a big circle around the campfire. We all grow quiet, and then begin singing a song that goes:

When true simplicity is gained To bow and to bend we shan’t be ashamed....

and afterwards we move into a long, slow, full-throated “Jacob’s Ladder,” arms draped over each other’s shoulders, being served marshmallows singed over the campfire. I am so relaxed, so fulfilled, I feel so warm, so good, so unified with my brothers and sisters. The stars twinkle overhead in a navy blue sky gone ecstatic in the presence of love.

And so, to bed. The men sleep in the Chicken Palace, so named because this is a farm in northern California with a large chicken house now used as a barracks. This is Boonville. If you have read any Moonie exposes, you know what Boonville is. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the place where your poor, innocent, naive sons and daughters are being cruelly brainwashed into an alien creed.

As I spread my sleeping bag out on the floor of the Chicken Palace, I trade a few words with another man, a man a couple of years older than me. He has left the Unification Church and come back, after spending some time in India at the feet of a Guru. We commiserate over the fact that there are so few of us who are over thirty. (Most Moonies—in the early 1970’s at least—were in their twenties.) We agree that most people our age have committed themselves to a life (such as it is) in some career or at least in some gainful employment (such as it is) and have become just a little too crusted-over, a little too much invested in their particular status quos, to be susceptible to something new and ideal and adventurous. More’s the pity. Before I climbed into my sleeping bag, I made the sign of the cross on my chest. I apologized to my companion, saying, “I’m not a Catholic. It’s just that, just that, I felt like doing this. Making some sign.” He smiled. He knew what I meant.

I didn’t know what I meant. I had prayed instinctively as a Catholic on a hilltop when I was in a tight spot after my divorce. Now here I was in a Moonie training camp once again making a Catholic sign. God creeping in again? Giving His blessing to this? Or signifying my future, ten years down the road?

From the time we sat down to dinner to the time we went to bed, at most four hours had passed. In those four hours I had gone through all the extremes of emotion. I had felt bewilderment, absurdity, relaxation, silliness, serenity, love, sudden anxiety, terror, excitement, exaltation, deep calm, and unity.

I have a couple of questions. First of all, what genius (evil genius?) created Moonie training sessions? Secondly, and more to the point, is this brainwashing, or is it just that our separate, individual, defensive egos are an artificial construction from beginning to end? That what happens at a Moonie training camp is a sample, if you will, of the natural way mankind should be or can be? Is our susceptibility to this tribal mentality and giving up of ourselves indicative of a psychological weakness or is it a recognition of the lost paradise that is the rightful state of mankind?

Never have I felt so loved and loving—in a trans-personal or all-personal sense—as in a Moonie training session. These words, these descriptions, cannot get the flavor of it right, the sense not only of unity but of being taken out of the mundane world of ordinary life, into a higher, deeper, more real world, that cannot help but elicit from us a gigantic “Yes!”—as if in our heart of hearts we knew that this new world is our birthright. A world that existed perhaps before the Fall of Man.

Isn’t heaven supposed to be a place where everyone loves everyone else, where everyone delights in giving, and where there are no defensive barriers between people?

It is Sunday morning. Some idiot walks cheerfully into the Chicken Palace, creaking the wooden floorboards, playing a guitar, and singing, “When the red red robin comes hop hop hopping along, along....” He passes down one alley and up another between the rows of sleeping bags. You bestir yourself and glance around, looking for something to throw at this singing idiot, this rude interrupter of your delicious slumber—but—wait a minute. You are suddenly awake, and, come to think of it, you feel refreshed, and—you catch yourself just in time from starting to sing along, to join in with this infantile ditty. Next, you think, he will sing, “You are my sunshine.” He does.

You get out of your sleeping bag and stumble over to the door of the Chicken Palace, vaguely thinking about finding a place to urinate. You calculate that the creek is nearer than the outhouse, and formulate your plans accordingly. As you walk out into the bright and oddly happy sunlight—who is standing there to meet you with a joyfully insipid smile on her face but your spiritual parent! Ahhhhh...nuts. You mumble something about having to take a leak and try to wave her away but she takes you by the hand and walks you up the hill to the outhouse, and stands outside (standing outside listening to you, you think) and then when you come out she takes your hand again and leads you to the shower stalls, and you think, Oh Christ, it’s happening again.

In spite of it’s beginning to happen again, you feel a little devilish—you are not fully awake and self-censored, and you notice that your spiritual parent has nice legs and you would really like to take her down by the creek and play with her in the country way, but then you know she knows what you are thinking and she gets a mildly disapproving look on her face, and anyway the sunlight would no longer be happy with you and you remember God on the stage last night. You haven’t had a cigarette in twenty-four hours, yesterday’s events have made you relaxed and a healthy, you are getting aroused just by looking at this young woman—but you know it is not in the cards. So you walk hand in hand (chastely) with this girl you have fallen in love with down to the shower stalls and go inside and brush your teeth and take a shower (while she waits for you outside) and everything is, uh, nice... in a nicer, gentler way than you ever felt possible after your stumbling-around passage into adulthood.

Later I find, through turning the tables on this pretty girl and pumping her for information, that she has been strung out from Minneapolis to Timbuktu, addicted to heroin, raped by Arabs in the Sahara desert, meditated in the Himalayas, had once been a Nichiren Shoshu Buddhist (the Japanese sect of Buddhism where you chant for goodies to a sacred scroll on the wall), had been on LSD, peyote, hashish and methedrine; she had bounced and been bounced all over the world, and she has landed in a Moonie training camp being nice to me. I gain a sort of respect for her. Then I realize she could have been a kindred soul of that blond beauty I once loved, the Steppenwolf girl who felt the call of India and left me in despair in a flat in San Francisco in the bad old days. And I also had once been a Nichiren Shoshu Buddhist, chanting to a sacred scroll on the wall, for a month or so in 1968. Now I was in a Moonie training camp, being mothered by the queen of the flower children. It seemed fated.

After breakfast (each with his group), we return to the Chicken Palace for a Sunday morning songfest. The sleeping bags have been removed. Twenty rows of chairs face a low wooden stage in front. You are sitting in the middle of a row; on either side of you is the rest of your “Trinity”—the small group you do everything with during the weekend. Each Trinity has its own row of chairs. On your right side in your spiritual parent. She massages your neck as the sun streams into the place and lights up the dust particles in the air. The guitar and tambourine players are warming up on the stage. Ragged songbooks are passed up and down the rows. You share one with your spiritual parent. On the stage someone grabs a microphone and we all break into a spirited rendition of “Higher Ground.”

“Lord lift me up”—we all hold hands and pull each other to our feet—“and place me down”—a hundred buttocks hit the chairs (not quite in unison; this is a roughly humorous, amateur show of fun; people are laughing as they sing, looking around at each other; a bearded young giant in a motorcycle jacket has a silly grin on his face as his tiny waif-like spiritual mother drags him to his feet and drags him back down again)—“by faith on heaven’s tableland”—people cross their arms and hold them out away from their chests, suggesting a—well, a tableland—“A higher plane, than I have found”—arms zoom around, dip and climb—“Lord place my feet”—stomp, stomp—“On higher ground”—we all climb up and stand on our chairs. The song ends amid a cacophony of cheers and applause and back-slapping.

After the songfest comes a lecture, then we break into our small groups for discussion and lunch, then a fierce dodge ball game (the sides assaulting each other not only with a dodge ball but with loud made-for-the-minute chants like “Holy Avengers bomb them for Father”), then a last lecture followed by a quiet dinner, all in a huge circle. Sunday is pretty much a repeat of Saturday, except on Sunday people are a lot looser.

All lectures are preceded and ended by songs, to establish a rapport between the lecturer and the audience, and to keep the level of attention and harmony high. In the Unification Church, group participation is fostered on every occasion. In what follows I will present some themes of Moonie theology that one hears in the “Advanced” lecture series. (The “Primary” lectures, the ones you hear at your first training session, are largely an inoffensive introduction composed of vaguely Confucian philosophy and appeals to idealism.)

According to the Divine Principle (allegedly the product of the mind of Sun Myung Moon), God is dual. He is interior character and exterior form. Everything in the creation is likewise dual: interior character and exterior form. Everything is divided into two. The world is divided into Satanic nations and God nations. The Communist nations are Satanic; free nations are Godly. (Actually, all anti-communist nations are called God nations, whether they are democratic or tyrannical.) The bible is subjected to a peculiar symbolic interpretation. The Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden, for example, represents Adam. The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil represents Eve.

At the center of religion is the great theme of man’s departure from God, his exile, the road back, and the perils and difficulties of that return. This is the seemingly eternal story of human guilt and aspiration, whether the goal is called Heaven or Unity or Perfection or Happiness. The Unification Church seeks to conclude the story happily through a series of ritual, symbolic, faithful, and courageous actions on the world stage, wherein “Indemnity” plays a central part. Indemnity plays such a huge part that though the goal is heaven on earth (a Moonie heaven on earth), the methods are such as to exacerbate the guilt of the individual Moonie. But more of this later.

History is crucial, and for the Unification Church, history is mostly Biblical history. Cain and Abel, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses and Jesus are all interpreted as figures in the working out of God’s redemption of fallen man. God chooses his companions through accumulated tribal or racial merit (Israel’s fidelity to the One God resulted in a high level of merit), and through individual merit, accumulated through obedience to God’s will and acts of courage. After that it is up to the potential champion to follow explicitly God’s often curious directions—such as, in Abraham’s time, the exact rite of sacrifice—in order to establish a “Symbolic Foundation”; and also to demonstrate ultimate courage. A halfhearted commitment is bound to fail, allowing Satan to “invade” the operation. If this happens, the operation has to be repeated at some later date and under more critical conditions, after an indemnity has been paid.

Several major themes of Moonie theology can be gleaned from the above. Firstly, Satan has a pretty large control of things on earth. If God and man, working together, don’t get it just right, Satan not only recoups his losses but actually increases his control of the earth. The theory of Indemnity is important here. Abraham’s failure to execute the sacrifice of the animals correctly (he forgot to slice up the dove and the fledgling) allowed Satan (in the form of a raven diving down and stealing the birds) to mess up the proceedings. (See Genesis 15:9-11.)

The message for Moonies is the crucial importance of following God’s instructions exactly, even if some of those instructions may seem trivial or even evil. (Do you see where this can lead? Torture, murder, genocide—all can be justified if God demands it to defeat the wily Satan.)

From this comes the Moonie slogan of “Following Principle.” God’s champion must obey God exactly. The champion’s followers stand in the same relation to God’s champion. They must follow the champion explicitly in all their thoughts and actions. The same relation holds between the Trinity leader or “Center Man” and Trinity members. So if a rank-and-file Moonie does not obey his “Center Man,” he is guilty of a sin against God. He is not “Following Principle.” The totalitarian structure goes in a straight line from top to bottom. If a Moonie fouls up, he is not only sinning; he is directly responsible for the failure of God’s plan of redemption. He has allowed Satan to invade.

Abraham finally succeeded in the individual level (if not the symbolic level) by his great act of faith: his willingness at God’s command to sacrifice his own son. And thus God could still use Abraham for his redemptive plan. But Abraham’s earlier failure (the botched sacrifice of the animals) caused the 400 year exile of the Hebrews in Egypt.

Heavy indemnity for so slight a mistake! The Jewish diaspora and 2000 years of alienation and harassment after the time of Jesus is seen in the same light—an indemnity necessitated by their failure to “join with” Jesus. Is God such a harsh tyrant then? It would seem so. But Indemnity is not the same thing as punishment. Huge Indemnity when things go wrong is a consequence of Satan’s huge power on earth. These niceties are however lost on a humane person contemplating the holocaust of the Nazi extermination camps, as if the Reverend Moon were somehow justifying the outrage. And somehow it seems that he is.

The niceties are lost in the Unification Church’s theology too. Who, actually, is requiring these horrifying “indemnities”? God or Satan? It is not always clear. There is a legalistic smell to the proceedings. Satan gets off on a technicality, and is free to wreak further havoc. If it is not quite clear why the omnipotent God is so hamstrung by the powers of evil, the message is terrifically consequential for Moonies. Nearly everything is under the control of Satan. Every event becomes a matter of spiritual life or death. Satan is always just outside the door, waiting to invade. If a Moonie has an automobile accident, it was not caused by his inattention to his driving, but because Satan invaded. If a Moonie falls asleep at the wheel or in a lecture or Family Meeting, it is not because he has not had any sleep to speak of in the last four days, but because “Sleep Spirits” have invaded him. If a Moonie is all of a sudden possessed by a dislike for one of the group leaders, he is just that: possessed.

To return to the lecture. Satan is strong on the earth, God is weak. In fact, God is so weak that he cannot act without the cooperation of man. A much repeated statement: “God has 95% of the responsibility, and man has 5%. But man’s 5% responsibility requires his 100% commitment.” God will choose a champion, but then everything afterwards is left to the champion, and, just as important, the fidelity of the champion’s followers. The whole equation is necessary. Jesus failed his mission because, though his obedience was perfect, the people failed to follow him. (Jesus was supposed to become a Messiah for the whole world in his own lifetime, and was supposed to have married and sired a perfect family as well.) The definition of Messiahship is ex post facto: Mr. Moon will have been the Messiah if the whole world follows him. Otherwise he will be just another failed champion, like Jesus. The hint is not lost on Moonies. Nor the terrible consequences of a failure of faith.

(But this coyness about the real nature of Mr. Moon is for public consumption, and for the second level of Moonie gnosis. At the first level, often lasting some weeks, Mr. Moon is not even mentioned by name. At the third level it is still only whispered knowledge, but certain knowledge, that Sun Myung Moon is indeed the Lord of the Second Advent—with no ifs, ands, or buts about it. This is the last, greatest, binding secret for a Moonie: that the Lord walks on the earth today. Page 160 of the Moonie 120-Day Training Manual delivers up the secret for anyone to check out: “Then they can understand that Reverend Moon is Messiah, Lord of the Second Advent.”)

History, which is essentially the spiritual history of God’s redemption of man, is repetitive. If some scenario, some drama of redemption wasn’t accomplished successfully the first time around, it will be repeated in its essentials after a symbolic number of years has passed. It will be repeated in order that a necessary condition is brought about so that a foundation can be laid. The condition may be ritual or symbolic or actual and political according to its type, and the foundation likewise. A Foundation must be laid for a Messiah to appear in the world. The 400 year exile of the Hebrews in Egypt laid the foundation for Moses to appear and lead the people to their Abrahamic homeland. The Babylonian captivity of the Jews foreshadowed the “Babylonian Captivity” of the medieval popes at Avignon. Both exiles are said to have gone on for 210 years before things got back in their proper order. Numbers are very important. Early on in history, Satan “invaded” the number “40,” so 40 and its multiples (times ten) become significant in terms of redemption history—as does the number “21” and its multiples. If this kind of statement is patently absurd to a rationalist, it is not so to one familiar with traditional gnostic or numerological doctrines, or to a certain kind of Bible Christian who reads significance into every date and jot and tittle of the Word.

Four thousand (forty times 100) years passed between the creation of Adam and the birth of Jesus. Forget that fossil traces of human beings have been discovered dating back perhaps 500,000 years. Those were “symbolic times,” and in those times, time itself was foreshortened in relation to real time. These are the times of fulfillment, and the counting of years is now literal. A complicated conception, but in this manner differences between modern science and Biblical dating are sidestepped, or, if you accept it, understood and overcome.

It is more important to see that history is spiritual history in its fundamentals, and these are the end times. Now the world will be destroyed—not by God’s fiat but by man’s doing nothing to prevent it; or it will enter on the blessed era of the New Jerusalem. It is up to us.

At this point the lecture is over. Wild cheers erupt from the audience, hands are clapped, then held, one with another. Everyone stands and sings “God Bless America,” swaying shoulder to shoulder, tears streaming down some faces. It is a riveting and exalting moment. It is the last lecture of the training session. Afterwards will be dinner, not now in separate groups but all together. Then there will be more songs, quiet now, everyone peaceful (if they are already committed) or undergoing a severe conflict of the mind and emotions (if they are not). And now come the gentle, heartfelt invitations to join the Family.

Reviews:

Thomas W. Case dropped his book on my desk at work and I cheerfully paid the entry fee into the Moonie World. I have known Mr. Case personally for several years, and was curious as to what I might find in his writings. I can tell you from personal observation that the book did not disappoint; the Thomas Case I know and the Thomas Case of the book are clearly the same character!

Having said that, knowing that in my case my curiosity was piqued by the fact that I knew him, I did not then know what to expect from the book. What I found was a window into Moonie-Land, both the good and the bad. And there was good that brought Case into the fold. The spirit of camaraderie, the idealism, the desire to change the world was a strong incentive of the cult. Unfortunately, the over riding desire to build the “material foundation” which included a rather lavish lifestyle for the leaders at the expense of bleary eyed, exhausted kids selling flowers in a Michigan winter played a stark and disturbing counterpoint to the idealism and bliss. Thomas Case saw this, and yet he also felt the strong “family” bond with other individuals at the grass roots level. The exploitation of the slave labor by the ruling class caused Case to wish to leave while the “family” and comraderie caused him to want to stay or come back. This was his dilemma for many years. He has woven the narrative very skillfully, and from the points of view of both himself as individual and as representative of his generation...as he said in his writings, “I lived in the Haight before it was the Haight.”

Thomas Case experienced every echelon of the Moonies, from the lowest levels all the way up to their attempts to recruit or groom him for the upper echelons. He tells the story skillfully and sustains the reader's interest throughout the entire narrative. The only critique would be, while dwelling upon and giving good account of the Moonie experience, the remainder of the volume is rather slim. He wishes to round out his spiritual journey and it's ultimate destination...Catholicism...but does not provide the same level of detail as he does for his Moonie encounters. However this does not in any way distract from his compelling narrative regarding the Moonies.

For a window into Moonie-Land and, in a way, into a bygone era, read “Moonie Buddhist Catholic.”

Gordon Neufeld: “Thomas Case provides a clear picture of the Unification Church that I myself once experienced as a member of that same group from 1976 to 1986. In particular, he nails exactly the strong attractions and serious defects of the branch of the Unification Church through which we both joined, Mr. Case in 1973 and myself in 1976, namely, the “Oakland Family,” ruled by the formidable Onni Soo Lim, and spearheaded by the redoubtable Morrison clan, particularly Kristina. ... his Moonie experience, and indeed, he returned to the Moonies twice, despite knowing many negative truths about them, simply because they offered such a potent communitarian solution to the anomie and confusion of more conventional spiritual paths. The book is ... a good account of the Moonies and their flaws during the 1970s and 1980s. I knew many of the players he describes, including Kristina, Jeremiah and Dr. Durst, thought not as well as he did, and I can testify that he has described them exactly as they were.”

Moonwebs: Journey into the Mind of a Cult by Josh Freed

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

Mitchell was lucky – he got away from the Unification Church

Life Among the Moonies – Deanna Durham

My Time with the Oakland Family – the Moonies

UC leaders stole passports from guests at California workshops

Recruitment – The Boonville Chicken Palace by David Frank Taylor, M.A., July 1978, Sociology

“Socialization techniques through which the UC members were able to influence” – Geri-Ann Galanti, Ph.D.

Boonville in the spring of 1974 – Thomas W. Case

Ford Greene – the former Moonie became an attorney

The Tragedy of the Six Marys website