#i apply to a job and then Never Hear Back. I go. well good riddance i guess.

[im-still-a-robot]

They should put me in a play. I'll make that thing a comedy of errors

[rpd-rookie]

What Does The ‘S’ Stand For ? - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Summary: When you learn that Leon got the job you desperately wanted you decide to pay him a visit to congratulate him and finally put an end to the competition between the two of you in favour of some cooperation. Turns out, cooperation sometimes involve taking your clothes off.

Author’s Note: Some one-shot involving (pre) RE2 Remake Leon, a very sassy reader and some smut. I haven't written that genre in a while though. Hope I'm not too rusty. And by the way, if you notice some terrible grammatical mistakes please let me know (English is not my mother tongue). Anyway, I wish you'll like this story and as usual don't forget to like/reblog and tell me what you think about it.

Warning: SMUT and Language. You can also expect some humour and some fluff. 

Also available on AO3

Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, “Competition has been shown to be useful up to a certain point and no further, but cooperation, which is the thing we must strive for today, begins where competition leaves off.” Wise words. But clearly Roosevelt never had to compete with Kennedy, and by Kennedy you didn’t mean John F. Kennedy but another Kennedy, one with less charisma yet better hair (hell, got to render unto Caesar what’s Caesar’s), Leon S. Kennedy - ‘S’ probably standing for “sucker” or “saint” in your opinion. After all, the guy was such a goody two-shoes. Teacher’s favourite. Neat and tidy top student. Perfect arbiter of right and wrong. And certainly, the only guy in the academy who didn’t stick his cock in Barbara Johnson’s pussy. Weird since she also had a president’s name just like him. Could have been the perfect opportunity for a horizontal presidential debate.

If it wasn’t clear already, you didn’t like Kennedy very much. But it was not for the reasons mentioned above. No, you could tolerate the fact that he was the embodiment of virtue and morals. What you could not tolerate though, was that he was better than you at everything. At fundamentals, at crime prevention and analysis, at counterintelligence, at physical agility, at shooting, at… well, you get the point. It infuriated you. He infuriated you. You never had the chance to beat him. Never. He was always top of your class and you were always close second.           So of course, when you received the letter from the Raccoon City Police Department informing you that your application had been rejected and that the position had been given to someone else, you did the math.       Only Kennedy could have taken that job away from you. After all, you had heard him talking about Raccoon City at lunch break quite a few times in the past weeks and each time he had sounded so excited – well, as excited as cannibalistic murders can make you of course. Truth is, you had also shown interest in this city the moment its terrible crimes hit the first page of the newspapers alongside the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal, collecting every tiny article about it and telling your classmates what a thrilling experience it would be to work on that case. You had even imagined yourself wearing the blue uniform, RPD largely written on your chest, making a report about the rotting body of a camper found in the Arklay mountains.

You sighed, disappointment hitting you hard again. And with a hesitant hand, you knocked at the door in front of you somewhat ready to let go of the competition in favour of some cooperation. You barely waited a couple of seconds before Kennedy opened the door, a cordless telephone against his ear. He appeared genuinely surprised to see you there. “Call you back later, mom.” He said before hanging up the phone, still staring at you with astonished eyes. “Y/N.”   

“Telling your mommy about the amazing job you just got?” Your question had sounded more barbed and curter than indented. Bitterness probably. Leon sighed. He knew exactly what you meant. “Look, if it is about Raccoon City…” “Of course it is about Raccoon City. Why do you think I’m here? To discuss fashion?” You entered his bedsit without asking and looked around you. So well organized and tidy, so military. Pff. Where were the greasy pizza boxes, the nasty underwear on the floor and the bin filled with used tissues all the other guys usually had?      

You turned around to face him with a stone cold expression. “I’m guessing you knew I wanted that post.”           “Yeah but…” You cut him off. You couldn’t care less about the thing he wanted to say. “I don’t blame you. Had I been in your place I would have apply for it too. Damn, I even applied without being in your place, so … The point is, I wanted to congratulate you – even if it hurts me to do so – and tell you that I’m glad this competition between the two of us is finally coming to end.” Leon briefly chuckled and kept an amused smile on his face. This wasn’t the kind of words he had expected from you. “Well, thanks I guess.”       “You’re welcome” You dramatically put a hand over your heart “Gosh, it kills me to be so polite to you, Kennedy.” He retained a laugh and you approached him to slam a heavy blue binder against his - surprisingly strong - chest. Wow, muscles! “Take this.” You reluctantly said with a strangled voice as if you were a mother giving up her baby . “Take care of it. It’s the work of a lifetime … sort of.”

Leon furrowed his brows and opened the folder. Inside, there were all the articles you had collected about Raccoon City since the reveal of the incidents to the public eye plus some notes you had written during you personal late-night investigations. Leon skimmed through them. They were incredibly detailed and you could see how impressed he was. Damn, you wished you had your camera to immortalise this moment. “It won’t be of any use to me now. And it took me too much time to just throw it away so have it. Take it as parting gift.” “Wow, Y/N. I don’t know what to say.” He looked beyond happy. It made you smile. What the hell, Y/N?           “Thank you, maybe?” You swallowed you smile back before he could notice, choosing to replace what could have been something sweet and nice by sarcasm. “Yes, sure.” He grinned. “Thank you.” You nodded. “I don’t want you to have a heart attack so you’re not obliged to say ‘you’re welcome’.” He teased you and as much as you wanted to find the joke lame, you surprisingly found it rather funny.   “Good. Cause that would have been too much for my heart to take in a single day.” He smiled again and this time you couldn’t help but gaze. You were forced to acknowledge he was very cute, handsome even, certainly the kind of guy you would have willingly flirt with if it hadn’t been for the relentless competition between the two of you. “You know it’s nice to see you smile.” Your eyes slightly widened. You had been smiling the whole time? No! “That wasn’t a smile. That was a sneer.” You quickly replied, trying to prevent him from spotting the sudden panic in your eyes.   “Sure.” But yeah, that was definitely a smile and right now your cheeks were burning.

You cleared your throat and looked back upon his face, hoping yours had found back its usual seriousness and scorn. “Well, gotta go. Good riddance, Kennedy. Good luck and try not to screw up.” You proceeded to the door, glad this conversation was over, but Leon was not ready to let you leave just yet. “You know, for me, there was never a competition between us.” You stopped and turned around. “What?” You frowned. “Of course, there was a competition.” He shook his head. “Not for me.”   “Are you telling me that I have deprived myself of sleeping, fallen into coffee addiction and lost my entire social life for two years in the hope of finally beating you at a freaking test while you …” You could tell he was clearly trying not to laugh but his mocking grin was enough to make you blow a fuse. Well, a funny fuse … a funny desperate fuse “No! No!” You repeated, all irritated. “You’re kidding me!” He shrugged, playing all innocent. “Don’t fucking tell me you let me tilt at windmills!” He did. Bastard. Leon - Son of a bitch - Kennedy! That’s what the S stands for. You cursed in your head.           “I tried to tell you …” He started to explain to defend himself. “When?” You harrumphed, almost shouting at him. “Well, many times but …”           “Clearly not enough times.” Your sarcasm was back. “… each time you sent me packing” “I don’t do that.” You felt offended.         “I can’t barely make a full sentence with you!” You opened your mouth to retort but he stopped you by pointing a finger that undeniably meant ‘Careful what you’re going to say’. So you stood there, perfectly still, mouth opened, realising that he was probably right.             “You’re allowed to breath, you know.” He said as a response to your reaction but you didn’t know what to say anymore. Did you really spend all your time at the academy trying to win a non-existent competition? “Fuck.” You cursed, definitely dumbfounded.

Leon observed you, perplexed and wondering if you were going to stay rooted to the spot for the rest of the day. “Y/N” He waved in front of your face to pull you out from your thoughts but you barely noticed. “All that repressed sexual tension for nothing?” You asked yourself. Wait! Did you just say that out loud?           Panic-stricken, you looked up at Leon and judging by the way he was staring at you – all  ‘what the hell did she just say?’ – yep you did.       “You didn’t hear what I’ve just said.” You waved your hand past his face, like a Jedi would do in a Star Wars movie, knowing perfectly it wouldn’t work but hoping that ridicule would make the situation less awkward and give you a chance to run away from his room. It was a failure. “Yes, I did.”

And just like that, Leon Saint Sucker Son of a Bitch – whatever the S stood for - Kennedy caught your face in his hands and kissed you with a passion that made you gasp against him. You tried to resist for a second but then you decided to let go. After all, you had nothing to lose. The study years could be considered over and soon Leon would be in Raccoon City analysing amazing crimes while you would be God-knows-where writing parking tickets. You would never see each other again.     “Tell that to anyone, Kennedy and I’ll kick your gorgeous butt from here to Raccoon City.” You threatened, close to his mouth. “I won’t. Scout’s honour.” Leon Scout Kennedy? You shook your head (Stop being silly, Y/N!) before pushing Leon on the convertible sofa behind him.  

You straddled him without waiting, definitely willing to let your sudden eagerness and your repressed desire for him get the better of you. You met his lips in a new heated kiss, your body pressed against his, craving for lustful friction. And by the way Leon was holding you tight you could tell you weren’t the only one.             His tongue asked permission to enter your mouth and you happily granted it. Who would have thought that Leon Saint Kennedy was such a skilled kisser? Couldn’t he suck for once? Oh yeah, he could suck at your neck apparently. Damn.   A moan escaped your throat and you felt Leon smirk against your skin. “You like that?” He asked, proud of himself. You instinctively arched your neck asking for more, your hands weaving into his soft hair. “It’s not that bad.” You acknowledged and he suddenly bit you in the nape of your neck. “What the fuck?” You shouted, surprised. Leon laughed and you caught his face to kiss him and bite his lips in retaliation. But judging by the kinky smile on his angelic face, he didn’t seem to mind.             “You’re incorrigible.” You humoured. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry.” He pecked your lips again and again and slowly began leaving a trail of light kissed down to your neck. “You’d better be. Aren’t you tired of making my life a misery?” You pretended to sulk as he kept on pressing his soft lips on your burning skin. You grabbed his chin, putting you thumb in his dimple and stared at him. How ridiculously hot he was right now with that arousal tinting his beautiful blue eyes and this dishevelled hair.  

“What do you have in mind, Y/N?” Rhetorical question. He knew exactly what you had in mind. Hell, it was basically the same thing he had in his.     “Stop playing coy and take your clothes off.” You whispered close to his face, your hot breath against his mouth, before pulling his bottom lip between your teeth “What about your silly competition?” He murmured back, his hands slowly falling along your sides.   “I’m all in for cooperation right now. So are you gonna give me a hand …” You started unbuckling his belt. “…or do I need to do everything by myself?” His eyes fixed upon yours mischievous ones, gazing at you with awe. You could tell he was completely at your mercy. “I’ll give you more than a hand.” You smirked and allowed your hands to unbutton his jeans. “I thought so.” He lifted his rear and you pulled down his jeans along with his boxers, biting your lips at the view of his beautiful cock. Jesus Christ Kennedy, Mother Nature certainly had been kind to you.

You stood up to undress yourself as well, dropping all your clothes to the floor, your eyes watching at Leon’s hastening hands fighting desperately with the buttons of his shirt. Clearly, you weren’t the only one that was impatient in this room, or horny.   You let him finish before taking your place back on his laps. His hard sex against your body, you slightly shivered, impatience eating you from within. “You’re gorgeous.” He said as he tucked few strands of your hair behind your ear. You couldn’t help but blush, not used to such compliments, and, as a consequence, in order to erase all sense of discomfort in you (if you could call it like that), you decided to focus your attention on his cock.   You brushed his length with your fingertips, admiring it with envy and lust, excited to do more with it. It made Leon hiss and you looked up at him. His eyes were pleading you. Without looking away from the blueness of his look, you caught his penis in your hand and started pumping it gently. Leon’s eyelids flickered; his head hit the back of the sofa and his mouth opened slightly. He seemed thankful, relieved even. You continued your gesture, watching him melting underneath you, listening to his now ragged breath with delight. God, that was sexy. He was sexy. Leon Sexy Kennedy. Suited him.

You bit your lips and decided to venture in between his legs, kneeling onto the floor. “What are you …” Leon complained when he suddenly stopped feeling you on top of him. You cut him short by guiding his cock to your mouth to softly kiss the pre cum-covered tip “Holy...” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat and turned into a growl as you eagerly sucked the head of his cock like a Popsicle. You smiled and licked his length, staring at how ecstatic he looked from this angle. “You like that?” You winked as you quoted him and he laughed. “Women.”   You engulfed his cock deep in your mouth and started bobbing your head. A new sigh of pleasure escaped his mouth and you felt him instantly relax on the couch. “God, you’re amazing.” You liked the compliment and to show your appreciation you decided to massage his balls as you kept on sucking him. You received a lustful grunt in response and soon Leon’s hand grabbed your hair to give you a quicker pace, almost making you gag on him. “Oh, sorry.“ What a gentleman! “That’s okay.” You smiled in a very naughty way. “I like it.” He chortled and you took back his dick in your mouth, welcoming it deeper to show him you didn’t mind some roughness. “You know, if you keep doing this I’m soon going to cum in your mouth.”             You stopped, licked your lips and crawled back onto his lap. “That would be a shame.” You joked sarcastically, hands back in his hair “Got a condom?”

The way you pronounced the words, all smiley and adorable, made him laugh again. He pushed you softly to open the drawer of his nightstand and find your one-way ticket for cloud nine. “There!” He announced excited as he showed you the contraceptive. “But first …” He suddenly grabbed your ankles to pull you towards him, making you slightly yelp in the process. “There’s something I got to do”   He lay down on the couch, spread your legs and immediately nestled his head right in between your thighs, making you instantly shiver. So, that’s what he got to do.   You sighed when you felt his breath against you swollen clit but it was only when his tongue met your pink flesh that you realised how aroused you truly were. You were so wet.           “Fuck, am I the one to blame for such a mess?” He joked but his mouth and tongue felt so good in between your thighs that you could only just moan and arch your back, begging for proper sucking and licking. He didn’t make you wait and gave you what you wanted as he started fondling your clit with his tongue. “Leon” That was the first time you where saying his first name and you got to admit, you liked the sound of it. “Yes, sweetheart?”   “Keep going, please.” You begged and he sucked on your bud, gazing at you melting under his touch as he did. You grasped his hair when he finally let a finger enter your core. Fuck, he was good. You moved your hips instinctively against him and he added a new finger. It sank into you as easily as the first one and you cried out, finding it impossible to be discreet anymore. “Fuck, Leon. I want you. I want you now.” You begged.   “Wait a second.” He asked, definitely loving your taste too much for him to stop just now. He pumped his fingers in your pussy, licking your juices greedily and you clenched your thighs around his head, feeling the imminence of your orgasm slowly yet surely approaching. “Now, Leon. Now! Please”

Leon obeyed this time and he quickly sat up and grabbed the condom he had left on the pillow next to him. He put the red wrapper between his teeth and tore it open. Then he rolled the condom down his length with both his hands. You watched him all the time, your fingers massaging your clit, finding him terribly arousing at this very moment.

Once ready, Leon bent over you to kiss you again and he tapped his hard cock on your hand to ask access to your humid entrance. You didn’t object of course and even spread your legs wider. Soon enough, you felt him slide in between your wet lips and then finally push slowly yet exquisitely inside of you. You closed your eyes as he did and drew a sharp breath once you felt him fully inside. You didn’t need time to adjust to him as if your body was meant for him. Guess Leon felt it too as he immediately took a quick pace and began pounding you. You let your hands wander on his smooth chest from his strong pectorals down to his divine abs and the chiselled V below his navel, finding him simply gorgeous. Then you grasped his hips, and nudge his rear with your ankles, pressing his pelvis closer to you to take him deeper, and started moaning his name again. His hands caught your bouncing breasts to play with your nipples, and you rapidly felt the strong wave of pleasure back in your core, ready to drown you. “Fuck, Leon!” His mouth met one of your teats and sucked on it with ardour. That was too much to handle. “I think I’m gonna cum.” You cried out.         “Yeah?” You nodded, letting a tear of pleasure escape your eyes. “Cum for me then.” He didn’t have to say it twice and few seconds later, you dug your nails in his hipbones and screamed loudly as you clenched around his cock, finally coming undone under his thrusts.

Stunned, breathless and at the same time a bit embarrassed that you had already reached your orgasm, you let Leon kiss you soft lips with a smile on his face. “See, you reached the finishing line before me.” He humoured.           “Fuck off.” You whispered, amused yet completely exhausted. He chuckled and pressed his lips against yours one more time before gently pushing you flat on your stomach. “I’m not done with you yet.” He whispered in your ear.  

You moaned loudly when he thrust back into your wet core, pinning you down on the mattress that you ultimately grabbed tightly in order to stay in place. He started pounding you again, holding you by the hips, taking delight in watching your sweet butt bouncing against him as he was burying himself deeper than he had ever done before. “Jesus, Y/N!” He growled before spanking you.         You gasped, astonished but in a good way. You had never thought he was that kind of guy. “Really, Kennedy? Spanking? That’s what the ‘S’ in your name stands for?” He laughed, still fucking you from behind. “I thought you would like it.” “Oh but I do. I just never thought it was your thing.”         “You should stop taking me for a saint, Y/N.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead, brushing the strand of hair covering his right eye away and focused again on his movements. “It’s not my fault. It’s your baby face.” You confessed in between two moans. He brutally stopped and you wondered for a second if what you had just said had actually vexed him.       “My baby face? Really?” He repeated in your ear with a smirk as he grabbed you by the hair. “Who’s been crying out my name the whole time?” Holy shit. You instinctively braced yourself and when he resumed his hammering you knew it was a smart decision. Leon started growling even more loudly as he slowed yet deepened his movements inside of you, his hand in your hair, using your body as leverage. He was almost aggressive but you moaned nevertheless, out of breath, feeling a new orgasm building inside of you. Really? You clenched around him, trying to hold your orgasm a bit longer, unwilling to give him the satisfaction to cum around him again.

When Leon’s hard pounding started to get sloppy you realised he was really close to his release. “Jesus, I’m almost there.” He admitted.         You don’t know how you found the strength to push him on his back but you did. Sitting on top of him, you removed the condom, threw it carelessly onto the floor and started to jerk him off. “I want you to cum on me.” You confessed. A guttural moan vibrated in his throat and he let himself sprawl on the mattress, leaving you in complete charge of his pleasure. You grinded against his cock as your hand kept on firmly going up and down his length. It drove Leon crazy and you soon felt him throbbing in your grip. His breath became even more ragged and jerky and small spasms took control of his body. You angled his cock towards you and soon, a hot load of thick cum spurted on your stomach and breasts as Leon cursed and grunted between his gritted teeth. “Fuck, Y/N!”

You smiled and let go of his member, proud and satisfied of your work, looking at poor panting Leon who had a beautiful yet exhausted smile on his face. “You killed me, woman.” He joked and you briefly laughed. Then, you wiped his cum off your body with your fingers and brought them to your mouth, sucking them eagerly and swallowing the white seed looking right in Leon’s eyes. You had the feeling he would find it very hot. “Jesus Christ” Bull’s eye!

He circled you with his strong arms and pulled you against his chest. His heart was beating wildly and you allowed yourself to huddle a bit more against him to enjoy the melody. Post-coital cuddling session? Not sure that was a good idea but you decided to go for it and so did Leon as he chose to burry his nose in your hair and kiss the top of your head.

“Scott” He whispered sleepily. You looked up, wondering what he meant. “That’s what the ‘S’ stands for. Leon Scott Kennedy.”

Scott? You repeated in your head with a soft smile. Oh well, that didn’t sound so bad even though, right now, you preferred Leon ‘Stay’ Kennedy.

[kashieagna]

TO ALL THE JOB I HAVE BEEN TO BEFORE

Okay this will be a long post about my job experience and how I realized that God perfectly orchestrated everything.

First job: Writer/Video Editor at a Media Company

Date: June 2014

Finally, graduated from College and I was one of those graduates who can’t keep put, and eager to get their first job, earn and do whatever I want. So, I submitted job applications here and there until I received a job offer from this media company with high starting salary. The catch was I need to be on a night shift. Of course, despite the hesitations that time, I accepted the job. However, after 4 months our division got dissolved. I was so devastated. You could only imagine how lost I was that time. “That’s it? My first job was over already. How could that even possible?” That has been my questions for so long. That was my first job, ladies and gents. It happened really fast. I graduated with honors then became jobless after my first stint. I couldn’t accept that. I have a lot to prove but in a matter of months I lost my job. But, of course, I didn’t know any better that time. I didn’t know that this first stint will open to new opportunities.

Second job: Management Analyst at a Real Estate Company

Date: Nov 2014

After that appalling experience of losing my first job, I found my second job as my haven. It totally saved me from misery. That’s why I love this job of mine so much and it will always have a special part in my heart.

For me, that second job was perfect. Well, not perfect since it was a low-paying job. I was living paycheck to paycheck at that time but I was so happy. Yes! I love how this company was very nurturing for me. I have a great boss and wonderful colleagues. Despite the fact that we are all girls in the division, our characters blended so well. I wonder how I manage to sustain my daily living with my salary but because I love what I am doing and I love coming to office because of good working environment I manage to survived.

What made me decide to leave the company was to pursue my calling. To go back to what I wanted to do. Public service. But I still maintain my communication with them up to now.

Third job: Production Coordinator in a Govt Communication Agency

Date: August 2016

When I received a job offer to work in a govt communication agency even as contract of service, I didn’t think twice. I didn’t mind sacrificing my permanent position to pursue what I really wanted.

I know that this opportunity will open new doors for me. Besides, it’s a perfect time and venue to use my what I’ve learned from College.

I’ve spent almost 3 years in this agency. I was able to travel different places because of my job. One of my most memorable experienceduring my stay was the production of a tv documentary about our Muslim brothers and sisters. I learned a lot about culture, their traditions and beliefs of Muslims. It was such an eye opener for me.

It also paved the way to tick off one of my wishes on my bucket list which is to visit Japan and witness cherry blossoms. Oh how I love my job despite sleepless nights and overtime shoots and countless coordinations we had to do.

Fast forward to 2018, our director was designated to one of its attached agency, a development communicatiom agency. That’s where I already found my niche. I said to myself, “this is where I wanna be. Empowering communities is what I want to do.”

But on May 2019 things happened. You know, sometimes, when we think that we’ve got our life figured out that’s when things get a little bit mess up.

My 3-year contract of service ended last May 31, 2019. I don’t want to put so much details on the reason why due to confidentiality reasons. So let’s keep it that way.

Although, what I felt that time was good riddance. I never had that same sad feeling like what I felt when I lost my first job. Nope. I was happy and peaceful. I already accepted that maybe government service is not really for me. Maybe, I am not meant to be in that agency in the first place.

Finally: information Officer in a Development Communication Agency

Date: October 2019

I had no hopes of being appointed here since I submitted my application on 31 January and I didn’t hear anything from them until August.

HRDD of the agency emailed me to take exam for the position I applied for. I went to the usual HRDD procedures: Exam and Panel Interview. Honestly, my hope is low to be in here because of what happened in the past. So, to my joy when they sent a congratulatory message and instructing me to complete requirements.

At first, I was too hesistant to proceed with this appointment since I got too happy staying in our home province with my parents. I had no actually plans of going back in the Metro and just stay there for good and just be a freelancer.

But God has different plans for me. He knows how much I prayed for this day to come. How I constantly prayed to be in this agency because this is where my heart surely belongs. He gave it to me. God has his reasons why I have to be on that 3 jobs before this appointment. I’ve learned a lot from those 3 jobs (and developed networks too!).

Looking back to all my downfalls I appreciate the joy it brings today. I wouldn’t be delighted today if not for those sad moments from the past that made me stronger.

Nothing is for sure, really. But, I trust God’s infinite and majestic plan for my life. AS ALWAYS.

To end,

Gagamitin ang karunungan mula sa sa iyo (PUP), para sa bayan. So help me God. 🙏🏻

God planted dreams in our hearts to bless others. May God bless the work of my hands.

[irrlicht-ghostfront]

of selfish purpose

Summary: You look upon the sky, but the stars are all unreachable. You want to raise your hand, to try, but you don’t. What’s the point? You stopped reaching for the stars a long time ago.Without you, he wouldn't even be here. Why, oh, why are you so selfish?

                                 There’s a beeping in the room. You’ve been hearing it a few days now, and at this point it’s something you got used to. It’s not your beeping. Sometimes you wish it would stop. You don’t want him to die, but you want him to stop needing it – or you want to just leave. But you can’t.

You look toward the door, but you don’t know why. You’ve been trying to fall asleep for a few hours now, but it didn’t work so far. From where you’re standing, it’s almost time to wake up again, anyway. Maybe you should just close your eyes, and sleep would come to you just for a while.

As soon as darkness engulfs you, you can see it again. It’s the yellow truck, and there’s your phone in your hand and you’re thinking about Dean. Behind your eyes, the truck moves so slowly that you can make out all the details. There are some scratches on the front, and you think they might be from some bushes or trees maybe – nothing big, nothing dangerous – but you can’t see the driver or the plate. You don’t think that matters anyway. The truck is going to kill you, and you hope Jonathan won’t find out, because it’s yellow and you need him to like yellow again –

You open your eyes again. You think about your phone, shattered on the ground. You feel sorry you never got to use it, after all.

 The nurse wakes you quietly. It’s nice. Some come barging in like a storm – they tend to be quite annoying. They’re all good people, but you’d just wish some of them to be quieter. Maybe it’s supposed to be shock therapy. Shock for what, you don’t really know. Just, shock.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Novak?” You look at her and just nod, telling her you’re fine. It’s not a lie, really, you’re not hurting much. Doctors and nurses have told you that humans often tend to rate their own pain in relation to someone else. You don’t know if that applies to you. She nods as well and turns to your room-mate. He had a bad heart attack and all his family is very grateful he’s still alive. The son comes in often, telling his father about his day and how excited they are to have him back.

The only person who sometimes visits you is Sam. You don’t even know if Dean’s other friends know you’re here. Maybe it’s best not to tell them. You wouldn’t know what to tell them. Even with Sam here, who knows just about everything, it’s awkward. When he’s here, you don’t talk at all, and he leaves after a while. You wonder why he bothers with you at all. Why did anyone bother with you? “Yeah, they should’ve just let you rot on the ground.” You clench your jaw. No, you think. They’re nice people and you feel that’s their biggest downfall whenever it comes to you. You try, you try so hard to be nice as well but it just doesn’t work. “I would’ve let you lie there, you know.” You look over to the door. The window is on Mr. Edgar’s side of the room, so you feel it doesn’t belong to you. When did Dream-Dean become so cruel, you wonder? Was it before or after you smashed your mirror? You don’t remember. But it must’ve been after the trip you took. You don’t remember. This Dean was supposed to be your friend, your imaginary lover. But Dean got a girlfriend, and you broke your mirror and you’ve lost even that.

“Are you gonna sneak out again?”

Mr. Edgar’s voice tears you out of your thoughts. You didn’t even notice the nurse leaving. You turn your head to him and nod. You’re not supposed to sneak out, but it’s an open secret – they tell you not to do it and then pretend not to see you shuffling outside on the floor. “I’m still wondering why they didn’t put you in the same room, y’know.” You bow your head a bit. That was probably Sam’s doing, although you would never voice these accusations. He wanted you as far away from Dean as he could get you, you’re sure. You couldn’t blame him. All the things that you did to Dean were just unforgivable. You clench your jaw. You shuffle out of bed. You don’t have to hurry yet; Sam won’t be coming for hours. But still, you’d like to spend as much time next to Dean as you can – because you can’t go back there once he wakes up. How could you face him? You can’t even face Sam.

It’s an agonising way to Dean’s room. There’s the bar on the wall you have to rely on most of the way; and your trusty crutch. You’re sure you’re quite the sight; but, as usual, nobody pays you any mind. When you arrive at the right door, you’re slightly out of breath. You should be better, you think. You’re healing slowly, the doctor said. It wasn’t a great way to motivate you, but you didn’t tell him that.

You push inside the room and there he is: still blissfully sleeping. He looks a bit better, you think, but you can’t really tell. You’re not privy to any of the information: the doctors are not allowed to tell you, and Sam hasn’t said a word – but to be honest, you’ve never asked, either.

“Hello, Dean”, you say as you hobble towards the chair Sam most likely always sits in. You shouldn’t use that chair, but the other one is on the far side of the room, so you’d have to get it and bring it back too – so this is easier. It makes you feel bad sometimes. “How are you feeling? I’m feeling alright. Sam said you’re doing better and that you’re gonna wake up soon.” It’s a lie, of course. Sam hasn’t told you anything, but you think if you let Dean believe you two are talking, it might be good. Dean’s worried enough about you. He doesn’t need to worry in his sleep, too. “And you know, when you wake up, I’m sure Sam will have a big pie waiting just for you.” You suddenly wonder if Lisa is visiting. She probably does, Dean is her boyfriend after all. It would be odd if she didn’t come. And Charlie, and Garth, and Benny, they’re visiting too. You knew that already.

So why is it crashing down on you now?

Does Sam only visit you because he’s feeling obligated? You twist your hands in your gown. He is, isn’t he? “You know the answer to that, right?” Of course you do. But just because you know, doesn’t mean you want to know. You wish you could tell Sam to stop sitting next to you. However, you dread the feeling that comes alongside this. If he doesn’t come anymore, then nobody would be coming at all. He doesn’t care about you, but if he’s with you, you can pretend. Right now, he’s the only friend you have left in the world, and that friend doesn’t even like you. You’re even more pathetic than you thought.

Why are you even still here?

 It hurts, when you’re back in your room. Mr. Edgar is sleeping, and you would never disturb him. Needless to say, you’ve never initiated conversation with him, so it would be odd if you’ve done it now. You wish you could leave this place.  You have nowhere to go to, however. You can’t sleep in the storeroom like this, and honestly, you don’t even know if you still have that job or not. You’ve tried so hard, and now everything’s gone. You think back to your old boss. If you’d just showed results, then you wouldn’t be here. Maybe Vanessa would take you back? Sure, it broke you before, but who cares about that now? With that money, you could...

“You’ve always been good.”

Oh, how much you want to hear that again. It wasn’t true then, and it wouldn’t be true now. You still wonder why Dean said that to you, lying so obviously. You tug at your hair and try not to make any noises. Mr. Edgar is a light sleeper. You wouldn’t want to wake him up just because you’re breaking apart again.

 You dream of being a shining star in the sky. It’s such a welcoming feeling, being loved by others. You dance amongst the other stars and you even dare getting close to Dean, standing on the same level as him, deserving it even. He smiles at you and it feels like he’s truly happy to see you. You revel in this feeling, but then you slip, and you fall. You scream for Dean, have him help you, but he just turns to another star, ignoring you like you never even existed.

When you look again, you’re on the ground amongst all the other pebbles. You look upon the sky, but the stars are all unreachable. You want to raise your hand, to try, but you don’t. What’s the point? You stopped reaching for the stars a long time ago.

 The next day, you feel miserable. You note that Sam didn’t come at all yesterday. He usually comes by just before he goes to Dean – just to get it over with, without a doubt. He’s come every day – you don’t think he’d suddenly start skipping days. You hope nothing happened; and that he’s okay. You hope everything’s alright with Dean, too. “Not sneaking out today?” Mr. Edgar asks and you shake your head. You can’t. The pit in your stomach is going to overwhelm you if you look at Dean now. It’s your entire fault. Without you, he wouldn’t be here. Just why, oh why did he save you? It would’ve been good riddance.

A yellow truck. You wonder if Jonathan still paints all black. You hope he doesn’t. You hope he’s talking to Susie. You hope Bell’s been talking to her ex-wife. You hope Leah found someone else to play Sorry with. You don’t know why you hope that. They’re not your friends after all. But it would be nice, if they all got better, right?

You don’t think you have a right to hope that.

 It’s been four days now since Sam stopped coming. Mr. Edgar is concerned about you, he whisper-shouted it to the nurse, poor soul. You just keep watching the door. You think maybe you’re waiting. Maybe you’re waiting for someone to come in; someone who’d be delighted to see you. “Well, whoever would that be?”

Yes, whoever indeed.

 You’ve been counting stars in your head, while staring at your blanket, when Sam comes in. His entrance is meek, and if Mr. Edgar hadn’t shouted, you wouldn’t have noticed at all. Sam sits on his chair, you can hear rustling, and you think he maybe wants to say something. You’ve noticed that about Sam. Often he wishes to say something, but in the end decides it better remains unsaid. You’ve found it curious, but you have no right to that curiosity. You wonder what made him come today. Maybe he forgot about you before? Or perhaps he got stuck in traffic and didn’t want to waste time with you? Alas, you are happy to see that Sam is alright.

You hear him fidgeting. Maybe he wants you to look at him. How could you, after all you’ve done? And still, you are going to ask. How selfish of you.

“Sam”, you say, and he freezes. “I need to go somewhere, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

Sam says yes.

 You refused the wheelchair they wanted to give you. Your crutch is too good for you, you think. You should fall and crawl, but you couldn’t do that. What would people think of Sam? You showed Sam your permit to leave for the day – at your own risk – again and again, just because he somehow feared it was just a part of his imagination. You won’t be long, you kept promising him. He’s still fidgeting. You wonder why. Perhaps he’s nervous being so close to you – yes that must be it. He glances over at you, clear questions in his eyes. There’s nothing you can tell him. After all, there is nothing to be told.

Sam, the good, kind soul he is – parks as close to the gate as he possibly can without tearing it down. He also helps you out of the car. You want to tell him no, but it’s just so nice to pretend. You can pretend that you’re his friend, and that he really enjoys helping you. You want to take that feeling and enclose it deep inside your heart, but you toss it out instead. It’s not yours to have.

You’re hobbling along the path – pebbles, so many pebbles – and you see the people. You’re late intentionally. You didn’t want to partake in anything. It’s a wonder they even told you, but then again – they never disliked you. You just were never good enough for them. “Castiel?” Sam asks from next to you. “Do you know these people? Shouldn’t we get closer? Why are we here?” Oh, Sam, always full of questions. You could tell him. Over there, there is nothing but shining stars, but that would be pointing out the obvious. You tighten your grip on your crutch. They would welcome you if you went over to them. On the other hand, if you never went, they wouldn’t wonder where you were, either. So this is good. You are close enough but still far enough away – just as you’re supposed to be.

You think about being average. Maybe you’d come close to being a star, and just fell short. You wonder if she would’ve been proud of you then. You kept your mouth shut, just like she always wanted, and you still failed to make her proud. You think about your beloved grey ball that you never had. What an irony, that that ball had been flattened by a truck as well.

It’s a quiet affair, from what you can see. Nobody seems to be sobbing uncontrollably. They were just people overseeing others. They were all huddled together in their black outfits. The wind is cold, you think. What a pity. She liked sunny days. “She threw it away”, you tell Sam, and even though it doesn’t answer any of his question nor do you understand why you’re telling him at all. “It was so pretty, but she just threw it away.” Maybe it had been a metaphor. No matter how pretty you’d ever end up being, you’d never be god enough for a star. And you’re not even pretty.

Slowly, the people set themselves in motion. “Let’s go”, you say to Sam and turn around. Sam is shuffling on the ground, just before he follows you. He helps you back in the car, the questions burning on his tongue, but he doesn’t ask them. He simply gets back behind the wheel and pulls on the road, driving back. You look outside the window. “It’s a nice day to be buried, don’t you think?”

 Sam doesn’t say anything at all. He simply helps you back into your room and leaves promptly. Normally, Sam tends to linger a bit, as if he’s unsure if he should go. To be honest, it hurts a bit, but you understand. Mr. Edgar is gone. His bed is vacant. You don’t remember him talking about being released. But the bed is empty, and the heart monitor is gone.

It’s so strangely quiet now. You never even learned his first name.

 Sam doesn’t come back, but that’s no surprise. You don’t ask the nurses about Mr. Edgar and they pretend he never existed. Life goes on, you think. You miss him, though. It had been nice, not being alone. You wonder if someone would miss you.

But Mr. Edgar went home, you’re sure of it. He didn’t die. He’s alive and well, and he’s with his son, and he’ll be that way for however long you need. You tug at your hair again. You don’t want Dean saying it. You know yourself. You don’t want to know. You tug stronger, and then you stop. You can’t be seen tugging out your own hair. It makes people think things, and you don’t want them to do that.

 You can’t sleep again. Your leg’s been bothering you, but you haven’t told anyone. It’s stupid not to tell the nurses. And yet, you can’t bring yourself to telling him. It would even be such a simple thing: press that button, and they’d come, and they’d fix you right up. But you lack the energy for it. Why should you bother? It’s going to sort itself out. And if it doesn’t, that’s alright too. You press your hands on your eyes and you groan slightly. You could make all the sounds you wanted, now – with Mr. Edgar gone, the room is your own for the time being. You think it’s a good thing, that they hadn’t needed that bed yet.

You look toward the door. Technically, you could look to the window now, too, but it feels wrong, somehow. The window holds the stars, and you don’t want to see them. You get up slowly. There’s a short, sharp pain when your foot hits the ground, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, so it’s probably fine. You take your crutch and make your way over to the door.

It’s quieter in the hallways at night, you note. Just as well. You’re not sure how the nurses would like you wandering around at night, but you’re gonna care about that should it come to that. Nevertheless, you could hurry a bit. When you reach Dean’s door, you’re not quite as out of breath as before, so you take that as a good sign.

You push the door open and quickly slip inside. When you look upon Dean, you see Sam sleeping next to him. You don’t like that. The hospital has strict rules about that: no overnight-visits. He’s holding his brother’s hand. You hobble over carefully – you don’t want to make a noise and risk waking Sam up.

Dean looks bad. His cheeks have fallen in, and his eyes are sunken. He also seems to have lost way more weight than he should. You never learned what happened to Dean exactly – but you always hoped it wouldn’t have been so bad. Now you understand why Sam stopped coming. Your grip on your crutch tightens and you feel your hands shaking. It’s your fault. Without you, he wouldn’t be here – he’d be home, in bed, with his girlfriend, and Sam would be home too and they’re here because of you and –

You stop yourself. You can’t have a breakdown here. You can’t make them worry more. Just look at what you’re making them go through now. You press your free hand in front of your mouth. You want to scream, but you can’t, you can’t, you don’t deserve that. Oh, if you’d just been better. Oh, if you’d just been good.

You have to do something. You have to help them somehow. You look towards the window, and you hobble over to it. You look up, to a night-sky full of stars. You close your eyes. They’re not for you, and you’re not even worth dying under their steady gaze. You hobble over to Dean, still careful not to make a sound and bend down to him. You have to be quick, and you’d wish you weren’t so selfish. You bend down, as light as you can, and you kiss him for just a second.

“I love you”, you whisper to no-one.

 In the dead of the night, you steal yourself away.

[cyanpeacock]

Realtalk(tm): Living With Ada Doom

ALRIGHT. so. those of you who have read Cold Comfort Farm know exactly where this is going.

so, when I was a kid, my mum would get drunk, and sad, and tell me about how awful her mum was, all the depressing shit, and she’d cry on me, you know, the works, the kind that should go down with a counsellor, or therapist.

I don’t remember it clearly. I had to like, switch off, you know? Mummy’s sad. I’m sad too. It’s going to be okay. Stroking her hair. That’s about all I remember, apart from the pain I had to hide to make everything better.

Except, it totally wasn’t okay, because I was giving my drunken mother comfort, and the next day she was giving me smacks, and isolation as punishment, and denying me food when I was rowdy, as children are. 

Later, she’d give me a book to read, called Cold Comfort Farm.

It’s a good book. It’s a parody of things along the lines of Wuthering Heights, you know, mopey miserable out-in-the-countryside romance novels where everyone is abusive, but That’s The Way It’s Always Been, Out Here. 

Flora comes along and fixes everything right up.

Some part of her wanted me to be Flora. 

A good, proper, refined young woman. Stately. Observant. Academic. Very sporting. 

I am not Flora.

I was very nearly Ada Doom, the woman who saw something nasty in the woodshed. Well - for a while, I thought I was her, but I didn’t have control over a farm/family. I wasn’t holding all the books. 

This phrase got used against me a lot - “something nasty in the woodshed.” It translated to, “you’re overreacting, be quiet,” in the circles I moved in. Often delivered as a joke, but actually, a warning.

Flora was not, actually, a very nice woman, and she was not, actually, very nice to Ada Doom. 

“Did it see you?”

The point I’m continually making, is.

I didn’t see something nasty in the woodshed, once, when I was a child.

I saw a whole fucking lot of nasty things, all around me, in my own home, that chased me into my bedroom, that physically, verbally, and emotionally abused me, for over a decade. I heard other nasty things going on, in rooms I wasn’t in, but sound carries. I saw and heard even nastier things happening between the only Adult Role Models I had.

This all seemed very normal, until I had an assembly on abuse in primary school, and recognized myself in it.

I told myself, “mummy loves me. It’s not really abuse. Is it?” 

I told myself this for years.

Skip to the future. It’s easier for me.

Later I ran away somewhere a bit cleaner, to live with a racist opioid addict. It was fucking awesome, for a while, but yeah, that’s another post. He’d also use “something nasty in the woodshed” against me, or just say “Ada Doom.”

My mother would chatter things about “he’s brainwashing you! Mind control!” when I did see her at the same time as him, separately. It’s like she didn’t realize he was only using things he’d seen her use on me. She probably didn’t, because they’d probably been used on her, and she hadn’t spotted the conditioning.

So, in this story, what did “Flora” turn out to be?

An angry, inhibited, explosive, snappy, hungry young man, who just wanted to get high, forget about the past, and go to lesson, so he could learn something that would get him out of this shithole, and into a decent home, with a car that runs and a job that pays in the wallet, mind, and heart. 

I hid so much of the pain I was in, because when it was actually expressed, I’d get dismissed, belittled, or outright yelled at, even after the physical hitting had stopped. 

She always said, “you know you can talk to me about anything, don’t you?”

So I’d try, like a kid, who desperately wanted to believe that his mother did “love him” - that is, knew how to give emotionally healthy and nourishing expressions of love. 

And time and time again, I’d get, “I think you’re overreacting.” “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” “It doesn’t mean anything.” “They’re just jealous.” “You’re imagining things.” Or, you know, “I think you’re being selfish.” “Selfish little cow!”

So there I was, my self harm getting worse and worse, the pressure my piece of shit school placed on me getting worse and worse, hearing Mark fucking cussing me out again, becoming increasingly abusive towards myself and people I really, deeply cared about, because I had literally no understanding, no framework for internally and mutually rewarding loving interaction. 

I don’t even remember what happened. Shit went down, mother had got a “boyfriend,” they were going to get married, they split up, I was caught in the middle because I was a kid who never really had a dad and desperately wanted one, I got used as a pawn in a game of chess between two emotionally unwell adults who couldn’t agree to break up without causing an enormous fight and dragging their entire circle of Facebook friends into it. It was really ugly. Like, one of the friends died, and shit like “good riddance” was getting thrown about. It was really ugly. I wanted so badly to get involved and break it all up, but yeah, fuck Facebook, I didn’t use it, still don’t.

So, I ran away to live with the one who’d caused me less hurt, the racist opioid addict, because at least he could see me as a son, while the drunk was still transphobic as hell. That’s the other post, for the future. 

But yes, Ada Doom followed me there, and according to them, I was still living in the woodshed.

But I was supposed to be Flora. I was supposed to be good, nice, and orderly, and I was accepted while I was these things. If I wasn’t, I’d get a verbal slap in the right direction, through this insidious fucking phrasology tied in with a long, long history of emotional manipulation.

This all started with my mother, and her mother, and probably her mother before her, and a whole line of absent fathers. 

I’m the one who noticed this, and decided, “no more of this shit. No more of this shit. I am never bringing a child into this world so full of pain, and I have no idea how to fix any of this on my own, and the people who are supposed to help me don’t, and I don’t fucking trust anybody enough to let them in.”

I’m the one who noticed this was abuse. I’m the one who started reading, trying to understand the inside of my head, getting it wrong, getting it right-ish, doubting myself, always coming back and really thinking “fuck, that is so much like me” to conditions that arise as a result of complex, long-term trauma. 

I’m the one who made the jump into homelessness when the racist opioid addict became unbearable. I’m the one who went into a hostel while I was doing my A-Levels. I’m the one who passed them. I’m the one who saw a counsellor every week and just fucking sobbed because there was nowhere else I could cry like that without killing myself. 

I’m the one who read about psychodynamic theory, and fundamental interpretations of the structures of psyche, and thought about it all myself, how it might apply to my brain in particular. I’m the one who read intently about complex trauma, and healing from it. I’m the one who learned about EMDR, and figured out I could do that with good stereo music, and tapping my hands and feet on the bus. I’m the one who studied very specific parts of the DSM V, over and over, circling and circling until I zeroed in on the places that fit well enough to help me understand, find resources, and recover. 

I’m the one who read very, very, very closely about marijuana, the endocannabinoid system, and its relation to trauma. I understood this was drug abuse, and dependency, and that dependency and addiction are almost interchangeable. I’m the one who knew I didn’t really want to smoke until my mind burned away, unless I couldn’t Make It at university. I’m the one who smashed my pipe in July, and hasn’t wanted to smoke again since, and doesn’t really want to go back, but will if he falls/fails. 

I’m the one who learned to meditate, just drop out into a trance, for minutes or hours, with and without drugs in my system, with silence or with music, and now increasingly with background noise, although that one is REALLY difficult for me. I’m the one who learned all those weird skills like “noting” and “radical acceptance” and other things I’ve forgotten the name of but notice as different states of consciousness. 

I’m the one who knew all this psych work was supposed to be very dangerous, you shouldn’t do this if you aren’t A Professional(tm), but I’m also the one who knew I didn’t trust a single fucking “Professional” to do the right thing, make the right referrals, administer the treatment properly, after being betrayed and forced and dismissed by so many so-called Professionals.

I’m the one who decided, in not so many words: well, fuck, it’s less dangerous for me to do all these things, and make mistakes trying, than it is for me to let somebody in, and receive another injury, at my most vulnerable. 

The thing about Ada Doom is, she’s a character in a fucking parody novel. 

You’re not Ada Doom. You’re not Catherine Earnshaw. 

You can’t live your whole life making sad allegories through books that dig up your old pain without actually resolving any of it, because you’re reading ahead and projecting the romantic, ugly, fantasy conclusion onto what really happened, to your body.

It’s really useful! It’s really useful, for a long time, to connect with your pain through fiction. Forever, actually.

But I’ve got to get angry about being expected to be a character from a fucking parody novel.

“You’ll understand later.”

I understand. I understand why you did what you did. I understand you couldn’t control it. I understand why you showed me this book.

It cannot negate, diminish, or remove any of my anger. 

I had to go to a counsellor, for years, research, for years, think and feel, for years, to find the right language and tone to communicate my experiences. I’m still learning. I’m especially still talking, because I haven’t been able to talk about any of this, because my mother wouldn’t let me. All she did was give me strange, roundabout books, that were good, and annoyingly on the nose, and say “You’ll understand later.”

If you’re saying that, if they’re asking the question isn’t it about time you explained?

Isn’t it about time you realized you need help explaining? 

I can’t keep going back to a sad fucking house full of hurting fucking children. It drags me down again every time, although I really do cherish the moments where I could just pretend it was all normal and painless and easy to be a family. I really do. 

And yes, I know, it’s circular, it’s not that fucking easy, because I couldn’t let anybody in, because I was “normal,” as far as my mother was concerned. I know I’m lucky I’m very quick, I learn well, and I’m completely fucking invested in research and execution. 

I had to become these things for a sick, sick woman, who wanted a kid who would save/change her life. 

It’s not a fairytale. I know it feels like one. I know it feels like Prince Charming is just around the corner, it must be soon, just one more page! The Big Bad Wolf is still lurking!

You gotta make Prince Charming. You have to make the person you want to marry inside your head. I’m getting there. There’s no ring on it. That might be the total illusion of self. It might not be. I don’t know what’s happening to my system, yet. 

That voice in your head who yells at you, but isn’t you, but won’t tell you their name? Give them a fucking name. Think them up a face and a body. Go and learn some emotional regulation skills, slowly, because it’s really difficult. Revise them. Pass them along. Talk to them. They’ll stop yelling at you. You’ll be able to turn to them for comfort, and they’ll get all your jokes, because you’re sharing a brain, and the connections do keep coming your entire life/lives. They can be your partner, if you like, and they do too. 

I don’t know what happens after that, and that is just this body/me/us/the irrelevancy of pronouns astounds me. 

So, I’m very stupid.

I really did take the hood off my car at the side of the road with smoke pouring out. I didn’t know anything about what colour meant “get the hell away” or “it’s fine, just call the recovery van.” I just knew there was a problem, it needed fixing, and I didn’t have insurance.

I did it the stupid way. I touched it while it was hot. I tried using stuff I had in the back of the car. I walked to the garage, and they rang my mum? I walked back to the car and slept in it for a while, resolute in my decision not to go back to the garage again. I walked to the tool shop, and bought something to take that bit on the top off. I walked to the library and borrowed a book on cars. I bought more tools. I borrowed more books, this time on engines, because the car book was only about cars, and I had a problem with the engine. 

I kept getting the wrong fucking tools, and the wrong fucking books, because all engines are different, and different tools fit different engines. I just compared what I had to what was in there, then threw the wrong crap into the boot in a huff, or whacked the engine with whatever size spanner I had at hand.

I went back to the garage. They didn’t know what to do, they couldn’t see the car, just somebody who read too many manuals, and was on drugs. I still knew I didn’t have insurance. 

More tools, more books, still showing up at the garage, still getting dismissed, hating them more every time, them getting more and more bored of me. I was getting closer to fixing the car, but still making mistakes.

I found a mechanic, one who didn’t work with the garage. He let me tell him about the car, slowly, the way I’d figured it out. 

He knew a few things about engines. We spoke about the garage. He was very sympathetic. We spoke a lot about the car. He knew more than a few things about engines, actually.

I got better at fixing the car on my own.

Unfortunately, all this walking was fucking my legs. I’d really like to get back in the car again, and go places quicker. All this work is really slowing me down from what I’d like to be doing. It’s also getting me to a point where I can do what I’d like to.

The car still isn’t fixed. I’m not sure what goes where next, or if this is actually the same engine I started with at all, but I have an idea what might work, and a mechanic who knows he doesn’t know the problem, but actually lets me tell him, unlike the garage. 

So yes. Ada Doom is and is not dead to me. 

The fairytale thing is great, but at some point, you gotta stop reading other people’s, and start reading/writing your own. But only if you’re that way inclined, and I said the bit before in a rude tone because I’m frustrated. 

Long post. That’s enough.

I’m not Flora Poste.

[randompandagirl]

So I just reread my Nano from last year (for the first time) that I thought was a piece of garbage... and it was much better than I thought it was. It’s not amazing, but it definitely made me laugh at bits (I think I’m hilarious, honestly). Anyway, I actually want to write more in it for fun. I also decided I am going to post it on here because I feel like it. So below is Chapter One. Even if it gets no comments I will probably post the other three chapter later.

This story is about a school for Time Travelers.

Elsewhere Chapter One “And afraid of a disaster, Miss Clavel ran faster and faster.” - Madeline, Ludwig Bemelmans  

                                                         Kinsley’s POV

“And you have absolutely no say?” Yesenia asked, giving me the side eye as she popped another cherry into her mouth.

  I shook my head. “No say whatsoever. I tried begging, I tried bargaining, I tried threatening. Nothing.” 

 “Well that's stupid. It's not like you're moving, or some delinquent! Why in the world does your mom think it's a good idea to send you to a boarding school for senior year? And besides, aren't boarding schools for like, super rich people?” Yesenia was about to grab another cherry but I quickly put the lid on the container and moved them away. I sighed as I did so and shook my head. 

  “Apparently I am getting a scholarship or something.” Which honestly made no sense to me, nothing did about this situation, but this least of all. I was a slightly below average student and I was held back in seventh grade, so I was also older than everyone else (except Keegan, but then, even some of the teachers were younger than him). If that doesn't scream not scholarship material I don't know what does. Also, I don't remember applying for anything. I would have remembered applying for a fancy school in New Zealand. 

   Yesenia, now that the food was out of her reach, stood, leaving me to sit alone on the park bench. “So you're really leaving tomorrow.” 

  I nodded up at her, lifting my hand to block out the sun.

   “That's just great.  Now I'll have to sit with Becky for lunch.” She sighed and then shrugged. “I guess I'll see you when I see you.”

    I just nodded again and then watched her as she left. Yesenia had been the last person on my list of people to say goodbye to before I left. It went just as I thought it would. We weren't that close, but I knew she would be mad if I didn't at least try to make an effort. Not that I would be here to see, but I know for a fact she would have been subtweeting me for weeks.

  I sighed opening up the cherries and tossing one in my mouth.  I knew I should probably be heading home, but who knows when the next time I would be in North Carolina was?  I wanted to enjoy the sights and sounds one last time.

   I closed my eyes and leaned my head back  and just soaked up the sun, letting my mind race.

   When my mother had told me three weeks ago that I would be attending Sudbrink Academy in New Zealand for my senior year I thought she had finally lost it.  I thought for sure it was a scam, so I googled it. I called the school and talked to real people. It was not a scam, everything they said seemed legit. 

 Even so I was skeptical. I was still skeptical. I would probably stay that way until started classes. Who knows, maybe even still.

   A buzzing feeling on my leg alerted me to the fact my mother was calling. She always called. Never texted. Which meant I always had to have my phone at least on vibrate.

   I sat up, opening my eyes, and answered her call. “Yes?”

   “You're still meeting me and Dan for dinner, right?” Her voice sounded frantic. It always sounded frantic. She always seemed to be worried about something or anxious about another. 

  “Yes. I told you, five thirty.” I quickly checked the time on my phone. “It's five. I've got time.”

    “Okay, okay! I just wanted to make sure you remembered. I will see you there!” She hung up before I could reply.

    I knew I should probably go home and make myself presentable before going out to dinner with my mother and her boyfriend, but I didn't really have much left that wasn't already packed away. So instead I just sat on the park bench just a little while longer and watched as a couple of kindergartners chased each other across the playground.

   As I watched I began to feel myself zoning out. Everything started to feel foggy and my vision became cloudy. I could no longer hear the shouts of the little girls. My stomach clenched as I realized what was happening. I forced myself to drop my head into my lap and covered my ears with my hands.

    “You're here, you're fine. You're here, you're fine.” I muttered to myself until I once again heard the little childish screams. I lifted my head and everything was back to normal. I had to get out of here. I threw the cherries into my backpack and slipped it on. As I headed for my bike chained up against a near by tree I counted. I counted how many episodes I had had in the past month. Seven. This was my seventh episode.

   I wasn't quite sure what was happening but it made me feel sick to my stomach. It felt like I was was being erased. It was the only way I could describe it, and did, to my therapist.  She had tried to help, I know she had, but nothing changed; it was still happening.

   My thoughts kept moving as I started to bike to the restaurant. Truthfully, and this was not something I had told anyone, but I was actually happy to be leaving. The circumstances that were making it happen made no sense, but I had lied to Yesenia when I said I had tried everything

.   When my mother told me, I, of course, at first was outraged, but the more I thought of it, the more I wanted it. To leave.  I hated my school, I really didn't have a best friend, or even a close friend. My boyfriend and I had broken up a bit before the school news (good riddance) and my mother was... well... my mother. 

  It wasn't her fault. She had a problem, and I know she is taking her meds, and trying her best, but at the end of the day, I just feel like we're two people living in the same apartment  for convenience only. I know that is a horrible way to view a parent, and there are some days where she is a mother. But most days we barely see each other.

   Me leaving would be best for both of us. She would be able to focus on Dan and her job, and I wouldn't have to feel guilty for feeling like she was my child more than my mother.

Dinner went just as well as expected. I was waited almost a half an hour for my mother and Dan to arrive at the restaurant and then had to endure Dan's quips such as, “Are you sure your Denise's daughter? Maybe you were switched at birth! Like that tv show!”

   Dan was a nice guy and good to my mom; he could just be terribly stupid at times.  The truth is, Dan wasn't the only one to have made those 'jokes' though. That's what happens when your mom is blonde and blue-eyed and your father was a random Japanese exchange student that your mother can't remember the name of.  You end up looking nothing like your only blood relative that you know. With my black hair and hazel eyes, the only part of us that look even slightly familiar is our noses: long and narrow.

   So the comments were a common occurrence, though Dan had been with my mother for about a year now, so now they were just annoying.

   After dinner was done my mother and I went home where we sat on the couch and watched Singing in the Rain. Well, my mother slept and I watched as I painted my nails. I glanced at her every once in a while and couldn't help the sense of relief that rushed through me whenever I thought about tomorrow.  I glanced one more time at my mother, quietly snoring with her mouth open, and leaned over to place a blanket over her.

     Tomorrow I would hop on a plane and would be gone for almost a year. Nothing to worry about but my school work. No teachers that already hated me. No fake friends to keep up with. No ex-boyfriend to avoid. I could completely start over. Be someone totally different. 

~~  I had never been on a plane before. In fact I have never been out of North Carolina before so my eyes were everywhere every step of the way. The flight had been paid for by the school, which I was pretty sure was not protocol, but neither my mother nor I questioned it because $2,000 for a plane ticket was two thousand dollars out of our price range. It was a nice flight, but was ridiculously long and by the time we landed I was very discombobulated.

   When I stepped off of the plane, after going through customs, I was surprised to see someone standing there waiting for me. I knew they were waiting for me by the sign that held my name in big block letters: Kinsley Bennett.

   “I'm Kinsley Bennett.” I said, walking closer to the woman that stood there, my feet feeling like lead with each step. She smiled warmly at me.

   “Kinsley, I'm Ursula! I am one of the caretakers of the grounds at Sudbrink Academy! Come with me, and we will gather your belongings and be on our way!”

  I wasn't sure what time it was, but I knew everything she said was way to bright for me. I yawned discreetly trying to hide it behind a hand and followed her through the airport to the baggage claim where thankfully all my luggage was. I had heard stories about baggage being lost or damaged and had worried about that the last hour of the flight.

   All the while Ursula talked, but I was so tired that nothing she said registered with me whatsoever. I remember thinking vaguely how dangerous it was that I was not fully aware of my surroundings, but not for long. Once we got into her car she insisted I sleep for it was a bit of a drive to the Academy and I promptly obeyed.

When I woke up I was no longer in the car. That was the very first thing I noticed because my body was outstretched and everything was still. My eyes flew open and I sat up fast

.   “Your awake!” 

   The voice was accented, British, and young sounding and not at all familiar. My head jerked to where the voice came from and I saw a teenage girl sitting on a bed across the room. I looked down and saw that I was in a bed as well.   

“What the hell.” I stated. “How did I get in here?”

    The girl smiled brightly, and two dimples appeared on either side of her cheeks and her blonde ponytail swung as she stood to her feet.

    “Ursula brought you in! She tried to wake you up but she said you were sleeping like the dead, so she carried you in! I helped bring in your luggage. I didn't open anything, I swear!”

    I didn't answer her I just peeled the blanket off of my body my face scrunched up in a scowl. How did Ursula carry me in? What kind of person carries a sleeping nineteen year old. 

   “I'm Tilly by the way! Short for Matilda.” The girl said standing in front of me now with her hand outstretched.

   I looked at her hand and then up and her little cherub face and then shook her hand reluctantly.

   “Kinsley.” I stood and immediately went for my things. “How long did I sleep. What time is it?”

   Tilly titled her head to side as she thought. “Well I think it's been about four hours since Ursula dropped you off. I just came back from dinner. I'm your roommate by the way, if you didn't guess that by now!”

    I found what I was looking for, my hair brush, and sat back on the edge of my bed. “Great, I am going to have some major jet lag.” I sighed and then looked at Tilly again. “I'm sorry, but I'm still a little weirded out about the whole someone carried me in here thing.”

    Tilly laughed. “Well, that's Ursula for you! She treats us all like her children. She is such a sweetheart!”

    I made a non-commital grunt as I hit a snag in my hair. “Sure.'” 

   “Well, I can show you the dinning hall if you're hungry!” Everything this girl said was bright and cheery. I was not sure how I was gonna last with her as my room mate for a year.  She was the kind of person I usually avoided. I didn't have the stomach for twenty-four seven optimism. Here was hoping we weren't in any of the same classes.

   I pulled the hair brush through my hair in one last stroke and then dropped it to my bed and stood. “Do we have curfew?” I asked. 

   “Ten o'clock!”

   “Right, okay. Uh, thanks for offering, but I'm gonna just... go by myself.”  

  Tilly's smile faltered just for a moment, but then was back. “Okay!  The dinning room is on the floor level. All the dorm rooms are on the top two levels. The classrooms are in between. We are in the east wing, room 23!”

    “Thanks.” I looked around for my purse, which I found on the dresser that stood next to my bed and grabbed my phone.

    Without another word I left the room and started wandering around for an elevator.  This place was huge, I soon realized. I mean, I had seen the pictures on it's website, but I was guess I thought it was deceiving. After going down hallway after hallway of rooms I finally found an elevator. I pushed the down button and waited.

   When the doors opened one other person was inside. It was the first person I had seen since Tilly. I had heard some people behind doors, but not a single person had been in the halls. It was strange.

   I stepped into the elevator and pushed the button for ground level and then eased myself onto the elevator wall. I glanced at the other person with me. It was a young man, probably roughly my age, who looked maybe Mexican? He had wild curly hair that came to rest just above his shoulder and the longest eyelashes I had ever seen on a guy. I only noticed them because his eyes were closed.

   He had earbuds in and must have been listening to music. I don't think he even noticed me get on.  I looked back at the panel of buttons and saw that we were on the eighth floor out of ten. That was ridiculous. I swore under my breath. 

  “You're new here, aren't you.” The voice definitely held a Spanish accent.

   I rolled my eyes. “How can you tell?” 

  “You're leaning against the freshly painted wall.”

  “What!” I cried jumping off of the wall, throwing a look over my shoulder. Sure enough there was yellow paint on my shirt. I groaned. 

   “That's great.” I muttered. “Who paints a wall and doesn't put up a sign?”  

  The boy shrugged, a small smile on his face, and puts his ear buds back in. 

    I frowned and  looked to see what floor we were on. Two. I sighed; I wanted to change my shirt, but I was also hungry. My stomach rumbled at the thought of food. Dinning hall it was. The doors opened and I stepped out, the boy following me. Thankfully he headed in the opposite direction. 

   I wondered briefly how many people he was going to tell that the new girl just branded herself as much with a coat of paint. I sighed and kept walking down the hall I had chosen. Thankfully the Dinning hall was not far and still open. 

   I checked my phone. It was six and a couple of kids were still eating. The dining hall was not like any cafeteria I had been in. It actually gave me Harry Potter feels as I surveyed the area. There were long tables in rows, but instead of a head table, it was a food bar with what looked to be the kitchen peaking through a hole in the wall. 

  Dinner was uneventful. No one came up to me and I approached no one. I wandered around the ground level a bit, finding the main entrance and a library before I backtracked to the elevator and returned to my room. 

  Tilly was still there and was sitting at her desk (there were side by side desks facing out the windows, I assumed the other desk was mine) using a sewing machine.  After I changed into some pjs (I doubted that I would be going out again) I sat down on bed once again and watched her. I suppose I should know some things about her so that I could be prepared. 

   “So, Tilly.” I started.

    She lifted her head from her sewing machine and stopped, turning in her chair to smile at me. “Kinsley! You found your way back!”  

  “Yeah. So, how long have you been going to school here?” 

   She hesitated and then answered slowly, “Well... I've been here since I was ten. I actually live here.” 

   My eyebrows rose in question. “You live here? What, do your parents teach here or something?”

    She looked down at her hands that were  gripping the back of her wooden chair. “Ah, no, actually. My parents passed away when I was young. The board thought this would be the safest place for me.” 

   Now I was really confused. “What?”

   Her eyes lifted to mine and realization seemed to pass over her face. “Oh, right. You're new. Completely new. Don't worry, tomorrow at Assembly everything will make more sense.”

    I sure hoped she was right because at that moment I was confused as hell.  Assembly was at eight thirty in the morning, which normally would be fine, but I was messed up with the time difference. I missed breakfast, but I had some gushers in my purse that I quickly consumed. Unlike the night before I didn't want to wander my way to Assembly and miss being late so I went with Tilly whose pony tail was definitely hair sprayed and barely moved.

   We found seats in the back which surprised me because Tilly seemed more like a front row Teacher's Pet kind of girl.  However, I did not complain as I slid into my seat and looked around.

   The room was actually an auditorium, it looked like it could seat at least five hundred people, though there was definitely not that many people. There was stage where two tables sat with eight people sitting behind them. One person was at the microphone. It was a large, tall man wearing a very sharp suit. In fact, everyone sitting at the tables seemed to be dressed really well.

   I looked down at my clothing, which was a pair of skinny jeans and a white and black striped shirt. I wasn't slumming it, but I also wasn't tea with the Queen. I shot a glance around the auditorium just to check out everyone else, but they all seemed to be dressed pretty normal was well.

   “Hello, and welcome everyone to Sudbrink Academy!” The man at the microphone's voice boomed throughout the auditorium. Everyone's head swiveled to the stage and a hush fell over the room.

   “Most of you are returns, but we do have a few new students joining us. Six to be exact, and I just want to personally welcome you. I am the Head of Council, Dr. Jansen.  After Assembly all six of you will join me in my office, for a more in depth briefing.” 

  Tilly grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze, giving me an excited smile. I forced a smile back as I yanked my arm back, frowning as soon as she looked away.

    “For everyone else, we are glad you decided to come back and learn another year with us. It is important to always learn and perfect your craft and here at Sudbrink you are learning from the best. As usual protocol, all traveling must be approved by a member of the board only, no exceptions. We do not want any trouble. Now, I would like our newest students to join me in my office, while everyone else, please give your full attention to Professor Lin.”

   I hesitated for a moment. I was not really in the mood to stand and draw attention to myself, but I had a feeling if I didn't get up, Tilly would do something, so I eventually stood and followed two other kids that were leaving the auditorium.

   None of us said anything as we followed Dr. Jansen to his office. As we were walking  I counted in my head and only came up with five of us. I wondered where the other student was, though the thought quickly passed when Dr. Jansen called me to his office first.

   “Kinsley Bennett.”  It must have been alphabetical.

   Once we were seated in his office he began. “I am so glad you could join us Kinsley.”

   “Thanks for having me... I just have a few questions-” I started, but he held up a hand to stop me. I shut my mouth, irritated, but I wasn't about to make a fuss. I was here on scholarship; I could be shipped home at any moment. And no matter how weird this was, I just got here and I did not want to leave just yet.  

 “I'm sure you have lots of questions, Miss Bennett, and I am hoping I can answer them. I am going to just go ahead and tell you why you are here. A couple of years ago we took notice of  you. We could sense a Traveling, but it was never constant so it took us a while to find you, but when we did we knew you had to be here. Had to be trained.

  Miss Bennett, you are what we call, a Traveler.” He took a pause here as if he was waiting for a reaction. I felt void of all emotion. What the hell was he talking about? I was really stuck on the whole, they had been watching me a while thing. 

   “What?” I finally said, because it did not seem like he was going to go on until I expressed interest in what he was saying.

    “You are a Traveler. You Travel.” Again he paused. I think he was getting some weird sense of joy from my utter lack of understanding.

   “Um, no, I stay at home and watch tv. This is the first time I've even been out of my hometown.”

    He laughed then and I narrowed my eyes. “No, no, my dear girl. Travel as in, time. And space. And parallels.”

     I knew it. I knew this whole scholarship thing was a scam. This was some kind of cult, or a big kidnapping scheme. I stood up, ready to flee.

    Dr. Jansen did not really seem all that fazed. “Miss Bennett, do please sit. I understand you may be experiencing confusion, but let me explain further. “  

  Again he waited for me. He was not going to speak until I sat, and I small part of me wanted to know how he was going to explain away all the bat shit crazy he just spewed. So I sat.

    “Miss Bennett, have you ever been somewhere, maybe alone, maybe with a group of people, and then all of a sudden you are not where you once were? Have you ever been in one place, and then it seemed to fade away and then you were in another? Have you ever felt like, you were being erased from right now?”

    My mouth became dry as he spoke. It was like he had sat in on my therapy sessions. My therapist was the only person I had every told any of that to. So unless he had some how gotten a hold of her and tortured confidential information out of her then...  Then what, I wasn't sure. But it was something. It had to mean something.

    “I have never traveled through time, or space or whatever.” I finally said,  and just saying that out loud made me feel like an idiot.

    “No, you are right about that, but that is only because you don't know how. It's in your blood, your body knows what it was meant to do, but your mind has been hesitant. Here at Sudbrink Academy we will teach you all you need to know about Traveling.”

    He seemed to earnest and sincere, but like, weren't cult leaders like that? And Tilly...  

  “So... everyone here can time travel?” I asked.

   He nodded. “Yes, everyone who teaches and attends this school is a Traveler. For many people this is home. I am not sure if you noticed but we have people of many different ages here. Travelers are all family.”

    I had not noticed the age difference thing, but I didn't really pay that much attention to the people. I didn't know what to do. I didn't have the money to go home,and no outdoor survival instincts to be heard of so I couldn't just run away. 

And what if...    What if he was telling the truth?    I know it sounded crazy but it would explain a couple of things. It would definitely explain the feeling I had of not being all quite here.  Then, without another thought, I decided to believe him. To trust him. 

   “So... I'm a Traveler.” 

   As if he could hear my decision in my voice he nodded and smiled. “Yes, Miss Kinsley. I know you may have a plethora of questions, but that is what this school is for. To learn more about yourself. Now, unless you have any supremely pressing needs, I will need to speak to the next new student.”

    I thought for a moment. What qualified as a supremely pressing need? “Um, I guess not.” I stood and he did as well and shook my hand. He opened the door for me and I exited, letting the next person go in. 

   Once in the hall a smartly dressed man who sat at a desk (he looked like a secretary?), called my name. I walked over to him and he handed me a folder with my name on it. I took it and opened it, leafing through the pages. 

   “That holds your schedule for this first semester and some basic rules to follow and a brief history.” He said this all kind of monotone, like he did it all the time and was sick of it.  

  “Thanks.” I said as I walked away. I took out some stapled papers that read: Schedule, on the front. I read the first page and realized that school didn't technically start till tomorrow. I was relieved. I still wanted to wrap my mind around all of this crazy, and read the rules and history. The history for sure, maybe it would help everything make more sense. 

[ratherhavetheblues]

INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘TO JOY’ “I’d like to bury myself so deep that nothing got to me…”

© 2020 by James Clark

The genesis of Ingmar Bergman’s thrilling final film, namely, Saraband (2003), consists of a film few have seen and few will ever see, namely, To Joy (1950). Fifty-three years is a long span; but the matters in that long-ago gem include sensibility in such a way as to expose an obligation untouched by Saraband, and any of the other films in that chain of pearls.

Before getting down to the reason why this hidden treasure is particularly important, let’s enumerate what Saraband did so wonderfully on the recommendation of that lost classic. There we find that the effete couple in the film, Scenes from a Marriage (1973), are even far more tedious in Saraband, in their craving for advantage, than when they were younger. The protagonist, Karin, therein, soldiers on to introduce an overtaking of advantage in the music industry while aiming for a career of a classical orchestra player finding gold in the form of sharing with other players attentive to the infrastructures of intention, not the pedantry of being perfect, supreme in that discipline, and mowing down one’s inferiors. Moreover, To Joy, not explicitly but readily understood, moves apace—53 years before, in one Henrik, becoming a practicing incest opportunist until Karin brings equilibrium to her métier—presents a 30-year-old siren sporting a wedding ring pretending to be the wife of a 60-year-old when in fact his daughter, and doing tricks at the homestead.

All of this drama, as we’ve said, is not new. But it is the unopened treasure of our film today which will occupy our strivings. Right from the outset (with its credits seriously and deliberately ugly as to design), we see a stage crammed to the last inches of classical symphonic agency, a horde of choristers and four vocal soloists. Details of the composition can wait. As they present themselves there, they are not only an occasional unity, but an overriding culture. It is that aspect which Bergman attends to, as never before and never again. The melodrama unfolding before our eyes, for all its mayhem, is not particularly interesting per se. What we’ve been gifted to, is the reflection of Bergman, a remarkable artist, taking a harsh bead upon his own ilk. In one light, we have an instance of the very familiar concern (for Bergman) consisting of relations who “speak the same language.” This concern, however, tends to happily savage bourgeois gluttons (crammed also with the religious and the scientific, with their gluttony). Now, though, it’s the sanctity of a supposed independent, incorruptible, clear sightedness, being questioned as opening a window upon the cosmos. Yes; and no. Here we’re about to present what it means when the arts crowd produces a form of blindness, a form of gluttony mooting nothing so much as a solitary player. Karin, in Saraband, with her high hopes, will be on a firing line—however small-town—(perhaps even smaller than the small-town depicted in our film today, the Helsingborg Swedish Orchestra).

With the exception of a rush to ascertain how his wife had died in the explosion of a kerosene stove (and the aftermath of being left with his twin toddlers), the action is a flashback of their marriage—scenes from their marriage, remarkably unlike the 1973 film—having, however, some similar form, though, in the reverie of Face to Face (1976). That the husband during the initial shock saw fit to smash his head into a table, could be an ironic bid to strike a match, a match unable to catch benign fire. Cut to a symphonic orchestra in rehearsal, by way of the pizzazz of a pair of hands, in close-up, touching the strings of a harp. (Such a flourish seeming a point of anything goes.) The aged conductor strikes a chord of hopefulness. “We’re beginning a new season. I think it’ll be good.” Then he extends a welcome to the two new and young members of a group nearly all being long in the tooth. “This is Stig Ericsson… Then we have a woman in the orchestra. It’s sort of silly and totally against nature but she’s reasonably talented. She’s right there, if you haven’t noticed. Not only does this welcome dispense with her name; but it ushers in a spate of communication, verbal and nonverbal, startling in its aggressiveness. (This is not about an ancient crudity; Marta, the unmentionable, is perfectly cheery in being spoken as a nonentity. The music is deadly serious. The rest of their life is something else.)

Of course women artists have had to face such contempt until very recently; but the overtness of the patter coming to bear here suggests toleration of violence as a special intuition of a cadre of the select. The conductor adds his baton as if a sword, when pointing her out. (Not to forget that the thrust packed some validity, but of a weak volume.) As the rehearsal gets into gear, there are close-ups and pan shots along the various sections (the newcomers being violinists, Stig being part of the first section, Marta in the second fiddles), revealing the mechanisms of the forces. And, therewith, we are apprised of the deep background able to muster at a flash. Clever, athletic and emotionally sensitive, without a doubt. But there is a vast bridge to cross between the effective and the wise. “Give it all you’ve got!” the conductor shouts. That being more a question than an order. And so, it comes to, “Well, you sounded awful today, but that’s to be expected…” (Expected because it was the first rehearsal? Or expected because the players are second-rate? He goes on, “Cortot [a touring soloist] is coming on Thursday. Then we’ll have some music!” He rushes past them as if they were carrying a plague. And yet the insult doesn’t stick. Superstar or the boonies—they have all they really want, the drug of the notes, like angels. Our helmsman, despite so brilliantly embarrassing, in his ironical dramas, those unable to control the drugs of pedantry and advantage, was far from immune from that failing in himself. This film being, a true one-off.)

   A spine running through this narrative might clarify that common and yet complex problem. “Just what did you do over the Christmas break? In this blasted town where people just drink and eat… You blobs…” One of the cello players replies, “This is a difficult part.” (Rather than extend the work, those blessed already tend to rest on their laurels.) The conductor ripostes, “Not for someone with talent. But some people are lazy bones and blockheads.” The Leader has settled like his herd, except demanding more of the same. Here, though, the whole discipline is in question. On to, “I can’t listen to any more of this frightful screeching…” At a slightly different point of view, the conductor, happy to accompany Marta and Stig to their wedding at City Hall, as their witness (but having forgotten the date), shows us the lack of attention of this, and myriad other endeavors. “I should probably apply for my pension and retire… We’ll just have to call the mayor and postpone it.” Stig’s position is, “It sometimes seems like a concentration camp.” (Flinging around insults that fail to attain any cogency, because the forces of sensibility are perpetually numb, beyond their musical playground.) The retiree lobs back, “What impudence! We’ll rehearse all day!”/ “Without Marta and me.”/ “Then you can leave my orchestra.”/ To which, the forever boy, declares, “We make your orchestra!” (Marta responds in shock from the boy’s stupidity. Were she not numb herself, the wedding would never happen.) The conductor finds this register to be apt: “You weren’t given the strap as a child. And you’re turning into a child again. Go to hell!” The boy settles for, “No, I don’t want to be where you are…” On and on, the skimpy example adds, “You’re ungrateful and inconsiderate. I could have a heart attack and die.”/ “Good riddance,” the effete junkyard dog yells. The so-called mentor rounds out this powwow, with, “This is what comes from letting women into orchestras.” And a cut finds the three, on another day, the picture of wedding hopes. Needing a soloist due to a no-show from an abrupt retirement, the one supposedly making the orchestra valid, bulls his way to taking over, and then being exposed as incapable with the topspin rigors of major intensity. (In the run-up to this supposed coup he tells Marta, “The sky’s the limit now… Maybe I’ll go all the way to Stockholm.” His humiliation—an early form of significant crisis in the Bergman surgery—pertains to that singularity about overinvolved artists. Not surprisingly, he reaches into his vast cheapness there, blaming the conductor for the fiasco. “Goddamned bastard! Now he’s happy, of course!” One of the few other artists not old, mocks, “That was better than I expected!” In another explosion, he yells, “Goddamn bastard! I’m simply mediocre!” As the shattering timbre flares futilely, bombing Stig, matters swing over to the embarrassing morning paper. (“You must be happy now, you and Sonderby. Just think how everyone will laugh?”). But there is Marta, counselling, “Shall I console you and say it’ll be better next time?” Or, that default move, instilled long ago, in her and his training: “I can go to rehearsal at 10:00, sit in my usual place and do my job…” (His response: “That shows how little you understand.” Only if Stig vaguely attempts to crash the precious ceiling, does he avoid being road kill.) On a day, some years later, when the couple and the conductor are at a farm house Stig and Marta own, Sonderby reiterates to Stig, “Give up the idea of being a soloist. Settle for being a good orchestral player. [Otherwise it’s] pride, pure and simple…” He’s met with, “Just because you’re an old failure, doesn’t mean I have to be.” Then that horrific tolerance clicks in, and somehow the “friend” quietly replies, “The world needs second-raters too. No worker bees, no honey.” Stig concludes with, “It’s awful hearing you talk. Like listening to the already deceased.”

Moving within that other area of workaday deceased, there are not only faux pas but massacre. The two new recruits at that first rehearsal are well-known to each other from their academy days (not from a conservatory). A perky Marta tells him that that past summer she was “abroad” with her brother, “and heard lots of music.” A morose Stig, looking to the floor, refers to a pop review, way below his skills. She bribes him, with a healthy amount of money, to come to her birthday party that night. (And the reference of gaining maturity anticipates her not shabby effort. In Stig, of course, we have the dangers of thinking that being a passable violinist is all that the cosmos could possibly throw at you. Ill at ease, he quickly gets drunk and begins to tell us what else he does. Marta had demanded a gift from out of her munificence. His baby polar bear doll is a hit. During the visit coinciding with Marta’s death, the bear has turned his back on Stig.) He yells out, “I’m magnificent when I’m onstage. Have you heard me play the violin? The big-name players are all charlatans. I’ll show you bastards what a violin is all about! I’ll tell you the secret of real art. It’s created when you’re unhappy. I prefer being unhappy. God knows it’s the state I usually find myself in.” The “state” is such that he turns upon his own chosen hobbyhorse of pedantic advantage. “And I say take it all away! It’s worth nothing. I’ll die and come back to life, and then you’ll hear real violin playing! Because it all comes down to humility!” (He smashes a glass to emphasize… He falls over…) Marta asks, “Are you OK?” And he tells her, “Go to hell!” She calmly tells him, “You’re making a fool of yourself.” She’s calm, because she has a history, from the academy, where his radical disarray made some sense to her. “I can’t figure out who I am… Why can’t I act like a respectable person, with my talent… A person might act crazy and stupid at times. What’s important is that he aspires to be a real person and artist.” But as these performers know, there is an obligation to deliver. Stig presses her to agree. “Yes, I do,” she eventually concurs, knowing, though, that there is much more to it. Bergman, right as rain, places the toy baby polar bear into the mix as an instance of aspiration—exactly childish, soft and so wrong.

Marta, already having been a quick wife and a quick divorcee, sets her sights on what the academy doesn’t know. An afternoon by the sea and its imposing flat rocks (flat), seems apt to be the site of her next incursion of escape from the lovely wrong. “Sonderby is nice. He’s done good things.” Stig is in a mood for only what increases his career. “I’d like to start a brilliant string quartet and tour the world. I’d be the best.” Her wry response, “Of course…”/ “I don’t like this odd grin on your face,” he challenges./ “Just being friendly,” is her argument, an argument aimed toward matrimony. He asks, “What about you? What do you want?”/ “Nothing… I’d like to bury myself so deep that nothing got to me.” The preamble here has allowed us to understand that her focus is disinterestedness. Out of a supposed ordinary outlook, she can’t conceal a force possibly upsetting all the advantages having been placed by an affluent family. That moves Stig to wonder that she sets her objectives to be so meagre. “But you’re not unhappy.” Her response—“Some people have an unnaturally happy air”—constitutes for her more a frightening conundrum than a haven. (“A happy air,” being a glimpse of forces transcending arts-smarts and all the nicety our planet presents as an acme.) He maintains that, “I know nothing about you;” and she maintains, “Perhaps that’s best for both of us.” Before mentioning that reckless marriage, she has declared, “What better than reckless could be? You’ve wanted to sleep with me, but I haven’t let you. If I did, would you care for me a little then? Be honest.” He tells her, “I have to think about it,” which for someone like her, having thought deeply—in lonely contemplation—would mean, “No, no, no, no!” (The era is the fifties; it’s also the lair of the Millennials.) But his molten self-esteem and freezing distemper imagine for Marta a study worth studying. Stig typically gets around to, “I know exactly what you’re asking. You want some assurance that I love you. Otherwise, you’ll have moral pangs.” There was difficulty reaching Stig about Marta’s death because he was with his mistress during Marta and the children’s summer vacation. The outpouring, of good-will, seen at a rehearsal in the aftermath of the tragedy and Stig’s having a shot at appearing to be a model dad, question what kind of life (air) there could be without Marta’s latter-days-tolerance. Would he have adjusted, somewhat, in his being an insensate coward, even before the death, with its flattening bourgeois dullness? This would not be about a calamity, but the appetite for looking afield for discovery while within amplified selves our adventure belongs.

Stig and Marta, like so many others, have very early in life burned their bridges. Of course ranges of  understanding can be developed while clinging to a lodestone. But free discovery, tracing beyond a trusty rationality, might still benefit from the tribulations of Stig and Marta. During that heart-to-heart on the shore, which produces their onset of living together, she tells him, “But we can promise to be honest. That’s absolutely necessary.” Sometime later, Marta announces that she’s pregnant. “You don’t seem too enthusiastic. Well you don’t have to be.”/ “How did it happen?” the supposed deliverer of love, questions./ “In the usual way” [screwball Hollywood, and its “charm]./ “Don’t be funny,” he glares./ “Dumb questions get dumb answers.”/ “Have you known long?”/ “Almost three months. Hit me if you want.”/ “Why didn’t you say anything?”/ “Because I want this child. Understood?” The understanding welling out, exposing that passion for “honesty”—is so like the elected and their play of notes given by a composer. Marta can cut corners with impunity. Stig doesn’t even recognize a constituency of coherence, beyond the writings of his repertoire. “Children come, want them or not,” Marta now embraces. His position is, “If you’ve had one abortion, you can have another.” (Anticipating the progress in Bergman’s Brink of Life [1958].) “How do I know it’s mine?” comes next, and garners a slap in his face. “Besides, there’s no room… All the crying and chaos. Where will I rehearse? Thanks so much…” Although, after lacerating distemper on Stig’s part, the baby is a go, it’s with a go with only one parent involved. (One of Marta’s only remarks within the war, is, “I’d like you to act like a man for once.”) Whereas Marta had begun to practice “burying herself so deep,” while recognizing a sense of disinterestedness (coinciding within her retirement from the orchestra, and madly going through with the once-postponed wedding—the mayor pronouncing, “May harmony and happiness reign;” and also pronouncing, “Never forget the promise of fidelity you have made)—Stig, in the aftermath of his fiasco onstage, enters the precinct of that flimsily hidden father and daughter incestuous prostitute business. Cut to a frozen window and Marta’s having few delusions about affectionate warmth. (At that first thrust about “honesty,” she also declares, “I’ve faked my way through almost everything in my life.” Meaning that her aesthetic skills carry an ironic disease.)

Three years later, of life with twins, Sonderby is visiting Marta and Stig at the farm house which she has found to be best for her bid to transcend the dubiousness of “serious art” and “serious artists.”  Resting in the grass and sun, the confirmed harmonizer, perhaps with concerns he’d never admit, speaks quietly to us, as the children play and the parents rest. “I’m glad I’m not a writer. If I were to take it upon myself to portray Stig and Marta, from when we first met four years ago, what a dishonest and incomplete picture I would paint. For example, I’ll never forget the episode last winter when I stopped by to drop off a score for Stig. The doorbell was broken so I walked in and peered into the living room. He saw Stig keeling on the floor being supported by Marta. How can I describe the way they held each other? So boundlessly tender, but with a profound, exotic sensitivity. But why was there so much loneliness and childish fear in their stillness. Holding her. I went out again and knocked on the door. When Marta came to the door, it was all still there in her eyes… Yes, she’s a remarkable little woman… Citing another moment, so devoid of vigor, they’d quarreled. I picked up on it right away. It hung in the air. Marta was a little quiet. She had huddled on the sofa and looked at Stig. He talked to me the whole time, but it was just nervous chatter. He got up for the cognac, but on the way back he passed Marta. He clung to the sofa, they looked at one other, and Stig suddenly said, ‘Hey, little girl.’ Formulaic smiles to each other. That seemed to break the spell, because the strained atmosphere vanished like a puff of wind over the open sea. I didn’t know why. I can’t tell you. Imagine trying to decipher a complicated secret language.” (There is, of course, a long trail in Bergman films, concerning, “sharing the same language.” But the dilemma here puts to shame the standard conformity and its mischief. That the two lovers developed and spoke unhidden, to conceal their most secret and fragile emotions…) “Depicting a single day in their lives would fill many shelves with large volumes… Thank God that’s not my job. I have only to reproduce what the great composers created in truth and spirit… That’s my pleasure and no one can take it from me.” At this stage of Marta’s being preoccupied with the twins, she is almost satisfied with no longer being “burying myself so deep;” but instead declaring, “I’m a very rich woman. I have you and the kids and old Sonderby snoring over there… Nothing to sweep me off my feet. But I deserve a spanking for such a horrible thought, don’t I?” Then there was Stig, maintaining, “I think it’s to your credit. Nowhere is it written that a person should be content, much less happy.” (This gushing, on the part of the man and his pleasure that no one can take from him [grossly overrating the miasma of the poisonously educated protagonists], constitutes a pivot of major import, whereby to reveal the casual physical viciousness bringing along with inept art and inept courage.)

Stig’s candid misery has a night when Nelly, the baby doll, polishes his fingernails. After the loss of Marta, he finds more subtle currents to hate himself. Expanding on that faux dignity on the day when Marta’s death was announced, we’ll touch the staging and its powerfully ironical moment. The sentimental conductor is on the podium. An army of choristers and the full orchestra are shooting for the skies with Beethoven’s “To Joy.” (Sonderby tries to rally the troops with this explication: “It’s about joy, you see. Not the joy expressed in laughter… or the joy that says, I’m happy. What I mean is a joy so special that it lies beyond pain and boundless despair. It’s a joy beyond all understanding. I can’t explain it any better.” [Here the preceding admission that writing’s range surpasses that of music, might have a role to play.])  Stig, having intoned, “It’s better to keep working ,” is at his post and the heavens seem to be focused upon his pathos, leaning to bathos. (At a much earlier rehearsal for another composition, Nelly had showed up, and Stig complained, “I said not to come here. Our relationship is nothing to advertise.” He had said, “I wish I could leave you, but I just can’t seem to.”) Now, it’s the little boy, having been off limits when the explosion happened, who sits at the same first-row seat that Nelly had occupied, long before. Here the dad smiles often to the boy, during the current rehearsal, as befits a silent martyr. Is he? His history says no, emphatically. The creation of Marta’s bid to break away from the academy was mediocre, but handicapped by a crazed Stig, even more mediocre. (The blazing last moments of bathos in the work stands as a secretive injury. Similarly, the predations of Stig and the countering of Marta are close to soap opera.  But the frequent topspins of Marta’s nightmare and very infrequent topspins of Stig’s nightmare, count for [ragged, tone deaf] actions of modernity.) (“Nelly’s better at nurturing your misunderstood genius. Can’t be easy for the poor girl.” With that, he smashes her face in a frenzy of blood and dead end. “The last part was my fault,” she says. “I’m to blame. But I won’t forget the rest.”)

Even more shocking than those plunges, are their sense of accomplishment. He tells her and us, “I know what the problem is. We both think life has passed us by. We’ve both been struck by a moment of clarity, and with clarity comes disgust. It’s a natural consequence.” In response, Marta finds recovery just around the corner. “We’ve argued and been nasty to each other, but we just had to reach out, and it was fine again. It was a great sense of security.” (“Security” will soon loom, in the form of Bergman films about Anna, an instance of butchery.) Stig argues, “Now we’ve discovered there’s no such thing as security.” Marta maintains, “Remember what you said here our first night together. The main thing is to become a real person.” He scowls, “We said a lot of things back then.” She insists, “It was the truth.”/ “It was all lies,” is his understanding. He then resuscitates his pedantic mania about becoming a soloist supreme. “That morning I came home [after visiting Nelly] with my hand cut, that’s where my clarity began. It was so unbearable that I put my hand through a window so I’d  give up my dream of being a soloist. I stood there with a bloody hand and thought how stupid I was. Why doesn’t someone laugh at this second-rate musician who won’t accept his mediocrity…” [who can’t discern a field of effort beyond showing off, beyond advantage]. She has a valid come-back—”Me, me, me. Can’t you hear how pitiful you sound?” (Compare the view of Mikael, the Sugar Daddy (he, of “I know it myself… The great silence,”), who follows the lead of a philosopher. “Everything is part of what is called, ‘spiritual science.’ This may include the self, society, state, morals or religion. It’s all just an intellectual game.” (In Bergman’s Saraband, Johan, the cynic, reads the philosopher, Kierkegaard.) Nelly will revel in Michael’s having a deadly stroke. He pens a last statement of apology, but he avoids the blockbuster, left to us to see the writing on the wall.

There is a moment, in Nelly and Stig’s not very impressive kick at the can, when first they meet, being symbolic to the point of much clever ardor and no perseverance. He tells her, “I hoped to catch the moon in a net; but just as I was going to pull it up, it sank deep below me.”

[joeraposa]

For Taylor ~Love, Sarah

Taylor, I hope it is alright to address you so informally. I wanted to introduce myself to you. Not because I feel like we should be friends, or because I have anything to offer you at all really…other than my unyielding and unequivocal admiration and devotion to you as an artist and role model for myself and my daughter. I know that sounds like something a crazy person says right before they break into your dressing room to steal your panties or before they attempt to kidnap you or something…but I swear my intentions are not in any way nefarious. I just…love you. I love the human being you are. I love your songwriting, I love your humor and I love the role model you are for young people everywhere. I love your awkwardness and your total embrace of that. I love your Philanthropy…I want you to know exactly what you mean to me and why. Flash back to 2008. My daughter Savannah is approaching 1 year old. My father passed away just before she was born. I was a “Daddy’s girl” in my very core, and losing him was devastating to me. Savannah’s father and I had just ended our 3 years relationship and I was sad, angry and felt so alone. I only wanted to listen to angry rock and roll songs. I wanted to listen to music that perpetuated the misery I was holding on to.  I was trying so hard not to show my inner turmoil on the outside to the best of my ability. I had a baby. A little daughter to think about. A precious girl who I never wanted to feel any pain or sadness. I could only show her love and warmth. Music was all I really had to make me feel better when I was hiding my pain from everyone else. I heard “Love Story” on the radio one day. I had deviated from my normal stations because of commercials. I heard your sugary sweet Love Story and if we are being 100% honest – I hated it. I hated it because it was contrary to every single thing I felt was real and true in the world. Love doesn’t exist. Everyone leaves. Everyone dies. Fairy tales are for fools and only fools fall in love. I didn’t have time for the foolishness... But I listened anyway. And then again. Every time I would hear this stupid sweet melody, I would soften just a little bit more. I couldn’t help myself. Until the day came when I was sitting in my car at the gas station, waiting in line – absentmindedly singing along until I got to the final verse. You know the one, of course – you wrote it. When the boy goes to the girl, tells her he asked her father for her hand and he wants her to say yes. And a lump formed in my throat. I croaked out the last few lines, trying not to cry. WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE?! I asked myself. “Sarah, you know full well you don’t believe in any of this and I won’t have you singing along to tweeny little love songs when you are supposed to be hardened and cold.” I don’t really know. I don’t know, but I am certain it won’t happen again. I cannot let ANYONE know about this. Then a few months later…You Belong with Me came on. I couldn’t believe it. I had the same reaction! It is not even that I felt like I identified with the characters in these songs in any particular way. I was a miserable rebellious angry teenager. I think it was just the idea of it all. I felt like the way you could tell a lyrical story was beautiful and when I found out that you wrote them yourself and had been doing so since you were just a little girl…well, it just put me in awe of you. That you wrote your truth out in this way at such a young age. This storytelling that even resonated with ME, when I thought that part of me was dead and lost forever. I just thought it was so lovely. I remember telling my best friend at the time how listening to your music made me feel. She laughed at me and rolled her eyes. She certainly wasn’t into your silly love songs. I felt like loving your music was some kind of guilty pleasure I had to enjoy while alone because nobody else got it. Then…somehow every song you released gave me the same kinds of feelings. I loved everything I heard. Our Song, Fearless, Mine, Speak Now, Red, We are Never Getting Back Together… We can flash forward again to 2014. I was in a much better place in my life. I had been through some really tough hardships. I had another baby, and gave him up for adoption. Savannah and I had to move in with my mother and I tried going to a tech school for a fast-track career. That did not work out so well, and I ultimately got a job in a Call Center. I have been there at that very same call center now for 7 years! I moved my daughter and I out of my mother’s house and into a brand new house in a brand new neighborhood and my life was back on track again! I had two more failed relationships – one of them with a kind  man who was just terribly boring and the other with a super fun and exciting, but totally infuriating manchild who will never in his life learn how to be a REAL man. These relationships did so much for me in that they helped me understand myself better. And I had you there, singing me through them both. I was still jaded and cynical about love and relationships…but I tried to stay wearily optimistic. When 1989 was released and you announced you were transitioning to “Pop” from “Country”. I felt this was, of course, the natural progression of your career and I was SO FOR IT. I recall sitting on the front porch of my house with my best friend at the time and hearing her tell me how stupid and shitty you were for alienating all of your fans with this career choice and “rebranding”. How selfish you were. I argued with her for the better part of an hour about it. About how she didn’t even know what she was talking about – why on earth SHOULDN’T you be able to decide what YOU want your art to represent? Why shouldn’t you be allowed to just fucking LIVE and do what you want to make you happy in your life and in your career? I could not talk reason into her. She never liked you anyway, she said. Good riddance then, I thought. I didn’t even realize I was missing you so badly, until I heard “Shake it Off” on the radio. Oh gosh, I will never forget the first time I heard it. I was driving down the road, headed home from work when it came on. I had never heard you sound like that! I LOVED it. It made me feel so good and I decided right then and there that I would absolutely apply this to my life. You were so right! Haters, players and fakers will never do anything but that what they are designed to do and I cannot allow them to bring me down. Of course, some people and words are harder to brush off than others. But whenever I faced a situation that I could not control with a person I could not control – I just rolled my eyes and shook it off. Or maybe I would cry about it a bit first and then shake it off. But either way, I stopped letting myself get involved in drama that I never asked to be a part of to begin with. Then there was Blank Space. GENIUS. Pure genius. I knew right away what you were doing. I laughed AND cried when I heard this one. I couldn’t believe that you were so brilliant that you could write this song taking everything those nasty people in the world though and said about you and made it into this fun melody that my daughter and I had memorized almost immediately. Okay – thank you for bearing with me to this point. This is the best part of my story – I promise. In late November, 2014 – I met a man. I met this man and I knew immediately that I just wanted to know him better – and everything had changed (see what I did there?). Being with him made me feel safer and more whole than I had ever felt in my entire life. Being with him felt like everything you had ever written about love was real and true. He had never even heard of you. He has no interest at all. I knew I had to do something about this. Savannah and I loved Blank Space so much – and Savannah has ALWAYS loved to perform. It is one of her favorite things. To be “Extra” we like to say. Savannah took to this man right away, and she wanted to “perform” Blank Space for him one night while we were all just hanging out together. She did and he seemed to be very pleased by it. I told him you wrote all of your own songs. He laughed at my naivety and countered that he didn’t believe it to be true. So I told him to look it up. I mean, I didn’t need any convincing – but he did and he got the information he was looking for. A new “Fan” was born. Not a super fan like myself…but a new person in the world who knew your name and respected what you do and, from time to time, would sing along with me to your songs. I felt so good about that. Eventually we moved in together and began our life as real partners. Team Raposa, we call ourselves. Supporting each other’s passions and dreams. He bought me your Deluxe Edition of 1989 and I listened to some of the songs often enough to be deemed “too often”… But he tolerated it anyway. One night, we had a silly fight. I have no idea what it was about. Not a clue. But eventually this man came to my side of the room and held me and kissed me and made it all better. I was crying like a fool. In the background I heard “You Are in Love”. I really HEARD it for the first time. You wrote that song for us. I just know you did. Coffee at midnight, fighting and talking…and this man…the first time he looked me in my eyes and told me I was his best friend…I just knew he was right and he was everything. I could hear it in the silence. I could see it with the lights out. I could feel it on the way home. I was totally, 100%, head over heels in love with my best friend. And you put that into words just for me. He surprised Savannah and I with tickets to your 1989 World Tour show in Tampa on Halloween. Savannah dressed up as a witch and we attended the show. I cried and screamed all the words along with the rest of the packed stadium. I couldn’t see you on stage, but the big screens were enough. I couldn’t even begin to describe how much I loved being there. You brought Alessia Cara on stage and I cried. You brought Idina Menzel on stage, and I cried. I was so happy that my best friend sent my daughter and I to her first concert – and it was YOU that we got to see together. I was transformed from a fan to a SUPERfan. I still to this day carry around the light up wrist band I got at that show in my purse. It doesn’t do anything. It is just in there. But when I go to rifle through – looking for my chap stick, or my pen or whatever I may need…I will grasp it in my hand for just a second without meaning to and I will instantly recall that trip and how it made me feel and it ALWAYS brings me a little bit of joy. I can’t bring myself to remove it from my bag. 2016 came and went with no new album, but plenty of gossip and drama. I was so frustrated with the media. I was frustrated with the state of the world and the country. I always felt better when I put on your music. It is 2017 now and the first half of the year was really just awful. A clown for a president…and My Love was hospitalized for months. I almost lost him. Then, finally, he came home. Shortly after that best friend became my HUSBAND. His name is Joe. He is my King. Savannah is 10 now, and growing faster and faster all the time. And FINALLY your music was back on Spotify. That was a WONDEFUL day. My husband is the one that told me. He is always looking out for me – trying to put a smile on my face. It worked. Then, 2 weeks ago your entire social media existence was stripped. I squealed with delight. I am a 32 year old wife and mother and I literally SQUEALED when I saw your social media gone because I knew that finally what I had been waiting for was going to happen. And then the snakes. Oh god the snakes. I have never been so happy to see snakes in my life. I knew what they represented. I knew something so fucking FUN was about to happen. My family and I made an agreement that we would all wake up together on Friday morning (8/25) and listen to your new song together. I could not wait. That morning my husband woke me up gently asking if I was ready to listen to it. He looked at me and asked if I wanted to know the title. I had been speculating with all of the internet for days. Of course, I thought the titled would be “Timeless”. When my husband looked at me and said “Look What You Made Me Do”…. Taylor, it sent a chill down my spine. My extremities went numb. I HAD to hear it. We listened and I was speechless. I recall Savannah trying to talk to me and all I could really do was giggle vaguely and try not to cry. Of course I immediately signed up for the TaylorTix and bought the album. And then watched the Lyric video at least 25 times. And have listened to the song since at least 70 times since. And then…then the music video dropped. I was BLOWN AWAY. I screamed and laughed. My daughter told me she is deaf now after sitting next to me while we watched it live on TV. I cannot wait for your album. I cannot wait to memorize every word and sing along in my car every day until you finally grace us all with TS7 and the cycle can begin again. I cannot wait for you to announce your Reputation World Tour and to come see you again. I am forever your devoted fan. Thank you for being just exactly who you are. You don’t need to be ANYONE ELSE. I am not asking you for anything, I do not need anything from you. Just keep doing what you do and I will keep adoring you. Forever Your Adoring Fan, Sarah Michelle Brantley Raposa

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

have i mentioned how much i hate the ridiculous way they trap you into taking up shitty jobs, through employment agencies?

like, they will call you or email you at any time with a position no matter how bad it is... and you have to accept it, because if you refuse to at least apply, you lose any governmental assistance for up to 10-12 weeks in penalty for non-compliance.

i mean, the three day life-stealing courses on ‘how to talk to people’ and ‘how to identify fire is bad (work safety)’ are embarrassingly degrading enough that they’re mandatory, but the system they’ve made has literally put people in dangerous positions

for example, an agency kept sending people out to do ‘a trial week’ with a certain restaurant that was basically using these people for free labour, one per week for ages. No one got the position (or feedback) in like 6 months, and this was considered the fault of the people sent out there... rather than blatant exploitation? 

in another case, someone was sent out to the middle of nowhere for a ‘receptionist position’. it was a brothel. they didn’t want a receptionist. no one bothered to google it before pressuring a young lady into going out there. nor did they go with her (which they are required to do under the circumstances). she returned well enough, but that was an easily avoidable scenario, had anyone cared to do their damn job properly.

and the other thing they do isn’t terrible in theory, but execution is very dangerous. they line people up to go out and work for either the council, or charities, free labour and experience right? well, sure, but a lot of people were getting hurt pretty severely because the people in charge of them in the charities were volunteers with no workplace health and safety training. especially at charity A, where my sibling actually ended up with such a severe injury to their shoulder (from being forced to move something with only two people that clearly needed about five or mechanical aid whilst being ‘supervised by a fucking idiot considered competent by sheer fact of being at the charity for like three weeks- a common tale) that it took nearly a year to heal. during which time they were penalised for non-compliance... 

and of course, non-compliance means you have to reapply for: assistance (financial), health care cards, any additional things like Tax A & B (for peeps with kids). also they may slap you with a debt during this time, bc some rich idiot went, ‘hmmm, who will have money if we take it away entirely as a penalty? aha! the poor! yes, give them a debt.’ #fucking genius mate #good job

it’s a domino situation that will never effect the idiots who dreamed it up bc they’re wealthy enough to avoid it all. guaranteed if the minister for unemployment or the PM had to sit in centrelink for six hours to hand in a small book of a form, and then be told ‘no, you missed a page’ or ‘why have you not included parental earnings in this? ...maybe bc we’re both adults susannabeth chadworthingtonne the third. 

then again, sometimes you get penalised for no reason, system error, which kickstarts the whole process over again as you scream unto eternity. but the thing is if these people mess me over, then i do have someone i can ask for assistance, a lot of people do not. and they’re the ones who are in the most trouble if they’re found non-compliant. 

i mean, it’s not a good system.

there needs to be more leeway here. you should be able to say, ‘i see you’ve been pressing (X) position on everyone here regardless of skillset, and removing their assistance if they say no. i am not suited to that position, nor was the last person you approached, have you considered doing your job properly?’

for example, if you are a social worker in a hospital, and a patient needs support with say living at home, and another needs assistance with mobility. you find things to work with them, not tell them they have to use company H, which might be solely about cleaning once per week, or they can just die alone. you feel me?

the whole ‘we have this one position, let us force everyone here to apply or we remove their assistance’ thing is a bit frustrating. because one size fits all, or god help you, has never been that productive of a system. there are people trying to find employment that have twice the degrees, others who barely know english, heavily pregnant ladies have turned up, people who are barely literate... and even a few people who were significantly impaired. and i do not say this in a rude way but, the difficulty they had understanding their ‘obligations’ makes it very clear that if they were forced into a position, either they would not hold it long or they could be taken advantage of and not realise it. 

it’s simply a bad system because it doesn’t cater to the different demographics. and, the people employed to run them are either lovely but ineffective, or the rudest people on earth. 

it seems universal, too. speaking with some people using different agencies, you hear their similar stories of that one employee, usually female, who loses her mind at everyone. >can’t speak english? she’ll scream at you in an angry tone until you ‘get it’. >try to point out you can’t attend something bc you have no transport into town bc taxis are hella expensive (a significant concern in rural areas)? god help you >ask why you have been assigned a ‘how to talk to people’ course in the middle of your placement? get yelled at for ‘thinking you’re better than others’

and, this is bitterness about this one lady but hear me out. the rules in our region are apply for, or follow up with, twenty jobs per month. This was based on an average calculated by jobs available in a huge mini-city not that far away; bearing in mind there are not always twenty positions available, you do have to get creative. (I hear, in the capital city, sometimes they can push the number to 50 jobs/month but there are more opportunities to apply there.) they will accept an almost complete sheet in certain months when there is a predicted employment shortfall. >however, this one woman was a living nightmare. if you filled the sheet, she’d hand you a new one and tell you ‘complete this by the deadline, or i will have your assistance removed’. and she would, btw. once four 67 jobs in a month, mid-final placement, just to ensure i had continuing cash to pay for rent + living whilst completing my degree bc the centrelink computers fucked up and put me on jobseeker in the last three months. she was awful. apparently randomly left and never came back one day, and i would not be surprised if she’s in a ditch somewhere, with that attitude, so good riddance.

the other issue is that they have this anonymous nonsense that i think needs to be lifted. ‘apply for this position in hospitality’ their emails say, 

sure, if you have a client that basically says, ‘fuck you, why should i  have to search for jobs? i’m not doing that!’ then that’s a good enough reason to have a discussion with them about mandatory conditions pertaining to their receiving assistance. and if they remain non-compliant, or get abusive, then you defs need to respond to that correctly.

but it just feels like a lot of the system was put in place without really thinking through how it will affect people. and it needs to be redone with greater emphasis on dealing with individual strengths and needs, allowing for them to provide more compatible opportunities (esp. in rural areas where jobs are scarce af, and it’s not hard to match people) rather than throwing everyone at it to meet quotas, and being surprised when the employers reject all but like one, bc no one else is qualified. as if it is the fault of the people forced into it, that they were not selected, and are then labelled as ‘not trying hard enough’.

[loudlytransparenttrash]

10 Ways Of Overcoming The Social Justice Stranglehold

It’s no mistake that cultural Marxists in the form of social justice warriors and feminists tend to create artificial divisions between people and “classes” while attacking and homogenizing very real and natural divisions between individuals based on biological reality and inherent genetic and psychological ability.

They do this most commonly by designated arbitrary “victim status” to various classes, dividing them from each other based on how “oppressed” they supposedly are. The less statistically prominent a particular group is (less represented in a job field, media, education, population, etc) in any western society based on their color, ethnicity, sexual orientation, gender, etc, generally the more victim group status is handed to them by social justice gatekeepers. Whites and males (straight males) are of course far at the very bottom of their list of people who have reason to complain and are repeatedly targeted and attacked by SJW organizations and web mobs as purveyors of some absurd theory called “The Patriarchy”.

It is not enough anymore to simply continue pointing out the insanity of political correctness, we must also take useful steps toward reversing the destruction already done.

Do you have leftist leaning friends or family members? It doesn’t matter. Are you employed in a workplace crawling with social justice ideologues? Stop seeing them as part of the equation because they do not matter. Worried about losing a relationship if you make a stand? Say good riddance. This is what must be done by free thinkers if they are to counter and reverse the collectivist nightmare of cultural Marxism. Here’s some solutions, which must be enacted by individuals in their daily lives regardless of the potential backlash:

1. Feel no shame

Social justice relies on shaming tactics, usually by slandering an opponent with a label that does not really apply to them in order to control the person’s arguments and behavior. If you don’t care about being called a bigot, a racist, a sexist, a misogynist, a homophobe, etc, because you know you aren’t, then there is not really much that they can do to you. They have overused these attacks to the point of having no meaning.

2. Do not self-censor

This does not mean you should go too far out of your way to act like an asshole, but the thought police have power only if you give power to them. Say what you want to say when you want to say it, and do it with a smile. Let them froth and scream until they have an aneurism. Cultural Marxists are generally piss-weak, anxiety-riddled children. They avoid physical confrontation like they avoid logic, so why fear them?

3. Realize there is no such thing as white privilege or male privilege

In reality, there is only institutionalized “privilege” for victim-status groups. There is no privilege for whites, males, white males or straight white males. When confronted with such claims, demand to see proof of such privilege. Invariably, you will get a long list of first world problems and complaints backed by nothing but easily debunked talking points and misrepresented statistics. People should not feel guilty for being born the way they are, and this includes those “darn white male devils”…

4. Demand facts to back claims

Cultural Marxists tend to argue on the basis of opinion and emotion rather than fact. Present facts to counter their claims, and demand facts and evidence in return. Opinions are irrelevant if the person is not willing to present supporting facts when asked. 9.5/10 you’re going to win the argument so don’t be afraid to confront their obvious exaggerations and fabrications.

5. Do not play the game of “unconscious bias”

If social justice cultists can’t counter your position with facts or logic, they will invariably turn to the old standby that you are limited in your insight because you have not lived in the shoes of a - (insert victim group here). I agree. In fact, I would point out that this reality of limited perception also applies to THEM as well. They have not lived in your shoes, therefore they are in no position to claim you enjoy “privilege” while they do not. They love to pretend that they know everything about everybody and therefore have the right to judge and position us all in the victim rankings. This is why facts and evidence are so important, and why anecdotal evidence and personal feelings are irrelevant where cultural Marxism is concerned.

6. Let them know their fears and feelings do not matter

No one is entitled to have their feelings coddled and normalized by others. Whether the issue is the nonexistent “boogeyman rape culture” or “racist white cops are going on purge-like killing sprees of young innocent black people”, their irrational and delusional fears are not our concern, it’s not society’s job to alleviate their phobia of men, straight people or white people, that is what psychotherapists are for. Why should any individual relinquish their liberties in the name of placating frightened nobodies?

7. Maintain your rights, they do not hurt other people

PC cultists will invariably argue that a certain group of people (we all know who that is), whether they know it or not, is indirectly harming others by essentially breathing and it’s up to them to recognize, apologize and change their oppressive ways. "We live in a society”, they say, “and everything we do affects everyone else…”. Don’t take such accusations seriously; these people do not understand how freedom works.

For instance, hypothetically as I don’t hold these views, that I refuse to bake a gay wedding cake for a couple. I would be accused of violating their rights but in reality I would only be preserving my own. I would have every right to not bake that cake if I didn’t want to, not a single person could make me. Also, I would point out that the gay couple in question has every right in a free society to bake their own cake or open their own cake shop to compete with mine. This is how freedom works. It is not based on collective entitlement; it is based on personal responsibility.

8. Refuse to deny the scientific fact of biological sex

Sexes are first and foremost genetic imperatives. Society does not determine gender roles; nature does. A man who gets his genitals removed and takes hormone pills is not and will never be a woman. A woman who tapes down her breasts and shaves her hair will never be a man. No amount of social justice, denial of biology and science or wishful thinking will ever allow them to reverse their genetic proclivities. Their psychological and sexual leanings do not change their inborn biological reality. I’m not saying we should attack or hate these people by any means, we should treat people equally, but the moment they begin to go bananas and call you cis scum over getting their pronoun wrong or assuming one of their 200 genders, it’s time to refuse to play along with this nonsense.

9. Deny the illusion of Utopian equality

There is no such thing as pure equality. Society is not a homogeneous entity, it is an abstraction built around a group of unique individuals. Individuals can be naturally gifted, or naturally challenged. But there will always be some people who are more apt towards success than others.

I have no problem whatsoever with the idea of equality of opportunity, which is exactly what we have in this country. I do have a problem however with the lie of universal equality through engineered means.

Standards of success should not be lowered in order to accommodate the least skilled people to facilitate artificial parity. For example, I constantly hear the argument that more people with victim group status should be given greater representation in positions of influence and regard within our culture, from science and engineering, to media, to business CEO’s, to politics, etc. The key word here is “given”, rather than “earned”. There is nothing wrong with one group of people excelling in a field more than another group, and there is nothing wrong with inequality when it comes to individual achievement. We must begin refusing to reward people for mediocrity and punishing success simply because the winners are not part of a designated victim group.

10. If you are a man, embrace your role

Men in particular have a considerable task ahead in terms of their personal endeavors if they hope to repair the destruction of social justice.

For thousands of years, men have been the industrial force behind all human progress and achievement. Today, they are told to be relegated to cubicles and customer service and to stay out of the way of badass, strong and independent women because their presence around a female is scary and oppressive… If we have any chance of undoing the damage of cultural Marxism, modern men must be men again.

You don’t have to prove to anyone you do “manly things”, just go out and do them. Most importantly, embrace your masculinity. Men are meant to be strong, hard working, competitive, protective and brave. Yes, women can be too but we are telling men that these qualities are toxic, only for feminists to use them for their own empowerment. They’re either toxic or they’re empowering. Make your mind up, ladies.

Men, you also need to be a threat again. That does not mean a threat against women, your family or anyone around you, but our men are supposed to be threatening to those who would threaten us. Modern society has not removed the need for masculinity and this will become more obvious the more our culture sinks into economic despair and the more our country’s values become overtaken. Just take a peep into Europe, their men are being raped by Somalian refugees and they apologize and feel guilty that his poor, victimized rapist faces deportation.

[lynffles]

AU # 4

Time-travel fix-it AU, also known as: tfw when you realize you’ve laid down the foundations of something that could very easily more like painfully be expanded into a multi-chapter where the massacre never happens and Kurapika gets wooed into joining the Ryodan

9th of December, Friday [Failure]

“—chou. Danchou!”

The first thing he heard after the world shattered into the white fuzz and noise of a video screen gone bad with static was the insistent murmur of his second, and Kuroro blinked rapidly, momentarily disoriented. His vision cleared immediately, but the high-pitched whine in his ears remained, and—had someone taken a sledgehammer to the back of his skull while he hadn’t been paying attention? The debilitating pain was making him nauseous, and given that he’d never been so much as sick even with a simple cold ever since learning nen, the sensation was as alarming for him as it was mind-boggling.

Or maybe the reason he felt like throwing up was because he could see fatal wounds on his friends where there weren’t any, and you should be dead and I saw you die kept skittering along his thoughts like a deranged mantra.

“Danchou, are you listening?” Pakunoda’s tone was clipped now, the way it went sharp and slightly accented whenever she got impatient. He looked up and ignored the phantom dribble of blood trailing down the corners of her lips because it wasn’t real, just as imaginary as Shal’s smashed face and the horrific cut bisecting Coltopi’s throat—

“I am.” A pause, because no, he wasn’t, and he needed a second to recall just what it was they’d been discussing before something tore his awareness in half—right, they were deciding on the next job to take. “Can I see the list again?”

“Did you fall asleep, Danchou?” Nobunaga (your heart should have been crushed, how are you still alive) teased, and Feitan somewhere in the back of the room gave a low but still audible snort and said, “Maybe he didn’t get enough last night because your snoring kept him awake.”

Kuroro ignored the cacophony of the ensuing, inevitable scuffle and the bizarre ache in his chest, and instead focused on the scrap of paper he accepted from Paku. Written on it was a short list of only five items, nothing so remarkable or world-shattering to cause his headache to double in intensity, but—

A clan living in seclusion in Rukuso Valley was the very first item, and Kuroro had to swallow the bile that crawled up his throat. It was a wonder that none of his sharper-eyed subordinates had realized that something was very wrong with him; he felt cold as he stared unseeingly at the words, the roar of a waking nightmare crashing through his ears—

“You knew—this was going to happen—”

“The first one,” he heard himself saying slowly, almost dreamily, a counterpoint to his senses threatening to shake apart at the seams, “who sent the request again?”

Silence greeted him, and he looked up to find Pakunoda and Shalnark exchanging questioning looks. The rest had varying degrees of confusion on their faces. Nobunaga and Feitan’s impromptu spat had expanded into a four-way wrestling match to include Uvogin and Phinx, and the four now froze in unison as the awkward wake of Kuroro’s question washed over them.

“No idea,” Shalnark finally answered. “These things never come with their requesters. Does it matter?”

“—knew this was going to happen sooner or later—”

Kuroro resisted the urge to shake away the maddening familiar-unfamiliar echo of a voice he’d never heard before, and yet—can you all hear that, he wanted to shout, and risk getting called crazy because it was clear that none of his Ryodan were experiencing the same strange symptoms now plaguing him.

“I’m not sure,” he continued in the same distracted, disconnected manner. “Just—” He tapped a fingertip against the single line. Single, as opposed to the more fleshed-out items below with more details. “It’s too vague.” Were he in a lazier mood he would have just gone with it, vague or not, and left it up to Paku and Shal to find out more about location and identity of their targets, and then—

Something inside him shuddered and refused to take the thought further.

“Call it scratching an itch,” he continued, giving Paku and Shal a small smile of—something. It must have conveyed enough of his need for answers because Paku shrugged and stood up.

“I’ll see if I can track down the requester. I’m assuming that you’d want to talk to them yourself?” she asked with an eyebrow arched at his uncharacteristic interest in that one specific request.

Kuroro nodded, and settled down to wait as she slipped out. It wasn’t as if they were in a hurry, in any case; they were used to being on standby, while the more restless members were free to wander off and find things to occupy themselves with. Shalnark (young, uninjured, alive) scooted closer to once again badger Coltopi into getting the same model of mobile phone he was using, and Kuroro felt the slight tremor of Franklin ambling over to fit himself into the space Pakunoda had vacated.

“Must be a pretty big itch if you’re going out of your way to find out more about this request,” the larger man rumbled in reference to his earlier comment.

He hummed noncommittally (stubbornly, absolutely refused to acknowledge the shadow of extensive bruising wrapped around Franklin’s neck and face) and pulled out his nen book—a clear dismissal against anyone else looking to grill him about his behavior.

“—you knew—this was going to happen sooner or later, so why…”

His headache was abating, revving down to a dull, more bearable throb between his eyes, but his hallucination continued to whisper, choked, dying gasps of a voice gone hoarse with rage and grief.

He’d failed—something. Someone. A lot of people, it felt like, and now he couldn’t shake off the urge to make sure it never happened again. But how to do it, when he was still struggling to figure out what was wrong with him—

*

“What is wrong with you? I thought the Ryodan accepted any request without asking questions?!”

Well, they did, but—Kuroro couldn’t keep his astonishment from seeping into his expression as the requester Pakunoda had tracked down after half a day of searching the eastern outskirts went increasingly red in the face the more he tried and failed to argue his case.

“Any request, but within reason,” he repeated. “You want us to go all the way to Rukuso—that’s on the other side of the continent—because, what? You got caught pickpocketing by a kid half your size?”

“Th’ money was mine! I earned it! We don’t do takebacks, so you gotta go kill the little shit—”

“Technically, that money wasn’t yours to begin with,” Shalnark interrupted. “You couldn’t even keep hold of something you stole. The takeback doesn’t apply; you’re just angry because that kid humiliated you.”

Kuroro blinked and regarded Shalnark with no small amount of surprise as the man sputtered and flushed nearly purple. The blond was usually the most affable of their group, not easily riled, and yet here he was getting snippy.

To be fair, he didn’t seem to be the only one reacting negatively to the tone of outraged pretension in the man’s demands. Machi’s sharp eyes were narrowing, and Feitan’s shoulders had dropped into that lazy slouch that meant he was one more whine away from ripping the man’s tongue clean from his throat.

“—my claim’s legit! If you don’t do this I’m gonna let everyone know the Ryodan ain’t good for their word—”

“Enough,” Kuroro cut in, voice gone a degree cooler. “You forget your place. We’ve killed over lesser insults.” And the man—finally—shut up at that, choking seemingly on his own spit and paling into a pasty white as he realized the consequences of attempting to extort the Geneiryodan.

Kuroro let him sweat in silence for another agonizing minute before continuing in a deceptively milder tone, “Like Shalnark said, there’s no merit in us going halfway around the world just to stoke your petty ego. I won’t accept your request.”

“But—”

“Actually, you should be thankful that kid let you off with just a beating instead of leaving you to rot in jail,” he added as an afterthought, with a mental note to himself to tell Kurapika to stop being so stupidly altruistic—

The man left shortly after that, escorted off the premises by Uvogin and a scowling Nobunaga, not that Kuroro noticed much about his exit because he was too busy trying not so show any visible signs of panic at the name that had slipped in unbidden amongst his streams of thought.

*

—tears searing trails down his rapidly-cooling skin, trembling fingertips cradling his face, and someone was crying over him but he couldn’t see anymore, oblivion pulling him inexorably down into a darkness so absolute, and then—

He died.

He died at hands he’d grown to love, that much he was certain of now, because not even his imagination at its wildest was creative (or fucked-up) enough to come up with hallucinations this convoluted and specific.

In another life (or another time? String theory and quantum physics wasn’t his forte, and he didn’t think that had anything to do with what was happening to him, in any case) he’d watched as the only people who’d come close enough to be called family were cut down by a technique nen exorcists only referred to in tones of horror and barely-veiled disgust.

Sacrificing life and all potential for one last burst of unimaginable, unassailable strength, and then—

And then, nothing. He died. They died.

And here he was.

*

Kuroro blinked himself out of the stupor he’d fallen into, just in time to see Uvogin and Nobunaga duck back into the room. Uvo (we never found where he buried you) was theatrically dusting his hands, a sharp-edged grin providing ridiculous contrast to the massive afro he had yet to decide to get rid of in this timeline.

“That was fun. But weird,” he added with the blitheness of someone who couldn’t exactly follow the events happening around him but was happy enough tagging along. “Danchou, what’s the big deal?”

“Good riddance to trash,” Shalnark muttered lowly, ducking his head and hunching over his phone. The tips of his ears were red; maybe he felt embarrassed over his earlier outburst? Pakunoda eyed the younger blond with fond exasperation before turning to address her leader.

“Uvo’s right, though. You’ve never questioned requests before. If word really gets around that we’re picking jobs…”

“We’ve always picked jobs,” Kuroro pointed out with a shrug. “I just didn’t feel like doing that one, it’s too much effort for a measly five hundred zenny he managed to make up several times over in subsequent heists, anyway.”

Pakunoda didn’t look convinced. “We can take the other four jobs to make up for it, if you’re that worried,” he offered as a compromise, which—wasn’t really. He understood her concerns, that taking on the rest to compensate for the first refused one wasn’t exactly the correct answer, nor was screwing with the timeline, or whatever it was he was now doing, but—

His headache was gone, as were the ghostly afterimages of injuries on his Ryodan’s bodies, as if whatever cosmic force had been hell-bent on punishing him had decided to let up now that he’d chosen not to take that first job. If that wasn’t fixing whatever was wrong with him, he didn’t know what was.

Now, where did the man say he got caught for pickpocketing…?

*

It would take him a mere six months to track Kurapika down, which was a shockingly, alarmingly short amount of time for him, because if it was that easy for him, how much easier would it be for unscrupulous Hunters to find the kid if they ever got wind of his identity as a Kuruta?

Then again, it wasn’t as if the blond had been broadcasting his heritage. Entering and then qualifying for a slot at one of the most prestigious universities in the continent at the tender age of thirteen, though—now that would draw attention of a different sort entirely.

“Who are you?” Brown eyes bright with suspicion glared up at him—gods, he’s tiny—quashing all half-baked ideas of him just coming right out and telling the truth. The itch was back, urging him to take the blond into his arms and never let go; resisting felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done.

The massacre was never going to happen if he had anything to say about it. The Ryodan would stay whole, barring accidents like Hisoka worming his way into the number four spot again (but maybe Kuroro could do something about that, too). Kurapika would never know the grief of losing family, nor the all-consuming rage of having to choose between familial obligation and an unwanted love, and—he wouldn’t have to die, forced to burn the rest of his life away for a single act of revenge.

Kuroro wouldn’t fail. Not this time around.

Lol I wrote the second half to the tune of the Somnus instrumental and then LUNA on repeat, both of which turned out to be oddly, distressingly on-point.

And then I put on APOCALYPSIS NOCTIS when I realized that I’d gotten to a good enough stopping point someone put me out of my misery.

(Hi, I’m back? And very late with these things, shush, I’ll be the first to admit that I disappeared for a month to drown in FFXV feels, not that you can’t tell that I’m hopelessly obsessed with all my recent hysterical reblogs.)

[davidsilvercloud]

Notes from my Theory about the cause of the Speed of Light.

ICOSAHEDRON/THE SHAPE OF AN ELECTRON?

This is a theory about the cause of the Speed of Light.  That cause is the physical size (diameter and circumference) and other characteristics of a sub-atomic particle (Fermion/Lepton) called the Electron.  I believe the Electron to be, generally, indestructible and to always have the characteristics of a solid.  How does the Electron control the universe?  It is a particle... a physical SOLID to observers in a light speed controlled universe.  It is buoyant... it displaces space and space is NOT empty.  There is energy BETWEEN particles, no matter what theory one subscribes to... gravitational, radio, and ultra-short frequencies... in the peta frequency ranges... SMALLER than an Electron.  It follows the laws of buoyancy.  It displaces objects smaller than itself and floats out of the way of larger objects.  It' really that simple... really. It can be a monopole... one pole at the center where all 20 tetrahedrons share a common SINGULARITY, or as close to a singularity as reality will allow.  Singularities are a MATHEMATICAL concept and DON'T EXIST IN REALITY.  You can't live upon a non-dimensional blackboard. As a monopole, it is perfectly suited to set the clock of light speed. It repels all other Electrons and will seek rest, electronically, in the nooks and crannies of reality. A particle which may present as a monopole provides the source of energy for the entire universe, widely distributed in equal amounts if one does not consider clustering.  Spin will not change the essential character of the Electron... it is still a monopole. The Electron presents 20 surfaces or orifices, able to reflect any energy shorter than the openings of the triangular surfaces of the Icosahedron.  It has multiple POLE possibilities EASILY changed... it requires less inertia to alter the poles than to MOVE it... from HERE to THERE.  Waves CAN NOT BE HERE AND THERE AT THE SAME TIME... instant.  They are discontinuous. In a different theory I propose that shape is what gives matter the distinction of presenting as a solid, liquid, gas, semi-solid or liquid, and plasma.  That theory proposes that solids have electronic vertices, faces and edges while liquids are spheroids, gasses are Torri, and flattened shapes are semi-solids... such as a flattened spheroid being pancake shaped.  So, while I consider an Electron to have the shape of an Icosahedron constructed of parts too small to detect with current technology, you may take the position that the Electron is a sphere, in the following theory.  I will explain how it may seem be a wave, and how it partakes of electronic waves.  Maxwell and Einstein, both, didn't notice a couple of things.  The most important things they failed to account for was three dimensional reality... all the math is based upon vector motion, not radial/expanding motion.  It is based upon singularities isolated in time.  The equations allow for HERE and THERE over TIME, but NOT AT THE EXACT SAME TIME... THE VERY SAME, INFINITESIMALLY SMALLEST UNIT OF TIME AND INSTANT. I first heard of Big Bang Theory when I was in grade 8 back in 1958.  I've been questioning reality for a long, long time.  BIG BANG is so full of holes I learned to ignore it as a ridiculously creationist concept without a shred of credibility.  Things like Red Shift, bending of light towards stars, etc. are EASILY explained by other reasons.  BIG BANG offers no explanation of the BEFORE questions... NADA, none.  Only a poor thinker would fall for something so outrageously creationist.  It's like people who believe in non-existent 'gods' no matter how silly the concepts are.  People want to believe what they like and avoid answers they don't wish to hear.  There are unnecessary issues introduced when, in fact, basic Laws of Bouancy would explain many, many, many things happening IN SPACE.

THE QUESTIONS How big is big?  How small is small?  How fast is fast?  How slow is slow?  What is time?  What is the relationship between size, velocity, and time?  What is light?  How is light related to size and time?  What are the means, by which, we perceive reality?  What has the Speed of Light to do with our reality?  Why does some reality present as solid, while others present as gasses or liquids and other less understood forms of matter such as plasma?  Is our physical size a serious consideration upon how we perceive reality?  One should NOT assume OUR size is relevant to reality, except that we are rather small in the scheme of things.  There are ZERO reasons why there can't exist an entire scheme of reality smaller than an Electron.  If you lived upon the surface of a Carbon Atom, a second would be like a month, to you.  SIZE MATTERS. SIZE MATTERS.  SIZE MATTERS.  SIZE MATTERS.

WHAT CAUSES THE SPEED OF LIGHT? A Theory by Terry David Silvercloud. This work assumes that the reader will have some education and experience in the world of physics... at least a high school level understanding.  The majority of physicists, on the planet, are doing applied physics.  This work is theoretical... my point being most physicists are great at solving problems using existing formulae and knowledge but not always well suited to research or theory.  There aren't a lot of jobs available in pure research, so the majority of physicists are busy making a living solving problems with existing knowledge.  You will need to let go of any pre-held notions and let your imagination soar to delve into the black unknown of the unknown... is the cat dead or alive?  Pure math and speculation are all very nice and Quantum Mechanics has revealed some wonderful things... but we still can't answer the really big questions.

I have some issues with OCD and ADHD so forgive me if I'm overly wordy and repetitive.  I'm noted for being a motormouth and can go on and on like a dripping tap.

There must be some very simple kinds of answers to some very big questions.  Good organization requires looking after the basics.  Look after the little things and the big things tend to look after themselves.  All great ideas come from the imagination... triggered by things heard and seen.  I'm a photographer and painter in acrylics, oils and alkyds paints and well suited to using my imagination.  I don't have to worry about losing tenure for being a bit radical.  Physics, as Lee Smolin pointed out in "The Trouble with Physics" has a kind of hierarchy and it's not safe to rock the boat with ideas that rock the foundations of what we already think we know.  You don't know what you don't know.  Blind people don't know what they aren't seeing.  There are a LOT of false assumptions being made by too many people.

Big Bang is so full of holes I gave up on it about 60 years ago... I read it when I was 14.  Only a bonehead would fall for such crap.  Really, I mean it.  Turn on your brain, your going to need it.  Reality has ALWAYS existed.  NO OTHER ANSWER is logical... NONE.  Creating magical other dimensions is for fools.  It's right in front of your eyes, sunshine if you will only open them and get over your prejudices and superstitions.  Yup...you are full of superstitions, aren't you?  Afraid to die, and all that.  I have ZERO desire to be alive and despise this rock of a planet full of barbaric fools.  I'll be quite happy to be dead and expect to be so, shortly.  I don't much care for the humans, at all.  Self-righteous hubris filled morons, most of them.  I keep to myself.  I'm very reclusive now.  Oh, did I upset your sensitive self?  Grow up.  I'll try to be nice.  Be warned, I don't trust anyone and never will.  Took me a lot of hurting to learn that lesson.  People jump on bandwagons to show how nice they are but, left alone, be careful of all of them.  Remember, I don't give a crap what you think, I don't care if you believe me.  I'll be dead and gone, soon, and good riddance to all of you.

Theoretical Physics requires looking inside Schrodinger's box to see what happened to the cat.  Someone had to do it... here we go.  While there will be some rather large numbers involved, the math is basic and simple.  I would like to remind the reader that Michael Faraday was a grade school educated young man who was working as a bookbinder before Sir Humphry Davy plucked him out of obscurity, noting that he was a very smart young man with a bent for scientific thinking, and set him to work on the new-fangled electricity problems... magnets and such.  Faraday was a bookbinder with a grade school level education, a bit of a loner.  A customer, at the shop, gave him a ticket to a lecture by Sir Humphry Davy, the Queen's scientist.  That was a large gift... expensive for a bookbinder.  Remember, movies weren't invented yet, nor were electric lights.  We would never, ever, have heard of Farraday if it weren't for that lecture.  Great intentions don't always come from the well educated.  Kodachrome film was invented by amateurs.  Edison was a businessman who bought and stole inventions, a very ruthless and not very nice man.  Westinghouse stole most of Tesla's inventions.  Tesla died in poverty.  The Wright Brothers were amateurs with great minds.

Going to that lecture by Sir Humph was a big deal.  Faraday was not well off... bookbinding didn't pay all that well, and he was interested in science.  He went to the lecture, took copious notes, then bound them in leather and sent them to Sir Humphry, who was so impressed, he hired Michael Faraday to work for him.  Sir Humph may have taken some of the credits for the discoveries, but we know it was Faraday who came up with our first modern ideas of Electrical and Magnetic Laws.

Sometimes a fertile imagination is more valuable than the learning of a million books.  The books help, but the mind needs to go to the dark places without fear and prejudices or superstitions.  No clue is too small to be overlooked.

I, like all physicists, have my own prejudices about what is what and who is right about what but, that said, I have no axes to grind with any theories and my ideas should fit in, nicely, with just about all with no serious issues with the possible exception of BIG BANG which I find to be over the top ridiculous.  I should, also, mention that my feeling is that Gravity is nothing more than Fermions and all energies to come to rest... but they can't because they can't share the same space, at the same time... ye olde Pauli Principle.  Gravity is push, not pull.  It works out the same, more or less.  I'm just warning you that I have a very solid theory about gravity and it is a repercussion of the battles between matter and non-structured matter all with inherent desire to come to rest but never can because a point source reality is not possible.  Point sources exist only on a blackboard full of Calculus.

All things have spin and transmit spin because everything is connected to everything all at once all of the time forever.  The byproducts of spin are poles... objects with opposite spin.  It can't be helped and there will always be a 50-50 left right spin balance going on... trying to correct the balance between physical and Electromagnetic Forces.

Following the Law of Large Numbers, if we put a large enough number of spinning balls (Electrons) into Shrodinger's Box and that box is at the center of rest, relatively, at least, then all of the balls will want to be there, all at once, all of the time.  They can't... an eternal fight ensues...  there will always be Fermions and what has always existed can't be destroyed, no matter what form it takes... it's a basic law of physics.  Matter and energy are part of the eternal duo of empty reality and something that fills it.  Hard to make dough without getting lumps, isn't it?

If there were only TWO spinning balls put into the box, each would fight the other, to come to rest, at dead center.  Nobody seems able to win, but they may have a convenient compromise to provide relative rest, to both.  Strangely, they would have to have opposite spin or we would get some weird monopole.  Maybe Electrons are spinning monopoles... repelling each other in an eternal fight to get as much distance, between themselves, as possible.  That could work but I'm digressing again.  My mind likes to take side trips.

Imagine you can see into the darkness of the void of Shrodinger's Box, looking for that cat... it's here somewhere... oh, right, we ditched the cat and now we have two balls, one right spinning, the other left spinning.  Got that?  We are looking for the two balls in the void.  Let's illuminate them with Gamma Rays so we can see them... they are Electrons, after all, and LARGER than the WAVELENGTH of the Gamma Rays which will give the Electrons some energy to get them dancing, and reflect some energy so we may 'see' them with our Gamma Ray sensor eyes.  No time for sleep, here.  We can see in Gamma Ray and the Electrons are reflecting them so we may distinguish the two balls which will be working at aligning their spins so they may get cozy together.

I'm hoping you have the picture... TWO ELECTRONS, of opposite spin.  Side by each you will visualize one turning to the left, on its feet, while the other is the exact opposite direction... to the right.  Neither knows up/down... they are side by each for a lineup.  Both want to be center stage but can't.  They may share right/left legs side by each but, since there is no up, nor down anyway, why not stand feet to feet... align their spins so their feet, to each, are at rest while the bodies of both turn about their feet... at the center of rest.  Very convenient.  They seem to like it a lot.  Just try to get them apart.  Both may release maximum extra motion by being back to each, spins aligned together, and both have their feet at rest... exactly opposing the other's inertia.

They can only get closer by merging into one object.  How about 20 objects of who cares what they are made of, but they have the shape of tetrahedrons.  They are kissing cousins at war over a place of rest.  20 of them could become a very, very powerful object and do.  We call it an Icosahedron.  20 openings gathering all forces of wavelengths shorter than themselves... making slaves of all lesser material and energy forms, capturing them to do their will... be their eternal power source.  The tetrahedrons are powered by Dark Matter/Energy which is the 'stuff' in between the major Fermions in the universe.  The Electrons are in charge of the universe.  They outnumber all other Fermions, combined.  Might is right, bullies do win.  Eternity is a fight for survival.

You need to know, whatever your teachings, I'm a big fan of Dark Matter and Energy being everywhere and we are using it every day of our lives.  It's everywhere... it's only DARK because we don't have the antennae to see it all.  Space Telescopes are now working ir Infra Red and Xray and some Gamma Ray frequencies so we are seeing farther into the DARK every day.

In space, everywhere, whatever you choose to believe in whatever theory you believe in, there is energy in space, everywhere, all at once, all of the time... radio waves, X-rays, Gamma Rays and such.  If you choose to not care if it is matter, or energy when it seems like nothing, that can work, so long as one acknowledges that there is SOMETHING between the Electrons which, as we know, may transmit Electromagnetic Waves of all frequencies... shortest, to longest.  The stuff 'in between' has Electromagnetic qualities/properties.

Meanwhile, back in the box.  Fermions are objects larger than whatever is in between them... they 'float' by their buoyancy or 'fall/move' by their mass/energy.  My point is they will be on the move, always but, if the Fermions are not destroyable (think Electrons), then eternity is infinite because, although they may not have always been... probably were, no two may break the Pauli Principle and the Universe will be powered from the Electrons on up.  The energy source, for the entire universe, is widely distributed at the smallest level of material reality, to us, at the level of the Electron.  They want to find rest but never will.  They push their way around.  Gravity is push, not pull and, like everything else, is powered at the smallest level of material reality, the Electron, one Electron at a time.  There is no shortage of them... ZILLIONS of tiny, extremely stable, permanent magnets or monopoles that deflect electromagnetic energies, and that seem not destructible.  I like to assume they are made of Dark Matter which also generates Gamma Rays.  We can generate Gamma Rays by hitting certain tough metals with high beam Electrons.  So... where, exactly, are those Gamma Rays coming from, the metal, or the Electrons?

As for the stuff "in between", whatever it is you think it is, might is right.  The Electrons are the bullies of the universe and will just push the little fellows out of the way, or dump their excess energy into them.  Nothing is going anywhere unless an Electron says so.  Anything smaller than an Electron is a slave to the Electron.

Theoretical Physicists are the detectives of the physic's world... trying as best they can to solve the most unsolvable of problems.  An open mind and good observations skills are essential.

I am 73 years old.  I never got to practice physics.  I went straight from high school into the Canadian Naval Officer School in Esquimalt, B.C, 18, at the time, and at age 19 I was a Sub-Lieutenant in the navy.  My naval experience was helpful when I finally got back to looking a physics around 2002.

In 1966 I was the Navigator of HMCS Cape Scott and got to take her to Europe and South America.  Viewing the world from a moving platform in a moving ocean on a moving planet with moving stars was all rather normal for me.  In spring, 2002, I was wondering how something could be HERE and THERE at the same time and realized the answer was, extraordinarily, simple.  One only need exceed the speed of light.  It didn't take much longer to realize that velocity was set by the formula for the volume of a sphere.

My study of relativity and motion made me realize that NOTHING ever goes in a true/absolute motion. All motion is wave motion... ALL MOTION.  Vector motion is subject to relativity/time.  Nothing sits still.  You are flying around the world and through space and about 500KMS, right now.  Your body is trying to find rest but never will.  It is trying to find rest at the center of the Earth and pushing you down to it.  I believe Gravity is push,not pull... a result of objects trying to find rest in an ever moving universe.  We fly through space, south pole forward, towards the center of our galaxy.  I made a YouTube video about that which you may find here... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IPjohZCMwmI or search YouTube for "David Silvercloud, Fixing Einstein".

In 2002 I went on to develop a good theory about why Solids are solids and why Liquids are liquid, and Gasses are gasses, etc. and how the universe might be constructed, from scratch, with only one material in empty space.  I had issues with the Electron but had a String Theory kind of workaround.  I have had a good relationship with Electrons since I was about 14 when I taught myself how radio, TV, Radar and most electronic things worked.  I'm good at mental visualization, not great at math.  I have had a mental image of how Electrons work since I was 14 years old.

When I read Einstein's Relativity, I noticed he didn't look at waves, at all, in his mental pictures of the railway car and observers.  He ignored absolute motion, ignored all motion except "ahead and behind", and ignored the basic fact that the observer by the tracks was in motion because of the motion of Earth and the Galaxy.  His basic concept was very flawed... he tried to fix that with some mathematical conversions.  He TOTALLY ignored Doppler Effect.  Waves were all brand new, at that time, and light was not well understood, even in 1916.  My gut feeling is that light isn't, exactly, what we think it is anyway and I have HUGE issues with the word 'Photon' because it is so misunderstood.

There have been many fantastic inventions and advances in applied physics over the past 75 years but no real breakthroughs in Theoretical Physics.  Lots of theories going nowhere.  Even Big Bang Theory is so shot full of holes that only the brain dead would believe it.  A creationist theory... a knee-jerk concept contrived with little thought... no allowance for what came BEFORE, or HOW, and which boasts of defying basic laws of physics.  Big Bang makes predictions which fail to live up but, like belief in some imaginary 'god', the believers listen only to what they want to hear.  Big Bang is an idiot idea for Creationists, totally without a drop of any kind of logic, leaving more questions than answers.  Since this is my paper I get to say what I want... so here it is.  Any scientist who believes in a 'god' is poorly disposed to science and should take up a trade more suited to their skills, such as dishwashing.  I stand with Aristotle... only boneheads believe in beginnings and gods.  Such persons are an ever-present danger to themselves, the planet, and everyone around them.  I'll be quite happy to be dead forever and away from the humans.  Anyone who wants to live forever, clearly, hasn't given it much thought.  A horrific idea, if ever there was one.

Relativity, also, has serious, serious issues nobody likes to talk about.  Face it, there is something wrong with General and Special Relativity but nobody has come up with a better idea.  I'm pleased that my concept allows for a GUT theory.  It enables all of reality, all at once, all of the time and allows for all current concepts with a few tweaks.  The universe is an ocean of infinite shores and energy spread over an infinite space... but, the amount of energy is a constant as it is never created, nor destroyed.  It only seeks rest which is impossible because of the duality of reality... space and stuff in it which eventuates two kinds of spin for any object occupying anything larger than a theoretical point source/ a singularity of no mass nor size, only coordinates in time.  There is no center and nothing sits still.  All quite mind numbing, isn't it?

Any sane person will come to recognize that eternity is all rather normal, and infinity is also.  There is no edge to reality and can't be... there is no logic in that.  Throw your superstitions out the window and face reality.  There are no gods and the universe has always existed and always will.  The humans, I don't expect to be so fortunate and I have zero faith in the human race.  I'll be dead soon enough and, if you don't pay me any attention, it matters not.  I expect a horrific future for the human walking talking animals.  I'll be out of here.  I have no respect for humans anymore... none.  I care not a wit what you think of me and I keep to myself.  I assume I'm constantly surrounded by idiots who are a danger to themselves and everyone around them.

A quick sidenote:  My theory is that all matter eventuates to the center of galaxies where shorter wavelengths are the bullies.  The larger atoms are crushed out of existence into plasma and spit out the north pole of the galaxy as the main thrust engine.  Those are re-captured on the fringes of the galaxy, where longer wavelengths prevail and they eventually reach areas where they begin to swirl and cluster and form hydrogen and helium... eventually stars on the fringe of the galaxy.  Planets and lifeforms ensue over billions of years as the system moves back to the center to start the cycle all over again.  If there are aliens, they are sending out lifeboats from the center of the galaxy looking for new planets on the outer edges of the galaxy.  Just saying... that's what I vision.  You haven't noticed that our planet is shrinking?  Trying to become tetrahedral?  Oops.  Should I have mentioned that?  Prof. J.W. Gregory was the first to notice that the mountains are forming along tetrahedral lines.